Sniper Ridge

Chapter Three

Cole and the rest of the squad threw themselves down in exhaustion. They had trooped back into the base, worn out from the trek through the mountains. Adrenalin from the one-sided skirmish and bombardment left them feeling hollowed out and empty.

"I can't believe we made it back here in once piece," Pomeroy said. "I thought for sure that we'd be ambushed."

"I reckon we got lucky," Cole agreed. "Them Chinese hereabouts is thick as fleas on a coon hound."

"One thing about you, Hillbilly, is that you've got a way with words," Pomeroy said.

The trek back to the base had been harrowing, indeed. At any moment, they had expected to be attacked by superior numbers of Chinese soldiers. The hills swarmed with the enemy. They considered it a minor miracle that they had made it back.

Now, the soldiers sprawled on the ground in the way that only exhausted men can do, looking more like rag dolls than soldiers. Rumor had it that there might still be some chow at the mess tent, but that meant rising from the ground and walking that much farther. For men whose feet and legs already ached, it was too much to ask.

"To hell with it," said Pomeroy, casting a longing glance in the direction of the mess tent, then shaking his head. "Might as well be a hundred miles away, as far as I'm concern."

"Got that right," Cole agreed.

He opened some rations and wolfed down a meal, and the others who had enough energy for it followed suit.

"That was one hell of a lop-sided fight today," Pomeroy said. "We did some damage to those Chinese."

"I reckon we got lucky," Cole said. "Although I got to say, it's a good thing we got out of there in one piece. Another couple of minutes and that Chinese artillery would've turned us inside out."

Pomeroy nodded and lit a cigarette. He knew that Cole meant literally turned inside out — they had both seen what artillery could do to infantrymen. He offered a cigarette to Cole, who shook his head. Cole hadn't been smoking for a while now — not since returning from Europe, as a matter of fact — and was glad of it. He had a lot more wind when out on patrol than Pomeroy did, or even some of these youngsters just out of high school.

He mused that he had been leading a clean life back home in the mountains, staying away from tobacco and whiskey — it was just shooting people that he couldn't seem to avoid. Cole had come across two dirtballs who were about to assault a woman whose car had broken down. They had made the mistake of drawing on Cole when he had interfered with their plans. The judge and sheriff had come up with the solution that their local war hero could avoid jail by joining the Army. As a result, here he was in Korea, with a rifle in his hands.

Maybe there was something wrong with him because he didn't mind all that much.

Cole snorted at that thought.

"What?" Pomeroy wanted to know.

Cole just shook his head.

Instead of a smoke after his meal, which was something of a ritual for many men, Cole opted to clean his rifle. He removed the bolt and set it aside, then began wiping down the action and all the metal parts of his rifle in order to prevent any rust from the salt and oils of his hands. There was even a rumor that he had the cleanest rifle in the United States Army.

The Springfield was one tough customer, mostly reliable as an old boot and with roots as a military firearm that went clear back to the Great War, but that didn't stop Cole from babying his rifle. One thing for sure, that rifle had gotten a workout today and now had powder grime clogging its lands and grooves. Cole gently worked an oil-soaked rag deep into the action, almost lovingly. By now, his fingers recognized every divot in the wood grain, every scratch on the barrel. Back at the Chosin Reservoir, that extra oil had gummed up the actions of many rifles, but no one was predicting that it would.

Cole knew a rifle was just wood and metal and a handful of moving parts, but wasn't it something more than that? A rifle had personality. This one had sure as hell saved his life a few times. And taken a few lives, as well.

"Goddamn, Hillbilly, you could do surgery with his rifle," Pomeroy remarked.

"What the hell kind of surgery would you do with a rifle?" Cole wondered.

"I don't know — remove someone's heart, or maybe their liver."

"Well, I do reckon that's my kind of surgery." Cole looked over at Tommy Wilson, who had followed Cole's lead and was now busy cleaning his own rifle. "You done good today, kid."

"Yeah? I guess I'm starting to get the hang of this soldiering thing," the kid said.

“Don’t get too good at it, or you’ll end up like us,” Cole said. “Stuck in the Army.”

"Practice makes perfect," Pomeroy added. "The good news is that you can wake up tomorrow morning and practice all over again."

Cole added with a grin, "And if you mess up while you're practicing, the worst that can happen is that you'll end up dead."

"You two really know how to cheer a guy up," the kid said. "Gee, thanks."

All around them, the camp was busy getting ready for nightfall. For the most part, the daylight hours meant that the US defenses were fairly protected thanks to the air cover and the artillery that could target any troop movements in the hills. However, by night, all bets were off because the enemy could move unseen. Most of the attacks by the Chinese and North Korean forces took place under cover of darkness.

The encampment was far enough from the enemy positions to avoid drawing sniper fire, so some of the squads had small fires that they used to heat up their rations or to make hot water for coffee. They could smell some of those delicious smells now. Cole's squad was too damn tired to make any effort to build a fire.

The air had an autumn chill to it, but was pleasant enough with the tang of woodsmoke from the fires. It all could have been like a camping trip if the enemy hadn't been out there. Every now and then, a Jeep roared in and another Jeep roared out, carrying what they thought must have been urgent messages. Cole figured that at least it gave the officers something to do, so that they left everybody else alone.

They were all still sitting there when one of Cole’s least favorite officers came walking up to them. It was Lieutenant Ballard.

For whatever reason, Ballard had taken a dislike to Cole. Cole had to admit that the feeling was mutual. There was maybe something classist to it. Ballard was tall and well-built, handsome even, and a college graduate. He looked down his long nose at dirt-poor soldiers like Cole.

The lieutenant was not alone, but had a small retinue with him. He was trailed by Sergeant Weber, another survivor of the Chosin Reservoir fight. Tough and capable, Weber was also a veteran of the Wehrmacht. Like Weber, a number of former German soldiers had found themselves wearing US uniforms. Soldiering was the only career that old Weber knew. He and Cole had formed a mutual respect, if not quite a bond. After all, it was the lieutenant who buttered Weber’s bread, not Cole.

Cole took stock of the other soldiers. He recognized most of them, but one new face caught Cole’s eye. This soldier carried himself like a veteran of more than one fight, signaled by his sturdy build and helmet set at a cocky angle. However, he was only an enlisted man. What did Ballard want with him?

The other soldier in the group still wore a relatively new and clean uniform, which marked him as being new to Triangle Hill. He was tall and raw-boned, like he was no stranger to hard physical work, but he lacked the economical movements of men who had crossed miles and miles of Korea. Improbably, he carried a camera on a strap around his neck and a small notebook dwarfed by his big hand. A carbine was slung across his shoulder like an after-thought.

Curiously, this soldier seemed busy writing down everything that Ballard said. It wouldn't have been all that unusual to see someone like General MacArthur have someone hang on his every word, but not Ballard. He kept glancing at the reporter, as if to make sure that he hadn’t missed anything.

Whatever was going on, they were about to find out.

"I’ve been waiting for you to get back," Ballard said, stopping in front of Cole, who raised himself wearily to his feet. Other officers would have told him to stay put, but not Ballard. "Where the hell have you been?"

"We ran into some trouble, sir."

"You were on a simple recon mission."

Quickly, Cole explained about coming across the unit that had needed some help against the Chinese, but Ballard didn't look convinced.

"I didn't send you out there to play cavalry," he said. "I sent you out there to gather intelligence. We need information, dammit."

"Well, sir, we learned that there is a squad of Chinese soldiers down in the Valley and that there is artillery within range up on Jane Russell," Cole said. "How's that for information?"

Cole knew that his tone was walking the line in terms of insubordination, but he didn’t much care.

Ballard was glaring at him. Over the lieutenant's shoulder, the sergeant gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head. Warning him.

For all that Cole knew, he had fought against Sergeant Weber in the last war, but the sergeant was all right. He was gruff and a stickler for the rules, which you might expect from a German, but he was fair enough. Right now, he was trying to save Cole's bacon.

Cole and Weber had gotten off on the wrong foot after Cole's initial arrival in Korea. Weber had thought that Cole was too lazy or too scared to fight. He couldn’t have been more wrong about that. Their ordeal at the Chosin Reservoir had helped them gain a grudging respect for one another.

Ballard, on the other hand, had also been at the "Frozen Chosin," but seemed to ignore the experience like one might ignore a bad dream.

Cole couldn't blame him because it wasn't something that anyone wanted to remember. Maybe Ballard thought that being part of that disastrous withdrawal was a black mark against his record. Although the soldiers in the field didn't have much access to newspapers or radio news, rumors had been going around that there was a lot of fallout from the Chosin Reservoir campaign. Back home, some called it a cowardly retreat and a defeat.

What the hell did they know about it? Cole wondered. Those who said that the Chosin was a defeat hadn't been there when thousands of screaming enemy troops swarmed at them out of the darkness. They hadn't been there when it got so cold that the rifle actions froze up and some men died of exposure overnight in their foxholes. They hadn't been there when the truckloads of wounded had to be abandoned so that their fellow soldiers were bayoneted shot and burned alive by the Chinese.

Cole tugged his thoughts back to the present. Keeping the sergeant's warning glance in mind, Cole finally responded with a simple, "Yes, sir."

Ballard glared at him for another long moment, then raised his voice to address the entire squad. He half-turned toward the other men accompanying him, so that they would be included in his comments. "Listen up, everyone. We've been chosen to have a reporter from Stars & Stripes tag along with us for a few days. Private Hardy will be taking a few pictures and talking to you. I expect that you will give him your full cooperation."

"Talk to a reporter? Not me," Cole muttered. He'd had that experience in the last war, when none other than the famous war correspondent Ernie Pyle had interviewed him. In Cole's estimation, the story had only brought him a lot of trouble.

"What's that, Cole?" Ballard snapped.

"Nothing, sir."

Ballard went on. "I expect you to give Private Hardy your full cooperation," he said. "The folks back home need to know what sort of job we're doing."

"Yes, sir."

But the lieutenant wasn't done. "Now that we have a reporter with us, I wanted to make sure that he had something to report," Ballard said. He turned to indicate the other man accompanying him, who had been standing there like a tree stump. "I want you to meet Heywood. He's a sniper, one of the first from the new U.S. Army training school. I had to pull some strings to get him assigned to our platoon. It's going to make a great newspaper story. He's here to teach you boys a thing or two about sniper tactics and hitting a target at any kind of distance."

The kid spoke up, "Sir, you should have seen Cole today—"

Ballard waved a hand to cut him off. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. No more cowboy stuff. We need some real training around here, which is why I've brought in Heywood. However, I've got to say that there is a shortage of sniper rifles." He glanced at the reporter. "Don't put that in the article. Anyhow, we've got a surplus of snipers and a shortage of sniper rifles."

“That’s the Army for you,” Pomeroy said.

The lieutenant pointed at Cole’s Springfield rifle, which was still disassembled nearby. "That's what I'm talking about right there, a sniper rifle. We need to put sniper rifles in the hands of actual Army-designated snipers. Cole, reassemble that rifle and hand it over to Heywood."

"Sir?" Cole didn't make any move to obey the lieutenant’s orders.

"You heard me. Hurry it up, Cole. I haven't got all day. We'll get you a carbine instead."

Nearby, the men of the squad seem to hold their collective breath. They knew very well what Cole could do with a rifle. They had seen him in action again and again. Just today, he had decimated an enemy unit at long range.

Now, here was Ballard wanting to take away Cole's rifle. What the hell was he thinking? It sounded as if he just wanted to make himself look good for the press. Knowing Ballard, he couldn't make captain soon enough.

Of course, none of them said a word out loud to the lieutenant. As for Cole, he stared at Ballard just long enough with his flat gray eyes that the lieutenant was forced to look away.

"You heard me, Cole," the lieutenant said. "That's a direct order. Give that rifle to Heywood. Right now, son! Give him whatever else he needs, too. I'm going to take Private Hardy over here to interview some of the other men for Stars & Stripes, and when I come back, I want this transfer to be done."

Lieutenant Ballard walked off with the reporter in tow.

Cole didn't respond at first, seeming to be thinking it over, as if he had some choice other than following orders. "Aw, to hell with it," he finally said, then reached over and reassembled the rifle, finally sliding the bolt into place and offering the weapon to Heywood.

Their new designated sniper was about five-foot-ten and solidly built, maybe a bit shorter than Cole by an inch or two, but far heavier. He looked like he could be a bruiser when he needed to be.

He accepted the rifle without a word of thanks, and his broad face held a challenge.

"So you're Cole," he said. "I think I've heard about you."

Pomeroy spoke up. "You probably did hear about him, buddy. Cole here has those Chinese bastards afraid of him, and for good reason."

"Is that right?" Heywood smirked. "What I heard was that you had lost your nerve. That's why the unit needs a good sniper."

"I don't know where you heard that," Cole said, truly surprised. "Who said that I've lost my nerve?"

"Heywood here needs to check his sources,” Pomeroy said. “He got some bad information. For example, who said that he was a good sniper?"

Heywood glared at Pomeroy, and then turned his attention back to Cole. "The lieutenant told me that," Heywood said.

"You mean Ballard says I’ve lost my nerve?” Cole supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised, considering that the lieutenant had it in for him. “That sneaky no good snake-eyed son of a—"

"Uh, Cole," Pomeroy growled a warning. "You might want to hold that thought. Here he comes."

At that moment, Lieutenant Ballard came walking over, having left the reporter to gather the other men's names and stories. Swaggering over, was more like it, Cole thought.

Heywood moved to take the rifle out of Cole's hands.

Cole didn't let go right away. Heywood was wide and sturdy, but he looked surprised by the iron grip that he encountered. He pulled harder.

The tug of war went on for several seconds as Ballard approached. When Cole did suddenly let go, Heywood had to dance back on his heels, having been thrown off balance.

As for Cole, he instantly felt like a lion that had just lost its mane. Thunder without its clap.

He kept seeming to lose things in this war. A Chinese soldier had taken his Bowie knife off him when he’d briefly been a prisoner of war back at the Chosin Reservoir. The goddamn enemy stole my knife. And now this human stump has got my rifle.

It wasn't the first time that he had been ordered to relinquish a rifle. However, the circumstances had definitely been different. The last time, in the last war, a vainglorious officer had foolishly wanted Cole's rifle for himself. Cole hadn't been left with any choice. That officer hadn't lasted more than a day as a sniper — and Cole hadn't even been the one to kill him.

This time was somewhat different. What the lieutenant wanted was to get his name in the newspaper and advance his military career by advancing the new sniper program.

Poor ol' Heywood didn't know what he was in for. He was about to become the lieutenant’s whipping boy. Cole almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

"Make sure you keep her oiled up," Cole said. "I don't want my rifle all rusty when I get her back."

Heywood stared at him, puzzled.

The lieutenant walked up.

"All right then," Ballard said. "You men get a good night's sleep. You'll be going out on patrol again first thing in the morning.

"Yes, sir," said Cole, who had been the squad leader.

"Oh, but not you, Cole," Ballard said. "Pomeroy here will be in charge of the squad. You can head on over to the mess tent. In fact, I think they could use some help there right now.

"Yes, sir," Cole said flatly.

"You see, we've got our designated sniper now. The kitchen could use some help. I know you were good at that before. I seem to recall you started out in the mess tent when you got to Korea last fall. It's important to get some hot meals to the men so that they don't have to eat rations all the time."

"Yes, sir," Cole said. "I reckon I'll be reporting to the mess tent."