The Frozen Hours

by Jeff Shaara

  The cold skies had grown cloudy late in the day, the ominous gathering of dense gray that most often resulted in a snowstorm. With darkness falling rapidly, Captain Barber had climbed up along the ridge, finding out for himself what his men already knew. With so many of the Marines hauled down to the aid stations, either wounded or frostbitten, the perimeter was beginning to stretch dangerously thin.

  Riley could see the weakness in Barber’s face, the man in just as much pain now as he had been at the aid station down the hill. Beside Barber was Lieutenant Wright, his executive officer. Riley didn’t know the man at all but, like the others around him, wondered just how long Barber could keep up the effort he was making to maintain control, whether or not Wright would end up taking command of the company. Riley could see Wright’s concern, shared it himself, Barber’s limp more severe each time he moved along the hillside. But for now, Barber was still in charge.

  “I’m not sure what they’re up to, but you can bet they’ll come back tonight. I don’t have the first idea what they thought they were trying to prove in front of Second Platoon. But they stayed off that damn saddle all day. Thank the Corsairs for that.” He looked at Goolsby. “Spread ’em out. Put a man in every hole. Full alert. It’s the best we can do.” Barber paused, seemed to gather himself, finding the energy. He scanned the faces, said, “I had relatives fought with Robert E. Lee at Petersburg. Grant starved him out, and broke his army. That’s what we got here, a full-out siege. The enemy believes he’s going to accomplish the same thing. But Lee didn’t have flying boxcars dropping ammo to his troops. Right now ammo is more important than rations. As long as the air boys can keep delivering, we’ll keep killing Chinese. Maybe Chairman Mao will figure out that penning us up in a slaughter pen wasn’t such a good idea.”

  Goolsby glanced at the few sergeants close by, most of them keeping a discreet distance. “Sir, how long do you think we’ve gotta stay up here?”

  Riley saw the frown on Barber’s face.

  “Son, if I knew that, I’d be a general. Maybe a Chinese general. We’ll stay here until we don’t have to anymore. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Barber glanced at Welch, seemed relieved there was a veteran on the ridge. “Go to work. Gather up what you can from the corpses. Both sides. If you see a weapon that works, the Chinese are just as liable to pick it up as you are. Grenades, anything else. I’m heading over to First Platoon. Lieutenant Dunne is about the only officer on this hill who hasn’t been hit. All right, go to work.”

  Barber hobbled off, Wright and a pair of aides following.

  Goolsby looked around, his focus now on Welch. “You heard him, Sergeant. I think you should man that machine gun again.”

  “I’ll take Riley, sir. I need a loader.”

  Goolsby nodded. “Fine. But make a quick check down the hills, search the bodies again. You heard the captain. Pick up as many grenades as you can find. I’d just as soon avoid what happened to me yesterday. The more you can toss down the hill, the fewer will get tossed back at you. Or me.”

  Welch motioned to Riley, moved off toward the gun. The others scattered as well, and Riley heard the ping off a nearby rock, a sniper taking aim, the men quickening their steps. Welch knelt by the machine gun, worked the action, said, “Not too bad. The cold doesn’t seem to bother this thing as much as the carbines. We heat it up a bit, it’ll work even better. Check those boxes. Full ones first.”

  Riley knelt, opened the heavy steel boxes, part of the load dropped by the first cargo plane. “We’re good. Three full, plus some. You wanna do a test fire?”

  “Hell, no. I’m not sure they’ve spotted this gun yet, and there’s no need to help ’em out while it’s daylight. They show up tonight, we’ll have plenty of time to test everything we got. How many grenades you got?”

  Riley felt through his coat. “Four.”

  “Not enough. Let’s head down the hill, before it’s full dark. Plenty of Chinks we ain’t really gotten to yet.”

  “You going with me?”

  Welch laughed. “Yeah, sissy boy. I’m not about to turn you loose again. You might end up in Peking. There ain’t nothing about a Chink POW camp that sounds like a place I wanna spend my vacation.” Welch looked out to the side. “Hang on. I’m gonna make sure Kane and the others know we’re out there. It ain’t dark, but it’s getting there. And that kid loves to shoot up all his ammo. And don’t forget, dammit. You see any steam coming out of any of these Chink bastards, it means they’re alive. Blow ’em to hell.”

  Welch motioned him out, and Riley followed, slipped along the gentle slope, past the first of the white-clad bodies. He had learned what to look for, the grenade carriers usually unarmed, carrying a cloth sack. Most of the men closer to the machine gun had been picked over, their odd assortment of rifles now adding to the store of arms along the ridge. Welch pointed toward the thicket, farther down, where Riley had confronted the enemy soldiers. He felt uneasy, didn’t really want to see that place again, but Welch was waiting for him, the look that said, Move it. Welch bent low, shoved at one of the bodies, picked up a Thompson, a nodding smile toward him. Yeah, fine, Riley thought. It’s a treasure hunt. Welch was stuffing something else in his coat pocket, and Riley began to search the ground himself, closer to the deep thicket, stopped at the man he had briefly captured. The man’s chest was ripped open, and Riley stared at the pool of frozen blood, an odd pink color, saw now the neat hole in the man’s head, where Morelli had finished the job. Didn’t need a prisoner anyway, he thought. What the hell would I have done with him?

  He heard Welch whispering to him, looked up, Welch holding a cloth bag.

  “Magazines for the Thompson. Look here. Still says U.S. Army on the bag.”

  “Lucky you. Now I ain’t gotta buy you a Christmas present.”

  Riley scanned more of the bodies, saw the corner of a cloth bag just visible beneath a man’s shoulder. Oh, God, he thought. Here we go. He reached down, a hard grip on the quilted coat, pulled, then harder, the body unmoving, frozen to the hard ground. Guess you can keep it, buddy. He looked toward the next body, heard an odd grunt, saw Welch drop down. He heard the impact now, a string of machine gun slugs skittering on the hard ground. He fell flat, another burst spraying closer by, some impacting the body beside him. He kept his face to the ground, waited for a pause in the fire, and Welch shouted, “Up! Now! He’s reloading. Up the hill!”

  Welch scampered past him, Riley rising, a hard scramble to keep up. He was above the brush, in the open, the rocks in front of him, and now the machine gun opened again, stitching the ground to one side. He kept moving, a fast run, Welch faster still, a leap into the tall rocks. Riley jumped into cover, a hard landing, sore bones on frozen earth. He heard laughter, somewhere close, lay flat, gasping through the frigid air, the laughter continuing. Welch was flat beside him, still had the Thompson, his breathing in sharp gasps as well. Riley said, “Who’s laughing?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Riley sat up, looked to one side, up on the ridgeline, saw Kane, the crew of the BAR, faces above the rim of their foxholes.

  “You know, they got the Olympics in a couple years. You two oughta run a relay.”

  More laughter came now, all along the hill, Riley leaning his back against the tall rock.

  “They can go down there next time.”

  Welch pulled himself up, one arm lying across the breech of the machine gun. “Bastard thinks he’s Milton Berle.”

  Riley couldn’t help a smile, said, “At least you got another Thompson. How many’s that?”

  Welch moved a white blanket aside, another prize from the fallen Chinese. “This makes four.”

  “You think I might get to use one?”

  Welch seemed to ponder the question. “Well, hell, I found a bag of ammo for ’em. Guess it can’t hurt.”

  Riley took the Thompson from Welch, felt the heft. “Always heard these things were pretty useless. No range.”

  “How much ra
nge you think you need? We’re not sharpshooters, you know. You don’t want it, give it back.”

  Riley thought of the night before, then before that, the hordes of Chinese, the fight on all sides.

  “Hand me some of those clips.”

  FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 30, 1:00 A.M.

  The supply plane had come again, the big C-119 Boxcar, unloading massive pallets of matériel under white parachutes. It had been nearly dark, the men on one part of the hill following Barber’s orders to gather in a circle, each one aiming a flashlight skyward. But the pilot hadn’t the aim of the first one, ground fire from the Chinese on the rocky hill keeping the plane much higher than it needed to be. The result was a missed target, many of the pallets falling well down the hill, nearly three hundred yards beyond the perimeter. It was as much a gift to the Chinese as it was to the disgusted men on Fox Hill. The rescue had begun immediately, before the Chinese could fully grasp what a bounty they might have received. The journey down into the wooded draw was dangerous, to be sure, but Barber pushed the men to move quickly, and well after dark most of the supplies were hauled back where they belonged. As if the pilot’s inaccuracy weren’t cause enough for annoyance, one of the pallets was loaded with what someone to the south must have thought was a precious necessity for the suffering Marines: cans of fresh water. By the time the water was discovered, it had passed beyond usefulness. It was solid ice.

  By midnight the Chinese began to open up their machine guns across the saddle, sprays of green tracers peppering the crest of the hill, where the Chinese gunners had ranged their guns throughout the daylight hours. The mortars came as well, not as accurate, impacting in scattered patterns that weren’t patterns at all. The Marines kept mostly to their foxholes, accepting that this latest assault was surely the preliminary of yet another massed attack by the Chinese infantry.

  —

  Riley sat low in the foxhole just behind the machine gun, his sleeping bag again wrapping his legs. It was the first time he had shared cover with Welch in a very long time, another war, another part of the world. There was no talk, the noise from the mortar and machine gun barrage driving each man’s thoughts inside. Riley knew there could be no sleep, the captain’s orders clear. But the barrage was hypnotic, and Riley felt himself drifting off, soothed by the steady chatter and rumbles of the Chinese fire. He thought of Ruthie and the boy, meeting him at a plane, Philadelphia, maybe. She’ll dress like a goddess, he thought. She loves that, standing out in a crowd. And boy, does she. She’ll try to be the first thing I see when I come off the plane. Or the train. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe they’ll let me drive home in a jeep. Just pull up to the front yard and beep the damn horn. Hi, honey, I’m home. Let me tell you about my day at the office. And Peter. So happy to see his old man. He had a jolting thought. What if he doesn’t remember who the hell I am? God, no. Can’t have that. Need to write her, tell her to show him pictures, every day. Please don’t let him forget. And if I don’t come home…well, do that anyway.

  He sat up, wiped at the crusty goo around his eyes. Enough of that, for crying out loud. He looked at Welch, the sergeant’s voice rising above the din of the firing.

  “You fall asleep?”

  “No. Thinking of home. Bad idea.”

  “Writing a few letters myself. Wonder when we’ll get to mail ’em?”

  A mortar shell impacted a few feet in front of the hole, and Riley flinched, pulled his head down like a turtle. Too close, he thought. Welch said, “They adjust that one a couple notches and we won’t have to worry about it. Shoulda dragged more of those Chinese sandbags up here. We’ll do that tomorrow.”

  There was commotion behind the rocks, and Riley heard voices, eased up slowly, a lull in the mortar fire. There were two men hauling a stretcher, the wounded man suddenly rising up, sitting, the men lowering him to the ground. It was Captain Barber.

  “All right, I’ve had about enough of this! I’ve ordered the spotter, Lieutenant Campbell, to call back to Hagaru-ri and give us some of that artillery support they say we have. O’Leary’s waiting for word from Campbell to fire some star shells so we can range the incoming fire. Sergeant!”

  Riley saw another man crawling up closer, a field telephone wrapped around the man’s shoulder.

  “Yes, sir! I’m set!”

  Riley was curious, watched the two stretcher bearers, huddled low now, Barber pushing out, lying flat on the ground.

  “Give me the damn phone. Who’s this? Campbell? What did they say?” Barber listened for a long moment, said, “Tell Captain Read we’re ready.” He listened again, then said aloud, “All right, listen up! Four artillery rounds coming in! Wait for it!”

  Riley couldn’t help peering up, his eyes just above the rim of the hole, staring out toward the saddle. The machine gun fire was relentless from the rocky hill, another spray chewing up rocks down below. The mortar shells erupted over the knoll now, sunlight in the darkness, the star shells drifting lower, the distant rocks bathed in a blinding light. Now the artillery shells came in, sharp slices through the night air, the knoll erupting in four distinct blasts. Riley stared, could see men blown airborne, rocks and equipment blown into pieces. The star shells faded to darkness now, the fiery impacts from the 105 shells passing. Behind him, Barber said, “I’ll be a son of a bitch!” He was on the phone again, said, “Wonderful! Perfect! Cease fire! Targets destroyed!” There was a silent moment, and Barber laughed now. “You heard me! Targets destroyed. Tell that captain I owe him a cigar.”

  Riley watched the scene, realized now the barrage had stopped. Welch was up beside him, staring out, said, “What the hell? They hit it the first time?” He turned to Barber now, who sat staring out at the same dark space. “I guess that was some fine shooting, eh, sir?”

  Barber said, an announcement to the entire platoon, “That was How Company, Eleventh Marines. Those boys are in Hagaru-ri, seven miles from here. I had hoped they might zero in on those enemy guns after maybe a half-dozen attempts. I was also hoping they didn’t blow us to hell in the process. I need to have more faith. Eyes front, boys. The enemy’s still coming. But there’s a few less machine guns out there to lead the way.”

  Riley looked again to the front, silent darkness, heard the captain give a subtle order, the stretcher bearers loading him up once more. They moved off, back down the hillside, and Riley said, “He’s in rough shape. Woulda walked up here if he could.”

  Welch adjusted the assortment of weapons in front of him, said, “Yep. Hate to see him go down. Hope the damn doctor pays attention to whatever his wound’s doing. I guess he’s not such a jerk after all.”

  —

  “There! To the right of the saddle!”

  Riley followed Welch’s point, saw the column of white, filing out quickly from the deep draw.

  “God, Hamp, there’s a million of ’em.”

  Welch was out of the hole, slid in behind the machine gun, said, “Shut up and handle the ammo.”

  Welch worked the action on the .30 caliber, the belt in place, and Riley ignored the M-1, gripped the Thompson. Down below, the hillside was covered with a fresh blanket of snow, several inches deep, the Chinese soldiers standing out plainly against the newly clean background. Riley felt the thunder in his chest, watched the enemy spreading out their lines, off to the right, toward the deep thicket. He felt the terror rising up, the uncontrollable panic, his hands shaking, a painful grip on the Thompson. To one side, a voice, Goolsby.

  “Make ready to repel boarders!”

  Welch laughed, surprising Riley, the laughter contagious. Welch shook his head, shouted, “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Riley kept his eyes on the Chinese, Goolsby’s ridiculous order bringing thoughts of sailing ships and pirates, a celebrated history, part of the lore of the Corps. To the shores of Tripoli…

  Welch fired the machine gun now, jarring him, and he put one hand on the first box of ammo, watching Welch, both men huddled low. The machine gun spit out in brief bursts, a two-second pause betw
een, then another burst. Now Welch fired in a long, continuous stream, sweeping the ground in front, taking his toll on the advance of the enemy. When the gun was empty, Riley fed the next belt, dragging another up close. All along the hill, the Marines responded to the Chinese advance, their mortars from the backside of the hill dropping a steady rain of explosive horror all along the enemy’s lines. For the Chinese, nothing had changed, the grenade carriers moving up first, struggling to draw close enough to toss their one weapon, the Marine rifles, machine guns, and mortar shells wiping them away. Behind the grenadiers, the riflemen pushed forward, walking obediently into the bloody carnage, taking aim at the Marines, who took aim at them. Then the third line moved up, men with heavier weapons, the Russian burp guns and American Thompsons, stepping past so many who had already gone down.

  The breakthroughs were minor and short-lived, the Marines now too familiar with the methods of their enemy. For the next couple of hours, the Chinese continued to press, while the Marines, fully stocked with a fresh supply of ammunition and arms, mostly held them away.

  With the approach of the dawn, the Chinese effort lost energy, the continuing advances more feeble, until finally they pulled back altogether. Across the hillside, the fresh blanket of powdery snow was again spread with the remains of the men who had been sent up the hill to drive the Americans away. For the Chinese soldiers, the effort had been as costly as any before, and still they came, following orders passed down to them from far up their chain of command. The orders reflected the desperate importance of their mission, to eliminate the Marines who held this hill, opening the way for a stout Chinese roadblock at the most effective chokepoint south of Yudam-ni, the winding narrow passage through Toktong Pass. After three nights of massed assaults, both sides had been bloodied, but the Chinese had absorbed astonishing losses against an enemy they outnumbered by better than twelve to one. On November 30, with daylight breaking on another brutally frigid morning, the Chinese could only regroup yet again and watch from their hidden places as the Marines made ready to receive another attack, firmly entrenched on their solitary hill.