‘You a cherry, Snow White?’
‘Yes, sergeant.’
He laughed bitterly — shaking his head. He picked up one of his half a dozen grenades. ‘You gonna use this?’
‘Yes. Yes, I will.’
‘Here,’ he said — tossing it to Stempel. He was now armed.
‘Look at that!’ someone shouted from the line ahead.
Out of the woods — darting and weaving and leaping into the air — came first one, then ten, then nearly thirty deer. They ran and hopped like gazelles, changing course at each clump of snowy brush. In utter amazement, Stempel and the others watched the deer. They raced through the American fighting positions and kept going. They were fleeing in fright. Something massive was approaching.
There were two sharp blasts from a Chinese whistle. The shrill commands were repeated from a dozen other whistles to the left, right and front. Stempel felt as though he would vomit. His mouth was as dry as dust. All was quiet save for a great scraping noise. It sounded like ice breaking. Or an avalanche of falling snow.
‘What’s that?’ the machine gunner whispered urgently.
‘It’s them,’ the sergeant beside Stempel replied. ‘They’re coming.’
‘Knock it off!’ the LT snapped.
That left only the sound of a thousand — ten thousand footsteps approaching through snow. Growing louder. Growing nearer. A bitter pit of bile was forming in Stempel’s stomach. He felt it rise toward his esophagus. To the sound of crunching snow was now added a chant. A single voice raised high in words Stempel couldn’t make out. It was rhythmic Chinese — called out in time, he felt sure, with their pace.
A thousand voices responded as one — the roar of a solid wall of men directly to their front. The white helmets of the U.S. troops twisted and spun in their line of holes ahead. Terrified men — catching each other’s gaze. Measuring the size of gaps between the holes.
A loud ‘Hu-u-h!’ erupted from deep in the attackers’ diaphragms. The sound was jarring in contrast to the high-pitched voice which led them. Stempel wondered whether they chanted to build their own courage, or to sap the nerves of the defenders.
He was freezing. He was shaking like a leaf. He jammed his gloved hands into his armpits but still it did no good. The white shell he wore vibrated. Even the sergeant noticed, but said nothing. Stempel could do nothing to stop it. His teeth were chattering. His abdomen was clenched so tight that his bowels churned. He suddenly felt an overpowering need to urinate.
The crunching and chanting were suddenly drowned out by a fusillade of gunfire off to their right. Units quickly engaged on both sides. But everyone was still in his platoon. Waiting. The LT had his M-16 raised to his shoulder. He was just a simple rifleman, now.
In the next few seconds, a layer of ice coated Stempel. A lens descended over his eyes. The time did nothing to prepare him. Stempel could never have been ready for what happened next. No one could have been ready for that.
The few Claymore mines they’d strung up with tripwires blew almost simultaneously. That set off a cacophonous bleating of whistles, bugles and shepherd’s horns. The Chinese all began to shout at once.
The line of American riflemen in front of Stempel’s hole opened fire. Their rifles were deafening in the enclosure of the forest. Stempel couldn’t even see the Chinese until they opened fire. Then, the bright orange flashes lit the woods.
The machine-gun to Stempel’s left opened up. Then the two men in the hole with Stempel began to fire.
Stempel was peering out of his hole when the first bullets sent sprays of snow into the air. He ducked his head… and vomited. The world spun dizzily in between spasms. The two soldiers beside him hunched low under the hail of bullets. They rose up to fire hurriedly aimed bursts despite the tremendous risk. Another bout of vomiting overcame Stempel. He clenched his grenade tightly to his fiery stomach. The snow beneath him filled with foul-smelling bile.
When nothing more would come up, Stempel tried to lift his head into the storm of bullets. Cringing with each inch his helmet rose, Stempel heard the ‘z-z-z-z-i-i-p’ of bullets passing by. Inches away. Each caused Stempel to pause. With his eyes jammed almost completely shut and his jaw clenched, he forced his head up.
Smoke filled the woods. Hundreds upon hundreds of men ran in a crouch. Their knees sent heavy coats flapping. Their weapons blazed. They had gleaming bayonets fixed to the ends of their rifles. Fifteen meters behind the first line was a second. Fifteen meters behind that — a third.
Buzzing sounds sent Stempel back to the depths of the hole. He shivered in fright. The air forced past his vocal cords sounded like moans. The PFC flew backwards. He sprawled against the rear wall of the hole before he tumbled on top of Stempel.
The dead weight of the man crushed Stempel. Grenades went off all around like firecrackers. They rained down in showers. Stempel could see them hit the upper branches of the trees. Some burst in the air. Others dropped straight to the ground, which shook with the pounding they delivered almost instantly. One grenade bounced off the rear lip of the hole right beside Stempel and kept going. Stempel cringed, but it didn’t explode — a dud!
Boom! The blow stunned him.
The sergeant dropped his rifle and grabbed Stempel’s entrenching shovel. He swung baseball-style at the grenades. Fire filled the air. A shower of snow half-filled the hole.
Everywhere men screamed, ‘I’m hit! I’m hit!’ Some even shouted, ‘I’m hit again!’ in utter terror. Branches shorn from trees crashed to the ground. Explosions created a drizzle of twigs.
‘Grab his rifle, private!’ Stempel heard. It was the sergeant. Stempel’s stomach began dry heaving over and over. ‘Sweet Je-e-ezus!’ Stempel heard screamed. Bullets split the snow walls all around. Stempel began to sob.
Grenades burst everywhere. Hot fire preceded an avalanche of snow as the walls collapsed. Stempel’s eyes were filled with the icy slush. To the heavy weight of the PFC’s body was added that of the sergeant’s. Stempel lay still at the bloody bottom of it all.
Andre Faulk hauled the mail bag across the bustling base into the barracks of 3rd platoon, Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion. Everyone on base was packing. Cleaning weapons. Filling packs and pouches with combat loads.
‘Mail call!’ Andre announced just inside the door. That usually began a stampede.
‘Sh-h-h!’ he heard from the opposite end of a long corridor. A large group of men in camouflaged fatigues were clustered around an open door. All were intent and quiet.
Faulk dropped the bag and slowly approached the gathering. He passed rooms in various states of disorder. New Arctic gear lay piled on bunks. The closer he got to the end of the hall, the louder the wavering whine of the radio grew.
Andre stood on his tiptoes to look over the shoulders of the silent men. A soldier sat on his bunk and leaned over a field radio. His hand constantly tuned the frequency knob. A distant voice pierced random white noise. It was so distorted he could make out nothing. But as Andre listened, the signal rapidly grew stronger. The voice grew louder and sharper. The words were being shouted, Andre realized.
‘…zero niner niner Echo! Fire for effect! I say again, fire…’ The signal strength waned.
A new voice cut through — much clearer than the first ‘Negative, negative, November Echo Seven Two. This is Bravo India Three Niner. That grid coordinate is friendly — I say again friendly — unit position. I countermand that fire order. Over.’ Next came a vehement string of unrecognizable electromagnetic squeals. They were clearly shouts from the unit calling for fire. Again the signal strength grew. The desperate voice was warped into a drifting howl. ‘… left! They’re a-a-all gone — all gone! The Chinese are pouring through their position right at u-u-us! Fire for effect! Fi-i-ire for e-e-effect!’