Frozen Sniper

Chapter Eleven

Time seemed to slow down as the first wave of Chinese troops reached the American lines. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, and yet not more than a few seconds had passed.

"Shoot the bastards!" shouted Sergeant Weber, who had clambered up from a nearby foxhole. He was armed with an M-1, and he stood there fully exposed to enemy fire as he emptied the clip at the Chinese troops rushing toward him. With the rifle empty, he started swinging the butt at the enemy soldiers. He managed to knock three down before one of the Chinese tackled him and both men went sprawling.

"I thought they'd all be dwarves," Pomeroy said. "You know, little guys. But some of them are big bastards."

Cole had been thinking the same thing. He had expected the Chinese to be small and slightly built, like the Japanese. But many of the oncoming Chinese were six feet tall, at least. Taller and heavier than Cole or Pomeroy. Their quilted jackets made them look even more solid.

"Makes 'em better targets," Cole said, and took aim again.

He fired eight rounds, and dropped eight soldiers. More Chinese swarmed in to take their place. The advance wasn't more than thirty feet away. He slapped in another clip as fast as he could, thankful for the rapid-firing M-1 in his hands. Lucky for them, the Chinese were too busy advancing to do much shooting. The next thing Cole knew, the Chinese were fifteen feet away. Then six. He fired at the soldier rushing toward their foxhole, screaming, bayonet fixed. The man kept coming, so Cole shot him again.

The empty clip flew off with its telltale ping. The bolt locked open. He was out.

No time to reload. A Chinese soldier charged toward them. Cole ducked down and grabbed the man's rifle, angling the bayonet away, dragging him down into the foxhole. Pomeroy smashed the soldier in the head with the butt of his rifle.

Another soldier ran at them and Cole grabbed him, throwing the off-balance man into the hole. This time, the kid was there, screaming like a banshee as he jammed a bayonet into the enemy soldier. The shy, uncertain kid had been transformed into a warrior by sheer battle madness. Pomeroy was busy wrestling with a soldier who had tumbled into the hole. Cole hit that one over the head and the kid finished him with the bayonet, grunting with the effort like a farm boy working a pitchfork into a stubborn bale of hay.

Still, the Chinese kept coming.

The thought crossed Cole's mind that this was crazy. In all his time fighting the Germans, it had never come down to hand-to-hand combat on this scale. This fight was becoming far more visceral.

Next door, somebody got the BAR working again and mowed down a row of Chinese directly in front of them. Pomeroy chucked a grenade at the enemy for good measure. No sooner had one soldier fallen, then another took his place.

Then Cole, Pomeroy, and Tommy just had time to reload before the Chinese were on them again. Cole emptied another clip at them. Beside him, Pomeroy and the kid fired their carbines madly, but with less effect. They were having to shoot each attacker two or three times before he went down because the rounds from the carbine were less powerful compared to the M-1 rifle that Cole carried. He reloaded and dropped another eight. The hot rifle barrel burned his bare hands, but that was the least of his worries at the moment. If he stopped shooting, they would be overrun.

Another enemy soldier got through and dashed at them. Again, Cole managed to drag him down and let Pomeroy and the kid finish the job. The foxhole was actually filling up with bodies.

On their right, a Chinese grenade went off in the foxhole there. American curses and screams followed the flash and bang.

"We've got to get out of this hole," Cole shouted. "If too many of them come at us at once, we'll be sitting ducks down in there, especially if they toss in a grenade."

"I'd rather die on my feet, anyhow," Pomeroy said.

Next to them, the BAR went to work again and gave them enough breathing room to get clear of the foxhole. It gave good shelter from incoming fire, but it could just as easily become their grave if the Chinese swarmed it.

When the Chinese came at them again, they were ready. Cole knelt and got off another clip. He got to his feet and swung the rifle like a club. He knocked down a couple of the enemy, but then a big Chinese bastard who wasn't even carrying a rifle managed to yank the M-1 out of Cole's hands.

Cole drew his Browning and shot him. Were the Chinese actually sending some men into battle without weapons, intending for them to arm themselves with whatever they picked up off the battlefield? That was hard to fathom. He shook his head. Crazy. How did you beat an enemy like that?

He emptied the pistol, then tossed it into the foxhole.

The three men formed a loose circle, their backs to one another. The safety of the foxhole was just a few feet away just in case the Chinese did bring in machine guns or artillery.

More flares filled the sky, bathing the killing fields in a strange, otherworldly glow. Cole was relieved to see that the Chinese flood appeared to be abating. The question was, had they really made a dent in the attackers or had that sea of attackers simply gone around them the way that a river flows around an island?

He looked around, trying to get a sense of whether or not they were surrounded. He spotted GIs to his left, grappling with the Chinese much like they were. Those were the guys with the BAR, but it had fallen silent.

To his right, he saw bodies in American uniforms sprawled among many more Chinese bodies. He sure as hell didn't see any living defenders. As he watched, a Chinese soldier reached down, grabbed an M-1 from the hands of a dead American, and ran on. Cole swore, helpless to stop him. He didn't like the idea of being on the receiving end of an M-1's firepower.

Finally, the Americans had brought up mortars and a steady fire rained down on the oncoming Chinese. With the enemy packed so close together, the massed mortar fire had a telling effect. The shells exploded in the Chinese ranks, each mortar round so close that the ground shook. Any closer and they'd be in danger of the shrapnel hitting the GIs. He was thankful that the Chinese didn't seem to have anything but their rifles — and those damn horns and whistles, which were a weapon in themselves.

Cole grabbed a grenade, hurled it at a knot of Chinese, forcing them to fall back. Somebody nearby tooted one of those infernal horns and the next thing that Cole knew, he was face to face with a screaming Communist soldier. The man jabbed a bayonet at Cole's face, but he dodged it, drew his big Bowie knife, and slashed at the Chinese soldier. The man fell, hands at his face, and Cole bent down and poked the knife into the man’s windpipe to finish him like he would a wounded deer.

"Cole!"

He heard Tommy shout for help and turned to see him grappling with a Chinese soldier, their arms and rifles all tangled up. His pistol empty, his rifle gone, Cole had no choice but to stab the enemy soldier in the side of the neck. The soldier let go. Screaming, the kid followed up with the bayonet, his skinny body contorted with the effort of forcing the weapon through the thick quilted uniform and then through the ribs of the soldier. He had to kick the soldier to get the bayonet free.

Cole turned again, his knife at the ready, but there were only a few stragglers now. The bulk of the assault appeared to have flowed off to their right.

The kid had his bayonet ready, but suddenly there weren't any takers. He seemed to be all in one piece, at least.

He glanced over at Pomeroy, who was listing to one side like a boat that was taking on water.

"You hit?"

"Just a scratch. I'll be all right. What about you? There's blood all over your face."

Cole suddenly felt the wet warmth of it and touched his face. He didn't hurt anywhere. "Ain’t mine," he said.

From the gloom in the hills, those godawful bugles began to sound a different note. The Chinese whistles blew with a new urgency. With an overwhelming sense of relief, he realized that the Chinese had signaled a retreat. The flares fizzled and sank low on the horizon. In the last of their glare, he looked out across the plateau and saw mound upon mound of heaped bodies. You could easily cross to the ravine beyond by stepping from body to body and never touching the ground. He was more than a little astounded by the sheer numbers of dead Chinese.

The attack had been a massacre. A slaughter on both sides.

The more he thought about that, Cole was astounded to still be alive.

Darkness returned as the flares faded.

"You know what, Hillbilly?" Pomeroy was just visible in the gloom.

"What is it, New Jersey?"

"I'm gonna need some help, after all." Then Pomeroy slumped over onto the frozen ground.