But the lieutenant's gaze sought out Pomeroy, as if maybe he had heard him, after all.
"Private, I want you to be Heywood's spotter," the lieutenant said. "You've had some experience with that, I believe."
"Yes, sir." Under his breath, Pomeroy added, "Nuts to that."
The lieutenant was glaring at Pomeroy as if maybe he had read his lips. He opened his mouth to bark something at him, but the lieutenant’s words were lost in the rolling boom that swept the battlefield.
Lucky for Pomeroy, the artillery had picked that moment to open fire. The concussion of the big guns seemed to suck the air out of his lungs, even at this distance. The soldiers on the ridge covered their ears. It was no wonder that you could always tell an artilleryman — he was the guy talking too loud because he was so damn deaf. The smell of cordite drifted over them.
Geysers of shattered rock and earth began to blossom on the hills beyond. He could almost feel sorry for the bastards on the receiving end. Almost.
Beside him, Heywood had his eye to the rifle scope, watching the show. He certainly couldn't expect to find any targets in that carnage below. Nonetheless, Heywood nudged Pomeroy's arm.
"What?"
"Here, start spotting targets for me," the sniper said, pressing a pair of binoculars on Pomeroy.
"Spot your own damn targets."
"The lieutenant said—"
"Yeah, yeah. I heard what the lieutenant said. What I'd like to do with those binoculars is shove them sideways up your ass."
"Try it," Heywood said, taking his eye off the scope and giving Pomeroy his full attention. He was a big, muscular guy. Bigger than Pomeroy.
"Seriously? We are about to start an assault and you want to start a fight?"
On the other side of Pomeroy, the kid spoke up. "I'll take the binoculars," he said.
"Can you even see that far, Four Eyes?"
"I can see just fine with glasses on. Do you want a spotter or not?"
With a grunt of affirmation, the sniper handed them over. "Call out any targets you see and I'll eliminate them," he said.
The kid pushed his glasses up to fit the binoculars to his eyes. However, there was nothing to see except the airborne cloud of debris from the opposite hillside being churned by artillery bursts.
"Give 'em hell," Pomeroy muttered, dreading the moment that the shells stopped falling because that was when the attack would begin.
What Pomeroy and the rest of the troops poised to attack couldn't know was that the big guns were firing on mostly empty positions. Like the American troops, the Chinese had been on the move in the early morning pre-dawn. Unseen, they were now moving to flank the American position and launch a surprise attack. Planes didn't fly in the pre-dawn darkness, so without any air cover or reconnaissance, the American commanders were blind to the fact that they were about to be attacked by hundreds of enemy troops.
The artillery halted firing all at once, like a summer downpour that stops as suddenly as it starts. But Pomeroy knew there weren't going to be any rainbows this morning.
"Get ready, fellas," he said, tensing himself to scramble over the top of the ridge and down the other side, then climb the opposite ridge toward the enemy troops waiting for them. Minutes went by, but the order never came. "What's the holdup?"
He knew that every moment that passed enabled the enemy to regroup after the bombardment and prepare for the attack.
Sure enough, they began to see Chinese soldiers in the distance, but well within rifle range. Uneasily, he recognized the fact that if he could see the Chinese, then they could see him. Pomeroy was itching to shoot, but knew that he had to await orders.
A few scattered enemy rifle shots began to pepper the American position.
"Target!" the sniper called. "I need a target."
"Uh, ten o'clock. There's a ditch with three or four Chinese in it."
Heywood shifted slightly. "I see it," he said.
Moments later, he fired.
"I think you missed," the kid said, his eyes pressed to the binoculars, glasses pushed up on his forehead.
"It's not my fault," Heywood said. "You need to do a better job of choosing targets."
"OK, those guys are still in the ditch."
Heywood shut up long enough to fire again. "Got 'em!" he said triumphantly.
"No… I don't think so," the kid said, eyes still tight against the binoculars.
"Just for the record, you are doing one hell of a lousy job," Heywood complained. He shifted his bulk higher, hoping for a better vantage point.
More enemy fire was now finding targets. One thing about the Chinese was that their aim sure had improved, Pomeroy thought. They were not to be underestimated, which was what the American and U.N. forces had learned the hard way back at the Chosin Reservoir campaign. They were learning that lesson all over again at Triangle Hill.
A soldier a few feet to their left dropped stone dead, shot through the head.
"Better stay down," Pomeroy warned the sniper, who had stuck his head up above the rocks to get a better look at the enemy.
"I need to move forward to get a better shot," Heywood announced. "Spotter, you stay with me."
"Kid, you stay right where you are. It’s suicide."
"I said—"
Heywood never had a chance to finish. A bullet hit him square in the chest and he slumped over.
"Aw, geez," the kid said, rolling Heywood over. He had one of those ugly, sucking chest wounds. Pink froth bubbling at his lips.
He's a goner, Pomeroy thought.
The kid was pressing on the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but it wasn't any use. It wasn't so much the blood coming out, as the blood staying in. Heywood was essentially drowning in his own blood.
His eyes widened in fear and pain. Pomeroy didn't much like Heywood, but that didn't mean he wanted to see him die. Hell, Heywood was on their side. But there wasn't a damn thing anybody could do for him.
Pomeroy leaned over and gripped the dying man’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. What he meant by that was, it’s all right to die.
Heywood’s eyes rolled back in his head and he started to writhe, desperate for breath. Pomeroy held onto the man’s shoulder, just to let him know that he wasn't alone. Then Heywood finally lay still.
Pomeroy looked up and locked eyes with the kid. The lenses of the kid's glasses were flecked with Heywood's blood. The eyes behind the glasses were wide with fright.
"Keep your head down and you'll be OK," Pomeroy said, trying to reassure him.
He looked over at Heywood's body. In death, the man looked like a sack of potatoes. Some sniper he had turned out to be.
Where the hell was Cole when you needed him?
That's when they heard the sound of bugles and whistles coming from their flanks. He had heard those same sounds more than a few times before, and the odd cacophony struck fear into his heart. With a shock, Pomeroy realized that while the Americans had been focused on attacking the Chinese positions directly in front of them, the enemy had somehow turned the tables and attacked them. A few bugles even sounded as if they were coming from behind them.
Sweet Jesus, have the Chinese surrounded us?
A pang of sheer terror stabbed through him, fearing that it was going to be like the standoff at Chosin all over again.
Chapter Nine
Deep in the night, Chen awoke with the other troops and ate a simple breakfast of hot rice into which a raw egg had been cracked and stirred, creating a nourishing, creamy dish. This was washed down with plenty of piping, hot tea. Such rich food was indeed unusual and along with the early hour could mean just one thing. He and the others were being fed well in preparation for battle.