As Cole and Vaccaro continued to analyze the situation, they noticed a small group of civilians gathering in the distance, near the church, their heads bowed in prayer. It looked like a funeral. A sudden gust of wind blew through the town, sending a shower of snow across the ground. The townspeople turned up their coat collars and kept praying.
They would have made easy targets, but the sniper seemed content to ignore them, saving his bullets for American soldiers.
Vaccaro whispered urgently, “Even if we get close enough, we can’t risk firing near those people. They’d be caught in the cross fire. The last thing we need is any collateral damage.”
“Yeah,” Cole agreed. “Let’s go at him from the other side. Maybe he won’t be expecting us then.”
As they scoped out the situation, they spotted a civilian wearing a tweed beret, picking his way through the landscape of low stone walls and outbuildings. Clearly he was headed in the direction of the German lines.
“Where the hell does he think he’s going? Maybe he’s a German spy.”
“No Kraut would be caught dead wearing a beret, even if he is a spy. That’s one of the locals. He must be friends with the Jerries.”
“We ought to shoot the bastard.”
“Let him go. No point attracting attention to ourselves.”
Their stealthy efforts weren’t enough. A shot rang out and struck the corner of a house just as Cole slipped behind it. Dust and bits of stone chips flew.
“Dammit! Another split second and that bastard would have gotten me.”
“You’re lucky it’s starting to get dark or he might not have missed.”
Cole nodded, thinking that Vaccaro was right about the fading daylight. His eyes flicked back and forth between the church and the distant hills. He wasn’t sure whether it was the movement or something else that had caught the enemy sniper’s attention. All he knew was that his heart was pounding. The sniper’s bullet had been close.
Keeping low, he eased the rifle scope up to his eye. He ached to return fire, but there was no target visible.
Another shot came from the direction of the tower. No bullets struck nearby, and Cole had the sinking realization that the sniper had probably just shot another unsuspecting GI on the streets of Bastogne. It was just what they had been sent to prevent.
They didn’t have much time before dark. As the hidden sun began to dip below the horizon, the shadows deepened and the light faded, making it more difficult to see the sniper’s position. The church steeple was being cloaked by the darkness. Darkness had come slowly, but it now seemed to accelerate like a flood tide.
Then, a small miracle. The setting sun sank below the level of the clouds, revealing itself like the smiling face of a lover under the covers. The final beacon of light illuminated the entire town, bathing the rooftops of Bastogne in glowing light. The church steeple stood out like a lighthouse. They were close enough now that he could see footsteps in the snow, leading away from the church across the fields. He followed the footsteps out and glimpsed a figure trotting across the field, carrying a rifle with a scope.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He put his rifle to his shoulder, desperate to settle the crosshairs on the Kraut sniper, but the man was too far away.
Then the sun dipped behind a hill. It was like pulling down a window shade.
The enemy sniper in the distance faded to a gray blur and was gone.
Behind the rifle, Cole grinned his feral grin, his sharp white teeth showing.
It was just as well that he hadn’t fired and warned off the Kraut. The man must have thought that he’d made his getaway unseen.
He knew that the enemy sniper would return in the morning. It went against the rules to shoot from the same position again, but Cole suspected that the church steeple was simply too good to pass up.
No, the enemy sniper would be back in the morning, intending to claim more American lives. And when he returned, Cole would be waiting for him.
They made their way back toward the American lines. The winter darkness was falling, and he couldn’t see the sentries, although he knew they were there. He and Vaccaro kept to cover just in case the sentries proved trigger-happy.
“Black strap,” Cole called out, giving the sign.
After a moment he heard a soldier shout the countersign: “Molasses.”
Cole stepped out and waved. The scruffy sergeant he’d met earlier appeared opposite him in the dim light and waved back.
“Did you get him?” the sergeant asked. Curious soldiers stood behind him. Word must have gotten around that a sniper had been sent to settle the Kraut’s hash. “I didn’t hear any shooting.”
“Don’t you worry none, Sarge,” Cole replied in his mountain drawl. “First thing tomorrow, I’m gonna tree him in that steeple like a coon.”
