Chen ate his rice silently, a few grains at a time. He had eaten less — and he had certainly eaten worse during the years of Japanese occupation. There was no meat, and certainly no vegetables, other than a few onions. Some of the men ate the onions raw, like apples. The Chinese did not have neatly packaged rations like the U.N. troops ate.
Chen kept his rifle balanced across his knees, staring up at the gray sky through the web of branches that provided natural camouflage. Ridges of hills surrounded them. It was a bleak and forbidding wintry landscape, but it was all the same to Chen, who had fought in many places. He could feel the man next to him shivering in the cold. They were all shivering. If only they could all get up and move around — but that would have meant certain death from above.
He felt relieved that no one had questioned the death of the commissar, shot at impossibly long range by an American sniper. In the end, the commissar's death was accepted as simply one of many and barely worth noting. He could still see the man's staring eyes that registered only a look of surprise. Chen realized that he had underestimated the Americans as soft and weak. One among them, at least, was a very good shot. As good as Chen, at least.
Chen was not one to think too deeply, but even he had to wonder, when had life become so meaningless? So easy to toss away? The Chinese had suffered for many years, it was true, under the Japanese and then through a bitter civil war. But now life seemed to have even less value, rather than more. What had this long struggle been about except to make it easier to die?
He pushed these bitter thoughts from his mind. Like the others around him, Chen closed his eyes and drifted off to a dreamless, fitful sleep. He woke after dark because a noncommissioned officer was urging them to their feet. A handful of men did not stir, and the noncommissioned officer kicked at them. They fell over into stiff heaps, never to rise again. The cold and lack of food had taken its toll.
In the safety of darkness, which had grounded the enemy planes, the Chinese troops emerged from their hiding places and gathered for that night's assault. Although Chen could not see more than a short distance into the darkness, he could sense the vast numbers of men around him, murmuring and moving in the night.
"Form up!" the officers shouted, working to get units assembled into some order.
Because Chen had a rifle, he was put into the first wave. If he was killed, then someone in the second wave would pick up his rifle. Chen had been in the first wave last night as well, and he tried not to dwell on the fact that he would be very lucky to survive a second night.
Not that he or any of the other soldiers had a choice. The third wave was really just a thin line made up of commissars, some carrying pistols and a few armed with submachine guns, making them some of the best-armed troops. Their job was to make sure that no one in the first two waves turned back from the attack. There was no way but forward.
"Chen, step out of line!" an officer ordered.
Looking to see who had singled him out, Chen recognized the young officer, Wu, who had been with them on the day of the shooting competition. He did as he was told. "Yes, sir!"
"You will not be in the first wave, Chen. You are a sniper. You will instead find a position west of the main column from where you can pick off the enemy during the attack."
"Yes, sir."
Chen was surprised, but he knew better than to question his orders. He had fully expected to die during tonight's attack. It was simply the way that things were. But now, he had been pointed in a new direction. He had been given a reprieve.
Chen moved to the edges of the formation, momentarily at a loss because it felt odd to have been spared from the direct assault. But the officer was right. His skills could be put to better use than as cannon fodder. Given enough ammunition and a good vantage point from which to shoot, there was no telling how many of the enemy he might claim. Chen welcomed that opportunity.
He crept closer to the enemy line, keeping to the higher ground. The other soldiers were forming on the far side of a ridge, keeping out of sight of the enemy. When the order came, they would surge over the crest of the ridge and charge down the slope toward the enemy, cascading like a waterfall.
Chen was blessed with keen eyesight that served him well, even in the darkness. Now that it was after midnight, the skies were beginning to clear and a few stars glittered in the deep black firmament. The snow that had fallen earlier that night reflected the starlight so that Chen could see for several yards before the landscape was swallowed up again by darkness. But with the clearing skies, the cold had descended once more. Chen's feet and hands and ears ached in the cold, but he did his best to ignore the pain.
Chen stayed well away from the main line of assault and picked a point that overlooked the American and ROK positions below. In fact, he wasn't all that far from where his shooting position had been earlier in the day.
The American position was largely dark, except where he could see the occasional glow of a cigarette. At least the Americans had cigarettes — that was too great a luxury for the average Chinese soldier.
He scoffed at the Americans' lack of discipline. As a sniper, those cigarettes alone would have given him plenty of targets. He fought the urge to target some of them now, and he settled in to wait for the main attack.
He did not have to wait long. Soon, the night was filled with the sounds of horns and whistles, then the shrill shouts of orders. Unseen in the darkness, Chen could sense the movement of huge numbers of men. The pounding of so many men on the frozen ground actually made the earth shake.
Then flares shot into the sky, finally illuminating the assault. Chen couldn't help feeling in awe of the spectacle spread before him. Looking out over the slope, he could see thousands of his comrades rushing down the hill toward the enemy. The ones in the front ranks carried rifles, and they screamed as they ran, knowing at any moment that the Americans would open up with their deadly automatic weapons. The Chinese could only hope to overwhelm them through sheer force of numbers, but the price paid would be heavy.
Behind that first line, the second wave of attackers followed, ready to pick up their fallen comrades' weapons and continue the assault. The lucky ones in the second wave carried a few grenades, while some were empty-handed. Chen shook his head at the courage required to charge toward the enemy guns without so much as a weapon.
The third wave wasn't really a wave at all, but a thinly spaced line. These were the political commissars in their heavy wool coats and hats, looking more ready for the parade ground than the battlefield. But they were doing their job, all the same, preventing any of the soldiers in the first two waves from turning back. From time to time, Chen could see the burst of a submachine gun or the muzzle flash of a pistol as the commissars carried out their "motivational" work. He just hoped that none of the commissars wandered in his direction and started shooting at him.
On the slope behind him, he thought he heard footsteps. He swung the rifle in that direction, fearing that it might be American or ROK scouts. Then he heard a muttered curse as someone slipped on the snowy, sloping ground. Two men, he thought. Were they deserters?
"Do not shoot, Chen."
He thought that he recognized Wu’s voice. "Sir?"
A moment later, Wu came into view, huffing from his climb up the slope. He had a young soldier in tow who seemed to be carrying a heavy box in both hands.