There. Just as another bullet struck the corpse, Cole spotted a muzzle flash just about where he expected the Chinese sniper to be lurking. Keeping the sight picture of where he had seen that flash, he fired back.
Then came another muzzle flash. Another bullet hit Heywood's body.
He worked the bolt, fired again just where he had seen that flash.
From the Chinese side, Chen watched the battle unfold. It was clear that the Americans had planned to launch an attack, but had not expected to be struck first by the Chinese. Yet more evidence, he thought, that the Americans were overconfident fools.
"There, on your right. I think it is an American officer," Wu said helpfully, binoculars pressed tight to his eyes.
Chen grunted in reply. He was sure that in Wu's report, every man that Chen shot would be an officer. Under Wu’s helpful supervision, of course.
He pulled the trigger. The man went down.
Then something else caught Chen's eye. He saw a man break away from the main line of defense and dart a few feet forward, too fast for Chen to get a shot at him. Scurrying like a true American rat. To his surprise, this rat had run right to where the American sniper had fallen.
"Did you see that?" the sharp-eyed Wu said. Chen was impressed; Wu was starting to catch on to this sniping business. "He's up to something."
"I saw him," Chen said. It was likely that the man had run out to retrieve the dead man's sniper rifle. He tried to pick the soldier off, but he was taking cover behind his dead comrade. Chen fired anyhow, hitting the corpse, giving the man something to think about.
"You missed," Wu said.
Chen ignored him. Instead, he kept his eye tight against the scope, focused on the ridge below, hoping that the man would raise his head just enough to give Chen a target.
The man below chanced a look, raising his head sufficiently for Chen to glimpse the symbol painted on the front of his helmet. With a jolt, he realized that he had seen this symbol before. The American sniper from the Chosin Reservoir had a similar flag on his helmet.
Wu had seen it, too. "What's he got on his helmet? I don't recognize that insignia."
"It is a flag," Chen said.
"Shoot him!"
Before he could fire, the man had ducked his head. Again, Chen fired anyway.
He felt a whisper of uneasiness. In all the months since the Chosin Reservoir, he had not seen any other soldiers with that symbol. Could this be the same man that he had confronted at the Chosin Reservoir? He must be a marksman; why else would he have made an effort to retrieve the dead sniper's rifle?
As if in answer to Chen's question, a bullet came in, whipping past off to his left. The American must be shooting at him. However, there was almost nothing to see, no target for him to aim at. Instead, he fired again into the corpse, hoping to rattle the marksman.
For his trouble, a bullet struck inches from where Chen hid, stinging his face with particles of rock and dirt. The bullet made a twang sound as it ricocheted off the stone ledge. He glanced over at Major Wu, who was wide-eyed with surprise. The zip of bullets overhead was one thing, but there was something about the sound of a ricochet that was enough to shiver anyone's spine.
The American sniper must have zeroed in on his muzzle flash. It was time to go.
"We have to move," he said to Wu.
For once, the political officer didn't seem to mind taking an order.
Without waiting to see if the enemy sniper would shoot back, Cole slithered backward across the rock. Hopefully, he had at least convinced the son of a bitch to duck. Cole scooted back, half-expecting to get shot in the head at any moment.
Something pounded him in the hip, but he kept going. His side grew wet.
Once he got closer to the squad's position, he felt two pairs of strong hands grab him by the ankles and start to pull him back. He didn't resist as he was hauled into the foxhole. He lay in the bottom, panting.
"Am I hit? Am I hit?" Oddly, he didn't feel any pain.
Pomeroy patted him down, looking him over. "I think you're still in one piece."
"Goddamn."
He suddenly felt desperately thirsty, and Cole reached for his canteen. There was nothing in it. There was now a large bullet hole in his canteen, which explained why he had felt something strike his hip, along with the wetness. Another couple of inches and the sniper's bullet would have shattered his hip.
Pomeroy noticed the damaged canteen. "That was close."
"Somebody give me their canteen, dammit." The kid handed his over, and Cole gulped the water down greedily
He noticed the reporter nearby, cradling the camera in his hands. Bullets zipped overhead, but he seemed intent only on taking pictures. Cole reckoned the reporter was either dedicated, or a dang fool. He'd had a weapon slung over his shoulder before, but now it was nowhere to be seen.
"Get down," Cole snapped at him.
"That was amazing!"
The reporter started to level his camera at Cole.
"Hold on, boy. Take my picture and I'll shoot your ass."
Pomeroy recognized Cole's tone. "Better put that away. He's serious.”
"All right. Sorry.
"Don't worry about shooting pictures right now. Shoot some Chinese. Where's your carbine?"
"Right there." The soldier had leaned it against the wall of the foxhole. Dang fool, Cole decided. The Chinese are attacking and he’s busy taking pictures.
"Get your weapon and start pulling the trigger or the only thing you get in the paper will be your name on the casualties list."
Pomeroy was smirking at him. "You ready to go back to the mess tent yet?" he asked.
"To hell with that," Cole said, and reached for his rifle. “I’ve peeled enough potatoes to last me a lifetime.”
Chapter Eleven
When the order came to attack, there was no blowing of bugles or beating of drums, as there had been from the Chinese lines. The officers and sergeants simply shouted, "Let's go!" and waved their hands. With that, the American troops surged up and over the ridge.
Some poor bastards never made it more than a few feet before an enemy bullet cut them down.
Cole found himself screaming the same rebel yell that had echoed at Gettysburg and Antietam and a hundred other battlefields. Cole realized that he felt no fear. He felt unleashed.
Just like the Yankees who had heard that weird, high pitched yelping nearly a century ago, the Chinese who heard it now felt their bellies clench in fright. Something bad was coming for them. Maybe these Americans were not as soft as their leaders had told them.
Through the valley where they had driven back the earlier Chinese assault as dawn arrived, Cole, Pomeroy and the kid ran with the others, their rifles at the ready, but careful to be spread out so that a single burst of machine-gun fire or a mortar round wouldn't wipe them all out. Dimly, Cole was aware of the reporter somewhere off to his right, still wielding a camera instead of a rifle. Dang fool. He looked ahead. Their objective was the top of a steep hill with the name of sniper ridge.
From behind them, they could also hear shooting as the soldiers in the encampment held back the Chinese attack in the rear area. The American assault on Sniper Ridge would bring the attack to the enemy.
They were close enough now that he could see some of the Chinese defenders up there. From the looks of it, they were spread too thin, which was a good thing. The bad thing was that the American attackers would have to scramble to climb this steep ridge.
He reckoned that somewhere up on that ridge was the Chinese sniper that he had taken a pot shot at this morning. Unless Cole had gotten lucky and settled his hash, this same sniper would be shooting at them again soon enough.