Clark edged his way through the narrow slit in the earth. He was bent in a stoop just below the snowy surface. The slit trench connected the defensive perimeter with the command and aid posts to the rear. It would soon be jam-packed with traffic. Ammo and fast reaction teams would move outward. The dead and wounded would be evacuated to the rear. Bugles and whistles began to blow just as Clark got to the deeper and wider main fighting trench. His radioman and two-man security team followed close behind.
The soldiers all sat or stood with their backs pressed to the outer wall. Their heads hung down. They eyed Clark with bleary eyes sunk deep into their sockets as he moved down their ranks. ‘How’s it goin’?’ Clark asked. He slapped men’s shoulders and shook hands on passing. They were so weary that it took time for Clark’s presence to register. But in his wake the men stirred and came to life. An officer stood on a step carved out of the wall. He peered at No Man’s Land through periscope binoculars. By the time Clark got to the young platoon leader, his men were doing a double-take. They thought they’d seen it all in the last seventy-two hours. But this was something new.
‘What’cha see, lieutenant?’ Clark asked in a loud voice.
‘More fuckin’ Chinese,’ he said. He then took his face uncertainly from the binoculars. His feet slipped off his precarious step. ‘S-s-sir?’ he said. He saluted awkwardly.
‘No saluting, lieutenant. No sense giving those snipers a target.’
‘Yes, sir!’ he replied.
‘Where’s the nearest gap in the lines?’ Clark asked.
‘About a hundred fifty meters that way,’ the young man replied — pointing toward their right. ‘We’ve turned back the last platoon on the line along that flank. It’s about a two-hundred-meter gap to a Belgian company on the opposite side that’s turned back its left flank. We’re planning on plugging the hole with 4.2-inch mortars and some heavy machine-guns on the hill behind us.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Clark remarked. ‘You mind?’ he asked — nodding at the binoculars but not waiting for a reply. He stepped up onto the perch. The binoculars had mirrors inside that allowed the viewer to remain safely below the lip of the trench. Its massive lenses were pointed at the wire. When Clark adjusted the focus slightly he saw the Chinese sappers stealthily creeping forward. The cleared killing field had been tortured and blackened by the awful violence of modern war. ‘What’s the range to the treeline from here?’ Clark asked. ‘Treeline’ was hardly descriptive. They were shattered and blackened trunks pointing skyward.
‘Two hundred meters, sir,’ he answered.
Clark whistled. ‘Pretty tight quarters. You got any Claymores out?’
‘We blew the last ones about zero three hundred. We haven’t been able to get back out there ’cause of the snipers.’ The Chinese soldiers moved slowly. They never rose much above a squat. Their moves were unhurried. They held their CQ 5.56-mm automatic rifles — a Chinese derivative of the ubiquitous American M-16 — high and in front like they expected imminent hand-to-hand combat They’re all about to die, Clark thought.
‘Can I ask you a question, sir?’
‘Sure,’ Clark replied. He panned the binoculars to the left. The picture was the same all up and down the wire.
‘Who are you?’
Clark looked around at the man and held out his hand. ‘Lieutenant General Nate Clark.’
A small crowd had gathered. Clark shook everyone’s hands.
‘You’re the commander of… of the whole thing, right?’ the lieutenant asked. ‘Of the whole UNRUSFOR?’
Clark nodded. ‘Yep. That and fifty cents’ll buy me a cup o’coffee,’ he said. The tired old line drew laughter from the exhausted men.
‘Well, uhm,’ the lieutenant began, ‘wh-what’re you doin’ here?
Clark laughed, and they all joined in. Clark considered making a joke — ‘I was beginning to wonder the same thing’ Or maybe bravado — ‘Brushin’ up on my target practice.’ But men had died there, he realized. In a dirty trench that smelled of urine. There was blood on the icy floor. A crimson bandage on one man’s neck. An arm in a sling. An NCO who’d lost part of a foot. It was a hallowed place. Consecrated by these men and their dead friends.
‘I’m here to fight,’ Clark replied simply.
The smiles remained on some of the grimy faces. On others, there were different emotions displayed. All, however, were alert and alive. Clark and his small entourage moved on. They followed the winding trench to the right. Toward the gap. He pressed the flesh on the way like a politician. After passing what had to be over two hundred defenders in the already reinforced sector, the sky lit up with trip flares.
Nate decided he’d fight from right there. ‘How far out are the flares, lieutenant?’ he asked the platoon leader. He then checked his M-16. He had a full magazine — twenty rounds.
‘Three hundred meters, sir,’ the nervous twenty-something replied.
‘You lay any mines?’
‘No, sir. But we strung some booby traps between the trees on a wire. Grenades with the pins pulled, in tin cans.’
The grenades started to go off. The Chinese ran into the wire in the darkness, spilling the grenades to the ground. Freed of the confines of the cans, the grenades’ handles flew off. They popped by the dozens.
‘How far out are the booby traps?’ Nate asked.
‘Two fifty, sir.’
Then came the first shouts of ‘Rifle grena-ades!’ from the trench’s observation posts.
Everyone pressed themselves low to the front wall. The rifle grenades came arcing down from the mist on long smoking tails. They were slow enough for Clark to watch before ducking his head. The explosions rippled up and down the line. The closest shook ice loose from the sandbags. Poor man’s artillery.
The American guns opened up. ‘Commence firing!’ the platoon leader yelled. The men all climbed up to their firing posts. Brass rained down onto the trench floor from all manner of infantry weapons. The M-60 crews had sandbagged roofs built over their nests. But the soldiers with SAWs and M-16s had to duck with each bursting grenade.
Clark climbed up onto the earthen step of an empty firing post. Peering over the sandbags he saw two things. Hundreds upon hundreds of running, weaving Chinese, each of whom would have to be killed. And caked black blood that ran down the sandbag just in front. The post was empty for a reason.
He glanced at his watch. The fighter-bombers were just a couple of minutes out, he guessed.
Clark raised his M-16 and lined up the nearest Chinese infantryman. He flicked the selector switch to ‘Semi’ and gripped the trigger firmly with his index finger. When it came time for him to fire, Clark found it remarkably difficult. At first he thought maybe he’d left the safety on and the trigger wouldn’t pull. But it wasn’t the rifle’s mechanism that prevented him from firing. It had been a long time since he’d killed a man.
Clark jerked the trigger — releasing a round just to get it over with. The rifle bucked. The boom of the round’s release rung in his ear. All was as he expected. Even the thin swirl of smoke from the muzzle was as it should be. Clark centered the next shot on a man’s chest and squeezed. The rifle bucked and boomed and smoked. This time his target fell. Prostrate. Unmoving. Dead.