The squad rose. There were twelve in all. Their squad’s ten men, plus one of the platoon’s two-man machine-gun crews. They followed Chavez — their semi-permanent point man — who wore their only pair of night-vision goggles. Everyone else stumbled forward blindly in the dark. They advanced in a roughly wedge-shaped formation. It was an inverted ‘V,’ with the point man truly at the ‘point.’ Four men formed each flank of the ‘V.’ Stempel was next to last on the left. The squad leader and the machine-gun took their place in the center. Their firepower would be able to refuse contact to either flank.
The only sounds were crunching snow and fabric-covered thighs rubbing together. Through the fog of his breath Stempel saw target after target. The thin trunks of trees constantly appeared from behind other trees. Brush and stumps and fallen branches protruded black and menacing from their white blanket. The night was moonless. But the stars still cast shadows on the snowy floor. When the wind blew, the shadows moved.
The snow was tramped down in places into a slick shine. Masses of Chinese had been canalized by artillery fire into the killing fields at the wire. The platoon leader had told the squad he didn’t expect them to find Chinese in any force. There were snipers and observers and men with shoulder-fired SA-7 anti-aircraft missiles all around the base, to be sure. Like a snake they would strike only if the patrol walked right over them. But that was the whole point of the patrol — to sweep those Chinese from the woods. The lieutenant’s talk had seemed more comforting half an hour before. Now Stempel concentrated on maintaining his place in formation while looking out for snakes.
Why they called it a ‘combat patrol’ Stempel didn’t know. They couldn’t do much fighting — even with the machine-gun. They had a radio and were supposed to call in the base’s mortars. Or — once they were a couple of kilometers out — their 155-mm howitzers. But combat patrols — as opposed to recon — were supposed to engage the enemy. He couldn’t imagine twelve men doing much against the Chinese army other than’ simply trying to survive. Six kilometers… Six kilometers was the planned depth of their patrol.
The man ahead of Stempel went to ground with a crunch. Stempel plopped down into the thick snow. His heart thudded.
He waited for the night to explode.
He pressed his cheek to the cold, hard stock. He couldn’t breathe. The lump in his throat nearly choked him. And he couldn’t swallow the obstruction. He tried and tried — panicked that he’d have to call out for help. For some sort of Heimlich maneuver to clear the fear that blocked his windpipe. Finally, he managed a few panting sucks of air.
All across his assigned free-fire zone the woods were still. He scanned the horizon. He spotted the white helmet of the last man on his flank. He saw the Siamese twins lying side-by-side behind the machine-gun. It was that awesome gun that might save them if the worst came. If they ran headlong into an inbound attack. The squad’s wedge would collapse. They’d form a ring around the gun. The gun was their only chance. Their only strongpoint.
He remembered the waves that had crashed against the wire in the major attacks. If their patrol ran into a company, a battalion, a regiment…
Stempel shook his head. He rid himself of the dreamlike images. Of the faces of the men from that first engagement. Their features were quickly growing indistinct. But not so their identities. The LT’s shouts into the radio that had given way to stunned resignation. The angry bitching of the PFC and sergeant in their last moments of life. The cries of nameless men trying to surrender.
Stempel jammed his eyes shut. Dropped his face till he felt the cold sting of snow. Flooded his head with wildly disassociated thoughts till he scattered the visions like rings of smoke with a wave of his hand.
‘Ps-s-s-t!’
Stempel raised his head at the sound. Patterson was on his feet. Stempel quickly rose and labored forward. He got back into the wedge and advanced. It wasn’t bravery that kept him moving. It was fear. Demon-filled nightmares. Evil figments who eyed him from the dark periphery of his sleep. The ghosts of men he never knew.
Harold had decided that the first time didn’t count. He’d pledged that the next time, he’d die fighting.
At four-thirty every afternoon, Chin’s war against the Europeans ended and his battle against the cold began. Not that UNRUSFOR was ever really the greater threat. The cold dominated the battlefield completely. It took them till ten in the morning to break camp. They’d march a kilometer. Eat their last rations. March another kilometer. At two they began searching for a bivouac. By four he had to strike camp. By then it was a race to survive. At sunset the temperatures plummeted.
Chin could read the company commander’s mind. In the briefings he said nothing. In his choice of campsite he told all. If they’d been worried about contact with the enemy, they would’ve camped on high ground. But the CO always camped in the open. It was warmer there than in the woods. They slept in ravines. On flat terraces at the bases of hills. Places where snow wouldn’t collapse the tent while they slept. Never a valley where the killing cold would settle.
‘I’d rather eat reindeer than horses,’ Chin overheard one of his men say as they erected their platoon’s single tent.
‘Me too. But we haven’t seen any dead reindeer. And there are plenty of dead pack horses along the supply routes. And their meat is frozen so…’
‘Quiet!’ Chin snapped. He didn’t think it right that his men should discuss their hunger so openly. All they’d had in four days was field rations — frozen sugared blocks of crushed sesame seeds, peanuts and rice.
There was a commotion. All dropped what they were doing — even Chin. Two replacements were returning from their trip to the battalion supply depot. They pulled a sled heavy with supplies. ‘Back off!’ Chin shouted as everyone ripped at the sled’s contents. The two men who’d been pulling it collapsed in the snow sweating.
‘There’s no food, sir,’ one of the new men reported — out of breath.
‘What?’ Chin yelled. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘Ammunition, blankets, soap…’
Everyone was incensed. Several kicked the new guys, and Chin didn’t stop them. When one of his wounded limped up, he ordered the two men to unload the sled and pull the man back to the aid station. ‘And this time don’t come back without food! At least some cabbage! I don’t care how you get it, understand?’
They understood.
‘Back to work on that tent!’ Chin ordered. They were supposed to have two tents for thirty men. But they were supposed to have lots of things. They would anchor one side of the tent to a small humpback ridge which would form a natural windbreak. One detail had cleared the snow to the ground — which was warmer — and was laying a bed of spruce twigs for flooring. Larger branches first, then successively smaller and finer twigs for comfort. In the center, men set up the lone wood-burning heater. Another detail built one-meter-high snow walls along the three unprotected sides to block the wind from those directions. The tent’s entrance would be placed at forty-five degrees to the prevailing winds, which Chin was still trying to judge.
Men would occupy floor space in the tent according to the duty roster. The first men on sentry duty or tasked to dear drifts from the lee side of the walls would sleep nearest the entrance. Their relief would sleep in the next row so they could be located without waking everyone else. Shift by shift they slept in rows. No one slept more than four hours. If they all fell asleep they’d all die.