Fallen Sniper

Chapter Three

Don Hardy had never ridden in a helicopter before. The so-called “choppers” were usually just for flying the brass to wherever they needed to be, and they had to be highly polished brass, at that.

He tried not to think too much about the fact that he dangled from beneath a rapidly rotating blade — a giant eggbeater in the sky. With its bubble-like windshield, the front of the chopper resembled nothing so much as the bug-eyed face of a blue-bottle fly.

Ugly and ungainly, the chopper wasn’t at all like the sleek U.S. fighters that streaked across the sky. The chopper also made a nice, fat, slow target for anyone on the ground.

Hardy settled himself into the tight space behind the pilot’s and co-pilot’s seats. It was more like a bench or a rumble seat than anything designed for transporting passengers in anything resembling comfort. The fact that Hardy was a big, strapping farm boy from Indiana made squeezing into the cramped space even harder.

The inside of the helicopter smelled like oil and more ominously, like an old electrical fire.

“You might want to sit on your helmet,” the co-pilot had said back when they were still on the ground.

“My helmet?”

“Wouldn’t want you to get shot in the ass. They don’t give Purple Hearts for that.”

He had thought that the co-pilot was ribbing him, but maybe not. Judging by the occasional muzzle flashes below, it was a rare enemy soldier who could resist taking a potshot at a chopper.

Hardy shook his head, thought about it, then removed his helmet and sat on it. Not exactly comfortable, but it was reassuring. Then again, if bullets started hitting this flimsy chopper, his helmet wasn’t going to save him no matter where he wore it.

The co-pilot glanced back, gave him a thumbs up. Hardy flashed him a grin. The truth was, he found it pretty exciting to be riding in the helicopter. It sure as heck beat a bumpy Jeep ride to the front lines.

The thrill of the helicopter ride almost made up for the fact that he was on a PR mission.

Hardy was a reporter for the Stars and Stripes, the newspaper that covered all the news for the military forces and that was read mostly by servicemen. His dispatches from the Battle of Triangle Hill had earned him the grudging acceptance of the hard-bitten officers who served as the newspaper’s editors. The editors had crossed out just about every adjective and adverb in his news stories, which had pained him. With a newly minted degree in English, he liked to work in a good literary allusion or a descriptive flourish wherever he could. The military editors did not share his enthusiasm for energetic prose.

“Let me explain something, Hornaday,” the editor had begun.

“That’s Hardy, sir.”

“If you say so.” The editor paused to gulp foul, burnt coffee, then inhaled deeply on a cigarette. He pointed at Hardy with a finger that was alternately stained black with ink and yellow with nicotine.

Despite all appearances and the stale fug that hung about his desk, the editor knew his craft. “You are not writing a novel. You are writing journalism. The five W questions. Do you know what those are?”

Hardy felt like a schoolboy put on the spot. He stammered, “Who, what, when, where, and why?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” the editor wondered, sounding exasperated.

“Sorry, sir.”

The editor waved his stained hand like Hardy was a fly annoying him. “Listen. You have thirty-five words to each column inch, and there are only so many inches of space. Stick with the who, what, when, where, why, and how. If you find yourself with the urge to use an adjective, go take a cold shower. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The editor had turned back to his typewriter, signaling that he had dismissed Hardy.

There was no saluting in the offices of Stars and Stripes, but the military pecking order was very much in place. The editor commanded his copy desk with all the confidence of an admiral on the bridge of a battleship.

In the end, Hardy wasn’t sure if it was punishment or a reward of sorts that he had been sent to what was being called Outpost Kelly to write about the Puerto Rican troops helping to hold the section of the Main Line of Resistance known as the Jamestown Line against heavy Chinese incursions. He did know that if the chopper went down, he wouldn’t be all that missed.

Before climbing aboard the chopper, Hardy had done his homework. His assignment to write about the Puerto Rican troops coincided with the fact that Puerto Rico had adopted a new Constitution as the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico, which some said brought the U.S. territory one step closer to statehood. The designation as a commonwealth also gave the island new clout and standing.

After all, it had been a territory since 1898 in the wake of the Spanish-American War. That had been the last gasp of the once-great Spanish empire before ceding its former colonies to the United States. The island was geographically about the size of the state of Rhode Island with double the population.

Hardy’s assignment was to write about the 65th Infantry Regiment, made up mostly of volunteers from Puerto Rico. These troops fell into the strange situation of being neither fish nor fowl, although they were officially part of the United States military. As such, they had a great deal to prove on behalf of their island. The soldiers wanted to show the so-called “Continentals” that they were just as good as them. Also, there was always the question of statehood. If the troops proved themselves worthy, the United States Congress might see its way to grant statehood. The matter had been championed previously by Senator Millard Tydings, but had been voted down.

The unit had also taken part in WWII, but had not seen much fighting other than a few dust-ups with fragments of the Wehrmacht in Italy. Korea was the first time that the unit had seen real combat.

Hardy’s job was to write about it and show everyone what the Puerto Rican troops were all about, doing their part to save the USA from Communism.

Hardy’s focus would be on the troops from Puerto Rico, but there were other units out here, of course, making a stand against the Chinese. He had written about one of these units making an attack on a place called Sniper Ridge as part of the sprawling Battle of Triangle Hill. If he ran into Lieutenant Ballard, he figured the officer owed him a drink for making him and his platoon look good in print. Hardy’s photograph of the unit’s sniper had gotten a lot of attention.

Below, he spotted more muzzle flashes, and the helicopter banked sharply away. He had no idea whether or not rifle fire from the hills could down the chopper, but the pilot evidently wasn’t taking any chances.

“Hold on,” he heard the co-pilot said, the voice coming through the headset. “We’re going to change course. Those Chinese down there are having a turkey shoot, and we’re the turkey.”

“Glad I took your advice about the helmet,” Hardy replied.

“Last thing you want is a bullet up the tailpipe.”

Hardy doubted that a helmet would stop a bullet, but it must be some kind of insurance. Better than nothing.

Rumor had it that the Chinese were especially riled up because the president of South Korea, Syngman Rhee, had announced that he would not forcibly repatriate the 24,000 POWs that had been captured during the war. Most of the Chinese and North Koreans had made it known that they preferred to stay in South Korea, rather than return to China or North Korea.

For the enemy, it was not exactly good public relations for the Communist Party that their own troops wanted no part of returning to the embrace of Chairman Mao. Maybe they just feared the consequences of having been captured rather than fighting to the death. Some of the poor POW bastards from the Soviet Union who had ended up in US hands during the last war had hanged themselves rather than be forcibly repatriated to Uncle Joe Stalin — who had them shot as traitors for not dying in battle.

Thinking about all of that, Hardy considered that he was very fortunate to have been born in the United States. It might not be perfect, but it was light-years beyond the dictatorships that its troops were fighting against.

The co-pilot’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “There it is.”

Hardy looked through the bug-eyed windshield. At first, all that he could see were more and more hills that seemed to stretch endlessly toward the Chinese border. All in all, the Korean landscape resembled a vast, rumpled bedsheet. And yet, wherever there was an open space, the industrious Koreans had planted crops. He could see these patches of cultivation among the wildness of the hills and mountains.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Hardy said.

“Somebody thinks it’s worth fighting over,” the co-pilot said.

“I don’t see our position.”

The co-pilot pointed. “Down there. That’s Hill 199 where you can see our guys dug in. That’s Outpost Kelly beyond the line.”

Hardy squinted and on a hilltop was finally able to pick out a few foxholes and what looked like a command dugout. A handful of tanks appeared to be mired in the mud. “Doesn’t look like much,” he said.

“Blink and you’d miss it,” the co-pilot agreed. “Good thing we didn’t blink, huh? Nothing beyond here but mountains and Chinese.”

From below, by way of greeting, they saw a few muzzle flashes and even some green tracer fire that indicated Chinese machine guns in the surrounding hills. If Hardy hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that the tiny outpost was virtually surrounded by enemy troops. Nobody had said anything about the soldiers here taking on the whole damn Chinese army. As far as he knew, he was just supposed to be writing a fluff piece about the Puerto Rican troops.

“Still sitting on your helmet?” the co-pilot asked. “I would if I were you.”

Still perched on his helmet, Hardy tucked himself into as small of a ball as possible, which wasn’t easy, given his gangly frame. He held his breath, watching as the tracers stabbed skyward. At any moment, he expected the chopper to be riddled with bullets.

If he flew back on this thing, maybe he’d bring along something more useful, like the lid of a garbage can or better yet, some armor plating.

The chopper settled lower, the low hills themselves helping to screen the ungainly machine from incoming fire. There was just enough of an open, flat area at the base of the hill occupied by American troops for the helicopter to land.

“All right, let’s move it,” said the pilot, speaking for the first time. “This is as close as we can fly you. We’re sitting ducks out here. You’ll have to catch a ride the rest of the way.”

The co-pilot got out, enabling Hardy to crawl between the two seats, then across the co-pilot’s empty seat and out the door. If the chopper had crash-landed, he wondered how the hell he ever would have gotten out.

He dragged his pack behind him, careful because it contained his camera. He held his helmet in his other hand. It was only then that he realized that he had forgotten to bring along a weapon. From the looks of things, he might be needing it.

The co-pilot gave him a hand as he crawled awkwardly from the chopper. “You’ll be back in two days, right?” Hardy asked.

“Sorry, Mac, all you’ve got is a one-way ticket unless someone tells us different. Besides, the weather forecast says there’s a lot of rain coming. These birds don’t like to get wet.”

Hardy knew there was no point in arguing. He’d have to find a Jeep to take him back. Then again, he hadn’t seen any Jeeps on the ground as they flew in.

“Thank you for flying the U.S. Army,” the co-pilot said. “Now get the hell out of the way.”

Hardy didn’t need to be told twice. He ran from the chopper, keeping low as the blades whirred overhead.

Behind him, the chopper lifted back into the air and raced away. Hardy fought the urge to watch it out of sight. Even above the sound of the receding helicopter, he could hear the Chinese taking potshots at the unwieldy aircraft.

He suddenly found himself alone. Not another soldier in sight. Nervously, he glanced around at the rocks and scrub trees, half-expecting to see Chinese soldiers emerge. Never mind that he was technically behind the front line. What would he do if he suddenly saw the enemy? He didn’t even have a weapon.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long for a ride. The driver of a supply truck saw him standing by the side of the road and came to a stop.

“Need a ride, Mac? Hop in. It’s either me or the Chinese.”

“That would be great,” Hardy said, and climbed aboard the cab. He was a little surprised to find the driver alone in the cab.

“Don’t you have anyone with you?”

“Sure, there’s half a dozen South Koreans with me to load and unload the truck, but I make them ride in back. I don’t want those slant-eyed bastards up here with me.”

“OK,” Hardy said, wondering, not for the first time, why so many of the American troops had nothing but disdain for the Koreans. He had found the people and the culture fascinating.

“What are you doing out here, anyhow?” the driver asked. “This isn’t the best place to hitchhike.”

“Believe it or not, I just got dropped off by helicopter.”

“That was you? Huh. I saw that chopper. I thought only the brass and the wounded got to fly in choppers.”

“I guess I was an exception.”

“Lucky you,” the driver said. He looked Hardy up and down. “You got a rifle?”

“No. I’m a reporter for Stars and Stripes. A rifle was too much to lug along, but I brought my camera instead.”

The driver reached under the seat and took out an old-fashioned revolver, like something straight out of the Old West. He set it on the seat between them. “It’s not regulation, but I brought it from home. I figure if it was good enough for Wyatt Earp, it’s good enough for me. You see any Chinese, you start shooting.”

“What are you going to do?”

“If we see any Chinese, I’ll be the one driving like hell in the opposite direction.”

The driver went on to talk about the intricacies of hauling supplies and the difficulty of working with lazy Koreans. Hardy’s mind wandered. He went back to observing the scenery.

They approached a large sign, nearly the size of a billboard. DANGER! YOU ARE UNDER ENEMY OBSERVATION FOR THE NEXT 500 YARDS. DANGER!

Beyond the sign, the road was overhung with camouflage netting. Hardy glimpsed the sky through it. Could the enemy see them?

“Should we be worried?” Hardy asked.

“What, that sign? You never know. Sometimes the Chinese shoot at us and sometimes they don’t.”

The driver shifted gears and the truck sped up, the motor straining as they began to climb a grade. Hardy held his breath, but no enemy shells came raining down on them.

Several tense minutes later, they had passed through the tunnel of netting and finally reached the top of the hill.

“Must have been your lucky day,” the driver said, pulling to a stop.

Hardy wasn’t so sure about that. He looked around at the outpost and wasn’t encouraged by what he saw. The command dugout was more like a cave scooped from the side of the hill, fortified with a few logs that had been dragged into place to create a low wall at the entrance. In most encampments, there was at least some concertina wire strung around the perimeter to keep out Chinese infiltrators, but here there was no such barrier. A couple of tanks were the only reassuring sight.

He thanked the driver and climbed down from the truck.

Hardy was still looking around, trying to get his bearings, when a patrol materialized from the surrounding brush. He recognized the lieutenant leading the unit right away. The officer he’d been talking to walked away to the dugout.

“Lieutenant Ballard?” Hardy asked. “Sir?”

The lieutenant scowled, but then recognized the reporter. His face lit up.

“You’re the Stars and Stripes reporter. Hardy, right? What are you doing out here?”

“I’m here to write a story about the troops from Puerto Rico, sir. I suppose you might say that it’s an article to make them look good.”

Ballard’s smile faded. “Good luck with that.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

“I was hoping they would have someone here to meet me.”

“There’s a lot going on here, Hardy. But I’m glad to see you, even if nobody else has rolled out the welcome mat. You did a damn fine job writing about what happened at Triangle Hill.”

“Thank you, sir. Is your sniper still here? The one I took a picture of?”

“Cole?” The lieutenant shook his head. “He’s off on a wild goose chase, trying to find a pilot who bailed out.”

Hardy perked up. “That would be a good story, sir.”

“Would it? Maybe, if he finds him. Cole was on patrol with his squad when he saw the plane go down. Chances are that the pilot is already dead or captured, but you never know. Poor bastard. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to parachute into countryside crawling with Chinese.”

“If anyone can find that pilot, sir, I suppose it’s Cole.”

“You might be right about that. But I’ve got to tell you that not only did Cole send back word about the pilot, but also sent back news that the whole damn Chinese army is headed this way. You picked one hell of a time to visit Outpost Kelly.”

“I saw the Chinese from the helicopter, sir. Lots of them. They were shooting at us.”

“You should have turned around and gotten back on that helicopter,” Ballard said. “You might have one hell of a story to write depending on what happens over the next few days, but I’m not so sure that it’s going to have a happy ending.”