by Jeff Shaara
McCarthy was there now, said, “There’s a lot more up ahead. The major got the call a while ago from First Battalion. There’s ROK popping up in every hole, most of ’em not waiting for us to get into place. We’re supposed to be replacing their positions all along these hills. Reports of a good many of the enemy up ahead.”
Riley watched the men move past, many more flowing down the hill, dropping into the road, scrambling back toward the south, all smiles.
“They seem happy as hell to be leaving.”
One of the men slowed in front of McCarthy, the uniform of an officer, spoke with very little accent. “Many Chinese. Many in the hills. Be prepared.”
McCarthy said, “What’s your unit? Your rank?”
“Sorry, Marine, I have to follow my men. Many Chinese. Good luck.”
The man scampered away, adding to the flow passing by, and Welch said, “Speaks good English. Hell of a hurry. Never saw them run like that from any North Koreans.”
McCarthy spat, said nothing, and beside him Goolsby said, “We should tell the captain what he said.”
McCarthy began to move up the hill to the right, said, “Count on it. He knows. Battalion knows, too. There’s too many of ’em to miss. They’ve dropped their weapons. I guarantee they were running a hell of a lot faster before we showed up.”
Zorn moved through the throng of Koreans, seemed disgusted, climbed up just above the road, closer to McCarthy, one hand pointing up the hill to the right.
“We’ve got our orders, Lieutenant. Let’s go!”
—
Riley pushed one foot in front of the other, a slow, steady climb. He felt the sweat rolling down his back, sweat in his eyes, felt the soft squish in his boots. He put one foot up against a heavy rock, raised himself one more step, heard the grunts around him, one man stumbling, loud curses. McCarthy was there, a harsh whisper, “Keep it quiet! These hills aren’t friendly.”
The sounds of the fight still rolled past them, close, the far side of the road, more from the hill ahead. He glanced up, men swarming over the bare ground, using rocks for leverage, the hillside flattening slightly, the ridgeline farther still. McCarthy stopped, looked past him back down the hill, seemed impatient, a hard scowl.
“Halt here. We’ll wait for the captain.”
The men obeyed gratefully, spreading out, eyes searching the ground all around them. Machine gun fire rattled across the road, a steady chatter, and Riley looked that way, catching his breath, thought, Dog Company. Names came to him now, men he had known before, familiar faces as they passed on various marches. One face settled in his brain, a broad smile, Harper. Damnedest drinker I ever saw. Keep your head down. You still owe me a bottle of Scotch.
Zorn scrambled past, moving toward McCarthy, said, “Keep Third Platoon moving, get to where you can see to the east. I’ll have the others spread out along this line, supporting you. Map says this is Hill 727. That might matter to my kids.”
McCarthy waved them on, Riley already climbing again, Zorn’s words in his head. My kids. You’re not the only one, Captain. There’s my kid, too.
Welch was up beside him, passing him slowly, said, “Dark soon. We get to where they’re sending us, dig a deep one quick as you can.”
Riley wiped sweat from his face, kept climbing, the grunts around him louder, no curses now, no one with the energy for griping.
“Right. Just dig one for yourself.”
McCarthy was waiting near the crest, waving one arm, spreading them out just behind the highest point. Riley searched for Killian a few yards behind him, saw him jam the butt of his M-1 into the ground like a crutch, pulling himself up, red-faced, sweating. He looked at Riley now, then bent low, said, “My damn boots are full of water.”
“Shovel. Let’s dig.”
Riley slid out of his backpack, pulled his shovel out, looked over the crest of the hill, could see the fight to the north, First Battalion’s position bathed in a low fog of gray smoke. But that fight seemed to slow, and he turned to the west, across the road, could see specks of men all across that hill, sparks of flame, drifting smoke.
“Jesus. They’re getting hammered.”
Welch was there, his shovel in his hand, said, “You don’t know who’s hammering who. Do your damn job.”
Riley dropped the heavy coat, lay the rifle close by, saw Killian drop down to his seat, yanking off his boots. The socks came now, Killian barefoot, peeling away his shirt.
“Gotta dry this crap out. Don’t wait for me, dammit. Start digging.”
Riley chopped the shovel downward, piercing the rocky dirt, shallow roots of the thin brush. Now Killian joined him, the hole taking shape quickly, others around them doing the same, dirt and rocks tossed in the air. He straightened, arched his back, took a long breath, stared out across the road again. It was harder to see, the glare of the sun in his face.
“Sounds like the fight’s slowing.”
Killian was breathing hard, said, “Then dig more. We might be next.”
From far behind them, Riley heard the rhythmic thumps of a helicopter, and he looked up, the craft now overhead, slipping past, moving out to the east. He stepped down into the foxhole, nearly over his knees, deep enough, watched the helicopter, and Welch was there, breathing heavily, his shovel in his hand.
“Searching for the enemy. If anybody hits us, they’ll come up from that way, I guess. Not much light left. Don’t know what those idiots are hoping to see.”
The helicopter moved out of sight, dipping low past the next hill, and Riley caught the last glow of sunlight still bathing the hillside to the east. That hill was taller, steep and ragged, thick trees painted with the colors of fall, and above them, a bare ridge, the sun reflecting off patches of fresh snow.
—
Many of the men had stripped down to their undershirts, allowing the sweat to dry, giving time for their outer layers to dry as well. Boots had come off, socks spread out on flat rocks. But with the darkness came the chill, and soon those men had reluctantly redressed, cursing the blanket of cold that settled over them.
Killian was squatting down across from Riley, his usual perch. They munched on C-rations, the first thing Riley had eaten since breakfast. Killian tossed a small can to one side, said, “So, Old Homer thinks we’ll have a fight up here? That oughta shut up the damn replacements. Tired of all their bitching about missing out. You take a look at some of these morons? They’re ten years old.”
Riley didn’t respond, but the same thoughts had struck him, new men who didn’t seem to know the first thing about being a Marine.
Since the landing in Wonsan, the entire regiment had been beefed up with replacements, some of them with even less training and preparation than Morelli. The officers seemed pleased with the added numbers, but few of the veterans had any confidence that the new men would add anything to the fight. Riley’s best hope was that the men around him now at least knew how to aim a rifle.
He tossed aside the remnants of a can of fruit cocktail, said, “Wonder if that helicopter found anybody out there. Pretty quiet, so far.”
Killian said, “Sounded like all the fun was other side of the road. Or up north. No idea where the hell we are. Maybe that next hill belongs to China.”
“Just keep your eyes open. I’m not ending up like those KIAs back on the road.”
Killian shook his head. “That’s officers for you. Scare the hell out of the new ones, so they’ll fight better. Hell, they might just run like banshees.” Killian paused. “The captain’s nuts if he thinks that’ll happen to me. When I go out, I wanna be staring down the muzzle of some Nook cannon. If you’re gonna take me out, by God, blow me to ribbons. Make it worthwhile.”
Riley didn’t respond, thought of his son. Nope, they’ll never find me like that, either. My boy’s never gonna hear that his pop died in a sleeping bag. Maybe he won’t hear anything at all. Don’t go missing, dammit. Ruthie won’t never forgive me if I just disappear. But it ain’t gonna be because I’m scared.
Damn those officers anyway.
Killian drank from his canteen, said, “You’d a thought they’d have more faith in us. They seem to forget just how well we handled those damn Nooks.”
“Everything I’m hearing says it’s the Chinese now.”
“What the hell difference does it make? Nooks or Shambos. They all bleed the same, right?”
Shambos?
Riley knew not to ask. He leaned back against the side of the foxhole, glanced up, stars spreading across the black sky. Peaceful, he thought. Too bad there’s gotta be a war.
“You think you’d ever come to this place without this war?”
Even in the dark, Riley could feel Killian staring at him.
“You’re nuts. None of us know where the hell we are, exactly. Ain’t seen a map in weeks. What’s so damn special about Korea? Place stinks worse than my cousin Kevin. And he stinks worse than you.”
Riley knew better than to expect anything serious from Killian. He slid his hand up the stock of the M-1, ran a finger over the steel barrel. He knew many of the men had given names to their rifles, treated them like girlfriends. Just do the job, he thought.
Killian said, “I see you. Can’t keep your hands off that thing, can you? You been playing footsies with it all day long.”
“You’re just jealous. I shoot straighter than you.”
A few feet away, Welch said, “You don’t watch it, I’ll make you swap with me. Not sure I’m happy with this damn carbine.”
It was an ongoing debate, the value of the M-1 Garand versus the shorter, more compact carbine. The carbine could be set to full automatic, a spray of fifteen bullets that could come in handy in a tight squeeze. But the new men especially were prone to shooting up all their ammunition before they had targets. Riley knew that Welch had better discipline than that, but still, in a tight spot, if the enemy was more than a couple hundred yards out, the carbine was nearly worthless. The M-1 was far more accurate at long distance, reliable, even though it only held an eight-shot clip. Riley had always preferred the M-1, had seen too many carbines clog up, especially in the mud on Okinawa. But he knew better than to talk down a man’s weapon. Welch carried the carbine because he chose to, at least for now, and Riley thought, I just hope there’s no problem with that thing when you need it.
—
It had been dark for longer than Riley could tell, no idea what time it was. He glanced upward, many more stars, the cold breeze driving him deeper into his parka. He heard Killian stirring, the change of watches, Riley’s turn to rest for a couple of hours. He leaned forward, a soft voice, “Did you sleep at all?”
“Nah.”
Killian rustled through his backpack, cursed, and Riley whispered, “Your socks dry out?”
“Not quite. They’re miserable. Soaked through three pairs of socks, and I’m gonna make sure they’re dry before I put ’em back on. What dumb son of a bitch thought these damn rubber boots would help us fight a war?”
“Same son of a bitch who thought this was a war we oughta be fighting.”
Killian’s voice always carried farther than Riley preferred, and others around them began to respond, the high-pitched voice of the kid, Morelli.
“Hey, you ought not talk about the president that way. My papa voted for him. Doubt he’s a son of a bitch. Not a bit.”
Killian said, “Oh, shut up. I’m not so sure it was Truman who thought this up anyway. I hear it’s the UN who’s really running this show. They tell Old Harry how high to jump and he does it.”
To one side, Welch said, “I’m just glad some dumb Irishman’s not in charge. You’d have us looking over these hills for leprechauns.”
Riley could feel Killian bristle, knew his chin was probably jutting out, a familiar pose. Here we go again, Riley thought. They’ll both want the last word.
To the north, a sharp clap, a rattle of gunfire, several sharp thumps, the distant hill erupting again. Welch said, “Mortars. They’re hitting First Battalion again. Son of a bitch!”
Riley could see the flashes, streaks of green tracers, something new.
“Hey, Sarge, what’s going on? Never seen that before.”
“How the hell do I know? Russian guns, I guess. I guess somebody decided we’d gone far enough north.”
“All hands! Listen up!” Riley turned, the familiar voice of Lieutenant McCarthy. “Sergeant Halley!”
Riley heard the voice, no one else talking now.
“Sir!”
“Halley, did you spread your squads farther up that way?”
“Yes, sir. I’m heading up there now. We’ve got a thirty positioned with a good field of fire to our front.”
Another shadow, Captain Zorn there now, breathing hard, a hand on McCarthy’s shoulder.
“They waited until near midnight, then hit First Battalion again. That’s all I know. Make ready to receive…well, hell, I don’t know. Nobody lets their pants down until we hear from the regimental CP. I’ll be on the radios back down the hill. Check your walkie-talkies. I’m not jogging up and down this mountain all night long. Where’s Goolsby?”
Goolsby emerged from a nearby hole, scrambled closer, a carbine in his hand. “Sir!”
“Keep your eyes all along this ridgeline to your front. We’ve no idea what’s coming this way, if anything at all. But prepare for it! You understand?”
“Certainly, sir.”
The captain looked again toward the sounds of the fighting, the roar of machine gun fire blending with the pop of rifles. More mortars came now, a steady series of thumps, the darkness to the north broken by the flashes. Now, new sounds, much closer, to the west, across the road, the chatter of machine guns, more rifle fire. Riley looked that way, nothing but darkness, felt his stomach churn, thought, Dog Company. Getting it again. Jesus.
Zorn moved away now, more orders to the other platoons, the two hundred men of Fox Company spread out along the ridge. Riley rose to his knees, moved the rifle up in front, resting on the uneven ground. More movement now, the hushed voices of the ammo carriers. One man moved up close, a harsh whisper. “Grenades. Captain says take as many as you can throw.”
Killian said, “Yeah? How many’s that? Five hundred?”
Riley ignored the chatter, grabbed a handful from the satchel, made a small pile beside the rifle, his eyes now hard to the front. The man moved away, and Killian quieted, adjusting himself, the rifle lying close beside Riley’s. Far out to the west, the fighting across the road continued, nervous attention focused that way, and Riley said in a soft hush, “Dog’s getting clobbered.”
“Maybe. It’s behind us, even. Easy’s there, too. Twice as strong. That’s gotta help.”
The flashes from the next hill to the north came again, the thunder of mortars, a new round of tracer fire. Riley peered out that way, his helmet just above his eyes.
“Green tracers. Never seen that before. North Koreans’ are blue. Ours are red.”
“Yeah, Pete, ours are red. Knew that, you moron.”
“So, green? New guns? Think the Sarge is right? Russian stuff?”
Killian paused a long moment, said, “It’s gotta be the Chinese. Hell, I don’t know what kind of stuff they use. But sure as hell, those ROK idiots weren’t running home just to see mama-san.”
There was hard tension in Killian’s voice, unusual, and now movement close beside Riley, Welch crawling close.
“You set? Keep a sharp eye. They seem to like the dark. We’re hours from daylight.”
Riley glanced toward the sergeant, Welch’s voice calm, steel.
“We’re set, Sarge. Check on the kid. Check Kane’s BAR crew. They’re green as hell.”
“I know my job, Private.”
Welch slid away, and Killian said, “There’s a thirty up that way, on that rise to the right. Where’d Kane take his BAR?”
“Right behind you.” Riley turned, back behind his right shoulder, saw the shadowy form of Wally Kane, his helpers crouched low behind. “We’re not that damn green, Gr
andpa. You find those bastards, we’ll clean ’em up.”
Kane was younger, still a veteran, what Riley guessed to be a late starter in the last war. But he handled the weapon well, seemed to appreciate just how valuable the Browning automatic rifles were to the entire outfit. The BAR had been issued with a built-on bipod, said to ensure accuracy by keeping the weapon steady on the ground. But Kane had done what many did, tossed that away, insisting he could fire the piece with more accuracy from his shoulder. It took a man with a strong back to hold the BAR upright for a long stretch, and every man who carried one hauled as much ammunition as possible, increasing his load even more. Thus the assistants, whose single responsibility was to stay close to the BAR, handing off ammunition as quickly as Kane could fire. The BAR was thought by many to be even more valuable to each squad than the light machine guns, which were far less mobile. They all knew that if a hole opened up in the line, Kane, or any of the others, could slip into place with his weapon and do the work of a half-dozen M-1s.
Riley looked down the hill again, more flashes far to the front. Kane talks big, he thought. Not sure I could haul that beast around like he does, but I just hope like hell he doesn’t run off. If you do, Wally, at least leave your weapon here. I love emptying a BAR. He kept that taunt to himself, thought, No time for idiocy now. Beside him, Killian whispered, “What the hell’s that?”
Riley froze, stared hard, his eyes digging through the darkness. “What?”
“Down there. Movement.”
The sounds burst over them now, a screaming chorus of police whistles, a sharp blat from a bugle, then another, farther down. Now there were voices, a vast line of men on the hill below them. Riley rose up, searching the darkness, could see them, the shapes growing larger, shadows climbing the hill. The whistles came again, sharp, piercing sounds, Riley gripping the rifle, a cold chill in his spine, his ears ripped by the odd noise. Now rifles popped, muzzle flashes down the line, the light machine gun pouring fire down the hill, streaks of red. Riley jerked the rifle to his shoulder, no targets, just dull shapes, the voices closer, some falling, absorbing the fire from the Marines. But they came on, closer still, a stink washing over him, the familiar odor of rifle fire, and now something new, grotesque, and strange. It was garlic.
