The air had an autumn chill to it, but was pleasant enough with the tang of woodsmoke from the fires. It all could have been like a camping trip if the enemy hadn't been out there. Every now and then, a Jeep roared in and another Jeep roared out, carrying what they thought must have been urgent messages. Cole figured that at least it gave the officers something to do, so that they left everybody else alone.
They were all still sitting there when one of Cole’s least favorite officers came walking up to them. It was Lieutenant Ballard.
For whatever reason, Ballard had taken a dislike to Cole. Cole had to admit that the feeling was mutual. There was maybe something classist to it. Ballard was tall and well-built, handsome even, and a college graduate. He looked down his long nose at dirt-poor soldiers like Cole.
The lieutenant was not alone, but had a small retinue with him. He was trailed by Sergeant Weber, another survivor of the Chosin Reservoir fight. Tough and capable, Weber was also a veteran of the Wehrmacht. Like Weber, a number of former German soldiers had found themselves wearing US uniforms. Soldiering was the only career that old Weber knew. He and Cole had formed a mutual respect, if not quite a bond. After all, it was the lieutenant who buttered Weber’s bread, not Cole.
Cole took stock of the other soldiers. He recognized most of them, but one new face caught Cole’s eye. This soldier carried himself like a veteran of more than one fight, signaled by his sturdy build and helmet set at a cocky angle. However, he was only an enlisted man. What did Ballard want with him?
The other soldier in the group still wore a relatively new and clean uniform, which marked him as being new to Triangle Hill. He was tall and raw-boned, like he was no stranger to hard physical work, but he lacked the economical movements of men who had crossed miles and miles of Korea. Improbably, he carried a camera on a strap around his neck and a small notebook dwarfed by his big hand. A carbine was slung across his shoulder like an after-thought.
Curiously, this soldier seemed busy writing down everything that Ballard said. It wouldn't have been all that unusual to see someone like General MacArthur have someone hang on his every word, but not Ballard. He kept glancing at the reporter, as if to make sure that he hadn’t missed anything.
Whatever was going on, they were about to find out.
"I’ve been waiting for you to get back," Ballard said, stopping in front of Cole, who raised himself wearily to his feet. Other officers would have told him to stay put, but not Ballard. "Where the hell have you been?"
"We ran into some trouble, sir."
"You were on a simple recon mission."
Quickly, Cole explained about coming across the unit that had needed some help against the Chinese, but Ballard didn't look convinced.
"I didn't send you out there to play cavalry," he said. "I sent you out there to gather intelligence. We need information, dammit."
"Well, sir, we learned that there is a squad of Chinese soldiers down in the Valley and that there is artillery within range up on Jane Russell," Cole said. "How's that for information?"
Cole knew that his tone was walking the line in terms of insubordination, but he didn’t much care.
Ballard was glaring at him. Over the lieutenant's shoulder, the sergeant gave him a barely perceptible shake of the head. Warning him.
For all that Cole knew, he had fought against Sergeant Weber in the last war, but the sergeant was all right. He was gruff and a stickler for the rules, which you might expect from a German, but he was fair enough. Right now, he was trying to save Cole's bacon.
Cole and Weber had gotten off on the wrong foot after Cole's initial arrival in Korea. Weber had thought that Cole was too lazy or too scared to fight. He couldn’t have been more wrong about that. Their ordeal at the Chosin Reservoir had helped them gain a grudging respect for one another.
Ballard, on the other hand, had also been at the "Frozen Chosin," but seemed to ignore the experience like one might ignore a bad dream.
Cole couldn't blame him because it wasn't something that anyone wanted to remember. Maybe Ballard thought that being part of that disastrous withdrawal was a black mark against his record. Although the soldiers in the field didn't have much access to newspapers or radio news, rumors had been going around that there was a lot of fallout from the Chosin Reservoir campaign. Back home, some called it a cowardly retreat and a defeat.
What the hell did they know about it? Cole wondered. Those who said that the Chosin was a defeat hadn't been there when thousands of screaming enemy troops swarmed at them out of the darkness. They hadn't been there when it got so cold that the rifle actions froze up and some men died of exposure overnight in their foxholes. They hadn't been there when the truckloads of wounded had to be abandoned so that their fellow soldiers were bayoneted shot and burned alive by the Chinese.
Cole tugged his thoughts back to the present. Keeping the sergeant's warning glance in mind, Cole finally responded with a simple, "Yes, sir."
Ballard glared at him for another long moment, then raised his voice to address the entire squad. He half-turned toward the other men accompanying him, so that they would be included in his comments. "Listen up, everyone. We've been chosen to have a reporter from Stars & Stripes tag along with us for a few days. Private Hardy will be taking a few pictures and talking to you. I expect that you will give him your full cooperation."
"Talk to a reporter? Not me," Cole muttered. He'd had that experience in the last war, when none other than the famous war correspondent Ernie Pyle had interviewed him. In Cole's estimation, the story had only brought him a lot of trouble.
"What's that, Cole?" Ballard snapped.
"Nothing, sir."
Ballard went on. "I expect you to give Private Hardy your full cooperation," he said. "The folks back home need to know what sort of job we're doing."
"Yes, sir."
But the lieutenant wasn't done. "Now that we have a reporter with us, I wanted to make sure that he had something to report," Ballard said. He turned to indicate the other man accompanying him, who had been standing there like a tree stump. "I want you to meet Heywood. He's a sniper, one of the first from the new U.S. Army training school. I had to pull some strings to get him assigned to our platoon. It's going to make a great newspaper story. He's here to teach you boys a thing or two about sniper tactics and hitting a target at any kind of distance."
The kid spoke up, "Sir, you should have seen Cole today—"
Ballard waved a hand to cut him off. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. No more cowboy stuff. We need some real training around here, which is why I've brought in Heywood. However, I've got to say that there is a shortage of sniper rifles." He glanced at the reporter. "Don't put that in the article. Anyhow, we've got a surplus of snipers and a shortage of sniper rifles."
“That’s the Army for you,” Pomeroy said.
The lieutenant pointed at Cole’s Springfield rifle, which was still disassembled nearby. "That's what I'm talking about right there, a sniper rifle. We need to put sniper rifles in the hands of actual Army-designated snipers. Cole, reassemble that rifle and hand it over to Heywood."
"Sir?" Cole didn't make any move to obey the lieutenant’s orders.
"You heard me. Hurry it up, Cole. I haven't got all day. We'll get you a carbine instead."
Nearby, the men of the squad seem to hold their collective breath. They knew very well what Cole could do with a rifle. They had seen him in action again and again. Just today, he had decimated an enemy unit at long range.
Now, here was Ballard wanting to take away Cole's rifle. What the hell was he thinking? It sounded as if he just wanted to make himself look good for the press. Knowing Ballard, he couldn't make captain soon enough.