When he had finished, the adjutant took the rifle and sent the runner down to retrieve the target.
Again, the colonel held up the target. Chen could see that the holes could be covered by a closed fist. He was impressed, in spite of himself. The men around him murmured, looking at Chen doubtfully, thinking that their chances of that bottle of booze had all but disappeared.
The adjutant nodded at Chen and put the rifle into his hands. The barrel, having already been fired, felt pleasantly warm in Chen's cold hands. To his surprise, the rifle looked relatively new, having all of its bluing intact. Considering that Chen had handled mostly battered weapons, he felt a trill of pleasure at firing a new rifle.
The runner went down and put up a fresh target.
Chen fit his cheek against the stock and pressed the rifle firmly into the socket of his shoulder. Being taller, the rifle fit him better than it had the previous two men, especially Liu.
Still, it was challenging to fire a rifle cold, without knowing its whims and characteristics. He understood the predicament that the other men had been in, and why Liu had fired so quickly and Huang so slowly. Chen kept both eyes open to improve his peripheral vision and depth perception. His fierce, dark eyes had been the last thing to see more than one enemy soldier alive. He settled his breathing, put the sight on the target, and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle fired. A chunk of wood flew from the post directly behind the target. A hit, then. That was something. He ran the bolt, and in rapid succession, fired two more shots.
He lowered the rifle and the runner went scurrying toward the post. He returned and handed the target to the officer.
The colonel squinted, holding up the paper. From this angle, Chen could not quite see the target, but he had glimpsed a hole that was not in the center. So, then. He had not won.
Beside the colonel, the political officer leaned in to whisper something in the man's ear. The colonel nodded, smiled, and pointed at Chen.
Hands suddenly clapped Chen on the back, but he was puzzled. Had he really won? How was this possible?
Chen found himself presented with the bottle of liquor, which he promptly gave to the men in his squad. They cheered happily. He kept the boots for himself, of course. The boots were sized to fit a Russian, which made them perfect for Chen's feet when bundled in winter socks.
No one made any move to collect the Mosin-Nagant from him. Chen looked around, wondering who to give the rifle to.
As the crowd around Chen melted away, he found that the political officer remained. Major Wu. Chen tried to give back the Mosin-Nagant, but Wu shook his head.
"Keep the rifle," he said. "You will need it soon."
"Sir?" Chen asked, puzzled.
But the officer only turned away to study the Yalu River sparkling in the distance, and then the mountains beyond. Chen realized that he had been given his answer. The time had come again to punish China's enemies. Those enemies would surely include snipers, and it had been determined that Chen was just the man for the job of confronting them.
Chapter Nine
It was Thanksgiving Day, but Old Man Winter had already visited Korea. Snowflakes swirled in the hoary wind. Water froze in canteens. Wet feet turned black with frostbite in the night.
Cole never had given cold weather too much thought — it was simply something to be dealt with when one was out in the woods. You wore a hat and stayed dry. But this cold was insistent. It wormed its way into every gap and seam.
His unit, as well as others in the Eighth Army under General Walker, was finding its way forward slowly, heads bent against the wind. Their ultimate goal was the Yalu River, but enemy units had been reported between here and the river. No one had seen them yet, but the rumors had taken on shape and substance. Only General Almond and MacArthur himself did not seem perturbed — their orders to units in the field were to push on, no matter what.
So they marched on into the growing cold. Bone weary, Cole and the rest of the men were glad enough when word came for a halt. Surrounded by mountains, they were within a short march of the Yalu River. If they pushed hard enough, they could be on the Chinese border in a day or two.
"Don't get comfortable," the sergeant said. "The lieutenant wants foxholes dug. We have mess tents to set up, too — maybe we can get some decent hot chow for a change."
Considering that their rations were now frozen, that was welcome news. Pomeroy turned to Cole. "Mess tents? Sounds like we're gonna be here for a while."
"If we stay too long, we might freeze," Cole said laconically.
“You boys know what? It’s Thanksgiving Day,” Pomeroy said.
“Mmm, what I wouldn’t give for some pumpkin pie,” the kid said.
They all fell silent for a moment, thinking wistfully of the folks gathered around groaning tables back home. Dinner here in the frozen, Korean mountains did not seem nearly as promising, mess tents or not.
Adding to the misery of soldiers on the march, the deep cold had settled over the mountains and the remote valleys. Soldiers longed for the relative warmth that had greeted them when they came ashore weeks before. Had the weather changed that quickly? As they moved into the mountains, cold weather had marched down from the north to meet them. What the troops didn't know was that this cold wind had originated on the bitter steppes of Mongolia.
Soldiers put on whatever they could to stay warm — hats, scarves, mittens, extra socks, long johns. So much extra clothing made the march far more difficult, weighing them down and slowing their motions. The soldiers plodded now, rather than marched.
While the extra layers were welcome, they could also be a curse. The last thing that a man wanted to do was heat up too much and start to sweat. If that happened, he would start to shiver almost uncontrollably as soon as he stopped moving and is damp clothing turned chilly.
Pomeroy explained it to the kid: "The trick is to find a balance — keep moving, but don't break a sweat."
"Easier said than done," Tommy said, puffing under his heavily laden pack, assorted gear, ammunition, and rifle.
They didn't need to worry for long about standing around. The activity of setting up the camp wasn't much different from what men and armies had done in hostile country since time immemorial. The disciplined Roman legions might have done the same, setting up their defenses against the barbarian hordes. Supplies were unloaded, sleeping areas and guard posts were established, men looked forward to getting food of some sort into their empty bellies, and nervous eyes played over the surrounding terrain where any number of the enemy might be lurking.
One thing for sure, this cold and this country had not been welcoming — never mind the fact that they hadn't seen so much as a single enemy soldier since the ambush on the road. That didn't keep the rumors from flying.
"I got it from a guy in B Company that there's a hundred thousand enemy troops up ahead, waiting for us," the kid said.
"Is that all?” Pomeroy said. He gave a short laugh. “I heard it was a million."
The talk of enemy troops hidden in the hills made everyone jumpy. Even the officers looked uneasy — Cole realized they didn't know anything more than the men. From what little they had seen of the North Koreans, nobody was much worried about those particular enemy troops. But here in the mountains it made sense to move cautiously.
The objective now was to probe the rugged landscape and find these pockets of the enemy — and wipe them out. It never occurred to any of the men or the officers that events might go in the other direction — that it might be pockets of their own troops that would be targeted for annihilation.
In the distance, they heard the sound of approaching aircraft.