Gods & Snipers: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Leaving the river, they made their way back into town, following the stone wall for whatever cover it provided. They had no way of knowing how far the Germans might have advanced. For all that Cole knew, the town could have fallen and they were walking right into what might now be German lines. Behind them, a pall of dust and smoke still hung in the air above the shattered bridge. They advanced carefully, keeping an eye out for Germans.

They soon reached the center of town, where the situation balanced on a knife's edge. While Cole, Vaccaro, and Frenchie had been down at the river, the Germans had overrun the second line of defense. The first barricade that had been made up of everything from furniture to mattresses was still burning, sending pillars of smoke into the overcast sky. Maybe the smoke had gotten the attention of that passing plane. The air in town smelled strongly of burning household goods and gunpowder.

The fighting in town was now alley to alley, and house to house. Staccato bursts of fire were punctuated with the deep booms of hand grenades and single rifle shots. Somewhere, a woman's cry of terror ended in a blood-curdling shriek.

"The Jerries must have seen the bridge go up in smoke," Vaccaro said. "You'd think that they'd give up."

"Bridge or not, they'll still want to get across that river, even if they have to swim," Cole said. "As far as the Jerries are concerned, we're all that's standing between them and Germany."

"I didn't like that scream," Frenchie said. "Let's see how Margot is doing at the aid station."

Before Cole or Vaccaro could say otherwise, Frenchie was running up the street, his boots pounding across the cobblestones. A burst of fire hit the stones near his feet and Frenchie stumbled, but kept going. Cole and Vaccaro had no choice but to go after him, rifles at the ready.

The door to Margot's house stood open. The interior now looked more than ever like a hospital, with wounded soldiers and villagers occupying the floors and furniture. Most were too badly injured to fight. One or two stared with open eyes, far beyond any hope of medical care. Margot, however, was nowhere to be seen. From the second floor, they heard shouting.

"Upstairs!" Frenchie shouted, and went bounding up the steps two at a time.

A German soldier suddenly appeared at the upstairs landing. He aimed a rifle at Frenchie, who with his bandaged arm, could only fumble for his own weapon.

"Down!" shouted Cole, who was right behind him on the stairs.

Frenchie dropped to his knees, and Cole fired over his head at the German, who slumped in a heap in the landing. Cole shot him again for good measure.

An instant later, Frenchie was back on his feet and running into one of the bedrooms. No sooner had he disappeared from sight, but there came the sound of a gunshot from the room, then a scream.

Cole ducked around the doorway, keeping low. He saw three things at once: Margot holding a fireplace poker, Frenchie collapsed in a heap, and a German soldier swinging a rifle in Cole's direction. He fired at Cole, but the bullet struck just over his head. Cole fired his own rifle and missed. That was the last shot in his clip. He tossed the Springfield at the German, who ducked reflexively. Then Cole drew his Bowie knife and launched himself at the German.

In two slashing strokes, the fight was over. The German fell to the floor, clutching at his wounds but still alive, and Cole kicked his rifle away.

He joined Margot, who was kneeling beside Frenchie.

"Winged me," Frenchie said through gritted teeth.

Cole could see that Frenchie was partially correct. The bullet had hit him in the arm that was already bandaged. But it was a lot worse than a flesh wound. Margot grabbed a pillowcase and attempted to stop the fresh bleeding.

"Dammit, kid. You could have waited."

"I was worried about Margot."

Cole glanced over at the German he had knifed. His eyes stared. He was gone.

Cole had never killed anyone with a knife before. He could clearly remember the way that the blade felt, slicing through flesh. That slightly wet resistance of flesh. The thought made him shudder. He was glad that the German was dead and not him, no regrets there, but killing with the knife was not something that he was eager to do again. Cole was a hunter, but he was no butcher.

Behind him, he heard Vaccaro pounding up the stairs. He came into the room, breathing hard. "All clear downstairs — at least for now. The town is crawling with Krauts." He looked down at Frenchie, took in the blood-soaked bandage. "Aw, for Christ's sake, Frenchie. What have you gone and done?"

Margot was busy securing the makeshift bandage tightly. She let loose with a stream of angry French, directed at her patient.

"What's she saying?" Cole asked.

Frenchie said, "She says that I'm an idiot, but that I'll live."

"That's one smart woman. You better hang onto her, Frenchie."

Margot bent down and kissed Frenchie full on the mouth.

Cole and Vaccaro looked at each other. Frenchie was a fast operator.

"I reckon that's for medicinal purposes," Cole grunted.

"Some guys have all the luck," Vaccaro said. "That is, if you can count getting twice shot in the arm lucky."

"Come on, let's get him downstairs with the others," Cole said. "Looks to me like Margot here has plenty of wounded to attend to."

With Cole taking the shoulders and Vaccaro taking the feet, they carried Frenchie down the stairs. Margot fussed over them, and they got Frenchie settled on a carpet on the parlor floor. It looked as if he was in a lot of pain, but that he was going to live.

Cole straightened up. He inserted a fresh clip into the Springfield rifle. "Now if you will excuse us, mademoiselle, we got us some German ass to whip."

Vaccaro said doubtfully, "Maybe we ought to hang back here in case more Germans show up."

"Come on, City Boy. We ain't gonna hole up here. We're gonna take the fight to them."

Cole ducked low and ran out the door, giving Vaccaro no choice but to follow.

On the main street, everything was in chaos. They spotted Sergeant Woodbine and General Tolliver behind the village fountain, engaged in a hot firefight with a couple of Germans who were using an overturned vegetable cart for cover. Woodbine kept up a steady fire with his M-1, while the general banged away with a .45. The Germans had not spotted Cole or Vaccaro coming out of the makeshift aid station, but were focused on pouring fire at the men behind the fountain. In unison, Cole and Vaccaro raised their rifles and shot the Germans. Tolliver looked their way and acknowledged them with a nod.

Cole looked around, taking stock. Down the street, a German was shooting from the upstairs window of a house, using his vantage point to keep the defenders pinned down with his machine pistol. His suppressing fire was enabling other Germans to get through the barricades and spread out through the town. Pretty soon, Ville sur Moselle would be in German hands.

"This way, City Boy."

They ran toward the house sheltering the German, keeping close to the other houses for cover. Cole juked into the street and dropped to one knee, shooting into the window. Vaccaro kept going, tossing a grenade through the door of the house to clear out any downstairs defense. With smoke still billowing out, he barged through the door.

Cole fired again at the window, not sure if he had hit the German. His answer came a moment later, when he saw a muzzle flash in the window and a smatter of bullets stitched its way toward him. He rolled, desperate for cover, but he was caught out in the open. Another couple of seconds, and he would be in that German's sights.

The window suddenly exploded outward, glass and wood showering the street. The Jerry machine gunner slumped in the window frame. His head lolled forward, and his Stahlhelm clattered to the street below, revealing the dead soldier's blond hair. Then Vaccaro's ugly mug appeared in the window, and the City Boy gave him the finger.

Cole couldn't help but grin.

Without the machine gunner’s suppressing fire, the Germans lost their foothold in the village. The attackers seemed to have reached some kind of high tide, but now the tide was receding.

Cole made his way toward the fountain in the village square sheltering Sergeant Woodbine and General Tolliver. From the get-go, that fountain had been a natural command post. Cole's dive toward the cobblestones had done something to his knee, and he limped toward them.

Tolliver straightened up from his shooting stance and holstered the .45, then put his hands on his hips, glaring at Cole. If Cole had expected some praise for helping to turn the tide of battle in the village, he could see that he was sadly mistaken.

"What the hell happened, Cole? You let the Jerries blow up the bridge! I could see the smoke and debris from here. It looked like Vesuvius erupting."

Cole wasn't sure who or what Vesuvius was, but he planned on telling it to the general like he saw it. He was a straight shooter in more ways than one. "That goddamn bridge was more trouble than it was worth, sir. A whole unit of SS was coming at us from yonder side of the Moselle. They wired that bridge to explode, and then they were fixin' to hit our position. Back home, that's what they call bein' between a rock and a hard place."

"Are you telling me that the Jerries blew up that bridge before they crossed it?" the general asked, incredulous. "That doesn't make sense."

"I reckon the Jerries planned to blow it up after they wiped us out and got the Wehrmacht troops across. I thought that I’d beat them to it. As it turns out, those SS troops were on that bridge when it blew."

"So what happened?"

The general stared at him. "Just how the hell did you plan on blowing up that bridge, son?"

"With a grenade, sir. However, I reckon that plane beat me to it."

Cole didn't see any point in a belabored explanation. General Tolliver was still staring at him, as if expecting more. Finally, he reached out and smacked Cole's helmet. He was grinning. "You are such a goddamn hillbilly, aren't you, Cole? I like that. I'm not happy about losing that bridge, but if a squad of SS went with it, I guess that's something."

He motioned Cole to follow him, and the two joined Sergeant Woodbine, who stood behind the fountain, rifle at the ready. But the fighting seemed to be over.

The Germans were now in full retreat, moving past the barricades and pulling out of the village. The remaining defenders might have whooped and hollered at the sight, if it hadn't been for the fact that they were so bloodied and battered. The fight for Ville sur Moselle had been tooth and nail at the end, leaving the defenders exhausted.

Through the smoke, they caught a glimpse of a Kübelwagen driving off. It might have been limping, if it was possible for a vehicle to do such a thing. Standing in the back, directing the retreat with a few shouts and a wave of his arms, was the German general.

Instantly, Cole put his rifle to his shoulder, thinking that he’d never shot a general. At least, not that he knew about. He couldn’t pass up such a good target. The vehicle was no more than three hundred feet away and moving slowly. He placed the reticule slightly ahead of the general and moved it to match the vehicle's speed. His finger began to take up tension on the trigger.

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. Surprised, he broke away from the rifle scope to find General Tolliver watching the German retreat. He gave Cole's shoulder a squeeze.

"Let him go," the general said.

"Sir?" Cole still had the rifle at his shoulder, ready to acquire the target. The wind changed direction and whipped acrid smoke at them, making Cole's eyes water. In another few seconds, the vehicle would go around the bend in the road and be out of sight.

"Stand down, son." When Cole didn't obey right away, Tolliver added, "That's an order. Those are Wehrmacht troops, not SS. The general is just doing his duty, same as we are."

Cole lowered the rifle, blinking the smoke out of his eyes, and when he looked again, the German vehicle was gone.

The final battle for Ville sur Moselle was over, and against all odds, they had won.