The fighting hole was too shallow, but it was deeper than most on this inhospitable hillside. I had worked long and hard scraping and chipping at the frozen ground, and pushed the rest of my squad to do the same. Work kept you warm, and a deep enough hole kept you alive.
Private Hackett snored quietly in the bottom of the hole, his legs in his sleeping bag, sitting up against one wall of the pit. Ever since a team got overrun and bayoneted in their bags, we were ordered not to climb in and zip up. We were ordered to keep our boots on as well, but that must have come from some rear echelon idiot who’d never been north of Virginia. You need to take your boots off and dry out your socks. Wet socks will cost you toes.
It was my watch, but since it was too dark to watch, I was listening. Other companies had been hit, and we assumed we would be sooner or later.
I heard something at the base of the hill. I couldn’t make out anything in the darkness, but only humans were dumb enough to be out on a night this cold, and only the Chinese were motivated enough to be out probing instead of hunkered down in their blankets.
I dug out a grenade, squeezed the handle to loosen it, since they’d been freezing up. Didn’t pull the pin yet, but made sure the spoon would release when I threw it.
Silence.
Had I just imagined the sound? I flexed my fingers in my gloves, wiggled my toes, waited. Listened and waited as the chill seeped through my parka.
Suddenly I heard the blast of a whistle and the shuffle of feet and the enemy made a plodding charge up the hill through deep snow on frozen feet.
I prodded Hackett with my boot, then hurled the grenade and ducked back down. Hackett came blearily awake, reaching for his Thompson.
‘Grenades,’ I told him. Muzzle flashes would give us away. Until the artillery got some flares up, we couldn’t see anything to shoot at anyway.
We each grabbed one, pulled the pins, knocked the spoons against the frozen walls of the pit to loosen them and threw them, together.
We ducked back down and heard the explosions. Now there was gunfire and screams in English and Chinese. I took a third grenade and stood to throw when the first of the flares popped overhead, bathing the hill in harsh white light.
Chinese soldiers swarmed up at us, their legs churning as they tried to run through the deep snow, shoulders hunched in the unconscious crouch every infantryman adopts in the face of fire. Most carried submachine guns, but only a few were firing. Our holes were hard to see, most of us showing as little of ourselves as possible and the flare had just spoiled everyone’s night vision.
I quickly estimated their number at around a billion.
The nearest were only about twenty yards away. I threw my grenade, saw it land among the closest enemy, dropped down into the hole and grabbed my rifle. When the explosion sounded, I got just high enough to aim over the lip of the hole and started shooting.
This close, I didn’t have to really aim. Squinting through the rear sight actually kills your peripheral vision. Under fifty yards, I just had to look over the sights, take a second to line up and squeeze. They were headed straight at me, no need to lead them. Just don’t rush the shot.
I fired at a tall guy hunched over a burp gun, running directly at me. He spun around and fell, his limbs flopping loosely, his weapon pinwheeling away. I lined up and dropped another man, then fired at a third, whom I couldn’t have missed, but who kept right on running, his weapon chattering full auto. I fired again. Nothing. My third shot hit him in the forehead. His hat flew off, he jerked straight up and toppled over. I shifted my aim to another man, but I saw tracers from a machine gun further up the hill scythe him down. To my left, Hackett’s Tommy gun stuttered in short bursts.
I fired a few more shots, then swore as my M1 ejected the spent magazine with a metallic pang! As I grabbed another clip from my bandolier, Hackett made a noise between a grunt and a wet cough and fell against the back wall of the pit.
I put a hand out toward him and the world exploded.
A club of light and noise hit me, sending my helmet spinning off into the darkness. I felt hot, stabbing pain in my right shoulder and fell into the pit, dazed.
Disoriented, I groped blindly, my hand coming down on a bloody parka. Hackett was unconscious, his breathing slow and snoring. I stayed down, sending energy to explore his wounds, stop his bleeding. I heard the enemy attack pass around the hole, running and shooting and screaming. A soft, heavy weight landed on my legs, then remained horribly still.
I tried to control my fear, with Hackett’s rasping breath in my ears, an icy cold settling on my right side where my parka was torn by fragments and my blood had frozen on my skin, and the heavy, still warmth of a dead Chinese soldier lying across my legs.
I woke with a start, my heart racing, and looked around. I was in my bed in my second floor walkup in Philips Mills.
Sarah was on her side, wrapped up in my blankets, which she’d managed to pull half off me, exposing my right side from shoulder to hip. She was snoring quietly. The cat lay draped across my knees.
I took a deep breath, slid out from under what she’d left me of the covers and threw on a robe. I took my longest t-shirt out of my bureau, laid it on a chair near the bed, and made my way to the kitchen. I walked softly, making sure not to wake her.
The dream had been vivid. Nothing so vivid in a long time. Maybe talking to that Korean vet brought it out.
Or maybe being hunted and helpless, waiting in the dark for a knife between my shoulder blades reminded me of that night.
This couldn’t be as bad as that night above the Toktong Pass, could it? And I’d survived that. Except that I didn’t have any hand grenades now. Even if I did, chances are the neighbors would object to me throwing them at strange noises in the dark.
That night had been bad. I’d patched Hackett up and we kept our heads down as the assault raged on past us. Someone called in an artillery strike all around us which stopped the second wave of Chinese, and the rest of the company threw the survivors off the hill. We limped up after dawn and rejoined the platoon.
It might sound cowardly, playing dead in the bottom of a hole while the enemy swarmed up after your buddies. Hell, it might be cowardly, but if we’d gotten up and started shooting, dazed, wounded, and half-blind from a grenade explosion in the middle of a Chinese company and started shooting, they’d have killed us in seconds. If we’d tried to retreat up the hill to the rest of the unit, either the Chinese or some panicked Marine would have shot us. There’s a time to fight and a time to hug the ground.
Enough thinking about that. Now it was time to concentrate on the fact that there was a beautiful woman in my bed. The hunters in the cold dark night would keep.
I made a pot of coffee, picked up the beer glasses left by the couch, and started hunting around for breakfast for two. Maybe after breakfast I would think of something to do about the man with the ankle. I needed a name for him. Gimpy? Von Gimpy? Gimpsky! Maybe Sarah would have an idea on how to pursue that inscription.
In addition to survival, one thing soldiering had taught me was not to worry about things you couldn’t control, but about what you could. I opened the fridge.
Two eggs. Well that wouldn’t work. Three slices of bread for toast... not promising. Plenty of milk at least. Well, it could be cold cereal.
Aha, I did have the makings for pancakes. Who doesn’t love pancakes? But no syrup... OK, blackberries. Not in season, but I could make that work, and whipped cream. I was in business.
A little water in a pan on low, add some butter, dump in some blackberries, spoon some sugar over them, cover and let simmer.
I heard footsteps coming from the bedroom. I turned to see Sarah come into the kitchen. She looked good in an oversized Boston Celtics t-shirt, give her that much. The tattered remnants of the nightmare melted away.
‘Hi gorgeous,’ I said. ‘Sleep OK?’
‘Like a baby. What smells good?’
‘Homemade blackberry syrup,’ I replied. ‘In the moo
d for pancakes?’
‘I could be persuaded.’ She kissed me lightly. ‘I’m gonna go freshen up.’
‘I have a new toothbrush in my work bag. Stole it from the hospital in case I needed it but I haven’t used it. It’s still wrapped up.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, retrieving her purse from the couch, ‘but I brought my own.’ She must have caught something in my expression; she flashed her trademark twisted smile. ‘Because I’m just that slutty.’
I laughed.
‘I’m not naive. When I accepted your dinner offer, I thought this might happen. We’re both adults, we had some chemistry.’ She shrugged. ‘Although, you had me worried for a sec.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked as I cracked an egg into the mixing bowl.
She shrugged again. ‘Well, I felt a connection but after the literature, the cooking, and the fact that you’re good-looking, well... When you complimented my manicure, I thought “Oh God no, he’s gay”.’
I burst out laughing. ‘Oh, man. I hope I reassured you.’
‘Definitely. But for a second, I wondered if I’d waxed for nothing.’
‘If I’d complimented you on a nice job with that, would that have pushed your suspicion further toward or away from gay?’
‘That’s a good question.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll think about it while I clean up. You keep cooking for me, you’re gonna have a hard time getting rid of me.’ She gave me a quick kiss and walked into the bathroom. I heard the shower running.
I finished cooking, plated the pancakes, drizzled the syrup over them, dropped a few uncooked berries on top and finished with a spritz of whipped cream.
How many guys can beat up armed thugs and still garnish?
She came out of the bathroom and sat down. I put a plate in front of her. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’ She looked at the plate and then up at me. ‘OK, where’d you learn to cook? Honest this time. Your mom didn’t make breakfast like this.’
‘I had a friend who was a chef. I picked up a few things.’
‘How long were you sleeping with this friend?’ The smile took the sting out of the accusation.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on. The chicken and pasta I can see, but this is a booty breakfast. This is what you cook to build up somebody’s strength for round two. Not that I’m complaining. Who doesn’t love pancakes with fruit and whipped cream?’ She picked up a fork. ‘No judgement, I know you had a life before this week, but I don’t need to worry about a jealous ex who packs knives, do I?’
‘Nothing so dramatic,’ I said. ‘It was a long time ago. I dated a chef, she knew I liked good food, she taught me a few tricks.’
‘Any that involve cooking?’ she asked. There didn’t seem to be any jealous psycho vibe coming from her.
‘I used to use that same joke. We dated for a while. It didn’t work out. Her memory pales in comparison to you.’
‘Sweet talk will get you nowhere,’ she said. ‘But you’re cute, you can cook and you’re not bad in the sack.’ She finished her breakfast. ‘These pancakes have restored my energy.’ She stood up from the table. ‘If, in fact, that was your nefarious plan, it worked.’
She walked toward the bedroom with an exaggerated sway of her hips. ‘You coming?’
‘Just breathing hard,’ I muttered, rising to follow her. ‘For the moment.’
Chapter 10
FRIDAY I RETURNED TO WORK. I endured the usual ribbing: the box of gloves in the ambulance cut in half and labeled “Right only”; the set of cutlery with my name on it, the knife replaced with a plastic one, “Hold this end” written on the handle.
I love my co-workers.
I shook my head and walked out to the garage to check out the truck. Nique was already there, going through the jump kit, shaking her head and rearranging it to her liking.
‘Hey, you,’ I said as I walked up. ‘Nice to see the place hasn’t fallen down without me.’
‘Sean!’ She hugged me, then stood back at arm’s length, looking into my face with an expression of deep concern. ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘Doing fine,’ I replied. ‘The hand is OK, just wearing the bandage to protect the stitches.’
‘You OK to work? Really?’
‘I’m fine. Honest. I’ll flash my bandage at the hose-draggers, get them to do my heavy lifting. They’re gonna be there getting in the way anyway. Other than that, it’s my left hand; I can start IVs, take vitals and everything else with the right.’
‘I heard Marty gave you the “going to bat for you” speech.’
‘That he did,’ I replied. ‘Because he’s got my back. Unlike the suits.’
‘This company has suits?’
‘Well, I’m sure they’re cheap polyester. HR can play hardball right now. The latest class of medics just graduated. I get pissed and walk, they can hire a replacement from the bottom of the pay scale and keep the shifts filled.’
‘This company sucks.’
‘Yeah, but we all knew that,’ I said. ‘None of us are working for the glory of Flatline Ambulance. I’m spoiled for real work and where else can I get such a hot partner?’
‘I didn’t think Pete was your type.’
‘Eh,’ I shrugged. ‘In the right light he’s not bad-looking. How’re you doing?’
‘Devastated by your absence,’ she said, ‘but soldiering on bravely.’
‘I had suspected. Not shaken up by that fight?’
‘You think that’s all it’d take to scare me?’
‘It was enough for me. How’d Joe feel when you told him about it?’
‘He freaked.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Said he didn’t like me working the street. He actually tried to talk me into going to school for my RN.’
‘What’d you say?’
‘That I will wipe ass for no man.’
‘Your tact is matched only by your beauty. How’d he take that?’
‘He saw it my way,’ she said, looking shocked that I might have thought otherwise. ‘Besides, I think he’s secretly turned on that I’m such a badass.’ She smiled wickedly.
‘I think he’s openly turned on ’cause you’ve got such a good ass.’ I replied.
‘You think?’ She pirouetted, pausing to look back over her shoulder at me as she displayed the derriere in question. ‘You don’t think I’ve lost it?’
‘My dear, if Helen of Troy could launch a thousand ships with her face, your ass could empty every port in the world.’
‘You sweet talker,’ she said. ‘It’s good to have you back.’
‘Good to be back,’ I replied. ‘For a given value of “good”. Let’s grab some coffee.’
‘Sure. By the way, we need to steal some supplies from the hospital, since Flatline doesn’t believe in stocking the truck.’
‘I figured they gave us pants with big cargo pockets so we could swipe stuff from the ER. What are we short on?’
‘O2 supplies, IV drip sets and EKG electrodes.’
‘Is that all?’ I asked. ‘Have you turned into a prima donna in my absence? You actually want to be able to treat patients?’
‘I want it all.’ She smiled.
‘But you have me back.’
‘And in return for keeping an eye on you, I think the company can at least give me a truck with some supplies on it.’
As we pulled the truck out, she turned to me. ‘So, how’d you spend your mini vacation?’
‘I met someone.’
‘You did?’ She studied me closely. ‘Oh my God, you did. You’re glowing. ’Bout time you got some action.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, don’t take it like that, you were just getting really tense. You needed a roll in the hay.’ She cupped her chin in her hand, regarding me as I drove. ‘Come on, let’s hear it. What’s she like?’
‘Her name is Sarah. She teaches at the college. She’s funny and smart and way too pretty to be hanging with me.’
‘Oh,’ she cooed,
‘you really like her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You put pretty third. And she isn’t a waitress, bartender or nurse, which means you were talking to someone outside your regular circle, so you must really care to bother. I think that’s sweet.’
‘That I care about a woman I’m sleeping with?’
‘That she isn’t just some convenient piece of ass.’
‘You think I’m like that?’
‘Sean, you know I love you dearly, in a completely platonic way, but you are a paramedic.’
‘Says the medic who’s engaged to a medic.’
She waved a hand in airy dismissal. ‘He’s one in a million. It goes without saying. I’m just proud of you that you aren’t a pig like most of the rest of the profession.’
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, but I was spared the need as we were dispatched to an unresponsive male in an alley.
He turned out to be just very, very drunk. He was confused, incoherent, and spoke only Spanish, and not very clear Spanish at that, but he was breathing fine, his vitals were OK, and since he was homeless and wearing all the clothes he owned, he wasn’t soaked through to the skin yet even though we found him lying in the snow.
We got him out of his wet stuff, examined him the best we could, covered him in dry blankets, and started an IV to dilute the blood in his alcohol stream. He objected incoherently to pretty much all our treatment, but he wasn’t lucid enough for us to leave him, so we tied his hands, wrapped the rest of him in blankets and brought him to the ER. It was a bit like veterinary medicine.
We dropped our patient off, putting him in a room where he babbled at the ER staff and peed on their cot. We were making bets on what his blood alcohol would come back at when Brenda, the world’s angriest charge nurse, walked over. She was a tall woman, maybe just a bit too thin, her hair dyed an aggressive blonde. She might have been attractive, in a cold, domineering, she-wolf-of-the-SS kind of way, but her eyes were too dead, her expression too hard and her heart too flinty. One good look through those frosty grey eyes into her even frostier soul could kill the libido of better men than me.
Out of Nowhere (The Immortal Vagabond Healer Book 1) Page 7