Sighting in his Russian-made rifle, he fired again.
Another enemy soldier collapsed to the frozen ground and lay still.
"You got him!" Zhao announced, studying the scene below through a battered pair of precious binoculars. "Quickly, shoot another!"
"You are the spotter," Chen said impatiently. "Find me another target."
That shut Zhao up. He was soon occupied with glassing the enemy position. Not that Chen really needed him. Even without binoculars, he could see all that he needed to, although his field of vision was limited. Briefly, he wondered if he could get away with shooting Zhao in the head and claiming that the enemy had done it. He decided to see how the day went before he risked it.
He was nearly two hundred meters from the American lines. Chen possessed a much sought-after telescopic sight — such technology was a rarity in China unless it had been captured. Fortunately for Chen, he also had extremely good vision. Between the treasured rifle scope and his eagle eyes, it was a winning combination.
Once he picked out a target, he began to track the man using the reticule. He had adjusted the scope to allow for maximum elevation, but even so, Chen was shooting mainly by instinct. He had claimed many Japanese and many more Nationalists both with open sights and then the rifle scope. The Americans and their allies below were just another target.
Since before dawn, he had been in position with Zhao. He would have preferred to work alone, but he had been assigned a spotter. Today, he had felt that it would be easier for one man to hide from the planes, but so far, Zhao had not given them away.
The German snipers had trained him well more than a dozen years ago, but in years of fighting the Japanese and then the Nationalists, he had adopted some of his own tactics. It was German doctrine never to fire twice from the same position. Of course, German snipers had often fought in cities and towns, or in the enclosed fields of Europe. While constant movement made sense on some level — more than one shot from a position made it easier to pinpoint the sniper's position — it was also impractical in many ways.
Staying on the move did, indeed, keep the enemy guessing. That aspect of doctrine was sensible. However, movement also exposed a sniper. He had to leave his hiding place and find another. A good sniper would have his hides planned out, but there was still the business of getting from one to the next.
In this vast terrain, it was next to impossible to determine the source of a rifle shot. The crack of a rifle reverberated and echoed across the hills in confusing patterns. The Americans, for all their reputation as riflemen, seemed to lack decent marksmen. Given that reality, why make an effort to move?
Instead, Chen preferred to use a single hide as his sniper's lair. The Japanese also had highly developed sniper tactics, and like Chen, they had preferred a single place from which to pick off the enemy.
The attack during the night had left so many dead. He could see the corpses spread everywhere, mowed down by the enemy's guns. Although the Americans were fewer in number, their weapons were far superior. Throwing the Chinese forces forward in hopes of overwhelming the Americans now seemed to be a foolish tactic, but he knew better than to voice his opinion — definitely not in front of Zhao, who would only carry his words to Major Wu. In Communist China, one’s words could ricochet and kill you as easily as a bullet.
The Americans were weaker now, having lost many men and expended much ammunition. The bitter cold also had taken its toll. Another attack tonight might prove more successful — and Chen had no doubts that this was exactly what was planned by the Chinese generals.
Until then, he would do his best to even the odds.
Sighting through the scope, he picked out a soldier running forward from the rear area of the American position that was out of Chen's view. A messenger? Hitting a moving target at this distance was challenging. He put the sight on the soldier, fired. When he looked, he saw that the soldier was still moving.
"You missed!" Zhao cried. "I told you that you should move closer."
Chen ignored him. He ran the bolt, ejected the spent shell and loaded another into the chamber. The soldier was still up and running. Chen led him more this time, and slowly squeezed the trigger. The soldier sprawled in the churned ground. Zhao grunted in grudging admiration.
Chen nodded to himself in satisfaction. Bullet by bullet, he planned to punish the Americans for coming to this place where they had no business being.
He picked out another target, and fired.
Along with the others, Cole didn't have much choice but to keep his head down as the Chinese sniper picked away at them.
But they didn’t have time for this nonsense. The problem was that with daylight and the end of the attack, there was so much to do. Wounded needed to be helped. Weapons needed to be cleaned and tended, plus ammunition stocks distributed. Hell, it would have been nice to start a fire to try to keep some of the cold at bay.
But at the moment, the sniper kept firing whenever someone showed themselves. Some men tried to ignore the sniper — the rationale was that the son of a bitch couldn't get them all — but one by one the enemy sniper reaped an awful toll.
Back in his own foxhole with Pomeroy and the kid, Cole studied the distant ridge and wondered, where the hell are you?
"Someone's got to do something about that son of a bitch," Pomeroy muttered through chattering teeth.
"Got any ideas?" Cole asked. "With the echo, I can't tell where he's at."
"Somewhere up on that ridge."
Pomeroy was right, but the problem was that the ridge stretched for maybe half a mile, creating a rugged, natural hiding place for a sniper. The enemy could move easily from place to place, Cole was sure. Meanwhile, the American troops were limited to their foxholes, in plain view of the higher ground that the sniper occupied.
"The best that we can hope for is a muzzle flash," Cole said. "But it's awfully bright for that to stand out."
"Maybe the planes can bomb that whole ridge," Tommy suggested.
"Not a bad idea, but I don't think they want to use their whole payload to get one guy — if they're even lucky enough to get him."
Cole reached for his rifle. The sturdy M-1 had good firepower, but it wasn't what he considered a sniper rifle. More like using an ax to whittle, when what you wanted was a pocketknife.
Then again, you had to work with what you were given.
That included his current foxhole companions.
"Pomeroy, kid, I need your help to try and nail this sniper."
"C'mon, Cole. Get serious. You can't shoot what you can't see."
"That's just what you're gonna help me fix."
He explained what he needed them to do. Their job was to lure the Chinese sniper into firing at them by raising their helmets above the rim of the foxhole. They would use their rifles for that, rather than risking life or limb. Pomeroy would raise his helmet first, followed by the kid.
"Basically, you want us for bait."
"I reckon I do."
"Will he fall for it?"
"It's the oldest trick in the book, but maybe he ain't read the book yet."
"And you think you can actually hit him from here?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. There’s only one way to find out."
Pomeroy sighed. "Let me get this straight, Hillbilly. We are going to attract the attention of the sniper so that he shoots as us. Huh. Did I tell you that you are one crazy some of a bitch?"
"Like you said, I'm a hillbilly. What the hell else do you expect but crazy?"
Grumbling, Pomeroy readied his rifle and helmet. "Say when."
Using his Bowie knife, Cole had gouged out a depression at the edge of the foxhole that would offer at least some protection. The frozen dirt was hard as concrete and difficult to hack through. He used his sleeping bag for a bench rest.