Fallen Sniper

Chapter Four

Crouched behind a large rock on the summit of a nearby hill, Major Wu scanned the American position for a target. He was far enough that, through his binoculars, the enemy soldiers appeared insect-like. Somewhat larger than ants … more like locusts, perhaps? He thought that any insect analogy was fitting when it came to the enemy.

He pressed the binoculars tightly to his eyes and searched the lines for any soldier foolish enough to show himself. He knew from experience that it was only a matter of time before someone made himself a target. The Americans couldn’t stay hidden forever.

Beside him was a soldier with a rifle equipped with a telescopic sight. This was Deng, Wu's new sniper and designated Hero of the People.

“Do you see that tank down there, off to the right?” Wu asked Deng, who acknowledged his superior with a grunt. Wiry but strong, he was a man of few words and simple tastes, which were qualities that Wu admired. So far, Deng did exactly what Wu told him to do without argument, which was a good arrangement.

The distinction even extended to their uniforms. Deng wore a drab, padded jacket and trousers that looked as if they had been sewn from a quilt, along with the ushanka-style hat typically worn by Chinese troops. No Chinese soldiers possessed helmets. Wu wore a crisp officer’s uniform with bright red hash marks and stars at his collar. He supposed that he stood out to any enemy snipers, much like a colorful bird in the surrounding brush, but Wu was too proud to think of not displaying his officer’s rank.

“Keep your eyes on that tank,” Wu said. “The hatch is open. Soon enough, you will see a head pop through that hatch. That will be your target. You should have no trouble reaching the target from here.”

“Yes, sir,” Deng said, his eye never wavering from the rifle scope. “Will it be an imperialist officer?”

“Of course,” Wu said. “Don’t you know by now that everyone you shoot is an officer?”

Wu wrote all of the reports and made a point of identifying most of Deng’s targets as officers. It sounded better in the official reports.

It was unusual for someone of Wu’s rank to be here in the field, directing one man. Most political officers would have been content to remain in camp until it was time for an attack. At that point, they would have taken up their position in the rear, pistols or submachine guns in hand, to encourage the heroes of the Chinese army by shooting anyone who dared to retreat.

Wu had no compunctions about shooting the cowards in the ranks, but he found that publicizing the achievements of outstanding snipers, artillery gunners, or other seemingly ordinary soldiers was a more constructive method of inspiring the troops. Also, with his eye always on personal advancement, Wu had learned that his ability to tell these stories was much admired by those in power. No one questioned the accuracy or truth of his stories, so long as they were motivational. As a result, Wu had created a special place for himself in the command structure of the People’s Liberation Army.

Through the binoculars, he watched the tank. Wu thought of how he had once seen a fox waiting beside a gopher hole, patiently biding his time until the gopher raised its head. He and Deng were like that fox now, waiting behind this rock in the distance.

“Isn’t there another target?” Deng asked, after several minutes had gone by.

“Shoot the tank officer. We must be patient,” Wu said. Normally, it was Wu who felt that every minute not spent shooting at the enemy was a minute wasted.

Again, Deng answered with a grunt, but he obeyed the order.

Wu became aware of a strange sound, like thudding in the air. As he listened, the noise grew louder. He recognized the sound, but was surprised to hear it in this desolate place at the edge of the UN-held territory.

Deng took his eye away from the scope and asked, “What is that?”

“It is one of the American helicopters. Perhaps that will be a better target for us. Let's wait and see if it appears.”

The sound grew yet louder. The thudding noise that the helicopter made was very distinctive. Although Wu thought that the flying machines looked ungainly, he knew that the helicopters generally carried the highest-ranking officers. The approach of this helicopter puzzled him somewhat because he was not sure why a helicopter would come all the way out here. What interest would a high-ranking officer have in this remote post?

The helicopter made him a bit nervous because at his back there was gathering a sizable Chinese force for yet one more push against the United Nations troops. The element of surprise was important if they hoped to overwhelm the enemy.

The fact that the helicopter had appeared might signal that the Americans knew something was happening. Why else would a high-ranking officer visit this remote outpost?

“Do you see it yet?” Deng asked. He was busy searching the sky with the telescopic sight, but the field of view was quite limited. The surrounding hills made the sound echo so that it was hard to tell where it was coming from.

“I will tell you when I do,” Wu replied, using the binoculars, which had a much greater field of view. Binoculars remained rare in the Chinese military, and Wu guarded them closely as one of his most prized possessions.

He scanned the horizon, but there was still no sign of the helicopter, despite the fact that they heard it plainly. The rhythm of the rotors thumping in the mountain air vibrated throughout his body.

The problem here was that the hills were so low that they obscured much of the view across the more open territory that lay to the South. They could hear the helicopter, but they could not see it. Finally, he caught a glimpse of the flying machine, but it was moving quickly.

“It is off to your left, just above that middle hill,” he said to Deng. “Do you see it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Moments later, Deng squeezed the trigger. It was impossible to say whether or not he hit the flying target. He didn't have a chance for a second shot because the helicopter slipped behind a hill and disappeared.

“Did you hit him?”

“I don't know, sir. He was still in the air.”

“You are too slow. You should have fired a second shot.”

A long second went by before Deng replied, “Yes, sir.”

This was Deng’s way of showing that he thought the major was being unreasonable. Wu realized that he had hoped against hope that a single bullet from Deng would cause the helicopter to erupt into a massive fireball. He had seen that happening in his mind’s eye. Could he get away with stating in his report that Deng had actually shot down the helicopter? Probably not.

“Never mind,” Wu said. “It will take more than a bullet to bring down one of those helicopters.”

“Yes, but maybe I shot the pilot.”

“If you had shot the pilot, it is likely that the helicopter would have crashed.”

“Yes, sir,” said Deng sounding duly chastened.

“We have many other targets today.”

Wu believed that snipers such as Deng were especially effective. Snipers could pick off the enemy unseen, thus demoralizing and terrorizing the American troops. Fighting against a hidden enemy served to frustrate and anger their adversary.

He had come to understand the power of snipers thanks to Li Chen. Wu had put Chen’s talent to use at the Chosin Reservoir and then at the Battle of Triangle Hill. Ultimately, Chen had fallen to an American marksman, which was disappointing for Wu. At the time, Wu had believed that the Americans relied on their superior weaponry and he had been surprised to encounter the sniper with the Confederate flag painted on his helmet. That sniper was indeed a dangerous adversary, but if Wu encountered him again, he vowed that there would be a different outcome. Wu would eliminate the man, even if he needed to do it himself.

Although Chen had died, Wu had discovered that there was a kind of immortality to the fear of the Chinese snipers. As far as Wu was concerned, there would be a long line of snipers to replace Chen, like a line of dominoes. Hopefully, he would not need that many to chase the enemy from the Korean hills for good.

Deng was his latest sniper, with Wu having lost a less capable man in between Chen and Deng. Deng had the same small frame as Chen, but he was possessed of a wiry strength. Wu had witnessed Deng put much larger men in their place. When it came to a fight, Deng had the speed and killing instinct of a mongoose attacking a viper, qualities of which Wu approved.

“Major, what is that sound?” Deng asked.

Wu perked up his ears. Above the slow beat of the helicopter, he heard the roar of more aircraft. He looked up and spotted the contrails of seven airplanes streaking across the sky.

“Those are the new jet fighters,” Wu said in surprise. It was unusual to see one of these jets because the American propeller planes known as Corsairs were more common. It was these planes that the Chinese troops feared more than anything because they could swoop in and wreak devastation with their bombs and napalm and machine guns in a way that the Chinese simply could not defend against because they lacked the antiaircraft weapons as well as an adequate air force of their own.

“I see them now, sir. I hope that they are not headed this way.”

Wu pressed the binoculars to his eyes again and turned them skyward to study the planes. If this was a squadron of enemy planes, the Chinese would have just moments to seek shelter before the storm of bombs.

The aircraft had a stubby look about them, so different from the American Corsairs. As the planes approached, he picked out the red stars on the wings.

“Look, Deng, look! Those are our planes! These belong to us!”

With a sudden thrill of joy, he realized that these were not American planes coming to bomb and strafe them, but were instead the new MiG fighters that were being sent to bolster the Chinese defenses. Another present from their friends, the Soviets.

Wu was excited to see them because it was such an unusual sight. He scanned the sky with the binoculars, wondering where the aircraft were going in such a hurry. With a gasp, he saw that the Soviet planes were not alone. Just beneath them and off to the west, he picked out two more planes flying wingtip to wingtip. These other aircraft clearly had the appearance of American planes. As they grew closer, he could pick out the United States insignia on their wings.

“Look at that,” Deng said. He had the eyesight of a marksman, much better than Wu’s in any case, so that he didn't even need the binoculars to distinguish the planes against the clear blue sky. “Those are imperialist planes. I wonder if there's going to be an air battle, sir.”

“That is a good question,” Wu said, captivated by the sight of the two sets of combat aircraft. “If you put two hornets in a jar, they will fight. I would think that pilots in the same sky are much the same.”

The question was soon answered. As Wu watched through the binoculars, the American planes suddenly shifted direction and swept upward toward the formation of MiGS. From the wings of the planes, he saw the flash of guns and cannon fire. As the Americans charged at the formation, it seemed foolhardy because they were so outnumbered. But when had the Americans ever had any sense? In their own minds, they thought of themselves as being invincible.

In response to the attack, the Soviet planes broke into two groups, four of the aircraft peeling off in another direction, and three sweeping down to meet the threat.

“Those others are running away,” Deng said incredulously.

“Perhaps,” Wu said. “Let us see what happens. Perhaps our comrades have a trick up their sleeve.”

Flashes came from the MiGs as they attacked the American planes. Wu found himself mesmerized by the sight. He found it thrilling because he had never witnessed a dogfight before. It was almost like seeing the gods of old battle in the sky. He could hear the roar of the jet engines straining in the distance. However, the sound of the planes’ guns did not reach them, although they could see the flashes of the guns.

Those distant flashes were more than a fireworks show. To their horror, one of the MiGs erupted into a fireball. Bits and pieces of the burning plane showered down from the sky.

“They have shot down one of ours!”

“I can see that,” Wu snapped. “Perhaps the pilots are inexperienced.”

Truly, the attack did not seem to be going well for the Soviet planes. Another MiG began to stream smoke and peeled away from the formation, headed back toward its base — most likely in Vladivostok. The remaining Soviet jet was now outnumbered, two against one.

But the four other jets had not simply disappeared. Instead, they suddenly reappeared out of the sun, diving toward the two American planes. One of these disappeared in a halo of fire, which left the lone plane badly outnumbered.

In an instant, the tables had turned.

The American wasn't about to give up the fight. He should have run away. Instead, he banked sharply and flew directly toward the oncoming planes.

Rapid fire flashed between the aircraft.

Madness, Wu thought, following the action through the binoculars as the single plane took on the entire squadron.

One of the MiGs exploded. The American jet plunged through the cloud of debris, but the pilot still had three enemy planes on his tail. And perhaps another waiting to pounce. By Wu’s count, that still made it four against one. There was no way that the enemy pilot could survive this bout today.

Wu watched the enemy fighter plane dodge and dip, but he was unable to shake so many adversaries. Seconds later, another burst of cannon fire from the MiGs brought smoke pouring from the American fighter.

“He's done for,” Deng said.

“Our forces have triumphed,” Wu said, slipping into his political officer’s role. “We should expect nothing less.”

Wu was surprised that the American plane had done so well against such overwhelming odds. Their pilots must be well trained. Not for the first time, he realized that these Americans were not to be underestimated. Time and again, they had proven themselves to be highly motivated adversaries. Wu thought with a satisfied smile to himself that the Chinese had shown themselves to be capable as well.

Wu stared through the binoculars as a white parachute blossomed in the sky and began to drift downward, carried northwest by the wind.

“He is bailing out,” Deng said.

“Why don’t they shoot him down?” Wu demanded. “He destroyed three of our aircraft. “Shoot him down! What are they waiting for?”

Wu shouted as if the pilots high above could hear him. However, the MiGs did not open fire on the enemy pilot. There seemed to be some element of honor among pilots, even enemy pilots, because the Soviet fighters did not machine-gun the drifting parachute.

They were letting the enemy pilot go.

Wu had no such qualms. If he had been at the controls, he would had riddled the parachute with bullets and let the pilot plunge to his death.

“Can you hit him from here?” Wu demanded.

“It is very far, sir,” Deng said.

“You must try!”

Deng raised the rifle, took aim, and fired.

Wu had hoped to see the body slump lifelessly, but there was no change in the tiny figure dangling from the parachute harness.

“You missed. Shoot him! Shoot him!”

The sniper worked the bolt action and fired again, but the distance was vast and the parachute seemed to pick up speed as it drifted farther away on the breeze.

“Here, give me that rifle!”

Wu grabbed the weapon away from the sniper. It was hard to pick the target out of the sky, and when he finally did, the parachute was even farther away. The crosshairs danced hopelessly as he tried to get them lined up on the speck that was the enemy pilot.

Cursing, Wu handed the rifle back.

“Come, get your things,” Wu said. “We are going after him. We are going to capture that pilot.”

“Yes, sir,” said Deng. If he had any doubts, he knew better than to voice them with Wu so angry. Deng had grown up hunting and was a good tracker. With any luck, he would have a chance to redeem himself in Wu’s eyes.

With Wu leading the way, they rushed back toward the Chinese encampment to gather a squad.