In the frigid winter of 1944, amidst the chaos of the Battle of the Bulge, US sniper Caje Cole fights for survival in the encircled town of Bastogne. With Panzer tanks and a deadly enemy sniper on his heels, Cole and his squad are given a high-stakes mission: escorting a captured German officer to headquarters for interrogation. But this is no ordinary prisoner — he's wanted for war crimes by the Americans and considered a traitor by his own countrymen. As snow falls heavily on the battlefield, Cole must navigate treacherous terrain while evading relentless vigilante squads from both sides who are determined to exact revenge by killing the German. As tensions rise and bullets fly, Cole finds himself forming an unlikely alliance with the very enemy he was ordered to deliver to justice. Together, they seek refuge in a remote chateau and fight for their lives before being hunted through the frozen forests and fields. With danger lurking around every corner, will Cole be able to complete his mission and deliver the German safely? And as his bond with an enemy soldier grows stronger, he must ultimately decide where his loyalties truly lie on this wintry battlefield.
If I have to choose between peace and righteousness, I’ll choose righteousness.
Seven roads converged on Bastogne, and Caje Cole was on one of them, in the back of an open truck with several other men, rushing toward the fighting at the encircled town.
On second thought, the idea that the truck was “rushing” anywhere was more like wishful thinking, considering the rough condition of the forest road. Even the term
“Beats walking,” said a soldier on the bench opposite him.
“If you say so,” Cole replied.
“You think the Krauts are done yet?” the soldier said, looking concerned. “As soon as we get some tanks up here, that’s got to be it for them.”
Cole gave the GI a harder look. The fresh-faced soldier in his new uniform was definitely a replacement sent to the front line, and Cole knew damn well that greenbeans didn’t last long.
Not in this cold. Not against SS troops. Not against battle-hardened Wehrmacht soldiers either. And definitely not against Tiger tanks.
Cole just snorted and shook his head. He knew that any further conversation would be a waste of breath. The poor son of a bitch didn’t know he was dead yet.
Ignoring the GI, he kept his gaze focused on the surrounding forest that the road passed through. Grime and gunpowder darkened Cole’s face, but his bright eyes, clear as cut glass, stood out in the winter gloom. He kept a good grip on his sniper rifle. The cloth swaddled around the telescopic sight — an effort at camouflage — had once been white, but the fabric was now muddy and stained with dried blood.
Winter wind whistled in Cole’s ears, and a few stray pellets of sleet stung his cheeks. He tried rearranging the scarf, covering the lower part of his face, but it didn’t do much good against the frigid onslaught. The sun had dared to emerge that morning but had long since retreated behind a wintry gray veil.
Against the cold, he wore a ragged pair of gloves that he’d cut the fingertips out of, the better to work the rifle. He wiggled his fingers to keep them from getting too stiff.
Meanwhile, Cole surveyed the landscape.
He knew that the Krauts were out there somewhere.
They might be around the next bend in the road.
Or maybe the one after that.
If he saw them first, just maybe he’d be able to keep this GI across from him alive for one more day.
Hell, maybe he’d even be able to keep
The rest of their sniper squad rode with him in the back of the truck. He glanced at Vaccaro, who was slumped against Hank Walsh, the young soldier they called “the kid,” both sound asleep.
Either that or they were dead from hypothermia. In this weather, Cole reckoned it was a toss-up.
Still looking at Vaccaro, Cole shook his head and grinned, lips curling back from sharp-looking teeth. In the dim light, the smile gave his face a wolfish appearance.
That damned Vaccaro. He was a real idiot sometimes, but Cole reckoned that Vaccaro was the only buddy he had in the whole damn army. He’d better do what he could to keep him alive.
Cole kicked Vaccaro’s boot. The other man stirred but didn’t come fully awake. Still alive, then.
He recalled how Vaccaro had caught up to them at the last instant and had barely managed to climb into the truck.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Cole had demanded.
“Yeah, yeah, I missed you too.”
“You dumb bastard. You ought to have stayed in the hospital.”
“I wanted to make room for somebody who needed it.”
“Some people ain’t got any sense. Vaccaro, maybe you ain’t the dumbest guy in the world, but you better hope he don’t die.”
“Aw, stuff it in your corncob pipe, hillbilly.”
Then Vaccaro promptly fell asleep.
Cole, Vaccaro, and Hank were all that was left of their sniper squad, not including the lieutenant. They had lost Rowe and McNulty just days ago. Cole hoped to hell that they didn’t lose anybody else. But you couldn’t go into battle hoping that you would survive. Just the opposite. In some strange way, a sense of fatalism helped keep you alive.
Lieutenant Mulholland rode up front with the driver, which was his prerogative as an officer. The cab provided shelter from the wind, but the bouncing truck would be punching him in the kidneys just like the rest of them.
For troops on the move, it would have been better if the road was completely frozen, but the passage of vehicles had turned the surface into a sticky brown stew of slush and mud ladled out into endless potholes.
There had been a tattered canvas cover on the back of the truck, which had initially blocked some of the wind but did nothing to keep the cold at bay. The cover had been so shredded that it had finally given up the ghost and blown off a couple of miles ago, leaving the men exposed to the elements.