Free Prince of Peace by James Carroll

O'Shea stepped with his simple affirmation. For the first time in his life, Michael felt his father's presence.
    When the priest stood up Maguire asked, "Hey, did you just give me absolution or something?"
    "Maybe I did, Michael." The priest muttered a quick blessing and waved his hand over him. And then he reached inside his field jacket and pulled out what Maguire assumed was a pack of cigarettes. Weren't chaplains always giving out cigarettes to people? But it was a book with blue covers, small enough to close inside one hand. The chaplain handed it to him. "Here," he said. "This was my brother's. He was killed at the Battle of the Bulge. I'd like you to have it."
    Instinctively Michael removed his gloves. It was the New Testament. He looked up at the priest. Years later, in describing this moment he would take refuge from its emotion in a Woody Allen line: I always carry a bullet in my shirt pocket in case someone throws a Bible at me. But at the time he was too moved to speak. The relief he felt came as a shock because he'd had no explicit idea how distressed he'd been. The priest had soothed the orphan-pain in him that was far older than a day. What had happened on the bridge had only uncovered it, and now, with this gift evoking so much—the New Testament, a dead brother, the Battle of the Bulge—he experienced a sense of embrace he'd never felt before. And at last he understood—how he needed this!—why we call them "Father."
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    That midnight an artillery bombardment began that veterans said was as bad as anything the Germans had ever thrown at the Allies in France. The Americans were pinned by the fire and even the patrols had to stay in their ditches. The frozen earth had resisted their efforts to dig out proper foxholes, but now the men wished they'd stayed with it. The ground on which they flattened themselves reverberated continually as it registered every shell that exploded on those hills. Some soldiers made fists of themselves in their shallow holes. Chunks of dirt and stone-chippings bounced off them endlessly. The noise of the heavy-caliber explosions coming after the piercing approach-whistles was so loud that their ears hurt, and they took to blocking them with the heels of their hands while their fingers pressed the cold metal rims of their helmets. Periodically, even through their gloves, they had to warm their hands, though, by stuffing them into their armpits. But quickly the noise of the bombardment was a worse pain again than frozen fingers. Now and then even that din was surpassed by the shrieking of a man who was hit. It was dangerous to look, for the popping of debris and shrapnel was constant.
    It didn't take an Omar Bradley to deduce that the Chinese were advancing across the river valley during the barrage. Every man in the regiment knew that. But the bombardment went on so long—nonstop, all night—that they began to understand its purpose was not merely to cover that advance or even to neutralize their ability through shock, fear and disorientation to resist it when it reached them. The purpose of the aimed fire was to kill them.
    The 27th Regiment was under orders to hold its ground, but only long enough to delay the onslaught. The American stand wasn't going to be made in the hills around Suwon, but at Osan. The regiment therefore was to withdraw before actually engaging the Chinese, and it was to link up with the main body of forces twenty miles to the south. But an orderly withdrawal was out of the question until the artillery fire stopped. Even panicked flight would have been impossible. And the artillery fire wasn't going to stop until the Chinese were ready to attack. By then what would anyone be able to do but run?
    The terror of that night unhinged more than one man. Lennie Pace was crouched next to Maguire in the same ditch, and when a round landed close enough to singe their clothing, he tried to get out. Maguire and another GI grabbed him just as he was