The major looked him up and down, grinning all the while. He was not outwardly serious like the young lieutenant had been, but Chen knew that the good humor was a mask.
"Where is Lieutenant Huang?" the major asked.
Chen shook his head. "He is dead, sir. We were attacked on the road by American planes." Chen did not bother to explain that the lieutenant had still been alive when Chen had left him. Perhaps he had been killed in the second attack by the American planes. If he had lived, and the mountain wolves or wild dogs had not gotten to the lieutenant by now, they would soon. If the lieutenant had been smart, he would have shot himself. Better to die swiftly than to suffer in the chill of the mountain night, or worse.
Major Wu nodded, still grinning. He wore the perpetual smile that made him resemble a shishi, one of the traditional Chinese guardian lions. "That Huang, he was too full of himself, anyhow. What matters is that you are here now. First, we must get you a better uniform. One that is not covered in mud and blood, anyhow."
The major shouted for an aide, explained what he wanted, and sent him on his errand. While he was gone, the major chatted pleasantly with Chen, wanting to know something of his childhood and details of his military service. He seemed pleased that Chen had fought against the Japanese and that he had received some of his sniper training from German advisors, back before they had become allied with the armies of the Rising Sun.
"The Germans were very good snipers," Chen said. He wished that he had one of their rifles equipped with a finely made telescopic sight, but he knew better than to complain. The old Moisin-Nagant was as good as it was going to get for him.
"From what I have seen, they taught you well," Wu said.
Then, the aide was back, panting as if he had been running the whole time. He presented Chen with a pristine new uniform.
"I took this from the field hospital," he explained. "The soldier it belonged to won't be needing it anymore."
Wu made a face. "I hope that he did not die from something contagious."
"Sir, I could find another uniform—"
"Never mind that!" Major Wu said impatiently, sending the aide out. He turned to Chen. "Put that on, and come with me."
Chen did as he was told, quickly changing into the fresh uniform and trying not to dwell on how it had managed to stay so pristine if its original owner was dead. His old uniform was tossed into a heap — dirty, smelling of gasoline, and spattered with blood that Chen had not noticed before — more than likely, it was the blood of the dead driver.
When he followed the major out of the tent, he was amazed to see that hundreds of soldiers had been assembled outside. Chen moved to take his place in the ranks, but Major Wu caught him by the elbow. "Where are you going, Chen?" he asked, appearing to be amused, grinning widely once again. "You stay right here. Hold your rifle up so that everyone may see it!"
It was then that Chen realized he was to be put on display. He froze with fear worse than he had ever felt on the battlefield. A sniper was someone who kept to the shadows, after all.
He stood at attention, holding his rifle in the present arms position until his arms ached, while the major gave a long-winded speech about how the Chinese army would soon be defeating the United Nations forces — mainly the American army — in no time at all now that the famed sniper Chen Li was here on the battlefield.
Major Wu turned to him, his eyes blazing with the excitement of the moment. "You will turn the tide of battle single-handedly!" Behind Wu, other officers raised their arms as a signal for the soldiers to cheer. As the sound swelled up to fill the gathering darkness, Chen felt ill and overwhelmed.
To add to his discomfort, a uniformed photographer stepped forward and took a flash photo, leaving Chen blinded.
He was no people's hero, just a man with a rifle. But looking around at his comrades, hope finally evident on their faces, he turned to Wu. "Please, sir. This is an honor that I do not deserve."
"Do not be so selfish," Wu said, smiling out at the crowd, but addressing Chen. "You are thinking only of yourself right now. Do not deny them a hero."
Chen realized that he was in no position to argue. He raised the rifle half-heartedly over his head, and the gathered soldiers cheered.
Chapter Six
While Chen was receiving accolades in the Chinese headquarters several mountain ridges away, Cole was hauling buckets of dirty gray dishwater to be dumped on the hard-packed ground outside the mess tent.
"Get your ass in gear!" shouted Sergeant Springer, the grizzled NCO who ran the mess tent. He had greeted Cole on his first morning by throwing a dirty apron at him, and then put him to work reconstituting powdered eggs that were then heated up on a griddle. Cooking for an army in the field was about quantity, not quality. By six a.m., the sight and smell of the reconstituted eggs had Cole feeling sick to the stomach.
There was an old saying down South that you should never trust a skinny cook. Judging by the belly on Sergeant Springer, there wasn't any danger of him not inspiring trust in his cooking — so long as you didn't mind a few cigar ashes in your scrambled eggs or in your mashed potatoes. Short, squat, chewing a cigar stub, and gloriously profane, he was like a cross between Chef Tell and Napoleon.
Sergeant Springer barked a lot, but he didn't bite so long as you worked hard, which is exactly what Cole did. The kitchen was a cramped space, with a long galley of cooking stoves and work tables separated by a narrow aisle. Unlike some of the field kitchens in WWII that had dirt or grass floors, this one had an actual wooden floor of rough-sawn boards. The boards had come from a dismantled Korean barn.
Kitchen duty was about what Cole expected. He found himself assigned all of the grunt duty. After the eggs, he set about opening endless Number 10 cans of green beans and peaches and beans. He plunged around in vats of greasy gray dishwater, scrubbing pots and utensils to some degree of cleanliness, or at least, cleaner than they were.
He might even have been able to tolerate the work for the duration of the war if it hadn't been for Tater Kelly. He was just a cook, a private like Cole, but he lorded it over the kitchen help like a five-star general.
"I got my eye on you," was what Tater said to Cole by way of introduction. "You best do whatever I tell you."
Tater was the bully in the kitchen. He pushed, he shoved, he browbeat. Sgt. Springer either didn't notice or didn't care because Tater didn't give him any trouble.
It was hard to say how Tater got his nickname other than that he looked like a big spud. He was a huge guy, six-foot-two, around two-hundred and eighty pounds — with most of it in a beer belly and massive biceps. If the mess hall chief demanded nothing but hard work, Tater did whatever he could to make sure someone else did his work for him — when the chief wasn't looking.
Cole's new strategy was to lay low and stay out of trouble. He was done with being a soldier. Lieutenant Ballard had beaten him down one too many times. Peeling potatoes was fine with him. With any luck, he could wait out his two years in Korea in the kitchen. He might never have to go on the battlefield again. By the end of that first day, however, he realized that Tater was going to seriously spoil his plans.
Tater was a bully who picked on everyone in the kitchen, but he had it in for Cole the minute he laid eyes on him. For his part, Cole kept hoping that Tater would leave him alone once Cole wasn't the new guy anymore, but the big fool seemed to have it in for Cole, zeroing in on his mountain accent.