Frozen Sniper

Chapter Twenty-Eight

An hour later, a Marine sentry thought that his eyes were playing tricks on him when he saw a figure emerging from the swirling, windblown snow on the ice. The pale background of snow-covered ice revealed the silhouette of a man approaching steadily. How anyone could survive that freezer blast of Mongolian winter scouring the ice was more than he could understand.

Was it the enemy? He had yet to see any Chinese, but he knew they were out there. He raised his weapon, itching to pull the trigger.

But he didn't shoot. Survivors from the disastrous Army column had wandered in off the lake for hours, but that had slowed to a trickle, then stopped. He was sure that the next soldier he saw was going to be speaking Chinese.

"Halt!" he shouted, struggling to make himself heard over the sounds of wind and sifting snow. His voice was swallowed up and lost. The silhouette advanced rapidly. He shouted a little louder: "Halt!"

"Point that somewhere else before you hurt yourself," the approaching soldier shouted back with a distinctive twang. "Goddamn trigger-happy leathernecks."

The sentry finally lowered his rifle. Up close, he could see that this was a real, live American. Snow covered his uniform and dusted his eyelashes and eyebrows above the scarf that covered the man's face. The eyes glittered like ice.

"You're from the task force?" the Marine asked.

"No, I'm going door to door selling Bibles. You want one?"

The Marine grinned. "Got one already. Hell, I thought you might be the Chinese."

Cole shook his head. "There was some Chinese back there, but I don't reckon there's enough of them left now to fill a bucket. Grenade," he added by way of explanation.

"Huh."

"Then again, keep your eyes open. They are determined sons of bitches. Now, where the hell can I find the aid station?"

The sentry looked him up and down in surprise. The loping figure had not seemed to be injured. "You wounded?"

"No, but my buddies are. They came in off the ice maybe an hour ago."

The Marine pointed. "Thataway."

Cole walked in that direction, passing more and more Marines, plus a few machine-gun emplacements, which was reassuring. If the Chinese did appear, that would chew them up but good. He wouldn't mind returning the favor, after all. He didn't like to admit it, but the enemy had turned the Army column into chow mein.

There had simply been too many of the enemy and the soldiers had been short on everything: decent food, ammo, gasoline, any chance of getting warm or medical aid, and ultimately leadership due to the death of so many good officers. It was no fault of the higher-ranking officers, he thought. They simply hadn't survived, but had given their lives for their country.

Cole and the other soldiers, as well as the Marines, had basic needs on their minds. But there were much larger forces already at work as the survivors trickled in across the ice.

If General Almond's push to the Yalu River had succeeded without Chinese intervention, then the Korean War might have indeed been won by Christmas and the soldiers of Task Force Faith would have been heroes, just as much as everyone else. Instead, massive numbers of Chinese troops had shown that victory in war is never as much of a certainty as it seems.

General Almond would have been hailed as another Patton, instead of a Custer.

For the soldiers of what came to be known as Task Force Faith after the fearless lieutenant colonel who had led the effort, there would be no storybook ending and precious little recognition. Soon, the loss of the Army contingent would be trumpeted as a defeat. The Marines who had survived the Chosin Reservoir would receive medals, but not the Army soldiers. For them, there would be only ignominy. Somebody needed a scapegoat to blame for the Chosin Reservoir.

Mostly, it was politics and public relations at play. Newspapers across the United States had closely followed the Chosin Reservoir campaign on their front pages. The looming encirclement and defeat had been trumpeted in bold headlines.

The censorship that had filtered much of the news during WWII was not present in 1950 for various reasons, so that American audiences were getting something much closer to the unvarnished truth about the war in Korea. The news that came home was of a cold, ragged, ill-equipped, frostbitten, and utterly defeated military in the face of overwhelming numbers of mostly Chinese troops.

For whatever reason, it was the story of the Marines that captured the public attention when General O.P. Smith had famously declared that his men were not retreating from the Chosin Reservoir, but were, "Fighting in a different direction." That was the spirit that the American public preferred to embrace when it came to the Korean War.

It didn't help that the United States government was looking for heroes during a difficult war in Korea. It also didn't help that the military and the public still lived in the shadow of the legacy of the Second World War, when the U.S. forces had always fought an offensive battle, gobbling up territory as fast as the enemy could retreat.

Now, the tables had turned. Never mind the fact that the soldiers had endured beyond any reasonable limits or expectations. The U.S. military and government preferred to look the other way when it came to Task Force Faith.

The butcher's bill was heavy. More than a thousand Americans died in the fight or after being captured by the Chinese. Hundreds more South Koreans also gave their lives for their country. For hundreds more, their war was now over due to frostbite or battle wounds. The Chinese toll was staggering, with as many as ten thousand dead — possibly half of whom had simply frozen to death.

In suffering, all men are equal.

None of that mattered now to Cole. He and the survivors would have years to chew the gristle of the Chosin Reservoir campaign. He just wanted to see if Pomeroy was all right, and wherever Pomeroy was, he was sure that the kid would be nearby.

He walked on until he found the aid station. He pulled aside the canvas flaps and was greeted by a gust of warmth. That was welcome. Much less welcome were the field hospital smells that assaulted his nose — rubbing alcohol, disinfectant, blood, unwashed bodies, and a whiff of fecal smell. Smelled something like a slaughterhouse, if truth be told. His nose wrinkled.

Outside the tent walls, generators labored in the cold. Lights had been set up, just enough for the medical staff to navigate by. The medics were doing what they could to help the wounded troops.

In the confusion, there didn't seem to be much order or anyone to ask for help finding Pomeroy, so Cole had to wander the rows of men. Most of them lay on the frozen ground. Cole tried not to look too closely at some of the injuries. It was a wonder that some of these poor boys still lived. The question was, would they even make it to morning?

The relative warmth made Cole's cheeks and ears sting as they thawed, but he didn't think he had frostbite. Having spent his boyhood trapping and hunting in the mountains, he was no stranger to what it meant to be cold. Even his feet felt as if they were in good shape, which was more than he could say for the dozens of poor bastards whose heavily bandaged extremities spoke of fingers and toes lost to the cold.

Almost guiltily, what did register was how hungry he felt. When was the last time he had eaten anything?

Finally, he caught a glimpse of a kid with glasses and recognized Tommy Wilson, sitting on the ground beside a wounded man. Cole was momentarily taken aback at the sight of the kid because he hadn't seen him in weeks without his helmet off. His hair had grown during that time, and now Tommy’s blondish hair looked jarring and out of place. Peach fuzz covered his face.

"I'll be damned," he said, walking up to them. “Look at you, all growed up.”

Cole shook his head at the realization that the kid was barely old enough to shave, but had survived combat. Didn’t seem right, in some ways.

Tommy lurched to his feet and Cole had to steady him. "You made it! I never thought we'd see you again."

"I said that I would catch up, didn't I?" He looked down at Pomeroy, who opened his eyes long enough to mutter, "You damn hillbilly." He then drifted off back to sleep.

"They've got him dosed up," the kid explained.

"How's he doing?"

"A lot better than most," the kid said quietly. "I was here when they took his boots off. It was—" Tommy struggled for a word, blanched at the memory.

"Bad," Cole said.

"Yeah, it was bad. With any luck, he'll be on a plane to Japan soon, where there's an actual hospital."

Cole bent down and tugged Pomeroy's blanket up to his chin, then patted the sleeping man's shoulder. The blanket did not quite cover Pomeroy's heavily bandaged feet. Looking at those feet, Cole wondered how it was possible that the man had somehow stayed upright for so many miles. Sheer willpower. Looking around at the similarly bandaged men, he could see that Pomeroy hadn't been the only man so determined to keep going.

Cole wasn’t much for emotion, but he felt a lump in his throat. Look at all these ugly bastards, he thought. Every last one of them deserves a medal.

He straightened up and asked the kid, "You hungry?"

"You kiddin' me? I could eat a horse."

"Be careful what you wish for, kid. There’s no telling what they’re serving up in the mess tent. Anyhow, let's take our chances and go find some grub."

If the medics in the aid station were doing the best they could for the wounded, the mess staff was no less heroic. Tents had been set up, and while they were not as warm as the hospital tents, they did keep the wind off and they smelled a whole lot better.

Supplies remained limited, but the emphasis was on hot grub. That meant gallons of strong coffee. Pancakes and syrup. Pots of soup that was mostly salty broth with some potatoes in it, but served piping hot. Cole and Tommy loaded up on all of it and then sat down on a couple of wooden boxes to eat. There weren't any tables, but there were a few familiar faces. He spotted Sergeant Weber, who gave him a nod, locking eyes with him for a moment. Coming from the gruff German, it was a sign of respect.

Drinking coffee nearby was Kelwick, the driver from the truck. He did a double-take when he spotted Cole. "I’ve got to say that I never thought I’d set eyes on you again. Not living, anyhow. What happened?"

"I held them off as long as I could, and then I got the hell out of there."

"We never would have made it if you hadn't bought us that time," Kelwick said. He flexed his arms and shoulders. "That was one hell of a long way to carry a stretcher. They'll fly more of the wounded out at daylight, your buddy with them. They're posting guards at the planes on account of guys trying to get out who aren't wounded."

"Trying to get out of Dodge,” Cole said. “Can’t say I blame them. But the fight ain't over."

"Yep. Eat some chow, get some sleep. The war starts again tomorrow, unless the Chinese decide to attack tonight."

Cole shook his head. "They've got to be just as cold and hungry as we are, if not worse. But they keep on coming."

"Yeah," Kelwick agreed. "So much for being home by Christmas. That sure as hell isn’t happening now."

Had it really been just a few days ago that so many soldiers had actually thought that the war was almost over? The drive to the Yalu River had promised to end the conflict. He shook his head, musing that generals were a bunch of fools. It always fell on the troops in the field to sort things out.

Cole ate his fill, surprising himself by how much he ate, but was truly amazed by the number of pancakes that Tommy put away. Did that kid have a hollow leg, or what?

Finished, they walked out into the night, looking for a place to sleep. Cole stood for a while, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, surveying the surrounding hills and mountains that were just visible in the starlight reflected by the snowy peaks. He had a feeling that he was about to get to know these mountains a whole lot better. Somewhere up there, an untold number of Chinese and ROK troops were bedded down. Even now, they might be looking down at him.

“Come on, kid,” he said, nodding toward a shelter that had been rigged against the wind. They could just squeeze in there for the night.

Like Kelwick had said, the war started again tomorrow.