Sniper Ridge

Chapter Eight

For Pomeroy and Tommy Wilson, morning came far too soon, after a restless and fitful night. Even exhaustion proved itself to be a poor balm against the rough edges of fear that haunted their dreams. They were up before dawn, eating a hurried breakfast of cold rations, and then herded into position. Cole had already gone off to the mess tent, far from the front line.

Pomeroy and the kid weren’t quite so lucky. They were going into battle.

The trouble was, they were going to be attacking the Chinese position today, in an effort to drive the enemy off Sniper Ridge. Judging by the defenses up there, a lot of them wouldn’t be coming back.

"Just like cattle to the slaughter. I don't like this kid," Pomeroy said. "Not one bit."

"We don't have much choice," the kid responded, putting his head down and shrinking back into his own thoughts. Pomeroy was sure that those thoughts were far from this godforsaken patch of Korean real estate — he sure knew his own thoughts kept returning to home. Back during the Chosin Reservoir campaign, they had actually thought that they might all get home for Christmas. That had been months ago, and here they all still were.

Nobody was talking about being home for Christmas this time around.

Home hadn't been all that great for Pomeroy. He had a wife who wasn't all that happy to see him come back from Europe in the first place, a couple of kids that he hadn't connected with very well because he'd been off at war when they were born, and a job in a factory. It paid OK, but he had always hoped for something better.

"You know, it's funny," he mused out loud. "I was itching to get back into the army just because I was bored and things weren't going so well at home, you know. Now, I can't wait to get back there."

"You're not the only one," the kid agreed.

"The sooner we win this war, then the sooner we get back," Pomeroy said. "With any luck, maybe that starts today."

He attempted to inject some enthusiasm into his voice, both for his benefit and for Tommy's. It wasn't easy. Pomeroy's joints ached and his back felt stiff from the night's cold and having slept on the ground, even if it had been inside the pup tent.

Sometimes he felt as if he had never really warmed all the way up after the Chosin Reservoir. He still had nightmares about how the cold clawed at him. That same cold had claimed some of his toes and an even larger chunk of his spirit. Somehow though, he kept going. That was what his soldier did after all, and he put a brave face on it if for no other reason than to reassure the kid walking beside him.

His wounds from the mess at Chosin would have been enough to get him sent home if he had talked them up. Instead, he had talked his way back into the field. This morning, that seemed like a mistake.

"I wish Cole was here," the kid said.

"Yeah, well, you’ll just have to make do with me."

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant, kid,” Pomeroy said.

Pomeroy didn't want to admit it, but he wished Cole was here, too. He was a good man to have watching your back in a fight. He had yet to see the man afraid. That hillbilly had ice water running through his veins. Not for the first time, he was glad that they were on the same side.

All around them in the gray dawn light, other soldiers were moving into position. Units were converging from all directions on the ridge ahead. Again, Pomeroy didn't like the looks of this. It was shaping up to be a big attack.

In a big attack, lots of men tended to get killed.

Off to their rear, he could see that the artillery gunners were set up and ready to go. Some lounged by their guns, smoking and waiting. All they needed was a signal.

The purpose of an artillery bombardment would be to soften up the enemy, but Pomeroy thought that you might as well just hold up a big sign that announced to the enemy: Here we come.

From what he had seen, the artillery never did a whole lot of good because those Chinese and North Korean bastards always managed to dig themselves deep into the ridge.

They were climbing now, moving up the steep hillside. He could hear the heavy breathing and curses of the soldiers struggling around him. In the semi-darkness, Pomeroy managed to stumble over every stone and pothole imaginable. His missing toes did not help with his footing, either. Dammit, he muttered, stumbling, but kept right on going. Not that he had any choice.

"Tighten it up and move along," urged the sergeant.

Sergeant Weber was all business this morning and for good reason; clearly he felt the nervousness of the men, and even as an old combat veteran, he still looked plenty apprehensive himself. One sign was that old Weber wouldn’t look anybody in the eye.

They climbed higher, spreading out along the top of the ridge. When they finally reached the apex, Pomeroy noticed that the ridge was topped by two distinct rocky knobs. Some had taken to calling these knobs Mao’s Ears, but to Pomeroy’s mind, they almost like a giant gunsight overlooking the Chinese position. It was one hell of an ominous landmark, he thought. He and the kid found themselves being placed right between those ears.

"Check your rifle, kid," he said quietly. "Make sure it's loaded and keep your bayonet handy. I hope to hell it doesn't come to that, but you never know. We've been through this before."

"Yeah," the kid said. "I'll never forget those fights." The kid was referring to the retreat from the Chosen Reservoir. "I didn't think we'd get out of that one alive."

"Hell, I didn't think we'd ever thaw out again," Pomeroy said, huffing for breath. He was feeling winded from the hike up the hill. Not for the first time, he regretted smoking so much. He wasn't about to give up cigarettes this morning, though. He was going to need a smoke in a bit to calm his nerves.

They reached the ridge and got into position. All up and down the line, Pomeroy could see men in position. This was shaping up to be a full-scale attack. He almost felt sorry for the Chinese somewhere ahead of them. They were about to get a rude awaking this morning.

"Smoke 'em if you got 'em," the sergeant said. "We don't go until after the artillery gives them a thumping."

Gratefully, Pomeroy lit a cigarette. He couldn't help but notice that his hands were shaking as he held up the lighter, being careful to keep his head down as he did so. There were always a few Chinese snipers around, and they might already be at work. Again, he would have felt better about Chinese snipers if Cole had been there. He was like their secret weapon. But right now, he was back down in the mess tent, scrubbing pots and pans. It was a goddamn waste of talent, considering what a good shot Cole was with a rifle.

If you asked Pomeroy, it was all Lieutenant Ballard's fault for giving Cole's rifle to somebody else. Ballard claimed it was simply a matter of allotting limited equipment, but Pomeroy knew better. The lieutenant didn't like it that Cole wouldn't lick his boots. Ballard's designated sniper, Heywood, must be good at boot licking. There was also the fact that Cole was a dyed-in-the-wool hillbilly, which didn't sit well with Ballard.

The lieutenant came walking up the line now, apparently intending to impart a few words of wisdom. He was the only man who didn't look nervous this morning. In fact, he looked well-rested in a clean uniform, as if he had gotten a solid night's sleep. Trailing in the lieutenant's wake was the new sniper, carrying the rifle that should rightfully be Cole's. Like Ballard, this sniper looked as if he'd been sleeping a little too well. He held the scoped rifle casually — not even so far as looking in the direction of the Chinese lines. Pomeroy suspected that Cole would have been in location before dawn.

Taking up a position where he could address most of the men, Ballard drew himself up to his full height and put his hands on his hips. He then raised his voice to be heard up and down the line.

"When we hit them, I want you to hit them hard," he said. "Let's show the enemy what we're made of, boys. Let's show them how Americans fight!"

A ragged shout came from the line.

Pomeroy muttered, "What the hell else would we do? Play patty cakes with the Chinese?"

The kid snickered. "Jeez, don't let the lieutenant hear you say that, or he'll make you lead the attack."

"You're brighter than you look, kid," Pomeroy said. "You're finally catching on to this army business."

But the lieutenant's gaze sought out Pomeroy, as if maybe he had heard him, after all.

"Private, I want you to be Heywood's spotter," the lieutenant said. "You've had some experience with that, I believe."

"Yes, sir." Under his breath, Pomeroy added, "Nuts to that."

The lieutenant was glaring at Pomeroy as if maybe he had read his lips. He opened his mouth to bark something at him, but the lieutenant’s words were lost in the rolling boom that swept the battlefield.

Lucky for Pomeroy, the artillery had picked that moment to open fire. The concussion of the big guns seemed to suck the air out of his lungs, even at this distance. The soldiers on the ridge covered their ears. It was no wonder that you could always tell an artilleryman — he was the guy talking too loud because he was so damn deaf. The smell of cordite drifted over them.

Geysers of shattered rock and earth began to blossom on the hills beyond. He could almost feel sorry for the bastards on the receiving end. Almost.

Beside him, Heywood had his eye to the rifle scope, watching the show. He certainly couldn't expect to find any targets in that carnage below. Nonetheless, Heywood nudged Pomeroy's arm.

"What?"

"Here, start spotting targets for me," the sniper said, pressing a pair of binoculars on Pomeroy.

"Spot your own damn targets."

"The lieutenant said—"

"Yeah, yeah. I heard what the lieutenant said. What I'd like to do with those binoculars is shove them sideways up your ass."

"Try it," Heywood said, taking his eye off the scope and giving Pomeroy his full attention. He was a big, muscular guy. Bigger than Pomeroy.

"Seriously? We are about to start an assault and you want to start a fight?"

On the other side of Pomeroy, the kid spoke up. "I'll take the binoculars," he said.

"Can you even see that far, Four Eyes?"

"I can see just fine with glasses on. Do you want a spotter or not?"

With a grunt of affirmation, the sniper handed them over. "Call out any targets you see and I'll eliminate them," he said.

The kid pushed his glasses up to fit the binoculars to his eyes. However, there was nothing to see except the airborne cloud of debris from the opposite hillside being churned by artillery bursts.

"Give 'em hell," Pomeroy muttered, dreading the moment that the shells stopped falling because that was when the attack would begin.

What Pomeroy and the rest of the troops poised to attack couldn't know was that the big guns were firing on mostly empty positions. Like the American troops, the Chinese had been on the move in the early morning pre-dawn. Unseen, they were now moving to flank the American position and launch a surprise attack. Planes didn't fly in the pre-dawn darkness, so without any air cover or reconnaissance, the American commanders were blind to the fact that they were about to be attacked by hundreds of enemy troops.

The artillery halted firing all at once, like a summer downpour that stops as suddenly as it starts. But Pomeroy knew there weren't going to be any rainbows this morning.

"Get ready, fellas," he said, tensing himself to scramble over the top of the ridge and down the other side, then climb the opposite ridge toward the enemy troops waiting for them. Minutes went by, but the order never came. "What's the holdup?"

He knew that every moment that passed enabled the enemy to regroup after the bombardment and prepare for the attack.

Sure enough, they began to see Chinese soldiers in the distance, but well within rifle range. Uneasily, he recognized the fact that if he could see the Chinese, then they could see him. Pomeroy was itching to shoot, but knew that he had to await orders.

A few scattered enemy rifle shots began to pepper the American position.

"Target!" the sniper called. "I need a target."

"Uh, ten o'clock. There's a ditch with three or four Chinese in it."

Heywood shifted slightly. "I see it," he said.

Moments later, he fired.

"I think you missed," the kid said, his eyes pressed to the binoculars, glasses pushed up on his forehead.

"It's not my fault," Heywood said. "You need to do a better job of choosing targets."

"OK, those guys are still in the ditch."

Heywood shut up long enough to fire again. "Got 'em!" he said triumphantly.

"No… I don't think so," the kid said, eyes still tight against the binoculars.

"Just for the record, you are doing one hell of a lousy job," Heywood complained. He shifted his bulk higher, hoping for a better vantage point.

More enemy fire was now finding targets. One thing about the Chinese was that their aim sure had improved, Pomeroy thought. They were not to be underestimated, which was what the American and U.N. forces had learned the hard way back at the Chosin Reservoir campaign. They were learning that lesson all over again at Triangle Hill.

A soldier a few feet to their left dropped stone dead, shot through the head.

"Better stay down," Pomeroy warned the sniper, who had stuck his head up above the rocks to get a better look at the enemy.

"I need to move forward to get a better shot," Heywood announced. "Spotter, you stay with me."

"Kid, you stay right where you are. It’s suicide."

"I said—"

Heywood never had a chance to finish. A bullet hit him square in the chest and he slumped over.

"Aw, geez," the kid said, rolling Heywood over. He had one of those ugly, sucking chest wounds. Pink froth bubbling at his lips.

He's a goner, Pomeroy thought.

The kid was pressing on the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but it wasn't any use. It wasn't so much the blood coming out, as the blood staying in. Heywood was essentially drowning in his own blood.

His eyes widened in fear and pain. Pomeroy didn't much like Heywood, but that didn't mean he wanted to see him die. Hell, Heywood was on their side. But there wasn't a damn thing anybody could do for him.

Pomeroy leaned over and gripped the dying man’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. What he meant by that was, it’s all right to die.

Heywood’s eyes rolled back in his head and he started to writhe, desperate for breath. Pomeroy held onto the man’s shoulder, just to let him know that he wasn't alone. Then Heywood finally lay still.

Pomeroy looked up and locked eyes with the kid. The lenses of the kid's glasses were flecked with Heywood's blood. The eyes behind the glasses were wide with fright.

"Keep your head down and you'll be OK," Pomeroy said, trying to reassure him.

He looked over at Heywood's body. In death, the man looked like a sack of potatoes. Some sniper he had turned out to be.

Where the hell was Cole when you needed him?

That's when they heard the sound of bugles and whistles coming from their flanks. He had heard those same sounds more than a few times before, and the odd cacophony struck fear into his heart. With a shock, Pomeroy realized that while the Americans had been focused on attacking the Chinese positions directly in front of them, the enemy had somehow turned the tables and attacked them. A few bugles even sounded as if they were coming from behind them.

Sweet Jesus, have the Chinese surrounded us?

A pang of sheer terror stabbed through him, fearing that it was going to be like the standoff at Chosin all over again.