by Jeff Shaara
Through the misery of trial and error, the men discovered that one part of their C-rations seemed immune to the harsh cold: Tootsie Rolls. Riley learned with the others that holding the chewy candy in your mouth would soften it fairly quickly, making it palatable. The added benefits of course were that the Tootsie Rolls gave the men a brief charge of energy, and even better, they tasted good. The supply officers had responded to that discovery with surprising efficiency, a substantial supply available for every man. Along with the ever-present Hershey bars, the men had discovered another treat that was far easier to eat than anything that came in a can: jelly beans.
—
They formed up into a ragged line, rifles and carbines hung on shoulders, Lieutenant McCarthy moving past, a quick inspection. Riley had welcomed the order to patrol, anything to stretch cold, stiffened muscles, but around him, the griping poured out, the mood of the men as sour as it had been for days. Riley ignored all of that, held his words inside, thought, It’s been quiet in these hills. If we gotta go up there, this is a good time to do it.
McCarthy stood at the head of the column now, turned to them, his beet-red face hidden by the fog of his breath.
“Listen up! Recon has struck out in those hills to the north, and they’re moving out again to the west. Our orders are to move up in support, protecting their flank, while they hit those ridgelines. There are reports of enemy concentrations out a few miles that way. I don’t think we’ll be going that far, just making sure nobody’s sneaking up closer to where we are now.”
McCarthy kept talking, his words trailing away from Riley’s hearing, swept off by a new burst of wind. Riley heard more griping close by, a chorus of cursing from Killian, groans from some of the others. He looked down, the hood of the parka clamped around his face, began marching in place, keeping his legs in motion. Whatever order the lieutenant got doesn’t matter a hill of beans, he thought. Let’s just march. If the Chinks are there, they’ll let us know.
He felt the soft wad under his arms, the spare pair of socks. It was second nature now, a second pair always at hand, a third in his backpack. The wind slowed and he looked toward McCarthy, the lieutenant waving them forward, a harsh shout, “Let’s move out!”
They marched out along the road to the north, McCarthy moving them in a slow, methodical pace. It was routine now, a slower gait helping keep the socks dry, the sweat off their backs, at least for a while longer. He led them around the first bend, then another hundred yards, Riley keeping his head down, avoiding the amazing wind. He glanced out to the side, toward the reservoir, snow swirling across the ice, thought, Heavy enough for a truck to drive on it, I bet. Somebody else’s truck. I’ll stick to hard ground.
The column halted, four dozen men drawing up closer, McCarthy pointing up to the left. “Time to climb.”
Riley was already warming up, the heft of his clothing giving him more protection now than he needed. There was griping even about that, and he ignored it, had known men who tossed aside various pieces of gear, lightening their loads, only to beg desperately for a handout when their sweat turned cold. He followed the line as it began to move up through the rocky ground, a gentle slope at first. The men in front of him moved in slow, deliberate steps, the pace set by McCarthy, a side hill climb, gaining altitude slowly, keeping the sweat away as long as possible. Riley looked up, small clouds moving past quickly, chased away by the wind. The sky was mostly clear, a piercing blue spreading out above them. There was snow on the hill, but not much, most of that blown into shallow drifts, wrapping around the low brush they stepped past. Farther up, he saw another line of men, easing upward a couple hundred yards farther along the hill. Recon, he thought. I guess so. He wouldn’t ask, knew it didn’t really matter who they were as long as they were Marines. At least we got some help if we run into the Chinks. He felt his breathing, the stab of cold into his lungs, tried to slow that down, but the climb was growing steeper, the sweat now forming on his back and, of course, inside his boots. He tried to guess how far they had come, knew that didn’t matter, either, that McCarthy would lead them wherever it was the captain had ordered them to be. He had started to warm to Captain Barber, the man not hanging as hard to his ridiculous orders to shape up the company. In this cold, exercise at dawn was just torture, and Barber had seemed to understand that he had enough veterans that could shape up most of the new men along the way. Instead of mindless fitness drills, Barber had focused instead on sharpshooting skills, close-range tactics, so many of the lessons most of the veterans had learned in boot camp. Barber understood that these replacements were being shipped overseas with very little of the preparation every commander hoped for. At least by the time Fox Company reached Hagaru-ri, Barber had implanted just a bit more fighting ability into men whose lives might ultimately depend on it.
Riley paused, let out a foggy breath, pushed down hard on a narrow rock, boosting himself up, one hand reaching for a leafless shrub. He saw one man up ahead stumble, saw the frightened look on the man’s very young face. Riley watched as he was helped back to his feet, the others pausing just long enough to keep the formation together. God, they’re young, he thought. I just hope they had enough boot to do all of us some good. It’s bad enough I gotta listen to so much bitching from the veterans. And Welch won’t put up with any crybabies. McCarthy neither. This ain’t Mount Everest, but sure as hell, some eighteen-year-old out here is calling for his mama because his feet hurt.
“Halt here! Sit down, move up close together.”
He saw McCarthy pointing, the ground flattening into a shelf on the hill, a deep gouge in the rocks that offered shelter from the wind. It was a welcome break, the men sliding in close, sitting on the rocky ground, the clusters of dark green huddling together like so many lumps of clay. Riley waited his turn, moved in close to one man, saw it was Welch, a quick nod, Welch ignoring him. He sat, pulled his M-1 in tight to his chest, flexed his fingers. Like so many others, he had sliced the tip off the trigger finger of his glove, and he curled his bare forefinger under, squeezed it with his thumb. Don’t freeze, he thought. Might need you. No need to be stingy with the clips, either. They’ll give us turds to eat, but they ain’t gonna let us run out of ammo.
McCarthy was out in front of them, staring farther up the hill, the radioman kneeling beside him. McCarthy knelt now, spoke into the radio, listened, then spoke again. “What? Repeat. Again! Oh, for Chrissakes.”
McCarthy stood, hands on his hips, said, “The radio is crap. This damn cold has wrecked the batteries. Hell, it’s probably left over from Guadalcanal.”
Goolsby rose up from down the row, moved out toward McCarthy, said, “Think we shoulda brought walkie-talkies?”
McCarthy shook his head. “Tried that already. They won’t reach more than fifty yards in these hills. Let’s try to make visual contact with recon. Rest time’s over. Let’s go.”
The men began to rise, the platoon following McCarthy once more, out into the open, the climb resuming. Riley felt the wetness in his socks, the sweat on his back already chilling him. Keep moving, he thought. The clouds were completely gone now, the sun straight overhead. But the winds were relentless, the wisps of snow blowing over his boots, the low scrub brush shuddering as they moved past. McCarthy halted them, a brief rest, men sagging, some leaning down with hands on their knees. Riley could see all of Hagaru-ri now, the reservoir to one side, a frosty white, the thickening ice draped with several inches of snow.
McCarthy waved them forward, the men responding, and Riley looked up the mountain, then down to his feet, searched for the next place to step, felt a hard hand pulling his arm. Around him, men were flattening out, and Riley dropped hard, pain in his shoulder, a protest forming in his brain. The hand released him and he saw Welch, down close to him, black eyes staring out past him. Riley turned that way, saw movement on the hill above them, yellow shapes scurrying up, moving quickly out of sight. He felt a jolt in his chest, gripped the rifle, others around him already prone, aiming. McCarthy
rose up, motioned up to the left, a harsh whisper, “Goolsby! Take first squad. Go that way. Try to cut them off.”
Goolsby was up quickly, a wide-eyed stare at Welch, who rose to his knees, his squad responding. Riley pulled himself up, still the stabbing pain in his shoulder, the impact with an unfriendly rock. They began a steeper climb, Welch moving up beside Goolsby. The hill seemed to roll now, a low dip, then another short rise, and Riley kept pace, felt his breathing in heavy bursts, thought, They could have shot us. You can’t see up more than fifty yards.
There was a cluster of low brush, the squad’s dozen men moving into cover, Welch holding them up. Welch said something to Goolsby, who responded with a vigorous nod. Welch looked back, searched faces, saw Riley, a quick wave of his hand. He motioned to Kane now, another wave, the BAR man moving forward, a quick glance at Riley. Riley pushed his boots upward, a single step, then another, did as Welch did, the sergeant bent low. They were clear of the brush now, easing over a hump on the hill. Riley’s brain was screaming at Welch, Slow down! He glanced back to the others, still lying low in the brush, the face of Goolsby peering up like a startled bird. Riley looked again toward Welch, took another slow step, and now Welch stopped, brought his carbine to his shoulder. Riley moved up slowly, saw what Welch saw, the mouth of a small cave. Welch looked back at Kane, pointed at the BAR, Kane staring back at him, a sharp nod. Welch took another step, then motioned with his hand, go. He leapt forward, Riley following, Kane to one side. Welch led them to one side of the cave, dropped, slid in flat beside the opening, the others close beside him, and Riley caught the smell, pungent, unmistakable. Garlic.
Welch kept silent, pulled a grenade from his coat, his arm swinging in a sidearm pitch, the grenade disappearing into the cave. They ducked low, the blast erupting in a cloud of dirt, and Welch yelled at Kane.
“Do it!”
Kane responded, the BAR at his waist, a spray of fire into the cave. Riley pointed the M-1 into the opening, waited, searching for movement, any kind of target, the wind sweeping the dust to one side. Welch started forward, into the cave, barely high enough for a man to stand, no more than six feet wide. He stopped, pointing the carbine, and Riley stepped forward, M-1 ready, the smoke still blowing past, choking dust. Riley searched the space, no one there, Kane now tight behind them, the BAR reloaded.
Welch lowered the carbine, looked at Riley. “You hungry?”
Riley kept his stare into the dusty hole, saw it wasn’t more than a few yards into the hill. “What? Hell no.”
There was commotion behind them, the rest of the squad moving up close. Goolsby was there, pushing into the opening of the cave.
“What happened? You get them?”
Welch said, “Hey, Lieutenant, could we go back outside? It’s a little tight in here.”
“What’s that stink? Your grenade?”
They moved out into the cold sunlight again and Riley saw the usual frown on Welch’s face.
“That stink, Lieutenant, is Charlie Chink. Anybody need a snack, there’s rice plastered all over the walls. And a few busted-up bowls. Looks like we interrupted somebody’s lunch.”
—
They had returned to the camp, the recon patrol making the same report they had for days now. The enemy was there, in very small numbers, and no one seemed to want to fight. But this time there was a difference. This time recon had hauled in a pair of prisoners.
Riley had been as curious as the rest of the squad, the new men in particular aching to get their first look at just who they were supposed to fight. They had been taken to a small house, back near Litzenberg’s command post, and Riley waited in the cold, Morelli there as well, a half-dozen others around them, most of those from the recon unit. He saw a familiar face, said, “You’re Corporal Glenn, right?”
“Yeah. I know you?”
“Riley, Fox Company. You grabbed the prisoners?”
“I was there. We saw them ducking away from you, and we just sat down and waited. You blew up that cave, they got the message, hauled ass and tripped right over us. Six of ’em. These two collapsed, whimpered like babies, so, here they are.”
Riley thought, The other four? But Glenn didn’t offer, and he knew better than to ask.
“Our lieutenant said we could grab a look at ’em. This is Morelli. He’s pretty fresh. Thought it would do him good to smell one.”
Glenn looked at Morelli, who offered a sheepish smile. Glenn said, “Take a good whiff, kid. You smell that again out in these hills, you’ll know you’re close. Hey, there’s the interp. I guess you boys can go on in, unless somebody tells you to get lost. I’m going to sleep.”
Riley waved toward Glenn as he moved away, and Morelli said, “Interp? You mean the interpreter?”
Riley looked at him, said, “What the hell else could it mean? These Chinks weren’t born in New Jersey.”
The interpreter was accompanied by a pair of officers, the men moving into the house, more men already inside.
Riley said, “Try to look like you belong here. Come on.”
He led Morelli into the house, a guard beside the door, a bored glance at Riley.
Riley said in a low voice, “We were there. We’ve got orders to observe.”
The guard yawned, said nothing, and Riley pulled Morelli by the arm, moved past a small office, a typewriter on a wooden desk. The men had gathered in a larger room, and he kept Morelli back, just outside the doorway. He saw the prisoners, seated on small metal chairs. They still wore their quilted uniforms, but there were no hats, no restraints, nothing binding their hands. Riley thought, They don’t look scared. They just look curious. The room was crowded, a pair of officers standing to one side, others that Riley couldn’t see. The interpreter was a short, thin man, obviously Asian, and he stood in front of the prisoners, then looked to one side, said with a heavy accent, “I can begin, sir?”
Riley eased forward, peered past the doorway, saw that the man had spoken to Colonel Litzenberg. Riley flinched, thought, Never been this close to Old Homer. He glanced back at Morelli, who stared mesmerized at the prisoners, whispered, “Keep quiet.”
Morelli nodded, his eyes still on the Chinese.
Litzenberg said, “Go to it, Captain. See what they know.”
The interpreter spoke to the prisoners, what sounded to Riley like a chorus of meaningless noise. He watched the prisoners absorb what he assumed to be questions, was surprised to see a broad smile on one man’s face. The prisoner responded now, a chorus of his own, his hands gesturing, pointing, nodding, more chatter. Riley was baffled, thought, These guys aren’t anything like Japs. It looks like they’re having…fun.
The interrogation went on for close to a half hour, the same routine, questions from the interpreter, enthusiastic responses from the Chinese soldiers, the interpreter relaying their answers to one of the officers, who jotted furiously on a legal pad. Through it all, Riley felt drawn into the conversation, the prisoners completely willing to talk about anything the interpreter asked them, offering up as much information as they seemed to have.
The house was growing warmer, Riley starting to sweat beneath his parka, the monotony of the questioning hypnotizing. He blinked hard, shifted his weight, Morelli still close to him. The interpreter ended the routine now, turned to Litzenberg, said, “I’ve gotten all we’re going to get, sir. The conclusion is that these men believe what they’re saying, and they insist there are several thousand Chinese troops in the hills to the west, and many more to the north around Yudam-ni. They were part of an observation detail, and they didn’t expect us to go up after them. They’re both asking for something to eat.”
One of the officers looked up, seemed suddenly to notice Riley, and he pointed to the door, said to one of the guards inside the room, “Close that, Sergeant.”
The door swung shut in Riley’s face, jarring him awake. He backed up, said to Morelli, “Time to go, kid.”
They moved quickly outside, the cold a bracing shock, and Morelli said, “Wow! T
hat was amazing! They just talked and talked. I was told, don’t never say nothing. Name, rank, and serial number.”
Riley searched through the activity around them, said, “Better yet, kid, don’t get captured. I think we go this way.”
“Hey, Pete. What’s that smell?”
Riley caught the aroma, unmistakable. It was cooked meat.
“Let’s find out. Try to look official.”
He led Morelli toward a row of tents, steam rising from enormous pots, huge platters covered in canvas tarps.
“Looks like you boys are first in line. Step on in.”
Riley saw the smiling face of an officer, tried to return the smile, said, “Yes, sir. I guess we’re first.”
He moved up to the first tent, kitchen workers there with enormous forks, and the officer said, “You forget your mess kit? No problem. There’s a few tin plates back here. Here you go.”
Riley took the plate, handed another to Morelli, and he stepped closer to the incredible smells. Behind the long table, another officer appeared, another smile.
“What’s your unit, boys?”
“Fox Two Seven, sir.”
The man wrote something on a pad, said, “Ah, yes, Colonel Lockwood’s Second Battalion. He’s new. Don’t know him yet. Fox Company, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
The tarp closest to Riley was pulled back, and he stared at a massive pile of sliced turkey. Behind him, Morelli said, “Good God. That for us?”
Riley winced, thought, You blow this one, kid, and I’ll strangle you. But the officer said, “Of course it’s for you! It’s Thanksgiving, you know! Division has sent turkey and all the fixings. There’s kitchen units set up for every company, even out in the boonies. Ah, here come some more of you boys. I guess the word spread.”
