Cole walked off to one side, watching for movement beyond the roadside. The American column was strung out for nearly a mile along the narrow road. If the Chinese wanted to him them now, they were sitting ducks. Calling this a road was something of a misnomer because this was just a narrow lane, covered in snow, icy in patches, and pockmarked with ruts. The road took its time, meandering as it went.
Sergeant Weber wandered over beside him. "Keep an eye out, Cole. I know that you must be good with that rifle, whether you admit it or not, and you might get a chance to use it before the day is out."
Cole's sharp eyes caught movement on the hills bordering the road. He stared, trying to make sense of what he had seen. Chinese troops were moving into position to pour harassing fire down on them from the hills, or maybe even attempt to cut them off from Hagaru-ri. "You know what? I reckon I will get that chance," Cole said.
They made it maybe an hour before the first Chinese attack.
Chapter Twenty-One
As gunfire peppered the column, Cole scanned the hills, looking for targets. The nature of this landscape made holding the high ground impossible for the Americans and their allies. Hills marched away from both sides of the road and they could clearly see Chinese troops covering them.
The only blessing was that the Chinese did not seem to possess artillery. If that had been the case, then the U.N. column would have been obliterated. Still, the Chinese were not prevented from firing down from the hills. From time to time, squads of the enemy approached to attack the column with grenades, always targeting the trucks.
Officers who were students of history couldn't help but think of the punishing march made by the British from Lexington and Concord back to Boston. Enraged by the sight of enemy soldiers on their soil, the colonials had pestered the Redcoats with hit-and-run attacks. Now, the tables had turned and it was these Americans who were the enemy on someone else's home turf. And yet, they were not the soldiers of any king, but the soldiers of democracy and freedom. Too bad the Communists didn't see it that way.
For soldiers who were already exhausted, being on constant guard against enemy attack was pushing them beyond the limits of their endurance. Bleary eyed, every bush or boulder became an enemy soldier. It was only their lack of ammunition that kept them from shooting up the countryside.
"They're going to pick us off one by one," Pomeroy remarked. "I overheard one of the officers say it's fourteen miles to Hagaru-ri. Might as well be a hundred."
"Just keep your eyes open," Cole said. "You see one of them bastards in a puffy coat, you shoot him. That ought to make them think twice about attacking us."
Pomeroy gave Cole a look. "I can tell you've done this before."
"What?"
"Fight."
"Yeah. I had me a little experience in the last war."
The road began to curve and descend toward the Pungyuri River. If there was ever a place for an ambush, Cole thought, this was it. The river was crossed by a narrow bridge that had been previously reinforced by Army engineers when the unit had been heading north. Now that they were retreating, it was something of a small miracle that the bridge was still intact. The bridge itself was close to the surface of the water. Ice gripped the rocky edges of the waterway, but at the center of the river the water ran free — despite the cold, there was simply too much current for the water to freeze over.
"I sure as hell wouldn't want to fall in there," Pomeroy said. "Can you swim?"
Cole shook his head. He hated any kind of water, having almost drowned once in a mountain stream when trapping as a boy. It was more than he wanted to explain to Pomeroy right now, but he had to admit to himself that the sight of that cold, dark current made him shudder. "Pomeroy, how much gear do you have on? How long do you reckon anyone could swim in that current?"
"I guess you're right."
As they neared the bridge, a squad of soldiers moved forward to scout the approach and make sure that an ambush had not been set. The soldiers set up a perimeter along both sides of the bridge, hunkering down on the rocky shore.
Cole was surprised to see a column of soldiers appear on the far side of the river and begin advancing across the bridge. These troops were clearly on the march, not rushing toward a fight. Their weapons were slung over their shoulders. They did not appear to be wearing the tell-tale quilted winter uniforms. In fact, they wore olive drab like the U.N. troops. But Cole’s sharp eyes picked out the fact that something wasn’t quite right. Hell, they just didn’t move like Americans.
He wasn't the only one to spot the approaching soldiers. Almost immediately, the squad along the river bank began to open fire. Some of the advancing soldiers were hit and fell into the river, only to be swept away in the icy current. It was a nightmarish sight and terrified screams reached their ears.
"Stop!"
Even over the shooting, they could hear someone yelling urgently. A figure ran onto the bridge from the American side, waving his cane over his head. Immediately, the fire on the American side slackened as his troops recognized their commanding officer, Colonel MacLean. He shouted again: "Hold your fire! Those are my boys!"
Out on the bridge, the colonel ran toward the approaching troops. To the colonel, it seemed clear that these were reinforcements sent from Hagaru-ri. Help had finally come for his battered troops. Also, it meant that the road ahead must be clear if the reinforcements had made it through.
"I'll be damned," Pomeroy muttered. "Looks like we weren't forgotten, after all."
Recognizing that help had arrived, some of the soldiers around Cole and Pomeroy began to whoop. Ten minutes ago, they had been mired in despair. Now, they at least had some hope of getting the hell out of this place in one piece.
But Cole saw that something was wrong. Although the firing from their own side of the crossing had stopped when the colonel ran out onto the bridge, the newly arrived troops were quickly unshouldering their rifles and shouting. Some of the other troops opened fire, their rifle reports making sharp cracks in the cold air.
The colonel staggered and dropped his cane. He was hit again and went to his knees. More shots were fired. He fell to the deck of the bridge, struggling to get up.
Now, a handful of the soldiers on the bridge were running toward the fallen colonel. Too late, Cole and the others realized what was happening. These were not reinforcements. These were simply Chinese or maybe North Korean troops without their winter uniforms. Clearly, they had been taken by complete surprise at the sight of an American officer running at them, waving a cane, but the surprise had not lasted for long.
Cole's rifle was already up. He put his sights on the soldier closest to the fallen colonel and fired. The man went down. Other soldiers were doing the same, although the enemy troops were now so close that it seemed an even chance that their shots were just as likely to hit the colonel. Seeing the situation, some officers and sergeants shouted for the shooting to stop, adding to the confusion.
Out on the bridge, the enemy soldiers had reached the wounded colonel and were dragging him back to their side of the river. Helplessly, his own troops watched as their colonel was taken prisoner. Holding the colonel awkwardly by the coat and his arms and legs, enemy soldiers half-carried, half-dragged him off the bridge and hustled away with their prize. At that point, however, it was hard to tell if the limp figure was even alive.
The whole episode had taken less than a minute, but it left the Americans stunned and dumbfounded. The colonel had been one of the good ones. He knew what he was doing, which was more than they could say for a lot of officers.