The assembled men wore the Chinese quilted field hats, similar to the Russian ushanka. Unlike U.N. troops, the Chinese did not wear helmets. The soft hats would not stop shrapnel, but they offered protection against the cold, which was just as deadly.
An officer stood before them, watching the men expectantly. The soldiers stood at attention, their gazes at a point fixed above his head. He stood with a bottle of booze in one hand and a pair of boots in the other, holding them at arm’s length. It wasn't that the officer was drinking the booze or wearing the boots. Instead, these were being offered as prizes of some sort.
This was such an unusual sight that all of the Chinese soldiers stood transfixed. Beyond them was a shooting range that had been set up, evidently for this demonstration, or whatever it was that the officer had planned. In the field before the men, a single post had been set at one end of the range. Chen Zhijun might have expected an execution, except for the fact that the post was set at target practice distance — and there was a target affixed to it.
"Sharpshooters! Step forward!" the officer shouted.
Chen hesitated. If he had learned one important lesson in Mao Zedong’s army it was that one should never be eager to volunteer for any duty or put oneself forward in any way. One or two of Chen's comrades nudged him or whispered encouragement, but Chen did not move. He was taller than the average soldier and dropped his shoulders, trying to shrink and disappear.
"Sharpshooters!" the officer called. "You know who you are! Step forward before your comrades!"
Chen studied the objects in the officer's hands. Chen did not care much about the booze, but he knew that he could share it with the other men and they would thank him for it. It was the boots that he wanted. He recognized them as Soviet boots, heavy and warm, from their Communist brothers to the north. Winter was coming and the thin-soled shoes — barely more than slippers — that most of the men wore would not be much of a shield against the cold when the snow and ice arrived, as surely they would.
A few of his comrades continued to murmur, encouraging him. They knew Chen was a good shot. Most likely, they knew he would share the booze with them if he won.
Two men had heeded the officer's call and stood apart from the others.
Finally, Chen stepped forward.
He kept his face impassive, feeling the icy wind off the mountains brush his cheek as a reminder that autumn was coming to an end, and the bitter winter was beginning.
He did his best to stare straight ahead while also allowing his eyes to flick to the right and left, sizing up the competition. There was Liu and Huang, both strong shooters. They stood at attention and seemed to radiate confidence, their faces showing that they were only too happy for the chance to prove themselves. Proud men, both of them. And good shots.
But Chen had an advantage over Liu and Huang. He had been trained in sniper tactics and marksmanship by the Germans before the start of what was known as the World War. Back then, in the late 1930s, the Germans had seen China as an ally and had sent them military advisors and equipment. Unfortunately for the Chinese, alliances had shifted when the madman Fuhrer supported the Japanese in their imperialist war of conquest. The Germans had withdrawn their advisors, Japan had invaded China, and thus began several years of horror for the occupied Chinese.
When possible, the Chinese had fought back. Chen had been one of those soldiers, turning his skills with a rifle against the Japanese invaders. Of course, the Japanese also had well-trained snipers of their own. The result was that Chen had fought a war of a hundred small battles, usually just him with his German rifle, often against small units of Japanese or even against Japanese snipers.
The Japanese had been cruel masters of China, killing or starving hundreds of thousands. Most of Chen's family members had been among the victims. War had hardened his heart.
When that war ended, he had sided with the Communists — the true Chinese, against those who fought with the Nationalists under Chang Kai-shek. Finally, the enemy had been defeated and exiled to Taiwan, leaving Mao and the Communists in control of China.
Since his teenage years, Chen had been at war. First against the Japanese, and then against the Nationalists. It was truly all that he had known.
Chen sometimes thought that his mission in life was to punish the enemies of China.
It was testament to his skill that he had somehow survived not just the war against the Japanese, but also the civil war.
Compared to the Americans or especially the Japanese, the Chinese people were by nature friendly, peaceful, even jolly, but years of war had made them grim. Under Communist rule, they now lived in fear of their own leaders, who had proven themselves far more ruthless than any Imperialist government.
The least of Chen's worries now was a shooting contest for a bottle of booze and a pair of boots. But in China, he knew there was no such thing as a simple contest. Everything was imbued with shades of meaning. Every action resulted in a political reaction. Chen feared the consequences far more than he feared missing the target.
"Good," said the officer, looking pleased. A commissar beside the colonel, wearing such a crisp uniform. The political officer stared intently at each man's face, as if trying to discern something there. “We have the honor of having Major Wu here today to assist us.”
The colonel handed the prizes off to Wu and motioned for a rifle to be brought forward. Such was the paranoia of the Chinese Communists that they did not let their troops have access to weapons except for training or until it was time to actually fight. The Communists feared that weapons could be turned against those in power. Already, their young nation was one based on control of the masses and fear. A rifle in one's hands made any man the equal of those around him. The Communists did not want any man to be empowered, but for all power to flow from Mao.
Chen smiled to himself, reflecting that there were two things that flowed downhill, water and Lā shǐ… shit. This knowledge made him wary of political officers and of this little shooting contest.
Liu went first. The target was a blank white sheet of paper affixed to a board to keep it from fluttering in the wind.
The rifle itself was a Russian-made Mosin — Nagant, celebrated for its accuracy. This one had an actual telescope, which was rare in the Chinese military. Typically, Chinese troops were equipped with a hodgepodge of weapons, many of them Russian, because the Communists did not yet have the industrial capacity to manufacture rifles. It was not unusual to find Russian Mosin-Nagants, Japanese Type 99 rifles, and even aging Hanyang 88 rifles issued to the ranks.
Chen watched Liu take his three shots. He fired too quickly, in Chen's opinion. Perhaps he was nervous. A soldier was sent down to collect Liu’s target. He came running back and presented it to the colonel. The colonel studied the target, holding it up toward the sky so that light was visible through the holes left by Liu's shots. The officer squinted, as if he had trouble seeing the paper that was right in front of his face. Chen, who had the eyes of an eagle, had no trouble see that Liu’s grouping could be covered by a hand.
Impressive. But Chen thought that he himself could do better. What about Huang?
They were about to find out. The colonel's adjutant deftly reloaded the rifle and handed it to Huang.
The man stood for a long time, rifle against his shoulder, one eye squeezed shut, as he sighted at the fresh target. Chen wondered if the man was waiting for his nerves to subide, or for the breeze to die down. The cold wind off the mountains blew intermittently. All of the men seemed to hold their breath. Finally, the air went still and Huang fired. Then again. And again.