“How the hell do you know we’ve got Bauer?” Cole had the fleeting thought that maybe Vaccaro was right and the two women really were collaborators. How else could the Germans possibly know about Bauer?
“We have been tracking him,” the German said. “Give him to us and there will be no need for bloodshed.”
“What do you want with him?”
“He is a traitor. Give him to us and we will let you go.”
“Can’t do that.”
“You do not seem to understand your situation,” the German said.
“My situation?” Cole snorted. He didn’t like the looks of this German officer. Hell, he didn’t like the looks of
The German frowned. He didn’t have a good answer for that. He muttered a curse, then dropped the stick with the rag tied to it into the snow.
Too late, Cole realized that dropping the flag of truce was some sort of signal.
In the next instant, a rifle fired from the tree line and a bullet struck the door an inch from Cole’s head. The bullet would have hit him if he hadn’t tilted his head down to look at the flag the German had dropped.
Behind him, Vaccaro slammed the door shut just as another bullet hit. The wood was too thick for the bullets to punch through, the dense grain of the ancient oak making it nearly as good as armor plating.
Cole ran to a window, and through the shutters he saw the officer hightailing it back to cover. He was out of sight before there was a chance for Cole to bring his rifle into play.
“Well now, don’t that beat all,” Cole said, lowering his rifle. “It’s gonna be an interesting day around here.”
“Dammit, that was close,” Vaccaro said.
“That Kraut sniper almost got me,” Cole agreed.
“You can’t trust these damn Krauts. Next time one of them wants to talk, let’s just shoot him.”
“I ain’t gonna argue with that.”
“What the hell do those Krauts want with our prisoner?” Vaccaro wondered.
“To hell if I know. Let’s go ask him.”
Once darkness fell, Brock and his squad had made camp. It was a cold camp, without any fire that might attract the attention of the enemy. Consequently, the trio had shivered through the night. There was grumbling from Vern and Boot, but they knew better than to complain too much to Brock.
They feared the Germans who might be creeping up on them, and frostbite was a constant threat. But their healthy fear of Brock outweighed both. They knew that when Brock set his mind on doing something, then you had better get out of the way or follow along.
He’d been just as cold as anyone. Zeal only did so much to keep you warm, and his own determination to track down the German had started to wane in the cold, dark, wee hours of the morning.
When the gray light of morning finally arrived, Brock had been just about ready to call it quits, get everyone turned around, and head back to Bastogne empty-handed without their quarry.
That was when they heard two gunshots, not very far away, somewhere toward the end of the lane that they had been traveling before darkness had rolled in.
It was the first sign that they weren’t the only ones out there.
He’d been afraid that the trail had gone cold, but here was a spark, at least.
And in Brock’s experience, where there was smoke, there was fire.
“C’mon,” he said to the others. “On your feet. Let’s go see what that shooting is all about.”
As they started to get up, it was clear that Boot was having trouble.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded.
“It’s my toes, Brock,” Boot explained. “I can’t feel them at all. It might be frostbite.”
“Dammit, how many times have I warned you and everybody else in the squad to make sure you were wearing dry socks.”
“Never mind dry socks,” Vern spoke up. “Cold as it was, we’re lucky that we didn’t freeze to death.”
“I don’t want to hear your crap,” Brock growled, prompting Vern to clam up. “All right, Boot, let me have a look at those feet.”
Boot’s fingers were so stiff that Brock had to help him unlace his boots. His socks were stiff, too, either with grime or partially frozen. They finally peeled off to reveal his toes.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. The toes were dark, the skin resembling bruised fruit.
Watching over Brock’s shoulder, Vern winced and looked away. Brock forced himself not to react.
“You’ll be all right,” he said, trying for a positive note. “You just need to get up and moving, is all. Get the blood flowing, you know.”
“I guess you’re right, Brock,” Boot replied, although the words were emitted through shivering lips.
He told himself that it was all going to be worth it to get some justice, not just for his old pal Charlie Knuth, but for all the poor bastards that the German officer had ordered gunned down in the woods outside Bastogne. For once in his life, Brock felt like he had to do something right.
