“Make ready! They’ll be coming!”
Riley waited for a pause in the incoming shells, peered up over the edge of the hole, heard Welch.
“When the hell did they bring mortars up here?”
The words flowed through Riley’s brain. If there’s more weapons, it means there’s more troops. Killian seemed to read his thoughts, said, “I bet they sent reinforcements. We kicked their asses last night.”
Riley put one hand up on the hood of his parka, shifted it, clearing his line of sight. He peered down the hill.
“They already forgot about last night. Watch that damn saddle. Both sides of it.”
“Thanks, General. I done this before, you know.”
Riley felt the hard chill all through him, his nervousness adding to the raw cold. “I know. Sorry.”
“And there they come. Look!” Killian called out now. “Hey, Sarge. On the saddle!”
“I see ’em!”
There was a burst of fire from the machine gun to the right, and now scattered firing all along the saddle itself. The mortars began now, pumping their shells over the heads of the Marines, dropping them all along the enemy’s position. Riley stared, knew from the sound it was the 60 millimeters, knew that the gunners had already marked their range. The Chinese came in thin lines, advancing at a slow trot, white uniforms not quite disguised by the uneven snow. But the flashes from the mortar fire lit up the entire scene, enemy soldiers falling in clusters, some tossed aside by the close impact of the shells. The machine guns were rattling all along the hill now, the other guns joining in, down to the left. Riley pulled himself down into the hole, checked the M-1, one hand reaching up, feeling for the rows of grenades. He put a hand down on the .45 at his waist, loosened it, took a long breath, then another, ignored the cold that sliced into his lungs. He waited for a long moment, staring into darkness, felt suddenly like crying. It was so familiar, a new surge of terror boiling up inside him, and he fought it, angry at himself, more furious at the enemy. There were grenade blasts now, very close, the first wave of enemy troops doing their job, but the Marines had prepared for that, tossing their own grenades, and now Riley could hear the voices through the sharp sounds, the enemy, wounded men screaming, torn apart. Behind them, more of the mortar rounds came down, streaks of light overhead, bursts of fire all down the hill. He took a long, deep, icy breath, blinked hard, clearing his vision, and the silent voice came now, inside his head, pushing away the fear. He kicked the sleeping bag from his feet, rose up, felt himself shouting, no words, just noise, raw and vicious. The flashes of light were everywhere, and he saw the targets, men tossing grenades, shot down, men on their knees, some with rifles, and behind them more lines of men, moving up the hillside, through fire and smoke, past the screams of their own.
—
The noise was deafening, the enemy machine guns throwing their green tracers across the ridge, the chatter adding to the chorus of rifle fire and grenade blasts. The fighting swirled around him, some of the enemy finding their way past the line, close-range fire from Chinese burp guns, the answering chatter of the BARs. Riley kept up his own fire, targets close in front of him, still outlined by the flashes of fire from the mortars. With each advance, the Chinese seemed to grow in number, more of them surging past the Marines, collapsing in a storm of fire from men behind the ridge. In front of Riley it was more of the same scene, rows of men shot down, blown aside, the gaps in the enemy’s advance filled by more men coming up from behind. All across the line, the orders were shouted out, meaningless words, Riley’s terror combining with the raw excitement, adding to the wonder of all that was happening around him. There was no time for thought, for checking the flanks. Throughout the assault, his brain focused on one place, the hillside below him, the relentless charge by an enemy who seemed infinite and unstoppable.
Several times, more than he could count, the Chinese who were able had backed away, re-forming, reloading, Riley using the brief pauses to check his own ammo, the clips in his pocket only a few, the grenades on the ground in front of him down to a pair. As the enemy pulled back, the mortars slowed, darkness returning, and he stared out with furious energy, his hands shaking, spinning cold inside his chest. He steadied his hand by his grip on the rifle, blinked rapidly, keeping his eyes clear. Beside him, Killian seemed to be searching for something, his voice adding to the shouts along the ridge.
“Damn it all! I got nothing left! We gotta fix bayonets!”
Riley forced his eyes off the ridge, looked at him, Killian down low, ripping through his backpack. Riley shouted, louder than he intended, “What is it? You out of ammo?”
Killian ignored him, seemed obsessed with finding something, and Riley could see his rifle leaning up against the side of the hole, the bayonet already attached.
“Get up! Your bayonet’s fixed. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I can’t find it! It’s gotta be here! They’re coming!”
Riley heard too much terror in Killian’s voice, and he put a hand out, touched his shoulder. “Sean! Look at your rifle. The bayonet’s there.”
Killian looked at him now, seemed to calm. “They’re coming again. I know it. They’re hard to see.”
Riley kept his hand on Killian’s shoulder. “Yeah, I guess. You need ammo?”
Killian kept low, pulled the rifle in tight to his chest. “I think so. I don’t know. They coming again?”
Riley glanced out past the hole, men on the move, wounded being pulled back, a scramble from the ammo carriers. “Here! Ammo here!”
One man stumbled closer, a heavy bag in his hand.
“I got grenades! That’s it. Ain’t many.”
“Give ’em here. Go get more. We need ammo!”
The man dropped the bag, moved away without speaking, and Riley pulled the bag into the hole, not heavy enough, felt through the burlap.
“Half a dozen. That’s it. Damn!”
Killian didn’t move, sat against the side of the hole, staring at him. Riley laid the grenades out along the lip of the hole, said, “You shoot up all the ammo for those Russian things?”
Killian didn’t answer, stood up now, the rifle down beside him.
“Sean, what the hell you doing? Get your ass down.”
Welch was there now, crawling low. “What’s going on? You need ammo?”
Riley said, “Yeah. I got four clips, six grenades. Not sure about him.”
Welch rose up on his knees, pulled at Killian. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Killian looked at Welch, put one hand up on the side of his head. “You son of a bitch. You hit me with a snowball!”
Riley felt a sickening cold flowing all through him, saw Welch reach out, put a hand inside the hood of Killian’s coat.
“Oh, Christ. Corpsman!”
Riley felt paralyzed, and Welch looked at him, his hand extended.
“He’s hit. Side of his neck.”
Riley absorbed the words, stared hard, nothing to see in the dark. Killian still stood, seemed dazed, and Welch called again, “Corpsman!”
A man ran forward, down on his knees beside Welch, the voice of McCarthy. “Who’s hit?”
“Irish. Wet blood.”
McCarthy added to the chorus.
“Corpsman!”
Riley felt a new kind of panic, stared at Killian, still standing, staring off, and now another man was there, a mumbling voice.
“Here. Who’s hit?”
McCarthy motioned toward Killian. “His neck.”
The corpsman slipped into the hole, Riley climbing out, making room. He watched the corpsman pull something from his mouth, the man pulling Killian down gently, Killian settling into the bottom of the hole. The corpsman huddled low, said, “I got him, sir. Doesn’t feel too bad. I’ll give him morphine, and we’ll get somebody out here to haul him down to the aid station.”
McCarthy said, “Good. We got plenty of men down. They hit us pretty hard. Sergeant, you know how to handle a thirt
y?”
Welch answered, “Yes, sir. Been a while.”
“You’ll figure it out. Nelson’s hit, down below. His crew’s busted up by grenades. Get over there, man that gun.” McCarthy looked at Riley now. “Go with him. You’re the crew. Your buddy’s gonna be fine.”
There was no discussion to be had, the lieutenant’s orders clear. Welch was up quickly, the Thompson in his hands, and he said to Riley, “Time to move.”
Riley grabbed the rifle, the grenades stuffed into his pocket. He followed Welch, stumbled on the rocky ground, moved past scattered bodies, men in their holes, gathering up ammo, doing what he had done. Welch led him down into a cluster of rocks, one taller, one half of a wall. He saw the machine gun now, bodies scattered around, most of them Chinese. But not all. He moved toward one of the fallen Marines, knelt, stared, helpless, no idea what to do.
“Get your ass over here! There’s ammo in those cans.”
“They might need help.”
“They don’t. Worry about them later. We got bigger problems.”
Riley saw now, the wide hillside below, movement in the snow, the moonlight catching the rows of men moving out into the open.
“Jesus. They’re coming again.”
Welch wrestled with the machine gun, said, “Yeah. They’re coming. Feed me the belts from this side.”
Riley went to work now, felt the heft of the ammo boxes, two full, one partial. “Looks like plenty.”
Welch slapped the gun, settled low behind it, aimed, swiveled. “Ain’t no such thing, Pete.”
The mortars began again, a steady rhythm impacting all down the hill, out on the saddle, the Chinese responding with mortars of their own. The machine guns began their duel as well, the Marines keeping their focus on the enemy troops moving up the hill again, lines of men in white, shot down, more, shot down again.
Welch fired the machine gun, short bursts, seeking targets, the old training. Riley kept close by, feeding him the ammo, and within short minutes, the first box was empty.
—
The barrel of the gun glowed red, and Welch aimed, stared silently. The Chinese were backing away again, disappearing into the darkness, but to both sides the firing continued. Riley sat on the frozen ground, the rocks to one side offering perfect cover that way. But down the hill, the only cover came from the stacked bodies, pulled into place by Freddy Nelson. Riley hadn’t checked the bodies nearby, had no idea if Nelson was one of the dead Marines, or if they were part of Nelson’s crew. You don’t need to know, he thought.
“How much we got left?”
Riley pulled on the one remaining box, put one hand on the belts inside. “Not much.”
“Go get more. While we got time.”
Riley stared at him, said, “Where?”
“How the hell do I know? Down the hill, back there. There’s gotta be supply idiots down there somewhere.”
Riley looked back beyond the ridge, men in motion, corpsmen, litter bearers, others Riley couldn’t see clearly.
“Okay. You got ammo for that Thompson?”
“Why? You planning on getting lost?”
“Nope. But…”
“Yeah, I got five magazines. Leave me your grenades and your M-1.”
Riley handed Welch his rifle, then emptied his pockets, Welch gathering up the grenades, laying them out beside the machine gun. Riley started to move, hesitated, said, “Not sure about this, Hamp. Hate leaving you alone.”
“I’m not alone, you moron. I got the whole damn Marine Corps up here. Just find me some damn ammo.”
Riley moved away toward the ridgeline, visible in the moonlight. He saw litter bearers, and he followed them, called out, “You ammo carriers?”
No one responded, and Riley felt suddenly helpless, moved closer to another pair of litter bearers. He saw the man between them, wrapped in his coat, faceless, and Riley said, “Ammo dump?”
The men kept moving, but one said, “Yeah. Follow me. There’s crates down below, by the CP.”
Riley stayed close to them, saw men moving in all directions, a spray of green tracers ripping above him. He ducked, instinct, the litter bearers moving away. There was rifle fire to the east, more down along the main road. He felt for his rifle, another instinct, nothing there, realized he had left it with Welch. He kept moving, downhill now, saw the tents, a crush of activity, men laid out in rows, cries and shouts, others kneeling beside them, frantic activity.
“You! Over here!”
Riley realized the man was calling him, and he moved that way, the man pointing to one end of a stretcher.
“Kneel down. Grab his feet. He tries to move, hold him tight.”
He obeyed, put his hands on the wounded man’s boots, a tight grip. The corpsman was doing his work, slipped something from his mouth, Riley watching him intently, the corpsman pulling back the man’s shirt at the waist.
“Only way to keep the morphine from freezing, hold it in your mouth. Just hope the damn syringe doesn’t crack, or I’ll be in Wonderland.” Riley realized the corpsman was talking through a mouthful, the man pulling another syringe from his mouth. “Plasma’s worthless. Freezes solid, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. Even if it was thawed out, it’s too cold. You’d kill a man pumping that into his veins. They didn’t teach this stuff in med school. You a corpsman?”
Riley said, “No. Came down here to find ammo.”
“Damn shame. I’m a doctor. I could use a dozen more corpsmen here.” He continued to work, then said, “Only good thing about this cold, the wounds freeze up. Man not as likely to bleed to death. Well, two good things. The dead don’t smell.”
The doctor held a thick bandage on the man’s groin, and Riley felt more helpless now, kept his grip on the boots, nothing to do but wait.
“You need me still, sir?”
The doctor stood, stretched his back. “No, go on. The captain’ll be okay, I think. Right, sir?”
The wounded man responded with a mumble, and Riley stood straight, recognized the wounded man now, the face lit by a small lantern hanging on the nearby tent. It was Captain Barber.
FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 29, 3:00 A.M.
The ammo cans weighed more the farther he climbed. Around him, the litter bearers and so many others were scrambling past, cries for corpsmen in every direction. He focused on the rocks along the crest, the only landmark he could see, but the fiery blasts added to the blindness from the freezing wetness blanketing his eyes. He stopped, gasping for breath, the cold knifing into his lungs, and he bent low, the hood over his face, tried to find any strength at all. He stood again, the ammo cans in each hand, pushed forward, climbing, tried to ignore the aching in his shoulders. He crested the hill now, flashes of fire in every direction, the impact of the mortars still illuminating the saddle. But it was far out to the left, and he felt that familiar burst of panic, searched for the telltale rocks, strained to hear what might be Welch’s machine gun. A flurry of fire whistled past him, and he ducked low, moved down the hill in a clumsy scamper. He stopped, crouched low, looked again for the saddle, nothing there, blind darkness, more flashes of fire cutting above him.
The blast erupted behind him, shoving him over, tumbling him down the hill, his face smacking hard on the frozen ground. He lay for a long moment, a fog in his brain, tried to see, rolled over on his back, the sky above him streaked with fire. He kept still, tested his legs, flexed his feet, pulled one hand into his coat, probing the soft places. No blood, thank God. The ringing in his ears wiped away most of the noise around him, and he waited for another minute, then sat up slowly, still testing his bones. He slid the hood of his coat away, realized his helmet was gone, and pulled the hood forward again, the only protection he had. One hand went to his belt, the .45 there, yes, and he squeezed his fingers around the butt, felt for the spare magazines beside it. There was no movement around him at all, his ears letting in a bit more sound, most of the firing farther away. He rose to his knees, another test, pain in his knees from the
fall, but not crippling. The fog began to clear, and he could smell the shell that had come so close, the putrid stink of the spent powder. Smells like one of ours, he thought. Okay, don’t try to think. You don’t know what theirs smells like, either. He searched the ground for the ammo boxes, nothing, rocks and snow. He climbed higher, anxious searching, a sharp blast above him, along the crest, mortar shells, then another heavier blast down the hill, artillery. The lieutenant’s word rolled through his brain, mush. Okay, time to go. You get hit by a 105, nobody’ll ever find you. He scanned the ground once more, no sign of the ammo, and he thought of Welch, furious, waiting with an empty machine gun. Okay, Hamp, take it easy. I’ll find you. Eventually. I gotta find me first, figure out where the hell I am.
He started to move, saw movement close in front of him, froze, a half-dozen men slipping silently up toward the crest of the hill. The white uniforms stood out in the faint moonlight, the men moving slowly, careful steps. He felt a burst of ice in his chest, kept still, the men stepping past no more than a few yards away, seemingly wandering, no urgency, as though they were lost. There was talk now, Chinese, one man pointing, the others following his lead. They stopped, gathered up, seemed to scan the area, searching for something, one man dropping low, picking up a weapon. He held it at his waist, fired a single shot, a flash in the dark, the sound of an M-1, more talk, another man coming up the hill, joining them. Riley felt a screaming pain in his knees, kept completely still, his eyes crusting over, his breathing slicing into his throat and lungs, the cold returning, invading his clothing. His heart pounded, and he kept his eyes on them, eased one hand in toward the .45, agonizingly slow, a silent shout in his head, Go on, get out of here! But the Chinese soldiers seemed content to stay put, another pair coming up the hill, gathering with the others, examining the rifle, more talk. He slid his hand to the bottom of his coat, closer to the .45, and now there was a bright flash, then another, grenades. He dropped flat, heard a burst of machine gun above him. He kept still, eased his head upward, strained to see, saw the muzzle blasts from the machine gun. The Chinese were mostly down, cries and grunts, no one returning fire. The rifles came now, ricochets off the rocks. He heard men coming down the hill, faint silhouettes in the dark, Marines, saw a burst from a BAR, spraying the Chinese bodies.