A stunning blast of hot fire dazed Stempel. He was stunned. He felt like someone had kicked his helmet and slapped open palms on his ears… all at once. Somebody was shouting, ‘Grena-a-ades!’ at the top of his lungs. They were bursting everywhere. Snow and flame shot skyward.
Stempel suddenly remembered that he too had grenades. He patted his cargo pockets and fished out a steel pineapple. Another explosion almost knocked the wind from him. The ground underneath him bucked. Only after the violent blast did he register its heat on his exposed face. Then snow fell all around him. Huge gobs came first, then a fine, frozen mist
Harold looked down and saw his left index finger in the metal ring. He twisted and pulled and twisted and… The ring came out. He held the grenade and handle in his right hand. Another blast peppered his neck and face with ice. It stung terribly. His eyes watered.
Yet another grenade burst nearby. It forced a realization. Harold looked around through tears but saw no one. Those grenades were hurled not at his squad… but at him and him alone. He was in grenade range. All by himself. They were trying to kill him.
He rose to one knee. Drew the grenade back to his right ear.
Pointed with his left hand at a group of flashing muzzles. And hurled the grenade with a grunt. He dropped down. The effort had wrenched his shoulder painfully. The air above him filled with lead.
By the time his grenade went off, he was pulling a second pin. He reared up — heedless of the terrible danger — and threw at a different cluster of flashes. He pressed himself flat into the snow. The buzzing bees above him had never been angrier. His parka jerked — tugged by a passing bullet. Another bullet stung his boot. Pain shot through his ankle. He contorted his body to look down. A piece of rubber had been peeled off the sole of the thick, insulated boots. His ankle must have been twisted by the force.
Twack! A jarring blow to Stempel’s helmet simultaneously hurt his ears and his neck. It gave him an intense headache. A bullet had glanced off his helmet. More skittered through the snow. Buzzed by his ears. The pain meant nothing. He had to save his life.
He got a third grenade, frantically pulled the pin, and set his teeth in a clench. He rose up into that death and threw with all his might. ‘A-a-ah!’ he shouted with the effort.
A black object disappeared into the snow in front of him. He dropped back down. He felt like he was inside the explosion. Everything was a blur. He could make no sense of the battlefield. He found his rifle but as if in a dream couldn’t clear his head enough to use it. He was still patiently brushing ice from the M-16 when he felt a hand grab his parka and shake.
‘Charge those holes!’ Lieutenant Dawes shouted. He was pointing.
‘You’re bleeding, sir,’ Stempel said. There was a huge gash along his jaw line.
‘Come on, soldier!’ Dawes shouted. Blood that hung from his chin fell in large, black drops.
Stempel rose — rifle in hand — and charged. He sprinted in the direction Dawes had pointed. He ran straight at the Chinese guns. When he zigged, he saw no friendly troops. He zagged. He was all alone.
He ran like a maniac straight toward the enemy.
Chinese guns fired on either side. But in the center — where he’d thrown his grenades — it was dark. He headed for the target of his first toss. It was a round mortar pit. The last few steps took forever. He was so, so exposed. The pit was ringed with a low wall of sandbags. The air was filled with smoke. The dark hole looked still. But it had been filled with flaming muzzles.
Grenades went off all around. They sounded like a string of thunderous firecrackers. These, he realized, were American grenades. They were thrown forward… toward him! He leapt over the sandbags and fell through the air into the mortar pit. Behind him, the night erupted in flame. He landed feet first, but it did little good. He tumbled and crashed onto the icy ground.
And onto warm bodies. The dark pit was full of them. He could see them with every burst. Chinese soldiers. It was still. But they weren’t all dead. He didn’t know why he felt sure. Someone was hiding under the bodies. He raised his rifle. His finger on the trigger. Tense. Ready to fire. He threw himself backwards against the wall. With his back to the sandbags, he traversed the pit with his muzzle. The weapon to his shoulder. The sight to his eye.
A man scampered over the wall in a shower of snow. Stempel almost shot Lieutenant Dawes. Instead he shot a lunging Chinese soldier. He saw the man die. In the blaze of the muzzle at point-blank range. The bullet struck his ear below his helmet. Brains sprayed frozen sandbags.
Dawes began firing single shots into the Chinese. A dozen bullets for a dozen bodies. No others made a move. None showed any signs of life before they were shot. All were certainly dead after. The pit was filled with viscera and gore.
The lieutenant made his way over to Harold. Dawes had a large gash running along his jaw that dripped blood. He patted Harold down, finding the wound on his inner biceps and the matching scratch on his chest. By then, Harold’s eyes had sunk closed.
‘Just a scrape,’ Dawes said after probing the wound. The stings of pain were sharp. Hot.
Scraping and sliding sounds drew Harold’s rifle. Dawes slapped the barrel down before Stempel killed his squadmates. They piled into the mortar pit one at a time. The ‘fighting’ in the near distance was now execution-style. Single shots, single grenades, death by ones.
‘They ran outa ammo,’ the cornet player said as he examined an old Kalashnikov-style Type 51-2 rifle. He worked the bolt. No bullets came out.
Dawes was pinching Harold’s face as if examining pimples. Harold closed his eyes and hissed in pain. ‘You got some metal splinters from a grenade,’ Dawes reported. ‘You’ll have to get ’em out at an aid station.’ The artillery surveyor held a pressure bandage on Harold’s face.
‘Hey, man,’ the guy said. ‘You got way outta line, there. We couldn’t throw any grenades ’cause you got so far out…’
‘He saved your fuckin’ ass? Lieutenant Dawes snapped. The man fell silent. ‘You can’t go to ground out in the open! When you attack, you gotta take the Goddamn position! This private here is an infantryman! You should all spend the rest of your miserable lives thanking God for that!’
The guy said nothing. The lieutenant made him reply with an unequivocal, ‘Yes, sir!’ Harold took over the bandage from him. Dawes told the squad to wait there. He went off. One by one the men thanked Stempel. But all he felt was the prickly, hot feeling that spread across his skin. He grew flushed. His ears rang. The cut along the inside of his bicep and the splinters in his face all burned. His head pounded.
But he was alive. He’d made it. ‘Way to go, man,’ somebody said. He opened his eyes with each thank-you. He counted.
There were five people in the pit — including him. There had been ten men in 1st Squad, 3rd Platoon, 1st Provisional Infantry Company.
‘Where’re the others?’ Stempel asked.
His squadmates were slow to respond.
‘The Spec Five’s dead,’ the Multichannel Communications guy finally offered. He was seated comfortably atop a Chinese soldier in the black, still night. ‘Checked him myself. Bullet must’ve gone right in his mouth ’cause I didn’t see no hole. But when I took his hood and helmet off, the back of his head sorta… came with it.’
‘O-o-oh, gross!’ the comet player said.
‘Where the hell’re those Air Force fucks?’ someone asked.