Sniper Ridge

Chapter Ten

Paring knife in hand, Cole studied the potato that he held. It was just as unremarkable as the hundreds of other potatoes that had passed through his hands recently. Reckon I'd be happy if I don't never see another spud again so long as I live. Leastways, not a potato on the wrong side of his plate.

But that was kitchen duty for you, so he didn't have much room to complain. This is what he had asked for, in a way, to be sequestered from the fighting, to not be carrying a rifle, to just bide his time until he could go home again to the mountains.

If that meant peeling an actual mountain of potatoes to get there, that would be just fine with him.

Or was it? Deep down, Cole knew that him being here in the kitchen was like sending a tiger to catch a mouse. Mostly, he was worried about Pomeroy and the kid. Pomeroy could handle himself, but Cole knew that the man was hiding the fact that he was still hurting after the Chosin Reservoir. Pomeroy was no better than an old jalopy with a new coat of paint. As for the kid, he had a lot of spirit, but he needed someone to be there watching his back.

He thought about the kid writing a letter home and hoped to hell that it wouldn't be the last one that the kid wrote. He would have been part of the assault force that had moved out before dawn. They'd be getting into it soon, Cole knew, because now they could hear the artillery softening up the enemy positions.

It ought to be me going out there, Cole thought, reaching for another spud. Instead, here I am, peeling potatoes.

Since the incident with Tater, everyone pretty much let him alone in the kitchen. Settling that bully's hash had not made him into a mess-tent hero — not that this was the reason Cole had beaten the man down. Besides, Cole didn't have any regrets. The man had it coming.

However, the incident had left the other kitchen staff more than a little fearful of him. Somewhere along the line, word had gotten out that Cole was in the Army to avoid prison for killing two men. Maybe he had Tommy Wilson to thank for letting that little gem slip? No matter — if the rest of the kitchen staff left him alone, so much the better.

Slowly, Cole was working his way through that huge pile of potatoes. He wouldn't even think about all the pots he would have to scrub later. His rough hands were even more raw and red.

This was more than enough to keep him busy for now. He had gotten all the scut jobs, that was for certain sure.

In some ways, a battlefield commander could learn a few lessons from the mess tent cooks. Men ran back and forth, carrying trays and kettles brimming with soup, scalding hot pots of coffee, and stacks of dirty dishes and utensils. The scene was chaotic, and yet somehow everything ran just fine, with soldiers dodging around one another without colliding or spilling a drop.

"Make way!" someone shouted, lugging an oversized pot. "Coming through!" The busy staff parted before him like the Red Sea had made way for Moses.

Cole shook his head, impressed. He had seen less action on a few battlefields than in this kitchen, and that was a fact.

His thoughts were interrupted by an odd popping sound. He looked up to see that a big glass jug of vinegar on a shelf near his head had shattered, spewing its contents everywhere. That was remarkable enough, until a Number 10 can of green beans sitting on the same shelf suddenly sprang a hole and began spouting bean juice across the broken glass and scattered vinegar. It was the damnedest thing. Mighty strange.

Cole had no idea what was going on, other than that there was now a bigger mess to clean up. He turned back to his potatoes.

But then, one of the soldiers carrying a big tray cried out sharply in pain and dropped the tray, before following it to the floor himself.

The kitchen workers saw what was going on, but barely stopped what they were doing, no more than momentarily sidetracked as they rushed through their duties. Another can on the shelf sprang a leak. A soldier stumbled and fell as he was carrying a pot. He didn't get back up, but lay still in a puddle of soup.

What the hell?

Then Cole figured it out. They were taking fire. Bullets zipped through the kitchen, but the rifle fire was so far away, and the clatter of the kitchen and cooking food was so loud, that they couldn't hear the actual gunshots in the distance. Still, there was no doubt that they were under fire. Cole got down on the floor with all those potato peelings.

That's when a soldier came running in from the mess hall.

"We're under attack!" he shouted. "The Chinese are coming down out of the hills like goddamn locusts."

Having delivered his message, the soldier spun on his heels and ran out.

Most of the men in the mess tent were not combat effectives and had not seen much in the way of action — at least as much as that was possible in a war zone. They didn't really know what to do.

For his own part, Cole was glad to be done with those goddamn potatoes. He tossed aside his paring knife.

"Get down!" he yelled at the others as more cans sprang leaks and jars shattered. Hit by a bullet, a big cast-iron frying pan hanging over a stove rang like a gong. "Best grab your rifles, boys, unless you plan on inviting them Chinese to supper."

Taking his own advice, Cole began crawling on his hands and knees between the tables and racks, making his way toward the door.

For a while now, Cole had been carrying his rifle into the mess hall, although most of the others didn't bother to do that anymore, although it was part of regulations in a combat zone. This morning’s incursion by the Chinese was a case in point. How did the others plan to fight them off — maybe with a ladle?

Cole ripped off his white mess hat along with his apron, grabbed his rifle from where he had left it near the doorway, and ran out into a world of chaos.

It wasn't full daylight yet, so the surroundings were murky, but flares lit the sky. Fired by the Chinese, the slow-burning flares overhead turned the gray dawn into day, as if lightning had frozen in the sky to reveal the surrounding hills. The pale, flickering light illuminated a nightmarish scene of confused soldiers running in every direction.

Adding to the chaotic scene, Cole heard trumpets, bugles, banging drums, and whistles. These alien sounds provoked fear and confusion among the Americans. In the distance, he could see lines of enemy troops streaming down from the hills. It was the Chosin Reservoir all over again. He could scarcely believe his own eyes. Was this really happening?

The Chinese forces drove like a spear point into the flank of the forces on the ridge and into the rear encampment as well. The entire camp had been thrown into chaos by the attack that had come without warning. Most of the combat troops were on the nearest ridge, ready to launch an attack. Support troops scurried everywhere, almost like ants.

Everywhere he looked in the blazing light, American positions were a jumble of confusion. A few officers and sergeants shouted and ran around trying to organize a defense, but Cole had his own plan in mind. Ignoring them, Cole ran on alone, thinking that he just wanted to find Pomeroy and the kid, Tommy Wilson. There was a chance that he could help them and in a mess like this, you needed your friends watching your back. They would need him, and so would the entire squad if it was coming up against an attack.

The question was, where were they? Somewhere on the ridge ahead.

He grabbed a company clerk who was running past — away from the Chinese, Cole noticed. Then again, it was his experience that when men were running away, it was usually for a good reason. "Where's Fox Company at?"

"Over there on the ridge," the clerk said. "Trying to hold back the Chinese. God help 'em."

Cole let the man go and ran in that direction. Sniper Ridge was just beyond HQ and the unit had been up there before. If nothing else, he would add his rifle to help the poor bastards who were trying to defend that position right now in the frenzied semi-darkness.

It was hard to tell who was friend and who was foe. The ghostly, quilted uniforms of the Chinese soldiers were well-suited to the gloaming and hid them well. Only at the last instant did the defenders see them as they surged out of the pre-dawn darkness.

Another clue was that most of the enemy was shouting insanely in a language that Cole couldn't even begin to understand. Sounded like gibberish to him.

Two Chinese charged at him out of the darkness. Cole simply leveled his rifle at them and pulled the trigger without even aiming, dropping first one man and then the other. He went to one knee, scanning the darkness and sure enough, two more Chinese came out of nowhere. Cole fired twice and these other enemy soldiers met the same fate.

He got up and ran on, heading for the ridge. All around him, he could hear more bugles and shouts, along with the staccato crackle of small arms fire. Tracer rounds stitched the gloom, creating a crazy quilt of fire coming down from the nearest hills. If it hadn't been so terrifying, it might have been beautiful, like some fascinating Fourth of July fireworks show, but there was no time to stand still and watch. The red tracers erupted across the level plain that held the encampment. It was a wonder that he hadn't been hit.

Cole jumped over a body, realizing it was a dead American in a white apron. Some poor bastard from the mess tent had bought it. The Chinese attack was having deadly consequences.

He had to keep going. More Chinese surged in his direction and Cole emptied the M1 at them, then jumped down into a foxhole so that he could reload without being exposed. The enemy troops rushed by, not noticing him in the murkiness of the early morning light.

As he held his breath, Cole quickly realized that he was not alone in the bottom of the foxhole. Someone else was there. It was a strange thing, but he could actually smell that it wasn't an American. The cowering body next to him reeked of garlic or onions. Definitely not hamburgers and fried potatoes and cigarettes, which was the aroma that usually hung about American troops. No, this was a Chinese stink.

In the light from an overhead flare, Cole could see a terrified round face next to him, eyes wide as saucers. The man did not even seem to have a rifle, but only stared at Cole, mumbling something that might have been a prayer. Maybe the poor bastard was just trying to surrender. If the enemy soldier had been of a mind to, he could have shot or bayoneted Cole as soon as he jumped into the hole.

Grateful that he was still breathing, Cole didn't want this frightened soldier to start shouting and alert the large number of Chinese troops running past Cole.

Cole put his finger to his lips in the universal gesture for silence, all the while keeping his rifle aimed in the enemy soldier's direction. The man saw Cole's gesture and nodded furiously.

Cole finished reloading his rifle, stuck his head above the rim of the hole to make sure there weren't any Chinese in the vicinity, and then crawled out and started running again toward the ridge.

It was fine by him if that Chinese fella in the foxhole wanted to sit this fight out. Good luck to him.

Now, the attackers had brought a few mortars into play and the shells fell among the tents and trucks, adding to the chaos. Metal splinters whistled through the air. Cole kept running, away from the chaos behind him and toward the ridge ahead.

On the American side, the artillery was still raining shells on the Chinese lines, cloaking the sounds of the Chinese attack on the rear. How the artillery could tell what they were firing at, Cole had no idea. However, it had been his experience that artillery fire didn't need to be all that accurate. Nobody was going to mistake one of those big guns for a sniper rifle anytime soon.

He ran forward, keeping low, not completely sure who was nearby in the darkness. The whole damn situation was crazy. If he had any sense, he'd go and run in the other direction. He reckoned, though, that there wasn't any safe place to go. Not with the Chinese swarming in the dawn. Cole ran on, leaping a low wall of sandbags, then dodging a fresh mortar crater.

He finally reached the ridge with its defensive line, where men were firing in the general direction of the Chinese, not even aware of the attack on the rear. It was hard to say if the shooting was doing any good. Cole ran down the line, recognizing a few of the other soldiers. Finally, he saw Pomeroy and the kid next to each other behind a pile of rocks. Both of them looked up in surprise when Cole slid into position next to them.

"Where the hell have you been?" Pomeroy asked.

"Peeling potatoes," Cole said. "Thought I'd take a break."

"Well, it's about time you showed up. Glad you're here. We saved some of these Chinese for you.”

"I'll see what I can do," Cole said.

He looked out at the grayness ahead of them, noticing that the landscape seemed to shift like something fluid, and realized he wasn't looking at rocks and hills, but at an oncoming line of enemy troops. Unless they got lucky, in the next few minutes the American line was about to be overrun.

Cole fired the rifle until the action locked open. That was all the ammo that he had. He wished that he still had his old Springfield. A thought occurred to him. "Where the hell is your fancy new sniper, anyhow?"

"Dead," Pomeroy said, nodding toward the body located several feet forward of the squad's position. "He got himself plugged right off the bat. Looks like he tangled with a Chinese sniper."

"Goddamn idiot," Cole said. "There's no cover there. What was he thinking?"

"Worst of it is that he almost got the kid killed, too. The kid was spotting for him."

Cole looked over at the kid, who, despite the terror evident on his face, was still managing to fire at the oncoming enemy troops.

"I want his rifle," Cole said, then corrected himself. "My rifle."

"You can't go out there. It's suicide."

"Right now, being on this whole dang ridge is suicide," Cole said. "Cover me."

He crouched and ran toward Heywood's body. With professional interest, he noted that the bullet had struck Heywood square in chest. Cole could see the man's eyes staring. Unless that had been a lucky shot, the Chinese sniper opposite them was awfully good.

Keeping that in mind, Cole threw himself flat on the rock, willing his belly to sink into the stone. He kept Heywood's body in front of him, using it like a sandbag. A bullet thwacked into the corpse. That was no stray bullet. The Chinese sniper was still out there, and he had definitely seen Cole.

Cole reached out and got a grip on the rifle strap, but there was a problem. The rifle wouldn't come free, having been partially pinned under Heywood's dead weight. Cole tugged harder, which jiggled Heywood's body. Thwack, went another bullet.

Cole slid forward, keeping himself as low as possible. The rim of his helmet grated against the rock, but he didn't dare take it off right now.

He let go of the strap and got a better grasp on the rifle stock itself. His hands moved over the familiar wood and got a good grip. He bunched the strength in his upper arms and shoulders, preparing to give a mighty tug to free the rifle, but to his surprise, the rifle slid free as smoothly as a sword from a scabbard.

He and Old Betsy were back in business.

Heywood had extra clips stuffed into his pockets, and Cole fished those out.

He peered back over his shoulder at the several feet of bare, rock ledge that he would need to cross to rejoin the rest of the squad. Wasn't gonna happen, not with that sniper on him like a fly on horse manure. He'd only managed to get out here in the first place because the sniper's attention must have been elsewhere. Now, that sniper would be waiting for his next move. He'd have to shoot his way out.

Slowly, he eased the rifle across Heywood's body. At least the dead man was proving useful, after all. He sure as hell hadn't lasted long as a sniper.

The daylight was growing fast toward an overcast autumn day, but the dim light was alive with muzzle flashes and tracer fire. This was a distraction, but Cole's practiced eye knew just what it was looking for.

There. Just as another bullet struck the corpse, Cole spotted a muzzle flash just about where he expected the Chinese sniper to be lurking. Keeping the sight picture of where he had seen that flash, he fired back.

Then came another muzzle flash. Another bullet hit Heywood's body.

He worked the bolt, fired again just where he had seen that flash.

From the Chinese side, Chen watched the battle unfold. It was clear that the Americans had planned to launch an attack, but had not expected to be struck first by the Chinese. Yet more evidence, he thought, that the Americans were overconfident fools.

"There, on your right. I think it is an American officer," Wu said helpfully, binoculars pressed tight to his eyes.

Chen grunted in reply. He was sure that in Wu's report, every man that Chen shot would be an officer. Under Wu’s helpful supervision, of course.

He pulled the trigger. The man went down.

Then something else caught Chen's eye. He saw a man break away from the main line of defense and dart a few feet forward, too fast for Chen to get a shot at him. Scurrying like a true American rat. To his surprise, this rat had run right to where the American sniper had fallen.

"Did you see that?" the sharp-eyed Wu said. Chen was impressed; Wu was starting to catch on to this sniping business. "He's up to something."

"I saw him," Chen said. It was likely that the man had run out to retrieve the dead man's sniper rifle. He tried to pick the soldier off, but he was taking cover behind his dead comrade. Chen fired anyhow, hitting the corpse, giving the man something to think about.

"You missed," Wu said.

Chen ignored him. Instead, he kept his eye tight against the scope, focused on the ridge below, hoping that the man would raise his head just enough to give Chen a target.

The man below chanced a look, raising his head sufficiently for Chen to glimpse the symbol painted on the front of his helmet. With a jolt, he realized that he had seen this symbol before. The American sniper from the Chosin Reservoir had a similar flag on his helmet.

Wu had seen it, too. "What's he got on his helmet? I don't recognize that insignia."

"It is a flag," Chen said.

"Shoot him!"

Before he could fire, the man had ducked his head. Again, Chen fired anyway.

He felt a whisper of uneasiness. In all the months since the Chosin Reservoir, he had not seen any other soldiers with that symbol. Could this be the same man that he had confronted at the Chosin Reservoir? He must be a marksman; why else would he have made an effort to retrieve the dead sniper's rifle?

As if in answer to Chen's question, a bullet came in, whipping past off to his left. The American must be shooting at him. However, there was almost nothing to see, no target for him to aim at. Instead, he fired again into the corpse, hoping to rattle the marksman.

For his trouble, a bullet struck inches from where Chen hid, stinging his face with particles of rock and dirt. The bullet made a twang sound as it ricocheted off the stone ledge. He glanced over at Major Wu, who was wide-eyed with surprise. The zip of bullets overhead was one thing, but there was something about the sound of a ricochet that was enough to shiver anyone's spine.

The American sniper must have zeroed in on his muzzle flash. It was time to go.

"We have to move," he said to Wu.

For once, the political officer didn't seem to mind taking an order.

Without waiting to see if the enemy sniper would shoot back, Cole slithered backward across the rock. Hopefully, he had at least convinced the son of a bitch to duck. Cole scooted back, half-expecting to get shot in the head at any moment.

Something pounded him in the hip, but he kept going. His side grew wet.

Once he got closer to the squad's position, he felt two pairs of strong hands grab him by the ankles and start to pull him back. He didn't resist as he was hauled into the foxhole. He lay in the bottom, panting.

"Am I hit? Am I hit?" Oddly, he didn't feel any pain.

Pomeroy patted him down, looking him over. "I think you're still in one piece."

"Goddamn."

He suddenly felt desperately thirsty, and Cole reached for his canteen. There was nothing in it. There was now a large bullet hole in his canteen, which explained why he had felt something strike his hip, along with the wetness. Another couple of inches and the sniper's bullet would have shattered his hip.

Pomeroy noticed the damaged canteen. "That was close."

"Somebody give me their canteen, dammit." The kid handed his over, and Cole gulped the water down greedily

He noticed the reporter nearby, cradling the camera in his hands. Bullets zipped overhead, but he seemed intent only on taking pictures. Cole reckoned the reporter was either dedicated, or a dang fool. He'd had a weapon slung over his shoulder before, but now it was nowhere to be seen.

"Get down," Cole snapped at him.

"That was amazing!"

The reporter started to level his camera at Cole.

"Hold on, boy. Take my picture and I'll shoot your ass."

Pomeroy recognized Cole's tone. "Better put that away. He's serious.”

"All right. Sorry.

"Don't worry about shooting pictures right now. Shoot some Chinese. Where's your carbine?"

"Right there." The soldier had leaned it against the wall of the foxhole. Dang fool, Cole decided. The Chinese are attacking and he’s busy taking pictures.

"Get your weapon and start pulling the trigger or the only thing you get in the paper will be your name on the casualties list."

Pomeroy was smirking at him. "You ready to go back to the mess tent yet?" he asked.

"To hell with that," Cole said, and reached for his rifle. “I’ve peeled enough potatoes to last me a lifetime.”