Riley felt Welch slide his hand under his arm, steadying him. He looked at Welch, saw concern, the sergeant’s harsh crust betrayed by his affection for his friend. Riley tested his balance, stood upright, said, “I’m okay now. Feel a hell of a lot better. Let me get my boots on.” He sat slowly, still testing, the lightheadedness clearing away. “I appreciate the care, Doc. But this bed’s for those that need it.” He looked at Welch now. “You seen Killian? We oughta check on him.”
Welch shook his head. “He’s in the other tent. Maybe later. Since you’re fit, we gonna get back up on the ridge. Irish ain’t much good for anything but taking up space.”
Riley pulled the boots on, felt guilty, thought of Killian, wondered just how bad his feet were. He saw Cafferata watching him, said, “I gotta go, pal. We ain’t finished the job yet. Next time I see you, maybe we’ll be on some beach somewhere.”
Cafferata nodded, seemed to grow tired, turned his gaze upward. Riley looked at the doctor, said, “Take good care of that one, Doc. We could use a hell of a lot more just like him.”
FOX HILL—DECEMBER 1, 4:00 P.M.
The snow had deepened to nearly six inches, a soft blanket that covered most of the horror that still lay across the face of the hill. Throughout the day, the men had continued to prepare their defensive line, dragging the enemy’s dead closer, creating human walls around each of the foxholes. Since daybreak the Chinese had kept mostly quiet, the only real danger coming from the scattered snipers, still positioned on the rocky hill and the other hill farther to the west. For now their heavier machine guns stayed silent, what the Marines believed was the logical reaction to the effectiveness of the air strikes.
Riley had made the climb without help, though the weakness kept his steps slow, inspiring a chorus of playful cursing from Welch. At the foxhole, he had eased himself down, saw the faces of the others watching him, offered them a wave of his hand, no one giving him grief. He could see it in Welch’s eyes, the sergeant’s toughness not hiding what was going on inside him, inside all of them, the steady collapse of their energy.
He was impressed by the barrier now guarding the hole, saw another row of corpses piled close in front of Welch’s machine gun. The bottom of the foxhole was coated with a thick layer of fresh snow, and he squatted, scooped out as much as his fingers could hold. In front of the hole, Welch was tending to the machine gun, jerking on the bolt, firing a single round now, the new routine. Riley watched him, Welch’s movements slow and clumsy, betraying the same weakness Riley felt now. From one side, Morelli moved closer, knelt low, precaution against the snipers, held out a pair of gloves.
“Hey, Pete. Here. Use these.”
“Thanks, but I got some. The doc gave me a pair.”
“I seen those. They got holes worse than what you gave up. Here. These are practically new.”
He took the gloves, looked them over, no holes but the missing trigger finger. “Where’d you get them?”
Morelli hesitated, and Welch turned, said, “Don’t ask. Just put ’em on. We gotta use what we gotta use.”
Riley ripped his away, pulled the new gloves onto his fingers, flexed, looked at Morelli. “Thanks, kid. I owe you one.”
“Nah. Here, I found some more Tootsie Rolls, too. Ain’t hardly nothing else left to eat. We been checking the Chink bodies, seeing maybe they got some rice or something, but they’re about as bad off as we are, looks like. Go on, take ’em.”
Riley accepted the gift and Morelli slid away, Welch now looking at him.
“Give me one. Then you eat the rest. Now. Don’t need to be carrying your sorry ass back down the hill ’cause you’re too weak to fight. The Chinks are coming again tonight. Count on it. You stink as a gun crew, but you’re all I got. Kane’s handling his BAR by himself, and we only got four more rifles in the squad. Even Goolsby’s learning how to shoot straight. I saw him back over the hill, trying out a Thompson. He thinks it makes him look like Al Capone.”
“You hear anything about Lieutenant McCarthy?”
“His leg’s busted up good. That’s all I know. He’s still down the hill.”
“Heads up!”
Riley turned toward the voice, saw stretcher bearers moving up, their load between them. The man’s head rose, a quick motion from one hand, the men lowering him to the snowy ground. It was Barber.
Goolsby was there now, the Thompson hanging off one shoulder, the other sergeants coming closer as well, all of them keeping low behind the taller rocks. Riley watched Barber, felt a stir of nervousness, the captain struggling to sit up, his voice weak.
“Not sure I can make it up here anymore. Told the doc to give me morphine. My hip’s busted up pretty bad, and they can’t keep it from bleeding. Lieutenant Wright’s in charge if I’m out of my head. Keep your eyes sharp. Corsairs are making one more run before dark. We’ve picked out a nest of those yellow bastards just below the sharp rocks on the far side of the saddle. They might be gathering up for tonight. But we need to get more aggressive, help the air boys do a better job. It’s not good enough that they just shoot up the hillside and hope they hit somebody. I want a patrol to get out there and check the damage. If the enemy’s still sitting in a hole, take care of ’em. If they’re bringing up machine guns, bust ’em up. With dark coming, they won’t be expecting us to push out there.” He focused on Goolsby, fought for more words. “Lieutenant, take five men with you. Second Platoon will send some men out there as well. Wait for the Corsairs to do the job, then move out there quick. Keep to the right of the saddle. Peterson’s men will hang to the left.”
Barber seemed weaker still, lay back down on the stretcher, said something to the two men helping him. They responded, lifted the stretcher, moved back along the hill. Goolsby dipped low, crawled forward, pushing through the snow, said to Welch, “I guess it’s your squad, Sergeant.”
“You don’t have to guess, sir. Just order it.”
Goolsby nodded. “Right. Not used to it, that’s all. Okay, Sergeant Welch, pick four men to go with us. Pick good men. And let’s try not to get lost out there.”
The sound of the planes came suddenly, the Corsairs rolling up over the hill behind them, and Welch said, “Guess they set their alarm clocks. No time like right now.”
There were four in the formation, the tails of each plane marked with distinctive letters, LD. Goolsby said, “Love Dog. Lieutenant Peterson told me. Bunch of real characters. I guess we oughta lay low.”
The men dropped into their holes, the planes banking sharply, a dry run straight down the saddle. By now the pilots were familiar with the lay of the land, the position of the enemy, very little guesswork. Riley peered up over the edge of the hole, realized his hands were resting on the frozen arm of a dead soldier. He pulled back, avoided looking at any more of the man, kept his eyes on the planes. They climbed now, rolling over, coming back toward the crest of the hill, no more than fifty feet above the rocky ground. Riley watched them pass, saw the face of one pilot, the man looking down onto the Marines, his audience. The planes disappeared behind the hill, long seconds, then came back, one at a time, straight down the saddle. The rockets came first, a spray that blew through the rocky hilltop beyond. The next one followed, more rockets, and then the single tank, hung from the plane’s belly, tumbling down, bouncing once on the rocks, and then the explosion, the napalm’s massive fireball, the storm of flames curling skyward, swept by the wind. Riley felt himself cheering, the others around him joining in, hands in the air. The planes banked away, circling high above, and Goolsby was there, a hard shout, “Watch the fire! When it dies down, we’re going!”
Welch jumped up from the hole, called out along the line, “Kane, Morelli, Norman, Riley. Grenades and ammo. Check it!”
Riley was not surprised by the choices, except for the kid. He knew that Welch would choose the men he had confidence in, and he looked that way, saw Morelli fumbling with a handful of grenades, stuffing them into his pocket. No shortage of ammo, he thought. Just don’t forget
how to throw ’em.
He climbed up from the foxhole, saw Morelli and the others doing the same, the kid looking toward him with wide-eyed eagerness. They watched the fire, the flames spread out on the far end of the saddle, growing smaller now, black smoke still flowing to the west. Goolsby was out front, rose up, the Thompson in his hands, Welch’s words in Riley’s head, Al Capone. Goolsby waved them forward, then launched himself out away from the foxholes, moving downhill, the others following in line, keeping a gap between them. To the left, Peterson’s men did the same, all of them pushing quickly to the saddle.
Goolsby led the way down the hill, and Riley felt the weakness in his legs, jogged with the others, kept up, no one with any more energy than he had. The lieutenant led them down along the right side of the saddle, slipping through rocks, snow-covered scrub brush, stepping past hard-frozen bodies of the enemy. Riley fought to breathe, icy air punching into his lungs, caught the smell of the napalm now, stinking smoke, his breathing harder still. Goolsby raised a hand, held them up, and Riley saw him, red-faced, gasping through the cold. Goolsby pointed up the side of the saddle toward the wide crest, small columns of smoke rising from spots of fire. He stood, waved the Thompson, started forward, and Welch was next, glancing back, sharp motion forward with his hand.
They were climbing again, slow progress, the ground rough, the rocks hidden by the snow, ankle busters, Riley making careful steps, the shoe pacs clumsy, unsteady. He could feel waves of warmth, the fresh stink of the napalm overwhelming, stirring the misery in his gut. He cursed himself, looked down the hill, the deep draw off the edge of the saddle, thick brush, the wooded draw where the enemy had risen so many times before. The woods were quiet, the only sound the breathing of the men, Goolsby leading them through a tall thicket, still below the crest of the saddle. They climbed farther, one man stumbling, Kane, struggling with the BAR, Welch pulling him upright, a slap on Kane’s back. Riley kept his eyes on Goolsby, the lieutenant stopping, hands on his knees, then easing forward again, pushing past the ragged hedge of scrub. The others followed in turn, Riley watching everything, eyes on every rock, every tree and cluster of brush. They were close to the smoke now, and Goolsby stopped, stood upright, in the open, staring down, the smoke swirling around him. Riley felt a strange uneasiness, saw Goolsby step back, still staring down. Welch was there now, pulling on Goolsby’s arm, the lieutenant staggering away, Welch leading the rest of them up the saddle, into the stinking smoke. Riley followed, saw now what Goolsby had seen. The body was clad in the usual white uniform, the fire moving slowly along the man’s legs, the thick quilted cotton burning like the wick of a lantern, the man’s bare flesh seared black. The man’s face was gone, a black, bloody smear, smoldering fire in what remained of the man’s hair. He lay with his burp gun still in his hands, the gun charred, useless. Riley moved past, tried not to see any more, but there were other bodies, a cluster of half a dozen, seated in a circle, down in a depression, each man bent over in a curl, cooked where he sat, hands holding still to their weapons. Up front, Welch fired his Thompson down into a hole, jolting Riley alert. Welch moved on, and Riley was there, saw the wounded man wedged in a narrow gap in the rocks, wounded no more. The breeze rolled up around them now, the stink of the napalm impossible to avoid. One man dropped down, vomited in the snow, and Welch held up, kneeling close to the man, shouting something. Riley kept his eyes on the rocky hill, black smoke, silence, searched for Goolsby. He saw the lieutenant, the Thompson hanging by his side, and Welch was there, more shouts, grabbing Goolsby’s coat.
The first shots came from far off, the scattered machine gun fire ripping the air overhead. The response came from Peterson’s men, a fight breaking out higher up the saddle. Goolsby seemed to freeze, uncertain, and Welch moved up beside him, jerked at Goolsby’s sleeve, said, “Let’s go! They need support!”
The men followed Welch, Goolsby taking the point again, finding something inside him. Riley followed, eyed Kane with the BAR, a glance between them, no words, Riley knowing that Kane had the same thoughts. What the hell’s wrong with the lieutenant?
The firing across the saddle increased, and Riley could see the Marines, moving up in leapfrog formation, a handful of men passing the others, then hunkering down, the first group moving past. Up in the rocks nearer the tall hill, the Chinese were firing down. Peterson’s men were close to them, the Chinese starting to break, scrambling up through the rocks, making their escape.
Welch called out, “Take ’em down!”
He fired the Thompson, too far to be effective, but Morelli knelt, anchored against a rock, aimed the M-1, fired, then again. Riley huddled low, could see the enemy dropping, Morelli doing the job, Peterson’s men still putting on the pressure. There was more firing from Peterson’s men, aimed down to the left, a fresh fight breaking out, but it ended quickly, shouts from the Marines. Riley saw a man moving toward them, darting quickly along the saddle, keeping low, eyes on Welch. He slid in close, breathless, said, “We’ve cleaned out a pocket of ’em. They didn’t want to stick around. Sergeant Tyler says it’ll help if you keep to this side of the saddle. Some of the Chinks dropped off this side earlier. They might try to get behind us.”
Riley saw Welch looking at Goolsby, the lieutenant responding. “Yes! Good! We’ll keep an eye out over here. You boys be careful over there.”
The man looked at Goolsby with curiosity, then to Welch, who said, “He’s the lieutenant. We’ll take care of our side.”
The man nodded, glanced at the others, a brief recognition of Riley.
“Yeah, I’ll tell Sergeant Tyler you said so. We already wiped out a squad of those bastards, half frozen to death.”
Welch looked at Goolsby, then said, “It’ll be dark in a half hour. Don’t hang out here too long. We’ll secure what we can here, then pull back.”
“The sarge is already thinking that. See you in hell.”
The man slipped away, the same path back toward the rest of Peterson’s men. Riley saw the black concern on Welch’s face, another glance at Goolsby.
“Sir, we’ve got to move up, keep abreast of their position. The captain gave us a job. We’re not doing a damn thing just sitting here.”
Goolsby seemed angry now, said, “I know what we have to do, Sergeant. Let’s move out through these rocks.”
They dropped low, Welch pointing to the brush off to one side, the men scrambling that way. Riley pushed himself through the muddy snow, a slushy mess from the heat of the napalm, slid down into the first row of brush. The Chinese machine gun began again, far up on the rocky hill, the fire peppering the rocks around him, pinging ricochets on the rocks along the ridge. He dropped flat, the others doing the same, heard Welch, fiery anger, shouting to Goolsby, “Get down! Keep to the cover! We can’t stay here! Get down the slope.”
Riley turned his head in the snow, watched the two men, Goolsby staring back at Welch with empty helplessness. Welch moved away now, a quick check of each man, his eyes now on Riley.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. What do we do now?”
“You could ask the man in charge. We’ve done all we can do right here. The napalm took care of most of the Chinks out here, and Second Platoon did the rest. Barber wanted it cleaned up. It’s cleaned up. The longer we sit out here, the more Chinks will figure out where we are. Jesus.” Welch lowered his voice. “He should have shoved us out quicker, found the enemy, before they found us. Tyler knew what he was doing. We got no reason to sit here.”
Goolsby slid down closer, seemed to gather himself, said to Welch, “Sergeant, we still have a job to do. The captain said to check the drop area. Clean out the enemy.”
“Well, sir, if I may suggest, now that every Chink weapon is aimed this way, how about we head back to our lines?”
Goolsby looked at the others, all eyes on him. “I suppose so, yes.”
The grenade struck a rock close beside Riley, tumbled down the hill, sliding to a stop in the snow. Riley shouted, “Grenade!”
br /> He flattened out, waited for the blast, but nothing happened. He peered through the crook in his arm, the handle of the grenade sticking up from the snow. Welch said, “A dud. But there’ll be more. Don’t wait for ’em. Hit ’em now!”
Welch climbed quickly up through the brush, up to his knees now, fired the Thompson, a continuous spray, emptying the magazine. The others moved up with him, more firing, and Riley pushed into the snow, his feet finding rock, climbed the embankment, saw them now, a dozen men, some kneeling, the flash of fire from their rifles, more men moving up from farther up the saddle, grenades now in the air, a shower of sticks tumbling past him. He fired his own machine gun, heard the BAR open up, the enemy tumbling down, the image in his mind, ten pins, from a single ball. The firing continued, one rifle beside him, the clink of the clip, and Welch said, “That’s it! Cease fire! Get back into cover.”
He slid down through the snow, the others doing the same, Goolsby still hunkered down in the low place.
“Did we get ’em all?”
Riley looked at Goolsby, saw icy tears on the man’s face, and Welch moved close to him, grabbed the man’s shoulders.
“Tighten up! No time for this! That was one bunch. There’s more. Tyler’s already got his men pulling back. Let’s get back to the hill!”
Riley looked up toward the crest of the saddle, the smell of the napalm still inside of him. He pulled a magazine from his pocket, slammed it into the Thompson, jerked the small bolt, ready again. Welch moved along the hill below him, the others falling into line, and Welch called out to him. “Watch our rear. They know we’re here, and they’re figuring out what to do about it. You see anybody, shoot everything you got.”
Riley kept his eyes on the darkening sky, the ridgeline still quiet. He glanced at the Thompson, his hand tapping the pockets of his coat. Plenty of ammo for now, he thought. What the hell’s wrong with the lieutenant? Maybe it’s seeing that Chinese candlestick up there. I bet he’s never seen napalm up close. Don’t need to see it again.