Of course, none of them said a word out loud to the lieutenant. As for Cole, he stared at Ballard just long enough with his flat gray eyes that the lieutenant was forced to look away.
"You heard me, Cole," the lieutenant said. "That's a direct order. Give that rifle to Heywood. Right now, son! Give him whatever else he needs, too. I'm going to take Private Hardy over here to interview some of the other men for Stars & Stripes, and when I come back, I want this transfer to be done."
Lieutenant Ballard walked off with the reporter in tow.
Cole didn't respond at first, seeming to be thinking it over, as if he had some choice other than following orders. "Aw, to hell with it," he finally said, then reached over and reassembled the rifle, finally sliding the bolt into place and offering the weapon to Heywood.
Their new designated sniper was about five-foot-ten and solidly built, maybe a bit shorter than Cole by an inch or two, but far heavier. He looked like he could be a bruiser when he needed to be.
He accepted the rifle without a word of thanks, and his broad face held a challenge.
"So you're Cole," he said. "I think I've heard about you."
Pomeroy spoke up. "You probably did hear about him, buddy. Cole here has those Chinese bastards afraid of him, and for good reason."
"Is that right?" Heywood smirked. "What I heard was that you had lost your nerve. That's why the unit needs a good sniper."
"I don't know where you heard that," Cole said, truly surprised. "Who said that I've lost my nerve?"
"Heywood here needs to check his sources,” Pomeroy said. “He got some bad information. For example, who said that he was a good sniper?"
Heywood glared at Pomeroy, and then turned his attention back to Cole. "The lieutenant told me that," Heywood said.
"You mean Ballard says I’ve lost my nerve?” Cole supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised, considering that the lieutenant had it in for him. “That sneaky no good snake-eyed son of a—"
"Uh, Cole," Pomeroy growled a warning. "You might want to hold that thought. Here he comes."
At that moment, Lieutenant Ballard came walking over, having left the reporter to gather the other men's names and stories. Swaggering over, was more like it, Cole thought.
Heywood moved to take the rifle out of Cole's hands.
Cole didn't let go right away. Heywood was wide and sturdy, but he looked surprised by the iron grip that he encountered. He pulled harder.
The tug of war went on for several seconds as Ballard approached. When Cole did suddenly let go, Heywood had to dance back on his heels, having been thrown off balance.
As for Cole, he instantly felt like a lion that had just lost its mane. Thunder without its clap.
He kept seeming to lose things in this war. A Chinese soldier had taken his Bowie knife off him when he’d briefly been a prisoner of war back at the Chosin Reservoir. The goddamn enemy stole my knife. And now this human stump has got my rifle.
It wasn't the first time that he had been ordered to relinquish a rifle. However, the circumstances had definitely been different. The last time, in the last war, a vainglorious officer had foolishly wanted Cole's rifle for himself. Cole hadn't been left with any choice. That officer hadn't lasted more than a day as a sniper — and Cole hadn't even been the one to kill him.
This time was somewhat different. What the lieutenant wanted was to get his name in the newspaper and advance his military career by advancing the new sniper program.
Poor ol' Heywood didn't know what he was in for. He was about to become the lieutenant’s whipping boy. Cole almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
"Make sure you keep her oiled up," Cole said. "I don't want my rifle all rusty when I get her back."
Heywood stared at him, puzzled.
The lieutenant walked up.
"All right then," Ballard said. "You men get a good night's sleep. You'll be going out on patrol again first thing in the morning.
"Yes, sir," said Cole, who had been the squad leader.
"Oh, but not you, Cole," Ballard said. "Pomeroy here will be in charge of the squad. You can head on over to the mess tent. In fact, I think they could use some help there right now.
"Yes, sir," Cole said flatly.
"You see, we've got our designated sniper now. The kitchen could use some help. I know you were good at that before. I seem to recall you started out in the mess tent when you got to Korea last fall. It's important to get some hot meals to the men so that they don't have to eat rations all the time."
"Yes, sir," Cole said. "I reckon I'll be reporting to the mess tent."
Chapter Four
Having dodged yet another aerial attack, the vehicle carrying Chen Li raced down the mountain road. Chen hung on for dear life as the Soviet-made GAZ-67—the Communist answer to the American Jeep — followed the curving road, veering perilously close to the edge. The road had been cut into the face of the mountain, and beyond the edge was a steep fall to the valley floor, several hundred feet below. Chen looked out into the thin air and felt dizzy.
There were no guard rails, and it was a long way down. Chen knew because he had made the mistake of leaning out to take a look. The view of the valley below left his stomach churning. Needless to say, he wouldn't be doing that again.
Even to call this a road was something of an exaggeration. In truth, it was no wider in places than a goat path. The muddy surface was pock-marked by shell holes and boulders that had rolled down from the surrounding cliffs.
"Better have a drink," said the driver, having reached under the seat for a thick brown bottle. He laughed merrily. "Who knows, it might be our last drink if those planes come back, ha, ha! Besides, it will keep us warm."
On the mountain road, the wind did, indeed, have a bitter edge. The driver took a swig, one hand on the wheel and the other on the bottle, then offered it to the sour-faced young officer in the passenger seat beside him. The officer gave the driver a look as if he had just been offered horse dung.
"Keep your eyes on the road!" he snapped.
He was one of those serious young political officers, still zealous about the People's revolution and the fight against Imperialism. In other words, he was young and foolish. He had materialized two days before to escort Chen to the front.
Chastised by the young officer, the driver simply shrugged, then handed the bottle back over the seat to Chen.
Chen took the bottle and had a long drink, doing his best to keep the bottle from knocking out his front teeth as the driver tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid a crater in the road.
Chen gagged and sputtered, forcing the booze down.
"Ha, ha!" the driver shouted. "Good stuff."
Chen thought that whatever was in the bottle was hardly "good stuff." For all he knew, it might even be snake wine — derived from steeping a venomous snake in grain alcohol. No matter. In long years of war, first with the Japanese and then against the Nationalists and now against the United Nations, he had learned to be thankful for whatever was given.
He choked down another drink, hoping that this stuff wasn't actually snake whiskey, then handed the bottle back. The driver took it, laughing with delight, then returned his attention to the road. Chen hoped that the driver hadn’t already imbibed too much of the alcohol, or their trip might be very short.
A few miles away, the Chinese were engaged in a vicious battle with United Nations forces that had become a stalemate. Chen was being called upon to shoot as many enemy soldiers as possible to help bring about an end to the stalemate — and to make the enemy pay dearly for each meter of ground.
He didn’t normally think about politics, but even he had to admit that there was some opportunity here to prove to the haughty Americans that the Chinese were not only good shots, but maybe even better. Chen took pride in that thought.