M-60s cut them down. They rattled the air with rapid strings of fire. In a matter of seconds, Andre could see no more targets. But the 60s kept up their industrial killing — meted out six rounds at a time. The machine-gunners squeezed, traversed, and squeezed again. Their full-sized NATO rounds flew through the woods for over a mile. Unless, that is, they hit something. Most likely a tree, or an outcropping, or one of the small ridges that ran like ribs up the hills to each side. But every so often they struck something soft. They ripped through flesh, and organs, and bone.
Six rounds, then a pause, then six more. Their squad had one of the guns. Andre wished he were closer to it. It was twenty meters to his left. And the gun to his right was thirty or more meters away. He was in the middle of the platoon’s two strongpoints. In the weak gap between the two big guns. Right where the Chinese would have their greatest chance at a breakthrough.
The wind picked up again. In a few seconds the lull was over. Powdery ice crystals again peppered his eyes. The frigid air seeped through his clothing like cold rain. Each touch sent ripples through his body. The sudden chill threatened to overcome him. His muscles quivered and his breath grew ragged.
Andre tried hard to shut out his many distractions. To concentrate on the hazy woods ahead. The visibility was shit — at times maybe sixty meters, at others no more than twenty. And twenty was way too close. Twenty was hand-grenade range. At twenty, they were mere moments away from being overrun.
He was almost surprised to see the main body of Chinese. Their large parkas were flapping over pumping knees. The snow slowed them down — made them easy shots. But there were hundreds and hundreds of them. The American rifles began to crack. It sounded like the rifle range at boot camp. With his thumb Andre checked the selector. Single shots, not three-round bursts. The cold plastic stock touched his skin beneath his eye. An oversized white form filled the sight.
The rifle kicked. Its flame lit the gray snow. Down went the large parka. A strong gust sent snow into Andre’s eyes. It was like the frozen spray of white caps blown off the tips of ocean swells. He had to wipe his face with the back of his hand to resume firing. But even in the haze of drifting snow targets made themselves visible. Flickering muzzles lit the woods with orange flame. The Chinese were firing their AK-47s on full auto. They didn’t have orders to conserve ammo like their foes. Andre forced his watering eyes to line up a muzzle flash. When the faint outline of a human being became visible, he squeezed once and dropped the man at forty meters.
The buzz of a bullet through air made Andre flinch. The angry sound was unmistakably lethal. You needn’t have seen the effects of a high-powered round to be terrified by it. You didn’t even need to know what the hell it was. Anyone hearing air split at the speed of sound would know to fear the object’s passage. Any sane man would curl up in the bottom of his hole.
Andre lined up another target and fired. Three-for-fucking-three.
His first miss came on the sudden arrival of a running soldier. The man rushed out of the swirling snow straight at the guy on Andre’s left. Andre spun his rifle on the man but hurried the shot. The attacker’s rifle was blazing from his hip. Andre and his squadmate both laid the man flat with their next rounds. He collapsed into the snow three steps short of their line.
Directly in front of Andre’s hole he saw three men. They ran straight at him. He flicked the selector and squeezed the trigger in one motion. Cra-a-ack, came the roar of three rounds. Cra-a-ack, came another three. He had to fire again to waste the last guy, but only two rounds came out this time.
Andre cursed and ejected the magazine. He sank down into his hole. He’d dropped the three Chinese soldiers. But the woods were alive with hundreds of others. A constant yell again rose up. It had to be the second wave! The snow all around his hole was sprayed into the air. His shaking glove couldn’t guide the magazine home. He cradled his rifle against his body and used both hands. It slid in until metal touched metal.
He was terrified by the steady hail of bullets. Terrified that he’d see all was lost when he raised his head. But he was fighting for his life so he chambered a round. He rose into the singing death.
There must’ve been a hundred shouting men charging forward. Andre fired and fired and fired. He missed far more than he hit. But it wasn’t about marksmanship right then. It was about pouring out as many rounds as he could. It was about turning the ten rifles in his squad into a machine-gun. About spraying the woods with as much lead as they could unleash.
He bent over and reloaded again. As he rose something smashed into his helmet. Andre was stunned by the blow, but he raised the brim. The nearest attacker was twenty meters away. He jogged forward and fired his rifle straight at Andre. Orange fire blazed right in Andre’s face. Andre raised his M-16 and fired. The iron sight of the M-16 was laid smack on the man’s mid-section. The Kalashnikov’s flaming muzzle swept across Andre as its owner fell. He hadn’t felt any bullets pound his chest. Still, however, he waited. Perhaps he was hit, but in a state of shock. He watched the battlefield slowly empty of Chinese.
When he finally snapped out of his daze, he saw that they had won!
‘Faulk!’ he heard shouted through numb ears.
He turned to see everyone pulling back from the line. The squad leader was waving for Andre to come over. The man on his left lay draped across his log. He’d been hit despite the fortification. Andre climbed out of his hole despite severely aching muscles. His joints unlimbered slowly as if he’d been curled up in a cramped space for hours.
‘Come on!’ the sergeant shouted.
Andre joined him, taking the sergeant’s and the wounded man’s rifles. The soldier was moaning. His eyes were unfocused. He’d been hit bad. The squad leader hoisted him onto his shoulder. He was hunched over in a fireman’s carry. He began to stagger to the rear with Andre following. Everyone else had already disappeared.
‘What’s the deal?’ Andre asked.
‘We’re pullin’ back,’ the huffing man said.
‘But why…?’
His question was cut short by the roar of a gun. Andre flinched on hearing the sound at his back. A half-dozen bullets sliced through the air and slammed into trees. Andre dropped to fire as the sergeant stumbled onward. The woods were filled with attackers approaching unopposed. Andre fired burst after burst, but it did little good. The few men he felled were just drops in the surging sea. He grabbed the three rifles and quickly rejoined the lumbering sergeant.
The squad leader was sweating profusely. His teeth were set in a painful grimace. Andre had no trouble keeping up with his slow pace. His only trouble, in fact, was to keep from racing ahead. He glanced over his shoulder. The wind was whipping through the woods. He couldn’t see the enemy soldiers, but they would be gaining.
The wounded man was flopping limply like a rag doll. When the sergeant stopped to adjust the load, Andre checked the man’s face. His eyes were glassy and lifeless.
‘Hey, sarge. I think he’s dead!’
The squad leader didn’t respond. He just resumed his trudging flight toward their alternate positions. Andre glanced over his shoulder and saw hazy forms.
‘He’s dead, sarge! Jesus Christ, man, he’s…!’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ came the reply through gasps for breath.
A stupendous roar filled the woods. This time the gunfire came from in front. From the Americans who were firing at the three men’s pursuers. Andre cringed and ducked behind a tree. He hid not from the Chinese, but from the blazing line of American fighting holes ahead. When the first volleys didn’t kill him, he figured they’d been recognized as friendly troops. He bolted around the tree and rejoined the laboring sergeant.