Fallen Sniper

Chapter Twelve

Like a faucet turned on, the monsoon rains came down. To Cole, the volume of water coming down reminded him of a summer downpour in the mountains, but whereas those thunderstorms unleashed their fury and rolled on through, these monsoon rains fell unrelenting.

“Better build an ark,” Cole said to the kid. “We might be needing one, from the looks of things.”

“At least the rain will keep the Chinese quiet,” the kid responded.

“Don’t be so sure about that.”

In Cole’s experience, the Chinese chose to attack in the dark of night and in the bitter cold. Why should the rain be any different? The enemy took every advantage of the weather and terrain. Grudgingly, he had to admire that, because it was just the way Cole himself chose to fight.

They sat in their tent and watched it rain, glad that they had dug the ditch around their tent deeper. Even so, the ditch threatened to overflow and flood their blankets. From time to time, others in the squad shouted through the storm to one another. Some stripped off and took a shower under the streaming sky, taking advantage of the fact that the cool nights had been replaced by warm and humid conditions riding the coattails of the monsoon.

Jang-mi and the two Korean villagers who had helped them rescue the pilot were bivouacked with the South Koreans. Briefly, Cole wondered how they were faring in all this rain. He was sure that Jang-mi just shrugged it off. The monsoon season was something that the people here had learned to take in stride. Not much seemed to bother her, anyhow. In Cole’s opinion, she was one tough customer.

They heard the squishing footsteps of someone approaching through the rain.

“Hello? I’m looking for Cole and Wilson. Anybody home?”

To their surprise, it was Lieutenant Commander Miller, slogging through the rain in a sodden poncho. He had been billeted with the company officers near the command post. He was carrying some sort of package.

“Over here, sir,” the kid shouted into the rain.

“Scooch over,” the pilot said.

Moments later, he came barreling in through the tent flap, wet poncho and all. The three of them were suddenly like sardines in the confines of the tiny tent. The pilot also seemed to bring the monsoon inside with him. He flipped back the dripping hood of the poncho and took off his helmet, further managing to drench the interior of the tent.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, pulling his legs under him and sitting awkwardly at one end of the tent.

“I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to, coming from officer country.”

“There is a little more room in the officer’s quarters,” the pilot agreed. “However, you have to share the space with the rats. Big buggers, they are.”

He lifted the package. “Anyhow, that’s why I brought this over. Can’t let the rats have it.”

“What is it?” the kid asked.

“Open it and see.”

Like a kid on Christmas morning, Tommy tore into the package. To his pleasant surprise, he found a box filled with snacks from the United States: Crackerjacks, chewing gum, Oreo cookies, and some Slim Jims.

“What in the world? Look at all this stuff.”

“It’s some sort of Red Cross package. I swiped it when nobody was looking. You can share it around with your squad. I figured it was the least I could do for you guys, to say thanks for saving my bacon.”

“We saw what you did up there,” Cole said. “You shot down those other planes. We saved your bacon so you can get yourself another plane and do it all over again.”

“That’s the plan, but I won’t be going anywhere in this rain. Everything is bogged down.” The pilot rearranged his poncho, pulling it back over his helmet. “I ought to be getting back. I think three is a crowd in this little tent.”

The kid was grinning. “Thanks for the snacks, sir.”

Lieutenant Commander Miller gave a wave, then disappeared into the heavy rain.

“That was awful decent of him,” the kid said.

“Glad we didn’t let the Chinese get him, after all,” Cole had to agree. “Now pass them Crackerjacks over here.”

A short distance away, Hardy and the tankers of the 7^th Tank Company were also contending with the heavy rain. The road up Hill 199 that had been so dry and dusty for weeks now resembled a muddy river. Across the Imjin River valley, the heavy rain also obscured the hills held by the Chinese and hid the U.N. outpost positions forward of the MLR. Those poor bastards on Outpost Kelly were truly on their own in this weather, Hardy thought.

Right now, there were more immediate problems caused by the rain. One of the tanks was trying to come back up the hill after refueling and repairs.

Lieutenant Dunbar was aghast. “What the hell do those guys think they’re doing? I told them to stay put!”

“They must not have gotten the order, sir.”

“No kidding.”

Dunbar waded across the deep ditch beside the road that was now a torrent, then reached the muddy road, hoping to get the tank turned around before it became mired down. Already, water ran downhill across the surface of the road in a stream several inches deep. The running water met the tracks of the tank and pooled deeper. Soon, the tracks were spinning hopelessly in the muck, digging itself in deeper.

The lieutenant gestured for the tank to reverse, but nobody could see him through the rain. He tried to run toward the tank, but the running water swept his feet out from under him and the officer sprawled in the wet road.

Hardy helped him back to his feet.

“I can’t believe this,” he spluttered. He shouted into the rain and wind. “Turn around, dammit!”

Finally, the poncho-covered man in the turret waved an acknowledgment. The tank started to back up, but it was a case of too little, too late.

The sodden road under the tank could no longer support the weight of the tank and began to give way, collapsing into the ditch along the roadside. The sheer weight of the tank worsened the avalanche of mud, carrying the great armored beast into the ditch. The tank slid backwards and sideways before finally lodging in the ditch, stuck fast.

“Dammit!” the lieutenant cried. He waded toward the tank, and after the crew had crawled out, gave them a memorable ass-chewing. There was nothing to be done with the tank until the rain stopped and the road dried out, so Dunbar headed back to the bunker to wait out the storm, with Hardy in tow.

“What are you going to do about the tank?” Hardy asked.

“Frankly, there’s not much we can do in this rain and mud. This is lousy country for tanks.” The lieutenant shook his head. “Don’t put that in your article.”

The monsoon lasted three days. While the rain seemed endless, they were lucky that the deluge hadn’t gone on longer. According to the South Koreans, the unrelenting rain sometimes lasted for a week or more, but this monsoon had come late in the season.

When it finally stopped raining, it was hard to know whether to measure the rainfall in inches or feet. Every ditch and stream overflowed with muddy water. Even the snakes had sought refuge in the scrub trees — or the bunkers, much to the horror of the soldiers. Some of the men took to going everywhere they went with a trenching tool, which made a handy weapon for beheading snakes. Suddenly, the threat of a Chinese attack took a backseat to their common misery of mud, water, and reptiles.

Hardy soaked it all in, having become a keen observer. He doubted that the Stars and Stripes would be interested in a story about waterlogged soldiers, but he found it all fascinating. The cool weather before the monsoon had temporarily disappeared. The sun returned and superheated the steamy air, making everyone and everything drip with humidity. Hanging out wet bedding or clothing to dry seemed pointless in the damp, still air, but everybody did it anyway. The machine-gun emplacements and trenches of the Main Line of Resistance appeared to have been replaced by an endless laundry line.

Maybe that sight would intimidate the enemy where all that weaponry and barbed wire had not, he thought.

Hardy started toward the bunker where he was staying with the tank crew, thinking that he might as well try to hang his damp blanket out to dry. There was a chance that it would smell better, at least.

As he started toward the garage-like entryway, a shout stopped him in his tracks.

“Don’t go in there!” He looked around and spotted Lieutenant Dunbar waving at him. “The whole damn thing is about to give way!”

Hardy thought at first that the lieutenant had lost his mind. The bunker was sturdy enough to withstand mortar fire and machine guns. There was nothing more threatening than the blue, humid sky.

But looking more closely, he could see that the bunker was sliding sideways, ever so slowly. The sandbagged roof appeared to be going in one direction, while the walls were going in another. The bunker had become so waterlogged that the saturated ground was literally oozing out from beneath it.

Hardy thought about his notes and his precious camera within. “Sir, all my gear is in there.”

“Private, that bunker is about to fall down.”

Hardy glanced at the teetering structure. All that he needed with thirty seconds to get in there, grab his camera and notebooks, and run back out.

Without waiting for the lieutenant to tell him otherwise, Hardy dashed inside.

The dark interior looked and felt like what being inside the belly of a whale must feel like. Going from the bright daylight to the dark bunker meant that he had to feel his way toward his bunk. All around him, he heard the structure creak and groan. Even the rats had abandoned the place. As for any snakes, he tried not to think about them.

He grabbed his camera bag and the stack of notebooks shoved under his blanket for safekeeping, then turned to go.

He saw the bottle of bourbon on an upended crate that had served as the lieutenant’s desk, and on a whim, he grabbed it.

Overhead, something gave way with a shuddering pop, and he was showered with mud and debris, the force of it knocking him to his knees. He looked toward the bright portal of the doorway and was horrified to see the rectangular shape being pulled and stretched into something more like a trapezoid.

More pops and groans filled the space. Scrambling to his feet, Hardy made a run for the door and twisted sideways to get through it, clutching his gear to him.

As soon as he was out on the muddy road, he turned and watched as the bunker finally collapsed. Another few seconds inside and he would have been buried under tons of mud, timbers, and sandbags.

“That was a bonehead thing to do,” the lieutenant said, coming up beside him and staring at the wreckage. “I hope that was worth it for a bunch of notebooks.”

“I think so. If I had gone back to Stars and Stripes without anything to show for this trip, the editor would have buried me for sure.” Hardy held up his reporter’s tools. Then he brandished the bottle of bourbon that he had retrieved and presented it to the lieutenant with a grin.

“Huh,” the lieutenant said, taking the bottle. “You know what? I was about to chew you out for your sheer stupidity, but now I might just put you in for a medal.”

While the Chinese had remained quiet in the wake of the rain, the tankers were soon put to work in new and unexpected ways. Hardy tagged along to watch.

A couple of tanks had been at the bottom of the hill undergoing servicing before the monsoon began, and now there was little hope of getting them up the muddy road to occupy an enfilade position. It turned out to be a lucky thing.

The days of rain had left the Imjin River badly swollen. In places, the river overran its banks and flooded the river valley. That didn’t much concern the troops occupying the hills. However, the supply road to the MLR and the string of outposts ran through the valley and relied upon a low, narrow bridge to span the Imjin. The brown, turbulent water was now even with the bottom of the bridge, even washing across the floorboards in places. Even so, the bridge still held.

But for how long? Bridge crossings had been limited to one vehicle at a time, so that if the bridge suddenly gave way, an entire convoy wouldn’t be lost. To be sure, every driver held his breath and prayed when it was his turn to make the crossing.

To make matters worse, clumps of debris that included trees and even parts of peasant houses swept down the current and collided with the bridge.

That’s where the tanks came in.

“All right, boys, time for some target practice,” Lieutenant Dunbar announced.

The two spare tanks were maneuvered into position on the riverbank. The two crews were tasked with shooting the larger debris before it could reach the bridge.

Soon, the humid air was filled with the sound of tank fire, the rounds turning the debris into splinters. From time to time, the trajectory caused a round to bounce across the water like a skipping stone. The rounds then went flying off into the valley to explode, terrifying the truck drivers and South Koreans who found themselves on the winding road through that valley. The danger posed by the friendly fire was outweighed by the necessity of saving the bridge.

Watching the tanks unleash their firepower, Lieutenant Dunbar just laughed. “This must be the most unusual duty I’ve seen yet for a tank. Is this the craziest damn war, or what?”

Nearby, a tank fired, resulting in a burst of flame and a gout of water that transformed a drifting tree threatening the bridge into splinters. Hardy clicked his camera shutter at just the right moment to capture the scene on film.

“Crazy,” he agreed.

Still, it was a hell of a lot of fun to watch.

The tanks kept at it well into the night, when a big searchlight was brought in to illuminate targets on the river. Hitting the debris was more challenging at night, but the tank gunners still did an impressive job.

Gradually, Hardy and the lieutenant became aware of the sound of more distant firing. They turned around and saw the flashes of artillery and mortar fire in the hills.

“What’s going on?” Hardy wondered. “That doesn’t sound like our own artillery.”

“So much for it being quiet around here. It looks to me like Outpost Kelly is under attack,” the lieutenant said.