Sniper Ridge

Chapter Four

Having dodged yet another aerial attack, the vehicle carrying Chen Li raced down the mountain road. Chen hung on for dear life as the Soviet-made GAZ-67—the Communist answer to the American Jeep — followed the curving road, veering perilously close to the edge. The road had been cut into the face of the mountain, and beyond the edge was a steep fall to the valley floor, several hundred feet below. Chen looked out into the thin air and felt dizzy.

There were no guard rails, and it was a long way down. Chen knew because he had made the mistake of leaning out to take a look. The view of the valley below left his stomach churning. Needless to say, he wouldn't be doing that again.

Even to call this a road was something of an exaggeration. In truth, it was no wider in places than a goat path. The muddy surface was pock-marked by shell holes and boulders that had rolled down from the surrounding cliffs.

"Better have a drink," said the driver, having reached under the seat for a thick brown bottle. He laughed merrily. "Who knows, it might be our last drink if those planes come back, ha, ha! Besides, it will keep us warm."

On the mountain road, the wind did, indeed, have a bitter edge. The driver took a swig, one hand on the wheel and the other on the bottle, then offered it to the sour-faced young officer in the passenger seat beside him. The officer gave the driver a look as if he had just been offered horse dung.

"Keep your eyes on the road!" he snapped.

He was one of those serious young political officers, still zealous about the People's revolution and the fight against Imperialism. In other words, he was young and foolish. He had materialized two days before to escort Chen to the front.

Chastised by the young officer, the driver simply shrugged, then handed the bottle back over the seat to Chen.

Chen took the bottle and had a long drink, doing his best to keep the bottle from knocking out his front teeth as the driver tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid a crater in the road.

Chen gagged and sputtered, forcing the booze down.

"Ha, ha!" the driver shouted. "Good stuff."

Chen thought that whatever was in the bottle was hardly "good stuff." For all he knew, it might even be snake wine — derived from steeping a venomous snake in grain alcohol. No matter. In long years of war, first with the Japanese and then against the Nationalists and now against the United Nations, he had learned to be thankful for whatever was given.

He choked down another drink, hoping that this stuff wasn't actually snake whiskey, then handed the bottle back. The driver took it, laughing with delight, then returned his attention to the road. Chen hoped that the driver hadn’t already imbibed too much of the alcohol, or their trip might be very short.

A few miles away, the Chinese were engaged in a vicious battle with United Nations forces that had become a stalemate. Chen was being called upon to shoot as many enemy soldiers as possible to help bring about an end to the stalemate — and to make the enemy pay dearly for each meter of ground.

He didn’t normally think about politics, but even he had to admit that there was some opportunity here to prove to the haughty Americans that the Chinese were not only good shots, but maybe even better. Chen took pride in that thought.

Chen had to wonder if they would get there. The GAZ-67 was tough and reliable, but it was not the most agile vehicle. The Chinese nickname for them was Lǎo lǘ. . the Old Donkey. Built in the Soviet Union, these vehicles had been shipped by the hundreds to the fight in North Korea. The sturdy vehicle was not fast, with a top speed of around 50 mph, and it most definitely was not comfortable — a fact to which Chen could attest to as he bounced around the back seat. The Chinese had not yet built a vehicle of their own because they did not have the facilities or the resources to make one, so they were forced to rely on Stalin's factories.

However, since the start of the war, the Chinese had become better at copying and making American weapons, such as the recoilless rifle. There was no need to make their own vehicles or tanks yet, as long as the Russians kept supplying them.

At the wheel of the vehicle, the driver used one hand to steer and the other to hang onto the bottle.

Overhead, the sky was a bright blue, framed by jagged mountains as they climbed ever-higher. The air felt cold, with the sun bringing little warmth to the deepest shadows. A cold wind blew and Chen did his best to ignore it. He was proud to be a Chinese soldier, and he knew that Chinese soldiers did not feel too cold or too hot, not like these soft Americans. A Chinese soldier endured.

Despite the cold, his spare blanket was not around his shoulders but instead was wrapped around his rifle. Considering the shortage of weapons, and the dubious quality of Chinese-made rifles, the Russian-made Moisin-Nagant was in some ways more valuable than Chen's life. He had tucked the rifle into the space near the floorboards to prevent it from bouncing out on the rough road. Instinctively, he reached down and stroked the rifle, in the same way that he might stroke a dog to calm it.

The young officer saw him and nodded approvingly. "Soon enough, you will get to use that rifle," he said. "But take good care of it! It is not your rifle, Chen. That rifle belongs to the people."

"It is a good rifle," Chang replied noncommittally. In reality, he knew well enough that the rifle was no more than a Russian hand-me-down. There was a simple scope that worked well enough for Chen, who had the eyes of an eagle. He wanted to ask the officer why he had gone to all the trouble of finding Chen and bringing him to this new battlefield, if the rifle was all that mattered.

"With tools such as this rifle, we shall defeat the imperialists," the young officer said.

Chen clenched his mouth shut, wondering if the officer really believed such nonsense, or if he was possibly testing Chen's loyalty. "Of course, sir."

"Remember that you are not important, Chen. You and I are not important. It is the mission that is important!"

The lieutenant looked pointedly at him, and Chen nodded as if the young officer was very wise. He wanted to respond that if the young officer cared so much about the mission and defeating imperialists, that he might consider getting out to fight the Americans instead of riding around uselessly in a vehicle, but he refrained from doing so. In Communist China, it was better to say as little as possible. They had thrown off the Japanese, and then Chiang Kai Shek's Nationalists, only to take on the yoke of the Communists.

Chen did not have strong political feelings. Like most Chinese, he simply wanted a better life for himself. He did not yet have children, but if some day he did, he wanted them to live in more peace and prosperity. The communists had promised new opportunity for all, but he was not yet convinced. There was still little enough food and almost no medical care. Now, there was this war. Sometimes, it seemed as if Chen had spent nearly his entire life fighting one enemy or another.

The driver looked over his shoulder and grunted. Another twist of the wheel in the driver's hand brought them perilously close to the edge of the road and the cliff beyond. Chen gulped.

This time, though, the driver hadn't swerved to avoid another pothole. Instead, the threat now came from the air. Already, he was driving a zigzagging pattern, trying to avoid being an easy target for the American planes.

How the driver had become aware of the planes was hard to say. The planes were still impossible to hear over the sound of the straining motor of the Gaz. Maybe the man had eyes in the back of his head. Once Chen turned his own head, his sharp eyes had no trouble spotting the threat. In the distance, two specks approached, sweeping in from the north. Enemy planes. Flying low, directly toward their vehicle.

"How many are there?" the young officer asked, scanning the sky.

"Two, coming in low on the horizon."

"No wonder you are a marksman," the officer said. "I can barely see those planes from here."

The planes closed the distance quickly. The screaming of the airplane engines could be heard distinctly over the GAZ-67 motor.

"Here they come!" the driver warned. "Hang on!"

"Faster!" the young officer shouted. Foolishly, he had drawn his pistol and was trying to aim it at the planes, but mostly pointing the muzzle at Chen as the vehicle bounced wildly.

"Put that away before you shoot one of us," Chen told him, recognizing that the officer was little more than a scared boy. "Do as the driver says and hang on."

The planes were United States Air Force Corsairs, prop-driven rather than the much faster Panther jets, but deadly nonetheless. Fast and nimble, they fell into formation behind the vehicle and swept in low and fast. At first, it was hard to hear them over the whine of their own vehicle's engine and the wind in their ears. But soon, the fighter planes were all that they could hear.

Up ahead, the road churned and boiled as the first Corsair strafed the surface with its .50 caliber machine guns. Luckily for them, the pilot's aim had been off. The plane swept past them and banked to the left, getting ready to turn and come at them again.

The driver yanked the wheel right, then left, trying to make the vehicle a difficult target. The front tires hit the rim of a pothole and suddenly the vehicle was airborne — Chen actually felt his behind lose contact with the seat. Then the GAZ crashed back down on all four tires with a bone-jarring rattle, never slowing down for an instant.

Would it do them any good? There was no hope of outrunning an airplane that could move at hundreds of miles per hour.

The second plane came at them now, flying as low as possible over the road. This pilot started firing early and walked the churning pattern of his strafing right toward them. It was like watching a falling tree coming right down on you. Chen closed his eyes and hunkered down in the back seat.

Bullets clipped the frame and punched holes in the sheet metal, sending bits of the GAZ flying everywhere. The driver screamed, but still struggled to keep control of the vehicle. He almost succeeded, but then the front tire hit another shell hole — or maybe it was shot out. The end result was that the sturdy vehicle finally slumped like a horse that had lost its front legs and began spinning sideways.

Overhead, the second plane screamed past and kept going, apparently satisfied that it had wreaked enough havoc.

Chen saw that the driver was slumped over the wheel, blood streaming from an ugly bullet hole in his neck. Chen tried to reach for the wheel, but it was too far away. Their only hope was for the officer in the passenger seat to regain control of the wheel, but he was frozen in fear, wailing in terror as the wheels of the GAZ finally lost contact with the road and the vehicle flipped through the air.

The last thing that Chen saw was the ground beneath him as the vehicle began to tumble end over end. And then his world went black.