Through the scope, Cole could clearly see the bottle that had been placed on a rock over on the Chinese side. It was so far away that with the naked eye, it would be less than a speck. But someone who was looking, such as a sniper like Cole, would have known immediately that something in the landscape had changed and that the bottle had suddenly appeared.
Who over there was taunting them? It could have been any soldier, but he doubted that because the bottle had been placed just where he suspected that the Chinese sniper was hidden.
"Don't that beat all," Cole muttered. "Kid, you got your canteen handy?"
"Yeah," the kid said. "Why? You thirsty?"
"Nope. What I want you to do is take your canteen and stick it on that rock just on the other side of this here hole we're in. Be quick about it," he warned. "Keep your head down. I don't want you to get shot in the process."
"All right," the kid said, sounding mystified, not knowing what Cole had in mind. "Is this because of the bottle on the other side?"
"Yep," Cole said. "We're gonna have us an old-fashioned turkey shoot."
From the kid's blank look, it was clear that he had no idea what Cole was talking about. "Turkey shoot?"
"Shooting contest," Cole explained. "You know, when I was a boy, there was a famous one that took place between my pa and another bootlegger. Leastways, it was famous in our neck of the woods. Maybe you'd call it infamous."
"What happened?"
"Well now, my pa and this other bootlegger got to arguin' over who was the better shot. They was both known for being handy with a rifle. They had the idea to have themselves a shooting contest to settle that argument for once and for all. Trouble was, they had to find a time when they were both sober enough to hit anything."
"Yeah?" The kid's tone indicated that he was wondering where this story was going. "What were they shooting for? Was there some kind of prize? Like they won a turkey?"
"They bet each other a dollar, but you could say the stakes was higher than that. You see, whoever won was the better shot. They ain't no bigger stakes than that where I come from."
"I've got a feeling that the stakes are plenty big here, too," the kid said. "Like the loser might get shot."
"Go on now. Set that canteen out and be quick about it."
The kid did as Cole had told him to do. Quickly, he placed the canteen on a rock, then got back down into the trench.
Cole was already lining up the shot with his eye pressed to the rifle scope, aiming carefully at the target in the distance. Even through the scope, he had to admit that the bottle was not much of a target. Damn small at this distance. But like his pa, Cole reckoned that he had something to prove. The stakes here were every bit as high as they had been between his pa and that rival bootlegger.
He took in a breath, let it out, took in another, exhaled it. Slowly, slowly his finger caressed the trigger. Some part of his brain calculated where to aim by instinct.
The rifle fired.
He continued gazing through the scope, fully expecting the bottle to shatter. A second passed, then another, but the bottle still stood.
Damn it all, he thought, without letting himself get rattled. He worked the bolt, inserted another shell, and aimed again at the distant bottle, a little higher this time and to the left, to account for the slight breeze.
Once again, he put gentle tension on the trigger, waited until the puff of wind had died, and took up the last bit of tension so that the rifle fired.
"You missed," said the kid helpfully.
"No shit," Cole muttered, then worked the bolt again. Third time gonna be the charm, he thought. At least, he sure as hell hoped so.
Again, he lined up the crosshairs on the bottle in the distance and aimed carefully.
He was sure that their own hiding place was beyond the prying eyes of the enemy sniper, although he would certainly be able to narrow it down now that Cole had fired twice. Also, there was the fact that they now had a canteen marking their position. It was all foolish, he thought. But he couldn't resist taking another crack at that bottle.
Putting all other thoughts out of his mind, Cole slowly squeezed the trigger until the rifle fired again. He watched through the scope, willing the bullet to strike true.
Again, a second passed and then another.
The bottle stood just where it had been, untouched.
"Damn," Cole muttered.
Then a bullet came in and hit the canteen dead center so that it went flying over their heads and down into the trench.
The kid picked up the canteen and stuck a finger in the bullet hole. Water leaked out everywhere and joined the mud at the bottom of the trench.
"He sure killed that canteen," the kid said.
Cole reloaded the rifle but didn't bother to take another shot at the bottle. He was beginning to get the feeling that he might shoot at it all day and not hit the damn thing. What the hell was wrong with him?
He had the sinking feeling that just maybe the Chinese sniper was a better shot.
All along the trenches and foxholes, it had been fairly quiet for a while, so the little flurry of shooting between the two sides had drawn some attention and broken up the monotony.
Off to the left, about a hundred feet down from Cole's position, some poor soldier was a little too curious and raised his head higher out of his foxhole than was prudent. There was another shot from the Chinese side.
Cole heard screams from the wounded man and more shouts for a medic. Then finally, ominously, the screaming ended and only a few bitter curses were coming from that direction.
The Chinese sniper had proved himself deadly yet again, and Cole had been unable to stop him.
He had out-gunned Cole and then he had killed another soldier. Cole slumped down into the trench, feeling defeated. This was the same sniper who had wounded Pomeroy yesterday. Instead of getting even with the enemy sniper, Cole had allowed the man to show him up. It didn't sit right with Cole, that was for damn sure.
Winking at him in the afternoon sunlight, the bottle still stood near the enemy sniper's position.
Finally, the shadows of the day lengthened. The sun went behind the mountains and all the warmth was sucked out of the day as a reminder that another Korean winter was just around the corner. Stars began to glitter faintly on the horizon and the nighttime cold came down.
"Time to head back, kid," Cole announced.
He hadn't so much as taken another shot the rest of the day. The truth was that his heart just hadn't been in it. Not that many targets had presented themselves. The enemy soldiers had sense enough to keep out of sight.
Now that it was dark enough to move under cover of night, he and the kid slipped out of the trench and began to make their way back toward headquarters.
"It wasn't such a good day, was it?" the kid said.
"I reckon not," Cole said.
"There's always tomorrow," the kid added, but Cole didn't answer. They hiked the rest of the way down from the ridge in silence. Once they had reached the camp, Cole sent the kid off to the mess tent to get himself something to eat. He had one more stop to make first, and truth be told, Cole needed some time alone just to think.
He slung his rifle over his shoulder and headed in the direction of the field hospital. On the way, he wondered if maybe he had lost his touch with the rifle.
Because you couldn't hit a bottle? Who gives a damn? But the other fella didn't seem to have that problem. Cole shook his head and walked on.
He had hoped to find Pomeroy that evening and tell him that he had bumped off the enemy sniper and gotten even. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case, but Cole still owed Pomeroy a visit. Hell, he had gotten shot helping Cole. It was the least that he could do.
He pushed through the tent flaps and walked into the oppressive smell that all field hospitals have, a medley of alcohol and urine, and the vague sweetness of rotting meat. Cole tried to tell himself that there were worse places to be — like maybe hell itself.
He walked on down the rows, shaking his head at how many wounded there were, bandaged and beat to hell in just about every way, shape, and form imaginable. The wounded just seemed to keep piling up steadily day after day.
He reckoned that's what happened when you had two armies trading hilltops. The wounded tended to stack up, along with the dead. And for what? Some godforsaken hill? Cole tried not to think too much about the answer. He hadn't invented war and he supposed that it never made a whole lot of sense in the end.
After a while, walking up and down the rows of wounded, Cole realized that he couldn't find Pomeroy. He seemed to have the right row of hospital beds, but his old friend was nowhere to be found. Maybe there had been some sort of mix-up or Cole just hadn't remembered right. After all, if you'd seen one hospital cot, you'd kind of seen them all.
Finally, Cole tracked down an orderly and approached him. "Say buddy," he drawled, "I'm lookin' for a friend of mine. He was right here just yesterday."
"What was his name?" the orderly asked.
Cole told him and the orderly checked a chart.
"Pomeroy… Oh yeah, he got evacuated today," the orderly said. "Your friend is a lucky bastard. He's probably on a plane to Tokyo by now."
"You mean he's gone?"
"Yep, that's about the size of it," the orderly said. "Unfortunately, we've got plenty of others to take his place."
"Lucky bastard," Cole echoed faintly and then retreated from the field hospital.
Outside, glad of the fresh air, the realization struck him like a blow that he was unlikely ever to see Pomeroy again. He hadn't had a chance to say his goodbyes, not realizing that he wouldn't get the opportunity. Cole had thought that being shown up by the Chinese sniper was the worst thing that had happened to him today, but the news that Pomeroy had been flown out without a proper farewell was a close second. It just didn't set right with him.
Walking back through the camp, Cole felt like a kicked dog.