Sniper Ridge

Chapter Twelve

With the Chinese pushed off Sniper Ridge, the objective had been met and the advance against the enemy was halted. Some of the men stayed to hold the position, anticipating a counter-attack at any moment. The bulk of the men, Cole's battered squad among them, made their weary way back to the main encampment. Their role in the days ahead would be to plug holes as needed in the lines. Until then, they had a welcome chance for a hot meal and some sleep.

For Don Hardy, however, there would be no rest for the weary. He had been sent to this forward unit as a reporter, and now he had an article to write. He had to report on what had happened on the battlefield.

His first order of business was to secure a typewriter.

"You can use this one while I'm getting some chow," declared the same sergeant who had issued him the M-1 carbine. "The T and the H get hung up if you type too fast and the O is all gunked up, but you're welcome to have at it."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

"Hey, did you ever use that weapon?"

"Sure I did. I loaned it to one of the men who needed a crutch."

The sergeant shook his head, but he was grinning. "I just hope that you're a better writer than you are a soldier," he said. "That was one hell of a fight. Make us famous."

No sooner had the sergeant vacated his chair, then Hardy got to work. If his first order of business had been to secure a typewriter, his second order of business had been to find a large mug of coffee. Sure, Hemingway and more than a few other writers would have preferred a good slug of whiskey, but Hardy figured that would just put him to sleep.

Lucky for him, there was a large pot going in the headquarters tent and nobody seemed to mind if he helped himself. Somebody had left a cracked mug near the coffee pot. He filled the mug with coffee and guzzled it down, enjoying the hot liquid pouring down his parched throat, the rush of energy it gave him. He could have used something to eat, but that would have to wait for now. He poured another mug and got to work.

Like any young journalist worth his salt, he favored a good literary allusion. The snatch of poetry that had come to him on the battlefield returned for inspiration: Into the valley of Death/Rode the six hundred… Into the jaws of Death/Into the mouth of hell. Where would he be without having had to memorize that Lord Tennyson poem back in high school?

Tennyson had been writing about the Crimean War a century ago, but aside from the lack of horses and sabres, Hardy supposed that war hadn't changed all that much.

He began to type. Quickly, he discovered that the sergeant had been correct about the keys sticking. In fact, they all got tangled up when he started to type too fast. As it turned out, not just the O was gummed up with old ink, but also the E and the P and the… well, just about every letter. The ribbon was fading fast. Although Hardy knew how to type with his fingers spread across a QWERTY keyboard, the keys on the battered manual typewriter required so much effort to use that he was forced to use a two-finger approach so that he could hit the keys with enough force to make an impression on the page.

This slower act of writing enabled him to work in a few more poetic descriptions. He just hoped that the sergeant took his time in the mess tent so that he could finish typing.

The article went on like that for a good eight hundred words of rather purple prose sprinkled liberally with half-remembered lines from the Tennyson poem and a crazy quilt of literary allusions. One of Hardy's English professors at Purdue had once complained that Hardy hadn't met an adverb or adjective he didn't like, and he didn't prove the professor wrong now. He would have kept on going with his poetic account now that the words and descriptions were flowing, but the sergeant had reappeared and needed his typewriter back to type up casualty reports.

In consolation, the sergeant had brought the reporter a sandwich.

"I figured you could use it," the sergeant said. "Typing on this thing is basically a wrestling match."

Hardy spooled out the sheets and stuffed them in an envelope, along with the roll of film that he had shot. There was no darkroom here on the front for developing film, even though Hardy had some skill with that.

He had used just one roll of the black-and-white film, because the editor had been explicit about not taking too many photos. It seemed that film cost money and took time to develop.

"If you shoot more than one roll of film, I'm going to shove that camera up your ass sideways," the editor had warned.

Then Hardy found a driver heading back to take this directly to the Stars & Stripes office. The guy wouldn't have done it, except that the sergeant was listening and helpfully offered to put his boot up the driver's ass sideways if he didn't cooperate.

Hardy reflected upon how it was a wonder that half the soldiers in Korea didn't walk around funny, with so many objects up their asses sideways.

Finally, Hardy wolfed down his sandwich, feeling that all was right in the world.

Chen sat sipping green tea by a low, smoking fire. The fire struggled to burn the knotty, stunted bracken that fed it, and the tea was mostly water, but a soldier did not complain about luxuries. He could thank Major Wu for the tea, and the fire, and even for a bowl of rice with salted fish. Wu, it seemed, was pleased with him.

Just two days ago, Chen had been with Wu up on that ridge, engaging with the imperialist snipers. He had killed one easily enough, in the way that he might crush a bug. Chen had simply snuffed him out.

But the second sniper had been different. This sniper had not only escaped with his life, which was an accomplishment in itself for anyone who fell under Chen's sights, but had come so close to shooting Chen that the experience had rattled him. It was not so much the fear of death in battle — Chen had long since come to accept that this might be his fate — as it was the fact that this American could shoot so well. Here, at least, was something more like an equal. Chen knew that this must be the sniper from the Chosin Reservoir. That thought did not cause him worry, but something closer to pleasant anticipation for the hunt ahead. He was sure that his dealings with the American were far from over. They had unfinished business, the two of them.

The wind shifted slightly, blowing the smoke into the faces of the other favored soldiers and staff, and making their eyes water. It was always windy in the mountains, gusts and eddies chasing themselves like wildcats at play, but Chen had been careful to sit on the western side of the fire, keeping the strongest winds at his back and assuring that the worst of the smoke would blow away from him.

After all, it was in Chen's nature to leave nothing to chance, at least what was in his control. In Chen's mind, even something such as where to sit at the fire must be weighed carefully. Every action that one took had a consequence. Also, there was the fact that any attack by the enemy would come out of the east. Facing in that direction, Chen's keen eyes would spot the enemy planes.

Neither did Major Wu's approach escape his detection. The political officer always managed to look like he was on dress parade. His green uniform with the flashes of red at the lapels reminded Chen of a peacock in a muddy barnyard, brilliant feathers against the drab. The uniform itself appeared spotless. Chen marveled at how the major managed to stay so clean here on the front lines. His own uniform was dirty, the original bleached cotton fabric long since gone a sooty gray, and well-worn, if not quite ragged.

"There you are," said Wu. The major always managed to be smiling, but it was like the smile of the mythical trickster, Sun Wukong, and not to be trusted. "I am glad that you are enjoying your tea."

"Yes, sir."

"Good, good. I am glad that you are rested because we have more work to do."

"Yes, sir."

"First, we will be taking some photographs this morning."

Chen had no idea what the major was talking about. Major Wu might have said that first they were flying to the moon this morning. Chen had never had his picture taken.

His face must have betrayed his confusion, because Wu laughed. "Yes, we are going to shoot you this morning, and it won't hurt a bit! Come, come!"

Chen gulped the last of his tea and hurried to follow Wu, who was already striding away. He grabbed his sniper rifle and followed. Quickly, another man who had been sitting on the smoky side of the fire moved to fill the space upwind that Chen had occupied. Chen reflected that this was a good lesson that in China, someone was always waiting to take your place.

Off in the near distance, in the direction of what the Americans called Sniper Ridge, Chen could hear firing and the occasional detonation of an artillery shell. Two days ago, the Americans had pushed the Chinese off that ridge. Despite his efforts as a sniper, and even though he had shot many of the enemy down like vermin, Chen and Wu had been forced to retreat with their comrades. However, the American victory had been short-lived. Just last night, Chinese forces had used the system of tunnels and trenches on that ridge to counter-attack. The ridge was now back in Chinese possession.

Wu began to climb in that direction, with Chen following. The major paused only long enough to wave over a soldier carrying a device that Chen supposed must be a camera. Chen was a peasant and a soldier — he had never seen such a thing up close and he felt nervous about having his photograph taken. How should he act?

They reached a spot below the ridge, out of sight of the enemy's prying eyes, but where there was still a background of hills and sky.

"This will do," Wu announced. "Do you see the landscape behind us? How majestic!"

"You could take someone else's photograph, sir," Chen suggested. His nervousness prompted him to speak; with an officer, especially a political commissar, it was best to do what one was told without question. Also, he felt some familiarity with Wu because they had shared many long hours together, hunting the enemy.

Wu merely smiled in that way of his, as if thinking of something amusing that he did not plan to share with you.

The major straightened up and looked around. They were close to one of the trails leading to the ridge, and it was busy with squads moving back and forth — fresh men headed toward the fight, broken and exhausted men heading back for at least a few hours of relief and a bowl of rice.

Wu pointed at one of the straggling soldiers limping back from the battlefield. "You there! Come here!"

Having been singled out, the man had no choice but to obey. Clearly puzzled about what the officer wanted, he limped toward Wu. It was evident from the bandage around his ankle that he had been wounded in some way.

Still, the man managed to pull himself into something that resembled coming to attention.

"Sir."

Wu glared at him, the habitual smile vanished. "Why have you abandoned your post?"

The soldier appeared mystified. "Sir? I was sent back?"

"You have sent yourself back," Wu stated. “This is a case of cowardice. You are a deserter."

"Sir, I am not a deserter," the soldier stammered, confused about what was going on. Like so many in the ranks, the soldier was no more than a simple peasant.

Wu drew his pistol and leveled it at the soldier's head. Nearby, Chen watched in disbelief. The soldier was clearly not a deserter. What was Wu playing at? What could he mean by this?

The spectacle taking place here drew some attention, and the passersby slowed to see what all the trouble was about. No one interfered, not even the officers. Wu's commissar's uniform was like a talisman.

"You know the penalty for desertion," Wu said, his pistol never wavering.

He pulled the trigger and shot the man.

Chen watched helplessly as the lifeless body sagged to the ground. One moment breathing, the next moment, dead at Wu's hand. He noticed that Wu stepped away from the gushing head wound to avoid getting blood on his boots. Chen thought that he heard the photographer beside him making whimpering noises.

The major turned to them. Chen surprised himself again by speaking up. "Was that man really a deserter, sir?"

"Of course not. But he was not useful to me — or to anyone else. Look around you. Does anyone care?"

A few of the troop on the trail glanced their way, but Wu was right — no one seemed to be too curious about the dead man at their feet.

"No, sir. No one cares."

"That man died because he was not useful to me, Chen. He was not useful to Chairman Mao. This is a good lesson for you that it is important to be useful. Now, let us take those photographs."

Under Wu's direction, Chen posed with his rifle, pretending to shoot at the enemy, while the photographer took his picture. Chen realized that Wu's demonstration had been a little too effective, judging by the nervousness of the photographer. The man could barely keep his hands from shaking in fear.

Major Wu had made his point, at the cost of a man's life. Be useful.

Today, all that Chen had to do was to pose with his rifle. Tomorrow, he would have to use that rifle and aim true. Do what he was told.

Otherwise, the message was clear that Wu might have a bullet waiting for him.

Once the photography session was over, Major Wu dismissed the photographer and turned to Chen.

"Now that we are finished here, you can get on with your real work, Chen. I won't be going with you today, however. I have other business to attend to." He paused, his trickster grin returning. "Remember what I said about being useful."

"Yes, sir."

"In other words, make these Americans pay for their imperialist arrogance."

Chen nodded, and began to climb the ridge to take up his position as a sniper.

Two days after Don Hardy had finished typing his opus on a borrowed typewriter, the result finally made it back to headquarters in the form of the newspaper. A few copies always found their way even to the front lines, and these were passed around. Lieutenant Ballard came through camp with a copy tucked under one arm. What stood out was the fact that Ballard was whistling.

"What's he so happy about?" Cole wondered.

"Oh, he's famous now," Pomeroy said, walking up from the other direction. "Or I ought to say that you're famous — there's a picture of you taking a shot with Ballard leaning over your shoulder."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. That reporter fella was busy taking lots of pictures when we attacked that ridge."

What article didn't say was that the next day, the Chinese had taken back the ridge, pouring out of the network of defensive tunnels and trenches to overwhelm the attackers. Counter-attacks were surely being planned, but no one was eager for them.

Nobody was surprised. This was how the war in Korea worked, trading hilltops back and forth as the bodies piled up and the letters went home to the families of the dead.

With the two armies facing each other across the ridges, the enemy sniper had also gone back to work.

Orders came down for Cole. The enemy sniper had to be eliminated.

It was Lieutenant Ballard who brought him the news, along with a box of ammunition that he handed to Cole.

“Take him out,” the lieutenant said.