Right now that didn’t concern him. He sprinted hard across the open ground to the back of the château. For a big man, Brock could move quickly. The snow did slow him down, however. Vern and Boot came charging after him.
They knew the drill. They had all done this before, fighting from house to house in towns they had passed through since D-Day.
Brock reached the base of the château’s back wall and crouched there, panting and regretting every damn cigarette he’d ever smoked. The other two men spread out along the wall, keeping their heads below the windows.
Again, he wished for a grenade. But they would just have to make do.
Brock stood up and used the butt of the carbine to smash the shutter. He then poked the muzzle at the window, shattering glass.
Careful to keep his head down, he squeezed off three quick shots into the window. There was no target. His goal was to make anybody inside the château duck and cover.
When nobody shot back, Brock was pleased by the thought that the defenders must all be at the front of the house. The Krauts had created the perfect diversion.
Brock used the butt of his carbine once again to knock away more of the shutter and the shards of broken glass jutting from the window sash.
With an effort, he was able to lever himself up so he was hanging half-in and half-out of the window. There was still a lot of broken glass around, and he cursed as a shard cut the bottom of his forearm.
But he was almost inside. He stuck his head up and looked around.
He was surprised to find himself locking eyes with a young woman.
Who happened to be holding a double-barreled shotgun.
Brock’s gaze went from the young woman’s face to the twin muzzles.
Her eyes narrowed, squinting down the barrel. His own eyes widened.
He just had time to tumble back out the window as one of those muzzles unleashed a stab of flame and lead shot. The snow wasn’t as deep here in the lee of the foundation, and Brock felt the breath get knocked out of him as he landed on the frozen ground.
He gasped for breath, wondering whether he’d been hit.
Nearby, Vern stood up and fired through the window.
The shotgun roared again, and Vern cursed as a pellet stung the side of his neck. It wasn’t fatal, but it bled freely, leaving bright drops of red on the trampled snow around the base of the house.
More shots came from within. Not a shotgun this time, but the rapid-fire crack of a rifle. The girl wasn’t alone. One of the soldiers must have joined her in defending the house.
Brock had to admit that there was no way they were getting into the château if someone inside was covering the rear windows. Without grenades or a machine gun, they didn’t have the firepower. They had lost the element of surprise.
Like an exclamation mark on that thought, another shotgun blast followed. Boot had been taking a peek through the shutters and ducked down hastily — but his reaction wasn’t quick enough. He now had a nasty red gash on his cheek, either from a shotgun pellet or a flying splinter — or maybe a little of both.
Vern was already doing the smart thing and running back toward the trees. Brock couldn’t blame him. He struggled to his knees. All three had gotten a little beat up in the attack.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Brock shouted.
At the front of the house, the Germans were having more success.
Out on the front lawn, the machine gunner on the Kübelwagen was still firing short bursts, forcing the defenders to keep their heads down.
Cole had guessed correctly that the explosion had been caused not by a hand grenade, but by a Molotov cocktail that the Germans had crafted out of an empty schnapps bottle that they filled with gasoline siphoned from the Kübelwagen. A burning rag served as the wick.
It had been Messner who had thrown the bomb, waiting to get as close to a window as possible, although he had nearly lost his nerve at the thought of the bomb going off early and covering him with flaming gasoline. He had managed to smash the Molotov cocktail against the window and fill the front hall with flames and roiling, thick smoke. Only the fact that the interior walls were also stone had prevented the fire from spreading throughout the entire house.
A second Molotov cocktail soon followed, this one thrown by Gettinger, exploding against the front door and wreathing it in flame. The fire licked at the wood, threatening to engulf it, blackening the stone facade, sending clouds of acrid black smoke skyward. The occupants of the château had managed to keep a low profile by lighting fires only at night, but the smoke was now visible far and wide.
Messner fired shots into the smoke and flame, hoping to hit someone inside. Inadvertently, the flaming bombs had provided cover for the defenders. Near the burning front door, Gettinger also fired shots furiously.
