"Looks like cargo planes," Cole noted.
Pomeroy squinted toward the sky. "How can you even see them? You must have eyes like a hawk."
Soon enough, the planes came into view even for those who did not possess a sniper's eyesight. The three workhorses of the sky — the airborne equivalent of trucks — flew in a loose formation without any fighter escort. After all, it wasn't as if they had to worry about enemy planes. The approaching aircraft spotted the Army unit, circled, and came in low. One by one, crates were dropped, trailed by ribbons that expanded into parachutes. Curious men ran to intercept the crates as soon as they reached the ground.
Having completed their drop, the planes waggled their wings in farewell and started back toward their base at Inchon.
"What the hell?" Pomeroy wondered.
Some of the soldiers used bayonets to pry open the crates. Even from where Cole stood, he could smell something delicious. Thanksgiving dinner had dropped from the skies. It was a wonder.
Sergeants and officers arrived, along with the mess staff, bringing order to what might have been a free-for-all among the hungry men. Rough tables were set up on the spot and the cooks started dishing it out. Instead of the good china, this meal was served out on mess kits, the metal so cold that the mashed potatoes froze and stuck to it.
The crates contained the complete makings of a Thanksgiving feast: roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie. For the hungry men, it was nothing short of a miracle. Providing such a feast to forces across the peninsula had taken nothing short of a logistical masterpiece, a testament to vast resources of the United States military.
"Happy Thanksgiving!" someone shouted.
"If somebody doesn't want their pie, I'll take it!"
"Yeah, right!"
"Hurry up and eat," someone else shouted, but good-naturedly. "If these mashed potatoes get any colder, you'll break a tooth."
The soldier wasn't far wrong. With the temperature hovering near zero degrees and the incessant wind, the turkey soon froze so that it had to be gnawed a bit in one's mouth. The mashed potatoes and gravy coming off the planes had been lukewarm at best. The cooks kept stirring the gravy to keep a skim of ice from forming.
A few of the luckiest soldiers got drumsticks that they could work over like a meaty popsicle.
Nobody complained. The soldiers cheerfully ate as fast as they could, trying to keep ahead of the freezing food. This was a taste of home, and it was a hell of a lot better than frozen C rations.
The feast did not last nearly long enough. Too soon, it was time to complete the work of establishing this position against the enemy.
"Back to work, boys," Sergeant Weber ordered. "I can guarantee you that the Chinese aren't sitting around waiting for us to finish our pumpkin pie." A few yards away, the sergeant motioned at Cole, Pomeroy, and the kid, then shouted at them to get busy.
"C'mon," Cole said.
He got to his feet, surprised at how quickly he had stiffened up in this cold. At least his belly was full. For Cole, who had grown up going to bed hungry on more than a few nights, a full belly was nothing to take for granted. "Let's get to work."
Setting up the tents proved to be challenging. First, there was the frozen ground to contend with. Between the frost and the rocks, getting tent stakes into the rocky ground was like trying to drive them into solid concrete. When possible, they resorted to anchoring the corner ropes to heavy rocks or even the scrub trees that grew on the arid plateau. Then the men had to wrestle the canvas into place against the icy wind. The fact that they had to work wearing gloves or mittens did not make the work any easier.
Despite the orders to get to work, nobody so much as groaned. Mess tents meant the possibility of hot chow, even after this miraculous Thanksgiving meal. Everybody was sick and tired of the canned rations. Unless you wanted to hack away at the frozen contents of a can, it was necessary to stuff these rations inside one's uniform, where there was at least a chance that body heat would keep the contents from freezing.
There was not much time to dwell on that. Now came the work of setting up camp.
The men set up tents and unloaded gear from trucks. Latrines also needed to be dug. Foxholes needed to be dug.
Cole unfolded his shovel and started digging. Although the ground was frosty, the dry, desert-like soil was fairly easy to dig. It was the rocks in the soil that gave them trouble.
"I haven’t been this cold since the Battle of the Bulge,” Pomeroy said. He looked at Cole and asked, “Were you at the Ardennes Forest?"
"Yeah," Cole said. The way that he said the word freighted it was all sorts of dimensions, all of them icy and wind-blasted.
"Now that was cold," Pomeroy said. "Thought I was going to lose my toes. That was bad. All that goddamn snow — not to mention German panzers. But I hate to say it, we may be in for worse."
"Pomeroy, I wish I could say that you were wrong, but I've also got a bad feeling about this weather. This ain't a cold snap. We're in this mess for the long haul."
Sergeant Weber spotted them talking and stomped in their direction.
"Here comes trouble," Pomeroy muttered. "The sergeant is still mad at you for not so much as firing a shot back at that ambush. You'd better keep your head down and your mouth shut, Cole."
"Don't I always?"
"Yeah, right. I got to say, for a quiet guy you always manage to say just enough to get yourself in hot water."
Weber looked about as cold and tired as they felt, which didn't make him any less cranky.
"Cole," he said. "I have been looking for you—"
"Looks like you done found me, Sarge."
"Always the wise ass, aren't you, Cole?" The sergeant smiled a crooked smile that managed to be as cold as the frigid air. "Well, I've got a job for you. The lieutenant wants a squad to go out and probe for the enemy. You know, make sure there's not a division hiding just out of sight below the next ridge. I said, 'Sir, if they run into that division then there's a good chance that squad won't come back.' He said, 'Well, then pick a squad of men you won't miss much.' Fair enough. Guess that's why he's an officer. Anyhow, you came to mind as being perfect to go out there and look for the enemy — seeing as how you might not come back."
"Thanks for thinking of me, Sarge."
"Oh, I was thinking of you, believe me. So pick a couple of men and reconnoiter, at least to the other side of that ridge."
"Gonna be dark soon," Cole pointed out.
"Then you had best get a move on, Cole. If you don't come back, I will assume that the whole damn Chinese army is out there."
"I'll take Pomeroy and Wilson, sir."
The sergeant glanced at the other two, shrugged. "It's their funeral," he said, then turned away, shaking his head. "If you see the enemy, hold your fire. Try to capture one of them, instead. That's why I thought you'd be perfect for the job, Cole. Rumor has it that you’re not much on firing your weapon."
Cole watched the sergeant walk off, then turned to Pomeroy and Tommy.
"How 'bout it, boys?" Cole asked.
"Gotta die sometime," Pomeroy said. "At least I'll die full of mashed potatoes and gravy."
"Now, that’s a true American," the kid said.
Even Cole cracked a smile at that.
After stowing their extra gear, the three men moved into the hills, leaving the American line behind. Once they had covered a couple of hundred feet, Cole stopped and looked back. The American line of defense that had seemed so reassuring when they were part of it, a viable bastion against the enemy, now looked insubstantial from a distance. The foxholes looked too far apart. The soldiers, trucks, and tanks looked puny against the backdrop of the foreign mountains.
Not for the first time, Cole had to wonder what the hell they expected to do here in the vastness of this land. The Thanksgiving feast had put him in a surprisingly winsome mood. It seemed strange that they now had to return to the business of warfare.