Gods & Snipers: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Fourteen

In the wake of the attack, a silence descended over the village. The chill autumn air, the old stone buildings, and even the distant rough hills seemed to be holding their breath, watching and waiting for something to happen next. Indifferent, the Moselle River flowed silently between its steep banks, gurgling around the stone pillars of the ancient bridge.

Although the town’s streets were quiet and empty, Cole was sure that there were many eyes upon them from behind the closed doors in the surrounding houses with their thick, stone walls. The people of the town had the good sense to make themselves scarce once the shooting started.

Cole reached up and ripped the tape off the front of his helmet. With Captain Norton dead, Cole didn’t need to cover the Confederate flag on the front of his helmet. He would wear that flag with pride, goddammit. He balled up the strips of tape and tossed them in the general direction of Captain Norton’s body.

Then he spent a moment looking over the rifle. It seemed none the worse for wear, although he wouldn’t mind getting a fresh coat of oil on her. Cole was fanatical about cleaning and oiling his rifle. He noticed a couple of fresh hash marks carved into the stock. Were those supposed to represent the Germans that Norton had killed? Cole shook his head in disgust. The only enemy soldiers that Norton had shot were in his imagination. Besides, Norton must have known that being captured by the enemy with a sniper rifle with hash marks on it — showing that you celebrated your kills — was a surefire way to make sure that you never made it to the rear.

Now that the shooting was over, he and the general straightened up from where they had been sheltering behind the Jeep. Tolliver gave the Jeep a quick inspection, whistling at the bullet holes peppering the vehicle. There didn't seem to be any fluids leaking, however, so the bullets hadn't hit any of the Jeep's vital organs.

General Tolliver clapped Cole on the shoulder. "That was some fine shooting, son. What did you say your name was?"

"Cole, sir."

"Cole, huh. Sounds familiar. Haven't I heard your name around?"

"Maybe so, sir. I really couldn't say."

Vaccaro overhead the general and said, "Sir, that newspaper reporter Ernie Pyle wrote an article about Cole. That reporter made Cole out to be the best shot in the whole damn Army. If you think that you've heard of him, I'll bet that's why."

"Is that so?" The general gave Cole a long look. "What was that captain doing with your rifle? If I'm not mistaken, you were carrying a grease gun. Seems like the wrong weapon for you."

"It's a long story, sir. But if it's all the same to you, I believe I'll hang on to this here rifle."

"You do that, Cole."

"Thank you, sir.”

General Tolliver looked around at the village square. His hands were shaking, so he grabbed the door frame on the Jeep so that no one would see the tremors. He could scarcely believe that he had just been in his first battle. It was odd, but at the time he hadn’t been scared. He had grabbed a weapon and started firing at the enemy without giving it much thought. The fear only seemed to come to him now, along with those shaky hands.

He looked around for his driver, who seemed to have survived. He would have felt awfully bad if he had not, considering that Tolliver had dragged him into this mess. A few other men weren’t so lucky, including the captain who had been leading these men. Where did that leave him?

In command, he realized. Tolliver would gladly have deferred to some lieutenant with combat experience, but there were no other officers. Whatever happened next was up to him, he realized. He could see the men milling about, some of them looking dazed after the firefight, wondering what to do next.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. The last thing he wanted was for the men to see him looking scared. They didn’t know that he was a bean counter back at HQ. He wasn’t about to tell them. Keeping quiet about his background wasn’t a matter of pride, but a simple understanding that he had to instill some confidence in these soldiers. Someone had to take charge if these men were to have any chance of holding this town. Hell, someone had to take charge if they were just going to survive against a superior force of Germans. He was a general, and by God, he planned to act like one.

Tolliver waved the sergeant over. "Sergeant, tell the men to gather round."

"Yes, sir." Woodbine hesitated. "Uh, sir, what should I do about the deserter?"

"What deserter?"

Woodbine gave Frenchie a nudge forward. Frenchie favored his wounded leg, grimacing slightly as he walked.

Woodbine said, ”When we got here, this private was already in the village. He said his unit was mostly wiped out by the SS just north of here, at some place called Dornot. Captain Norton ordered him arrested as a deserter."

Tolliver put his hands on his hips and got a good look at Frenchie. "You were at Dornot?"

"Yes, sir. The Germans got most of my unit when we were coming back across the river. They really tore us to pieces. I drifted down the river and ended up here.”

"All right, Private. I heard about Dornot back at HQ. How’s that leg?”

“I got lucky, sir. Bullet went right through.”

The general nodded. “You go on and see if you can find yourself a rifle. We'll need you when the Germans come back.”

“I’m not under arrest, sir?”

“For what? Sounds to me, son, like you were surviving, not deserting. Anyhow, would you rather be under arrest or would you rather keep fighting Germans?”

Frenchie grinned. “I’d rather fight Germans, sir!”

“There you go, then. Sergeant, let's get these men together now.”

Sergeant Woodbine gave the order to assemble, although it wasn't really necessary — most of the men were within earshot of the general, smoking cigarettes and wondering what to do next.

Once the men had gathered, Tolliver took a moment looking them over. If he liked what he saw, it didn't register on his face. As a matter of fact, the longer he studied them, the more that his expression seemed to indicate that Tolliver had taken a big slug of prune juice or bitten into a sour apple.

Cole couldn't blame him. Only about twenty men had survived the German assault on Ville sur Moselle. They included Cole and Vaccaro, Frenchie, the general's young driver, and the remaining men from Captain Norton's original patrol, including Sergeant Woodbine.

Woodbine seemed solid, but some of those other guys were green, a fact made obvious from their new uniforms, and also from the fact that some of them had hunkered down and hidden during the German assault, rather than shooting back. They didn’t get it yet that the enemy would still kill you, whether or not you shot back. Sergeant Woodbine had done the best he could to get all of the men to return fire, but he couldn't be everywhere at once.

While the general inspected the troops, such as they were, Cole kept his eyes on the road coming into town. He knew for damn sure that the Germans weren't done. The general noticed Cole looking, and he looked, too. He seemed to know as well as Cole did that the Jerries would be back — and soon.

The general cleared his throat. "You men did good," he said. "You held your own and then some. But I've got to tell you, the Jerries aren’t done with us. And chances are that they're gonna hit us even harder. Last time, they stumbled into us, but we can count on a more coordinated attack. They need this bridge. We need this bridge too, goddammit, and we're not letting them have it. Not if I can help it."

The general paused, although it wasn't clear if he expected an actual response. "By the way, my name is General Tolliver. I was supposed to link up with the Third Army to serve as an observer for General Eisenhower to check on the supply situation, but somehow that didn't happen. I suppose a lot of you men were also supposed to be somewhere else. But here we are.

“I can damn sure promise you that I am not going to report back to the Supreme Commander of Allied Forces in Europe that I lost an opportunity to secure and hold a bridge over the Moselle River. So, what you and I are going to do is hold this bridge."

General Tolliver put his hands on his hips and continued to survey the soldiers, and then the village beyond. He spoke the next words quietly, as if talking to himself. "It's not much, but we just might be able to hold until this weather clears or we link up with another unit." He corrected himself with the words that came next. "Might? To hell with might. We have to hold, and by God, we will."

Again, General Tolliver paused and looked around at their faces. He had gotten their attention, that was for sure.

Sergeant Woodbine shifted from foot to foot, looked around, and responded for the group by saying, "Yes, sir!"

The general went on. "When the Jerries hit us again, they'll come from the same direction," he said, waving a hand at the road beyond the village. “I’d say the hills are too steep here for them to try and circle the village. We have the river at our back. There's no need to worry about Germans coming at us from that direction unless there's a German unit that got here before us. In that case, they could be on the other side of the river and come back across the bridge. Has anyone seen evidence of that? Cole?"

"No, sir," Cole said.

"Thank God for that much. Germans on one side of us is enough. All right, the plan is that we are going to hold here until we get some reinforcements," the general said. “From here on out, this is our very own Alamo. Got it? Sergeant, I want to know what we've got in the way of ammunition."

"Yes, sir."

Tolliver stepped down from the Jeep, signaling that his speech was over. He looked at his driver and then at the Jeep. “Private Smith, this thing is shot to pieces, but see if you can get it to run. We'll keep it in reserve in case we need to haul ass somewhere or get a message out. Right now, our communications network consists of those four wheels."

"Not much gas in it, sir," the driver pointed out.

"It will be enough. It will have to be.”

Sergeant Woodbine was back with his report. It had not taken him long to circulate among the men because there weren’t many defenders. "We have the Browning, sir, and a box and a half of ammo, which is enough to hold off maybe one more attack.” Woodbine was referring to the .30 caliber Browning M-1919 mounted on the back of the Jeep. “It looks as if the Germans left behind a Panzerfaust. Might come in handy if any armor shows up.”

“Let’s hope to God that doesn't happen," Tolliver said. The thought filled them all with dread. "How are we set for rifle rounds?"

"Most of the men had the standard issue of M-1 rounds, but they've shot some of that."

Being green troops, these soldiers generally carried 96 rounds in stripper clips of eight rounds each. Veterans of the fighting in Normandy had learned the hard way to stuff their pockets with extra ammo and always carried as much as they could.

Not long ago, Cole had nearly run out of ammunition for his Springfield near the Falaise Gap fighting, just as he was confronting a particularly deadly German sniper. That mistake had nearly cost him his life when he went up against that German. He did not plan on running low on ammo again. Not if he could help it. Besides the clips he had taken back from Captain Norton's cartridge belt, he had more ammunition in his haversack.

Cole had grown up in the mountains where one bullet or shotgun shell might be all you needed to bring home supper. The experience had taught him the value of a single bullet, because if he missed, like as not he and his brothers and sisters would go hungry. The thing was, deer and rabbits didn’t shoot back. The Jerries did. Cole patted his pockets one more time just to reassure himself that the ammo was there.

"We have what we have. We've just got to make every shot count," Tolliver said. The general pointed at Cole. "Cole, considering that you are the best goddamn shot I have seen, I want you up high on one of these buildings. You will be our eyes. If you see the Germans coming at us, start shooting the sons of bitches. That's all the warning that we'll need."

"Yes, sir. If it's all right, sir, I want to take Vaccaro here with me. I’ll need a spotter. He can be on the binoculars while I'm on the rifle, just like you were, sir."

"Very well." The general pointed to two more men. "You two start clearing these bodies. Find a cellar to put them into for now."

"What about the Germans, sir?"

"What about them? They can feed the crows, for all I care."

"Yes, sir."

Tolliver issued more orders, singling out two more men. "You and you, get up there where the village starts and keep an eye out. Pick up that Panzerfaust they dropped while you're at it."

"Now, sir?"

"Now, goddammit! The rest of you, stay close for disposition and if you're not doing anything else, keep your eyes on the road for those Jerries. Understood? Now, you all know what to do. Let's get it in gear, people."

"Yes, sir!"

As the two men detailed to remove the bodies moved off, one of them muttered something about Captain Norton not being much of a loss. He’d made the mistake of saying it just loud enough for the general to overhear him. It was the wrong thing to say.

With a shout, the general froze the man in his tracks. "Soldier! I did not know Captain Norton from a hole in the ground, but I will not abide that kind of talk! Every man who died here was a hero, as far as I'm concerned, whether he was an officer or enlisted. Have I made myself clear?”

The soldier snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!”

Sergeant Woodbine stepped forward and gave the soldier a shove in the direction of the bodies to be clear away. "You heard the general. Captain Norton died for his country. Let's show him respect."

"He did indeed die for his country and we honor him for it, just as we honor these other brave men," General Tolliver said. His chastising of the soldier had gotten everyone’s attention. He realized that he had an opportunity here to say something more. He needed to galvanize these men who were not yet a cohesive unit and get them to work together. ”But let me tell you men something else. It's an honor to die for your country, but it's a whole lot better to make the other son of a bitch die for his country instead. That’s what we are going to do from here on out. And we are going to do it together. You may not know the man standing next to you, but by God, you are going to fight for one another. We are all Americans here, and that’s the enemy out there. Now, get to work, goddammit!"

Tolliver hoped it was enough, because they would need more than bullets to stop the Germans. They would need determination.

Their orders received, Cole and Vaccaro started up the street.

"So, that's a general?" Vaccaro said.

"Ain't what I expected," Cole said.

"What did you expect?"

“I expected a prick like Captain Norton, but this old man’s got hisself a backbone. Let’s just see if he can keep us from getting wiped out by the Krauts.”

“What would you say are the odds of that?”

“Right now, I’d say it’s down to a coin toss.”

They looked around for a good place to set up their sniper hide. The village was too small to have any towering structures. None of the buildings was over three stories. Even the village chapel was a squat affair. In this case, however, it wasn't height that mattered but a clear view of the road into the village — and any Germans coming down it.

This meant that they had their pick of houses. Neither one of them particularly looked forward to barging into one of the houses and trying to explain to the frightened residents what they were up to.

"Should have brought Frenchie with us," Vaccaro said.

"I got an idea," Cole said.

He started toward the house into which the French girl had fled. She had interacted with the soldiers enough that she might let them in without a fuss.

Vaccaro saw what he was up to and grinned. "Good choice. I wouldn’t mind seeing that girl again."

"This ain't a social call," he said, and was about to pound his fist against the door, when the door opened.

Clearly, the girl had been watching the activity on the street and had seen them walk up.

Cole looked past her into the house. His first concern was whether or not she was alone. He caught a glimpse of the boy who had come running to warn them about the Germans. The boy stood just behind her, wide-eyed at the sight of the American GI at their door. Cole didn't see anyone else.

The village row house was neat and modest by French standards, although compared to the shack hammered together out of scrap wood and tin that Cole had grown up in back at Gashey's Creek, it was palatial. The door opened into a narrow hallway, which was decorated with an ornate mirror and a table on which sat a vase of fall flowers. The sight of the bright flowers was incongruous compared to the war-torn countryside.

"Entrez vous," she said, and stepped aside.

Cole and Vaccaro went in, with Vaccaro grinning stupidly at the girl. Cole gave him a shove. “C’mon, City Boy. Gawk on your own time.”

Cole pointed at the stairs with his rifle. It was hard to know what the girl thought he was asking, but she stood back and gestured for him to go ahead.

The stairs were narrow, and Cole kept the rifle pointed upwards, just in case there were any surprises. Vaccaro was right behind him. He heard a creak on the stairs below and he spun around, but it was only the boy, trying to follow them. The girl tugged him away and scolded him.

"Kids," Vaccaro muttered. "She looks too young for him to be her brat. I'll bet it's her little brother."

"Do them a favor and tell them to get in the cellar, if they've got one."

"Hidey-vous," Vaccaro said in his best Brooklyn-accented faux French. He pointed downward. The walls of the house were thick, but not thick enough if the Germans started throwing anything serious at them. “La cave.”

Vaccaro spoke French with a thick Brooklyn accent, but the girl seemed to get it. She also pointed at the floor. "La cave," she said, nodding.

“That’s right, honey," Vaccaro said. "La cave. Oui."

She ushered the boy out. They heard the sound of a door opening and closing, and they were alone in the house.

“How do you know them French words?” Cole asked. He was impressed, in spite of himself.

“Where do these people hide their calvados and other booze? Dans la cave. Don’t you pay attention to anything?”

“Shut up, Vaccaro. Let’s go shoot us some Germans.”