"Sir?" the colonel asked, not really comprehending, but Almond was already outside. The colonel and his staff had no choice but to follow.
The photographer that Almond had brought along got into position as the general proceeded to present both McLean and Faith with Silver Stars. The medal was actually a large gold star with a smaller silver star in the center, suspended from a red, white, and blue ribbon. The award was the third-highest medal for valor on the battlefield.
Faith protested, "General, I don't deserve this medal. I've done nothing while the men in the field are the ones who held back the Chinese."
The colonel shot his second-in-command a warning look. This was sufficient to keep Faith standing at attention as General Almond pinned the medal on him. The photographer asked them to do it a second time so that he could get a better angle, but the entire ceremony was over in minutes because nobody wanted to linger in the cold. The temperature hovered at around fifteen degrees, but the incessant wind made it feel much colder. After the sun went down, the temperatures promised to plummet yet again to well below zero.
In the distance, they heard the sharp crack of isolated rifle fire. "What's that shooting about?" Almond wanted to know.
"Probably just one of those non-existent Chinese soldiers," Faith muttered.
Almond's face clouded. "What's that?"
The colonel jumped in. "The men are jumpy, sir. It's probably nothing. Then again, we have been taking periodic sniper fire. The Chinese have the high ground, so there's not much we can do if they want to pick us off."
"All right," Almond said. "Carry on, Colonel. I've got to get back. But let's be clear — there aren't going to be any reinforcements. I'll send you what I can in the way of supplies. Keep going toward the Yalu."
"Yes, sir."
At that, Almond and his small entourage made their way back toward the chopper, which was already powering up. McLean and Faith watched until the helicopter began climbing into the sky.
Then Faith ripped the new medal off his chest and threw it into the snow.
"Nuts to that!" he said.
"Sir?" A lieutenant was staring, perhaps thinking that his superior officer had lost his mind to have tossed away the Silver Star.
"I don't deserve this medal. It ought to go to one of those poor bastards in the foxholes." Faith paused. "Maybe one of the dead ones."
No one even else even remarked on Faith's actions. Truth be told, they were all more than a little stunned by General Almond's parting words.
He hadn't come to save them or to offer reinforcements.
He was telling them to press the advance.
It was madness.
The general was leaving them high and dry, even as nightfall approached and the Chinese would surely send fresh waves of attackers.
Chapter Fifteen
Shivering in their foxholes, the soldiers watched as the helicopter lifted off and shattered the frigid air with its rotating blades. Slowly, the ungainly craft picked up speed until it swept toward the south and disappeared. To a man, they suddenly felt quite alone as the stillness of the mountains returned. The quiet roared in their ears. Looking around at the surrounding ridges, and knowing that the enemy lurked there, made them fell yet more insignificant.
"Clouds moving in," Cole said. "Smells like snow."
"And just what does snow smell like, Hillbilly?"
Cole shrugged. He might have said damp metal or maybe clean laundry, if he hadn't thought that Pomeroy would just scoff at that. "If I got to explain it, then you ain't gonna get it, New Jersey," he said. "Just take my word for it that it's gonna snow."
Tommy spoke up. "One thing for sure, the planes aren't going to fly if it snows."
"You got that right, kid. If the Corsairs are grounded, I don't even want to think about what our Chinese friends will do."
The kid didn't have a response to that.
Earlier in the day, the sun had come out briefly and with it had appeared planes to harass the enemy. The bombs and napalm had kept the Chinese hidden and at bay. Once the skies were empty, the enemy would be emboldened. Since daylight, the Chinese army had left them alone.
One exception had been the sniper. Cole's shot had driven him away — with luck, maybe he had even nailed the bastard. But Cole remained unsettled that someone had been able to shoot with such accuracy at that distance. Cole's eyes were like an eagle's, and he was a good shot even with the M-1. That Chinese sniper had been just as good.
"Do you think they'll be back?"
Cole looked around at the hills where the shadows were lengthening as night came on. To him, it seemed as if those hills were holding their breath. Biding their time.
To the kid he said, "Ain't nothin' we can do about that but be ready. Wipe all the oil that you can out of your rifle so that it don't freeze up. Make sure you drink some water and eat something if you've got it. Don't just eat snow — that will just make you thirstier."
"Huh?"
"Your body uses more energy when you eat snow or frozen food," Cole explained. "It puts out more than it takes in, see? Keep a canteen and a couple tins of rations stuffed down inside your coat and there's at least a chance that it won't freeze."
The kid nodded. "If you say so."
"When was the last time you changed your socks?"
"This morning."
"Best change 'em again before the temperature drops."
Keeping their feet dry was a constant battle and more of an immediate threat than the Chinese. Officially, they had been told to change their socks every two hours. Needless to say, this was nearly impossible under the current conditions, but some attempt had to be made to keep one's feet dry if you wanted to keep your toes.
The problem was that soldiers had been issued rubber boots — galoshes, really. The heavy, ungainly galoshes weren't great for marching and were notorious for encouraging blisters. The boots weren’t bad at keeping water out, but they also kept water in. In a warmer climate this may not have mattered, but in the subzero cold the boots became much worse than a hindrance.
The boots had a sort of felt pad in the bottom for insulation and to wick away moisture. In the extreme cold, however, that pad tended to freeze once it got wet so that their feet were essentially kept on ice. The best defense was to swap your socks as much as you could, keeping the damp pair stuffed into your coat so that it had some chance of drying out in your body warmth.
Cole glanced over at Pomeroy, who had drifted off but snapped back awake.
"How's that side?" Cole asked, nodding at where Pomeroy had been wounded in last night's fighting. The medics had patched him up back at the aid station and then sent him back to the line. There would be no sitting this one out. If the Chinese returned once the planes stopped flying at nightfall, they would be needing every man who could hold a rifle to fight.
"I'm too cold to feel a goddamn thing," Pomeroy said.
"I reckon that's good," Cole replied. "How are we set on ammo?"
"I've got five clips and two grenades," Pomeroy said.
"Kid?"
"Eight clips and four grenades."
"Jesus, kid, what are you saving up for? Christmas? Give one of those clips to me and one to Pomeroy. That still leaves you six clips. You make sure you don't hold back if those Chinese come at us again."
"And they will," Pomeroy muttered.
"Yeah, it's likely. I've got even less ammo than you, Pomeroy. Damn. What did they say at Bunker Hill? Don't shoot till you see the whites of their eyes? That's the situation we've got here."