When they reached the top of the ridge, they could see the line of soldiers dug in, facing the enemy position on the opposite hill. The soldiers looked about how you might expect, which was cold and miserable. Nobody gave him and Pomeroy a second look, except for a sergeant, who waved them over.
"Glad you're here," the sergeant said. He looked to be a tough old bird, with an unlit cigar clamped between square teeth. "Can you hit something with that rifle, or is this just another headquarters show?"
Cole ignored that and asked, "Where's he at?"
"He was right across from us yesterday," the sergeant replied. "Couldn't see him, but he sure as hell could see us. That son of a bitch killed some good men up here."
"I'll see what I can do," Cole said.
The sergeant looked him up and down, gazing for a moment at the Confederate flag painted on Cole's helmet, and then said, "Damn boy, I believe you just might know how to use that rifle, after all."
"We'll see."
They moved along the American position, seeking out a good place to set up. Cole was looking for cover and concealment. There was plenty of that to be found on this rocky, boulder-strewn ridge.
Finally, they reached a section of trench that nobody else seemed to want and they crawled into it. The bottom was muddy, and the hole smelled strongly of urine, but it was roomy enough for them both and positioned well for a clear view of the opposing ridge.
"Home sweet home," Pomeroy said. "All this place needs is maybe some new curtains and a throw rug."
He moved away from Cole and dug the binoculars out of the haversack.
However, Cole had a few arrangements to make first, none of which involved new curtains or throw rugs. Using the weak light of dawn as cover, when hopefully he would still be hidden from prying eyes, he crawled back out of the trench and arranged several rocks along the rim, doing it as artfully as he could so that it wasn't obvious that he had built himself a little wall there. He left just enough of a gap for him to put his rifle through.
Of course, the barrel of the rifle itself was wrapped in a strip of faded khaki cloth to help it blend into the surroundings. A few feet away, to Cole's right, Pomeroy would have enough of a gap to glass the enemy position with the binoculars, also wrapped in strips of cloth. Pomeroy could get the big picture and direct Cole to any activity over there.
Several hundred feet separated the ridges. They could certainly see any enemy soldiers over there without using binoculars or the scope, but it would have been hard if not impossible to hit anything using open sights. The sight itself would have blotted out the ant-like figures.
In the distance between the two ridges lay the shallow valley that the American soldiers had stormed across just days ago in their attack on Sniper Ridge. They had pushed the Chinese off for less than twenty-fours hours before a Chinese counter-attack put the ridge back in enemy hands.
Thinking about the men who had died that morning, it was a bitter pill to swallow, but that was Korea for you, Cole thought. Nothing more than a game of tug of war.
"What do you think?" Pomeroy asked. "Good spot?"
"I reckon it's as good as any," Cole said.
It was true that from where they were located, they could see much of any activity up and down Sniper Ridge. Of course, that activity on the part of the enemy would be limited once full daylight arrived, along with the American planes that would punish the enemy position as much as possible.
However, the planes had to be careful because some of the Chinese positions were now well defended and even included anti-aircraft guns, creating an unpleasant surprise at times for the pilots. There were even rumors that the Chinese were getting their own jets, some kind of Soviet fighter called a MiG, but they had yet to see one in the skies.
There was no doubt that the longer the war went on, the better equipped that the Chinese seemed to be, thanks to their Soviet allies. The Soviets were not providing the Chinese with first-rate weaponry, possibly in fear that the Chinese might in turn use it against the Soviets. However, the Chinese were welcome to their military castoffs and surplus from the last war.
Pomeroy already had the binoculars to his eyes. "Look at that," he said. "I already see something moving. Your two o'clock. Looks like three guys carrying stuff, maybe chow to their buddies in the trenches."
Cole eased the rifle that way and picked them up in the scope. He could, in fact, see two men making their way through the trenches over there, their heads and shoulders visible, but as they crossed an open area he saw that they were indeed carrying what might have been pails of food.
They would have been easy enough targets, but Cole took his finger off the trigger. He wasn't out here this morning to shoot the mess crew. He was here to target an enemy sniper and he wasn't ready to give away his own position just yet.
He knew that the element of surprise was worth a great deal. It wouldn't be easy and Cole hated to do it, but he planned to let the enemy marksman fire first at an unsuspecting American boy. He needed to draw out the enemy like poison from a wound.
Awful as that plan was, Cole knew that the sniper would then have revealed himself. Hopefully, Cole would then be able to put his crosshairs on the enemy sniper and eliminate him for good.
Cole bided his time, but his trigger finger was getting itchy.
Chapter Fourteen
Dutifully, Pomeroy was working the enemy defenses with the binoculars.
"What I'd like to know is this," Pomeroy began. "Why did you drag me out here this morning? You should have brought the kid. He worships the ground you walk on, you know. He can't help it; he's easily impressed. Unlike me. If you had wanted him to, he would have shined your boots out here while you were at it."
Cole didn't say anything for a moment, not quite sure how he felt about someone supposedly worshiping the ground he walked on. He sure as hell didn't deserve that and it worried him a little. Deep down, he also suspected that Pomeroy was right about that.
"Listen here, New Jersey. I brought you along because you know what the hell you're doing and you don't get excited about it," Cole said. "Also, if the fat falls in the fire, I know that I can count on you."
"What fat and what fire?" Pomeroy wanted to know. "I wish you damn hillbillies would just speak plain English."
"The fat and fire I'm talking about is if the Chinese attack," Cole said. "They already took back Sniper Ridge. What if they want this ridge, too? You just never know when they'll turn the tables on us."
"Well, thanks for that," Pomeroy said. "I mean, who would want to miss maybe getting bayoneted, mortared, and shot when he could have been sleeping all nice and cozy in his tent this morning? You are a hell of a guy, Hillbilly."
"That's about what I thought you would say," Cole replied.
"What do you think? Is he out there this morning?" Pomeroy wanted to know.
Cole took his eye away from the scope long enough to scan the distant ridge. The light had grown quickly, picking out details that had been obscured in shadow just minutes before. The sense he had was like the woods on the morning of a hunt. Sometimes you could just feel a buck out there waiting for you in the shadows. At any moment, he would step into a clearing and present the perfect target. It got so you could tell right away whether or not a hunt was going to be successful.
Cole sniffed the air, enjoying the rich tang of fall. If there hadn't been a war on, it might have been a decent morning. At the same time, some part deep within him thought, Who are you joshin'? You love every bit of this, right down to getting one of those enemy soldiers in your sights. If the other soldier is hunting you back, even better.
Pomeroy was still awaiting his answer, so Cole said, "Oh, I reckon he's out there, all right. He's like us. He's been out here since first light, already in position and waiting."