by Jeff Shaara
“Sons of bitches! We get ’em all?”
“Hope so. Come on. More down that way.”
Riley pulled himself up, wanted to shout, anything, held his silence, too dangerous. The men began to move along the hillside, away from him, and now there was a shower of tracers from across the draw, the Marines falling, a sharp cry. The fire went both ways now, a machine gun uphill from him, a duel over Riley’s head. He lay flat on the frozen ground, waited an eternity, a minute or more, the guns finally quiet. Riley looked up the hill close by, thought of calling out, his brain holding it in, the thought, You’re in the wrong damn place. Just get the hell out of here. Find Welch. He slid on his belly, away from the dead Chinese, but there were more bodies in front of him, more smells, garlic and spent powder. He rose up, the moonlight reflecting off a sea of bodies, and he looked up the hill, realized he was far down, no landmarks he could see. There was more firing from the crest, ragged silhouette of rocks, nothing familiar, no sounds but the rattle of the rifle fire. The saddle was far off to the left, and he thought, Move that way, up the hill. That’s where we were. I hope to God that’s where we still are. I got no use being out here on my own. Dumb son of a bitch.
He clawed his way through the hard rocks, frozen fingers, cold sweat inside his coat. He slid himself uphill now, very slow, quiet movement, staring at the ridgeline. They gotta be there, he thought. We dug in all over that peak. Somebody’s gotta be home. He thought of calling out again, no, not yet. Get closer. They need to see you. He crept closer, sliding through the snow, sharp rocks under his belly, staring through the darkness, no movement. He’s there, he thought. Somewhere. All right, do this.
“Marine here!”
His voice seemed to explode out of him, and he lay low, waited, heard a nervous voice, very close.
“Who the hell are you? I’ll blow your damn brains out.”
“Marine! I promise. Third Platoon.”
There was silence for a moment, hushed whispers a few yards above him, and now a different voice. “Yeah, asshole? Who won the World Series?”
Riley felt a new panic, his brain screaming for answers. Baseball. Oh, Christ. “Yankees! Beat the Phillies in four!”
There was another silent moment, and the second man said, “Okay, get your ass up here.”
He scrambled that way, up on his knees now, reached the foxhole, saw two figures, rifles and grenades. His breathing came in short gasps, frantic words, “Thanks. Name’s Riley. Third Platoon.”
“Don’t care. You’re not a Chink. You’re in First Platoon area. What the hell you doing out here?”
“Hauling ammo for a thirty. My sarge. Guess I got lost.”
“Where’s the ammo? We could use some.”
Riley lowered his head. “Out there, somewhere.”
“Great. Not only are you lost, but you’re worthless, too.”
“Guess so. At least I knew about the World Series.”
“If you say so. We took your word for it. Neither one of us knows hog tits about baseball.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Riley
FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 29, 4:00 A.M.
HE STAYED WITH the two men for more than an hour, but the Chinese had seemed to pull away, the only fire coming from the mortars, occasional blasts of illuminating shells, mostly out toward the saddle. The foxhole was a tight fit, and Riley kept his stare down the hillside, let the others get some sleep. The pains in his knees, the raw scrape on his face added a new discomfort to the misery of the cold, and he dabbed at his cheek, clamped his jaw down tightly, testing if he had lost any teeth. Friendly fire, he thought. Had to be. Haven’t heard any enemy artillery anywhere. Not yet anyway. But hell, last night there weren’t mortars and now they brought ’em up. I guess. Unless that was friendly fire, too. His eyes strained to see, and he realized there was a light haze of snowfall. There were more details now, the dawn coming on slowly, and he glanced at his new partners, thought, I gotta get out of here. Welch will be going nuts. Or he’ll just be pissed. He thought of the ammo cans, back on the hill somewhere. Maybe somebody will find ’em, get some good out of ’em. Hopefully us. He felt stirring close beside him, one of the men waking, and he bent low, whispered, “Hey! If you’re awake, I gotta head back to my unit.”
The voice grumbled up from below, “Yeah, go on. I guess it’s time for breakfast.”
The snow was heavier now, and Riley crawled up, one knee on the hard dirt, pushing himself out of the hole. He looked out over the hill, eyed the crest, rocks spread all along, thick brush in patches. He began to move, and the man spoke behind him, low voice, “Hey, Mac. Just so you know. I was gonna plug you. My buddy figured you were okay.”
“Yeah, well, thanks to your buddy.”
He started to crawl, the ground layered in thin powdery snow. The breeze was coming again, and he could see more detail, realized there was a sharp crevice in the hillside, the brush thicker still. He pushed on, slipped above the thicket, heard a snap of branches, froze. There were dead men all around him, all of them Chinese, and he kept still, one hand moving to the .45. The movement in the brush continued, no other sound, and he drew the pistol, tried to flex his stiff fingers, feeling numbly for the safety, sliding his bare trigger finger into the guard. He rolled over, sat, the pistol pointing into the brush, more sounds, closer, his eyes finding more details in the soft gray light. The man appeared now, crawling, the white uniform, his face down, pulling himself free of the brush. Riley blinked, fought the frost around his eyes, aimed the pistol, waited, the man a few feet in front of him, moving closer. The man stopped, seemed to rest, sinking low, no weapon that Riley could see. One voice rolled through him. A prisoner. Take him prisoner. He waited one more second, then said, “Hey!”
The man popped his head up, wide-eyed surprise, the two men staring at each other for a long second. Riley jerked the pistol upward, a signal, kept the aim on the man’s face. The Chinese soldier seemed to understand, moved to his knees, his hands coming up slowly to the top of his head. Riley didn’t know what to do, was sitting, his feet extended, awkward position, and the soldier kept his stare on the pistol, Riley struggling to pull his legs closer.
“You just stay put there, pal.”
Riley tried to turn around, still aiming the pistol, felt stupidly awkward, the soldier watching him now, a glance backward. The brush behind the man erupted now, another man, a surge of motion toward him, a burp gun firing. Riley shouted, fired the pistol, then again, the burp gun dropping. Now another man was there, down beside the prisoner, a rifle in his hands, firing from the hip, blinding flashes, Riley firing into the man’s belly, dropping him. The brush was alive with movement, manic voices, but the men were moving away, down the hill, hidden by the deep cut in the hillside. Riley fired again, aiming at his prisoner, the man crawling away, falling flat. Riley fired again, emptying the pistol, no targets, aiming at noise, and to one side, up on the ridge, a machine gun opened up, chattering fire into the deep draw, splattering the ground, chopping the brush. More men began to crush down the hill, hidden still by the brush, the machine gun finding them, sharp cries. He pushed at the ground with his feet, backed himself frantically up the hill, more fire from the machine gun slicing down in front of him. He wanted to shout, felt the heart-ripping terror, lay flat now, on his back. The machine gun fired again, a shorter burst, then stopped, silence now but for the thunder in his ears. He waited, rolled over slowly, still had the pistol in his hands, peered up beneath the hood of his coat. The machine gun was just off the crest, a formation of rocks, one tall stone.
“Hamp! It’s me!”
“Oh, shut up. I figured that out. Only you’d be that damn lost.”
Riley rose up slowly, looked back toward his would-be prisoner, the man’s chest peppered with holes, his blood oozing out, a thickening pool on the hard ground beside him. Riley pulled himself away, turned, saw several Marines coming down, rifles in hand, faces, one of them the kid, Morelli.
“Jesus, Pete! We
thought they got you again! We been watching this bunch, knew they were in this draw. You got ’em to come out.”
He looked at the others, Kane, slinging his BAR up on his shoulder, and Kane stared past him, nodded, said, “Good job, Pete. Remind me to take you fishing sometime. You make damn good bait.”
Welch called out, “Check ’em out. Make sure they’re dead enough. See what they’re carrying.”
The men moved past Riley, Kane probing one of the bodies with the BAR, firing a short burst. Riley jumped, surprised, and Kane moved to the next man, said, “This one’s done. Check him out, kid.”
Riley watched with horrified curiosity, Morelli, leaning low, his hand sliding into the man’s coat. Kane looked at Riley, saw his expression, laughed.
“Yep, we give him all the good jobs.”
Morelli stood now, held something in his hand. “Soap and toothpaste. American stuff, just like the others. And he’s wearing that vest.”
Riley looked down, didn’t know what Morelli meant. “What vest?”
Kane said, “We were wondering why the carbines weren’t dropping these Chink bastards. Like the damn slugs was bouncing off. They’re wearing some kind of hemp thing. Word went out last night to everybody who’s still stuck with a carbine. Aim for the head.” He held up the BAR, another smile. “Didn’t have that problem myself.”
“Get your asses back up here!” Riley saw Welch now, standing at the machine gun, the young lieutenant Goolsby standing beside him. Welch called out, louder now, “There’s sniper fire down that way. Get it done, then get back into cover. This ain’t a picnic!”
Kane looked again at the handful of bodies, said to Morelli, “Hey, kid. Your turn. Plug each one of ’em. Just to be sure.”
Morelli looked at him. “You sure it’s okay?”
Kane said, “Captain’s orders, kid. Do it.”
Riley stood now, eased the stiffness from his legs, said to Kane, “Did the captain really order that?”
Kane was serious now. “I ain’t lying, Pete. Too many of our guys were getting nailed by wounded Chinks.”
He watched Morelli slip down the hill, probing more of the bodies, and now a single shot rang out, then another, Morelli stepping from body to body, the M-1 pointed down into each man’s head. Riley turned away, didn’t want to watch that, looked up toward Welch, the sergeant standing with his hands on his hips, observing. The others waited for Morelli to finish the job, the kid climbing up from the draw, looking at Riley with a smile.
Riley moved up the hill, the others spreading out, Welch calling out again.
“Get in your damn holes. The air boys oughta show up pretty soon, and nobody needs to be hunting souvenirs.”
The men spread out, moving to their own places on the ridge, and Riley stepped closer to Welch, who said, “Where the hell’s my ammo? How’d you end up way the hell out there?” Riley started to speak, felt exhausted relief, adding to the weariness of the long night. He felt the cold engulfing him again, said, “Sorry. Screwed up.”
“Yeah, of course you did. I got ammo from one of the carriers. Made him stay with me and do your job. The Chinks tried like hell to grab this thirty. Figured out a little trick. Started pulling the tracers out of the belt, so they couldn’t find me. They didn’t figure that one out yet. Pretty easy to locate a Chink machine gun when he’s shooting green at you.” He stared at Riley, fixed on his face. “You look like hell. Like that bar fight in Guam.”
“Shell came down, knocked me ass over teakettle. Lost the ammo.”
Welch put a hand on Goolsby’s shoulder, seemed to be checking on him, and Riley was surprised to see blood on the lieutenant’s face.
“Same thing happened to him. Percussion grenade. Hey, Lieutenant, you hearing me okay?” Goolsby nodded, sat down now, and Welch bent low beside him. “We better get you to the aid station, sir.”
Goolsby seemed to come awake, said, “No. Lieutenant McCarthy is down. I have to stay up here.”
Welch stood, said to Riley, “I guess he’s in charge, for now. McCarthy’s down the hill. Leg’s busted up good.”
Riley watched Goolsby, saw him shake his head again, trying to blow out the fog.
“Sir, if we get you into a hole, warm you up a little. Might help.”
Goolsby looked up at Riley, nodded. Welch helped Goolsby to his feet again, Riley taking him by the other arm. They moved together, the foxholes close in front of them, and Welch said, “Easy. Here you go, sir. Just sit tight. I’ll find a corpsman, have him check you out.”
Goolsby settled low in the hole. “Thank you, Sergeant. Look after the men. I’ll be okay. Just a knock on the head.”
There was a scattering of rifle fire down to the far side, and Riley looked that way, said, “Second Platoon?”
Welch reached down, picked up the Thompson, and beside it, Riley’s M-1. “Here. Might come in handy. There have been snipers all morning long. The Chinks are lousy shots, mostly. But stay on your toes. No wandering around.”
Riley took the rifle, Welch handing him a pair of clips. He slipped them into his pocket, looked back down the hill, the thicket of brush, the bodies of the Chinese soldiers.
“Why’d you make the kid do that?”
Welch pulled his coat tighter, fighting a new gust of wind. “Didn’t have to. Turns out…he likes it. He’s having as much fun out here as that idiot Irishman.”
Riley felt a jolt. “How’s he doing? Killian, I mean.”
“He’ll live. Not so some of the others. We took a few more good hits last night. You change your socks lately? Nope. Come on, let’s go down the hill. I’ll tell the lieutenant we’ll try to find him a corpsman. I’m betting they’re mostly down at the tents now. A single round took out the captain and Lieutenant McCarthy last night. Last I saw ’em they were both heading down to the tents. Some Chink tossed a percussion grenade right into Goolsby’s hole. Lucky to still have his head.”
Riley remembered the doctor and Barber now, at the aid station. “I saw the captain. They were working on him.”
“They’re gonna be working on all of us if we don’t get off this hill. Grab whatever gear you need, your knapsack, your spare socks. You probably pissed your long johns, too. You oughta get some rations. There’s a big-ass box of Tootsie Rolls down at the aid station. It’s pretty quiet for now. Chinks ain’t interested in daylight assaults. The air boys keep popping up out of nowhere. Damn beautiful sight. Chinks will wait until dark to make trouble.”
Welch was moving off, Riley struggling to keep up, the painful stiffness in his knees, watery cold in his boots. He thought of the tents down below, felt a growling hunger rising in his gut, thoughts of Tootsie Rolls.
—
The screams caught his attention as they moved past the medical tent, the cries of the wounded blending with the orders called out by the doctor. Beyond was the warming tent, the parking place for the men who had already been treated. Riley stopped, focused on a row of corpses laid out between two fat trees. The faces were covered, the bodies draped with a thin coating of snow. At the tent, Welch said, “How long you gonna stand there? Nothing you can do for ’em.”
Maybe, he thought, if I hadn’t been stumbling around in the dark.
He knew better than to feel guilty about any of the casualties, that no matter what anyone had done, there was a bullet or a grenade or a mortar shell that could find you. The worst had been the direct hit into a foxhole, a mortar shell obliterating the men who had crouched low, believing they were safe. Haven’t seen that yet, he thought. Not out here.
He looked at Welch, who showed him unusual patience.
“Sorry, Hamp. Head’s a little foggy.”
“Make way!”
Riley turned, saw two teams of stretcher bearers moving quickly downhill, headed for the medical tent. He moved aside, the first team carrying their man inside. The second team halted outside, waited for space, one man saying to Riley, or to no one at all, “Damn sniper. Second Platoon’s still catching hell from
the west hill. Lieutenant Peterson’s up there half-full of lead, still running the show. Hell of a thing.”
Riley looked at Welch, said, “Maybe we oughta go back up. Pretty busy place.”
“You got a buddy in that warming tent. He’s a jackass, but he’s still a buddy. I wanna check on the lieutenant, see what’s up. And I’m damn cold.”
He followed Welch into the tent, not quite warm, but a definite improvement from the cold outside. The sounds were scattered and many, a sharp scream at the far end of the tent, a hard groan rising up from a man to one side. He tried not to see the details, the smells overwhelming him. Welch said, “Here’s your buddy. Hey, Irish, you awake, or just goofing off?”
Killian lay on the ground, one of a row of men, each stuffed in a sleeping bag. Riley moved closer, bent low, said, “Hey, Sean. You okay?”
Killian looked up at him, staring through grogginess. “I’m alive, I think.”
Riley saw the bandage on his neck, said, “How’s the wound?”
Killian was still trying to focus, blinking his eyes, and Welch said, “He’s doped up. Morphine. Hey, Irish, how big’s the hole in your head?”
Killian shook his head slowly, one hand coming out of the sleeping bag, a clumsy poke at the bandage. “Not bad. Missed the important stuff. But the problem is my feet.” Riley could see fear in Killian’s glassy eyes, and Killian reached clumsily for Riley’s arm. “I’m done for, Pete. My feet are dead. Frostbite. Something like that. They say I can’t fight no more.”
Welch moved closer, down beside Riley. “You slack-jawed bastard. I want you back up on this hill by tonight.”
Riley knew Welch wasn’t serious, had heard this kind of test before, pushing Killian to see if he’d push back. But Killian didn’t respond, the morphine carrying him off someplace else. Beside Killian, another man spoke.