“An old friend of mine from back home made it,” Cole said, surprising himself by the proud tone he heard in his own voice. Most GIs carried the combat knives that they had been issued. While the standard-issue blade was an excellent knife, the blade that Hollis Bailey had forged for him was in a class by itself.
Bauer grunted in approval, although he eyed the blade warily. He did as he was told and held out his hands.
Cole started toward him, then stopped. He pointed the blade at Bauer as he spoke. “Listen up, Herr Barnstormer. If this is some trick and you try to run, or you try to fight us, I’ll use this blade to cut your heart out.”
The German nodded. “Fair enough.”
Cole cut him free. The blade was so sharp that it sliced through the strands as soon as it touched the rope.
Bauer stood rubbing his wrists. The tightly wound rope had left deep red gouges. Whoever had tied him up back at HQ hadn’t been taking any chances. Cole stood tensely, waiting to see if Bauer tried anything.
“Thank you,” the German said. “What was your name again?”
“Never mind that,” Cole snapped. “Let’s get one thing clear. I ain’t your friend, Herr Barnstormer. I just didn’t want to hold your dick while you took a piss. Now go on and take a leak.”
Bauer moved beside Vaccaro and was soon sending his own stream into the snow. He even uttered a sigh of relief.
He returned the knife to its sheath and slid the rifle off his shoulder, watching up and down the road. It was only a matter of time before they ran into someone else. The question was, Would they be friendly or not? Cole stayed alert, hoping that if they encountered Germans, they would have time to get off the road before being seen.
They were taking a big chance by staying on the road. But they didn’t have much choice, other than striking out through the woods, where the snow lay heavily among the trees. He didn’t like that prospect, not if they wanted to make good time. They would just have to stay on the road and keep alert.
Bauer had buttoned himself back up and rejoined the group on the road. He still wore the heavy mittens, which Cole took to be a good sign. If Bauer planned on making a grab for one of their weapons, or otherwise make a run for it, he probably wouldn’t have the clumsy mittens on.
“I won’t tie you back up,” Cole said. “But like I said, if you make a run for it, you’re a dead man. Now let’s all get moving. We need to cover as much ground as possible while there’s still daylight.”
Cole led the way up the road, all his senses tense as a fiddle string, rifle at the ready. Even his nose sniffed the air for any whiff of German. They hadn’t gone far before he heard the steady whine of an approaching engine, undercut by the clanking of steel treads.
Tanks.
More than one, and moving fast.
“Get off the road!” he said urgently, waving the others toward the trees. He pointed his rifle squarely at the German. He didn’t want the prisoner getting any ideas about using that moment to escape. “Don’t get any ideas, Herr Barnstormer. If you try to make a run for it, I’ll put a big fat slug right through your back.”
The look on the German’s face indicated that he’d processed that mental image. He nodded curtly at Cole and followed Vaccaro and Rupert into the trees with the rifle aimed squarely at him.
It was hard to say whether the tanks were German or American and Cole, wasn’t going to wait around to find out. The area was still hotly contested, with both sides probing and fighting in the countryside beyond Bastogne. It came down to the fact that the Americans were trying to send reinforcements and the Germans were trying to stop them. Cole didn’t want to get caught in the middle of that meat grinder. He just wanted to deliver the Kraut like he’d been ordered and get back in one piece.
There was also the possibility that a tank patrol from either side would shoot first and ask questions later if they spotted men on the road. The tank commander would be worried about an ambush — a handful of men on the road more than likely meant snipers, mines, bazookas, or Panzerfaust. Mighty as a tank was, a lucky grenade throw could mean a tank tread getting knocked out. Out here on the front lines, repair was impossible, and the tank would need to be abandoned.
Whether the tanks were German or American, it wouldn’t matter to Cole and his squad — the tankers wouldn’t be taking any chances, which meant they would get machine-gunned all the same.
Vaccaro and Rupert took cover behind a fallen tree, their rifles over the log, trained on the road. The Kraut was down in the hole where the tree roots had ripped out of the ground. Cole slid in next to him. The snow was several inches deep here, kept from melting in this shady spot, the cold amplified by the shadows.
