The first man I encountered stumbled back when I charged into him. I put my bayonet into his chest, fired, and moved on. A friend of his was nearby, thrusting his bayonet at my face in anger. I dodged and fell off balance, but came around with my weapon before he could recover from his failed lunge.
Then, a body slammed into me from the side, knocking me to the ground and throwing my rifle yards away.
I hadn’t been at all prepared for the hit, but somehow I gathered my wits faster than the other man. Feeling with my right hand, I pulled my sidearm from its holster and shot the man three times in the chest. He didn’t seem to react, pulling back his bayonet-equipped Ak-2000 and plunging down with it toward my neck.
As a last panicked reflex, I fired once more, and the man’s aim shifted subtly. I felt the point of the bayonet enter into the right side of my face somewhere, and a spasm of pain took me. My vision went bloody, and I shut my eyes tight. I fired my pistol again and again, emptying it into the nameless PLA soldier, who slumped dead onto me, his bayonet sliding off to the right and leaving a gash on my face.
For a moment, I screamed in pain, oblivious to the world around me. I reflexively pushed the soldier’s corpse off of me, and the action helped settle me. I balled my hands into fists, then pushed myself up to a sitting position.
I tried to open my eyes, and saw only blood. I touched my face, and my hand came back slick with blood. Furiously, I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear them. After a moment, vision returned to my left eye. Still nothing on the right, however. I touched the right eye socket gingerly and felt a strange fluid and nothing else. I vomited profusely.
I might have just sat there and died, but my watch saved me. The timer I had set two minutes earlier went off, wrenching me out of my horror. Obligations called to me above and beyond horror at my own injuries.
I touched the radio transmitter on my chest. My voice came out as a croak, but clear enough to be understandable. “All units, this is Progress 4. Pull back. Run for Citadel. Now.”
Another voice sounded in my ear. “Progress 4, this is Equality 12. Report when your soldiers are clear and we’ll provide covering fire.”
I stood up shakily and looked around. With the smoke continuing to thin out, I could see several Airborne soldiers scampering clear of the battle. Some would almost certainly still be engaged in wild fights, but most would be running even now, trying to get far enough into the smoke to escape before the Chinese started firing at their retreating forms. If I called for covering fire too soon, some of my own soldiers would be killed in the volley.
I waited until I heard more than one or two Ak-2000s firing, then shouted, “Equality 12, now, now, open fire!”
Then, I too was running. I heard the solid chattering of M-4 rifles over the shouts of dying men, and, moments later, scattered Ak-2000 shots returning fire. But I was sprinting clear of the smoke, down Teatime Hill and back into Citadel.
I stopped suddenly when I realized I was back in the town, back behind the newly reformed line that was exchanging gunfire with the PLA forces on Teatime Hill. For the first time, I realized I hadn’t told anyone in the company where to go once they were clear of the battle. As I glanced around, I could see only a few of my soldiers nearby. I called on the radio, “All squads return to the elementary school.”
I made my way there in a few minutes and found twenty of my soldiers waiting for me, including Lieutenant Williams. He frowned at me and said, “Jesus, captain, your eye—”
“Never mind,” I replied in a tone that brooked no discussion, surveying the soldiers in horror. “Is this everyone?”
“They might still be en route, sir,” Williams offered lamely.
I hadn’t been able to see the progress of the battle from my isolated spot in the smoke. Had the company suffered eighty percent casualties?
Minutes passed, and more soldiers began to stream in, mostly in little groups of two or three, some supporting wounded soldiers. The wounds themselves were hideous. Many had lost fingers, some entire hands. More were bleeding from deep stab wounds. Almost everyone had a cut of some kind.
Still, all present looked at me with particular dread, which I assumed was because of the losses.
Fortunately, the rest of the reserves had come back to the elementary school after the attack on Devil Hill had proved to be a ruse, so there were plenty of medics on hand to treat our wounded. One of these approached me and said, “Sir, I need to look at your eye.”
“Not now,” I said, waving a hand dismissively.
“Sir… do you realize…” the medic awkwardly tried to continue the conversation.
I said gruffly, “Spit it out.”
He finally plainly stated, “Sir, your right eye is hanging by its optical nerve. Can’t you feel it tapping against your cheek?”
My stomach heaved as I realized he was right. The socket was weeping blood and tears. Somehow, I didn’t vomit. “What do you think I should do about it?” I asked.
“The, uh, eye itself looks like it’s badly damaged. They might be able to do something in an actual hospital. The road to the south was still open as of a few minutes ago, we might be able to evac you in a truck.”
I shook my head. “Not while my soldiers are still here.”
The medic gulped visibly. “Then I’d have to recommend you get the eye removed, sir. I can do that for you and dress the wound.” The young man turned white at the thought, but to his professional credit his voice didn’t quaver.
“Do it quick.”
He did. I will spare you the details, but he cleaned out the wound and soon I had a bandage over my socket and a local anesthetic to dull the pain. I turned my attention back to my company after a few minutes.
About thirty more men streamed in. All men, I noted. We had lost all but one of our female soldiers in the fighting. Hand-to-hand fighting rewarded those who were large and physically strong, able to overpower their enemies. It wasn’t fair, but then again nothing in war was.
Almost exactly half of the company had been lost in the battle, and another twenty or so of my soldiers were badly wounded. Though smoke still persisted in some areas, I could see through binoculars using my one good eye that Teatime Hill was a charnel house.
The other elements of the Airborne reserves were channeled to the new defensive line established at the base of Teatime Hill. The PLA infantry took several minutes to reorganize, then came charging down Teatime Hill, but the Airborne line held firm this time, and the attack was driven back in minutes with another hundred or so Chinese casualties.
At that point, there was quiet on the battlefield. The smoke had lifted, and the sun was setting on Teatime Hill, now in PLA hands. But, I told myself, Citadel was still in American hands.
I circulated around to my soldiers and checked on how they had come through the experience. Many had shaking hands, but almost all were in control of their faculties. They had seen some of the most intense fighting of the war, but had made it through.
Once I had checked on all of the survivors, I sat down on a bench outside the elementary school. After the adrenaline roller coaster of the battle, I felt suddenly exhausted.
Chapter 4: Barker
After the fighting on Teatime Hill, a lot of commentary bubbled up about women in combat. A lot of assholes think that because so many female soldiers died in the hand-to-hand fighting, they shouldn’t have been in frontline units.
It made me wish I could have been there on Teatime Hill for the fight. I could have changed those stories some. Ever since I got a knife with my saved allowance money when I was eight, I’ve practiced fighting with edged weapons. I could have gutted a few PLA, that might have shut those critics up damn fast.