Sniper Ridge

Chapter Fifteen

Wounded and bleeding, Pomeroy was too dizzy to walk himself down the ridge to the field hospital. The medic wrapped his hand and bandaged his head, then called for a stretcher.

"We'll have to carry you down part of the way," the medic said. "It's too steep for an ambulance to get up here."

"I can walk," Pomeroy said, but he didn't sound all that convincing. His eyes had gone a little glassy.

"Good thing you've got a hard head," Cole said. He never had been good at jokes or small talk, but this was one time where he felt like he had to try. What he didn't say was that if the bullet had gone an inch in the other direction, Pomeroy would've been a goner. He didn't have to say it because they both knew it.

A couple of stretcher-bearers came along. They were black soldiers because the military claimed to be integrated but gave jobs like this to them, rather than combat roles. They managed to get Pomeroy loaded on the stretcher. Everybody kept their heads down because the sniper was still out there, for all they knew.

Just as they started down the slope, Pomeroy told them to wait. He waved Cole over.

"You have got to get that sniper," he said, suddenly clutching at Cole's arm. "Don't let him shoot anybody else."

"I reckon I'll try," Cole said.

"It's up to you, Hillbilly. Nobody else can do it. It ends here and now."

Finally, Cole promised to find him later at the field hospital, and the stretcher-bearers carried Pomeroy away.

Cole crept back into the trench. He rarely felt at a loss, or uncertain about what to do next, but he did now. He needed to regroup. For a long time, he just sat in the bottom of the hole, his back to the wall and his rifle propped between his knees. He felt that he had let Pomeroy down in some way. Sure, Pomeroy was lucky to be alive, but he'd be a whole lot luckier if he hadn't gotten shot in the first place.

When he was ready to get back on the scope, he slipped out of the trench and into a new position, crawling in among some boulders. There was no point in making it any easier for the enemy sniper than necessary by staying in a position where he knew Cole to be. He stretched out on his belly, keeping low to the ground.

Cole positioned the rifle so that the muzzle barely protruded beyond the rocks. It would have taken eagle eyes to spot him. Meanwhile, he put his crosshairs over the spot where he had spotted the enemy sniper earlier. However, there was no sign of movement. If the sniper had any sense, then had found a different location from which to shoot, just as Cole had done.

If he was even there at all. As the day's shadows lengthened, no more bullets came from the opposite ridge. Perhaps the enemy sniper had called it a day. Clouds built to the west and began to move up and cover the sun, dispelling any of the autumn day's warmth. As the ridge slipped into shade, the wind picked up and Cole felt the cold begin to seep up through the ground. A rock was digging into his ribcage, but he ignored it. He felt a few hunger pangs and ignored those as well. The only concession to comfort was taking a few sips from his canteen when his mouth started to feel dry as cotton. The metallic-tasting water was not exactly refreshing.

What most people didn't know or understand about being a sniper, especially someone like Lieutenant Ballard, was that being able to shoot and hit a target was only part of it. Being a sniper required patience. Being a sniper also required a certain ability to turn off all those signals of discomfort that the body normally sent. That you were cold, or hungry, or that your bladder was full. All that mattered was the circular world that he saw through the rifle scope.

Cole tightened his grip on the rifle, feeling the familiar texture of the wood grain with its dings and divots from hard use. Staring through the scope for so long, without so much as blinking, was exhausting. He was glad when it started to get dark, putting an end to the day's business. Can't shoot what I can't see. He backed out of his hidey-hole like a spider.

The red evening sky touching the mountaintops had faded to black and purple as Cole got back to the camp, then made his way down to the field hospital to check on Pomeroy. He found him there on a row of cots, looking miserable, and heavily bandaged.

"Did you nail him?" was the first thing that Pomeroy wanted to know.

"No," Cole said. "He didn't show himself again."

"I meant what I said. You've got to settle his hash."

"I will," Cole said, although the words sounded doubtful to his own ears. Something about that Chinese sniper had rattled him. He decided to change the subject.

Leaning in to take a closer look at Pomeroy's heavily bandaged face, he concluded, "I've got to say, that's a face that could drive rats from a barn."

Pomeroy groaned. "Spare me the hillbillyisms."

"Ain't nothin' hillbilly about that. It's the simple truth."

"Yeah, well, I won't be here long for you to make fun of. Doc says they're gonna fly me out to Seoul, or maybe even to Tokyo."

"You done that before," Cole said, thinking of Pomeroy's serious case of frostbite after the Chosin Reservoir. During that campaign, Pomeroy had also been hit by shrapnel, receiving a flesh wound in the side. He was starting to think that maybe Pomeroy had nine lives. "Them doctors fixed you right up last time, and they will again."

"I won't be coming back this time, Cole. They wanted to send me home after the frostbite, but I talked my way out of it. I thought that I could still do some good. This time, I'm going home."

"I reckon you deserve it."

"I'd tell you to look me up sometime when you get back to the states, but I think that you'd just scare my wife and kid."

"Don’t worry about me, New Jersey. You go on home and make sure they treat you right."

"There's not a whole lot waiting for me at home," Pomeroy admitted. "Why the hell do you think I came over here."

"It's time for a fresh start, then. Ain’t never too late for that."

Pomeroy nodded, thinking it over. "Maybe you're right."

"Damn straight I’m right. Get some rest, New Jersey. I'm heading back out first thing in the mornin' after that Chinese sniper, but I'll see you tomorrow night."

Cole headed out of the hospital, but not before stopping to ask an orderly if they had brought in anyone else from Sniper Ridge.

He pointed at a cot. "That poor bastard there was the only one. There's some Chinese sniper up there who doesn't miss much."

"So I've heard."

Cole went and stood by the wounded soldier's cot. He was heavily bandaged; it looked to Cole as if he'd been hit in the neck. The soldier had his eyes closed and appeared to be sleeping soundly.

"Is he gonna make it?" Cole asked quietly.

"Maybe, although he might wish he hadn't. Doc says he won't talk again, shot in the neck like that."

Cole shook his head and got out of there, thinking that the Chinese sniper had to go. In the morning, he would try again.

Chen returned to camp that evening with a sense of satisfaction. He had performed his duties as a sniper by slaughtering more of the imperialist soldiers. This pleased him, just as it seemed to please Major Wu.

As a result, Chen found himself back at a campfire, allowed to warm his bones at the fire while most soldiers shivered in the growing dark. Although it was only October, the nights in the mountains had grown increasingly chill. Chen suspected that when they awoke in the morning, that they would find a frost — the air had that edge of dampness to it and there was little wind.

He was given a bowl of rice into which a bit of meat had been mixed. Chen chewed the gristly meat, trying to determine its origin, and decided that it was better not to think too much about it. He had seen some horses around the camp yesterday, but come to think of it, he had not seen them this evening. He ate the bowl to the last grain of rice without complaining.

Someone pressed a bottle into his hands, and Chen took a couple of swigs of liquor. He never had cared too much for alcohol, but he was grateful for the warmth it provided this evening. He felt the fiery glow spread through him and very nearly felt content.

One thought that nagged at him concerned the American sniper that he had encountered today. The thought of that other sniper was like a shadow lurking beyond the firelight. The man had seemed to know just where Chen would be. The shots that he had fired at Chen had come close.

Then again, Chen was more than a helpless target. He had managed to shoot back.

Chen was sure that he had not managed to shoot the enemy sniper, but he had definitely hit the spotter. Had he been lucky enough to kill the spotter? It was hard to say.

"You got him!" Major Wu had said gleefully, peering through his binoculars at the American position.

"What about the sniper?"

"Maybe that was him? I will certainly say so, in my report."

"I don't think that was the sniper, sir."

Wu just smiled. "Of course it was! And if it wasn't, I will report that the sniper you kill tomorrow is a different one."

"Yes, sir."

In fact, Wu had been so confident that they had ended their work early for the day, which was why Chen was now sitting here by the fire.

But Chen knew that Wu could write all the reports that he wanted, but that the American sniper would still be out there. Chen would have another chance at him tomorrow.

The bottle came round again, but Chen simply passed it along. He did not need a wooden head in the morning, not with the enemy that he faced.

Instead of sitting by the fire and drinking, he moved some distance away and spread out his blanket roll. His front still felt some warmth from the fire, but his back felt cold. Next, Chen began cleaning his rifle.

There wasn't much else to occupy his time. He had to admit that back before he had become a communist, army life was more fun. Gambling had been allowed back then, for example. The stakes were never high, but it was a way for soldiers to pass the time. Drinking was allowed to some extent only because there was only so much austerity that the soldiers could stand. Women could be bought cheaply.

At that time, no one wrote letters home. Most of the Chinese soldiers could neither read nor write, anyhow, and that included Chen. Besides, there was nothing like a postal service. The only way that a letter made it home was by giving it to someone who might be returning to your home province. Eventually, being passed from one person to the next, the letter would find its way to the right person. The communist government had no postal service because it preferred its citizens not being able to communicate — communication only meant trouble.

Chen was still cleaning his rifle when Major Wu appeared. Wu was rarely alone, and this time was no exception. With him was one of the military advisors from the Soviet Union. There were several such men in camp. Their role was to observe the Chinese in battle and provide training for some of the Chinese troops using the antiquated military gear provided by the Soviet Union. Mostly, the Soviet observers simply watched, serving as Stalin's eyes and ears.

"There you are!" Wu said, grinning. Chen suspected that the grin was similar to that of a fox that had just entered a farmyard filled with chickens. "Have you eaten?"

This was the universal question that all Chinese asked one another, even if one man was a political officer, and the other was a simple marksman with a rifle.

"Yes, sir," Chen replied. "I am grateful."

Wu nodded, beaming as if he had prepared the bowl of horse meat and rice himself.

"This is one of our brothers from the Soviet Union," Wu explained, gesturing at the Red Army soldier. The man's face remained impassive, so it was difficult to tell whether or not he understood a word of Chinese. "I wanted to show him what one of our snipers looks like."

Wu turned to the Soviet officer, and with a few halting words in what must have been Russian, and with gestures, he conveyed his information to the man.

Chen had detached the scope from his rifle, and the Soviet officer picked it up and looked it over carefully. Smiling, the man said something in Russian back to Major Wu, then laughed.

Wu laughed back, as if what the Soviet officer had said to him was amusing. Then Wu communicated something more to the Soviet, who only raised his eyebrows in the universal expression of surprise.

The Russian handed back Chen's rifle scope, this time with an unmistakable air of deference — the man was obviously impressed by whatever Wu had told him.

Major Wu explained to Chen, "He said he wonders how many imperialists were last seen alive through this sight. I told him that you shot ten enemy soldiers today!"

Chen was taken aback. "Sir, it could not have been more than four or five. Some may only have been wounded."

Still smiling, Wu responded, "Chen, how many times must I tell you? However many kills I put in my report, that is how many that you have shot."

"Ten men, sir."

"That is correct," Wu said. "Carry on cleaning your rifle, Chen. Then get some rest. Tomorrow morning, we will go hunting again. You can shoot that American sniper all over again, if need be."