Frozen Sniper

Chapter Twenty-Three

Held at gunpoint, Cole and the others looked at each other apprehensively. They were all down in a shallow ravine, sheltered somewhat from the incessant wind. However, the ravine also made a natural stockade, with no easy means of escape. For the enemy, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

If the enemy had wanted to kill them, they would have done it out of hand. The question was, now what?

He suspected that it was the first time that any of them had seen the soldiers of the other side up close — living soldiers, in any case. These enemy soldiers could not be dismissed as little Asian men, as so many of the American troops were wont to perceive the enemy. They were just as tall and heavy as the Americans. They did smell kind of bad, though, something that went beyond the usual soldier stink of grime and cordite. Kind of like boiled onions and garlic, Cole thought.

Must be what they ate. He wondered how the Americans must smell to their captors. Maybe like old hamburgers?

"Cole?" the kid asked, looking at him.

"Best be quiet, kid."

That exchange prompted a stream of angry words from their captors. Cole raised his hands higher, not sure what else to do.

Cole took stock of who else was being held with him. There was Pomeroy with his frostbitten feet, along with the kid, who now looked even more scared them he had the first night, when screaming hordes of the enemy had descended upon them. There was a guy whose name he thought was Thompson, who had been wounded slightly in the leg during the earlier firefight. He was the guy that Cole had been patching up when they were captured. Tall and gangly, Thompson kept swallowing nervously so that his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

None of them seemed to have a plan up his sleeve for escaping. At the moment, neither did Cole.

Finally, there was the surviving ROK soldier. The South Korean's face had gone blank, as if accepting his fate. The faces of their captors were equally hard to read. He had to hand it to these Chinese and the Koreans from both sides — they would have made great poker players.

Cole counted just six captors, but they were all armed, with their rifles never wavering from their prisoners. A couple of their captors wore slightly different uniforms from the others. North Koreans? The other four were clearly Chinese.

One in particular stood out. He was older than the others, for starters. He had a look about him of an old campaigner who had seen everything. He wore a distinctive ushanka hat that appeared to be trimmed with fur. For all that Cole knew, it could have been wolf fur. There was a hardness about the man that Cole recognized — looking into that face, Cole might have been looking into a mirror. What stood out most of all was that this soldier carried a rifle with a telescopic sight. Here was a Chinese sniper.

Momentarily, the sniper locked eyes with Cole. If he saw any of the same qualities in Cole, it did not register on his face. His eyes then flicked to the Confederate flag painted on Cole’s helmet and stared at it in curiosity, probably wondering if it was some kind of unit designation.

Cole noticed that the others stood apart from this man, which wasn't surprising. Snipers weren't all that popular with anybody, even their own troops, who treated them with some suspicion. An opposing enemy's view of snipers was less ambivalent. They were hated. Had Cole been captured with a sniper rifle, he probably wouldn't still be breathing.

Cole studied the Chinese sniper's rifle with professional interest. It appeared to be a Mosin-Nagant. A Russian rifle, then. Not so different from what he had seen enemy snipers carry in the last war. The Chinese appeared to be getting plenty of help from their Russian friends. Judging by the hard look of that Chinese sniper, he was probably a good shot with that rifle. Those eyes had likely been the last ones to see more than a few American boys alive.

Although Cole had sworn off being a sniper, he suddenly itched to have his hands around his old Springfield rifle once more. He might teach this hard-looking fellow a trick or two and take him down a notch. But it was too late for that now. Cole had missed his chance. He was totally at the mercy of these Chinese.

One of the enemy soldiers started shouting orders at his comrades. Apparently, the others didn't agree, because a kind of argument broke out. The disagreement seemed to be between the Chinese and the two North Koreans — who kept gesturing at the captives with their rifles, as if suggesting that shooting them was still an option on the table. Only the sniper stood by quietly, his eyes — and his rifle — trained on the captives.

The soldiers seemed to reach some agreement. Quickly, they moved to tie the captives' hands behind their back. They only had some rather thick rope for that purpose, and in the winter air, with their cold fingers, the rope proved hard to knot properly. It was more of a gesture, it seemed, to keep the North Koreans happy.

When it was Cole's turn, he feigned cooperation and then strained with all his might against the rope as it was tied, ensuring that the binding wasn't very tight. The result was that the thick rope looked impressive but was relatively loose, although they cut cruelly into Cole's wrists. Not that the binding mattered much because there didn't seem to be much chance of overpowering their captors, who kept their distance.

Next, Cole and the others were searched. Their weapons had already been taken, but now they were relieved of the few clips of spare ammunition that they possessed. Cole hated the thought that the ammo and their rifles might now be used against U.N. forces. From what he had seen so far, the Chinese scavenged whatever weapons they could.

One of the Chinese appeared delighted to find Pomeroy's cigarettes.

"Smoke up," Pomeroy muttered. “I hope you cough to death.”

But it was Cole's Bowie knife that created the most excitement. They gathered around to study the Damascus steel blade with admiration. Damn, but Cole hated to see them get ahold of that knife. His late friend Hollis had made it for him and Cole had carried it across most of Europe.

There was nothing he could do about them taking that knife, though. It took a sharp word or two from the sniper to get the soldiers focused again on the task at hand. They took the bayonets off the others.

Another argument broke out, this one seemingly about who got to keep Cole's knife. Again, the Chinese sniper spoke a sharp word or two, and the soldier who had taken it off Cole reluctantly handed it over to the sniper.

All that Cole could do was glare at him. The son of a bitch had taken his knife. The Chinese sniper sneered back in what seemed to be his first display of emotion. He tucked the Bowie knife into his belt.

Satisfied that their prisoners were subdued and disarmed, the Chinese motioned for them to climb out of the ravine. Evidently, it was time to get a move on. Cole could see that Tommy wanted to ask him again what was happening, but Cole shook his head at him. There was no sense in provoking their captors. He glanced at Pomeroy, saw his pained expression as they started walking. His frostbitten feet must hurt like hell, but Pomeroy didn’t make a sound.

They headed north, most likely toward the larger body of Chinese troops. There was no cover aside from the thickets of brush and the rocky outcroppings. The whole countryside appeared arid and desolate, especially in winter. They didn't seem to be following any sort of trail, but were striking out cross country, likely taking what their captors saw as the shortest route back to the main body of Chinese troops. The route might be faster, but they were taking a chance with those planes roaming overhead. Cole didn’t want to get barbecued alive with a load of napalm.

Cole tried not to think too much about what might await them there. Definitely interrogation, maybe even torture. If they were taken as far as the main Chinese army, there would be no escape. Their only hope was to get away while they still had some chance of returning to the retreating column on the road. But how?

The Chinese seemed worried about that same possibility, keeping a close eye on their captors. The captives were forced to walk in a single file, with the kid leading the way. Next came the ROK soldier and Thompson, followed by Pomeroy and Cole. The Chinese urged them on with angry commands that cracked like whips, even if Cole couldn't understand a single word.

Off in the distance, he heard a couple of planes. Because they had yet to see a single Chinese plane, these must surely be American aircraft. The Chinese heard them, too, and looked nervously in that direction. But the planes were too far off to be any threat to the Chinese, or to be any help to the captives. Still, the Chinese urged them on with sharp words in hope of covering the open ground without being seen.

They set a fast pace. Cole could see that the soldier named Thompson was having a hard time keeping up. His leg still bled from the wound that he had received, and he soon began dragging it and stumbling. Pain was etched clearly in the man's face, but the nearest Chinese soldier hit him cruelly in the ribs with a butt of a rifle, urging him on. Cole glanced at Pomeroy, who was managing to keep up so far.

Behind his back, Cole kept moving his hands, working to loosen the rope binding his wrists even more. If he could just get his hands free, he might have some kind of chance of escape. He sure as hell wouldn't get very far with his hands tied. He would have to make a move soon — each step was carrying them closer to the main Chinese force, from which there would be no hope of escape.