Meanwhile, Hardy took a deep breath and realized that he was just glad to be alive.
Chapter Twelve
With the Chinese pushed off Sniper Ridge, the objective had been met and the advance against the enemy was halted. Some of the men stayed to hold the position, anticipating a counter-attack at any moment. The bulk of the men, Cole's battered squad among them, made their weary way back to the main encampment. Their role in the days ahead would be to plug holes as needed in the lines. Until then, they had a welcome chance for a hot meal and some sleep.
For Don Hardy, however, there would be no rest for the weary. He had been sent to this forward unit as a reporter, and now he had an article to write. He had to report on what had happened on the battlefield.
His first order of business was to secure a typewriter.
"You can use this one while I'm getting some chow," declared the same sergeant who had issued him the M-1 carbine. "The T and the H get hung up if you type too fast and the O is all gunked up, but you're welcome to have at it."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
"Hey, did you ever use that weapon?"
"Sure I did. I loaned it to one of the men who needed a crutch."
The sergeant shook his head, but he was grinning. "I just hope that you're a better writer than you are a soldier," he said. "That was one hell of a fight. Make us famous."
No sooner had the sergeant vacated his chair, then Hardy got to work. If his first order of business had been to secure a typewriter, his second order of business had been to find a large mug of coffee. Sure, Hemingway and more than a few other writers would have preferred a good slug of whiskey, but Hardy figured that would just put him to sleep.
Lucky for him, there was a large pot going in the headquarters tent and nobody seemed to mind if he helped himself. Somebody had left a cracked mug near the coffee pot. He filled the mug with coffee and guzzled it down, enjoying the hot liquid pouring down his parched throat, the rush of energy it gave him. He could have used something to eat, but that would have to wait for now. He poured another mug and got to work.
Like any young journalist worth his salt, he favored a good literary allusion. The snatch of poetry that had come to him on the battlefield returned for inspiration: Into the valley of Death/Rode the six hundred… Into the jaws of Death/Into the mouth of hell. Where would he be without having had to memorize that Lord Tennyson poem back in high school?
Tennyson had been writing about the Crimean War a century ago, but aside from the lack of horses and sabres, Hardy supposed that war hadn't changed all that much.
He began to type. Quickly, he discovered that the sergeant had been correct about the keys sticking. In fact, they all got tangled up when he started to type too fast. As it turned out, not just the O was gummed up with old ink, but also the E and the P and the… well, just about every letter. The ribbon was fading fast. Although Hardy knew how to type with his fingers spread across a QWERTY keyboard, the keys on the battered manual typewriter required so much effort to use that he was forced to use a two-finger approach so that he could hit the keys with enough force to make an impression on the page.
This slower act of writing enabled him to work in a few more poetic descriptions. He just hoped that the sergeant took his time in the mess tent so that he could finish typing.
Brave soldiers snatch victory from jaws of defeat at Triangle Hill
BY DONALD HARDY
Not since the six hundred rode into the Valley of Death in the famed poem by Lord Tennyson has such bravery been exhibited than at the battle of Triangle Hill on the morning of October 14, 1952.
On this day, soldiers of the storied 31st Regiment moved quickly to assault a strongly defended enemy position on a dusty hilltop called Sniper Ridge. Among those extremely battle-hardened troops were members of a rifle platoon commanded by Lieutenant Douglas C. Ballard
The enemy position at the top of the steep ridge was well-defended as our boys nobly attacked in the gray dawn, their guns flashing brightly and bayonets glinting wherever the pale dawn sun touched them like the fiery light of Olympus. The pop of gunfire was like Zeus himself cracking his knuckles.
"Keep it moving, keep it moving!" Lieutenant Ballard shouted commandingly, leading the way as his troops stormed the heights.
Among those soldiers was Tommy Wilson, who graduated from high school less than a year ago.
"Those Chinese are tough, but we're a whole lot tougher," he said as he fixed his bayonet to his rifle like a centurion of yore preparing to fight the barbarians with his shield and his spear.
As cannon behind them volleyed and thundered, each man of the squad had a story to tell, and perhaps a last letter home to write.
Another one of those soldiers was Caje Cole, a sniper of few words who prefers to let his rifle speak for him. More than a dozen of the enemy felt certain destruction dealt by his trusty rifle whenever his deadly sights fell upon them, firing as fast as his practiced hands could work the bolt action.
When asked how he could fire so quickly and accurately, he simply replied, "When I miss, I like to miss fast." Those words were delivered from one corner of his mouth, like an Old West gunfighter, before quickly turning back to the business of dealing out death to the enemy.
The article went on like that for a good eight hundred words of rather purple prose sprinkled liberally with half-remembered lines from the Tennyson poem and a crazy quilt of literary allusions. One of Hardy's English professors at Purdue had once complained that Hardy hadn't met an adverb or adjective he didn't like, and he didn't prove the professor wrong now. He would have kept on going with his poetic account now that the words and descriptions were flowing, but the sergeant had reappeared and needed his typewriter back to type up casualty reports.
In consolation, the sergeant had brought the reporter a sandwich.
"I figured you could use it," the sergeant said. "Typing on this thing is basically a wrestling match."
Hardy spooled out the sheets and stuffed them in an envelope, along with the roll of film that he had shot. There was no darkroom here on the front for developing film, even though Hardy had some skill with that.
He had used just one roll of the black-and-white film, because the editor had been explicit about not taking too many photos. It seemed that film cost money and took time to develop.
"If you shoot more than one roll of film, I'm going to shove that camera up your ass sideways," the editor had warned.
Then Hardy found a driver heading back to take this directly to the Stars & Stripes office. The guy wouldn't have done it, except that the sergeant was listening and helpfully offered to put his boot up the driver's ass sideways if he didn't cooperate.
Hardy reflected upon how it was a wonder that half the soldiers in Korea didn't walk around funny, with so many objects up their asses sideways.
Finally, Hardy wolfed down his sandwich, feeling that all was right in the world.
Chen sat sipping green tea by a low, smoking fire. The fire struggled to burn the knotty, stunted bracken that fed it, and the tea was mostly water, but a soldier did not complain about luxuries. He could thank Major Wu for the tea, and the fire, and even for a bowl of rice with salted fish. Wu, it seemed, was pleased with him.
Just two days ago, Chen had been with Wu up on that ridge, engaging with the imperialist snipers. He had killed one easily enough, in the way that he might crush a bug. Chen had simply snuffed him out.
But the second sniper had been different. This sniper had not only escaped with his life, which was an accomplishment in itself for anyone who fell under Chen's sights, but had come so close to shooting Chen that the experience had rattled him. It was not so much the fear of death in battle — Chen had long since come to accept that this might be his fate — as it was the fact that this American could shoot so well. Here, at least, was something more like an equal. Chen knew that this must be the sniper from the Chosin Reservoir. That thought did not cause him worry, but something closer to pleasant anticipation for the hunt ahead. He was sure that his dealings with the American were far from over. They had unfinished business, the two of them.