‘I wonder why those mortars quit firing at us?’ a sullen number six asked from over the rocks.
Andre frowned. “’Cause they don’t give a shit about us,’ he replied. He climbed up on to his granite shield. The sweet-smelling bodies were the only trace of the enemy he could see. Fermentation, someone had said back in the barracks. ‘When it gets warm, the dead bodies’ll start smellin’ like spilt beer. ’
‘You mean they’ll leave us alone now?’ number six asked — hopeful.
What Andre really meant was that they’d kill them all when convenient. That they were focusing their efforts at breaking through, not mopping up. Every mortar, every tank, every fresh company of Chinese infantry was probably funneled straight through to the front. They knew that the men on the hill were cut off. Like dozens of other stranded units they presumably posed no threat. They were just a waste of resources for now. Better to come back later when they were starving. Half-dead from exhaustion. Low on ammo and medicine. They could come back then with heavy artillery.
‘S-so… you think they’ll leave us alone?’ number six asked again.
‘Maybe,’ Andre said, ‘for a while.’
‘Oh, thank God, man!’ Number six laughed. ‘I just about shit in my pants when those mortars started droppin’. I mean, not that I don’t piss in my shorts every Goddamn time they attack. It’s just when they come up the hill, you know, at least then you can do something about it. It’s not like mortars or… or arty, ya know?’
‘Yeah,’ came Andre’s reply. Number six took the hint and fell silent. The guy reminded Andre of Harold Stempel. But Stempel would never have quit talking. Andre would’ve had to yell, ‘Shut the fuck up!’ He wondered whether Stemp had made it over. Surely he had, by now, he figured. He’d been assigned to the 25th, which got into the shit real early. He’d probably been processed through Hawaii and flown in to replace the first losses. He probably had even more combat experience than Andre, although that seemed hard to believe. But while Andre was deliverin’ mail or in training back in Kentucky, Stemp was probably notching kills in the deep, deep shit.
Unless he’s dead, a voice called out. But Andre found that almost unthinkable. Just as unthinkable as Harold Stempel — combat veteran. Andre smiled, imagining the skinny kid with crossed bandoliers rising up out of the water like Rambo with M-60 blazing.
‘You got any more Vicodin, number seven?’ six asked. Andre returned to the present. To his hole on the side of a hill. ‘Man, you’re eatin’ an awful lot of that shit.’
‘My leg hurts, man. Real bad. I think it’s, like, infected or something. It’s worse than it was this mornin’. And it kind of, you know, smells.’
Andre winced. ‘Okay, sure,’ he said as he struggled to his feet with the plastic bottle. He climbed up into the corner near where he pissed. Number six struggled up on his side of the tall rock. From the sounds, his pain was excruciating. All Andre saw as he handed four pills over was the guy’s pale, shaking hand. ‘Thank you,’ his neighbor hissed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Maps of various scales shone from the room’s multiple screens. Gordon Davis ate a cheese danish with waning appetite. ‘The 25th is making decent progress down the Songhua,’ General Dekker said. He’d risen at the end of the formal briefing to stand next to the screen. ‘But the Chinese have figured out what they’re up to, and the resistance the 25th is meeting is better and better prepared. In the last four hours, they’ve had to order the infantry to dismount and clear the surrounding ridges three times. Their progress has slowed to just a few miles per hour.’
‘That’s the pace of a road march,’ the Commandant of the Marine Corps commented. ‘Have you given any thought to just dismounting and plowing ahead?’
‘The vanguard of that column is still almost forty miles from the valley,’ Dekker replied. ‘We don’t want to have them reach their objective on their last legs.’
‘Well, General Dekker,’ the Marine general responded — not backing down — ‘it’s the fourth quarter and the shot clock is running down. Those men shouldn’t save anything for the locker room.’
‘Those men,’ Dekker snapped, ‘have been fighting for over three months without a break! They’ve only got two heavy battalions, but they’ve made better progress than either of the two main prongs.’
‘That’s because the Chinese they’re facing are done! You can stick a fork in ’em. They aren’t trying to stop that advance. They’re just not falling back fast enough. They’re on foot being chased by men in vehicles. They’re caught in a trap, General Dekker.’
‘So what would you suggest?’ the Army general asked. ‘Try to talk them into surrendering?’
Gordon like all the rest waited on the Marine commandant’s reply.
‘I would suggest that they get outta those trucks and advance. Get down to basics. Block and tackle, General Dekker. This isn’t rocket science.’
‘And this isn’t a game, either,’ Dekker replied. Knots bulged from his clenched jaw.
‘Is it possible,’ Gordon said, ‘those men could advance more quickly on foot?’ Dekker swallowed his pride and nodded once. ‘Well, speed is everything at this point. So… I’d give the order.’
‘Everybody out!’ came the command — waking Harold up. There were groans from the back of the truck. The order was being shouted up and down the road. The trucks had been parked for almost an hour as the fighting ahead raged. Every last man roused himself in the pre-dawn morning from a deep, deep sleep.
‘Shoulder your lo-o-oads!’ shouted the platoon sergeant. That command brought still more bitching and muted chatter.
‘Why the fuck we gotta hump our loads around?’ someone asked from the dark but bustling road.
The passing platoon sergeant heard the question and replied with a shout. ‘You can kiss these trucks goodbye! Get all yer shit and fall in on the shoulders! First and Third Squads in line on the left! Second and Fourth on the right! Ten meters separation! Let’s go! Let’s go!’
Quiet dissension spread quickly through the ranks. Men knew better than to openly question the platoon sergeant. Lowered voices were instead leveled on the squad leader. ‘Why are we leavin’ the trucks?’ Patterson asked.
‘How the fuck should I know?’ came the reply from the buck sergeant. The three-striper was two grades junior to the platoon sergeant and often knew no more than his men. ‘Cause you’re our squad leader!’
‘I’ve been asleep just like you, fuckhead! Get your pack on and shut the fuck up!’
That did nothing to put an end to the complaints. Harold felt like joining in once the heavy pack settled on his raw shoulders. Standing with his back to the tailgate he shouldered the full hundred and ten pounds. It pressed hard against skin made raw from similar abuse.