As the sniper approached, the footsteps slowed and grew stealthier. It was almost as if he could sense the trap — and if the sniper was good enough, maybe he could. At one point, the footsteps paused, and Cole could imagine his quarry stopping to sniff the air for trouble.
The footsteps resumed, approached the gap in the stone wall, and passed through. Cole realized that he hadn’t needed the trip wire at all, not with the crunchy snow.
But the enemy soldier hit the twine anyway, yanking the milk pail off its perch, spilling the empty bottles and cowbells onto the ground. The clatter made Cole jump even though he’d been expecting it. He supposed that the German sniper might be having a heart attack right about now.
But it wasn’t his heart that was going to kill him.
Vaccaro flicked on his flashlight, catching the enemy sniper like a deer in the headlights.
Through the scope, Cole got a good glimpse of him. The man was bundled in winter gear, rifle slung over his shoulder, a scarf over his face — but Cole could see the man’s eyes clearly. They were blue as they caught the light and wide open in surprise.
Cole put his sights over the man’s heart and squeezed the trigger.
In the circle of light, he watched as the shot knocked the man backward into the gap in the stone wall.
Vaccaro clicked off the light. Seconds later, he was running at a crouch back toward Cole’s position.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, panting from the effort of running through the snow. “Between that racket and that light, we’re bound to attract attention. We don’t want our own guys shooting at us.”
Cole couldn’t agree more. They were in no-man’s-land. Not everybody knew they were out here, and the GIs in Bastogne would be jumpy. He crawled out from under the wagon, and in the dark they weaved their way through the outlying yards to return to the center of Bastogne.
Obersturmbannführer Bauer did not regret his decision to surrender. First, he and his men were alive. The Americans had not shot them outright. There had always been the chance that might happen.
But they had been lucky. It seemed as if no one had found out about the incident on the road where Messner had ordered the American prisoners to be shot. If anyone had known, he supposed that their reception by the Americans would have been quite different.
Second, his wounded men had immediately been taken into the care of the American doctors in Bastogne. While it was true that their medical resources were limited and they were working out of a drafty old church rather than a hospital, the conditions were far better than what the German wounded could have expected in the forest.
He had even been allowed, under escort, to visit his men in the hospital.
The makeshift hospital was far from ideal, being dark and cold. The interior smelled strongly of grimy clothing and unwashed blankets, rubbing alcohol, and something unhealthy — perhaps decaying flesh. Nonetheless, the American medical staff were doing the best that they could for the wounded Germans. There were no beds, so the wounded had been spread across the stone floor.
Bauer saw with surprise that his men were on the floor right next to the wounded GIs. The care that they were receiving was every bit the equal of what the medical staff gave to their own men. Also in the mix were several wounded civilians, including a few women and children.
Most of the cases in the hospital were men with severe wounds. Any of the so-called walking wounded were needed to defend Bastogne. Now that he was a prisoner, behind enemy lines, Bauer had seen just how undermanned the Americans were. And yet he and his comrades had been unable to push them out of Bastogne. The Americans were just too determined.
Some men were so badly injured that their entire heads were swaddled in bandages, except for holes left for their nose and mouth. For many their wounds had not been caused by bullets but by the cold. More than a few fingers and toes had been claimed by frostbite.
Walking down the rows of wounded, he knelt at the side of each man to give him a quick word of encouragement. The wounded men had the bitter taste of failure in their mouths after the disastrous attack, but they had done their part, and it was still possible that the overall German advance might still succeed elsewhere.
At last he came to the side of Feldt, the old campaigner who had been bleeding badly from his wounds following the attack across the field, when Bauer’s troops had been surprised by artillery and tank fire.
“Ah, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Feldt said.
“Good to see you, Feldt. How are you feeling?”
“Much better, sir. Thank you.”
“Are you warm enough?” Bauer looked doubtfully at the thin blanket covering the old Soldat. Then again, none of the patients, American or otherwise, had much in the way of blankets, which were in short supply.
Feldt grinned. “I am German, Herr Obersturmbannführer. I never feel the cold.”
