With Captain Barber doing all he could to re-form his position and his command, the picture became clearer. The Chinese had come up from the south and east, slipping along the main road, striking hard into Barber’s command post. In the chaos that swallowed the position, Barber had managed to pull his command staff up the hill, repositioning the mortars and what remained of the machine guns, his men using the timber for cover, pushing most of the Chinese in that area away. But the Chinese simply moved toward other targets, driving up the hill, maneuvering out along the saddle, completely hidden by the darkness and the rugged terrain. They struck first at the junction between Second and Third Platoons, aiming for the pair of light machine guns anchored there, those crews and the men who protected them, with little chance to hold back the overwhelming numbers against them. In every case, as they advanced into position, the grenadiers led the way, the men whose single job was to slip closely enough to the Marines without being detected so they could effectively throw their grenades. With signals given by their officers, the crashing of cymbals, the notes of a bugle, the riflemen were sent forward, stepping over and past the first line of men to be cut down. Despite the warning from the bizarre noisemakers, several of the Marines never fired a shot, the men who paid little heed to the warnings from their lieutenants to keep alert. As had happened before, those few men who were too exhausted and too cold to do anything but sleep had been bayoneted in their sleeping bags.
For more than four hours the Chinese pushed hard into the front and left side of Barber’s horseshoe perimeter. The cost in casualties for the Chinese was horrific, entire columns shot down as they swarmed over and around the Marine positions. Their one success came with Barber’s order to withdraw, the Chinese moving up into some of the foxholes the Americans had left behind. But with the dawn, the fighting ceased. The Chinese knew too well that the Americans would once again make good use of air support, and that on this wide hill any movement by a concentration of troops could result in slaughter. Once more the Chinese would pull back into cover, waiting for the darkness.
On the night of November 27, the attack on Fox Company was but one part of Sung Shi-lun’s plan to exterminate the entire Marine and army presence in eastern North Korea. The discovery of the Marine outpost at Toktong Pass had been, for the Chinese, a happy accident. The Chinese had already surrounded Marine positions from Yudam-ni to Koto-ri, slicing across the main supply road, completely isolating the American forces into what resembled a loosely spaced string of five pearls. As the Marines at Yudam-ni pushed westward, in obedience to MacArthur’s orders, they were increasingly aware that the Chinese were in force in the hills around them. What they could not know was that the Chinese were obeying orders as well.
—
They had split up, Riley and Killian slipping low, through the snowy brush and scattered rocks, while the others moved out toward their own commands. Riley had given a good-luck salute to the others, concerned that their wounds needed treatment. But they had insisted on moving out toward the aid station on their own, which Riley appreciated. He had no idea where any aid station might be.
Killian let him lead the way, their custom now, the Irishman losing some of his bluster. As they slipped along, Riley kept the best cover behind him, protection from the snipers who picked at them still. He sat down now, the agony of the cold in his lungs, tried to slow his breathing, Killian collapsing beside him.
“What now, Pete?”
He heard the pain in Killian’s voice, said, “We gotta be close to somebody. This hill ain’t the Rocky Mountains. The only Chinese up here are the ones they left behind.”
Killian pulled his boots up close to his chest, a futile grab at his toes. “Damn it all. I gotta get out of these socks. My feet are dead numb.”
Riley flexed his own toes, could feel the harsh sting of the wet cold. “Then we gotta move.” He heard a voice just past a cluster of small rocks, down a slight draw, whispered, “What the hell’s that?”
Killian was up, kneeling, peering that way, the pistol in his hands. Riley moved up with him, the rifle cradled in both hands, and he saw now a pair of men in white uniforms, kneeling low, tugging at a body. Killian said, “Shambos! Take ’em out!”
“What the hell are they doing?”
“Who the hell cares! Take ’em out!”
Riley pressed the rifle to his shoulder, the men no more than thirty yards away. He aimed, the gun sight squarely on one man’s back, squeezed the trigger, the man punched down. The other soldier looked around sharply, searching, and Riley saw his face, terrified, Killian with a hard whisper in his ears, “Shoot the bastard!”
The rifle fired again, the man falling over, and Killian was up quickly, hobbling toward them, his pistol held out. Riley stood slowly, moved that way, heard Killian whoop.
“You nailed ’em both, straight through the heart! Bastards were stripping one of our guys.”
Riley scanned the distant ridge, said, “Let’s go. Snipers gotta be watching us.”
The sniper obliged, a sharp crack off a rock beside him, and Riley scooted away, rolled down behind another rock. He was annoyed at Killian now, the man throwing out loud curses toward the sniper. Damn you, he thought. Be smart once in a while. Killian was there now, heavy breathing, sliding clumsily through the powdery snow.
“Hey! Lookee here! They had these old rifles. Seen ’em before. Russian, seven point six two. I bet they work better than any damn carbines. Grabbed both of ’em, and a cartridge belt. I ain’t running out of ammo again. You want one?”
“Mine works just fine. You can go souvenir hunting later.”
The crack of another shot splattered the frozen ground beside Riley.
“Let’s go!”
He was on his feet quickly, didn’t wait for Killian, made a darting run for a clump of low brush. He slowed, glanced back, the saddle mostly hidden, saw Killian in a limping run. Riley didn’t wait, the hill dipping low, another slight ridge to the front, and he jumped up again, a quick dart to the rise.
“Get down, you moron!”
The voice startled him, and he stumbled, fell, Killian coming up behind him, a hearty shout, “Well, we made it! I knew you bastards wouldn’t have run off and left us. What the hell you all doing back here?”
Riley unraveled himself from the snow and frozen brush, realized he was flat against a wall of dead Chinese. He backed away, saw men peering up over the corpses, familiar faces, rough beards, weary smiles, black, tired eyes. He crawled up on the bodies, tried not to feel the quilting, the frozen bodies, rolled over the barricade into a slit trench, dropped low, his knees weak, a hand under his arm, another lifting him up.
“Hey, it’s Riley. Damn, Pete, we thought they got you. I knew Irish’d make it. Too dumb to get shot.”
Riley searched the faces, the voice coming from Kane, the BAR crew there as well. He saw more slit trenches, foxholes in a jagged pattern around them, saw one head rising up, the red-faced eagerness of Morelli.
“Hey, Pete! I was worried about you! Thank God!”
Riley waved a weak hand toward the kid, tried to offer a smile, the cracks in his lips too painful. He saw McCarthy now, crawling low, moving closer, and McCarthy said, “Welcome back, Private. Glad you both made it. You wounded? I’ll have the corpsman take a look.”
Riley felt a fog settling over his brain, the hands still holding him up, and he focused on McCarthy, said, “Don’t think so. Sir, you got any water? Mine’s frozen solid.”
McCarthy turned, called out, “Goolsby! On the double!”
Riley saw the young man scrambling low, flopping down behind the hole.
“Sir?”
“You call me that out here one more time and I’ll feed you to the enemy. You got that, son?”
Goolsby nodded. “Sorry. Won’t do it again. What you need, um, Bob?”
“Anything left in your canteen? The good one?”
Goolsby rolled over, slid the canteen out of his belt, held it out toward McCarthy.
br /> “Half-full.”
McCarthy took it, handed it to Riley, said, “Here.”
Riley shook the canteen, surprised to hear the sloshing inside. He unscrewed the top, raised it to his mouth, caught an odd smell. McCarthy was watching him, and Riley took a quick drink, felt a soft burn. Beside him Kane laughed, rapped him on the back.
“It’s okay, Pete. We figured out a remedy.”
Riley drank again, and Killian was there now, said, “Hey, save some. I’m as dry as you.”
Riley passed the canteen to Killian, and McCarthy said, “You didn’t hear this from me, but Sergeant Welch has a knack for thievery. Somehow he found a bottle of medical alcohol. We mixed it in with the ice. Works like a champ.”
Kane said, “Makes life just a little more rosy up here, too.”
Riley focused on the single word. Welch.
“Where’s he at? He okay?”
McCarthy said, “Aid station. The platoon took some hits. More than a dozen casualties. He went down to help a couple of the guys get fixed up. Rebbert’s down there, with the doc. You two are lucky as hell. The enemy’s scattered out all over the far side of the hill, and if their snipers could shoot worth a damn, we’d be wiped out. Mr. Goolsby, make sure they got dry socks. The captain’s checking on Second Platoon, and if they’re ready to go, we’ll be moving out pretty quick.”
Killian handed the canteen to Goolsby, said, “We leaving?”
McCarthy shook his head, pulled the hood of his coat up over his head. “Hell, no. We’re going back up there, and knocking the Chinks off our damn hill!”
FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 28, 1950, 2:00 P.M.
The charge was quick and efficient, most of the Chinese not willing to stand up to a wave of screaming Marines. More of them had already pulled back to the safety of the deep draws, content to let their snipers pick at any target they might find, including any man who attempted to return to the holes farthest forward. For now the perimeter across the crest of Fox Hill resembled a football, more than Barber’s original horseshoe.
Riley settled into a new foxhole, Killian beside him, Killian pulling off his boots. Riley scanned the hillside below them, the distant ridgeline, no activity for now. But his eyes couldn’t avoid the mess that was Killian’s toes.
“Jesus, Sean. That looks awful.”
“No, it don’t. You keep your mouth shut. I’ll be okay.”
Riley leaned closer, winced. “That’s gotta hurt. You gotta get down to the aid station.”
“Shut up! I ain’t going nowhere. They ain’t carting me outta here just cause I got a few blisters.”
“Sean, that’s frostbite. Your toes are gray, for God’s sake. How’s it feel?”
Killian seemed to sag, his voice subdued. “It hurts like hell. It was okay as long as I couldn’t see it. Or maybe they thawed out. Jesus, Pete. I can’t go out like this. You can’t say nothing.”
Killian carefully slid fresh socks over his feet, and Riley looked down, said, “I won’t say anything, not now. But if you can’t fight, I’ll have to. How you gonna march?”
“We ain’t going anywhere no time soon. That’s what the lieutenant said. I got these two new rifles, and a pile of ammo. I can kill as many Shambos as I need to from this damn hole!” Killian paused. “You got any Tootsie Rolls?”
Riley poked into his knapsack, mostly empty now, pulled out a piece of candy. “Here. We need to load up on rations. I’m hauling an empty sack. I’m wearing every damn piece of clothing they gave us. Got one more pair of fresh socks, and they’re jabbed under my armpits.”
Killian slid his legs slowly into his sleeping bag, pulled the bag up to his waist. “Mine are wet, inside my shirt. Whoever said that was the right idea?”
“That’s what they told us, Sean. Dries ’em out faster.”
“And freezes you to death from inside. I tell you, Pete, we get back home, I’m finding me a beach. I’m gonna stick my toes in hot sand and make my wife bring me drinks all day long. Umbrellas in ’em. Coconut and rum and God knows what else they grow in all those tropical places.”
Riley thought of his conversation with the reporter, the only thing that seemed to matter. Tomorrow. “I just want to get off this hill in one piece, and walking.”
“Been thinking about that. You think anybody knows where we are? I heard the radios don’t work worth a crap. We’re the back door and all. To what? What if the front door caves in, and all hell rolls this way? What’re we supposed to do about it? We got problems of our own.”
“You pick up those fancy-assed rifles of yours and you kill Chinese. It ain’t hard.”
The roar of the planes reached him now, and Riley turned that way, saw a formation of four Corsairs rolling up over the ridgeline to the west. Killian said, “Holy moly! Here they come!” He pointed out from the hole toward the saddle. “Over that way, boys!”
Others were shouting out as well, the infectious excitement of seeing the planes. The formation banked hard, all four dipping low, one lower still, and Riley raised up, strained to see, the plane lower than they were. The single Corsair rose up now, following the contour of the hill, skimmed low over the saddle, banked hard to one side, climbing now, moving past the rocky heights. Killian pounded one fist on the frozen ground, called out, “Don’t go away mad! That’s where they was hiding!”
Riley watched the other three, circling, now speeding down, fanning out, following the path of the first. Had to spot ’em first, he thought. The three planes seemed to work in perfect unison, a spray of rocket fire, streaks of white ending in blasts among the ragged rocks. Around Riley, men were cheering, and he couldn’t help a smile, watched the first plane curl back around, low, along the saddle, pulling up now, a single bomb dropping, but it wasn’t a bomb. He watched it tumbling down, bouncing on the saddle, rolling, and now the eruption, a massive ball of fire and black smoke, the saddle plastered with flames. Nearby, Riley heard the word, already forming in his own mind.
“Napalm!”
The cheers continued, the planes curling back, another run, machine gun fire, another rocket attack, the distant ridgeline alive with shattering explosions. Killian shouted out, “Wiped ’em out! Guarantee it! Yee-hah!”
The Corsairs curled around one more time, flying low, roaring past Riley’s position, the faces of the pilots clear, goggles and smiles, the planes each dipping their wings, a final salute to the Marines. And as quickly as they had come, they were gone.
Riley kept his eyes on the saddle, the hill beyond, black smoke in a thick haze, drifting off, flames still in patches of brush. He felt his heart racing, realized he was smiling, heard the cheering still around him.
“God, Sean, that was amazing. I’d love to do that, fly one of those things.”
The voice came from behind him, moving in close. “You’d smack right into these hills. You’re a ground pounder. Leave the flying to the pilots.”
Riley turned, saw Welch, no smile from either man. Welch said, “Stritch and Fry are dead. Bryan, too. The aid station’s a mess. Half the platoon’s been hit. The Second’s pretty bad off, too.”
Riley saw the painful emotion carved hard on Welch’s face, something he had seen before.
Killian said, “That’s rough, Sarge.”
Riley said nothing, no words coming, a wave of anger, hurt, disappointment. Welch looked at him, said, “Let’s go, Private. The lieutenant wants us to check out more of these wounded. Might still be some of our guys alive.”
Riley said, “That’s the corpsmen’s job.”
Welch’s expression didn’t change. “Then we’re supposed to check on the enemy bodies, make sure nobody’s still crawling around. Let’s go.”
Riley understood now, there was more to Welch’s request than any orders from McCarthy. He climbed up and Welch turned away, walked slowly back through the rocky ground. Riley felt drained of any kind of humor, had nothing inside of him to break the odd tension between them. He followed for a dozen yards, and Welch slipped in behind a l
arger rock, stopped, waited. Riley was face-to-face with him now, and Welch stared at him without speaking. Riley felt the anger taking over. He knew what he had to say.
“You left me out here.”
Welch looked down, nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“I never thought you’d do that. We been through—”
“We’ve never been through this. Right here. This isn’t Okinawa. I got the order to pull out. Goolsby was bawling, screaming that we had to pull back. Damn enemy was all over me, all over the whole squad. Every damn one of the new guys had shot up all his ammo. I had guts blown on me from Stiller. Took a grenade in his chest, I guess. I can still taste his blood. I put my knife through a Chink’s neck while Goolsby’s hollering the order.” Welch paused. “I looked for you. Looked your way. All I saw was Chinks. I figured they got you. Both of you. I pulled Kane out, saved the BAR. McCarthy pulled everybody out he could find. We both did.” Welch stopped, one hand up on his face, hiding a different emotion now. “Yeah. I shoulda stayed put. Made sure the whole squad…my whole squad was pulled out. I thought you were dead. You and Irish both.”
Riley felt the anger slipping away, said, “I thought we were, too. I thought you…Christ, Hamp, I never had so many enemy so damn close. I don’t know how many we killed. Dozens?”
“Captain Barber says he figures five hundred. He’s hit, too. Saw him at the aid station. Took one in the leg, I think. Lieutenant Peterson’s got it worse, but he’s still over there with the Second.” Welch looked at him now. “We’re still here, Pete. This ain’t gonna stop just ’cause we’re tired of it.”
“Killian wants to go to the beach. Stick his toes in the sand.”
There was a gust of wind, Welch pulling his coat tightly around him.
“He isn’t going to have any toes. I’ve seen him limping. That stupid son of a bitch is crippled up.”
Riley was surprised, said, “Didn’t know you watched us that close. Leave him be, Hamp. For now, anyway. He’s good with a rifle. Better than me. I want him next to me.”