They divided the stretchers among the men who weren't wounded — at least not seriously. Tommy and New Jersey took one of the stretchers between them. Cole shook his head, seeing the way that Pomeroy was limping.
"You ought to be the one on that goddamn stretcher, New Jersey."
"Aw, stuff it, Hillbilly. Why don't you help, then?"
"I've got other things to do." Cole raised his voice. "Who here has got a grenade?”
One of the other soldiers gave him a grenade. Surprisingly, Kelwick had an entire magazine in his carbine, which he handed to Cole. "Have at it," he said. "I never was much of a shot."
"All right, here's the plan," Cole said. "Head south across the ice, straight down the lake. You ought to hit Hagaru-ri in an hour. Pomeroy here is in charge. Do what he says and you'll be all right."
"What the hell are you going to do?" Pomeroy demanded.
"I'm going to hold them up," he said.
"Like hell you are."
"Don't worry," Cole said. "I'll catch up."
Looking around at their faces, it was clear that none of them believed him. Hell, Cole himself didn't really believe it. "Go on now," he said. "That's an order."
"What, are you a general now, too?" Pomeroy demanded. "Come with us. You can't possibly stop those Chinese."
"One good man with a rifle is all it takes to make a difference," Cole said. "Tonight, you'll have to make do with me. Now, get going."
The others didn't need to be told twice. They set off across the ice, although it wasn't easy going for the wounded or for those carrying stretchers. Everyone was already beyond exhaustion, but they either had to somehow keep going, or sit down in the snow to die. Not much of a choice, was it?
Only Pomeroy and the kid lingered, as if waiting for Cole to change his mind. Finally, Pomeroy muttered a curse and struck out into the night. He and the kid, bearing the stretcher between them, were swallowed up by the darkness and the swirling snow.
Cole was left alone at the wreckage of the truck. From the darkness, he could hear the shouts of the pursuing Chinese and an occasional shot — what they were shooting at he had no idea because the visibility was so limited. But soon enough, they would come within sight of the wreck. Quickly, Cole assessed his defensive position. This wrecked truck was going to be his Alamo.
But he wasn't entirely alone.
He took hold of the dead man and dragged him around to the front of the truck. It was a gruesome task, and he hated to mess with a dead man as much as anyone else, but this soldier had one last duty even in death.
The steel truck frame offered plenty of cover. Cole got down low and stretched the body out on the ice beside the driver-side truck tire that wasn't in the hole. One of the wounded men had left behind his empty rifle, and Cole got it now and wedged it in the soldier's dead limbs so that it looked as if the dead man was firing the weapon.
Then Cole got in position and waited. He had Kelwick’s carbine and his own Springfield with two rounds. The Chinese had fallen quiet, which spooked Cole. He just hoped that it meant they were creeping closer.
He wasn't disappointed. A shot cracked out, pinging off the metal truck. Then another. Cole squinted into the darkness. The first Chinese soldier took form almost like a ghost, grayish white in his quilted uniform, rifle at the ready. Cole put his sights on him and fired.
Another soldier appeared, dropping to his knee and firing in the direction of Cole's muzzle flash. Cole took him out. More shapes appeared. He picked another target and fired. Two bullets left. Not nearly enough. He fired twice more, and the weapon was empty. He tossed aside the carbine and picked up the more familiar Springfield rifle.
Cole's shooting had convinced the Chinese to halt their attack. There did not seem to be a large number of them. But there were more than two, which meant that Cole was in trouble.
The Chinese had no cover and were disadvantaged because he could just begin to see their silhouettes against the whiteness of the ice in between gusts of windblown snow, whereas Cole had the truck and the darkness.
That changed when one of the Chinese pitched a phosphorous grenade into the night, lighting up the scene on the ice. It was likely that the grenade had been scavenged from what was left of the convoy — the Americans' own weapons were being turned against them by the enemy.
If they could see him, he could also see them—but with just two shots left, it wasn't going to do him much good. He squeezed off a shot and took out the soldier who had thrown the grenade before he got any other bright ideas.
In the glaring light, he counted ten Chinese soldiers advancing. In their own way, they were as tough and heroic as the American soldiers. Cole would give them that much.
They were also awfully close. To his surprise, he saw that one was carrying a sniper rifle. The light wasn’t good enough for Cole to see his face, but Cole had no doubt that this was the same soldier who had tracked him earlier today. How many Chinese snipers could there be? This guy was persistent.
With the whole scene lit up by the burning phosphorous, the Chinese sniper also spotted Cole and raised his rifle. Cole got his sights on the guy at just the same time. But the Chinese sniper was fast. A bullet thwacked into the tire next to Cole's head.
Cole's finger twitched as his last bullet left the rifle. He saw the enemy sniper snatch at one side of his head. By some miracle, had Cole hit him?
He might never know, because the phosphorous grenade began to fizzle out. But his last glimpse before the lights went out had been of the enemy slowly advancing. They weren’t rushing him. Of course, they couldn't know that Cole was out of ammunition.
He had one final surprise planned for them.
Cole reached for the grenade and pulled the pin, then wedged the grenade under the dead soldier's frozen body beside him. It was a little tricky getting the positioning right to keep the handle squashed down, because if he messed this up he’d be saving the Chinese some trouble. But the solid weight was enough to hold the handle in place.
He heard snow crunch under a boot. They were right there. Quickly, he put his helmet with the Rebel flag on the dead man's head. Then Cole rolled to his feet and ran for all he was worth.
He was still running, flat out, when the grenade went off thirty seconds later. It could only mean that someone had gotten curious and rolled over what they thought was his body back at the truck.
Cole allowed himself a small grin, but he didn't stop running.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
An hour later, a Marine sentry thought that his eyes were playing tricks on him when he saw a figure emerging from the swirling, windblown snow on the ice. The pale background of snow-covered ice revealed the silhouette of a man approaching steadily. How anyone could survive that freezer blast of Mongolian winter scouring the ice was more than he could understand.
Was it the enemy? He had yet to see any Chinese, but he knew they were out there. He raised his weapon, itching to pull the trigger.
But he didn't shoot. Survivors from the disastrous Army column had wandered in off the lake for hours, but that had slowed to a trickle, then stopped. He was sure that the next soldier he saw was going to be speaking Chinese.
"Halt!" he shouted, struggling to make himself heard over the sounds of wind and sifting snow. His voice was swallowed up and lost. The silhouette advanced rapidly. He shouted a little louder: "Halt!"