He peered into the blackness, hoping for a glimpse as the running sound became audible.
They heard the sharp thump of artillery from the darkness, and the flash of guns. They've got artillery? Thank God they didn't decide to soften us up first. Flares arced up into the sky, turning night into day.
What Cole saw next took his breath away.
He thought at first that he was seeing things because the ground itself appeared to be moving. But it wasn't the ground in motion. He was seeing thousands of enemy soldiers trotting toward them, wearing strange quilted uniforms like a medieval archer would wear. The white uniforms made them almost look like part of the snowy landscape that had come to life like strange mountain spirits. The men screamed as they charged, adding to the shrill horns and whistles, creating a deafening din.
Cole felt his bowels clench involuntarily.
"Pick your targets!" the sergeant shouted. "Open fire!"
Cole put his rifle sights on the front ranks of the advancing Chinese. It would be impossible not to hit someone. He had shucked off his gloves in order to better operate the rifle. He squeezed the trigger, felt the rifle jolt. To his relief, the action seemed to be functioning well enough in the cold. He caught the flicker of the ejecting shell out of the corner of his eye.
Settled the sights. Fired again. And again.
It wasn't going to be enough. The Chinese opened fire. Most of them were shooting from the hip or pausing long enough to throw a rifle to their shoulders. It wasn't accurate fire, and fortunately most of the Chinese rifles seemed to be bolt action rifles, unlike the semi-automatic American weapons. Nonetheless, bullets began to whine uncomfortably close. There were just so damn many of the enemy. It was like the massed volley fire from the olden days of Redcoats and Colonials. Not too accurate, but after a while there was so much lead in the air that somebody was going to get hit. As if on cue, Cole heard the scream of a wounded man off to his right.
Finally, the Browning Automatic Rifle on his left opened fire, emptying its 20-round magazine on slow-fire automatic. The frozen action issue on the Browning must have been harder to solve than with the kid's rifle. The Browning opened up and cut a swath through the ranks of the oncoming Chinese. Enemy soldiers behind the ones that had gone down stumbled and tripped over the bodies.
Cole fired until he heard the ping of his empty clip ejecting, then moved to load another clip. He had left his hands bare to make the job easier, but in the awful winter cold, his fingers felt fat as sausages. He fumbled the clip, had to hunt for it in the bottom of the foxhole, then found it and slammed it home.
In the first minute, Cole reckoned that the devastating fire from his platoon had killed a hundred Chinese. The trouble was that here came another hundred right behind them.
"We ought to run for it," Tommy said.
"Stay put, kid. Ain't no choice here but to stay and fight. Get that bayonet on your rifle."
Listening, Pomeroy gave Cole a look that was hard to read, somewhere between determination and resignation, then fixed his own bayonet. His whole time in Europe, Cole couldn't think of a situation where bayonets had been used other than in training. But this was a different kind of war. A different kind of enemy.
More flares launched, illuminating the battlefield in a harsh glow as if a lightning bolt was stuck overhead. The Chinese were so close now that Cole could see their faces, contorted by the mixed fear and rage of battle lust. Every last one of the bastards was screaming at the top of his lungs.
"Goddamn," Cole said, awed at the sight in spite of himself.
They were about to be overrun.
Chapter Eleven
Time seemed to slow down as the first wave of Chinese troops reached the American lines. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, and yet not more than a few seconds had passed.
"Shoot the bastards!" shouted Sergeant Weber, who had clambered up from a nearby foxhole. He was armed with an M-1, and he stood there fully exposed to enemy fire as he emptied the clip at the Chinese troops rushing toward him. With the rifle empty, he started swinging the butt at the enemy soldiers. He managed to knock three down before one of the Chinese tackled him and both men went sprawling.
"I thought they'd all be dwarves," Pomeroy said. "You know, little guys. But some of them are big bastards."
Cole had been thinking the same thing. He had expected the Chinese to be small and slightly built, like the Japanese. But many of the oncoming Chinese were six feet tall, at least. Taller and heavier than Cole or Pomeroy. Their quilted jackets made them look even more solid.
"Makes 'em better targets," Cole said, and took aim again.
He fired eight rounds, and dropped eight soldiers. More Chinese swarmed in to take their place. The advance wasn't more than thirty feet away. He slapped in another clip as fast as he could, thankful for the rapid-firing M-1 in his hands. Lucky for them, the Chinese were too busy advancing to do much shooting. The next thing Cole knew, the Chinese were fifteen feet away. Then six. He fired at the soldier rushing toward their foxhole, screaming, bayonet fixed. The man kept coming, so Cole shot him again.
The empty clip flew off with its telltale ping. The bolt locked open. He was out.
No time to reload. A Chinese soldier charged toward them. Cole ducked down and grabbed the man's rifle, angling the bayonet away, dragging him down into the foxhole. Pomeroy smashed the soldier in the head with the butt of his rifle.
Another soldier ran at them and Cole grabbed him, throwing the off-balance man into the hole. This time, the kid was there, screaming like a banshee as he jammed a bayonet into the enemy soldier. The shy, uncertain kid had been transformed into a warrior by sheer battle madness. Pomeroy was busy wrestling with a soldier who had tumbled into the hole. Cole hit that one over the head and the kid finished him with the bayonet, grunting with the effort like a farm boy working a pitchfork into a stubborn bale of hay.
Still, the Chinese kept coming.
The thought crossed Cole's mind that this was crazy. In all his time fighting the Germans, it had never come down to hand-to-hand combat on this scale. This fight was becoming far more visceral.
Next door, somebody got the BAR working again and mowed down a row of Chinese directly in front of them. Pomeroy chucked a grenade at the enemy for good measure. No sooner had one soldier fallen, then another took his place.
Then Cole, Pomeroy, and Tommy just had time to reload before the Chinese were on them again. Cole emptied another clip at them. Beside him, Pomeroy and the kid fired their carbines madly, but with less effect. They were having to shoot each attacker two or three times before he went down because the rounds from the carbine were less powerful compared to the M-1 rifle that Cole carried. He reloaded and dropped another eight. The hot rifle barrel burned his bare hands, but that was the least of his worries at the moment. If he stopped shooting, they would be overrun.
Another enemy soldier got through and dashed at them. Again, Cole managed to drag him down and let Pomeroy and the kid finish the job. The foxhole was actually filling up with bodies.
On their right, a Chinese grenade went off in the foxhole there. American curses and screams followed the flash and bang.
"We've got to get out of this hole," Cole shouted. "If too many of them come at us at once, we'll be sitting ducks down in there, especially if they toss in a grenade."
"I'd rather die on my feet, anyhow," Pomeroy said.
Next to them, the BAR went to work again and gave them enough breathing room to get clear of the foxhole. It gave good shelter from incoming fire, but it could just as easily become their grave if the Chinese swarmed it.