Cole managed to grab the German by the back of his coat collar and shoved him toward a roadside ditch that offered some cover as another mortar shell rained down. Cole threw Bauer in the ditch and landed on top of him. The last thing he wanted was for the man to run away.
Fortunately, the barrage halted. Cole picked himself up out of the ditch and dragged the German after him.
“Everybody all right?” he asked, looking around.
Nobody had been hit. Lucky for them, the snow and mud had softened their landing when they had been thrown clear of the jeep. Vaccaro wasn’t as lucky, slamming his head against the steering wheel with such force that he came away with a bloody nose.
“Dammit, I think it might be broken,” he said, pressing a handkerchief to his face.
“It’s better than a fat chunk of shrapnel in your face,” Cole said.
“If you say so.” He dabbed at his nose again. “Hurts like hell in this cold.”
“I thought you said you were a good driver.”
“Normally when I’m driving, people aren’t shooting at me.”
“There is that,” Cole agreed. He didn’t say it to Vaccaro, but Cole had never actually driven a vehicle. Growing up, the Cole family had been too poor to own so much as a rusty old Ford. Or a mule. If they wanted to get anywhere, they walked. In the mountains, all that they ever needed were their own two feet.
Vaccaro’s bloody nose was no picnic, but as it turned out, the jeep got the worst of it. The four of them pushed it out of the hole that had caught the front wheels, but the force of the impact had shredded one of the tires, bent the steering rod, and bashed in the radiator. Considering the nearly indestructible nature of the average jeep, the amount of damage was testament to the force with which they had hit that hole.
Vaccaro was the most mechanically inclined of the bunch and was soon crawling under the jeep to get a better look at the damage.
“Think we can fix it?” Rupert wondered.
“Sure, if we had the tools, the parts, and maybe three days,” Vaccaro replied. “A heated garage would be nice while we’re at it.”
“Looks like we’re walking from here on out,” Cole announced.
Having gathered a few supplies from the jeep, Cole led their small group away from the abandoned vehicle. He looked around to see how everyone was doing as they set out.
It was one hell of a motley crew, he decided — two half-frozen snipers, a wet-nosed British officer, and a German prisoner. The only thing that would make them more ridiculous would be if the German was leading a dancing bear.
The young British officer sported bright-pink cheeks as a result of the cold. His uniform was a little too clean, indicating that he was not a combat officer. His winter gear mainly consisted of a wool overcoat that looked warm enough but would have been more appropriate on a fashionable city street than the snowy woods of the Ardennes. He wore tall leather riding boots that didn’t look comfortable for walking, but they would keep the snow out.
He’d been carrying only a sidearm, but Cole had insisted that the Brit be given an M1 carbine.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever used one of these,” he said, looking it over.
Cole showed him how to load the weapon and operate it. Rupert caught on quickly. Cole finished the lesson by adding, “The most important thing is not to shoot me or Vaccaro. You can shoot all the Germans you want, including this one we’ve got with us.”
Rupert nodded. It would be understandable if he saw his situation as having been thrown to the wolves. Nonetheless, he maintained a cheery can-do attitude. He didn’t complain. Cole couldn’t decide if that cheerfulness made him like Rupert or hate him — the jury was still out on that one.
The prisoner still had his hands bound in front of him, although in an act of mercy, one of the clerks at HQ had tugged mittens over his bare hands to ward off frostbite. His vaguely amused expression had returned. It was as if the German realized that he should have already been dead by now, so he could watch the events that unfolded with detachment. Through his silence, it seemed as if this German officer was determined to remain stoic until the very end.
Cole felt a twinge of admiration for the man’s resolve. He had expected their captive to bellyache or come up with some story that they had the wrong guy, but instead he seemed to accept his fate with quiet dignity. He hadn’t even seemed afraid when Brock and his crew had threatened him. Cole gave him points for that, even if he was a no-good murdering Kraut.
As for Vaccaro, he also appeared resigned to his fate, his head down, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Of course, Vaccaro also carried a scoped Springfield, but he had it slung over one shoulder as if confident they wouldn’t run into any trouble this close to the city.
Cole wasn’t so sure that they wouldn’t have need of their weapons sooner rather than later. He kept his own rifle ready and would remind Vaccaro to do the same when the time came.
“How long do you think it’s gonna take us to get there?” Vaccaro wondered.
