Most of the houses were empty, their owners having fled — or else they were hiding in their basements. He picked a house a couple of blocks down from the main street, figuring it wouldn’t have been as picked over. It was a neat and tidy two-story town house, its stucco exterior untouched so far by war. The only hint at the beating that the town had taken from the Germans was a wooden shutter hanging askew.
Although the house was modest by most standards, it seemed impossibly palatial compared to the shack where Cole had grown up.
Keeping his rifle ready, he pushed through the door, which was unlocked.
“Howdy?” he called.
There was no answer. The house had that air of stillness that comes from being empty. With the house left unheated, the winter cold and damp had crept in, making the interior feel even chillier than the outside air. Away from the noise and activity of the troops, he might have been the last person alive in this whole damn place.
He moved deeper into the house. Whoever had lived here must have left in a hurry. There were dishes still on the dining room table, set out on a cheerful tablecloth the bright yellow of buttercups. A couple of dirty dishes sat in the sink. On the counter stood a cup of tea with a skim of ice and curdled milk.
A framed picture of an old couple wearing fancy clothes stared down at him from the wall, their eyes disapproving.
He was pretty sure he would find what he needed upstairs. He started up them, leading with the muzzle of his rifle. Each creak of the stair treads sounded as loud as a gunshot in the empty house.
He poked his head into a bedroom and saw just what he needed.
White bedsheets. He stripped them off and went to the next bedroom and did the same.
The bed had been neatly made as if whoever lived in this house had fully expected to be sleeping there. Cole hoped they would again — although they might wonder what had happened to their bedsheets.
He went down the stairs and back out of the house, then found Vaccaro and the other soldiers where he had left them. He gave a sheet to Vaccaro, then another to Hank and the lieutenant, and he kept one for himself.
“Fresh camouflage so we blend into the snow,” he explained.
Vaccaro nodded his thanks, then nodded around at the battle-damaged town. “I’m surprised you found anything. This place is a damn mess,” he said.
“You won’t get no argument from me,” Cole agreed. Bastogne looked like many towns they had passed through where war had taken its toll.
“Maybe we just ought to let the Krauts have it if they want it so bad,” Vaccaro said. “It’s sure as hell not much to fight over.”
Lieutenant Mulholland had overheard. “I agree it’s not much to look at right now, but you know what they say in the real estate business, right? Location, location, location. This town is smack-dab in the middle of the path that the Krauts need to take, and they can’t go around it because there aren’t any decent roads. The bottom line is that we’re not letting the Krauts have it. Now everybody back on the trucks. We’re being moved to where they need us.”
Everyone groaned. Nobody was looking forward to another joyride in the back of an open truck.
“Lieutenant, can I ride up front with you?” Vaccaro asked. “I promise not to ask if we’re there yet.”
“Just shut up and get in the truck, Vaccaro.”
Groaning and cursing at their stiff bodies, the men climbed back in. It was a rare infantryman who turned down a ride, but today was an exception.
As their truck drove through town, Cole spotted a skinny boy rooting through a garbage can for something to eat. The boy froze as the truck approached, caught in the act like a foraging raccoon. Cole fished in his haversack and tossed the kid a tin of rations. The boy pounced on it, then scurried away into the gloomy shadows of an alley.
“You might regret that later if they can’t get any supplies in here,” Vaccaro said.
“I’ll take my chances. Besides, that was lima beans and ham,” Cole replied, identifying one of the least favorite C rations. Having grown up hungry, Cole was never all that particular about what he ate, but even he had his limits.
“In that case, you should have thrown him two cans,” Vaccaro said. “Better yet, throw one at the Krauts. It’ll be just as deadly as a grenade — it just takes longer.”
The squads of soldiers they passed looked muddy, cold, and exhausted. Then again, Cole figured that their own group of so-called reinforcements weren’t in much better condition. They could hardly be called fresh troops.
The soldiers in Bastogne had been fighting for days on end without relief. In addition to the artillery fire, on Christmas Eve the Luftwaffe had made an appearance, bombing the town and even strafing it with machine-gun fire. It had been one hell of a Christmas present.
