Chapter Thirteen

Cole limped into the French chateau that served as a forward command post, trailing blood. He looked like hell, and felt about the same. He had scratches on his face from diving for cover in the field. Blood covered his uniform. He took off his helmet that was decorated with the Confederate flag, revealing hair that was matted to his head with sweat. He could smell himself.

Vaccaro lurched in behind him, not looking much better. He was more than a little shaken that some German sniper had gotten the better of Cole.

It was full dark by now. The fighting had knocked out any electricity, so the command post was lighted by a few candles that wavered in the evening breeze. A kerosene lantern was smoking up the interior. Only vestiges of the chateau’s grandeur remained, such as the high ceilings and finely carved woodwork. The Germans had looted most everything of value, leaving behind echoing rooms, cracked walls, and peeling paint. The dim, flickering light emphasized Cole's battered and hollow-eyed countenance.

Lieutenant Mulholland saw them and hurried over.

"What the hell happened to you guys?" the lieutenant asked, looking alarmed.

"We got shot at."

Mulholland grabbed for Cole's arm, turned him toward what light there was, and winced at the sight of the bloody furrow cut by the enemy sniper's bullet. "Dammit, Cole. You of all people are not supposed to get shot. If the Germans can shoot you, then they can shoot anybody."

"I hate to break this to you, sir, but I sure as hell ain't bulletproof." Cole sank to the stone floor along one wall. He noticed that the room was so big that the cabin in Gashey’s Creek would fit inside.

The lieutenant hovered over him like a mother hen. He decided that maybe he had been wrong about Mulholland wanting to get rid of him. Some officers had gathered in a corner and were waving at Mulholland, so he gave Cole a pat on his good shoulder and promised to be back.

Vaccaro grabbed a canteen from a nearby soldier. Cole tilted it up and guzzled water, the muscles of his throat working under the surface like pistons. He drank until the canteen ran dry.

"Let me see that shoulder," Vaccaro said. He bent down and unbuttoned Cole's jacket and shirt, then eased it off. The fabric was stiff with dried blood. He got a rag, wet it, and dabbed at Cole's wound to get a look at the damage. He whistled.

"Bet that hurts like hell," he said.

"I've seen worse," Cole said. He craned his neck to inspect the wound, wincing at the sight of the raw flesh.

"You know what? Another couple of inches to the right and your head would be missing."

"You got a real bedside manner, City Boy."

"Let me get the medic over here to fix you up."

"I don't need a goddamn medic. I need a drink."

"Looks to me like you could use both."

Vaccaro left in search of a medic and some alcohol, leaving Cole sitting there alone. Now that he was back in the relative safety of the command post, a thousand thoughts swirled through his mind, not the least of which was that he was lucky to be alive. You didn't almost get killed without dwelling on that.

Sure, he'd only been grazed across the shoulder. That wouldn't even get him a Purple Heart — as if he gave a damn about such things. But it hurt like hell. Most important of all, the German sniper had gotten a piece of him. That shoulder hadn’t been much of a target. Cole guessed that the target he had presented wasn't any bigger than a playing card, and yet the German had managed to hit him from that barn.

The German sniper was that good, and it was unnerving.

He had already dealt with one nasty German sniper named Von Stenger. They'd had a showdown in a flooded field outside the little French crossroads town of Bienville. That was the same encounter in which Jolie Molyneaux had been shot.

He did not know whether or not Von Stenger had survived their final encounter. It seemed unlikely, but Cole couldn't be one hundred percent sure. If Von Stenger still lived, it wasn't from lack of effort on Cole's part.

But something about today's encounter had him thinking that it wasn't Von Stenger that he had run across. Snipers had a style, and this one's style was different. He and Von Stenger had a history, and Cole was certain that the German wouldn't have let him crawl out of there alive. He would have made sure to finish the job, one way or another. Von Stenger knew better than to let Cole live to fight another day.

The only conclusion Cole could reach was that this must be a different sniper. Just as deadly, and just as much of a marksman as his old adversary.

He shook his head, feeling like a kicked dog. What was it with these Germans? What made them so ruthless? Give them a rifle with a telescopic sight, and they were all a bunch of goddamn killers.

Cole reached for the full canteen that Vaccaro had left behind and found that his hand was shaking. He had been through D-Day and then the fight at Bienville without getting the shakes. He wrapped both hands around the canteen in order to lift it to his lips.

Vaccaro returned with the medic, who was instantly recognizable by the red cross in a white circle on his helmet and the white armband with its red cross on his left arm.

"Let's have a look," the medic said. The poor guy looked exhausted, as if he might fall asleep on his feet.

"It ain't nothin'," Cole said. "Jest a scratch."

"Some scratch," the medic said, then set about cleaning and binding the wound. He coated it heavily with sulfa powder. He was so intent on Cole's wound that he only noticed the rifle with its telescopic sight propped against the wall as he finished up. "Sniper, huh?" Then he studied Cole's face more intently. "Hey, you're the guy I read about."

"If you say so," Cole said noncommittally.

Vaccaro spoke up. "Yeah, he's the one. Got a story written about him by none other than Ernie Pyle. How's that for famous?"

"I'd ask for your autograph if I had a pen." To Cole's surprise, the medic seemed to mean it. "Shoot a Kraut for me, will ya?"

Cole said nothing.

"You've lost some blood, so be sure to drink lots of water and make sure you get something to eat. Sugar would be good for starters. You'll need to keep that dressing dry, and stay off your feet for a few days if possible."

"I appreciate the thought, pardner," Cole said. "But in case you ain't noticed, there's a war on."

"I hear you," the medic said. "But it's my job to say it, right? You know, in the German army, if you suffer a flesh wound or get shot through the meat of your leg, you get five days to recuperate. That's the rule in the Wehrmacht. Then, it's back to the front."

"Does this look like the German army to you?"

"What I'm sayin' is, the Krauts have their backs against the wall and they still give their soldiers five days to recover." He nodded at the bandaged shoulder. "If that wound of yours festers, you'll be out of commission for a lot longer."

"Like I said, thanks for the advice."

The medic finished and moved off to help the next man; there was no shortage of patients.

Vaccaro had managed to find Cole a fresh shirt — one that was only slightly used — and helped him put it on. For now, Cole would have to make do with his bloody jacket.

"What do you think that medic meant with all that talk about wounded Germans?" Cole asked. "Whose side is he on?"

"Don't get your shorts in a twist, Hillbilly. He was just trying to help."

"You didn't have to tell him about the newspaper article."

"Hey, he recognized you from the photo. See, you're getting to be famous. I saved you a copy of that newspaper story, by the way," Vaccaro said. "I can't believe you didn't want to read it."

"Why in hell would I want to read about myself?"

"Here, take my copy. It will give you something to do while you recuperate." Vaccaro reached into his pocket and took out a scrap of newspaper, carefully folded and wrapped in plastic to keep it protected from the mud and rain.

Cole shook his head. "I'm too tired to fool with that right now."

"Go on, take it."

"Do I look like I've got time to read?"

"Suit yourself." Vaccaro put the paper away. He reached into another pocket and this time pulled out a flask. "I know he put some sulfa powder on that arm, but this will help cure you on the inside."

"What is this stuff?"

"Calvados." Vaccaro grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "Otherwise known as French moonshine. That ought to make you feel right at home."

"Moonshine my ass." Still, Cole took a swig. And another. The apple brandy that was a specialty of Normandy went down a lot easier than any moonshine Cole had tasted. He drank deeply again.

"Careful now, Hillbilly. Between the booze and that flesh wound there, some officer might court martial you under Article 92."

"Yeah? What's that?" If there was one thing that Cole knew about the Army, it was that it never tired of rules and regulations. The Army had more rules than a witch had warts.

"Cole, how do you get through this world being such an ignorant hillbilly?" Vaccaro reached for the flask, took a pull, gave it back. "Article 92 concerns dereliction of duty by rendering oneself unfit by self-inflicted wounds or drunkenness."

"Shee-it. Article 92? You sound like a lawyer." Cole drank. He had not eaten much, and he could feel the liquor go right to his head. "Like to see 'em try to pin that on me."

After another couple of drinks, he attempted to get to his feet. His shoulder felt sore as hell but he didn't need it to walk, and he didn't need his left shoulder to shoot. In other words, there wasn't going to be any dereliction of duty.

He took two shuffling steps like an old man, ignoring the pain. He stumbled, knocking painfully against a pile of wooden crates that someone had brought in to fuel the fireplace. Angrily, he grabbed one of the crates using his good arm and smashed it to the ground. It felt so good to smash something that he grabbed another crate and turned it into kindling.

Nearby, an officer looked up in irritation. "Knock it off, soldier."

Cole thought about bashing the next crate over the officer's head, and he might have, if he hadn't felt a hand on his arm.

"Easy there, Cole," Vaccaro said. "Let's get some chow, and then maybe some sleep."

Cole shrugged off Vaccaro's hand. The motion made him wince. "I'm fine, goddammit."

"You'll feel better once you eat. Remember what that medic said."

Mostly, they had subsisted on K rations for the last few days. But the cooks had gone to work in the chateau's old kitchen, which was like something out of the last century, complete with soapstone counters and a stone sink. There was hot coffee, and spaghetti. It smelled delicious, and Vaccaro got plates for them both. Cole's hand shook as he took the plate.

Vaccaro couldn't help but notice. "What's gotten into you?"

"Nothin'," Cole responded.

The look that Vaccaro gave him indicated that he didn't believe it for a minute.

Normally, Vaccaro thought, Cole was cool as ice. Nothing much rattled his cage. Now, he was smashing things and trying to eat with shaking hands. What the hell was wrong with him? That German sniper had really gotten to him.

Vaccaro was wise enough to leave Cole alone. The two men ate in silence. When they were finished, Vaccaro said, "Get some sleep, Hillbilly. You'll feel better in the morning. I'll talk to the lieutenant. Maybe he can get you sent to the rear for a day or two."

"Like hell," Cole said. "In the morning, I am going after that Kraut son of a bitch who shot me."

Vaccaro looked at him incredulously. "Hillbilly, we just got our asses kicked by that German. Don't be in any hurry to find him again."

"Don't worry, City Boy. That German ain't gonna be so lucky the second time around.”

Cole had spoken with more bravado than he felt. The truth was that some feelings you didn't shake — like getting shot. Vaccaro was right. That German had damn near killed him, and would've killed Vaccaro too. It had been a while since Cole had encountered anyone that good. They were lucky to be alive.

Since coming ashore on D-Day, Cole had grappled with a whole whirlwind of emotions, from fear to anger to loss. He had seen too many good men die.

But now he felt a gnawing doubt. Somewhere out there was a German sniper who had almost killed him today. Cole felt like he'd been lucky. What if they met again? What about the next German sniper? Had Cole just been lucky all this time in France? Luck eventually burned out, like a candle.

The question was, had Cole's luck truly run out, or had he simply met his match today?

He was half drunk now, and dizzy with exhaustion. On the way to the door, he shoved a soldier out of the way. The man rounded on him angrily, saw the expression on Cole's face, and walked away. Cole had shoved a man, but it felt like he was shoving the thoughts out of his mind.

Cole was a survivor. He had grown up in a mountain shack without electricity or running water. He had known cold and hunger. Yet he had endured.

He thought of his pa, who had every trait in common with a rattlesnake when he'd been drinking corn liquor. When he was sober, pa had taught him what it meant to survive in the mountains. His knowledge was considerable. If he'd been born a hundred years earlier, pa would have been a real mountain man like the Coles who had come before. Instead, he had mostly been a moonshiner, but pa had known more about the woods and mountains than anyone alive.

Pa had always said that when you were cold, when there were miles to go, when maybe there was something tracking you instead of the other way around, well, you could whine and be afraid all you wanted. Being afraid didn't do a bit of good. The mountain sure as hell didn't give a damn.

"You got to get your dander up, boy. You want to live, you got to fight."

Cole thought about that now.

"I'll get that son of a bitch and nail his Nazi hide to the barn door."

Vaccaro snorted. "Look at you, Cole. You're a mess. You can hardly walk, and you want to go after the Kraut who did this to you? You are one crazy son of a bitch."

Cole couldn't argue with that. He spread some blankets on the ground and tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he relived that moment of getting hit. Finally, he just lay awake, thinking of the mountains back home.

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