Gods & Snipers: A World War II Thriller

Epilogue

Once they were sure that the Germans wouldn't be back, the surviving defenders and villagers began to let their guard down. Everyone had about a quart of adrenalin running through their veins. Hands shook as they tried to smoke cigarettes or take a swig from a bottle. The aftermath of every fight was the same. Exhaustion would soon follow.

The fate of the defeated Germans was hard to determine. There couldn't have been more than a dozen men left with that German general. They would either surrender, find another river crossing, or fight to the end until they were wiped out once the Allied planes got back in the air. Nobody really cared what awaited the Krauts, so long as they left the village alone.

As the fires in the burning barricade died down, the people of Ville sur Moselle began to emerge from their homes to survey the damage.

An older woman saw Cole standing there alone and held out a basket of food and a bottle of wine. He slung his rifle and accepted the food with a grateful nod.

"The Germans are gone for good!" someone shouted in French. The ragged cheer that followed was feeble and short-lived. The ensuing silence was punctuated by the crackling from the fires and the sound of a woman sobbing.

"Mon deu," an older man muttered, looking around at the smoldering barricade, the shattered windows, and a few bodies sprawled on the cobblestones. Their peaceful village had largely been spared from the war — until now.

A woman cried over the body of a middle-aged man, who had died clutching his shotgun. Nearby lay a dead German. Cole walked over and looked down at the German. He was no more than nineteen or twenty, his blue eyes staring and a vivid red pool of blood surrounding him. Judging by the proximity of the bodies, it seemed apparent that one had shot the other.

Cole shook his head. He wasn't one to dwell much on what this war meant, or the cost of it, because his job was to fight the war. But it was hard to ignore this tableau. Cole did not think much about consequences in the middle of a battle but now he took time for reflection.

The young soldier should have had girls to make love to, lager to drink, an entire life to live, but all that was gone now. The older man might have had grandchildren someday to bounce on his knee and his plump wife to keep him warm on winter nights. Just two more lives lost in the wastefulness of a war in which millions had already died.

Tomorrow, it would be somebody else's turn to die. Maybe even Cole's.

He put his hand on his rifle and smiled grimly to himself. If he could, he sure as hell would make sure that some German son of a bitch would die instead.

"Sergeant Woodbine, put together a detail to clear out the dead," Tolliver said. "See if you can get any of the villagers to help. I want our men posted as sentries, just in case those Jerries do come back."

"Yes, sir," Woodbine said, and saw to it.

While the damage and loss were significant, Cole knew that it could have been much worse. He had seen how other towns in the path of the fighting had been utterly destroyed by artillery or Allied planes — usually as they tried to root out German defenders. Here, there had been no artillery shells or even tanks to take a toll. The fighting had been limited to rifles and a few machine guns and grenades. Still, it was enough.

Nearby, General Tolliver was talking with Vaccaro and some of the other men. He gave orders for them to report to Woodbine for sentry duty or burial detail. Then he came marching purposefully toward Cole, with Vaccaro following the general at a respectful distance.

"Cole, goddammit, why didn't you tell me the whole story about what happened at that bridge?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, sir.” Earlier, Cole had given the general a brief rundown of events at the bridge.

“You told me that you attempted to blow up that bridge by setting off the charges with a grenade, but that the plane beat you to it.”

"Yes, sir."

"You didn't explain that the grenade was still attached to a German engineer who was placing charges under the bridge. Vaccaro filled me in on that little detail, along with a couple of others. Vaccaro said you fired at the same time the plane did, so there’s an even chance that your bullet took out the bridge. What have you got to say about that?”

"Lucky shot, sir."

"Cole, I think there is exactly one soldier in the United States Army who could make that shot, and I am looking at him. Even if you are a peckerwood."

"Thank you, sir." Cole grinned. "I reckon."

"From now on, though, don't go blowing up any bridges against orders. Not every general is as forgiving as I am.”

"Yes, sir." Cole paused. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

"We're lucky you showed up when you did, sir. You saved this village. You saved us. You stopped the Germans, bridge or no bridge."

Tolliver grunted. "You know what? I'm just a bean counter, Cole. For most of this war I’ve been a pencil pusher polishing a chair."

"I heard a rumor to that effect, but I wouldn’t have believed it. I’d say you make a mighty fine general, sir. Then again, what the hell would I know? I'm just an ignorant peckerwood, like you said."

The general shook his head and walked off. But he was grinning.

Vaccaro had hovered close enough to hear the exchange, and he came up to Cole. "I had to tell him. He said that he'd put you in for a medal, but nobody would believe it."

"I don't hardly believe it myself. Let's go see how ol' Frenchie is doin'.

They walked over to the aid station. The rooms of Margot's small house now overflowed with wounded, with the furniture shoved out of the way or even carried into the street to make room. Other villagers had come to help. There were only a few GIs among the wounded — there hadn't been that many to begin with. Most of the injured were villagers who had come to the defense of the village or who had been caught in the crossfire. There were even a couple of badly wounded German soldiers. Although they were the enemy, they were clearly suffering and in pain, so it was hard to have anything but compassion for them.

Fortunately, an actual doctor was on the scene. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, he went from person to person, staunching wounds and administering morphine from the Americans' limited supply.

Frenchie was among the walking wounded. With his arm tightly bandaged, he was doing his best as a one-armed medic. More importantly, he was also translating between the wounded Americans and the French doctor.

"How you feeling, Frenchie?" Vaccaro asked.

"Hurting some," he said, wincing as he lifted his arm. "But I'm a lot better off than most of these people. I got sulfa on there and it's wrapped up tight, plus I had a couple swigs of calvados."

"Morphine?"

Frenchie shook his head. "Others here need it more, and we don't have that much. Besides, I'll be useless if I take a hit of that stuff. I'm going to do what I can to help the doctor."

"Where did he come from?" Vaccaro wondered, nodding at the doctor.

"Turns out he lives out in the countryside. He slipped into town once the fighting was over, to see how he could help."

Cole and Vaccaro nodded. Like most American soldiers, they appreciated the fact that in the process of fighting the Germans, they were also liberating the French, who were basically a defeated and occupied people. When you thought about it, Cole found it amazing that the Germans had conquered a country as vast and powerful as France in less than six weeks.

Americans ought to take lesson from that, he thought. You never wanted to get too comfortable or soft as a people. Then again, it was hard to imagine enemy troops conquering the Tennessee or Kentucky hills. More than a few Americans still owned guns and knew how to shoot them, thank God.

Still, it felt good to give the French their freedom back, returning a national favor that went all the way back to the Marquis de Lafayette and the American Revolution. However, the soldiers’ opinions of the French weren’t always positive because many had accepted the Germans and even collaborated with them. Cole found it refreshing to see the French doctor doing what he could for the American wounded.

Margot came bustling past with an armload of bandages, but when she caught sight of Frenchie, she paused long enough to press close to him, hip to hip, and the look that passed between them was unmistakable. If Margot and Frenchie were not already lovers, then they were about to be. There were enough sparks there to start a forest fire. For a moment, they both seemed completely oblivious to their surroundings.

The spell was broken only when Margot turned to Cole and said something to him in French. He looked at Frenchie, who translated: “Margot says that she hasn’t seen you since you went into the forest to look for her brother this morning. She wants to know if you found any sign of them.”

Cole could hardly believe so much had happened in one day. He had gone into the woods shortly after dawn. The gloom of the day had thickened, indicating that it was getting close to evening.

Along with Margot, Vaccaro and Frenchie both looked at Cole expectantly.

"I didn't find her brother," Cole said, after a moment’s hesitation. "I did find Pierre, the village mayor. He and those other men were hell-bent on joining the Resistance, so I don't expect you will see them back anytime soon.”

Frenchie interpreted, and Margot received Cole’s report with an exasperated sigh.

"Ce vieil imbécile!" Margot said, although her voice held a tinge of pride. She asked another question.

“She said Pierre is an old fool,” Frenchie said. "But what about Marcus and his friend?"

"Pierre told me them boys done run off to Paris," Cole said, and Frenchie passed on the news.

"Paris!" Margot exclaimed.

"Oui, Paris," Cole said. He told Frenchie, "Some Resistance fighters came by in a truck, and said they were going to help liberate the city. They asked them boys if they wanted to go along. I reckon they're halfway there by now."

Frenchie explained to Margot, who nodded, wiped away a few tears, and smiled. She said something that Cole couldn't understand, and once again Frenchie translated.

"She said those crazy boys won't want to come home once they get to the big city, but maybe it will be better for them there than in a little village. I told her that maybe they'll send a postcard once they get there."

"Gonna be a long time before any mail gets through," Cole pointed out. "But she can rest easy knowing her kid brother is on his way to Paris."

Someone cried out in pain, and both Margot and Frenchie broke away to help. Cole and Vaccaro gladly left the sounds and smells of the makeshift hospital behind and walked outside.

Back in the village square, Vaccaro turned and looked at Cole. "Those boys didn't really go to Paris, did they?"

"No," Cole said. "The Germans found them in the woods and killed them, along with Pierre and the others.”

Vaccaro absorbed that news, then nodded. "So now, you’ve fixed it so that Margot is always going to think that her brother is alive somewhere, maybe off in Paris, too busy having adventures to write home. She’ll always wonder what happened to him, but she’ll have hope."

"I reckon she will."

"You're a good man, Caje Cole."

Cole slung his rifle. "Don't let word get out.”

Any chance of the clouds finally lifting for good disappeared when a fog drifted up from the river. Just before nightfall, they heard the sound of vehicles on the road toward town. The remaining GIs scrambled to take up defensive positions, so tired that they felt as if they were running through concrete instead of the misty air. They had hoped against hope that the Germans were done, but exhausted as they were, they prepared to fight back.

"Hold your fire, boys!" General Tolliver shouted, although he had drawn his .45. Like the others, he had detected a difference in the sound of the approaching vehicles. German and American motors had different sounds to them. But there was no ignoring the fact that they were also hearing the ominous clanking sound that could only be a tank or half-track. If a Panzer came up the road, they were done for. "Make sure it's the Jerries before you shoot!"

What came into sight was not a German vehicle, but a Sherman tank. The name “Beast” was painted prominently on the side, along with a caricature of a hairy monster. Maybe a werewolf? Tolliver stepped out into the road and waved. The tank hatch opened and the tank commander's head popped out.

Although Tolliver wore no insignia, he had the swagger of an officer. Two days ago, he had moved and acted more like the administrative pencil pusher that he claimed to be.

"Where are we, sir?" the tank commander shouted. "We've been following this road for two hours and we don't know if we're still within our own lines."

"Who are you, son?"

"Second Armored Division, when we're not lost."

"General Tolliver," the general said. Upon hearing that the officer in front of him was a general, the tank commander's eyes visibly widened. He forgot battlefield protocol and pulled his arm out of the tank hatch to salute.

"Sir!"

"You're not lost anymore, Sergeant. You are in American lines. We hold this village," Tolliver said. "You don't know how glad I am to say that. Almost as glad as I am to see that Sherman."

"There's more behind me, sir. What do you want us to do?"

"We are going to figure out a way across this river, Sergeant. And then we're going to kill us some more Germans."

"Yes, sir!"

A chunk of the bridge span was destroyed, but the villagers and local farmers were a resourceful bunch once Tolliver explained what he needed. The next morning, huge timbers and planks were hauled into place, bridging the gap created by the blast.

Cole went down there to see how the bridge was going to be pieced together, but he had another purpose, as well. He was hoping to find some evidence that the German sniper had died in the explosion. Several enemy bodies had been found in the debris on the bridge, and these had been carried to the side of the road leading to the bridge for burial. The German sniper was not among them. A few bodies had washed up along the shoreline, and Cole scanned these, but the sniper wasn’t there.

Cole figured that the sniper had gone into the river and his body had been carried downstream. Cole doubted that anyone could have survive the explosion, but he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe, that German sniper had more luck than he deserved. The critter deep down inside him growled uneasily.

He heard a tank approaching, and stood by to watch it pass. The resulting makeshift bridge was rickety, and it creaked and groaned ominously, but it was enough for a single tank to pass across the Moselle.

One by one, the handful of tanks that had arrived in Ville sur Moselle made their way across the river. They were followed by Tolliver's Jeep and the remaining GIs, including Vaccaro and Cole. Frenchie had been ordered to stay behind and help the wounded until they could be evacuated to the nearest field hospital. By some miracle, West still clung to life and there was some hope that he would make it now.

German forces continued their retreat toward the Fatherland and the vaunted Western Wall of defense. That, too, would fall in time as Allied forces pursued the battered Wehrmacht and SS troops.

After the intense fighting that had separated units and even individual men, some of the confusion was sorted out. Cole and Vaccaro found themselves reunited with Lieutenant Mulholland and were assigned to sniper duty. Orders came down for General Tolliver to rejoin headquarters and get back to supply and logistics, which Cole thought was a shame. But orders were orders, and as with most things in the Army, it was likely that there were some politics involved. But no matter. It was enough to know that somewhere back at headquarters, there was a bean-counting supply officer who had risen to the occasion to make a fine battlefield general, commanding like a god on earth.

The weather turned colder. Cole and the others awoke in the French autumn mornings to a layer of frost on their helmets and gear. The sun rarely shone, but the weather cleared enough for the Allied planes to unleash their holy wrath on the Germans. As they trudged west, Cole could begin to see the outline of real hills on the horizon. The country grew steep and rugged, with dense pine forests. He was reminded of the mountains back home.

"These are called the Ardennes," Vaccaro said. "Real mountains. I hope to hell we don't have to cross them. One good thing is that the Germans won't come back at us through there. The terrain is too rough."

Cole studied the brooding hills, some of them already dusted with snow from the coming winter. "We'll see," he said.