by Jeff Shaara
His words came in a low grunt, choked away by the painful burn in his throat. He tried to swallow, the pain worse, and Killian looked down at him now.
“Hey! You okay? You wounded?”
Riley had already done his personal inventory, no damage that he could feel. “Don’t think so. What’s happening? It’s awful damn quiet.”
“Pretty damn amazing. There’s a million dead Shambos.” Killian paused. “Looks like a bunch of us, too.”
Riley sat up now, a flash through his brain. Welch.
“We gotta go down the line, check out the others. We made it through. But there could be wounded, fellows we need to help.”
Killian stared out, nodded. “I’ll go. You keep an eye out, watch my ass. There’s too many bodies out here, and I bet some of ’em ain’t dead enough.”
Riley straightened up to his knees, still curling his stiff fingers, gripped the M-1. “I got one clip left.”
Killian rose up higher, leaned his M-1 against the side of the hole, pulled out his pistol. “That’s one more than me, old chum. My forty-five’s gotta do. That, and the bayonet. Okay, here I go.”
Killian was out of the hole now, crouching low, Riley up, scanning the ground, snow and the bodies of white-clad Chinese. The snowfall was steady, a thick gray sky, hiding the distant rocky hill. Killian moved off slowly, and Riley looked toward Welch’s hole, knew only that it had been off to the left. Where the hell are you, Hamp? He wanted to call out, breaking the heavy silence, still fought the burning pain in his throat, breathed into his glove. Along the hillside, the other foxholes were mostly hidden, dark places in the snow. He stared, expected to see others up, like Killian, the usual routine after a tough fight. But no one moved, no voices, none of the idiotic chatter. He turned, watched Killian sliding into the next hole to the right, waited, the hard chill driving into his chest, his heartbeat quicker still. What the hell is this? The words came out from inside, his panic taking charge, a burst of noise.
“Hey, Sarge!”
He stared toward Welch’s hole again, then back to Killian, who was head-high in the next hole, staring back at him. Killian shook his head, said, “There’s nobody home. Roll up my sleeping bag, would ya? I’m going farther.”
Riley stood slowly, unlocked the agony in his legs, gathered up both bags. He tied his up tightly, fastened to his pack, the straps over his shoulders. The M-1 was slid up under one arm, and he crawled up out of the hole. The backpack seemed heavier, dead weight on his stiff back, and he moved the opposite way from Killian, toward Welch’s hole, stepped past a white-clad corpse, stopped, a quick look at the Chinese soldier. The man had a clean bloody hole through his forehead, and Riley didn’t stare, thought, Dead enough, turned away, took a few more steps. He stopped, scanned the half-dozen holes he could see, the hillside dropping off into a snowy abyss. Dammit, Hamp, where the hell are you? He took another slow step, the soft crunch of his boots the only sound. There were more bodies now, a pair of Marines, falling together, one man staring up, snow covering his face like a thin sheet. Riley turned away, didn’t want to see, cursed himself, forced himself to look, to know, took another step forward, his eyes locked on the man. He knelt, saw through the snow, the recognition now. That’s Tilhoff, he thought. Oh, hell. He moved to the next man, pulled at the man’s shoulder, rolled him over, the man’s chest a frozen pool, pink blood. Troxell. Paul. Oh, Christ.
The bullet whistled past his head, and Riley froze, unsure of the direction. Now more came past, a ripple through the snow in front of him. He dropped low, rolled hard into the closest hole, heard Killian, “You Shambo bastards! Hey, Pete! They’re shooting at us!”
He expected Killian to empty his pistol, his usual response, but the silence came again, the soft whisper of the snow. Riley pulled himself up, the foxhole not as deep as his own, listened for any other sound. He saw a helmet in one end of the hole, a dent in one side, picked it up, tried not to see any more details. He raised it slowly above him, moved it back and forth, dropped it down, then raised it again. The air was sliced by machine gun fire, a brief burst, and Riley tried to measure the distance from the sound of the gun. Not close, he thought. Maybe that damn hill. He probably can’t see too much. But he knows that if it moves, and it ain’t wearing white, shoot it. He thought of Killian. Yeah. Shambo bastard.
But where the hell did everybody go?
“Hey, Sean!”
“Yeah?”
“What you find?”
Killian seemed to hesitate, and finally, “Stein and Stillwell. Didn’t make it out of their holes. There’s three more back behind. I’m in our hole. Ain’t about to leave my backpack. What the hell do we do now?”
Riley peered up, the snowfall heavier now. “I’m trying it this way. You oughta come with me. Second platoon was over on our flank. Somebody’s gotta be out here. Or else we’ll keep going, and find our way down to the road.”
“If you say so. I ain’t staying in this hole, for sure. Too much nasty stuff in here. There’s a bloody knife, and a busted-up grenade. Probably had my foot on it all night.”
Riley picked up the helmet again, couldn’t avoid looking it over. No blood.
“I’m holding up a tin hat. Whenever you’re ready, head this way. You’ll see it.”
He heard the footsteps, Killian’s hard grunts, the big man sliding low, coming down into him with a cascade of rock and snow. Riley pulled his legs in tight, not tight enough, Killian crushing him.
“Jesus, Sean!”
Killian crawled to one side, hard breathing, said, “Sorry. This ain’t much of a hole.”
“They didn’t have to park their ox in here, like I did.”
Killian reached down, raised an ammo belt. “Son of a bitch. Coulda used these. My M-1’s empty. These boys didn’t do all that much shooting. Here. Take it.”
Riley took the belt, six full clips. “Great. Three for you. Might need ’em.” He thought of the two men, ran the names through his head. “I knew Tilhoff from boot.”
Killian rubbed his hand over his face, pulled on the hood of his parka. “Yeah, I guess. I try not to make friends. This is why. There’s more bodies farther to the right. No sign of the kid, or Kane. They musta pulled out, and somebody didn’t give us the word. I guess we were a little busy. God, Pete, I musta shot down half a battalion. Ran out of everything but forty-five slugs. I’m with you. We should head out this way. We find a corpsman, we’ll send him up here, check on these guys.”
He weighed Killian’s words, thought, Maybe we oughta stay. If there’s anybody wounded, we can’t just run off. But where’d everybody else go? How’d we miss that order? How could Hamp just up and leave? Or maybe…he didn’t.
“We’ll have to check ’em all, bring them down the hill, dead or alive. There could be a bunch more we can’t see.”
“Fine. One thing at a time. Corpsmen and Graves Registration can do their jobs. I’d rather get off this hill on my feet.”
Riley kept his anger inside, no time for arguments. He kept his eyes on the snowfall, raised up slightly, said, “Snow’s getting lighter now. We can’t wait. I think that machine gun’s out on the saddle, or beyond. I’ll go first, if you want, and if he opens up, we’ll dive into anyplace we see. If he doesn’t, let’s just keep going till we see somebody.”
“I always knew you were officer material. I’m ready if you are.”
Riley slowly stood, slid the rifle up out of the hole. He climbed out, didn’t hesitate, rolled away from the hole, then up to his feet, a hard run, the hood of his coat pushed back, snow in his eyes. He jogged to one side, moved through a pair of tall rocks, then out in the open again, low brush, trampled snow, more Chinese bodies, and he dropped into a hole, gasping through the frigid air. He could hear Killian, the man letting out a hard grunt, another hole a few yards away. Riley tried to catch his breath, fought the cold in his throat, the pain returning. Water, he thought. He reached for his canteen, shook it, frozen solid, what passed now for normal. He sat up, eyed the snow, reached
one hand out, gripped the soft powder, held it for a long second, then slid it into his mouth. He worked his tongue, the powder thawing into wet goo, but the taste was awful, as much dirt as snow. He tried to swallow, felt like choking, and he spit, blew out what he could. He let out a breath, looked over toward Killian.
“Hey, Sean. You okay?”
“Yeah. Got a buddy here.”
“In the hole? You know him?”
“Not likely. Shambo. Stinking son of a bitch. Garlic and piss.”
Riley fought the grime in his mouth, reached for more snow, more careful this time. He poured it from his hand into his mouth, waited for the thaw, the wetness helping, only a little.
“God, Sean. I need water. Canteen’s a block of ice.”
“Can’t help you. Mine’s frozen, and there’s a bullet hole in it.”
Riley took a long breath, shifted himself in the hole. “You ready to go?”
“Lead the way, General.”
Riley rose up, saw the snow had nearly stopped. The hillside was bathed in a thin fog, and he eyed the saddle, could see the vague shape of the rocky hill beyond. Hope that bastard’s a lousy shot, he thought. He scanned more Chinese bodies, a dozen or more close by, started to climb from the hole, saw movement, one man rolling over, and Riley pointed the rifle, no aim, the man pulling a grenade from his coat, Riley firing, missing, then firing again. The second shot burst into the man’s stomach, punching him in a curl, the man groaning, rolling over.
“Shoot him again!”
Riley responded, aimed now, the shot piercing the man’s chest. Riley kept his stare on the soldier, said, “He has a grenade. Stay away from him!”
Killian was there now, said, “I ain’t got no need to crawl around with no Shambo. Keep your eyes open, I guess. Anybody moves, plug him.”
The machine gun fired again, a spray of bullets through the snow beside them. Riley ducked low, heard a husky voice, “This way!”
The voice came from straight ahead, along the edge of the hill. Killian said, “Who the hell is that?”
“Does it matter? Let’s go.”
He ran hard, heard more firing from the machine gun, searched for the source of the voice. A few yards down the hill he saw a helmet, the man mostly hidden by a slit trench, and he ran that way, the machine gun stitching the ground around him. He slid down now, his backside scraping the rocks, his legs leading him into the trench. He knew Killian was close, said, “Big man coming in behind me!”
Killian crashed in quickly, the men making way. Riley fought his breathing again, saw three men, a handful of wounds, one man in his socks. He was a big man, bigger than Killian, a bandage wrapped around one hand.
“Welcome to our piece of paradise. You ain’t much of a rescue team. We were hoping you’d come to get us the hell out of here.”
Riley heard the heavy New Jersey accent, no different from Morelli.
“We were hoping you’d do the same for us. I’m Pete Riley. This ugly mother is Sean Killian. What happened to your boots?”
The big man held the wounded hand upright, beamed a broad, friendly smile. “They’re down the hill a ways. Didn’t have time to get dressed properly when the Chinks showed up. Don’t need ’em anyhow. The good-looking one there is Harry Pomers. Ain’t worth a damn now that he’s shot up. Hell of a linebacker, though. The kid there, he’s Smith, though I’m bettin’ that’s an alias. Too young to be a Marine. Shoots good, I’ll give him that. We took out a pile of those bastards last night. They kept coming, we kept piling ’em up. Name’s Cafferata. Hector Cafferata.”
—
“I guess that’s about it. We’d shoot a pile of ’em, and they’d send a bunch more, and all the while they’re tossing grenades at us. I ran out of ammo and ended up using my shovel, whacking hell out of them, sending ’em back down the hill. Old Benson helped best he could, but he got half-blinded by a grenade. Even blind, he helped reload, until we ran out of lead. We skedaddled up here, found this trench, and these two birds. Made a hell of a stand, the lot of us.” Cafferata paused. “It was beautiful.”
Riley stared, amazed at Cafferata’s story. “You batted the grenades back? You some kind of baseball player?”
Cafferata laughed, winced, his good hand massaging the dirty bandage. “Football. World’s worst baseball player. I guess we rise to it sometimes. Caught a few, threw them back. One took off my damn finger. Chink grenades ain’t too efficient, or I’d be spread out all over this hill. Benson’s lucky he only lost his sight, not his damn head. Dumb bastard took off on his own. No, check that. He’s the best man I ever fought with. But he’s pigheaded. Said he had to get to an aid station, blind or not. Tried to help him, he wouldn’t have it, said he’d be okay. Corpsmen running around everywhere, I figured he’d get help.”
Cafferata stopped smiling now, a hint of guilt on the man’s face. Riley said, “He probably made it.”
Pomers said, “Yeah. It was nuts for a while, but the corpsmen were scrambling around here like ants. Grenade smacked me around, bloodied my head, and this damn corpsman drops in here from outta nowhere. Fixes me up, then he’s gone again. Never saw him after that. That’s just what they do, I guess. Pretty damn useful for a squid.”
Riley studied Pomers’s wound, blood in a dark stain on the man’s face and chest. “Guess we better get you to an aid station, too. We didn’t see anybody else. Where’d they go?”
Pomers said, “My squad’s mostly down. We got swarmed over, not much we could do to help each other.” He paused, and Riley saw a stab of emotion. Pomers seemed to fight it, said, “Order finally came to pull back, but I couldn’t move. The kid here stayed with me. Dumb son of a bitch.”
Riley looked at Smith, who said nothing.
“Yeah, we got one of those, too.”
Cafferata said, “Right at dark, the lieutenant sent Benson and me down low, like a lookout post. Told us if we saw something, we were supposed to haul it back up here, let everybody know. But it was too quick. Never heard the bastards coming. They were tossing grenades as soon as we smelled ’em. Once it started, we got surrounded pretty quick. Hightailed it up the hill, found this trench. And these two morons.”
Pomers seemed weak, and Riley watched him, Pomers removing his helmet. There was a bloody bandage around his head, and Pomers saw Riley’s look, said, “We were supposed to keep the Chinks off the two thirties. The first one, Ladner’s piece, there were too many Chinks. We knocked a bunch of ’em down, but they got the gun. Musta nailed his whole gun crew, too. Ladner wouldn’t have given up his thirty for anything. Lieutenant’s gonna give us hell.”
Cafferata looked at Pomers, said, “I’m tired of hearing that crap. The Chinks put everything they had into grabbing those thirties. How many of those bastards do we have to kill before somebody thinks we done all we could?”
Pomers eased the helmet down on the bandage. “We didn’t do enough.”
Killian spoke now, said, “That’s bull. We’re still here, and a bunch of those Shambos ain’t. Our job now is to find out where the rest of our guys went, and if we can’t do that, then we need to kill another pile of those quilted bastards. They can’t be far. Maybe pulled back, up on that rocky hill. You can talk all day if you want to, or wait for those sons of bitches to come back. I’d like to see you bat down a few grenades, but this ain’t the time.”
Riley heard chatter, out toward the saddle. “Hey! Shut up. Listen. What the hell’s that?”
Killian was quiet now, the men rising up together, and Riley could see more of the saddle, the fog clearing away. The voices came from that way, movement down one side of the hill, Chinese soldiers gathering, searching the bodies of their dead.
Killian said, “Get ready. We got enough ammo to make a fight of it, anyway.”
Riley saw more soldiers farther back, motion up on the saddle itself, another column back on the rocky hill. “Hell, no. There’s a whole battalion out there, maybe more. This ain’t my day to play Custer. If the company’s pulled bac
k, we’ll find them. I say, let’s move.” He looked at Pomers. “Can you walk? Crawl, even?”
Pomers rolled up to his knees. Put one foot down, testing. “I’m ready. Custer’s not my hero, either.”
Cafferata was nodding his own approval, and Riley looked at Killian.
“Well? You gonna fight this war by yourself? Or you gonna be smart for once?”
Killian stared out toward the Chinese, lowered his head. “Okay. But I swear, Pete.”
Cafferata said, “What’s your damn problem? The Chinks ain’t going anywheres else. You wanna have another party like last night, you just wait for sundown. They don’t mind being killed one bit. They just step over their buddies and keep coming. I need some ammo, more grenades, and a better bandage on my finger. It hurts like hell. And I’m damn sure gonna find Benson.” He looked at Pomers, the kid, then at Riley. “You ready?”
Riley inhaled, another sharp stab of cold, a hard look at Killian, said, “Let’s move out together, then spread apart. Head for the ridgeline. Once you get into some cover, make noise, holler, tell ’em you’re a Marine. Make sure anybody out there knows who you are. I don’t wanna get gunned down by some nervous kid like Morelli.”
They moved as quickly as wounds and stiff legs would allow. The machine guns on the far hill made a brief effort, scattered sprays of fire that didn’t find a target. But the Chinese troops seemed more content to hold back, lying low, hidden by the terrain, out of sight of any patrolling aircraft.
The order for the Marines to withdraw had come after the first major Chinese assault, the surprise completely effective. In minutes, openings had been punched all through the Marine positions. The order came first from Captain Barber, Lieutenant McCarthy passing along the only order he could, to salvage what remained of his platoon. Most of the men responded, pulling back over the center ridge of the hill, re-forming down the hill closer to the tree line in their rear. Those who remained were completely engulfed by hordes of Chinese soldiers, or too wounded to respond at all. Even as the Third Platoon was maneuvering to safety, on their left, the Second Platoon had been hit again, another surge by hidden Chinese troops who had swung up the hill from the road below.