Sniper Ridge

Chapter Thirteen

Cole didn't have many fond childhood memories of growing up in Gashey's Creek, which had mostly been a hardscrabble existence, but the few good memories he had were mainly of going hunting in the morning. Those were always special mornings. He recalled being awakened before dawn by his father shaking his shoulder and saying gruffly, "C'mon, boy. You gonna sleep all day?" Never mind that it was still pitch dark out.

His father had not been a demonstrative man, but the closest that he’d come to affection was making sure that his boy wore two pairs of socks to keep his feet warm, and that he had a biscuit and a piece of venison jerky in his pocket. His father sometimes made him take along an apple or two, if they had any.

"I ain't that hungry."

"You'll want it later."

"What about you?" His pa rarely took anything to eat.

"A man ought to be a little hungry when he hunts. But it ain't right to make a young 'un go hungry."

He and his father headed out into the dawn, sometimes with one of his brothers, but usually just Cole and his father. As the oldest boy, it was a rite of passage to learn the woods and mountains in the same way that the Coles had been doing since the days of buckskin and flintlocks.

While it was true that his father was a failure at many things, including staying sober and providing for his family, he was a natural outdoorsman. He was what the old-timers called a woodsy. When he wasn’t drinking the moonshine that he made back in the hills, his pa had been good at teaching Cole everything that he knew about the woods and the mountains and the animals that dwelt there. Cole had absorbed it all in the way that only young boys can, soaking up the lessons like the moss of the forest floor soaks up the rain.

Now on this autumn morning in Korea, he was going hunting again, but this time the game was far more dangerous. He was going after the Chinese sniper that had taken up residence on Sniper Ridge, which overlooked Triangle Hill and the American position.

The enemy sniper had picked off half a dozen men yesterday alone and was causing consternation among the Americans. While mortars and artillery did more damage, there was something intensely personal about a sniper. A lot of boys were just plain scared to poke their nose out of a trench or foxhole, and with good reason.

It was time to put an end to the sniper's reign of terror.

"Cole, I'm sending you up there to take care of that sniper once and for all," Lieutenant Ballard had said. "You know what? This isn't even coming from me. This comes directly from company HQ. They want that sniper over and done with. I told them, I have just the man for the job. Don't prove me wrong."

"Yes, sir," was all that Cole replied, hoping that the enemy sniper would cooperate and put himself in Cole's sights in short order.

He was taking Pomeroy with him this morning as a spotter.

"You ready yet?" he asked impatiently, looking toward where Pomeroy was stuffing a rucksack with a few things to bring along this morning. They had canteens, a handful of rations, and spare ammo, but aside from these essentials, they traveled light.

Cole had his rifle, of course, and Pomeroy carried binoculars to scan the opposite ridge. Cole's rangy legs warmed to the climb, while Pomeroy struggled a bit on his damaged feet — how he had managed to stay in the Army, Cole wasn't entirely sure. Either Pomeroy was a good liar, or else the military was so desperate for veteran soldiers that the doctors had agreed to return him to active duty when he asked. Pomeroy had gumption; he'd give him that.

They headed toward the front line. The camp around them was still sleepy and shaking off the dawn. The air felt chill, and they were glad for their jackets, but so far, the autumn days turned pleasantly warm once the sun had been up for a few hours.

No one challenged them on any of the paths up toward the ridge. Cole had found that carrying a scoped rifle eliminated most questions. Nobody felt inclined to ask a sniper for too many details.

"What did you have in mind this morning, Hillbilly?" Pomeroy asked.

"I reckoned we should start out in the sector that the sniper shot up yesterday," Cole said.

"You think he'll return to the scene of the crime?" Pomeroy asked, a little surprised. "I thought you said that snipers like to move around."

"I don't know if he'll be back," Cole admitted. "It wouldn't necessarily be a good idea to return to the same place, but he knows he's got himself easy pickings up there. Nobody was even shooting back at him."

"Might not be so easy this morning once we get there," Pomeroy said.

"That's the plan," Cole agreed. "But let's see how it turns out. He might pick an entirely different section to hunt in today."

"Hunt in? That's one hell of a way to put it. Hunting for our guys."

They climbed higher up the ridge, the exercise keeping them warm against the morning nip. They tried not to break a sweat, though, because sitting around in their damp clothes was a sure-fire way to feel chilled to the bone.

The morning was cool, but nothing like the Chosin Reservoir had been last winter. It had gotten so cold that the gun oil froze inside of rifles, rendering them useless. Some men who lacked proper winter gear had frozen to death in their foxholes. Their staring eyes frosted with a rime of ice wasn't a sight that Cole was going to forget anytime soon.

And that was just the cold. The situation had been compounded by nearly suicidal assaults by waves of Chinese troops, some of whom hadn't even been carrying weapons.

Cole glanced over at Pomeroy, who had been there alongside him at that godawful place. The kid had survived it, too. It was hard to get the memory or the chill of that place out of your bones. Cole shuddered all over again, just thinking about it.

"Hold up," Pomeroy said, breathing hard.

"You got to cut back on them coffin nails."

"Yeah, yeah."

They both paused for a few minutes and drank from their canteens, catching their breath. The sky had taken on a pale pink tone above the crest of the hills. A hunter's dawn, if ever there was one, Cole thought. He took that as a good sign.

When they reached the top of the ridge, they could see the line of soldiers dug in, facing the enemy position on the opposite hill. The soldiers looked about how you might expect, which was cold and miserable. Nobody gave him and Pomeroy a second look, except for a sergeant, who waved them over.

"Glad you're here," the sergeant said. He looked to be a tough old bird, with an unlit cigar clamped between square teeth. "Can you hit something with that rifle, or is this just another headquarters show?"

Cole ignored that and asked, "Where's he at?"

"He was right across from us yesterday," the sergeant replied. "Couldn't see him, but he sure as hell could see us. That son of a bitch killed some good men up here."

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

The sergeant looked him up and down, gazing for a moment at the Confederate flag painted on Cole's helmet, and then said, "Damn boy, I believe you just might know how to use that rifle, after all."

"We'll see."

They moved along the American position, seeking out a good place to set up. Cole was looking for cover and concealment. There was plenty of that to be found on this rocky, boulder-strewn ridge.

Finally, they reached a section of trench that nobody else seemed to want and they crawled into it. The bottom was muddy, and the hole smelled strongly of urine, but it was roomy enough for them both and positioned well for a clear view of the opposing ridge.

"Home sweet home," Pomeroy said. "All this place needs is maybe some new curtains and a throw rug."

He moved away from Cole and dug the binoculars out of the haversack.

However, Cole had a few arrangements to make first, none of which involved new curtains or throw rugs. Using the weak light of dawn as cover, when hopefully he would still be hidden from prying eyes, he crawled back out of the trench and arranged several rocks along the rim, doing it as artfully as he could so that it wasn't obvious that he had built himself a little wall there. He left just enough of a gap for him to put his rifle through.

Of course, the barrel of the rifle itself was wrapped in a strip of faded khaki cloth to help it blend into the surroundings. A few feet away, to Cole's right, Pomeroy would have enough of a gap to glass the enemy position with the binoculars, also wrapped in strips of cloth. Pomeroy could get the big picture and direct Cole to any activity over there.

Several hundred feet separated the ridges. They could certainly see any enemy soldiers over there without using binoculars or the scope, but it would have been hard if not impossible to hit anything using open sights. The sight itself would have blotted out the ant-like figures.

In the distance between the two ridges lay the shallow valley that the American soldiers had stormed across just days ago in their attack on Sniper Ridge. They had pushed the Chinese off for less than twenty-fours hours before a Chinese counter-attack put the ridge back in enemy hands.

Thinking about the men who had died that morning, it was a bitter pill to swallow, but that was Korea for you, Cole thought. Nothing more than a game of tug of war.

"What do you think?" Pomeroy asked. "Good spot?"

"I reckon it's as good as any," Cole said.

It was true that from where they were located, they could see much of any activity up and down Sniper Ridge. Of course, that activity on the part of the enemy would be limited once full daylight arrived, along with the American planes that would punish the enemy position as much as possible.

However, the planes had to be careful because some of the Chinese positions were now well defended and even included anti-aircraft guns, creating an unpleasant surprise at times for the pilots. There were even rumors that the Chinese were getting their own jets, some kind of Soviet fighter called a MiG, but they had yet to see one in the skies.

There was no doubt that the longer the war went on, the better equipped that the Chinese seemed to be, thanks to their Soviet allies. The Soviets were not providing the Chinese with first-rate weaponry, possibly in fear that the Chinese might in turn use it against the Soviets. However, the Chinese were welcome to their military castoffs and surplus from the last war.

Pomeroy already had the binoculars to his eyes. "Look at that," he said. "I already see something moving. Your two o'clock. Looks like three guys carrying stuff, maybe chow to their buddies in the trenches."

Cole eased the rifle that way and picked them up in the scope. He could, in fact, see two men making their way through the trenches over there, their heads and shoulders visible, but as they crossed an open area he saw that they were indeed carrying what might have been pails of food.

They would have been easy enough targets, but Cole took his finger off the trigger. He wasn't out here this morning to shoot the mess crew. He was here to target an enemy sniper and he wasn't ready to give away his own position just yet.

He knew that the element of surprise was worth a great deal. It wouldn't be easy and Cole hated to do it, but he planned to let the enemy marksman fire first at an unsuspecting American boy. He needed to draw out the enemy like poison from a wound.

Awful as that plan was, Cole knew that the sniper would then have revealed himself. Hopefully, Cole would then be able to put his crosshairs on the enemy sniper and eliminate him for good.

Cole bided his time, but his trigger finger was getting itchy.