"Stars & Stripes, huh?" the major said.
"Yes, sir. I'm reporting on conditions here at the front, how the men are doing."
"In that case, I hope you can write good fiction," the major said.
Hardy wasn’t sure what to say to that. "I'll be taking photographs too, sir."
"Well, it's about time these boys got some attention," the major said. He put on a thinking face. "I'll assign you to Fox Company. That's Lieutenant Ballard. If there's one man in this Army who will love to see a reporter and get his picture taken, it's Ballard."
"Yes, sir."
"All right, son, now get out of here and try not to get yourself killed before you can make us famous."
Hardy saluted and turned to go, but the major called him back. "Hold on a minute, son." He looked Don up and down, as if noticing him critically for the first time. "Where is your weapon? Don’t you have a rifle?"
"I wasn't issued one, sir. They gave me a camera instead. I'm a journalist."
"Try explaining that to the Chinese when they start shooting at you. What kind of idiot would send you into the field without a weapon?" The major sighed. "Listen, son, shooting pictures is fine, but be prepared to shoot a few bullets as well. On your way out, tell the sergeant there that you need to be issued a weapon."
"Yes, sir."
Hardy found the sergeant, a grizzled looking old campaigner, and was issued an M-1 carbine.
"Remember how to use this thing?" the sergeant asked.
"Sure," said Hardy, who hadn't touched a weapon since basic training. He didn't sound all that convincing.
"That's what I thought." The sergeant gave him a quick refresher, emphasizing that the safety should be left on at all times and that he had better be careful about where he pointed the muzzle, and then handed him two magazines. "Here's a bit of advice. Save your last bullet."
"Sir?"
"If the Chinese overrun your position, you'll want that last bullet for yourself. But don't put that in your article."
Wondering what he had gotten himself into, Hardy gulped and went to find Fox Company and Lieutenant Ballard.
Chapter Three
Cole and the rest of the squad threw themselves down in exhaustion. They had trooped back into the base, worn out from the trek through the mountains. Adrenalin from the one-sided skirmish and bombardment left them feeling hollowed out and empty.
"I can't believe we made it back here in once piece," Pomeroy said. "I thought for sure that we'd be ambushed."
"I reckon we got lucky," Cole agreed. "Them Chinese hereabouts is thick as fleas on a coon hound."
"One thing about you, Hillbilly, is that you've got a way with words," Pomeroy said.
The trek back to the base had been harrowing, indeed. At any moment, they had expected to be attacked by superior numbers of Chinese soldiers. The hills swarmed with the enemy. They considered it a minor miracle that they had made it back.
Now, the soldiers sprawled on the ground in the way that only exhausted men can do, looking more like rag dolls than soldiers. Rumor had it that there might still be some chow at the mess tent, but that meant rising from the ground and walking that much farther. For men whose feet and legs already ached, it was too much to ask.
"To hell with it," said Pomeroy, casting a longing glance in the direction of the mess tent, then shaking his head. "Might as well be a hundred miles away, as far as I'm concern."
"Got that right," Cole agreed.
He opened some rations and wolfed down a meal, and the others who had enough energy for it followed suit.
"That was one hell of a lop-sided fight today," Pomeroy said. "We did some damage to those Chinese."
"I reckon we got lucky," Cole said. "Although I got to say, it's a good thing we got out of there in one piece. Another couple of minutes and that Chinese artillery would've turned us inside out."
Pomeroy nodded and lit a cigarette. He knew that Cole meant literally turned inside out — they had both seen what artillery could do to infantrymen. He offered a cigarette to Cole, who shook his head. Cole hadn't been smoking for a while now — not since returning from Europe, as a matter of fact — and was glad of it. He had a lot more wind when out on patrol than Pomeroy did, or even some of these youngsters just out of high school.
He mused that he had been leading a clean life back home in the mountains, staying away from tobacco and whiskey — it was just shooting people that he couldn't seem to avoid. Cole had come across two dirtballs who were about to assault a woman whose car had broken down. They had made the mistake of drawing on Cole when he had interfered with their plans. The judge and sheriff had come up with the solution that their local war hero could avoid jail by joining the Army. As a result, here he was in Korea, with a rifle in his hands.
Maybe there was something wrong with him because he didn't mind all that much.
Cole snorted at that thought.
"What?" Pomeroy wanted to know.
Cole just shook his head.
Instead of a smoke after his meal, which was something of a ritual for many men, Cole opted to clean his rifle. He removed the bolt and set it aside, then began wiping down the action and all the metal parts of his rifle in order to prevent any rust from the salt and oils of his hands. There was even a rumor that he had the cleanest rifle in the United States Army.
The Springfield was one tough customer, mostly reliable as an old boot and with roots as a military firearm that went clear back to the Great War, but that didn't stop Cole from babying his rifle. One thing for sure, that rifle had gotten a workout today and now had powder grime clogging its lands and grooves. Cole gently worked an oil-soaked rag deep into the action, almost lovingly. By now, his fingers recognized every divot in the wood grain, every scratch on the barrel. Back at the Chosin Reservoir, that extra oil had gummed up the actions of many rifles, but no one was predicting that it would.
Cole knew a rifle was just wood and metal and a handful of moving parts, but wasn't it something more than that? A rifle had personality. This one had sure as hell saved his life a few times. And taken a few lives, as well.
"Goddamn, Hillbilly, you could do surgery with his rifle," Pomeroy remarked.
"What the hell kind of surgery would you do with a rifle?" Cole wondered.
"I don't know — remove someone's heart, or maybe their liver."
"Well, I do reckon that's my kind of surgery." Cole looked over at Tommy Wilson, who had followed Cole's lead and was now busy cleaning his own rifle. "You done good today, kid."
"Yeah? I guess I'm starting to get the hang of this soldiering thing," the kid said.
“Don’t get too good at it, or you’ll end up like us,” Cole said. “Stuck in the Army.”
"Practice makes perfect," Pomeroy added. "The good news is that you can wake up tomorrow morning and practice all over again."
Cole added with a grin, "And if you mess up while you're practicing, the worst that can happen is that you'll end up dead."
"You two really know how to cheer a guy up," the kid said. "Gee, thanks."
All around them, the camp was busy getting ready for nightfall. For the most part, the daylight hours meant that the US defenses were fairly protected thanks to the air cover and the artillery that could target any troop movements in the hills. However, by night, all bets were off because the enemy could move unseen. Most of the attacks by the Chinese and North Korean forces took place under cover of darkness.
The encampment was far enough from the enemy positions to avoid drawing sniper fire, so some of the squads had small fires that they used to heat up their rations or to make hot water for coffee. They could smell some of those delicious smells now. Cole's squad was too damn tired to make any effort to build a fire.