"Don’t worry about me, New Jersey. You go on home and make sure they treat you right."
"There's not a whole lot waiting for me at home," Pomeroy admitted. "Why the hell do you think I came over here."
"It's time for a fresh start, then. Ain’t never too late for that."
Pomeroy nodded, thinking it over. "Maybe you're right."
"Damn straight I’m right. Get some rest, New Jersey. I'm heading back out first thing in the mornin' after that Chinese sniper, but I'll see you tomorrow night."
Cole headed out of the hospital, but not before stopping to ask an orderly if they had brought in anyone else from Sniper Ridge.
He pointed at a cot. "That poor bastard there was the only one. There's some Chinese sniper up there who doesn't miss much."
"So I've heard."
Cole went and stood by the wounded soldier's cot. He was heavily bandaged; it looked to Cole as if he'd been hit in the neck. The soldier had his eyes closed and appeared to be sleeping soundly.
"Is he gonna make it?" Cole asked quietly.
"Maybe, although he might wish he hadn't. Doc says he won't talk again, shot in the neck like that."
Cole shook his head and got out of there, thinking that the Chinese sniper had to go. In the morning, he would try again.
Chen returned to camp that evening with a sense of satisfaction. He had performed his duties as a sniper by slaughtering more of the imperialist soldiers. This pleased him, just as it seemed to please Major Wu.
As a result, Chen found himself back at a campfire, allowed to warm his bones at the fire while most soldiers shivered in the growing dark. Although it was only October, the nights in the mountains had grown increasingly chill. Chen suspected that when they awoke in the morning, that they would find a frost — the air had that edge of dampness to it and there was little wind.
He was given a bowl of rice into which a bit of meat had been mixed. Chen chewed the gristly meat, trying to determine its origin, and decided that it was better not to think too much about it. He had seen some horses around the camp yesterday, but come to think of it, he had not seen them this evening. He ate the bowl to the last grain of rice without complaining.
Someone pressed a bottle into his hands, and Chen took a couple of swigs of liquor. He never had cared too much for alcohol, but he was grateful for the warmth it provided this evening. He felt the fiery glow spread through him and very nearly felt content.
One thought that nagged at him concerned the American sniper that he had encountered today. The thought of that other sniper was like a shadow lurking beyond the firelight. The man had seemed to know just where Chen would be. The shots that he had fired at Chen had come close.
Then again, Chen was more than a helpless target. He had managed to shoot back.
Chen was sure that he had not managed to shoot the enemy sniper, but he had definitely hit the spotter. Had he been lucky enough to kill the spotter? It was hard to say.
"You got him!" Major Wu had said gleefully, peering through his binoculars at the American position.
"What about the sniper?"
"Maybe that was him? I will certainly say so, in my report."
"I don't think that was the sniper, sir."
Wu just smiled. "Of course it was! And if it wasn't, I will report that the sniper you kill tomorrow is a different one."
"Yes, sir."
In fact, Wu had been so confident that they had ended their work early for the day, which was why Chen was now sitting here by the fire.
But Chen knew that Wu could write all the reports that he wanted, but that the American sniper would still be out there. Chen would have another chance at him tomorrow.
The bottle came round again, but Chen simply passed it along. He did not need a wooden head in the morning, not with the enemy that he faced.
Instead of sitting by the fire and drinking, he moved some distance away and spread out his blanket roll. His front still felt some warmth from the fire, but his back felt cold. Next, Chen began cleaning his rifle.
There wasn't much else to occupy his time. He had to admit that back before he had become a communist, army life was more fun. Gambling had been allowed back then, for example. The stakes were never high, but it was a way for soldiers to pass the time. Drinking was allowed to some extent only because there was only so much austerity that the soldiers could stand. Women could be bought cheaply.
At that time, no one wrote letters home. Most of the Chinese soldiers could neither read nor write, anyhow, and that included Chen. Besides, there was nothing like a postal service. The only way that a letter made it home was by giving it to someone who might be returning to your home province. Eventually, being passed from one person to the next, the letter would find its way to the right person. The communist government had no postal service because it preferred its citizens not being able to communicate — communication only meant trouble.
Chen was still cleaning his rifle when Major Wu appeared. Wu was rarely alone, and this time was no exception. With him was one of the military advisors from the Soviet Union. There were several such men in camp. Their role was to observe the Chinese in battle and provide training for some of the Chinese troops using the antiquated military gear provided by the Soviet Union. Mostly, the Soviet observers simply watched, serving as Stalin's eyes and ears.
"There you are!" Wu said, grinning. Chen suspected that the grin was similar to that of a fox that had just entered a farmyard filled with chickens. "Have you eaten?"
This was the universal question that all Chinese asked one another, even if one man was a political officer, and the other was a simple marksman with a rifle.
"Yes, sir," Chen replied. "I am grateful."
Wu nodded, beaming as if he had prepared the bowl of horse meat and rice himself.
"This is one of our brothers from the Soviet Union," Wu explained, gesturing at the Red Army soldier. The man's face remained impassive, so it was difficult to tell whether or not he understood a word of Chinese. "I wanted to show him what one of our snipers looks like."
Wu turned to the Soviet officer, and with a few halting words in what must have been Russian, and with gestures, he conveyed his information to the man.
Chen had detached the scope from his rifle, and the Soviet officer picked it up and looked it over carefully. Smiling, the man said something in Russian back to Major Wu, then laughed.
Wu laughed back, as if what the Soviet officer had said to him was amusing. Then Wu communicated something more to the Soviet, who only raised his eyebrows in the universal expression of surprise.
The Russian handed back Chen's rifle scope, this time with an unmistakable air of deference — the man was obviously impressed by whatever Wu had told him.
Major Wu explained to Chen, "He said he wonders how many imperialists were last seen alive through this sight. I told him that you shot ten enemy soldiers today!"
Chen was taken aback. "Sir, it could not have been more than four or five. Some may only have been wounded."
Still smiling, Wu responded, "Chen, how many times must I tell you? However many kills I put in my report, that is how many that you have shot."
"Ten men, sir."
"That is correct," Wu said. "Carry on cleaning your rifle, Chen. Then get some rest. Tomorrow morning, we will go hunting again. You can shoot that American sniper all over again, if need be."
Chapter Sixteen
Cole stepped forth into the cold gray light of dawn. There was none of the anticipation that he had felt yesterday. None of the excitement of the hunt. Certainly, he did not pause to revel in any memories of heading out at first light to hunt with his father. No, this morning felt like he was slogging his way toward a duel or maybe to an execution — hopefully not his own.