Frozen Sniper

Chapter Twenty-One

As gunfire peppered the column, Cole scanned the hills, looking for targets. The nature of this landscape made holding the high ground impossible for the Americans and their allies. Hills marched away from both sides of the road and they could clearly see Chinese troops covering them.

The only blessing was that the Chinese did not seem to possess artillery. If that had been the case, then the U.N. column would have been obliterated. Still, the Chinese were not prevented from firing down from the hills. From time to time, squads of the enemy approached to attack the column with grenades, always targeting the trucks.

Officers who were students of history couldn't help but think of the punishing march made by the British from Lexington and Concord back to Boston. Enraged by the sight of enemy soldiers on their soil, the colonials had pestered the Redcoats with hit-and-run attacks. Now, the tables had turned and it was these Americans who were the enemy on someone else's home turf. And yet, they were not the soldiers of any king, but the soldiers of democracy and freedom. Too bad the Communists didn't see it that way.

For soldiers who were already exhausted, being on constant guard against enemy attack was pushing them beyond the limits of their endurance. Bleary eyed, every bush or boulder became an enemy soldier. It was only their lack of ammunition that kept them from shooting up the countryside.

"They're going to pick us off one by one," Pomeroy remarked. "I overheard one of the officers say it's fourteen miles to Hagaru-ri. Might as well be a hundred."

"Just keep your eyes open," Cole said. "You see one of them bastards in a puffy coat, you shoot him. That ought to make them think twice about attacking us."

Pomeroy gave Cole a look. "I can tell you've done this before."

"What?"

"Fight."

"Yeah. I had me a little experience in the last war."

The road began to curve and descend toward the Pungyuri River. If there was ever a place for an ambush, Cole thought, this was it. The river was crossed by a narrow bridge that had been previously reinforced by Army engineers when the unit had been heading north. Now that they were retreating, it was something of a small miracle that the bridge was still intact. The bridge itself was close to the surface of the water. Ice gripped the rocky edges of the waterway, but at the center of the river the water ran free — despite the cold, there was simply too much current for the water to freeze over.

"I sure as hell wouldn't want to fall in there," Pomeroy said. "Can you swim?"

Cole shook his head. He hated any kind of water, having almost drowned once in a mountain stream when trapping as a boy. It was more than he wanted to explain to Pomeroy right now, but he had to admit to himself that the sight of that cold, dark current made him shudder. "Pomeroy, how much gear do you have on? How long do you reckon anyone could swim in that current?"

"I guess you're right."

As they neared the bridge, a squad of soldiers moved forward to scout the approach and make sure that an ambush had not been set. The soldiers set up a perimeter along both sides of the bridge, hunkering down on the rocky shore.

Cole was surprised to see a column of soldiers appear on the far side of the river and begin advancing across the bridge. These troops were clearly on the march, not rushing toward a fight. Their weapons were slung over their shoulders. They did not appear to be wearing the tell-tale quilted winter uniforms. In fact, they wore olive drab like the U.N. troops. But Cole’s sharp eyes picked out the fact that something wasn’t quite right. Hell, they just didn’t move like Americans.

He wasn't the only one to spot the approaching soldiers. Almost immediately, the squad along the river bank began to open fire. Some of the advancing soldiers were hit and fell into the river, only to be swept away in the icy current. It was a nightmarish sight and terrified screams reached their ears.

"Stop!"

Even over the shooting, they could hear someone yelling urgently. A figure ran onto the bridge from the American side, waving his cane over his head. Immediately, the fire on the American side slackened as his troops recognized their commanding officer, Colonel MacLean. He shouted again: "Hold your fire! Those are my boys!"

Out on the bridge, the colonel ran toward the approaching troops. To the colonel, it seemed clear that these were reinforcements sent from Hagaru-ri. Help had finally come for his battered troops. Also, it meant that the road ahead must be clear if the reinforcements had made it through.

"I'll be damned," Pomeroy muttered. "Looks like we weren't forgotten, after all."

Recognizing that help had arrived, some of the soldiers around Cole and Pomeroy began to whoop. Ten minutes ago, they had been mired in despair. Now, they at least had some hope of getting the hell out of this place in one piece.

But Cole saw that something was wrong. Although the firing from their own side of the crossing had stopped when the colonel ran out onto the bridge, the newly arrived troops were quickly unshouldering their rifles and shouting. Some of the other troops opened fire, their rifle reports making sharp cracks in the cold air.

The colonel staggered and dropped his cane. He was hit again and went to his knees. More shots were fired. He fell to the deck of the bridge, struggling to get up.

Now, a handful of the soldiers on the bridge were running toward the fallen colonel. Too late, Cole and the others realized what was happening. These were not reinforcements. These were simply Chinese or maybe North Korean troops without their winter uniforms. Clearly, they had been taken by complete surprise at the sight of an American officer running at them, waving a cane, but the surprise had not lasted for long.

Cole's rifle was already up. He put his sights on the soldier closest to the fallen colonel and fired. The man went down. Other soldiers were doing the same, although the enemy troops were now so close that it seemed an even chance that their shots were just as likely to hit the colonel. Seeing the situation, some officers and sergeants shouted for the shooting to stop, adding to the confusion.

Out on the bridge, the enemy soldiers had reached the wounded colonel and were dragging him back to their side of the river. Helplessly, his own troops watched as their colonel was taken prisoner. Holding the colonel awkwardly by the coat and his arms and legs, enemy soldiers half-carried, half-dragged him off the bridge and hustled away with their prize. At that point, however, it was hard to tell if the limp figure was even alive.

The whole episode had taken less than a minute, but it left the Americans stunned and dumbfounded. The colonel had been one of the good ones. He knew what he was doing, which was more than they could say for a lot of officers.

They couldn't know it at the time, but their colonel would be the highest-ranking U.S. officer to be captured in the entire war.

Once the colonel was out of sight, it was open season on the enemy troops still on the bridge. Someone opened up with a BAR, and corpses soon covered the bridge. More fell into the river. Some of those men hadn't even been hit, but were forced off the bridge in the turmoil, only to drown in the swift, icy current.

Wanting to save his ammunition, Cole lowered his rifle and let the BAR do its deadly work. The bridge was soon clear of enemy soldiers, and the first trucks of the convoy rolled across it. If they were lucky, the column would get across before the enemy organized a counterattack.

"It's a hell of a thing," Pomeroy said, as they waited their turn to cross the bridge. "If they got the colonel like that, those sons of bitches can get anybody."

"Hell of a thing," Cole agreed, trying not to think too much about the last glimpse he'd seen of the colonel, being hauled away like a carcass being dragged by a pack of wolves. He shook his head to clear that vision. "Like I said, keep your eyes open."

Earlier that morning, Chen had rejoiced with the other Chinese troops when they saw that the enemy was leaving. They watched with fascination as the enemy soldiers loaded their trucks with supplies, then their wounded, and even their dead. Chen was puzzled about the dead being taken away. He thought it was macabre and strange. Let the dead rest in peace. He had seen enough of war that he knew it made very little difference to the dead where they lay. Their spirits had moved on to join their ancestors.

Not only that, but when it came to the imperialist invaders, he would have preferred to see their bones picked clean and bleached where they had fallen.

Finally, the enemy convoy began to move, but not before setting fire to what they could not carry. Again, it made no sense to Chen. Why carry away the dead but leave supplies that the living could use? With thinking like that, perhaps it was no surprise that the Americans had been defeated.

But letting the Americans escape was not enough. They must punish them. The officers gave orders, sending squads of men racing into the hills to cut off the Americans. Chen and his comrades were eager for this task. A further number of troops were sent to simply attack the rear of the American convoy. What the Americans could not know was that there was no open road ahead of them, either. More soldiers already waited for them, blocking the road.

Chen attached himself to a small squad that ran into the hills. Their orders were to move parallel to the column and attack it. Although the enemy was already some distance ahead, that mattered little to Chen and his comrades, who ran like deer through the snow and brush. The promise of revenge made them fleet.

Yet the enemy was not entirely toothless. One of the soldiers pointed at the sky and shouted, "Plane!"

The man had good hearing, but Chen had sharp eyes. "It is coming from the South!" he warned them.

Out in the open, the men scattered, trying to hide in the brush or even to cower among the rocks and boulders.

The Corsair came in low, its engines roaring. Had the pilot spotted them?

Chen and the others held their breath. They knew all too well what the enemy bomb and napalm could do.

With a roar, the plane swept overhead and was gone.

Either the pilot hadn't spotted them, after all, or he simply hadn't wanted to bother with a handful of men and was looking for a bigger target.

Dusting the snow off themselves, they gave a nervous look at the sky, and ran on.

They reached a hill that overlooked the road and looked down at the plodding enemy column, each of the Chinese soldiers panting as they caught their breath. There was no need for orders. He and the others started moving down the hill, approaching the column.

By now, Chen thought, he and his comrades must surely be in plain sight of the enemy. But the Americans ignored them, heads down, intent only on the road. They moved so close that they could plainly see the pale, ugly, haggard faces of the enemy.

"Now, Comrades!" Chen said.

Their orders were to attack the trucks. To fire directly into them. To target the drivers. Chen knew that the trucks carried the enemy wounded. Helpless men. But it did not matter. He and the others had come to harass the enemy. The enemy would be shown no mercy, not even the wounded.

Chen took aim at the canvas sides of a truck and fired. Worked the bolt. Fired again. And again. He was so close that he could see the actual holes that his bullets punched through the fabric. Inside the truck, he could hear the agonized cries of the wounded. Ignoring them, he continued to fire.

Since crossing the bridge, hit and run attacks had been happening all around Cole and the others. This time, the Chinese were attacking a truck right in front of them.

"The sons of bitches are shooting into the trucks!" someone shouted.

Horrified, they realized that the Chinese were targeting the wounded. From inside the trucks, they could hear the screams of helpless men as bullets found them. A Chinese soldier ran onto the road, ignoring Cole and the others. He dashed right to the back of another truck and tossed something inside.

"Grenade!" someone screamed.

The Chinese soldier threw himself flat, but it didn't do him any good because Cole shot him, leaving him writhing on the ground. He didn’t bother to finish him off.

Then the grenade detonated, exploding with a flash that instantly incinerated the canvas sides. Some men spilled out, their clothes on fire. Others screamed as they burned in their stretchers. The lucky ones had died instantly. Now, the fire was spreading to the rest of the truck, the tires catching, flames flaring from under the hood.

At the side of the road, the Chinese advanced, shooting at any of the wounded clawing their way out of the burning truck. The stunned, disorganized soldiers were torn between attacking the Chinese and helping the wounded escape the onslaught.

It was too much to watch. With a roar of rage, a soldier near Cole rushed at the Chinese, firing an M-1 carbine from the hip as he ran.

"Come on!" Pomeroy cried, and likewise ran at the enemy, firing. The kid followed at his heels, screaming what sounded like an Indian war cry. Two ROK soldiers joined in.

Startled by the ferocity of the rushing soldiers, the Chinese fell back. They scattered and ran deeper into the roadside brush. After all, their intent had been to harass the Americans, not stand and fight.

Cole chased after the others, although he had not fired a shot during the pursuit. Ahead of him, he watched with concern as his buddies ran deeper into the brush. "Come back!" he shouted, but nobody was listening.

Muttering a curse, he ran after them. Cole knew that this entire countryside was crawling with enemy soldiers. If those guys didn't watch it, they were going to run smack dab into the whole damn Chinese army.