Gods & Snipers: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Three

The next morning, Cole and the rest of the squad woke up wet to the bone from the rain. Even the leather of their boots was soaked through. They heard firing in the distance, and the thump of bigger guns that might be tanks or artillery.

"Beautiful morning," Vaccaro said, tugging at his poncho. "What do I want for breakfast? Maybe eggs and bacon, or a nice fresh bagel. How about you, Cole? Bet you could go for some squirrel stew or whatever it is you hillbillies eat for breakfast."

"Biscuits and gravy," Cole said quietly. Between his knees stood the stubby machine gun, as sheltered from the weather as possible. It was against Cole’s nature not to take care of any weapon, even one that he didn’t much like. "Wouldn't that be somethin'? My mama made biscuits and gravy when we had flour and milk. When pa didn’t drink up the money. Everybody got one biscuit and one ladle of gravy and we thought we was kings and queens." Cole shook his head at the memory.

Coming from Cole, that had been quite a speech. Vaccaro seemed about to say something mocking but fell quiet, looking at the far-away look on Cole’s lean face. Vaccaro had never worried about getting enough to eat, but he could see echoes of hunger in Cole’s lean frame. He finally said, ”There’s not gonna be any biscuits and gravy this morning. There’s not even gonna be any hot coffee."

Sergeant Woodbine was moving among the men, reminding them to put on dry socks if they had them and to oil their weapons. It was a fact that an infantryman had to take care of his feet first and foremost. Wet boots, wet socks — it was a surefire path to blisters or even trench foot or frostbite once the weather turned cold.

Captain Norton sat apart from the men, under the relative shelter of a tree branch over which had been rigged a canvas tent half. Of course, Norton hadn’t done the rigging himself but had made his men do it for him.

Leaning against the tree was Cole's rifle. Norton hadn’t bothered to make sure that the Springfield stayed dry. There is was, getting wet in the rain, and it was only with a huge effort that Cole didn’t walk over there and set him straight. The lazy son of a bitch didn’t deserve a pop gun, much less Cole’s rifle.

The captain was huddled over a tiny stove, apparently intent on making himself a hot cup of coffee. The men had to make do with canteen water or attempting to dissolve a packet of instant coffee in a cold cup of water. Captain Norton didn't seem too concerned about rusty weapons and wet feet, so it was hard to say whether Norton had ordered Woodbine to check on the squad or if he had elected to do that himself, which was just the thing a competent sergeant would do.

"You boys good?" Sergeant Woodbine asked, approaching them.

"I could use some bacon and eggs," Vaccaro said. "And some hot coffee. Maybe I'll go ask the captain to share."

Woodbine snorted. "You go ahead and do that," he said. "Just don't ask me for help getting his boot out of your ass."

The sergeant moved off, his comment showing that he didn't necessarily hold Captain Norton in high regard.

Everybody knew that there were good officers and bad officers. But a good sergeant did his duty regardless. He owed the men that much. A few minutes later, when Norton gave the order, Woodbine got everyone up and moving.

In the dawn light, the unit continued moving east. The unit had been cobbled together and it showed in the way that the men drew invisible lines among themselves. There seemed to be a grudging silence hanging over the men. This came from being a unit that was cobbled together, an end result that was more like hamburger or sausage than steak. Cole and Vaccaro, along with the two men from their original squad, had slept apart from the others and eaten their rations together. The other men did the same.

Normally, soldiers from different units got along well enough, even if they didn't work together with the easy familiarity of men who had fought side by side for weeks. These men lacked cohesion. They were missing that element of trust, a bond of brotherhood, that only came from weeks together in the field.

Soldiers from different units were normally happy to trade anything, especially news and Army gossip. But Captain Norton's actions in taking away Cole's rifle had driven a wedge between the two groups. It was bad enough that there were Germans to worry about without dealing with the whims of bad officers, but that was the Army for you.

Cole pushed his thoughts aside and focused on the countryside around them. No sense letting himself get killed over being distracted by Norton. The grease gun wouldn't be much of a defense until the Germans materialized within spitting distance, but his eyes never stopped searching the roadside fields and woods for any threat.

His eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. Captain Norton hadn't bothered to post a guard. When Sergeant Woodbine had suggested it, the captain claimed it wasn’t necessary. Cole and Vaccaro had taken turns sleeping during the night. No matter what the captain said, Cole knew that the Germans wouldn't mind cutting their throats during the night, never mind the fact that they were retreating.

The rain had let up, so that was something.

Summer was giving way to fall. They could feel it in the chill mornings and in the way that the shadows stretched long and dark by late afternoon. Fall always had been Cole's favorite time of year in the mountains.

They were heading east toward the Moselle River. Trouble was, so were several thousand Germans. They couldn't exactly complain that they had not run into any Wehrmacht troops, but the thought of entire German divisions on the move made them uneasy. At any moment, they might run into a rearguard unit — or worse, into a panzer.

Signs of the Germans were everywhere. They passed the ruins of several tanks, reduced to blackened hulks of steel thanks to the P47 Thunderbolts constantly hunting for German columns. They also encountered more than a few dead Germans. Some wore the headgear of tank crew members, and their bodies tended to be badly burned. Either their comrades had been in too much of a hurry to bury them, or maybe there hadn't been anyone left alive to see to the task. The lucky ones now lay in fresh graves in the nearby fields, marked by makeshift crosses.

Some of the men in Captain Norton's unit paused to plunder the bodies. The smell was awful, but that didn't keep them from searching for prized SS insignia or possibly a Luger. Cole and the others looked on with disapproval. Norton should have put a stop to it, but he himself couldn't seem to resist doing his share of plundering. While his men scoured the remains of a tank, Norton bent over a body and removed the dead German's Hundemarken—the Wehrmacht's version of dog tags.

"That's pretty low for an officer," Vaccaro muttered.

"I reckon he’s a ninety-day wonder," Cole replied, referring to the three-month training program that turned recent college graduates into officers. “Not much better than a shavetail.”

A shavetail was derogatory slang for a new lieutenant that referred to an old Army term for untrained mules, back when they had pulled supply wagons. Norton was actually worse than a shavetail because he seemed to know just enough to be confident in his own abilities, and thus, all the more dangerous.

As a result of this fascination with collecting souvenirs, their pace through the countryside was slow and Norton's men were paying more attention to the dead Germans than they were to the possibility that live Germans could appear at any moment and turn them into dead Americans.

Norton's sergeant drifted toward Cole and the other snipers. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, and the fact that he stooped constantly to make himself less of a target gave him a lumbering appearance.

"Dumbasses," he said, nodding at the men poking at the German bodies. "One of those Krauts is gonna be booby-trapped, and then that'll be the end of that."

"Captain ought to put a stop to it," Cole said.

"You try telling him," the sergeant said. He spat. "He ain't gonna listen to me."

"Then he sure as hell won't listen to me," Cole said. "I don't reckon we hit it off too good."

The sergeant made a noise that could have been a laugh, if there had been any mirth in it. "The name's Woodbine," he said.

"I'm Cole. That there's Vaccaro."

"I've been in France since Utah beach. How about you boys?"

"Omaha," Cole said.

Sergeant Woodbine gave a low whistle. "Omaha, huh? I understand that was some shit."

"Didn't nobody get a welcome mat put out for them that day, no matter what beach you was on.” Cole thought about Jimmy Turner, just nineteen years old, machine-gunned by the Germans despite Cole’s efforts to keep him alive. “We done lost a lot of good men that day.”

"You'd be right about that," Woodbine said. He lowered his voice. "Listen, that business about the captain taking your rifle away… well, it just isn't right, but there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Norton makes his own rules."

"Ain't your fault," Cole said. "It is what it is."

"Still, it doesn't mean I agree with it. I said something about it, and he told me to go to hell. You said your name was Cole?" His eyes went to the Confederate flag that Jimmy Turner had painted on Cole’s helmet. The sergeant's eyebrows went up in recognition. "Say, you're that sniper, aren’t you? The one that was in the newspaper? I remember the helmet from the picture.”

Cole looked away. ”I don't know what you're talkin' about."

The sergeant snorted. "Ha! Just how many guys named Cole are there walking around with sniper rifles?”

Vaccaro spoke up. "It's him, all right, Sergeant. You won’t find a better shot in the whole damn Army.”

“Which makes it even dumber that Norton took your rifle away,” Woodbine said. With a frown, he reached into his pocket and produced a roll of medical tape. He tore off a couple of strips and gave them to Cole. “Norton wanted you to cover up that flag, so I’d do just that if I were you. If Norton is happy, then we’ll all be happy.”

Cole slapped the tape haphazardly across the front of the helmet. ”Officers always reckon they know better."

"They do now, don't they? He—" Woodbine started to say more, but was cut short when Cole grabbed the sergeant by the shoulder and shoved him toward the ground. Half a second later, a mortar round exploded in the road ahead. The screaming that followed told them that someone had been hit.

"Germans!" Norton shouted.

Vaccaro snorted. "What the hell did he expect? Vikings?"

They scrambled behind the wrecked hulk of a tank. A couple of bullets pinged off the blackened armor. Captain Norton ran to join them, crouching behind the wrecked tank and figuring out what to do next.

After these many months in France, Norton's men were far from being greenhorns. They hadn't frozen in the road but had scattered toward whatever shelter they could find. The trouble was that they were keeping their heads down, not bothering to shoot back. The man who had been hit by mortar shrapnel lay writhing in the road. There was no hope of helping him, not with the Germans shooting at them.

"I want fire superiority!" the sergeant bellowed. "Take out that mortar position!"

Now that a command had finally been given, the men in the squad responded, opening up on the Germans after the initial moments of confusion.

From the rate of fire from the Germans, it seemed that the GIs had run into a small squad tasked with holding up any pursuing Allied forces. This was definitely not the entire Wehrmacht, but a smaller unit left behind to fight a rear-guard action. That much was a relief. The German position was anchored by an armored Kübelwagen, flipped on its side. Its location at a slight bend in the road gave the Germans a commanding view of any movement on the road. It was the perfect setup for an ambush, and the Americans led by Captain Norton had walked right into it.

Another mortar pounded the road, showering their hiding place with mud. The Germans kept up a steady rifle fire, their shots pinging off the wrecked tank.

"I never thought I'd say it, but it's a good thing the Jerries know how to build a tank," Vaccaro said.

"Can't be more than half a dozen Jerries," Cole replied. "But they got us pinned down right good. I can see that mortar crew from here. Give me your rifle a minute. Let me see if I can pick ‘em off.”

Grinning, Vaccaro started to hand Cole his scoped Springfield.

"What the hell are you doing?"

They turned to find Captain Norton glaring at them.

"Sir?"

"That's your weapon, soldier,” he said to Vaccaro. “You keep that rifle unless I tell you different. Private Cole has his own weapon."

"Yes, sir." With a glance at Cole, Vaccaro took the rifle back. Here they were, pinned down by a handful of Germans, and Norton still had it in for Cole.

It turned out that Norton wasn’t finished. "Besides, he's not the only one around here who can shoot. Now, get the hell out of the way."

Norton put the sniper rifle that he had taken from Cole to his own shoulder. For Cole’s part, it was like seeing another man with your girl. Norton propped it against an edge of the tank's hulk. The Germans were no more than 200 feet away. Even without a scope or binoculars, they could just see the steel-gray helmets of the German mortar crew in their dug-in position. Not that the Germans were an easy target.

As they watched, Norton took a long time lining up the sights. Meanwhile, the Germans got off another mortar round, showering them all with mud and whistling shrapnel.

Finally, Norton fired.

"Did I get one?" he barked excitedly.

"No, sir," replied Sergeant Woodbine, who was watching the German position through binoculars. "Maybe try again?"

“You bet your ass I’ll try again.”

Norton took his time, but his second shot missed, too. He fired again. He hadn't bothered to time his shots to coincide with a mortar round, so that the Germans quickly identified his position. Rifle rounds ricocheted off the ruined tank, so close that Norton had to duck his head. Out in the road, they could hear West calling for help. Bullets erupted in geysers all around him; it was a wonder that he hadn't been hit again.

"Sir, you want me to try?" Cole asked the captain. "I know I can pick 'em off from here."

Norton turned on Cole, his face livid. "Goddammit, Cole! This rifle isn't zeroed in properly. You call yourself a soldier? I ought to transfer you to mess duty."

Cole had a lot to say in response, but he kept his mouth shut. Besides, they had bigger things to worry about. The Germans continued to keep them pinned down. Peering out, Cole could see West writhing in the mud.

"Aww, to hell with it," Cole announced. "You boys cover me."

Without another word, he dashed from behind the wrecked tank, holding the grease gun at hip level and keeping his finger on the trigger as he ran. The burst of fire wasn't accurate, but it was enough to make the Germans keep their heads down.

He reached West and bent down to help him up. West was too big for Cole to carry, but he got West’s arm across his shoulder and managed to half drag, half carry him toward the relative safety of the wrecked tank. Bullets whipped the air and another mortar round hit the road.

"Let 'em have it!" Sergeant Woodbine shouted.

The Americans emptied their M-1s at the Germans, firing furiously enough to buy Cole and West precious seconds. They tumbled behind the panzer, West grunting in agony from the pain of his wounds.

Immediately, Vaccaro went to work on West, giving him a shot of morphine, dousing his wounds with sulfa powder, and wrapping them tight.

Norton sat with his back to the tank, clutching the sniper rifle, and looking white-faced. When the Germans had returned fire, a couple of rounds from their Mausers had passed close enough to his ear that he felt the air vibrant. His legs had involuntarily turned to Jell-O.

"We'll have to work around them, sir," Woodbine said. "There can't be more than a half dozen Jerries up there, but they've got that goddamn road covered."

"Don't you think I know that?" Captain Norton snapped.

The sergeant clapped his mouth shut. "Yes, sir."

Norton started to organize the encirclement, but Cole interrupted.

"Sir—"

"Goddammit, Cole! What the hell is it now?"

"It's the Germans, sir. They ain't there no more."

Norton risked a peek around the tank. The hole that had held the mortar team appeared empty. The soldiers behind the Kübelwagen also seemed to have disappeared.

"They're gone," Norton said. "Guess we chased them off."

Cole wasn’t so sure. The Germans would likely set another ambush ahead. "The thing about Krauts is that the ones you don't kill today, you just have to fight tomorrow."

Norton glared at Cole. "You've got this whole war figured out, huh? Good for you. Now shut the hell up and get a move on."