The Frozen Hours

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Riley

  FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 28, 1950, 6:00 P.M.

  THE PLANES HAD come again, but not the blue Corsairs. This time there had been eight P-51 Mustangs, the beloved fighter that had once turned the tide against the German Messerschmitts in World War II. The appearance of the Mustangs was a surprise, and very quickly the air spotter passed the word that they were flown by Australians. Like the Marines who flew the Corsairs, the Australians were fearless, skimming the hilltops, dipping low into the valleys, pouring a devastating mix of machine gun, rocket, and cannon fire on the Chinese positions. As the Mustangs turned away, the Marines cheered them, new respect for an old ally.

  The Corsairs had returned as well, but they did not come to help the men on Fox Hill. To the dismay of Captain Barber’s Marines, the Corsairs continued northward, word passing again from the air spotter that the planes were destined for Yudam-ni. Barber’s weakening radio had made brief contact with Litzenberg’s headquarters, and the news both ways was bad. Litzenberg had hoped to bring Fox Company northward, precious strength adding to the forces fending off increasing pressure from the Chinese. But Barber’s people had nowhere to go. Throughout the morning, scouting parties had probed the ground in all directions, seeking alternative routes southward that might allow Fox Company to return to Hagaru-ri. But the Chinese were on every hill, in every valley, in every direction. With the road to Hagaru-ri blocked completely, and with no help coming from Litzenberg, Barber knew that Fox Company could very well be wiped out.

  —

  It was nearly dark, and already stars were appearing, a clear sign that tonight would be as cold as any they had endured. With the shift in the positions of the perimeter, new foxholes were dug, more slit trenches, the men laboring through the cold, knowing the warmth of their sweat was temporary, that once again the officers would order foot inspections, the men changing their socks as quickly as the work was completed. This time there were no complaints. As they struggled to chop into rock and frozen dirt, Riley and every man around him were aware that Barber’s order to dig the holes, so vigorously cursed the night before, had saved many of their lives.

  Riley wiped the wetness from his skin with his spare shirt, fumbled with the buttons, his fingers already turning numb. He watched Killian blowing on his fingers, did the same, a brief remedy, allowing him to fasten a single button.

  “Christ, Sean, this is nuts.”

  Killian didn’t answer, buried himself in his coat, sat, curling up in a ball, the sleeping bag pulled over his legs. Riley worked the buttons, the shirt finally fastened up completely, and he grabbed his coat, wrapped himself tightly, the hood pulled down hard over his head. He ducked low, shivered, his arms wrapped around him, waiting for the relief, his breathing inside his coat, aimed down over his chest, the only warmth there was. He waited, wouldn’t move again just yet, the cold soaking his brain, every part of him, but easing now, his breathing slower, some feeling again in his limbs. He slid his feet outward, the next task, pulled at the boots, his socks soaked with sweat. He grunted, slid them off his stinging feet, tossed the socks aside, the fresh pair going on quickly, his gloved hands massaging his toes. The boots went back on, the cold in the bottom harsh, still wet, and he cursed, said, “What jackass decided these were the right boots?”

  Killian didn’t look up, the hood low over his face, said, “A jackass who never had to wear the damn things. They say the Corps buys stuff from the lowest bidder. Just once, I’d pay extra to get whatever was made by the most expensive guy. Just once. Boots, C-rations. Doesn’t matter.”

  Riley curled his legs beneath him, sat gingerly, knew better than to put his legs to sleep. “I bet the rifles are the best ones. They make sure of that.”

  “Like hell they do. I heard the sarge say he had to junk his carbine. He’s got a Thompson, the one you grabbed off that Shambo.”

  Riley knew Welch was a few yards away, another of the fresh holes dug in virtually a straight line across the crest of the hill.

  “Maybe. That’s fine as long as he’s got ammo.”

  Killian didn’t answer, sat quietly, a dark lump at one end of the narrow hole.

  The ammo drop had come that afternoon, a single cargo plane swooping in low, pallets of boxes dumped out with barely enough altitude for the parachutes to break their fall. But the ammo had been received with eagerness and cheers, the grenades and mortar shells replenishing supplies that had been nearly exhausted. The rifle ammo had come as well, Captain Barber ordering it to be distributed quickly, every man stuffing his coat with as much as the supply officers allowed. Later in the day a single helicopter had arrived, just long enough to drop a supply of fresh batteries for the captain’s radio. For the wounded, the helicopter offered a brief bit of hope of transport off the hill. But the snipers had targeted the chopper immediately, the pilot forced to escape with a crippled engine.

  He felt the familiar rumble of hunger, a new thought.

  “Hey, Sean, I heard the supply drop didn’t have any rations at all. Just ammo.”

  “You surprised? If we can’t fight off the Shambos, we won’t be needing much for dinner. That’s the kind of thinking officers get paid for.”

  Riley slid his backpack closer, felt inside. “I got a Tootsie Roll left. A can of something, fruit maybe. I’ll split it with you.”

  “Nah. I still got this turkey leg. Figured I’d suck on it awhile.”

  Riley laughed to himself, but he knew Killian was serious, thought, He’s carried that stupid thing in his pack for nearly a week.

  “Good luck. Your spit won’t be warm enough to thaw it out. It might stick to your tongue.”

  Two men were crawling along the hill behind the line, and Riley saw a third man coming up with them, Lieutenant Goolsby. The two men dragged a cloth bag between them, slid closer to a foxhole a few yards away, and Goolsby said, “One per hole. It’s Sterno. You only got a half hour, so use it. Thaw out something to eat. Thaw out your fingers, too. But the captain says to kill the fire at eighteen thirty.”

  The two men tossed a can into each hole, one rolling into Riley’s. He grabbed it, as cold as anything around him, was surprised to see Killian produce a lighter, a small flicker of flame. Riley pulled his knife, popped open the lid, held it out, and Killian lit the contents, the pink goo sparking to life. He set the can in the bottom of the hole, one hand close to the meager flame. Killian said, “A half hour. Hell, you couldn’t heat a thimbleful of coffee that quick.”

  Riley gave out a low laugh. “Put your turkey leg over it. Always did enjoy an outdoor barbecue.”

  Killian sniffed, pulled one boot off, held one stockinged foot over the flame. Riley kept his hands close to the round can, absorbing the warmth. He looked at Killian’s foot, said, “How’s the toes? You ain’t walking too good. The sarge noticed that. He’s watching you.”

  Killian withdrew the foot, yanked the boot on, his face hidden. “Foot’s fine. The sarge can worry about you.”

  McCarthy was there now, keeping low, and he knelt close behind the row of foxholes, said, “Listen up. Just got word from the captain. No matter what happens tonight in the next hour or two, nobody leaves these holes. The captain’s radio worked just long enough to make contact with the artillery battery in Hagaru-ri, a flock of one-oh-fives, supposed to be supporting us. They’re gonna range the hills around us in a few minutes. The draws, too.” He paused. “They got orders that if we’re overrun, they’re to turn this hill to mush. Anybody gets up and wanders around, they might turn you to mush, too. If we’re going to end up in hell, at least we’ll take a pile of Chinks with us. Now keep low. They start dropping shells out here, it’s just a show, for now. We’ve got enough casualties without losing anybody to friendly fire. Okay, I need every one of you to test your weapons. Fire off a round. Now!”

  McCarthy was close behind Welch’s hole, his voice reaching them all. Riley obeyed, raised the M-1, fired, checked the breech, the next round moving into p
lace. Killian did the same, and to one side Riley heard familiar cursing, Welch.

  “Forget the damn carbine. It won’t eject worth a damn. I got a single shot and have to screw with the bolt for five minutes to fire the next one. I’ll stick with the Thompson.”

  Down the line, other rifles fired, the telltale burst from a BAR, more curses.

  McCarthy crawled along the hard ground behind the line, said, “Find a rag, anything that will work. Get as much lube cleaned out of the action as you can, no matter what weapon you’re using. Work the bolt every few minutes. Nelson! How’s the thirty?”

  The burst of fire came down to the right.

  “Not bad, sir.”

  “Fire off another burst every hour, at least. Those bastards will hit us again, sure as hell, and for whatever reason, their weapons aren’t all gummed up like we are. We pulled a bottle of some kind of oil off one of the Chinks. Captain says it’s whale oil. I don’t know. But their weapons are doing just fine. Grab one if you get the chance. And pay attention to your grenades. Don’t just pull the pins. Pull the hammer up before you throw it. They’re mostly frozen together, and all you’ll be doing is smacking them with a baseball. Fire a round every hour, you got that?”

  McCarthy moved away toward the far end of the line, more orders, more single shots ringing out to the left side of the hill. Riley glanced that way, thought, Second Platoon. Pretty close to us. Killian rose up, watching him, his hands over the small flame.

  “Ain’t very many of us.”

  Riley had made a count in his head, said, “Half of us got hit, I think. A couple dozen still up here.” He looked at the arsenal spread out along the edge of their hole, the Russian rifles Killian had salvaged, another M-1, from one of the Marines no longer using it. “Everybody’s got more weapons than they know what to do with. We’ll be okay.”

  “I know exactly what to do with ’em.”

  Riley didn’t answer, looked out past the hole, toward Welch, thought, He’s got his own arsenal. And Morelli’s with him now. Good. He thought of Welch’s words earlier, how the new men had shot up all their ammo. Guess I did, too, back then. They give you a rifle, they expect you to use it. The enemy runs up your ass, he expects it, too. As long as the supply people can drop those crates out here, we’ll put up a fight. He wanted to shout over to Welch, thought better of it. He knows I’m here. And he’ll take care of the kid.

  He turned his gaze to the hillside, darker now, the snow a thin blanket, deeper drifts blown against the scattered rocks. To one side Lieutenant McCarthy had positioned Freddy Nelson’s crew, manning a light machine gun, and Riley looked that way, could see the gun surrounded by a low rock pile, and more, the stacked bodies of the enemy. We should have done that, he thought. There’s enough dead Chinese to go around. But this hole is deep, plenty of cover. They come, we’ll be ready. I guess. He stared again down the wide hill, across the saddle, the distant hill hidden in darkness. They will come. Like us, they got no place else to be.

  There was an odd smell, and he searched, realized it was close, and he looked down, Killian with his hands out over the soft blue flame, holding the turkey leg.

  FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 28, 1950, 10:00 P.M.

  The artillery had found their range, Riley watching in amazement as the spotters directed the fire from the big guns so many miles away. All around Fox Hill, the incoming fire had peppered the high ground in nearly every direction, a reminder to the enemy that even in the darkness, they were vulnerable. The mortars had the range as well, the 60- and 81-millimeter tubes spread all around the hill, each squad choosing a likely direction to aim their fire. The mortars launched illuminated shells as well as the usual high explosive, an enormous benefit for the men in the foxholes, offering a glimpse of just where the enemy assault might be forming.

  Riley had found an hour’s sleep, had the watch now, still embraced by the sleeping bag up to his waist. He could hear Killian’s snoring, an odd mix of spits and hisses and grumbles, what might have been the easiest way to make enemies in a barracks. But the sounds kept Riley entertained, helped to focus his mind, keep his thoughts away from the film of icy frost he couldn’t avoid around his eyes. The shivering came often, the heavy coat not quite adequate, and as he scanned the darkness, he tried to guess the temperature. He was beginning to feel the difference, just how much pain it caused to breathe, how far down his throat the air would threaten to freeze him. With each stiff breeze that slapped his face, tears would come, turning to ice in a minute or less, gluing his eyes shut. It happened now, and he wiped gently, blew into his cupped hands, directed the warmer air upward over his eyes. Ten below zero meant his tears would freeze in a full minute. Twenty below, half that time. Tonight there were short seconds between the clear glimpses of darkness, and the agony of blindness, his fingers wiping at the raw skin around his eyes yet again.

  He shifted his feet in the bag, the cold finding him even down low. God, he thought, it’s twenty-five below. Fifty below. Hell, what difference does it make? The damn Chinese don’t seem to care. He didn’t know that, of course, had wondered with the others just how miserable they could be. Their shoes had been a shock, the thin canvas over rubber soles, offering no protection at all. They gotta keep moving, he thought. I guess that’s what they’re doing now, marching up and down the hills out there, keeping warm as best they can. He was curious about the quilted uniforms, just how much protection they provided, but few of the Marines had any notion of trying them on. The smell, even in the cold, could be nauseating, the thick stench of rotten garlic. There’s bugs, too, he thought. Maybe like Okinawa, the damn fleas, infesting every piece of cloth you found. Well, maybe not. How cold does it have to be to kill fleas? But we ain’t taking any baths up here, and we stink just as bad as any of them, even without the garlic.

  Beside him, Killian grumbled, a loud snort, and now to one side, Welch said, “Jesus. He’s waking up the whole mountain. The damn Chinks can zero in on us just by listening to him.”

  “Let him sleep, Sarge.”

  Welch didn’t respond, and Riley could hear more of the low talk around him, the men filling the darkness with tall tales, gripes, any kind of distraction from the cold.

  There was a strange whine coming from the left of the saddle, lower on the far hill. More whines came now, and Riley stared that way, the talk around him quieting. Now a voice, loud, uneven, broken by the static from a radio transmitter.

  “Hello, Marines! You have few numbers, and we are very many. We are surrounding you. You will die very soon. You must all surrender. It is the wise thing. Do not be foolish.”

  The crackling and hissing stopped and the men began to respond, vulgar shouts across the hillside. Riley heard Killian stirring, the muffled question, “Wha’ the hell?”

  “Go back to sleep. The enemy’s got somebody who knows English. He keeps that up after daylight, somebody’ll take him out.”

  “Marines! Do you wish to die? You must surrender now. Save yourselves. Do not die for the generals in their comfortable homes. They have Korean girls to favor them. You have only death!”

  There was a burst from a machine gun down that way, a futile gesture, streaks of red tracers pouring down into the draw. Welch rose up, and Riley heard the familiar cursing, then McCarthy was there, shouted out, “Save your damn ammo! That’s what he wants!”

  “Marines, think of your wives back home. How they would enjoy you with them. Not out here, where you will only die.”

  The crackling gave way to the harsh whine again, more feedback, and then the first notes of music. The responses came again, more threats and curses from the men along the hilltop, the music now louder still. Riley stared through the darkness, amazed at the effort by the Chinese, the utter ridiculousness of their propaganda. The music continued, clearer now, his own mind opening up, the music finding its way inside, memories he didn’t want. He pushed hard at that, joined in the shouting. There were more rifles firing now, a pair of machine guns. It was a useless exercise
against one Chinese officer’s seductive plan, just enough awareness of their culture, their homesickness, their emotions. The outrage was complete, anger at the enemy’s simpleminded approach, the Marines absorbing the insult that someone out there thought a piece of music would tempt them to walk off their hill. But the music continued, and gradually the exhausted Marines realized there was nothing they could do to stop it. And so, with eyes still focused on the darkness, the men began to listen, some of them to enjoy. It was, after all, Bing Crosby. And it was “White Christmas.”

  FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 29, 2:00 A.M.

  The mortars came first, no warning at all, a sudden rain of explosives all along the crest of the hill. Riley dropped low, a spray of dirt and shattered rock coming down. Voices called out, McCarthy, Welch, the unnecessary warning.