War in the Land of Morning Calm

TOKTONG PASS

The ambushers were soon eliminated by the platoon’s heavy fire. Bobby threw Mouse over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, held him with one arm while picking up two ammo boxes with the other. As he stepped off heading back up the hill he saw blood on the shoulder of his parka, blood which could only have come from Mouse’s wound. Bobby quickened his pace. Riley, still limping from his earlier wound, was helped by Corny, both carrying boxes and dragging parachutes as they labored up the hill. Bobby saw other men from the platoon on their way to bring back the remainder of the precious supplies.

“Corny, need a stretcher,” Bobby said when the men returned to their foxhole. The two men carried Mouse down the south slope to the tent. They put the stretcher on the ground as Doc Cochran opened Mouse’s parka and field jacket. Bobby saw the wound and blood that had already begun to jell from the cold.

“You’re lucky, Leiser. Bullet missed your ribs,” Cochran said as he placed a field bandage over the wound. “Press hard.” Mouse put his hand over the dressing as Doc bound it securely to his side. “Put him over there.” Bobby and Corny lifted the stretcher and placed it alongside other wounded men. “He’ll be okay.”

“Doc, where’s Bernie?” Bobby asked.

“There,” he said, “with the frostbite cases.” He pointed inside the tent to a group of men at the near end of the makeshift shelter. Corny returned to the foxhole. Bobby walked into the tent, looking for Bernie. He saw him writhing on the ground under the blanket and canvas Bobby had placed over him earlier.

“Bernie!” Bobby shouted. “Hold on! I’ll get Doc.”

“No! He was just here. Can’t help.”

“What is it?”

“Damned feet beginning to thaw. Hurts like hell.” Bernie said through clenched teeth. “Saw you bring someone down. Who?”

“Mouse.”

“Shit! There’ll be no one left.” Bernie bent and tried to rub his feet through the shoe pacs, a fruitless attempt. “Bobby, help me out of here. You need me. King’s gone, now Mouse. No one’s up there but you!” Bernie struggled, trying to stand.

Bobby pushed him back to the ground. “Lay down! You’d be more of a bother than a help! You can’t walk! I’d be taking care of you instead of helping the squad! Stay there!” Bernie, close to tears, lay still, saying, “I can still fight! I know I can!”

“It’s okay, Bernie. We’ll be fine. Just thaw out those feet, okay?” Bernie nodded and pounded his fists against the ground as Bobby left.

On the way to his foxhole, he stopped at the platoon weapons cache, noting it had grown in size. Must have been from the airdrop, he thought. But he saw blood on rifles and BARs, realizing those weapons had once been held by Fox Marines. He fastened a BAR belt of four magazines around his waist, slung a BAR over one shoulder while holding the sling of his M-1 on the other. He wedged a bag of grenades under an arm and with his free hand grasped four bandoliers of .30-caliber armor-piercing bullets.

“Here,” he said to Corny when he arrived at the foxhole. “Grenades and bandoliers. Better get more.” Corny stepped out of the hole and walked to the cache.

Bobby arranged the rifle, BAR, grenades, and spare ammunition around him, ensuring each was within easy reach. He put a round in the chamber of his rifle, test fired it into the grove, and then did the same with the BAR. Reassured that his weapons were ready, he relaxed.

Light snow continued to fall. Nightfall was imminent. Fifty percent alert. At Hagaru, How Battery, 11th Marines, continued harassing fire with their 105mm howitzers. The two 81mm mortars near the hut maintained a steady barrage on the rocky ridge to the north. Bobby, as did the other Marines in Fox Company, waited in silence as darkness enshrouded the hill.

He thought of Naomi in Long Beach, smiling as he imagined her wearing shorts and a short-sleeved blouse, keeping cool in the delicious warmth of Southern California. In his mind’s eye he saw a slight bulge in her mid-section and wondered what she would look like in a few more months. No matter how big she gets, she’ll never lose that smile.

Bobby looked down the slope toward the grove, saw nothing but snow and snow-covered bodies, shivered, and wished he could build a fire. But Riley said no. Smoking lamp was out, too. What difference would a fire make? Or a cigarette? The Chinks know where we are! He stamped his booted feet against the walls of the foxhole in a vain attempt to improve blood circulation and wondered if he would ever be warm again.

Krummpf! A mortar shell burst behind him. Three more burst in quick succession, all inside the company perimeter. Bugles, whistles, and, this time, ram’s horns sounded as heavy gunfire struck the west, north, and south slopes. As they did the previous night, fur-capped soldiers rushed from the grove, clambered over rock outcroppings, and began their assault, seemingly oblivious to murderous rifle and machine-gun fire pouring into their ranks. Bobby fired his BAR in short bursts, emptying a 20-round magazine into the throng of bodies. Quickly reloading, he fired again. The hilltop was an inferno of bursting mortar shells.

He heard another BAR firing from Corny’s foxhole. “What?”

“No one’s gonna fire my baby but me!” It was Mouse.