When the Chinese came at them again, they were ready. Cole knelt and got off another clip. He got to his feet and swung the rifle like a club. He knocked down a couple of the enemy, but then a big Chinese bastard who wasn't even carrying a rifle managed to yank the M-1 out of Cole's hands.
Cole drew his Browning and shot him. Were the Chinese actually sending some men into battle without weapons, intending for them to arm themselves with whatever they picked up off the battlefield? That was hard to fathom. He shook his head. Crazy. How did you beat an enemy like that?
He emptied the pistol, then tossed it into the foxhole.
The three men formed a loose circle, their backs to one another. The safety of the foxhole was just a few feet away just in case the Chinese did bring in machine guns or artillery.
More flares filled the sky, bathing the killing fields in a strange, otherworldly glow. Cole was relieved to see that the Chinese flood appeared to be abating. The question was, had they really made a dent in the attackers or had that sea of attackers simply gone around them the way that a river flows around an island?
He looked around, trying to get a sense of whether or not they were surrounded. He spotted GIs to his left, grappling with the Chinese much like they were. Those were the guys with the BAR, but it had fallen silent.
To his right, he saw bodies in American uniforms sprawled among many more Chinese bodies. He sure as hell didn't see any living defenders. As he watched, a Chinese soldier reached down, grabbed an M-1 from the hands of a dead American, and ran on. Cole swore, helpless to stop him. He didn't like the idea of being on the receiving end of an M-1's firepower.
Finally, the Americans had brought up mortars and a steady fire rained down on the oncoming Chinese. With the enemy packed so close together, the massed mortar fire had a telling effect. The shells exploded in the Chinese ranks, each mortar round so close that the ground shook. Any closer and they'd be in danger of the shrapnel hitting the GIs. He was thankful that the Chinese didn't seem to have anything but their rifles — and those damn horns and whistles, which were a weapon in themselves.
Cole grabbed a grenade, hurled it at a knot of Chinese, forcing them to fall back. Somebody nearby tooted one of those infernal horns and the next thing that Cole knew, he was face to face with a screaming Communist soldier. The man jabbed a bayonet at Cole's face, but he dodged it, drew his big Bowie knife, and slashed at the Chinese soldier. The man fell, hands at his face, and Cole bent down and poked the knife into the man’s windpipe to finish him like he would a wounded deer.
"Cole!"
He heard Tommy shout for help and turned to see him grappling with a Chinese soldier, their arms and rifles all tangled up. His pistol empty, his rifle gone, Cole had no choice but to stab the enemy soldier in the side of the neck. The soldier let go. Screaming, the kid followed up with the bayonet, his skinny body contorted with the effort of forcing the weapon through the thick quilted uniform and then through the ribs of the soldier. He had to kick the soldier to get the bayonet free.
Cole turned again, his knife at the ready, but there were only a few stragglers now. The bulk of the assault appeared to have flowed off to their right.
The kid had his bayonet ready, but suddenly there weren't any takers. He seemed to be all in one piece, at least.
He glanced over at Pomeroy, who was listing to one side like a boat that was taking on water.
"You hit?"
"Just a scratch. I'll be all right. What about you? There's blood all over your face."
Cole suddenly felt the wet warmth of it and touched his face. He didn't hurt anywhere. "Ain’t mine," he said.
From the gloom in the hills, those godawful bugles began to sound a different note. The Chinese whistles blew with a new urgency. With an overwhelming sense of relief, he realized that the Chinese had signaled a retreat. The flares fizzled and sank low on the horizon. In the last of their glare, he looked out across the plateau and saw mound upon mound of heaped bodies. You could easily cross to the ravine beyond by stepping from body to body and never touching the ground. He was more than a little astounded by the sheer numbers of dead Chinese.
The attack had been a massacre. A slaughter on both sides.
The more he thought about that, Cole was astounded to still be alive.
Darkness returned as the flares faded.
"You know what, Hillbilly?" Pomeroy was just visible in the gloom.
"What is it, New Jersey?"
"I'm gonna need some help, after all." Then Pomeroy slumped over onto the frozen ground.
Chapter Twelve
Cole shouted, "Medic!"
In the confusion after the fight, it didn't seem likely that they were going to get any medical help. Their position remained shrouded in darkness, but they could hear other cries around them for a medic — if any of the medics had even survived.
Although the Chinese attack had subsided, they could still hear random firing from the darkness.
Nobody showed a light because that would only have drawn fire.
Cole crouched beside Pomeroy. "Where you hit?"
"I've got so many damn clothes on, I can't tell."
"Where does it hurt?"
"My side. Feels like a hot poker jabbing me."
Cole prodded at Pomeroy's coat, found a rip, but not much blood. Using fingers stiff with cold, he tore open a field dressing and got it pressed against Pomeroy's side.
"Looks like a piece of something glanced your ribs," Cole said. "You're lucky."
"Hurts like hell."
Cole couldn't argue with that. "I reckon it does."
The biggest problem was that Pomeroy shivered almost uncontrollably. Hell, Cole himself was shivering. So was the kid. The temperature was so low that it would need an elevator just to get back up to zero. Now that the fight was over, the nighttime cold settled over them. What they needed was a fire to create some warmth, but there was no hope of that.
"Get inside your sleeping bag," Cole told him. "Got to use what body warmth you got."
"The last thing I want to do is get caught inside this sleeping back if the Chinese come back."
"They won't be back tonight," Cole predicted. “We chewed ‘em up good.”
Pomeroy nodded, and struggled into the sleeping back, muddy boots and all. The effort seemed to make him shiver even more. "Anybody got water?" he asked.
Cole handed him a canteen, but when Pomeroy shook it, there wasn't any telltale sloshing. Frozen solid.
"I'll be damned," Cole said.
"Here, I got some," Tommy said. "I had it tucked inside my coat."
"You're way ahead of us, kid," Pomeroy said, taking the canteen gratefully.
Cole and the kid worked to clear the foxhole of the enemy dead, stacking the bodies in front of the foxhole to create a low wall. It was gruesome work, but if the enemy attacked again, they might be grateful for the barrier. Once that was done, there was nothing to do but settle down and wait. Cole stared out at the darkness immediately in front of them, which seemed impenetrable, though he could make out the outlines of the higher peaks against the star-filled sky. Somewhere out there, the enemy was lurking, licking its wounds and waiting.
Meanwhile, the cold was the more immediate enemy. The bitter chill crept into any exposed gap.
"Better get into our sleeping bags, kid," he said. "Let's huddle up for body heat with Pomeroy in the middle. If the Chinese don't finish us off, this cold sure as hell will."
They both struggled into their sleeping bags. Between them, Pomeroy slept fitfully. The medic never had shown up, but judging by the sounds of suffering coming to them from neighboring foxholes, there were cases a lot worse off than Pomeroy.
Cole propped his rifle against the frozen edge of the foxhole and balled up his fists within his wool gloves, trying to keep his hands warm enough to function. After a moment's consideration, he slipped the rifle into the sleeping bag to keep it from freezing up.