by Jeff Shaara
He avoided those memories, every engagement bringing a scattering of prisoners and, nearly always, those men in his unit who took out their revenge. War crimes. That’s what the reporters kept saying. Nobody asked if we were doing it, too. That guy Hayes didn’t ask anything like that. I don’t wanna see that stuff in the paper; sure as hell don’t want my wife seeing it.
The truck was moving more quickly now, bone-jarring thumps, and Riley stared out past McCarthy, the truck in another tight turn, another truck coming into view behind them.
Morelli caught his eye, the red-cheeked cheerful face, the kid pointing outside.
“The Koreans must go into the towns when winter comes. Not much to do out here.”
Riley closed his eyes, waited for it, and finally, Killian obliged.
“Yep, that’s it, kid. It’s a hotel I’ve heard about. The Nooks are working heavy construction up in Yalu City. Getting ready for our big liberation Christmas party.”
“You think so? Really?”
The laughter drifted through the truck, Killian the loudest.
“No, you moron. They’re up there in these hills, aiming their rifles at us. Can’t you feel it?”
Morelli was embarrassed into silence now, and Riley knew the redness on his face was more than the cold. He laughed to himself, thought, You’ll figure it out, kid. We all did.
The truck jerked to a halt again, a new burst of griping. McCarthy leaned out through the canvas and Riley heard voices outside. The lieutenant dropped to the ground, a quick conversation, then he called back into the truck.
“Let’s go. Ride’s over. We found the captain. It’s time to walk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Riley
TOKTONG PASS—NOVEMBER 27, 1950
“GOOD GOD. I didn’t train for this. Where’s the damn beach?”
Riley tried to ignore Killian, raised one foot in front of the other, gaining elevation with each step. Most of the men were silent, moving up the steep slope, all of them too aware what sweating could do. Behind him, Killian huffed along, while Welch led the squad alongside the others, all three of Fox Company’s platoons making the climb off the main road. At the base of the hill, Captain Barber’s aides were raising a tent, alongside a pair of dilapidated shacks. Just above the shacks the hill jutted sharply upward for several yards, where the road itself had been carved out of the hillside. Above that the slope was not as severe, but for men weighed down with their weapons and equipment, the going was slow, methodical, the officers keeping the pace. Through the first part of the climb there were trees, firs and pines wrapping the lower half of the wide hill, the men pushing up through the timber, using the tree trunks for support. But halfway up, the trees gave way to rocky ground, low scrub brush, what Riley had seen on most of the hills in this part of Korea. And without the shelter of the trees, there was nothing to hold back the wind.
Riley glanced up the hill, navigated his way behind Welch, cutting through small rocks, the brush too short to serve as a handle. The trees were well behind them now, and Riley could see the rest of the 240 men, three columns spread out across the face of the hill, mostly faceless men, their hoods pulled tight, protection against the increasing torment from the wind. Behind him, Killian swore again.
“I’m filing a complaint. They pulled me out of the Mediterranean to be here. I ain’t no damn mountain climber.”
In front of Riley, Welch turned, breathing in heavy bursts. “You bitch one more time and I’ll roll you down this damn hill, so’s you can climb it again. You read the same damn brochure we all did. Now shut the hell up.”
Killian was silenced, Welch climbing again. The slope was easier now, the men reaching the summit, and Riley could see across most of that, a wide span spreading over several acres. The other platoons were gathering, receiving instructions from Captain Barber, the lieutenants passing along just what they were supposed to do. Riley stopped, tried to catch his breath, one hand over his mouth, filtering the frigid air from his lungs. He moved again, keeping up with the others, climbed the last ridgeline, a ragged spine that sliced through the center of the hilltop. Far beyond that he could see another hill, taller, more rugged, connected to their position by a narrow saddle, at least two hundred yards long. Except for that one land bridge, the dome of the hill dropped away into a steep slope in every direction.
“Third Platoon, move out this way.” Riley saw McCarthy waving them forward, one arm extended, the men following the order, a single file line along the ridge. They slogged through a patch of dense brush, the hilltop more rugged than the slopes they had climbed. “First squad, right here. Sergeant Welch, arrange your men with a field of fire out that way. The company’s forming a wide horseshoe on top of this hill, with both ends terminating down at the road we just left. The captain’s command post is there, and he’s positioning the mortar teams just uphill from his tent. First Platoon is the right flank of the horseshoe. Second is to the left. We’re the middle. Your squad will be on our left flank. The other two squads will be to your right. There will be a heavy machine gun position on our right, linking us to First Platoon. There’s some heavy brush and some pretty rough ground between us, so keep in mind where they are. No blind shooting. You need anything from those boys, talk to Lieutenant Dunne. He owes me a dozen favors, so don’t be afraid to ask.” McCarthy paused, and Riley saw what seemed to be nervousness, McCarthy laboring to breathe. A new gust of wind swirled up around them, the men huddling closer, Riley moving in with them. He knew there would be more to the instructions, his brain trying to map out just what had led the captain up this particular hill, just why they were here at all. McCarthy scanned the horizon, said, “Dark in a few. I’m betting on snow. The captain’s thermometer said twelve below zero, but that’s down at the road. This wind is pretty nasty, and it won’t get any better, so it’s gonna be a long night. Find some kind of cover, anyplace that might break up the wind, but keep all eyes to the front. We’re in a circle, everybody protecting each other’s asses, even if you can’t see ’em. That’s it for now. The captain’s probably on the radio to somebody in Hagaru-ri, letting them know we’re here. He’ll be up here soon, checking our position, pretty sure of that.”
Welch said, “How about a small fire, sir? Maybe heat up some rations?”
“The wind might make that tough. But the captain’s people said they were lighting a big damn bonfire at their CP, so there’s no reason we can’t heat up our chow. Find a low spot, well back of the crest. Once it’s dark, it’s lights out. No need to advertise we’re up here. You can bet the enemy’s out there somewhere, and they’ve got eyes in the dark, no matter how careful we are. Our job is to keep the enemy off that road and make damn sure that if he tries to cut us off from Hagaru-ri, we make his life miserable. We’re the back door to ten thousand Marines. I don’t want anybody pushing us out of the way.”
There was a rumble from the road below and Riley looked that way, saw a line of vehicles, a half-dozen six-by trucks. He said, “Sir, they sending us more men?”
McCarthy stared down the long hill, said, “Not hardly. That’s what we’re here to protect. Supply convoys, hauling it up to Yudam-ni. We lose any of those fellows and Colonel Litzenberg will have our asses. You know your job, now do it.”
McCarthy moved away, followed by the other two squad leaders. Welch turned to the rest of the men now, said, “You heard him. This looks like solid rock, so pile up some kind of windbreak if you can. There’s a low place right over here, behind that rock. I’ll try to get some kind of fire going. We’ve got a half hour before it’s dark, so if you want a tin can heated up, pay attention. Time to change your socks, too.”
A harder gust rolled over the hillside, a blast of cold that ripped into Riley’s coat. He shook, a hard, uncontrollable shiver, said, “This wind is a pain in the ass. All we need now is snow so we can write home how pretty it is.”
Killian dropped his backpack, sat heavily, began to work on removing his boots. “Too cold to
snow. Learned that back home. It gets down below twenty degrees or so, you got nothing to worry about.”
Welch ignored him, went to work with the others in the squad, guiding them into the best position there seemed to be. Riley stood immobile, too chilled to move. He eyed a small flat rock, crouched down onto his knees, pushed one hand on the hard ground, turned stiffly, and sat down. Immediately the cold from the frozen ground began driving up through the seat of his pants, and he kept his head down, the parka tight around his face. He fumbled with the boots, the cold numbing his fingers, his toes too numb to feel anything at all. There was a dusty cloud, coating his gloves, blowing into his eyes, and he brushed it away. But the dust came more heavily now, and he realized it wasn’t dust at all. It was snow. He looked at Killian, the man rubbing his toes, a fresh pair of socks in his hands.
“Hey, Weather Man. One more thing you’re an expert about.”
Killian glanced up, winced, shook his head. “Stupid Shambo snow. Not my fault they got such crazy-assed weather.”
Riley pulled his brain into gear, focused on the task at hand, each movement agonizing, the stiffness spreading through him. He tugged at his wet socks, barefooted now, his hands rubbing briskly, drying, a feeble attempt to bring any warmth at all. He tried to wriggle his toes, massaged them roughly, fumbled with a fresh pair of socks, his hands shaking as he pulled them on. He slid the boots on with an urgent tug, kept his toes in motion, fought the stinging pain. He flexed his fingers, jammed his hands inside his coat, fought to breathe, his heart pounding. Killian grunted out loud, yanking on his boots, and Riley saw the snow forming a light blanket on the man’s coat. He looked at Riley, held up his socks.
“Frozen solid already. They’ll crack in half, I bet. What kind of idiot came up with this place, anyway?”
Riley tried to control his shivering, said, “I’ll agree with you on that one.”
The wind blew harder, a sharp groan emerging from Riley’s misery, and he turned slightly, saw Welch behind the single rock, struggling with a small fire. Leave it to him, he thought. The only man in this company who can build a fire in a gale. Welch had gathered a pile of small sticks, other men now bringing him larger branches, pieces of a broken supply crate. The flames were barely visible, the smoke whisked away quickly by the relentless wind. Welch knelt low, hovering over the fire, protecting his work, more sticks coming up, adding to the glow. Riley thought of his rations, a can of beef stew he had carried optimistically for more than a week. Maybe now’s the time, he thought.
“I’m gonna try to thaw out my chow. The sarge’s done a good job.”
“Yeah, I got some stew here, somewhere. Kinda tired of eating Tootsie Rolls ten times a day. Hey, who’s that?”
Riley followed Killian’s stare, saw a hooded figure coming toward them from the low ground. More men were trailing behind, several ammo carriers, each one hauling a pair of steel boxes. The first man reached the high ground, looked their way, moved closer, pulled back the hood of his coat, slapped his hands together. It was Captain Barber.
“Who’s lighting that fire?”
Welch stood slowly, a show of reluctance, the wind smothering the low flames. “Sergeant Welch, sir. Until it’s dark, the lieutenant and me figured it can’t hurt. We can heat our rations.”
“It’s dark enough, Sergeant. Douse that. You’ve got more important work to do. I want the men to dig in, prepare foxholes.”
To one side, Riley saw McCarthy approaching, his face showing an indiscreet display of wide-eyed fury.
“Prepare with what, sir? We got no TNT up here. This ground’s solid rock. Or ice. Either way—”
“No arguments, Lieutenant!”
“We expecting an attack, sir?”
“I don’t know what to expect. But we need to be ready for anything that happens. They just ran a phone wire to my CP from down at Hagaru-ri, so, at least for now, we’ve got communication with Colonel Lockwood. They’re nervous as hell about this road. If it gets cut, they’re in a world of hurt. Our job is pretty clear, at least for now. Anybody besides Marines moves on that road, or through these hills, blow ’em to hell.”
The sound of trucks came again, and Barber looked down that way.
“This could go on all night, or until the enemy tries to stop it. As narrow as the pass is along this hill, it’s exactly the place he’ll try. Get working. Once the holes are dug, go to fifty percent watch. You hear me, Lieutenant?”
“Loud and clear, sir.”
Barber pulled his hood up, marched away toward the Second Platoon. McCarthy stood silently, the griping rising up around him in a windblown chorus.
“Shut the hell up! Shovels out, and get those holes dug.” McCarthy looked toward Welch, eyed the remnants of the small fire. Riley moved up closer, thought, Just a minute to warm my damn hands. The lieutenant glanced back toward Barber, seemed to wait for the right moment, then leaned closer to Welch, said, “Sergeant, I’ve got a can of beans I’d really like to eat. If you’re gonna build a fire, do a better job of keeping it hidden. From the enemy, that is. You’ve got twenty minutes, so make it work. The rest of us…Christ, we’ve got to chop ice.”
Welch dropped low, huddling over the still-smoking branches, went to work again. McCarthy looked at Riley, the others, the men staring at him with painful disbelief.
“You heard the captain. Make use of those shovels. Nobody sleeps up here until the job is done. Then, fifty percent watch. And keep your feet dry.” He paused. “God help us all.”
“FOX HILL”—NOVEMBER 27, 1950
It was nearly nine o’clock, the griping still flowing through the position in a steady chorus of swearing, made even worse by McCarthy prowling through the position, testing their alertness. There had been passwords given, which McCarthy expected to be acknowledged, a common precaution at night. But the men were struggling with their labor, or, if the holes seemed adequate, they had collapsed into sleep almost immediately. McCarthy’s efforts at testing their response to the password most often resulted in a cascade of swearing from the lieutenant, and several helmets thumped by the butt of his carbine.
Riley had caught his own share of McCarthy’s wrath, his brain struggling to stay focused on chiseling the rock-hard ground. Gradually the hole began to take shape, the shovel clanking hard, chiseling splinters of dirt and rock, Killian working just as hard beside him. Riley stopped, a brief second’s rest, said, “This is stupid as hell. We’re down a whole foot. It’s gonna take us all night, and then you can bet tomorrow they’ll haul us off somewhere else.”
Killian kept working, said, “Hey, it’s getting easier. We get down below the frozen stuff, it’s not bad. Come on, keep digging.”
Riley wrapped stiff fingers around the short handle of the shovel, chopped down, solid impact on a hidden rock. The shovel bounced up, a sharp stinging pain in his hands. Killian paused, said, “Try not to hit the rocks. It’s better in the dirt. Moron.”
Riley saw a smile, the Irishman’s face red, streaked with filthy sweat. “If you’re gonna give me grief, at least pass along some of that Irish whiskey.”
“Forget it. Ran out the first hour I had it. No help from the rest of you.”
Riley jabbed the shovel down, a scoop of dirt, poured it in front of the hole. “We get out of this alive, and I bet we’ll laugh like hell about it. One day, over drinks in some posh club in God knows where. Nobody’ll believe us.”
Killian tossed up more dirt, the deeper ground softening, said, “Yeah, we’ll be telling war stories to our grandkids. They won’t believe a damn word. Where’s that jackass reporter? Ought to have him up here. Maybe take pictures.”
Riley jabbed his shovel down, more of the dirt coming up, the hole deepening more quickly. “Pile it up to the front side. Give us cover, if we need it.”
Killian dropped down into the hole, dug again, said, “There you go, acting like an officer again. That’s what I’ve been doing all along, genius. Okay, it’s about two feet deep. That oughta be eno
ugh.”
Welch was there now, a quick exam, said, “Good. Captain can’t gripe about this one. We found some old holes dug down the face of the hill a ways. This place must have been a Chink position and they left ’em behind for us. That either means they hauled their rice bags out of here or they left those holes on purpose, so they’d know where to find us.” Welch looked at Killian. “One of you, go help out Morelli. He’s got a bum shovel. Kane’s to your right, and I checked the thirty gun to our left. They’re fixed mostly out that way, so anything straight to our front is up to you.”
Riley felt the sweat on his back growing colder, said, “I’ll help the kid, Sarge. Sean can clean up this thing, make it cozy. I could use some damn sleep.”
Welch pointed. “Yeah, better you than this idiot Irishman. He’s that way, twenty yards. The rest of the squad’s in pretty good shape. Not sure what we’re expecting to happen, but the lieutenant said the brass is too damn nervous about the road. Not really sure why the Chinks couldn’t just go around us. All they have to do is put a few machine guns and a half-dozen mortars on that taller hill over there and there’s not much we can do about it.”
To one side, the voice of McCarthy. “Sergeant Welch!”
“Here.”
McCarthy was there now, held out his carbine. “Check your weapon. Mine’s frozen stiff. The gun oil’s turned to glue. The M-1s don’t seem to be as bad. Where’s your BAR?”
Welch pointed, said, “Kane’s over there, ten yards.”
“Let’s check it out. Can’t afford to lose the best weapon we’ve got.”
Welch followed the lieutenant, and Riley moved out with them, saw Morelli’s meager foxhole, another man struggling to help. Riley knelt down, said, “You get a little deeper, it gets easier.”
