“Fine by me,” Vaccaro said. “Word is that they’re sending us back to Bastogne. Maybe we can find some more hot grub. A fire would be nice too. I’m not sure that I’ll ever feel my toes again.”
Nearby, young Hank was doing jumping jacks to get his blood moving.
Cole shook his head. Where the hell did the kid get that kind of energy? Cold as it was, now that the fighting was over, Cole was half-tempted to crawl back into his foxhole, pull a blanket over himself, and go to sleep.
To their surprise, several of the Germans had surrendered, including their commanding officer. Many of the new POWs were wounded. The Germans looked battered and broken after the punishing attack and the harsh weather conditions that took a toll on both sides. Given the appearance of the vanquished, it was hard for the surrender to feel like victory. Close up, the enemy simply looked like regular human beings.
But more than a few of the Krauts, along with their remaining panzers, had managed to slip away. Perhaps hoping to put the Americans at ease, the captured officer claimed that the survivors of the attack were on their way back to Germany. At least that was the rumor flying around.
“Too bad we didn’t wipe them all out,” Cole said. “We’ll just have to fight them later.”
They left their foxholes and returned to Bastogne. This time there were no trucks, and they had to walk.
Although the arrival of the Sherman tanks indicated that relief forces were finally about to break through, German troops still ringed the town. The ring was no longer impenetrable, but it was there all the same.
More than a few artillery shells still fell from time to time, indiscriminately killing soldiers and civilians, a reminder that the Germans were not ready to abandon their assault on the town. So far the Luftwaffe had not returned for another bombing run like the cruel Christmas Eve pounding they had delivered. That much was a relief.
Artillery wasn’t the only indicator of the German presence. A sniper had set up on the edges of the town, in an area that US forces did not yet control. From there, the sniper was able to pick off troops seemingly at will. His bullets always seemed to arrive when least expected.
When a fella stood still a moment to light a cigarette. When a tired GI leaned against a wall.
Death reached out and found them from an impossible distance.
The constant sniper fire wasn’t helping morale any. When it came to Bastogne, between the bombs and the bullets, there just didn’t seem to be anywhere that was safe from the reach of the enemy.
For that reason, it shouldn’t have surprised Cole when he was called in to deal with the problem.
He found himself summoned to headquarters with Lieutenant Mulholland. They brought Vaccaro along as a mascot.
Cole followed the lieutenant into a cramped house that had been commandeered as HQ. Outside, a clerk was using a hatchet to break apart a bomb-damaged chifforobe, which he carried in to fuel a huge fire blazing in the fireplace. More pieces of furniture stood nearby, awaiting their fate like cattle at the slaughterhouse. Despite the clerk’s best efforts, the fire couldn’t seem to warm the air.
A harried captain quickly explained the situation.
“Just when we think we’ve got the bastard, he moves on us,” the officer complained.
“That means he knows his business,” Cole replied. “It’s how German snipers are trained, sir. They don’t sit still for long.”
The captain didn’t look impressed. “Look, I don’t give a damn what they trained him to do. Hell, maybe they taught him to play the fiddle and knit socks too. I just want him gone. I understand that you’re the man to do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain opened his mouth, perhaps to express his doubts, but he took a moment to look Cole up and down. His gaze lingered on Cole’s battered sniper’s rifle, then moved to Cole’s gray-blue eyes. Their eyes met briefly, but the captain looked away, unable to hold Cole’s gaze. He wouldn’t have been the first man to detect something chilling in those eyes.
When he did speak, it was to say, “All right, if you say you can nab this Kraut, then I believe you. The only help I can give you is to have one of my men point out where this Kraut sniper has been operating.”
Back outside, Mulholland had no words of advice except “Be sure and get that bastard. Oh, and try not to get shot.”
With that he trudged off and disappeared.
Cole had to wonder if the lieutenant had meant that last part. He recalled how Mulholland had sent him down to parley with the tanks. That had been a somewhat dicey situation.
The message seemed to be that Cole was seen as expendable.
He had to wonder just when the hell Mulholland would get over Jolie — if he ever did.
Cole and Vaccaro weren’t alone for long. The captain had promised to give them a guide, who appeared soon after in the form of a scruffy sergeant named Gifford, who looked as if the last time he had shaved was late summer. He was leading a couple of other men who hung back.
