Frozen Sniper

Chapter Thirteen

High above the American position, Chen lay hidden among a tumble of boulders. A dusting of snow covered the ridge so that Chen's quilted white uniform blended almost perfectly against the landscape. It would take very keen eyes to pick him out.

"We should move closer," said Zhao. "You will waste too many bullets shooting from here."

"There's not enough cover down there," Chen replied, not bothering to take his eye from the rifle.

Much to his chagrin, he was not alone. Beside him lay Zhao, who had been assigned as his spotter. Of course, Chen was well aware that Zhao’s role was as much spy as spotter. He was not a very good spotter, Chen thought, which likely meant that he was a better spy. He was certainly a creature of Major Wu. There was a tiny bird who sang of what he saw. The Chinese were jealous of giving any one man too much independence — especially a man with a rifle.

Another American plane roared overhead, but disguised among the rocks, Chen and Zhao did not present any sort of target. Even Zhao was not so much of a fool to move a muscle as the plane passed over.

He hated these fast-moving planes that gave the Americans superiority by daylight, forcing the Chinese to hide like rats. The pilots knew that there must be thousands of Chinese troops hidden in these hills, and yet they must have been frustrated in their search. From time to time, the planes did unleash bombs or napalm, but Chen had to wonder — had a Chinese soldier truly been foolish enough to show himself, or had the Americans bombed a rabbit or deer?

He was half-tempted to try to shoot one down, but Chen knew very well that would be an exercise in futility — one that might also bring the wrath of an American pilot down upon him.

Sighting in his Russian-made rifle, he fired again.

Another enemy soldier collapsed to the frozen ground and lay still.

"You got him!" Zhao announced, studying the scene below through a battered pair of precious binoculars. "Quickly, shoot another!"

"You are the spotter," Chen said impatiently. "Find me another target."

That shut Zhao up. He was soon occupied with glassing the enemy position. Not that Chen really needed him. Even without binoculars, he could see all that he needed to, although his field of vision was limited. Briefly, he wondered if he could get away with shooting Zhao in the head and claiming that the enemy had done it. He decided to see how the day went before he risked it.

He was nearly two hundred meters from the American lines. Chen possessed a much sought-after telescopic sight — such technology was a rarity in China unless it had been captured. Fortunately for Chen, he also had extremely good vision. Between the treasured rifle scope and his eagle eyes, it was a winning combination.

Once he picked out a target, he began to track the man using the reticule. He had adjusted the scope to allow for maximum elevation, but even so, Chen was shooting mainly by instinct. He had claimed many Japanese and many more Nationalists both with open sights and then the rifle scope. The Americans and their allies below were just another target.

Since before dawn, he had been in position with Zhao. He would have preferred to work alone, but he had been assigned a spotter. Today, he had felt that it would be easier for one man to hide from the planes, but so far, Zhao had not given them away.

The German snipers had trained him well more than a dozen years ago, but in years of fighting the Japanese and then the Nationalists, he had adopted some of his own tactics. It was German doctrine never to fire twice from the same position. Of course, German snipers had often fought in cities and towns, or in the enclosed fields of Europe. While constant movement made sense on some level — more than one shot from a position made it easier to pinpoint the sniper's position — it was also impractical in many ways.

Staying on the move did, indeed, keep the enemy guessing. That aspect of doctrine was sensible. However, movement also exposed a sniper. He had to leave his hiding place and find another. A good sniper would have his hides planned out, but there was still the business of getting from one to the next.

In this vast terrain, it was next to impossible to determine the source of a rifle shot. The crack of a rifle reverberated and echoed across the hills in confusing patterns. The Americans, for all their reputation as riflemen, seemed to lack decent marksmen. Given that reality, why make an effort to move?

Instead, Chen preferred to use a single hide as his sniper's lair. The Japanese also had highly developed sniper tactics, and like Chen, they had preferred a single place from which to pick off the enemy.

The attack during the night had left so many dead. He could see the corpses spread everywhere, mowed down by the enemy's guns. Although the Americans were fewer in number, their weapons were far superior. Throwing the Chinese forces forward in hopes of overwhelming the Americans now seemed to be a foolish tactic, but he knew better than to voice his opinion — definitely not in front of Zhao, who would only carry his words to Major Wu. In Communist China, one’s words could ricochet and kill you as easily as a bullet.

The Americans were weaker now, having lost many men and expended much ammunition. The bitter cold also had taken its toll. Another attack tonight might prove more successful — and Chen had no doubts that this was exactly what was planned by the Chinese generals.

Until then, he would do his best to even the odds.

Sighting through the scope, he picked out a soldier running forward from the rear area of the American position that was out of Chen's view. A messenger? Hitting a moving target at this distance was challenging. He put the sight on the soldier, fired. When he looked, he saw that the soldier was still moving.

"You missed!" Zhao cried. "I told you that you should move closer."

Chen ignored him. He ran the bolt, ejected the spent shell and loaded another into the chamber. The soldier was still up and running. Chen led him more this time, and slowly squeezed the trigger. The soldier sprawled in the churned ground. Zhao grunted in grudging admiration.

Chen nodded to himself in satisfaction. Bullet by bullet, he planned to punish the Americans for coming to this place where they had no business being.

He picked out another target, and fired.

Along with the others, Cole didn't have much choice but to keep his head down as the Chinese sniper picked away at them.

But they didn’t have time for this nonsense. The problem was that with daylight and the end of the attack, there was so much to do. Wounded needed to be helped. Weapons needed to be cleaned and tended, plus ammunition stocks distributed. Hell, it would have been nice to start a fire to try to keep some of the cold at bay.

But at the moment, the sniper kept firing whenever someone showed themselves. Some men tried to ignore the sniper — the rationale was that the son of a bitch couldn't get them all — but one by one the enemy sniper reaped an awful toll.

Back in his own foxhole with Pomeroy and the kid, Cole studied the distant ridge and wondered, where the hell are you?

"Someone's got to do something about that son of a bitch," Pomeroy muttered through chattering teeth.

"Got any ideas?" Cole asked. "With the echo, I can't tell where he's at."

"Somewhere up on that ridge."

Pomeroy was right, but the problem was that the ridge stretched for maybe half a mile, creating a rugged, natural hiding place for a sniper. The enemy could move easily from place to place, Cole was sure. Meanwhile, the American troops were limited to their foxholes, in plain view of the higher ground that the sniper occupied.

"The best that we can hope for is a muzzle flash," Cole said. "But it's awfully bright for that to stand out."

"Maybe the planes can bomb that whole ridge," Tommy suggested.

"Not a bad idea, but I don't think they want to use their whole payload to get one guy — if they're even lucky enough to get him."

Cole reached for his rifle. The sturdy M-1 had good firepower, but it wasn't what he considered a sniper rifle. More like using an ax to whittle, when what you wanted was a pocketknife.

Then again, you had to work with what you were given.

That included his current foxhole companions.

"Pomeroy, kid, I need your help to try and nail this sniper."

"C'mon, Cole. Get serious. You can't shoot what you can't see."

"That's just what you're gonna help me fix."

He explained what he needed them to do. Their job was to lure the Chinese sniper into firing at them by raising their helmets above the rim of the foxhole. They would use their rifles for that, rather than risking life or limb. Pomeroy would raise his helmet first, followed by the kid.

"Basically, you want us for bait."

"I reckon I do."

"Will he fall for it?"

"It's the oldest trick in the book, but maybe he ain't read the book yet."

"And you think you can actually hit him from here?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. There’s only one way to find out."

Pomeroy sighed. "Let me get this straight, Hillbilly. We are going to attract the attention of the sniper so that he shoots as us. Huh. Did I tell you that you are one crazy some of a bitch?"

"Like you said, I'm a hillbilly. What the hell else do you expect but crazy?"

Grumbling, Pomeroy readied his rifle and helmet. "Say when."

Using his Bowie knife, Cole had gouged out a depression at the edge of the foxhole that would offer at least some protection. The frozen dirt was hard as concrete and difficult to hack through. He used his sleeping bag for a bench rest.

Cole's hard eyes scanned the desolate scenery. If the Chinese sniper wore one of the dirty white uniforms like his dead countrymen nearby, he would be damn hard to spot against the snowy rocks. But he had to try. He hoped for a muzzle flash, a glint of metal, anything to indicate the sniper's position.

He calmed himself and steadied his breathing.

"Now," he said.

Slowly, Pomeroy raised his helmet, creating a target. Since the sniper had first begun, most of the GIs were now keeping their heads down. Those who had tried to ignore the sniper had paid a heavy price. Some now lay sprawled in various poses of death.

"Nothing," Pomeroy muttered. "He's got to be damn stupid to—"

A bullet kicked up frozen clods of earth at the rim of the foxhole, some of the debris bouncing off the helmet. Pomeroy swore and fell back into the foxhole.

Frantically, Cole watched for any indication of the sniper's hiding place. A split second later, the sound of the rifle shot reached them and began to echo among the hills. The lapse between the bullet strike and the sound indicated that the sniper was a long way out. Cole turned his attention to the ridgeline to the northwest. If the tables had been turned, that's just where he would be, in that line of boulders because of the concealment they offered. Nobody would ever see him from the air.

Cole didn't raise his head off the rifle. His cheek felt welded to the stock. The rifle butt fit into the socket of his shoulder — or where it was supposed to be. He had so many damn layers of clothes that it was hard to tell.

"Kid, your turn. Raise up that helmet, but make sure you keep your head down. This son of a bitch can shoot."

From behind him, Pomeroy muttered, "I'm OK. Thanks for asking."

Cole ignored him and waited tensely as the kid raised his own helmet above the rim of the foxhole. Would the sniper fall for the same trick twice?

The answer came when the kid's helmet went flying, nailed dead center by the enemy sniper.

There. Cole thought he caught a glimpse of something up in the hills. Could be a flash of light off a telescopic sight, or maybe off a pair of binoculars. The glimpse happened too fast to be sure what, if anything, he had actually seen. Cole's brain did a million calculations in an instant, working off sheer instinct.

He aimed at the flash that hung in his mind's eye, then fired.

Up on the ridge, the number of available targets had dwindled as the Americans below grew more cautious. This frustrated Chen, who had already shot the ones who were brave enough or foolish enough to show themselves.

Beside him, Zhao had gotten to his knees. The spotter was glassing the American position through the binoculars with growing exasperation.

"You shot so many of the Imperialists, but now they are not showing themselves," Zhao complained.

"Perhaps they are not so stupid as we think," Chen said. He did not think that was true, but he knew that it would goad the commissar’s canary.

All morning, they had watched the American planes circle overhead, hunting for targets. Farther to the south, they had watched cargo planes drop supplies for the American forces. Chen had assumed that these were drops of food, ammunition, and medicine for the wounded. However, the supplies and the men scrambling after them were far beyond his range.

"There is something!" Zhao said excitedly. "I see a helmet in that foxhole directly in front of us. Shoot him! Shoot him!"

Chen could see the foxhole, but he was really just guessing about the target. The front sight of the rifle blotted it out. But from the excited noises that the commissar was making, Chen suspected that the helmet was still in view.

He fired.

Beside him, Zhao was now half-standing, straining for a glimpse of the target through the binoculars. Chen worried that the pilot of one of those planes would catch a glimpse of him and get them both killed.

"There is another helmet," Zhao said.

"Get down!" Chen snapped, ignoring the fact that it was smart to stay on the good side of the commissar’s canary.

"Down there! Do you see him?"

This time, Chen did. The helmet bobbed up higher than the last one. Were these Americans complete fools? He fired.

Almost instantly, Zhao fell down, a bloody hole visible in his overcoat. The man clutched at his chest, but a death rattle already gurgled in his throat. Then the sound of the rifle shot finally rolled toward them.

Chen slumped down, keeping low, so that he was almost face to face with Zhao’s staring eyes. Considering that he had considered shooting the man himself, this was not an unwelcome sight.

Chen reached for the binoculars and put them into his pocket. With any luck, he would be believed when he claimed that the precious optics had shattered when the dying commissar had dropped them. Chen could use them alone in the field and no one would be the wiser. He left the body where it lay. If someone doubted the circumstances of the commissar's death, they could go find the body later.

However, it seemed impossible that one of the American soldiers had been able to shoot that far and hit anything — perhaps it was a lucky shot. But there had been just the one shot. Very intentional. It dawned on him that the men showing their helmets in the foxholes had not been fools. The Americans had a sniper of their own, and he had set a trap that Chen fell right into.

In his arrogance, he realized that he had seen the Americans as stupid and foolish. After all, Chen had stood against some of the very best Japanese snipers and then against the Chinese Nationalists. What did the Americans possibly know about his trade? But there was a man down there who was every bit his equal. Chen had let his guard down.

It wouldn't happen again, he thought angrily.

Perhaps he had punished the Americans enough for one morning. In any case, the attack that was coming that night would likely wipe them out for once and for all.