Another clue was that most of the enemy was shouting insanely in a language that Cole couldn't even begin to understand. Sounded like gibberish to him.
Two Chinese charged at him out of the darkness. Cole simply leveled his rifle at them and pulled the trigger without even aiming, dropping first one man and then the other. He went to one knee, scanning the darkness and sure enough, two more Chinese came out of nowhere. Cole fired twice and these other enemy soldiers met the same fate.
He got up and ran on, heading for the ridge. All around him, he could hear more bugles and shouts, along with the staccato crackle of small arms fire. Tracer rounds stitched the gloom, creating a crazy quilt of fire coming down from the nearest hills. If it hadn't been so terrifying, it might have been beautiful, like some fascinating Fourth of July fireworks show, but there was no time to stand still and watch. The red tracers erupted across the level plain that held the encampment. It was a wonder that he hadn't been hit.
Cole jumped over a body, realizing it was a dead American in a white apron. Some poor bastard from the mess tent had bought it. The Chinese attack was having deadly consequences.
He had to keep going. More Chinese surged in his direction and Cole emptied the M1 at them, then jumped down into a foxhole so that he could reload without being exposed. The enemy troops rushed by, not noticing him in the murkiness of the early morning light.
As he held his breath, Cole quickly realized that he was not alone in the bottom of the foxhole. Someone else was there. It was a strange thing, but he could actually smell that it wasn't an American. The cowering body next to him reeked of garlic or onions. Definitely not hamburgers and fried potatoes and cigarettes, which was the aroma that usually hung about American troops. No, this was a Chinese stink.
In the light from an overhead flare, Cole could see a terrified round face next to him, eyes wide as saucers. The man did not even seem to have a rifle, but only stared at Cole, mumbling something that might have been a prayer. Maybe the poor bastard was just trying to surrender. If the enemy soldier had been of a mind to, he could have shot or bayoneted Cole as soon as he jumped into the hole.
Grateful that he was still breathing, Cole didn't want this frightened soldier to start shouting and alert the large number of Chinese troops running past Cole.
Cole put his finger to his lips in the universal gesture for silence, all the while keeping his rifle aimed in the enemy soldier's direction. The man saw Cole's gesture and nodded furiously.
Cole finished reloading his rifle, stuck his head above the rim of the hole to make sure there weren't any Chinese in the vicinity, and then crawled out and started running again toward the ridge.
It was fine by him if that Chinese fella in the foxhole wanted to sit this fight out. Good luck to him.
Now, the attackers had brought a few mortars into play and the shells fell among the tents and trucks, adding to the chaos. Metal splinters whistled through the air. Cole kept running, away from the chaos behind him and toward the ridge ahead.
On the American side, the artillery was still raining shells on the Chinese lines, cloaking the sounds of the Chinese attack on the rear. How the artillery could tell what they were firing at, Cole had no idea. However, it had been his experience that artillery fire didn't need to be all that accurate. Nobody was going to mistake one of those big guns for a sniper rifle anytime soon.
He ran forward, keeping low, not completely sure who was nearby in the darkness. The whole damn situation was crazy. If he had any sense, he'd go and run in the other direction. He reckoned, though, that there wasn't any safe place to go. Not with the Chinese swarming in the dawn. Cole ran on, leaping a low wall of sandbags, then dodging a fresh mortar crater.
He finally reached the ridge with its defensive line, where men were firing in the general direction of the Chinese, not even aware of the attack on the rear. It was hard to say if the shooting was doing any good. Cole ran down the line, recognizing a few of the other soldiers. Finally, he saw Pomeroy and the kid next to each other behind a pile of rocks. Both of them looked up in surprise when Cole slid into position next to them.
"Where the hell have you been?" Pomeroy asked.
"Peeling potatoes," Cole said. "Thought I'd take a break."
"Well, it's about time you showed up. Glad you're here. We saved some of these Chinese for you.”
"I'll see what I can do," Cole said.
He looked out at the grayness ahead of them, noticing that the landscape seemed to shift like something fluid, and realized he wasn't looking at rocks and hills, but at an oncoming line of enemy troops. Unless they got lucky, in the next few minutes the American line was about to be overrun.
Cole fired the rifle until the action locked open. That was all the ammo that he had. He wished that he still had his old Springfield. A thought occurred to him. "Where the hell is your fancy new sniper, anyhow?"
"Dead," Pomeroy said, nodding toward the body located several feet forward of the squad's position. "He got himself plugged right off the bat. Looks like he tangled with a Chinese sniper."
"Goddamn idiot," Cole said. "There's no cover there. What was he thinking?"
"Worst of it is that he almost got the kid killed, too. The kid was spotting for him."
Cole looked over at the kid, who, despite the terror evident on his face, was still managing to fire at the oncoming enemy troops.
"I want his rifle," Cole said, then corrected himself. "My rifle."
"You can't go out there. It's suicide."
"Right now, being on this whole dang ridge is suicide," Cole said. "Cover me."
He crouched and ran toward Heywood's body. With professional interest, he noted that the bullet had struck Heywood square in chest. Cole could see the man's eyes staring. Unless that had been a lucky shot, the Chinese sniper opposite them was awfully good.
Keeping that in mind, Cole threw himself flat on the rock, willing his belly to sink into the stone. He kept Heywood's body in front of him, using it like a sandbag. A bullet thwacked into the corpse. That was no stray bullet. The Chinese sniper was still out there, and he had definitely seen Cole.
Cole reached out and got a grip on the rifle strap, but there was a problem. The rifle wouldn't come free, having been partially pinned under Heywood's dead weight. Cole tugged harder, which jiggled Heywood's body. Thwack, went another bullet.
Cole slid forward, keeping himself as low as possible. The rim of his helmet grated against the rock, but he didn't dare take it off right now.
He let go of the strap and got a better grasp on the rifle stock itself. His hands moved over the familiar wood and got a good grip. He bunched the strength in his upper arms and shoulders, preparing to give a mighty tug to free the rifle, but to his surprise, the rifle slid free as smoothly as a sword from a scabbard.
He and Old Betsy were back in business.
Heywood had extra clips stuffed into his pockets, and Cole fished those out.
He peered back over his shoulder at the several feet of bare, rock ledge that he would need to cross to rejoin the rest of the squad. Wasn't gonna happen, not with that sniper on him like a fly on horse manure. He'd only managed to get out here in the first place because the sniper's attention must have been elsewhere. Now, that sniper would be waiting for his next move. He'd have to shoot his way out.
Slowly, he eased the rifle across Heywood's body. At least the dead man was proving useful, after all. He sure as hell hadn't lasted long as a sniper.
The daylight was growing fast toward an overcast autumn day, but the dim light was alive with muzzle flashes and tracer fire. This was a distraction, but Cole's practiced eye knew just what it was looking for.