Riding in the truck wasn’t any joyride, given that it jarred Cole down to his bones. Maybe the cold made those bones feel more brittle. The driver was sure as hell managing to hit every tree root and pothole, the jolt of each bump telegraphing its way up through the stiff frame of the truck, to the wooden benches, then directly into Cole’s spine. Hell, even his teeth threatened to rattle loose.
All available vehicles had been pressed into service to move troops to where they were needed. Following in the wake of the truck was a jeep, so heavily laden with men that the top-heavy vehicle kept threatening to tip over.
Every hundred yards or so, the truck rolled down into a hole so deep that the odds came down to a coin toss for whether they would be getting out again. Then there would be a tremendous jolt, from which it seemed unlikely that their forward momentum would recover.
But each time, after a tense moment in limbo, the truck would continue bouncing down the rutted road.
Worse, Cole couldn’t shake the feeling that they were sitting ducks as they crept along.
He kept his eyes on the woods.
There were few good roads through the Ardennes region, a fact that the fighting armies on both sides had come to know all too well. The terrain was hilly, even mountainous, punctuated by stretches through mountain valleys and fields, all dormant now and covered by drifts of fallen snow. In the bare patches, the ground showed through, frozen and brown with dead grass.
Narrow bridges crossed the winding mountain streams, where there were often villages that had grown up around the bridge or around a mill powered by the stream.
Considering it was December 1944, the scenery should have been right out of a Christmas card, but war had spoiled it. The charred hulks of burned tanks marred the crossroads, and dead bodies lay semifrozen in the snow at the roadsides. Instead of the smell of spiced cider or baking cookies that so many GIs remembered from the Christmas season, there was an occasional sickly-sweet odor of burned flesh and the stink of spilled fuel.
As they passed one of these grisly vignettes of death and destruction, the GI across from Cole leaned over the side of the truck and vomited.
Cole couldn’t blame the poor bastard, but he was used to such scenes by now.
As a reminder that the Germans were far from beaten, a flurry of shots rang out. A pattern of bullet holes appeared like stitchwork in the sides of the truck. A man cried out in pain as he was struck by a bullet.
“Everybody out!” Cole shouted, reaching over to shake Vaccaro and the kid, who were still groggy after being awakened by the sound of gunfire.
The men spilled out of the truck, some instantly falling and finding themselves sprawled in the mud. Their clumsiness may have saved their lives as bullets passed over their heads. The tracer rounds glowed devilishly in the gloom.
Others leaped into the slushy ditches, ignoring the fact that their trousers and boots were immediately soaked through.
A few men chose to use the truck for cover, which proved to be a mistake. A well-aimed round from a Panzerfaust struck the truck and exploded with spectacular effect. The men spun away, screaming torches of flame. If the Panzerfaust round had struck a few moments earlier, when the truck was still full of troops, they would’ve all gone up in flame — Cole included.
Cole had taken refuge in the nearest pothole, with Vaccaro and the kid nearby. He spat out a mouthful of cold slush, not quite getting the taste of grit out of his mouth.
“Kraut bastards,” he muttered, then shouted over at Vaccaro and the kid. “You two all right?”
“We were better a minute ago. You see him?”
“Yeah.”
Down the road, he had spotted the German wielding the spent Panzerfaust, which fired a single round. The weapon was intended to knock out tanks rather than transport trucks, but it had done its job with spectacular effect.
Instantly, Cole lined up his sights on the German. His crosshairs automatically went to the man’s chest — an easy shot at this range. The German had been waiting in ambush, hoping for the truck to get close. No wonder he hadn’t missed.
Cole wouldn’t either.
But it was also much too easy of a death for an enemy who had just reduced several of the GIs that Cole had been sharing the truck with to burned sausages. Pausing with his finger on the trigger, he lowered his aim to the German’s kneecap and fired. As the shattered bones gave out, the man collapsed in the road, screaming. Far from any real medical attention, in the bitter cold, what remained of his life wouldn’t be pleasant.
It was a form of casual cruelty that came all too easily now to the GIs.
Cole’s expression as he worked the bolt wasn’t quite a grin, but something more like a snarl.
Vaccaro had seen Cole shoot and thought at first that Cole had missed, since he hadn’t instantly killed the German.
“Aren’t you gonna finish him off?”
“Nope,” Cole said.
