Throughout the town, aid stations had been established, medical teams inspecting their inventory. The chaplains had established their own kind of aid station, and already men were seeking out the Catholic priest, Father Cornelius Griffin, who was receiving confessions in his makeshift church.
Each company’s supply officers had begun to organize the enormous stores of ammunition and every other tool the men would require, from barrels of gasoline and oil to great mountains of C-rations. But not all the rations would be dry. Kitchens were being erected, tubs and pots set over fire pits, the men who watched curious just what kind of luxury the officers might provide them, or if those treats were kept only for the brass.
The engineers had begun work on an entirely new project as well. The Marines watched with curiosity, far out along the edge of the town, green bulldozers and tractors rumbling along a long flat stretch of mostly level ground, great dirt movers scraping the earth, dirt piling high, flattening it out again. The project began to take shape immediately, and the men could see that the effort was lengthwise, a wide and flattened roadway, long enough to serve as a runway. Marine engineers were performing the work that, to Smith’s enormous frustration, the army’s engineers had refused to do. If the Marines at Hagaru-ri wanted a landing strip, they would build it themselves.
—
Riley moved closer to the others, heard more of the bickering, another argument between the sergeant and Killian. Goolsby was there now, the smaller man pushing himself into the fray, a scolding as harsh as the young lieutenant dare offer. Killian backed away, Welch still bowed up, Goolsby’s hand on his chest. Riley moved more quickly, thought, Careful, Lieutenant. He’s got an idiot’s temper sometimes. Hate to see him end up in the brig.
Riley watched Welch march off, sitting down on an old wooden box. He moved closer, studied Welch’s stare, knew not to push too hard.
“Hey, Sarge. What’s up?”
“What the hell do you want? That Irish son of a bitch needs to stuff his skivvies in his mouth. Sometimes I just don’t need to hear a load of bitching about nothing at all.”
Riley stared out, said, “There’s supplies coming in like mad. Maybe some decent food. New winter clothing, maybe other stuff that’ll do us some good.”
Welch looked up at him, squinted slightly. “Your face looks like you been sleeping on needles.”
Riley put a hand on the rawness of his cheeks. “Ice, I guess. Last night, that was rough. Felt like needles. Feels good to get somewhere we can just sit.”
“I don’t want to sit. I want to shove my bayonet into Charlie Chink’s guts. It’s been two weeks and all we’ve done is march. I bet he’s out there. Laughing his ass off. Old Homer thinks so. The new battalion chief does, too. Colonel Lockwood. Has his binoculars up to his eyeballs every time I see him. Jumpy as hell.”
“Haven’t met the man.”
Welch pulled out the canteen, sloshed a drink in his mouth, spit it out. “Squat little guy. Short like Old Homer, but round everywhere. If it wasn’t for the uniform, you’d think he was mayor of Munchkinland.”
Riley laughed.
The wind came in a new burst, swirling around him, dust driven into his face again, grinding at his eyes. He turned away, one hand up on his face, blinking hard.
“Damn it all. How much of this is enough?”
Welch said nothing, and he heard a new voice, the kid.
“Hey, Sarge. Hey, Pete. What’s all the equipment doing out there? They been at it all night. A lot of work, for sure.”
Riley cleared his eyes, saw Morelli staring out toward the rumbles of the heavy equipment. “Airstrip, maybe. They want supplies brought in, maybe it’s better to do it by air.”
Welch turned that way, said, “Nah. They’re not building an airstrip to bring stuff in. It’s to take stuff out. Wounded. We’re a long damn way from any hospital. We ain’t done with the enemy, and where there’s enemy there’s wounded.”
Riley realized Welch was probably right. Beside him, Morelli said, “I love that big stuff. Used to play with all kinds of tractors and stuff when I was a kid.”
The words inspired a memory in Riley, a Christmas present, a very small version of the dozers he saw now. He let that go, had no energy for Morelli’s good cheer.
They stood silently for a long moment, the heavy equipment holding their attention, and now, another new voice, Lieutenant McCarthy.
“Listen up! There’s mail! That six-by behind those tents. Don’t get lost. We’re still waiting for orders to dig in.”
The men reacted with a sudden explosion of energy, a wave rolling quickly that way. Riley watched for a few seconds, and Welch said, “Well, let’s go. It’s been two weeks. Ought to be something worth getting.”
Morelli didn’t hesitate, joined the flow, and Welch looked at Riley.
“You got a bug up your ass? It’s mail, for God’s sake.”
Riley shrugged.
“So, go on. At least one of your fifteen girlfriends might have written you.”
“What about you? What the hell’s wrong?”
Welch’s voice softened, the sergeant knowing Riley’s moods. Riley said, “Not sure. Just been thinking about things. You remember Levinson, in Baker Company? We went through boot with him. Okinawa, too.”
“Yeah, I think. He the one who went nutso? He never came back, did he?”
Riley pictured the man in his mind, the screaming tantrum that ended only when the MPs wrestled away his bayonet.
“Nope. He got one of those damn awful letters. His wife just ended their marriage, just like that. Hell of a thing to do in a letter. I guess she couldn’t take being alone. Or she got bored. It just ripped his guts out.”
“Maybe she found some stateside stud. He’s better off. Probably in some comfy nuthouse somewhere. What’s that got to do with…now?”
He looked at Welch, shivered, had kept the thoughts away as long as he could. “I’m scared as hell Ruthie’s gonna do that. Always have been. Every time I’m in the field, I think she’s starting to hate me just a little bit more. Hell, she’s got a four-year-old to handle. He’s a load, too. She needs help. Maybe some other stateside stud.”
Welch stared hard at him, said, “You’re an asshole. That woman is as feisty and full of vinegar as anyone I know. When I met her, I thought, Oh, she’s cute. Tiny little thing, a stiff breeze’ll blow her over. Hell, then I saw her get mad. She’s like some kind of she-wolf, protecting her den. I guaran-damn-tee you, she’s sitting at home making lists of your chores, your projects, all the things you need to do when you get home. And all the things that little boy needs from nobody else but his dad. And I bet she’s writing you a letter every damn day. They’ll need another truck just to haul your crap. Let me tell you something, Private. You got lucky, and so did she. I seen it plain as day. And she knows it. You better damn well remember it. I’d write her myself, tell her you’re down in the dumps, except she might kick my ass for telling her.”
“Or I might.”
Riley smiled now, and Welch stood, his hand going up to Riley’s shoulder.
“Listen. My girlfriends, yeah, they’re great. Some real knockouts. I might even see one or two of them when this is over. But, Pete, you’ve got a home waiting for you. I’ve been in that home. I’ve seen her look at you. You’re it. Now get the hell over there and grab a pile of her letters.”
He could tell Welch was waiting for him to move.
“Not sure where this came from, Hamp. Just happened all of a sudden. I thought of Levinson, how he came apart. Scares me. We’re so damn far away.”
“So, you’re scared. Me, too. Miserable, cold as hell. You know all that talk about being home for Christmas? They could be right. The Chinks have backed away, and maybe they’re backing off all the way to China. Look around you, right here, those big guns, that squad of tanks that rolled through. If Charlie Chink’s paying attention, he can see it all. And they got families, too. And, from what I’ve seen, crappy-assed shoes. This
war might be over and we just don’t know it yet.”
Riley scanned the horizon, one massive hill to the east. He looked at Welch now, saw the concern still on his friend’s face. Riley forced a smile.
“It’s the army brass that’s telling us about Christmas. You ever know the army to get anything right?”
Welch slapped him on the back, gave a small push. “Just go read your damn mail. Then you can read mine. I won’t remember what half those broads look like. Then you can tell me who’s got the better deal.”
Riley moved forward, the cold stiffness in his toes slowing him, a slight stagger to his steps. He saw the kid, carrying a long, thin package, beaming smile, more smiles on the faces of the others. Killian came toward them now, another package, his voice loud, boisterous.
“I knew it! You just wait till you see this! I asked, and she came through!”
Killian moved on by, Riley looking at the truck, two men up in the back, handing out the parcels to a pair of men below, names calling out. Riley hesitated, saw only packages, and Welch moved ahead, said, “What you got for Sergeant Welch?”
“Right here, Sarge. Nice little pile.”
Welch took the letters, turned to Riley, held them up. “Okay, it’s your turn.”
Riley stepped closer, saw only boxes, bundles, paper, and string. He felt the nervousness again, tightness in his chest. “I don’t see any more letters.”
One of the men up in the truck tossed an empty cloth sack aside.
“Nope, that’s it. What’s your name?”
“PFC Pete Riley.”
The man slapped his buddy, said, “So, this is him.”
Both men stared down at Riley with leering smiles.
“What’s up? There anything for me?”
One of the men in front of him turned, his hand reaching back into the truck.
“We had to make you a pile. Next time you’ll get your own bag. Jesus, buddy, what’s your trick?”
Riley was curious, saw a thick wad of envelopes.
“Trick for what?”
All four men laughed, and one said, “The whole truck smells like perfume now. There’s weapons requisitions that smell like they been to Paris and back. And it’s all yours. You musta done something right.”
Welch said, “They both done something right.”
The man tossed the bundle into Riley’s hands, the scent of her rolling over him, so familiar, so very wonderful. He gripped the letters, lifted them to his face, saw her in his mind, her smiling playfulness. He stepped back, Welch still waiting, and Welch said, “See? Told you so. Don’t ever doubt me again.”
“I’ll doubt you plenty. It’s her I won’t doubt.”
—
They sat in a small group, silence broken by cheerfulness, each letter bringing some new reaction.
Riley read the letters again, third time around, every one telling him how ridiculous he was for being afraid. He held back a fresh tear, and beside him Welch said, “Good stuff, huh?”
Riley nodded, an unstoppable smile. “My boy’s growing up fast. Knocked hell out of some army officer’s kid in school.”
“My kind of kid.”
Riley shook his head. “He misses his old man. So does she. You were right, Hamp. Every bit of it.”
Welch said nothing, tossed a handful of his own letters down to his feet, and across from him Kane said, “Hey, Sarge. You mind if I read ’em? I hear all you get is good old nasty ones.”
Welch said, “Hell, no.” He reached down, scooped them together, shoved them into his coat. “You want good letters, get yourself a bunch of good women. Best if they’re…enthusiastic.”
Riley leaned close, said, “You still telling them you’re a general?”
“MacArthur’s son-in-law.”
Welch laughed, and Riley absorbed that, was relieved to see the humor, spreading now through all of them. Behind him, he heard a shout, turned, saw Morelli running toward them, a long stick of something red in his hands.
“Hey, fellows! Look what my mama sent me. It’s a salami!”
Welch grabbed the boy, sat him down beside him. “Careful with that. It might be loaded. It any good?”
“Oh yeah, Sarge. There’s a grocer in my neighborhood, Corso and Sons. Makes it himself. The best.” Morelli sniffed the salami, all of three feet long, the others staring with wide, lustful eyes. Morelli looked around, said, “Hey, Sarge, you think it would be okay if I passed it around, maybe let the squad have a chunk? Ain’t enough for the whole platoon.”
Welch pulled out his Ka-Bar, sliced off a four-inch section from the end. “Just what I was thinking.”
“Well, good, Sarge. Yeah, pass it around. I can’t eat the whole thing.”
Welch handed the salami to Riley, who sniffed it, his hand out for Welch’s knife. He sliced off a hefty piece for himself, the next man with his knife already drawn. They passed it quickly, a dozen men whittling the stick down to a fat nub, the last few inches returning to Morelli.
Welch said, “You tell your mama she can send everything that grocer makes. She wants, we’ll mail her some C-rations in return.”
“Sure, Sarge.”
Riley nibbled a stiff bite from the salami, a roar of flavor filling him. He looked at Morelli, nodded.
“Good stuff, kid.”
The others agreed, comments made through sloppy mouthfuls. Across from Riley, Kane said, “You’re okay, kid.”
Welch put his arm around Morelli’s shoulders.
“My buddy’s name is Joey.” Welch released him, said, “You learned something, kid. You wanna grease up to a bunch of old jarheads, bribe ’em with food. But keep it coming. We got short memories.”
“Hey! Lookee here! I told you! I knew it!”
Riley knew Killian’s shouts, saw him walking up toward the group with an arrogant strut. Welch looked down to his feet, said, “Oh, good Christ. What now?”
Killian stood above them, said, “No, Sergeant. It’s good Colleen. I told you she’d come through. Just look at this.”
Riley saw the bundle, brown paper embracing a fat loaf of bread, said, “She baked you some bread?”
Killian leaned the package toward him. “No, Pete. Well, yes. But it’s her secret ingredient. Lookee here.”
Killian reached into the bread, pulled out a small round bottle. Riley was intrigued now, said, “What the hell’s that?”
“My favorite Irish whiskey. She knows she can’t just ship me a bottle or two by itself. It would end up in some squid’s locker. Those bastards all have sticky fingers. So she sticks it inside a loaf of bread. Keeps it from breaking, too. Pretty damn genius, eh?”
Welch said, “She’s a hell of a lot smarter than her husband. You see what Morelli did? He got a treasure from home, shared it with his whole squad. Since you told us all about Colleen and her talents for gift-giving, it appears you’ve got an obligation to your buddies.”
Killian took a step back, and Riley saw the pain on his face.
“You serious, Sarge?”
“Listen, Private, you ever want any of these jarheads to cover your ass in a fight, you better learn when to share.”
Killian seemed defeated, opened the bottle, took a lengthy sip. He blinked hard, let out a breath. “Hooee. Never better.”
He handed the bottle to Riley, who sniffed cautiously, felt the burn rising through his nostrils.
“Holy cow, Sean.” He took a slow sip, the fire ripping through his sinuses. He grunted, handed the bottle to Welch, who took his sip, paused, then took another, drawing an audible groan from Killian. Welch fought to gather himself, said, “Good Christ. We hand this stuff out, won’t nobody even know it’s winter.”
—
Their stay in Hagaru-ri was to be brief, Colonel Litzenberg already aware that orders had been issued for the Seventh to resume their march on the main road that ran northwesterly, alongside the west side of the reservoir, toward the next town of Yudam-ni. From there they would turn on a more westerly course, a r
oad that would carry them across the razorback peaks of the Taebaek Mountains, moving out into the yawning gap between the Tenth Corps and Walker’s Eighth Army. Behind them, Murray’s Fifth was making preparations to march eastward, far along the opposite side of the reservoir, moving closer to their ultimate goal, the Yalu River.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Riley
HAGARU-RI, NORTH KOREA—NOVEMBER 24, 1950
THE BRUTAL COLD had returned, sweeping down the valleys that framed the reservoir, a thickening layer of ice forming quickly on the surface. The men had attacked whatever labor their officers could find for them, gathering various gear, piling supplies into trucks, the men trying to walk the tightrope of laboring to keep warm, but not so much to build sweat up inside their boots and clothing. It rarely worked.
They began to discover new challenges, especially during the subzero nights. Sleep was still difficult, though the men were adapting to what luxury they had come to appreciate from their sleeping bags. Eating had created problems of its own. The C-rations were mostly frozen solid now, the few exceptions those cans a man could hold stuffed inside his coat, jammed into an armpit, or, when sleeping, pushed down inside of long johns. Frustrated men still attacked their frozen canned goods, chewing on anything they could slice or crack free, swallowing lumps of icy beef stew or fruit cocktail. But that impatience came with a harsh cost, the frozen food causing an unexpected and very uncomfortable intestinal ailment, and a twisted gut created problems of its own. From their first days wearing the heavier winter clothes, the men had learned just how difficult it was to relieve themselves, even the simple act of urination a struggle when digging through so many layers of clothing. The urgency of diarrhea made that task even more of a challenge, some of the men never reaching the latrines, jogging instead into a cluster of brush, seeking relief behind some shack or supply tent. Even then, the task of undoing the dungarees, of digging through layers of long johns, was often too difficult. There was embarrassment to be sure, the taunting ridicule toward soiled pants from the others in every squad, most of them the loud-mouths who had somehow avoided the miserable affliction. But then the ailment would strike them as well, a kind of justice that even the sickest men enjoyed. Very soon, the shared misery became shared compassion, no one teasing a man for relieving himself inside his clothes. It had become one more part of the torment of this astonishing winter.