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... Finally,
in desperation and for a pack of Camels, Terry sidled up to Private First
Class Carlos Acevedo and offered to take his place on patrol. He reasoned
that the patrol would be brief and uneventful, as most recent patrols had
been. Their sector was relatively quiet. Elsewhere along the front, bitter
combat was the order of the day. But here, in the hundred yards of the line
held by the platoon, the heavy cold of Korea imposed what amounted to a local
truce, one more effective than the armistice being negotiated at Pamunjon. It
seemed likely the Chinese, shivering in their cotton uniforms and sneakers,
were suffering even more than the soldiers of Third Platoon, Charlie Company,
First Battalion. Except for the occasional mortar round lobbed from one
trench line to the other, neither side displayed much interest in pressing
the fight. That was not to say the patrol
would be easy—it required being out in the wind, which increased the
possibility of frostbite. A foot, once frozen, is as useless as one shattered
by a burst from a burp gun. In the last month, pneumonia had accounted for
more casualties than the Chinese artillery. The platoon was down to nineteen
effectives, less than fifty percent of their normal strength, with no
immediate likelihood of replacements. It also concerned Terry that the
sergeant might want to impress the lieutenant, might lead the patrol too
close to enemy lines and the cross-hairs of a sniper. Terry didn’t want
to die a week before Christmas in a so-called police action that might soon be
over. But his more urgent concern was nicotine withdrawal. Carlos refused at first, said the
sergeant would not buy it, said they’d both end up with their ass in a
sling. The beginning of snowfall encouraged him to reconsider. He’d
never even seen snow before the United States Army sent him to one of the
coldest places on earth, a place his warm Puerto Rican blood was totally
unprepared for. Finally, a deal was struck. Terry would tell the sergeant
he’d rather be on patrol than sitting in a hole in the ground.
He’d say he owed PFC Acevedo a favor from way back. The sergeant was a career
infantryman, a surly man whose mood lightened only when he spoke of how the
Philipinas had welcomed their American liberators in ‘45. He’d
been rooted out of his warm billet in regimental operations and sent up to
the lines on the same deuce-and-a-half truck that brought the platoon their
Thanksgiving feast of dried-out turkey and frozen gravy. He half-listened to
Yates, glanced at Acevedo, shrugged in approval. As soon as they were away from the sergeant
the pack of cigarettes passed from one gloved hand to another. Terry hurriedly
lit one, drew the smoke deep into his lungs, took the edge off his nerves. While
he smoked he stuffed the pack into the left breast pocket of his field
jacket, taking care that it was not between his heart and the picture he
always kept there. At midmorning, the sergeant
rounded up the five members of his patrol and told them to hang loose while
he endured the lieutenant’s instructions and cautions. While they
waited they talked quietly among themselves, mostly leaving Private Yates out
of the conversation. Beyond their little cluster of humanity no sound of
nature or war broke the stillness. Their voices, hushed by the blanket of
snow that lay over the Thirty-eighth Parallel, did not carry far. As it turned out, on this day at
least, the sergeant was not looking to make staff sergeant. Like the men he
led, he was more focused on survival than glory. The patrol moved just far
enough away from their home bunkers to be out of reach of the
lieutenant’s binoculars. Then the sergeant told them to hunker down for
a while. After enough time passed they would return to report no enemy
activity. It was a good plan. It almost
worked. It failed because there was a patrol coming from the other direction,
a patrol led by Corporal Li Yun. Corporal Li had been told that if he
continued to display superior soldierly conduct and political orthodoxy he
might be nominated for officer training. Becoming a lieutenant in the
People’s Army meant going home with the respect due an officer and a
party member. It meant the mayor of his village would begin paying for the
dumplings he consumed in the tiny shop owned by Corporal Li’s father.
It meant the mayor would hesitate before putting his fat little hands on
Corporal Li’s sister. Corporal Li ignored the complaints
of his men, kept them moving and alert. They eased toward the American lines,
their movements masked by the snowfall and the gloom. The point man spotted the
immobile Americans, dropped flat, motioned for his patrol leader to come
forward. Corporal Li studied the Americans and their apparent lack of
attention to their surroundings. He also reflected on the rumors that this
war might soon be over. This could be his last chance to achieve his
ambitions. His decision made, Corporal Li
carefully led his patrol past the Americans into a position between them and
their lines. He motioned his men into place and whispered to them to check
their weapons. He noticed that one of his men was quaking uncontrollably and
knew this was a combination of fear and cold. He hoped their wait would not
be long. A scant five minutes later, one of
the Americans checked his watch and said something to the others. They rose
from the depressions they’d made in the snow and followed their
sergeant into the field of fire of a well-laid ambush. Of the six men in the
American patrol, five were cut down in the brief torrent of gunfire. Weighted
down with weapons and ammunition and helmets and layers of winter clothing,
they fell where they last stood. Their warm blood, exposed to the frigid air,
created small clouds of steam above their bodies. Four died immediately. The
sergeant was rendered unconscious and soon froze to death. One bullet burrowed into the
wooden buttstock of his M-1 and another ricocheted off his helmet but Private
Terrell Lee Yates escaped being shot. He sought the sorry protection of a
ditch. He was there, face down on the frozen mud, when the Chinese soldiers
came to strip the weapons and boots from their fresh kills. Terry pretended
to be dead and it might’ve worked, except that one of the scavengers
wrenched his shoulder upward in order to claim the rifle he lay atop. Terry
made the slightest sound of surprise, just a brief intake of breath, but it
was enough. The Chinese soldier leapt back and exclaimed that the American
was alive. Corporal Li and the members of his patrol gathered around Terry,
who was now sitting upright. The consensus was to shoot the American but the
ambitions of the patrol leader prevailed. One live American was worth as much
as five dead ones. They took Terry captive. Corporal
Li systematically shoved his hand into each of his prisoner’s pockets.
The pack of American cigarettes, worth ten packs of Chinese smokes, he kept
for himself. The picture that was in the same pocket, he studied for a
moment. It was a photograph of a young woman, perhaps thirty, pretty despite
her sharp American features, her serious expression eased by a slight smile. Sitting
in her lap was a child with no smile. Written across the bottom of the photo in
neat handwriting were words Corporal Li could not read. Your Loving Selie and Little Ronny. He looked into the eyes of
his frightened prisoner and handed the photograph back to him. The members of the patrol took
turns prodding Terry along with their rifle barrels. Once they were back in
their own lines Corporal Li delivered his prize to the commanding officer.
The political officer produced a German camera and took a picture of Corporal
Li Yun, the newest People’s Army Hero, standing with his hand on the
head of the kneeling American soldier. Later, the political officer invited
Corporal Li into his bunker for a private discussion. . jimmy carl harris |
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