“Hardly. I have to say that this place is a bit more posh than I’m used to,” Lieutenant Rupert said. “You Yanks must think us Brits are all aristocrats. My father’s a village doctor, not the Duke of York.”
“I’m definitely not a duke, but this will do nicely,” Vaccaro announced, flopping down on an antique sofa trimmed with carved wood. The upholstery had been covered with a canvas cloth, like a drop cloth, apparently to protect it.
“You think so, huh?” Cole found the grandeur of the room, however faded and apparently unlived in, to be overwhelming. “We best go have a look-see upstairs before it gets dark, just to make sure this place really is empty.”
Vaccaro got to his feet. “I’ll do it.”
Cole snorted. “When did you ever volunteer for anything?”
“Ever since I wondered if there was anything valuable upstairs, that’s when.”
“See if you can find some extra blankets. And take Rupert with you.” Cole caught himself. “Uh, Lieutenant Rupert. Sir. If you wouldn’t mind—”
“Come along, Vaccaro,” the lieutenant said, and the two men went in search of the staircase, leaving Cole alone with the German.
There were two candles inside glass globes on the mantel, so Cole lit them to dispel the gathering darkness. By candlelight, the room was transformed, its shabbiness forgotten, the soft glow creating an atmosphere of old-world elegance.
Then he got to work building a fire. He went back to the kitchen and rounded up the kindling that he had seen there. A small stack of logs stood beside the fire, evidently more for show, but Cole decided that there was no time like the present to put them to use. He set to work building a fire lay in the big fireplace, looking forward to some warmth after a long, cold day outdoors. They could also use the fire to heat their rations.
Quietly, Bauer watched him work for a minute, then spoke up. “Do you think that building a fire is wise? We may attract unwanted attention.”
“It will be dark soon. Nobody will see the smoke. And the way those windows are covered up, the light won’t show.”
Bauer nodded, conceding the point. He sat down in one of the elegant chairs and made himself at home.
“I would help you, but you see…” The German raised his bound hands. “Also, at some point, we have the problem again with relieving myself.”
“Shut up,” Cole said. He was enjoying building the fire lay, and the German was ruining the moment.
Overhead, the ceiling creaked as Vaccaro and Rupert passed through the empty rooms. A few minutes later, they came marching into the living room just as Cole had managed to get the flames to lick at the wood in the fireplace. He squatted on his boot heels and watched the fire with satisfaction.
He couldn’t help but think of growing up in the mountains, where building a fire was one of the first skills that a boy learned. In the Cole family’s cabin, it had been the only form of warmth. In the woods, the ability to build a fire on a cold night could make the difference between life and death.
“Nothing,” Vaccaro reported. He was carrying an armload of bedding and tossed it down on a sofa. “Looks to me like the whole place has been cleared out.”
“Good to know,” Cole replied. “Now let’s divvy out those rations and heat up some supper.”
“Home sweet home,” Vaccaro agreed.
Beyond the shuttered windows, the night closed in around the château.
Wanting to get a start before darkness fell, Brock led the others down the road leading out of Bastogne.
The soldiers’ boots squished through the slush and mud with a sense of purpose and urgency. The clink and rattle of their equipment was the only other sound they made, mingling with the distant noise of combat that included the rattle of small-arms fire and the thump of artillery.
Somewhere in the distance, they could hear a woman wailing. Having heard similar sounds in dozens of towns since landing at Normandy months ago, they ignored it. Tears were simply part of the background noise of war. Their attention remained on the present. When they spoke, their voices were hushed, their words clipped.
“You got ammo?” Brock asked.
“Enough,” Corporal McCann replied.
“Everybody got dry socks?”
“Yeah.”
Bullets and dry socks. That was all a GI needed. Well, maybe that and a C ration or two.
In the confusion of the ongoing battle for the town, nobody questioned them about where they were going. Considering that their uniforms and gear appeared worn out and battle-scarred, showing the marks of countless past missions and endless muddy miles, they had the look of battle-hardened troops who knew what they were doing.
Because they sure as hell did.
They were on the road to revenge.
Brock knew that the actual road they followed was the same one taken by the group escorting the captured German officer to HQ.
Brock was determined that the German would never make it that far.
