The Night People by Edward D. Hoch Page B

officer from the top of the tank and fired a burst with his carbine into the interior. He clambered up, swinging the .50-caliber machine-gun around.
    “Hold it!” Contrell shouted. “They’re surrendering!”
    They were indeed. The crews of the other two tanks were leaving their vehicles, coming forward across the sand, arms held high.
    “Guess they had enough war,” Grove said, training the machine gun on them.
    “Haven’t we all?”
    Grove waited until the eight men were within a hundred feet, then his finger tightened on the trigger and a burst of sudden bullets sprayed the area. The Germans looked startled, tried to turn and run, and died like that, on their feet.
    “What the hell did you do that for?” Contrell shouted, climbing up to Grove’s side. “They were surrendering!”
    “Maybe. Maybe not. They might have had grenades hidden under their arms or something. Can’t take chances.”
    “Are you nuts or something, Grove?”
    “I’m alive, that’s the important thing.” Grove jumped down, hitting the sand with an easy, sure movement. “We tell the right kind of story, boy, and we’ll both end up with medals.”
    “You killed them!”
    “That’s what you do in war,” Grove said sadly. “You kill them and collect the medals.”
    30 November 1950
    Korea was a land of hills and ridges, a country poor for farming and impossible for fighting. Captain Contrell had viewed it for the first time with a mixture of resignation and despair, picturing in his mind only the ease with which an entire company of his men could be obliterated without a chance by an army more familiar with the land.
    Now, as November ended with the easy victories of autumn turning to the bitter ashes of winter, he had reason to remember those first impressions. The Chinese had entered the war, and every hour fresh reports came from all around the valley of the Chongchon, indicating that their numbers could be counted not in the thousands but in the hundreds of thousands. The word on everyone’s mind, but on no one’s lips, was “retreat.”
    “They’ll drive us into the sea, Captain,” one of his sergeants told Contrell.
    “Enough of that talk. Get the men together in case we have to pull out fast. Check Hill 314.”
    The hills were so numerous and anonymous that they’d been numbered according to their height. They were only places to die, and one looked much like another to the men at the guns.
    Some tanks, muddy and caked with frost, rolled through the morning mists, heading back. Contrell stepped in front of the leading vehicle and waved it down. He saw now that it was actually a Boffers twin 40-mm. self-propelled mount, an antiaircraft weapon that was being effectively used as infantry support. From a distance in the mist it had looked like a tank, and for all practical purposes it was one.
    “What the hell’s wrong, Captain?” a voice shouted down at him.
    “Can you carry some men back with you?”
    The officer jumped down, and something in the movement brought back to Contrell a sudden memory of a desert scene eight years earlier. “Willy Grove! I’ll be damned!”
    Grove blinked quickly, seeming to focus his eyes, and Contrell saw from the collar insignia that he was now a major. “Well, Contrell, wasn’t it? Good to see you again.”
    “It’s a long way from Africa, Willy.”
    “Damn sight colder, I know that. Thought you were getting out after the war.”
    “I was out for three weeks and couldn’t stand it. I guess this army life gets to you after a while. How are things up ahead?”
    Grove twisted his face into a grimace. “If they were any damned good, you think we’d be heading this way?”
    “You’re going back through the Pass?”
    “It’s the only route left. I hear the Chinese have got it just about cut off too.”
    “Can we ride on top your vehicles?”
    Grove gave a short chuckle. “Sure. You can catch the grenades and toss them back.” He patted the .45 at his side as if it were his