Shivering in their foxholes, the soldiers watched as the helicopter lifted off and shattered the frigid air with its rotating blades. Slowly, the ungainly craft picked up speed until it swept toward the south and disappeared. To a man, they suddenly felt quite alone as the stillness of the mountains returned. The quiet roared in their ears. Looking around at the surrounding ridges, and knowing that the enemy lurked there, made them fell yet more insignificant.
"Clouds moving in," Cole said. "Smells like snow."
"And just what does snow smell like, Hillbilly?"
Cole shrugged. He might have said damp metal or maybe clean laundry, if he hadn't thought that Pomeroy would just scoff at that. "If I got to explain it, then you ain't gonna get it, New Jersey," he said. "Just take my word for it that it's gonna snow."
Tommy spoke up. "One thing for sure, the planes aren't going to fly if it snows."
"You got that right, kid. If the Corsairs are grounded, I don't even want to think about what our Chinese friends will do."
The kid didn't have a response to that.
Earlier in the day, the sun had come out briefly and with it had appeared planes to harass the enemy. The bombs and napalm had kept the Chinese hidden and at bay. Once the skies were empty, the enemy would be emboldened. Since daylight, the Chinese army had left them alone.
One exception had been the sniper. Cole's shot had driven him away — with luck, maybe he had even nailed the bastard. But Cole remained unsettled that someone had been able to shoot with such accuracy at that distance. Cole's eyes were like an eagle's, and he was a good shot even with the M-1. That Chinese sniper had been just as good.
"Do you think they'll be back?"
Cole looked around at the hills where the shadows were lengthening as night came on. To him, it seemed as if those hills were holding their breath. Biding their time.
To the kid he said, "Ain't nothin' we can do about that but be ready. Wipe all the oil that you can out of your rifle so that it don't freeze up. Make sure you drink some water and eat something if you've got it. Don't just eat snow — that will just make you thirstier."
"Huh?"
"Your body uses more energy when you eat snow or frozen food," Cole explained. "It puts out more than it takes in, see? Keep a canteen and a couple tins of rations stuffed down inside your coat and there's at least a chance that it won't freeze."
The kid nodded. "If you say so."
"When was the last time you changed your socks?"
"This morning."
"Best change 'em again before the temperature drops."
Keeping their feet dry was a constant battle and more of an immediate threat than the Chinese. Officially, they had been told to change their socks every two hours. Needless to say, this was nearly impossible under the current conditions, but some attempt had to be made to keep one's feet dry if you wanted to keep your toes.
The problem was that soldiers had been issued rubber boots — galoshes, really. The heavy, ungainly galoshes weren't great for marching and were notorious for encouraging blisters. The boots weren’t bad at keeping water out, but they also kept water in. In a warmer climate this may not have mattered, but in the subzero cold the boots became much worse than a hindrance.
The boots had a sort of felt pad in the bottom for insulation and to wick away moisture. In the extreme cold, however, that pad tended to freeze once it got wet so that their feet were essentially kept on ice. The best defense was to swap your socks as much as you could, keeping the damp pair stuffed into your coat so that it had some chance of drying out in your body warmth.
Cole glanced over at Pomeroy, who had drifted off but snapped back awake.
"How's that side?" Cole asked, nodding at where Pomeroy had been wounded in last night's fighting. The medics had patched him up back at the aid station and then sent him back to the line. There would be no sitting this one out. If the Chinese returned once the planes stopped flying at nightfall, they would be needing every man who could hold a rifle to fight.
"I'm too cold to feel a goddamn thing," Pomeroy said.
"I reckon that's good," Cole replied. "How are we set on ammo?"
"I've got five clips and two grenades," Pomeroy said.
"Kid?"
"Eight clips and four grenades."
"Jesus, kid, what are you saving up for? Christmas? Give one of those clips to me and one to Pomeroy. That still leaves you six clips. You make sure you don't hold back if those Chinese come at us again."
"And they will," Pomeroy muttered.
"Yeah, it's likely. I've got even less ammo than you, Pomeroy. Damn. What did they say at Bunker Hill? Don't shoot till you see the whites of their eyes? That's the situation we've got here."
"I just wish I could've died someplace warmer," Pomeroy said.
"Stop with that talk. You ain't dead yet."
"No, I'm not," Pomeroy agreed. "And before I go, I sure plan to take some of these Chinese with me."
"Amen to that," Cole said.
They tried to get some sleep before nightfall, when they all knew there wouldn't be any chance of getting some shuteye. But they were cold and hungry, not to mention shivering so bad that it was impossible to nod off. Weber came around to see how they were doing. When they asked about ammo, he just shrugged. He didn't have anything to give them but encouragement.
Cole watched the shadows lengthen across the mountains, which made him miss home. The scenery here in Korea would have a haunting beauty if death and destruction had not lurked in those hills. One thing about the military was that it had given him the opportunity to see a lot more of the world than he ever would have experienced back home in Gashey's Creek. Then again, he might have had a longer life expectancy back home.
An hour before dusk, the snow that Cole had predicated finally began. With hardly any wind, dry snowflakes the size of silver dollars settled over the tense soldiers. In the fading light, the snow closed off the view of the mountains like a curtain swept across the stage. The snow kept on for several hours, burying the living and the dead alike. Cole was glad when it tapered off because the snow masked the movements of the enemy. From time to time, he heard a muffled shout or the ominous rumbling of a vehicle.
The kid heard it, too. "What's that?" he wondered.
"Keep your eyes peeled," Cole said.
It was midnight when they heard the bugles blaring in the hills above them. Crazy whistles echoed between the ridges.
All hell was breaking loose again.
"Here they come, boys. Whoo-ee. Get ready!"
"You don't need to tell me twice," Pomeroy grunted, getting into position. He had been sitting still for so long that Cole could literally hear the joints of the other man's body pop and creak in the cold. Pomeroy shouted into the darkness, "Come on, you sons of bitches! We're ready for you!"
Flares shot overhead, turning the night into day and illuminating the snowfall. Through the swirling snow, they could see the massed men coming for them.
The oncoming Chinese were making an awful racket. He heard horns, whistles, bugles, and angry shouts. The sounds were as frightening as the sight of the oncoming enemy.
What Cole couldn't see was the actual arrangement of the Chinese forces. These were organized into three waves. The first wave was comprised of men armed with the motley assortment of rifles available to the Chinese troops. By now, they would also be armed with whatever M-1 rifles and carbines they had captured from the Americans. The soldiers came on more like a mob than any organized military force.
Cole picked his target and started to fire.
What he could not see or know about was the second wave of Chinese troops. These men were largely unarmed, sent to follow behind the first wave and pick up the weapons dropped by the dead and dying. The Chinese had more men than guns.
Following the first two waves was a third line of Chinese, much smaller in number, but well-armed with pistols and even submachine guns. These were the political officers whose role it was to make sure that no one retreated from the attack. Advancing was the only option.
Cole felt a shudder go through him. There must be hundreds of the buggers out there, headed for the thin American line. With just a handful of magazines, how were they supposed to hold out?
"Better fix bayonets," Cole said, reaching for the weapon on his belt. He fit the bayonet to the muzzle of the rifle. He took out his Bowie knife and stuck it into the dirt, where it would be in easy reach. "Make every bullet count, boys."
A figure came running along the American lines, half hidden by the falling snow, going from foxhole to foxhole. Cole saw with surprise that it was Sergeant Weber. The son of a bitch must have a death wish, considering that the lead was already flying, like the first drops of rain in a big storm that was brewing. He handed them a handful of M-1 clips.
"Last-minute supplies, boys," he said. "Looks like the air drop did some good, after all, but it took a while for somebody to find these."
"Did you find more of that whiskey?" Pomeroy asked.
"Sorry, no booze this time. Just the bullets."
"We ain't gonna complain," Cole said.
The sergeant handed down several more clips of ammunition for their rifles, and then was gone to the next foxhole where the BAR was just getting warmed up.
The Chinese still hadn't brought up artillery, either because they didn't have any or the terrain was too mountainous to transport it, but tonight they had a lot more mortars. Explosions began to burst among the foxholes. Shrapnel whined overhead. Cole hoped to hell that the sergeant had made it to cover. Even if Weber wasn't his favorite person, the son of a bitch knew how to fight and they were going to need him tonight.
In the light from the flares, he could now see the seething mass of Chinese soldiers flowing toward them. Cole stared for a moment, mesmerized. Against the backdrop of fresh snow, the white uniforms made it seem as if the ground itself was flowing down the slopes toward the U.S. position. It looked like nothing so much as a human avalanche.
Some of the GIs started shooting, but the enemy was still too far away to do any good. Cole wished that he could tell them to hold their fire. Judging by the sheer number of Chinese, they were going to need every last bullet.
"Steady now," Cole said, as much to himself as for the benefit of the kid or Pomeroy.
"That's a lot of goddamn Chinese," Pomeroy said, his voice touched by awe. "Now I know how Custer must have felt at the Little Big Horn."
"You might not want to mention that, New Jersey," Cole said. "Things didn't work out so well for General Custer."
"At least the Chinese won't scalp us."
The human avalanche flowed closer. In the glow of the flares, Cole began to pick out individual faces. "Fire!" he shouted.
He put the sights on a soldier in front who appeared to be waving a sword — or maybe it was just a stick. He pulled the trigger and the soldier fell. His place was instantly taken by another enemy soldier and the flood advanced. Cole fired again, and again. More enemy soldiers died.
Beside him, he heard the crack of Pomeroy's rifle, then the kid’s. He hoped to hell that they were shooting straight. All around him blazed other rifles, flashing in the night. Off to his left, the BAR opened up again with devastating effect, cutting a swath through the nearest Chinese ranks. This was shaping up to be one hell of a fight, that was for damn sure.