Frozen Sniper

Chapter Ten

Cole studied the mountains in the fading light. The sight of the rugged landscape did little to dispel his sense of uneasiness. The trip to reconnoiter the surrounding ravine had put him on edge, but he thought that any trouble would come sometime in the early morning hours. Once it was fully dark, he crept into his sleeping bag, hoping to get some sleep. Pomeroy was already in his bag, bundled up so that only his face was exposed, dead to the world.

Cole couldn't blame him for sacking out. The biggest enemy at the moment was the cold. He had overheard the lieutenant saying that headquarters was predicting temperatures of 25 degrees below zero. Combined with the incessant wind, that made it some of the coldest weather that Cole had ever experienced. Even in the sleeping bag, Cole's body shivered constantly.

"You've got first watch, kid," Cole said.

"We have sentries out," Tommy said. "Why do we need to keep watch?"

Normally, with sentries on watch, the guys back in the foxholes could then sleep. But Cole didn’t trust the sentries, so had set watches for their own foxhole.

"Did you or did you not come with me this afternoon to check that ridge?" Cole asked, snapping at the kid in a harsher tone than he'd meant to. It was a sign that he was as tired as the rest of them.

"But you didn't see anything."

"Just ‘cause I didn't see the enemy don't mean he ain't there."

"You keep saying that," the kid said. "The sergeant and the lieutenant don't seem too concerned."

"The last thing they want to do is look like a couple of nervous Nellies and upset everyone," Cole explained. "Did you notice that the lieutenant doubled the sentries?"

"No, I guess I didn't."

"He's no dummy. He can sense it, same as I can."

"Sense what? You said yourself that there's nothing out there."

"Wake me up in two hours," Cole said, then spooned up against Pomeroy for what little warmth the man's sleeping body offered. Some of the men had been learning to do that to stay warm in this godawful cold, while others thought it was too strange getting so up close and personal. That was a foolish notion. It was just warmth, was all. Cole didn't mind because he had grown up in the cabin on Gashey's Creek spooning up against his brothers for warmth on winter nights. That damn cabin never had any heat. He'd done it with his dogs, too — but at least his brothers didn't have fleas.

Before he closed his eyes, he gazed up at the stars, as was his habit. The night sky was pretty much the same, all over the world, which was something to think about. We all see the same stars, whether we are Chinese or Korean or American.

His pa had taught him the stars. Pa was a good teacher and the best woodsman in the mountains when he was sober. Pa had eked out a living with a trapline, cutting wood, and making moonshine back in the hills. The trouble was that Pa liked his own product a bit too much. When he was drinking, it was best to stay out of his way. Making 'shine had even gotten him killed when Cole was just a teenager.

Cole had gotten his revenge, hunting down his father’s killer. Revenge was something that ran through his being like a vein of iron through granite. He was a Cole, wasn't he?

The frigid sky was so crystal clear that the stars seemed to shimmer. Someone had told him that the stars were so far away that the light from them might be thousands of years old. He picked out Orion with his belt of three stars. Cole had always liked the constellation because his pa had told him that Orion was the greatest hunter that ever was — he could track his quarry tirelessly for days and when he finally drew his bow, he never missed. Cole could relate to that. He hoped that Orion sent some of that luck and skill his way, because he might need it before the night was through.

Cole slept fitfully. His own shivering kept jolting him awake

Near midnight, the noise of the attack woke him up for good.

At the first strange noises filling the night, Cole came awake instantly.

"What the hell is that?" Pomeroy demanded, shrugging off his own sleeping bag and fumbling for his rifle. "Sounds like a fox hunt."

Pomeroy wasn't far wrong about the sound, although Cole wondered just how many fox hunts Pomeroy had been on in New Jersey. They heard horns — tinny bleats like you would indeed hear on a fox hunt — along with whistles and shouts. If Cole wasn't mistaken, there were even a few drums mixed in there. They peered out into the darkness, but they couldn't see a thing. The sounds echoed through the hidden peaks so that it was hard to tell exactly where they were coming from. To Cole's ears, it seemed as if the sounds were coming from every direction. He hoped to hell that he was wrong about that.

"What's going on?" the kid wanted to know. His voice sounded shrill and terrified, which was likely just the effect that the enemy out there in the dark hoped to produce with all those noisemakers.

"I reckon there were enemy troops down in that ravine, after all," Cole said. "That's what's going on."

This wasn't like fighting the Germans, who just opened fire without a lot of scare tactics. They had a job to do and were straightforward about it. Not a lot of what you would call fanfare. Considering that they hadn’t seen much in the way of North Koreans, these must be Chinese troops. These Chinese wanted you to know they were out there in large numbers and let you think about that. There seemed to be an awful lot of marching around. They could hear indistinct shouts, but didn't understand a word. The foreign strangeness of it made the noise even worse.

All around them, the American forces were thrown into disarray simply by those horns, whistles, and shouts. Cole had to admit, the sounds coming from the darkness were scary as hell, like hearing a windstorm approach at night through the trees. You just had time to brace yourself before the first gusts hit.

"I don’t know if they are coming at us or going around us, but be ready!" Sergeant Weber warned. He went from foxhole to foxhole, checking on the men, trying to reassure them. "If we are attacked, make sure you know what the hell you're shooting at. Don't just shoot into the darkness. We can't afford to waste ammo."

When the sergeant moved on, Cole turned to the others in the foxhole. "How are you fixed for ammo, Pomeroy?"

"I've got about a hundred rounds for this carbine," he said. "I was pretty sick of lugging that ammo around, but I've got to say, I'm not sure it's gonna be enough."

"How about you, kid?"

"I'm set about the same. What did you mean, Pomeroy, saying that it's not enough?"

"You heard the sergeant," Cole said. "Just make every round count. Make sure you've got a fresh clip in there, too."

The kid grabbed his M-1, grunting in frustration. "I can't get the bolt to work!"

Now what? Maybe the kid was just nervous and had forgotten how to work his weapon. It happened. Cole put down his own rifle. "Give it here," he said.

He took the other rifle and realized that the kid was right. The bolt was stuck solid, making the rifle useless.

"See what I mean?"

"Must be the cold. Froze the gun oil solid. I’ll be damned. Ain't never seen the like."

This was a problem that had to be fixed in a hurry, judging by the sounds in the dark. Cole set the rifle butt in the bottom of the hole, being careful to point the muzzle away from his head, and then gave the bolt a sharp kick with the heel of his boot. It didn't budge, so he did it again. Finally, he felt the bolt give. He handed the rifle back.

"Thanks."

"After you put a couple of shots down the barrel, she'll warm right up." Cole turned and called into the darkness. "Check your weapons! The cold might have froze up the actions."

The guys in the next foxhole had a BAR with a similar problem. He heard them cursing as they struggled to get the weapon working. Cole hoped to hell it didn't take them long.

There was just enough ambient starlight that he could see the men positioned on his left and right. Their holes were about fifty feet away. Looking around him, Cole felt once again that the platoon was spread too thin. There was too much space between the foxholes and too many gaps. After all, this encampment wasn't meant to be anything more than a temporary defensive position before the American forces pressed on toward the Yalu. Judging by the noise to their front, it was too late to do anything about improving their defenses.

Spread thin. Limited ammo. Guns frozen in the cold. Well, shee-iit, he thought. Gonna be a rough night.

A new sound reached them. Or rather, it was something they felt rather than heard.

"What the hell is that?" Pomeroy asked, his voice pitched high.

"I feel that too," the kid said.

Cole held his breath, wondering what it might be. The ground beneath him trembled ever so slightly. Sometimes you felt that with tanks, especially when the ground was frozen like it was now, but Cole didn't hear any tank engines. What could be causing that?

Men, he realized. The feet of running men pounding the earth. Lots and lots of men.

"Must be thousands of 'em," he muttered.

"North Koreans?" Pomeroy wondered.

"We've walked across most of this damn country and haven't seen that many people," Cole said. "Where would they have been this whole time? No, those aren't North Koreans. They've got to be Chinese."

"Hell's bells," Pomeroy said.

There had been rumors that Chinese troops had been spotted, but no one had really expected to go to war with them. It was a hell of a war, Cole thought, when you weren't even sure yet who you were fighting.

He peered into the blackness, hoping for a glimpse as the running sound became audible.

They heard the sharp thump of artillery from the darkness, and the flash of guns. They've got artillery? Thank God they didn't decide to soften us up first. Flares arced up into the sky, turning night into day.

What Cole saw next took his breath away.

He thought at first that he was seeing things because the ground itself appeared to be moving. But it wasn't the ground in motion. He was seeing thousands of enemy soldiers trotting toward them, wearing strange quilted uniforms like a medieval archer would wear. The white uniforms made them almost look like part of the snowy landscape that had come to life like strange mountain spirits. The men screamed as they charged, adding to the shrill horns and whistles, creating a deafening din.

Cole felt his bowels clench involuntarily.

"Pick your targets!" the sergeant shouted. "Open fire!"

Cole put his rifle sights on the front ranks of the advancing Chinese. It would be impossible not to hit someone. He had shucked off his gloves in order to better operate the rifle. He squeezed the trigger, felt the rifle jolt. To his relief, the action seemed to be functioning well enough in the cold. He caught the flicker of the ejecting shell out of the corner of his eye.

Settled the sights. Fired again. And again.

It wasn't going to be enough. The Chinese opened fire. Most of them were shooting from the hip or pausing long enough to throw a rifle to their shoulders. It wasn't accurate fire, and fortunately most of the Chinese rifles seemed to be bolt action rifles, unlike the semi-automatic American weapons. Nonetheless, bullets began to whine uncomfortably close. There were just so damn many of the enemy. It was like the massed volley fire from the olden days of Redcoats and Colonials. Not too accurate, but after a while there was so much lead in the air that somebody was going to get hit. As if on cue, Cole heard the scream of a wounded man off to his right.

Finally, the Browning Automatic Rifle on his left opened fire, emptying its 20-round magazine on slow-fire automatic. The frozen action issue on the Browning must have been harder to solve than with the kid's rifle. The Browning opened up and cut a swath through the ranks of the oncoming Chinese. Enemy soldiers behind the ones that had gone down stumbled and tripped over the bodies.

Cole fired until he heard the ping of his empty clip ejecting, then moved to load another clip. He had left his hands bare to make the job easier, but in the awful winter cold, his fingers felt fat as sausages. He fumbled the clip, had to hunt for it in the bottom of the foxhole, then found it and slammed it home.

In the first minute, Cole reckoned that the devastating fire from his platoon had killed a hundred Chinese. The trouble was that here came another hundred right behind them.

"We ought to run for it," Tommy said.

"Stay put, kid. Ain't no choice here but to stay and fight. Get that bayonet on your rifle."

Listening, Pomeroy gave Cole a look that was hard to read, somewhere between determination and resignation, then fixed his own bayonet. His whole time in Europe, Cole couldn't think of a situation where bayonets had been used other than in training. But this was a different kind of war. A different kind of enemy.

More flares launched, illuminating the battlefield in a harsh glow as if a lightning bolt was stuck overhead. The Chinese were so close now that Cole could see their faces, contorted by the mixed fear and rage of battle lust. Every last one of the bastards was screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Goddamn," Cole said, awed at the sight in spite of himself.

They were about to be overrun.