He felt guilty. A wave of self-pity washed over him. Nobody should have to go through something like that. It was a miracle that he’d survived! The guilt tugged down on him like undertow. He wouldn’t have lived through it… if he’d fought. The thought kicked him in the gut. He felt sick. But if he’d grabbed a rifle — if he’d thrown his grenade — they’d have killed him. Stripped him naked in the snow like all the rest.
In the silence of the bunker, Harold poked at the feeling. Hiding under the bodies was nothing, he concluded. A mere detail. One he so far had managed to tell no one. He jammed his eyes shut. The mental agony was total now.
The Spec Five returned with an officer. Both men carried heavy sacks.
‘My name is Lieutenant Dawes,’ the officer said. He seemed confident. Stempel clung to that. ‘We’ve got to go clean out some Chinese. They smashed through the perimeter, but they’re pretty much pinned down. We’re gonna counterattack and reestablish the line.’
Up until then, Harold thought, everyone was with the man. His use of the word counterattack, however, brought home what they were about to do.
‘We’re not infantrymen, sir,’ one of the airmen said.
‘I know that,’ Dawes replied. ‘But we gotta do this. We’re gonna do this real straightforward. You and Second Squad are gonna do a simple leapfrog. Sergeant Brunner is gonna take Second Squad. I’ll take you guys. We’ll form a single line. Five meters of spacing between us. We’ll advance ten meters, drop and lay down covering fire. Then, Second Squad will advance. That’s the drill. No failin’ behind. And listen. You’re gonna have to maneuver under fire, understand? I’m sorry, but you’re just gonna have to do it.’
In the silence Harold could sense the sickened reactions of his squadmates. Dawes dragged a sack out in front. ‘Everybody take five grenades.’ The Motor Transportation Operator next to Stempel unexpectedly gulped air and coughed. He put his hand on Harold’s shoulder as if to rise, but he never got off his knees. Dawes told him to drink some water. Harold thought he was going to vomit, but he didn’t.
‘Fire at their muzzle flashes,’ Dawes said as the heavy bags were dragged around. ‘That’ll keep their heads down. When we get in grenade range I’ll tell ya. Just go to ground and start tossing.’
‘And they’ll be tossing them back at us,’ someone pointed out.
‘Probably not. They’re runnin’ outta grenades and ammo pretty quick. We just gotta get that line squared away before they come again.’
‘How do we know we’re not shootin’ our own lines up?’ came a question.
‘I’ll get you to the right line of departure and keep you pointed in the right direction, okay? Now, let’s go. Single file.’
They filed out into the slit trench one by one.
Dawes put everyone in their places along the wall of a slit trench. When all was set, he waved his arm and they climbed up onto the snow.
The staccato pops of Chinese guns began immediately.
Bullets whooshed through the air overhead. It was a sound Stempel still heard in his nightmares. They’d been spotted. They were being fired on by prepared troops. Stempel pressed low to the crusty, windblown snow. He looked left and right to confirm that the rest of his squad had joined him.
‘First Squad,’ Lieutenant Dawes shouted from the right, ‘pick a target and prepare to fire!’
Stempel raised his rifle to his shoulder. The snow-covered ground was uneven. It rose and fell just enough to obscure all but one blazing Chinese gun. He aimed at the bright muzzle flashes and flicked the selector to ‘Semi.’
‘Second Squad,’ he heard called out from their left, ‘prepare to advance in line!’ There was a moment’s pause. Stempel centered the popping muzzle on his front post’s sight ‘Second Squad… let’s go!’
‘First Squad open fi-i-ire!’ Dawes shouted.
Stempel squeezed the trigger, and his M-16 recoiled hard against his shoulder. It was the same rifle he’d fished out of the snow. He’d cleaned it once in the bunker. It functioned perfectly. All of a sudden, the field ahead came alive with Chinese guns. Each was marked by its flashing muzzle. Just like Stempel’s position would be fixed with his every shot. He fired rapidly in the general direction of the new targets — moving from gun to gun and squeezing his trigger as fast as he could take aim.
The snow around him began to spray into the air. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Second Squad all drop to the ground at once.
‘First Squad,’ Dawes shouted over the roar, ‘advance twenty meters!’
Stempel and his squadmates rose. Moving forward, Stempel heard the angry bees that buzzed by him. To stay on his feet required the complete abandonment of reason and sanity. Every rational thought screamed at him to dive to the ground. He shut them from his head. He detached his mind from his body. His body might at any second be torn to shreds. Cored by a hot steel bullet. But his mind was above the fray. It focused on such minutiae as staying in line. Not felling behind. And switching the selector to ‘Burst.’
He got off a three-round burst before he heard, ‘First Squad down!
Stempel hit the snow hard — knees first. His face was covered in icy crystals.
‘Fire at the gu-u-uns!’ Dawes yelled.
Stempel spat the cold grit from his mouth. He wiped the back of his glove across his face. Second Squad was leapfrogging ahead. He fired a three-round burst at the now closer muzzles. The blazing gun was extinguished. Stempel smiled in surprise and fired at the next hole. His second burst knocked out that gun, but his bolt remained open. His magazine was empty. He ejected it.
‘First Squad adva-ance! Dawes shouted.
Stempel rose slowly. He fumbled with the snap on his ammo pouch. He ran forward as the guns from Second Squad roared. He was behind, but he couldn’t get the Goddamn plastic snap open on the Goddamn pouch! He stumbled through the drifts. The air around him was filled with zips and zings. Death. He got the pouch open and reached inside.
He snagged his parka on a tree limb. It jerked his sleeve around. ‘First Squad down! Dawes shouted. When Stempel raised the new magazine, he saw the hole through his parka and realized two things. There were no trees on that field. And he was hit.
The scratch became a sting, then a throbbing ache. A bullet had passed between his biceps and his chest. When he probed inside, he saw blood on his glove.
A grenade burst up ahead. Then another. They illuminated the sixty or so meters that now separated the two sides. It was table-top flat and covered in a blanket of sparkling snow. He fired and fired again.
‘First Squad u-u-up!’ Dawes screeched.
It took all the will Stempel could muster to rise. To abandon the soft snow for the hail of bullets and sprays of shrapnel. Gone was the pain from his arm. Gone was the shockingly cold snow that had found its way inside his collar on his hard fall. He stood up and almost instantly thought he would die.
The random streaks of passing bullets became a constant stream. He zig-zagged. ‘You’re a dead man if you run straight!’ he remembered the DI’s shout. To his right and his left men fell. Screams now joined the zips of bullets and pops of Chinese rifles. Stempel willed himself onward step by step. But the gale grew particularly heavy. He cringed, then ducked, then dropped.