Frozen Sniper

Chapter Three

The next day, Cole found himself getting off a bus at boot camp. He would have been happier, if happier was the right word, going directly to the front. But the army had determined that he needed training all over again in how to be a soldier — and how to shoot and kill people, which was ironic, considering that he had ended up in this situation by doing just that.

Cole was feeling sullen as a kicked dog. He vowed that he wasn't going to do anything to stand out, or even to be much of a soldier. With any luck, this whole business in Korea would get settled long before he was shipped out. He might even get home to his cabin and beloved mountains after a few weeks or months, once things had settled down.

He looked around the compound, which was surrounded by a chain-link fence, at the neatly ordered rows of Quonset huts and the worn parade grounds. One good thing, he thought, was that they were going into the cooler weeks. Those Quonset huts would be like bake ovens in the summer heat. In the winter, it would be cold as a church on Monday.

Lost in his own thoughts, he hardly noticed the kid next to him until he spoke up.

"I think I made a mistake," the kid said in a squeaky voice. The kid wore glasses that were starting to slide down his nose, and he used a finger to push them back into place. "What was I thinking, signing up?"

“That would be a normal reaction,” Cole agreed. “It’s kind of like waking up with a hangover and a fat lady next to you.”

That image prompted a half-smile. “My name’s Tommy Wilson, by the way.”

“Cole,” he responded. "Listen, kid, this ain’t my first rodeo. Just keep your head down and do what the sergeant says."

"If you say so," Tommy said. "Hey, why did you sign up if you knew what you were in for?"

"It was this or go to prison," Cole said.

The kid opened his mouth as if to ask another question, but at that moment, the drill sergeant appeared. He was no more than five-foot-six, but muscles bulged in his neck and he had a way of walking that made him resemble an oncoming locomotive, complete with steam coming out of his ears.

"All right, you maggots, shut your traps!" he shouted. "You don't talk again until I tell you to talk. Is that clear?"

Startled, the busload of new recruits fell silent. But the drill instructor wanted an answer. He must have seen Cole talking earlier, because he squared off against him and shouted into his face: "Is that clear?"

Cole stood at attention and shouted back, "Yes, Sergeant!"

The drill instructor nodded, jaw muscles working as he sized Cole up. Cole stared at a point somewhere above the sergeant's head. "What's your name?" the man demanded.

"Cole, Sergeant."

"Cole, have you done this before?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

The sergeant shook his head as if disappointed. "Goddammit, Cole! Who is stupid enough to rejoin the army?"

When Cole didn't answer right away, the kid standing next to him felt compelled to say, "He said it was prison or the army."

The drill instructor didn't even look at the kid, but kept his eyes boring into Cole. "Is that right? Huh. I am going to keep an extra eye on you, Cole. Understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

After another moment of fierce staring that indicated the sergeant would like nothing better than to bore a hole through Cole with his eyes, the sergeant moved on to shout at other recruits that he didn't like the looks of.

And so it begins, Cole thought.

Cole wished that he had kept his mouth shut instead of jawing with the kid. That damn kid had spilled the beans about the army or prison, putting him square in the sergeant's sights. He'd be keeping to himself from now on. He also realized that his own plan to keep his head down had already gone out the window.

The new recruits, including Cole, were subjected to physicals that left no part unprobed. What any of that poking and prodding had to do with being fit to carry a weapon, he still hadn't figured out from the last war, other than that the whole procedure was intended to remind the recruits that they were no better than cattle being inspected at a livestock auction.

They lined up for shots against tropical diseases, and then they all got buzzcuts. Cole's hair had not been long to begin with, but he was left with nothing more than some bristle on his head. He'd done this before, back in boot camp a few years ago, but that didn't mean he liked being herded around like cattle.

Finally, they received their new uniforms. There were no mirrors, but Cole didn't need one because all that he had to do was look around: he was sure that he looked pretty much like every other guy there, if a little older: bald, confused, and wearing a brand-new army uniform.

For Cole, who had done it all before, boot camp was simply something to be endured. While it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience to repeat, he also knew that a man generally survived boot camp. It was only after you got out of boot camp that you really had to worry.

One thing that didn't bother Cole was the food, which was plentiful and hearty. He even kind of liked the creamed chipped beef on toast that was served for breakfast — nicknamed SOS or shit on a shingle by some.

The first few days passed in a blur of pushups, calisthenics, and long runs wearing boots. Cole didn't mind so much because he was in good shape from his treks through the mountains. He was glad again that he had given up cigarettes and stayed away from liquor. The more out-of-shape recruits, especially the smokers among them, paid a heavy price those first few days.

Among those who struggled was the kid who had gotten Cole called out on arrival at boot camp. Mainly, the kid seemed to lack confidence in himself that he could do what he was asked. The others ignored him or were caught up in their own suffering as they ran. But Cole knew from experience that if one person in the squad faltered, it would hold them all back. Especially once they made it to Korea. This was all part of learning teamwork.

Cole slowed his pace and dropped back until he was running beside the kid.

"I can't do this," Tommy Wilson muttered. Each of his steps was sloppy and unsteady, eating up even more of what little energy he had.

"I reckon you can," Cole said quietly. "You just don't know it yet. Pick up your feet like you mean it. Lift those knees. You got to use your leg muscles — those are some of the strongest muscles — even on you."

"Gee, thanks."

"Go on now," Cole said. "Make those legs work."

"You ought to leave me."

"Not a chance of that," Cole said. "Now, are you gonna run or does the sergeant need to put a boot up your ass?"

It was hard to say whether the kid was inspired by Cole or just afraid of the sergeant; in either case, he started to run instead of stumble along, pumping his arms and lifting his legs.

"Happy now?" Tommy gasped.

"You're getting the hang of it," Cole said.

Cole's actions did not go unnoticed. They were back at camp, done with the run, everyone doubled over and gasping for air, when the drill instructor took him aside. The sergeant, tough and compact, had run along with the group, and he didn't even seem winded.

"Are you trying to do my job for me, Cole?" the sergeant asked quietly.

Cole snapped to attention. "No, sir!"

A hint of a smile played across the sergeant's leathery face. "I finally got ahold of your file, Cole. You're quite the war hero. One hell of a shot, from what I understand. I can't wait to see you out on the range."

"That was a while ago, sir."

"Yeah? We'll see about that. We can use some snipers in Korea. It turns out that the Chinese are shooting the hell out of our boys."

"Yes, sir."

Cole was relieved when the sergeant moved off to shout at some men who had the audacity to sit on the ground.

The truth was, he was not looking forward to the rifle range. He was determined to serve his time in the army by keeping his head down, and then get back home in one piece. He didn't see how fighting the North Koreans and the Chinese was America's fight. It definitely wasn't his fight. Anyhow, he was done with being a sniper. He didn't want to be in the Army and he didn't want to be in this war, so in his own stubborn way, he had made up his mind not to give the army use of his best skills. With any luck, he would find himself assigned to the motor pool, fueling up tanks and trucks and Jeeps. Hell, he'd be glad to be assigned to a kitchen, even if it meant peeling potatoes all day. Cole's days as a sniper were over.

Finally, they were issued their rifles. The weapon of choice for the U.S. Army remained the M-1. This was the rifle that could be credited in many ways with winning the Second World War. Cole's weapon had been the bolt-action Springfield. Nowadays, this was strictly a sniper weapon, although some M-1 models had been adapted as sniper rifles.

"This rifle is your new best friend," the drill instructor informed them. "You will learn to field strip this weapon and reassemble it like you would brush your teeth. Then and only then, will you learn to properly fire this weapon."

Long before they were given any live ammo, they were drilled in the operation and maintenance of the weapon. While Cole had been known for possibly having the cleanest rifle in Europe, he also knew that these rifles were real workhorses and highly forgiving. They tended to function no matter how much abuse was thrown at them, which made the M-1 a solid military weapon. Short of packing the action or the barrel with mud, the damn thing would still shoot straight.

But the Army had its way of doing things, and that included endlessly cleaning the M-1. Once again, the kid who had lagged behind in his running also had trouble stripping his rifle and putting it back together again. No surprise there.

Cole watched him struggle for a while, desperately practicing in the few minutes before lights out, then sat down next to him on the footlocker.

"It ain't a wrestling match," Cole said. "This rifle was made to come apart, and fit back together, smooth as can be."

"If you say so."

"Don't believe me, huh? Try it again."

This time, Cole put his hands over top of Tommy’s, guiding him through the disassembly and assembly, starting by swinging the trigger guard forward, unlocking the action so that it could be removed from the stock. They moved on to removing the spring. Once they were finished, Cole had him run through it again. And again.

Now, the kid was grinning. "I got it!"

"Better," Cole agreed. "All it takes is practice. Now, do it again."

The kid gave him a look. "You got me through that run the other day, and now this. Why are you helping me?"

"I'm not just helping you, kid. I'm helping us all. Who gets the blame when one of us screws up? We all do, right?"

"Well, thanks, anyhow. You saved my bacon."

"Like I said, we're all part of the same pig, kid."

Finally, the day came for the rifle range. Most of the men were excited about getting to shoot live ammunition after days spent merely cleaning or drilling with their rifles.

Cole wasn't as eager. He knew that the drill instructor expected a lot out of him and would be watching him closely. The sergeant wasn't the only one. A handful of other sergeants and non-coms had gathered to see the show. Apparently, word had gotten out that Caje Cole, one of the deadliest U.S. snipers of the previous war, had returned to the range.

The sergeant went through the instructions. It made Cole more than a little nervous that he put so much emphasis on keeping the rifles pointed down range. The last thing that Cole wanted was to get shot in boot camp. He looked around for the kid and hoped that he was listening. If anyone was going to forget his muzzle discipline, it was that one.

Cole mused that around the world, Americans had this reputation as all being gunslingers — either cowboys or gangsters or maybe even pioneer holdouts from the days of Daniel Boone. Sure, there were a few like that — Cole included. But he recalled that his old spotter and fellow sniper, Vaccaro, hadn't done any shooting other than at the carnival games at Coney Island. Vaccaro had caught on eventually and become a passable shot, but he was probably more typical of the average American. The legends about Americans being crack shots and expert riflemen were just that — legends.

The presence of the sergeant nearby pulled Cole out of his reverie. He nodded at Cole and said, "I've been looking forward to seeing what you got. I expect to see some real shooting out there today."

"Yes, sir."

In squads, the soldiers approached the firing line. Their first position would be prone, possibly because it was harder for a man to wave his rifle around and accidentally shoot something when he was lying on the ground. Some of the more enterprising men had stuffed cotton into their ears of their own accord — the army hadn't gotten around to worrying about hearing protection. The targets themselves were rectangular, roughly the size of a man's torso, and covered with a bullseye. At this range, the targets were the army's equivalent of hitting the broad side of a barn, but he was sure that some of the men in his squad would find the targets challenging, nonetheless.

Cole took his position. A flag fluttered downrange, signaling that the range was in use. The fabric also gave Cole an indication of which way the wind was blowing, so that he could adjust his shooting.

He followed the sergeant's commands, barely listening. He sure as hell didn't need someone to tell him how to shoot. The stock fit perfectly against his shoulder and against his cheek. These were open sights, not a telescope, but the targets were close enough. Cole breathed deeply, enjoying the autumn sun on his face and the smell of gun oil on the warm, gleaming metal of the rifle barrel. Around him, the other men began to fire.

Dimly, he was aware that the sergeant had come to stand just behind him.

Cole's finger began to take up tension on the trigger.

For Cole, the target had an almost gravitational pull. His bullets wanted to find that target in the same way that the moon circled the earth or the earth circled the sun.

But he reminded himself that he needed to keep his head down. Stubbornly, he had decided that he wasn't going to play the army's game. Cole the sniper was in the past. Wasn't he?

The rifle bucked against his shoulder, not that the M-1 had a bad kick. The rifle's gas system lessened the recoil compared to Cole's old Springfield.

Cole fired five carefully placed shots.

Behind him, the sergeant grunted. "I've got to say, that's goddamn disappointing."

At this distance, it was easy enough to see that not one of Cole's shots had hit the target.

"I reckon I've lost my touch, sir," Cole said.

"Goddammit, Cole, that's not all you've lost. You lost me a fifty-dollar bet with the other sergeants that you would hit the bullseye."

After Cole's performance on the range, which did not improve, the drill sergeant no longer seemed interested in Cole, who did what he was told and worked hard not to stand out. In fact, the only time that the sergeant paid Cole the slightest attention was one day when he cut through the kitchen where Cole was on KP duty, paring knife in one hand and potato in the other.

"Better get used to it," the sergeant said ruefully. "That might just be all that you're good for in Korea if you can't shoot straight."

Cole tossed a freshly peeled potato into the pot and said, "I reckon that's just fine by me, sir."