But that was kitchen duty for you, so he didn't have much room to complain. This is what he had asked for, in a way, to be sequestered from the fighting, to not be carrying a rifle, to just bide his time until he could go home again to the mountains.
If that meant peeling an actual mountain of potatoes to get there, that would be just fine with him.
Or was it? Deep down, Cole knew that him being here in the kitchen was like sending a tiger to catch a mouse. Mostly, he was worried about Pomeroy and the kid. Pomeroy could handle himself, but Cole knew that the man was hiding the fact that he was still hurting after the Chosin Reservoir. Pomeroy was no better than an old jalopy with a new coat of paint. As for the kid, he had a lot of spirit, but he needed someone to be there watching his back.
He thought about the kid writing a letter home and hoped to hell that it wouldn't be the last one that the kid wrote. He would have been part of the assault force that had moved out before dawn. They'd be getting into it soon, Cole knew, because now they could hear the artillery softening up the enemy positions.
It ought to be me going out there, Cole thought, reaching for another spud. Instead, here I am, peeling potatoes.
Since the incident with Tater, everyone pretty much let him alone in the kitchen. Settling that bully's hash had not made him into a mess-tent hero — not that this was the reason Cole had beaten the man down. Besides, Cole didn't have any regrets. The man had it coming.
However, the incident had left the other kitchen staff more than a little fearful of him. Somewhere along the line, word had gotten out that Cole was in the Army to avoid prison for killing two men. Maybe he had Tommy Wilson to thank for letting that little gem slip? No matter — if the rest of the kitchen staff left him alone, so much the better.
Slowly, Cole was working his way through that huge pile of potatoes. He wouldn't even think about all the pots he would have to scrub later. His rough hands were even more raw and red.
This was more than enough to keep him busy for now. He had gotten all the scut jobs, that was for certain sure.
In some ways, a battlefield commander could learn a few lessons from the mess tent cooks. Men ran back and forth, carrying trays and kettles brimming with soup, scalding hot pots of coffee, and stacks of dirty dishes and utensils. The scene was chaotic, and yet somehow everything ran just fine, with soldiers dodging around one another without colliding or spilling a drop.
"Make way!" someone shouted, lugging an oversized pot. "Coming through!" The busy staff parted before him like the Red Sea had made way for Moses.
Cole shook his head, impressed. He had seen less action on a few battlefields than in this kitchen, and that was a fact.
His thoughts were interrupted by an odd popping sound. He looked up to see that a big glass jug of vinegar on a shelf near his head had shattered, spewing its contents everywhere. That was remarkable enough, until a Number 10 can of green beans sitting on the same shelf suddenly sprang a hole and began spouting bean juice across the broken glass and scattered vinegar. It was the damnedest thing. Mighty strange.
Cole had no idea what was going on, other than that there was now a bigger mess to clean up. He turned back to his potatoes.
But then, one of the soldiers carrying a big tray cried out sharply in pain and dropped the tray, before following it to the floor himself.
The kitchen workers saw what was going on, but barely stopped what they were doing, no more than momentarily sidetracked as they rushed through their duties. Another can on the shelf sprang a leak. A soldier stumbled and fell as he was carrying a pot. He didn't get back up, but lay still in a puddle of soup.
What the hell?
Then Cole figured it out. They were taking fire. Bullets zipped through the kitchen, but the rifle fire was so far away, and the clatter of the kitchen and cooking food was so loud, that they couldn't hear the actual gunshots in the distance. Still, there was no doubt that they were under fire. Cole got down on the floor with all those potato peelings.
That's when a soldier came running in from the mess hall.
"We're under attack!" he shouted. "The Chinese are coming down out of the hills like goddamn locusts."
Having delivered his message, the soldier spun on his heels and ran out.
Most of the men in the mess tent were not combat effectives and had not seen much in the way of action — at least as much as that was possible in a war zone. They didn't really know what to do.
For his own part, Cole was glad to be done with those goddamn potatoes. He tossed aside his paring knife.
"Get down!" he yelled at the others as more cans sprang leaks and jars shattered. Hit by a bullet, a big cast-iron frying pan hanging over a stove rang like a gong. "Best grab your rifles, boys, unless you plan on inviting them Chinese to supper."
Taking his own advice, Cole began crawling on his hands and knees between the tables and racks, making his way toward the door.
For a while now, Cole had been carrying his rifle into the mess hall, although most of the others didn't bother to do that anymore, although it was part of regulations in a combat zone. This morning’s incursion by the Chinese was a case in point. How did the others plan to fight them off — maybe with a ladle?
Cole ripped off his white mess hat along with his apron, grabbed his rifle from where he had left it near the doorway, and ran out into a world of chaos.
It wasn't full daylight yet, so the surroundings were murky, but flares lit the sky. Fired by the Chinese, the slow-burning flares overhead turned the gray dawn into day, as if lightning had frozen in the sky to reveal the surrounding hills. The pale, flickering light illuminated a nightmarish scene of confused soldiers running in every direction.
Adding to the chaotic scene, Cole heard trumpets, bugles, banging drums, and whistles. These alien sounds provoked fear and confusion among the Americans. In the distance, he could see lines of enemy troops streaming down from the hills. It was the Chosin Reservoir all over again. He could scarcely believe his own eyes. Was this really happening?
The Chinese forces drove like a spear point into the flank of the forces on the ridge and into the rear encampment as well. The entire camp had been thrown into chaos by the attack that had come without warning. Most of the combat troops were on the nearest ridge, ready to launch an attack. Support troops scurried everywhere, almost like ants.
Everywhere he looked in the blazing light, American positions were a jumble of confusion. A few officers and sergeants shouted and ran around trying to organize a defense, but Cole had his own plan in mind. Ignoring them, Cole ran on alone, thinking that he just wanted to find Pomeroy and the kid, Tommy Wilson. There was a chance that he could help them and in a mess like this, you needed your friends watching your back. They would need him, and so would the entire squad if it was coming up against an attack.
The question was, where were they? Somewhere on the ridge ahead.
He grabbed a company clerk who was running past — away from the Chinese, Cole noticed. Then again, it was his experience that when men were running away, it was usually for a good reason. "Where's Fox Company at?"
"Over there on the ridge," the clerk said. "Trying to hold back the Chinese. God help 'em."
Cole let the man go and ran in that direction. Sniper Ridge was just beyond HQ and the unit had been up there before. If nothing else, he would add his rifle to help the poor bastards who were trying to defend that position right now in the frenzied semi-darkness.
It was hard to tell who was friend and who was foe. The ghostly, quilted uniforms of the Chinese soldiers were well-suited to the gloaming and hid them well. Only at the last instant did the defenders see them as they surged out of the pre-dawn darkness.