For Cole and the rest of the squad, the next town that came into view around a bend in the road was Arnouthbourg.
"At least, that's what the map says," Lt. Mulholland explained. “I don’t know how to pronounce it. I also don't know how the good people of this particular town feel about American GIs, so keep your eyes peeled."
The squad approached cautiously, with the snipers leading the way. Since early April their squad had not encountered any serious resistance from German units. Most German soldiers with a lick of sense had tossed aside their weapons, changed out of their Wehrmacht uniforms, and tried to get home. As an organized fighting force, the Wehrmacht had essentially fallen apart.
The trouble was that there remained battle groups cobbled together out of a few die-hard soldiers from different units, or who served under the command of a particularly patriotic officer. As a result, the German military still had strong pockets of resistance even as the odds mounted against any outcome but defeat.
Then there were the lone sniper to worry about, like that kid in the barn.
"I wish these bastards would just give up," Vaccaro said, keeping to the edges of the macadam road leading into Arnouthbourg. "All that they're doing is prolonging the inevitable."
"If the Germans were marching into Brooklyn, would you give up?" Cole asked.
"Damn it, Hillbilly. Why did you have to go and put it that way? I’d fight with sticks and stones if I had to, so thinking about some Kraut with an MP-40 and the same attitude is not reassuring.”
“Just keeping you on your toes.”
“Yeah, thanks a million.”
Cole saw movement on the road ahead. He put his rifle to his eye to get a better view. He blinked once or twice to make sure that he wasn’t seeing things. A white-haired man wearing a suit stood waiting for them. In one hand, the old man held a stick with a strip of white cloth tied to one end.
"You see that?"
"Yeah."
"What do you think?"
“Somehow, I doubt that old man has a machine gun up his sleeve. It's a better welcoming committee than a panzer and a battalion of SS stormtroopers."
Cole raised a fist to signal a halt. The lieutenant came running up. Like any experienced soldier, he barely made a sound as he moved, even though he was loaded down with his pack and gear. Strips of cloth and string secured anything that might rattle as he ran and give him away. You could always tell green troops because when they ran anywhere, they made a racket. Vaccaro liked to say that that green troops sounded like Mama Leoni carrying the trash can out to the curb.
Mulholland studied the older man through binoculars, then swept his eyes over the windows of the houses facing the road. He didn't see any soldiers, but in several windows the concerned faces of women or elderly residents peered out.
"Nothing but civilians, as far as I can tell," he said. "Maybe that guy is the local burgermeister."
"The what?" Vaccaro asked.
"The mayor, or whatever you want to call him. Cole, Vaccaro, you two check it out. The rest of us will cover you."
Vaccaro looked at Cole. "I was afraid he'd say something like that."
"Shut up, Vaccaro," said the lieutenant. "Now get a move on."
The lieutenant hurried back to join the rest of the squad. Cole thought that Mulholland wasn't a bad guy, except for the fact that if there was an i to dot, he had to dot it. He was a rule follower. If somebody like General Patton was full of piss and vinegar, Lieutenant Mulholland was maybe full of Coca Cola and sweet tea. He was just a little too damned decent to be a soldier.
Maybe that was a good thing, considering that he and Mulholland had had something of a falling out over Jolie Molyneaux, the French resistance fighter who had been their guide in the days after D-Day. Jolie had taken up with Cole, despite the lieutenant's efforts otherwise. If Mulholland harbored a grudge, his Boy Scout nature wouldn't let him act on it.
By now, Jolie was back in France, trying to help piece together a country — and a life — that had been wrecked by the Nazis.
In the end, Mulholland was typical of many officers — they were all trying to look good for the boss. Meanwhile, soldiers like Cole and Vaccaro were mostly trying not to get killed. Being the first Americans to march into a German town was not a good way of improving their odds of getting home, but orders were orders.
"You first," Vaccaro said. "I'll cover you."
"We need to have us a united front," Cole said. "Get your ass up here."
They advanced toward the white-haired German. As they approached, they could see that he held himself ramrod straight, maintaining a dignified pose. He raised his arms to show that they were empty. While his body language indicated neutrality, his deeply line face showed the strain of having to welcome the enemy.
After the long winter, and the scarcity of good food, he looked pale and unwell. He was a tall man, towering several inches above them. Given his fine suit and height, he could have been intimidating in other circumstances, if his eyes had not expressed uncertainly. Even terror.
"What can we do you for, pops?" Vaccaro wanted to know. “Sprechten zie English?”
"Welcome," the man said in heavily accented English. "I wish to surrender the town peacefully to you. I have gathered the town fathers so that we can do that officially. It is our wish to avoid any violence." He paused. "There has been enough of that already."
Vaccaro looked at Cole. “Well, there you go. Should we head back and get Mulholland?"
Cole thought about it. He glanced toward the windows overlooking the road into town, but still could see no dangers there. For all he knew, this was some sort of trick and there was a tank hiding just around the bend, but it seemed unlikely. "Let's see what he has to say before we bring up the others."
Vaccaro nodded. "Lead on, Herr Burgermeister."
They followed the tall man toward the Rathaus, or town hall. The town was small enough, and far enough from Berlin, to have avoided the wrath of the high-altitude bombers that had devastated so much of the country. Arnouthbourg remained downright picturesque.
A few spring flowers poked through the soil. The bright yellow daffodils punctuated the tiny front yards with bursts of color. The air smelled pleasantly of damp stones and vegetable soup.
None of the buildings was more than three stories high. The streets were macadam, except for directly in front of the town hall, which was paved in cobblestones. Warming to his task, the tall gentleman attempted a smile and waved them inside. Cole unsnapped the holster of his Browning and kept a good grip on his rifle, just in case.
The interior of the Rathaus was freshly painted and neatly kept. Paintings of local scenes lined the walls. The dark and somber paintings looked as if they were maybe a couple hundred years old. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases contained leather-bound volumes of what Cole assumed were local records. It reminded him of the courthouse back home, where he and his pa had once gone to pay a fine to get his uncle out of jail after he had gotten drunk and smashed up a roadhouse. This room represented order and civility. He became acutely aware of his own muddy clothes that stank of sweaty wool and wood smoke. It was as if they had brought the war in with them.
With a final gesture and urging, "Come, come," the white-haired man brought them into what appeared to be the burgermeister's office. As promised, the town fathers had assembled. There was also what Cole supposed was a town mother, a well-dressed grandmotherly woman. Her eyes widened at the sight of Cole and Vaccaro. The burgermeister joined them, and the group of elderly, dignified town officials stood solemnly around the mayor's desk, which seemed to be covered with the inventory of a pawn shop.
He spotted binoculars, wristwatches, cameras, hunting shotguns, and even an antique brass telescope.
He could see at once that it was an offering or a kind of ransom. It was payment in advance for not destroying the town, even though that was the last thing that the Americans had on their minds.
Cole looked over the loot that the townspeople had gathered, and he felt embarrassed. Not for himself. Instead, he felt ashamed for these people. He could tell they were a proud bunch. They wanted to be in control, even here at what to them must be the end of the world. They had tried to organize their defeat and package it up neatly to avoid anything messy.
He didn't give a damn about these valuables. It was true that Mulholland’s squad had “liberated” some things along the way, but you couldn’t call it actual looting. Did these people really think that the Americans were here to pillage?
Beside him, Vaccaro’s eyes lit up at the collection of watches. He'd always had a hard time saying no to another watch. He grabbed a nice gold model, worth twenty dollars at least, and prepared to shove it into his pocket. The townspeople simply watched, their faces stoic.
This was just what they expected from the barbarians, Cole thought. Greedy for the spoils of war. He reckoned that he would disappoint them.
"Jesus, Vaccaro, how many watches do you need? You still ain’t been on time yet. Put it back.”
“Hillbilly, are you nuts?”
Cole picked up a delicate teapot and handed it to the elderly woman. Then he turned to the burgermeister. ”We ain't here to steal your teapots and cameras. You can tell your friends that you are now officially surrendered. Deutschland kaput."
Grasping the teapot, the old woman nodded at Cole in understanding, while tears flooded her eyes.
Sheepishly, Vaccaro put the watch back on the desk.
They didn’t take any valuables from the good people of Arnouthbourg, although they did accept some cheeses, sausages, and whatever bottles of liquor the townspeople pressed upon them. It was a whole lot better than C rations and canteen water.
Cole and Vaccaro continued scouting ahead of the squad.
They were just leaving the town when a young woman came running toward them. Like most of the other women they had seen, she had on a patterned dress that had been washed to the point where the fabric was wearing thin. Over the dress, she wore a drab-colored button-down sweater and heavy black shoes. She also wore eyeglasses. The clothes were more suitable for an old lady and made her seem older than she actually was, but she was not what the boys would have called a looker. A couple of young girls trailed in her wake.
She was in tears, and at first, Cole thought that maybe she was just overcome by the sight of Americans marching through good ol’ Deutchsland. The woman seemed to have noticed his sniper rifle, and came right for him. She reached out and grabbed the weapon, babbling hysterically in German.
Cole wrenched the rifle away.
"Nein," he said, using just about the only German he knew.
The woman took a deep breath and seemed to compose herself. The next words she spoke were in halting English.
"Please," she said. "You must help me stop them. They are just boys!"
Now Cole was even more confused, not the least by the fact that the woman spoke English. He found it surprising that so many Germans seemed to know the language. There weren’t nearly as many Americans who spoke German.
He turned to Vaccaro for help. "What is she jabberin' about?"
"I dunno. Why don't you ask her?" Vaccaro said, looking amused. "She sprechen ze English real goot."
Cole turned back to the woman, who grabbed for his rifle again. He pulled it away. “What is it, miss?” he demanded.
"I am their teacher," she said. "Some of the boys are in a house beyond town, and they plan to shoot at your men."
"They'll be sorry if they do."
"They are just children!" she pleaded. "One of their sisters told me that they think they are going to be heroes. They are just foolish boys. Please!”
Beside him, Vaccaro said, “I don’t like the sound of this.”
“Me neither,” he agreed.
The most dangerous soldiers they had met with so far in Germany were not hardened SS troops, but kids just fourteen or fifteen years old. Most of them had been brainwashed from growing up under Hitler. They also didn't have a grasp yet of adult behavior. Half the time when they surrendered, the next thing you knew they were pulling a grenade out of their pocket. Crazy kids.
Now here was their teacher, in tears. Cole didn't smell any sort of trap or deceit. The strange thing was that she looked just like a spinster schoolteacher would back home. The girls with her were no more than twelve or thirteen. He reckoned one of them must be the sister that the schoolteacher had mentioned.
He sighed. “Show me."
They started up the road, letting the schoolteacher lead the way. When he saw the girls run to join her, Cole called a halt. "Go on back to town," he said to the girls, not sure if they could understand English. "This ain't a good place for you to be."
The girls looked puzzled, but the teacher spoke to them in German and they nodded and started toward Arnouthbourg. He and Vaccaro walked on with the schoolteacher. They soon came to a bend in the road, presided over by a neatly whitewashed house.
He spotted movement in one of the windows. A rifle appeared in an open window upstairs.
“Sniper!” he shouted.
Vaccaro scrambled for cover, diving into some bushes at the side of the road.
Cole raised his own rifle and would have fired, but the teacher stepped in front of him, shielding him. Facing the house, she raised her arms and shouted in German. Cole couldn't understand her, but she sounded almost hysterical. She kept herself in front of Cole, preventing whoever was in the house from shooting.
“Aw, hell.” Cole put down his rifle and pulled out a white handkerchief.
"Cole, what the hell are you doing?" Vaccaro shouted from the side of the road.
"Something goddamn stupid, that’s what," he replied.
Holding the white handkerchief high, he moved forward alongside the schoolteacher.
“You reckon they’ll shoot me?” he asked her.
The teacher stepped closer to Cole and hooked her arm through his so that they were walking hip to hip. “Not if I can help it.”
The door of the white house was locked, but the teacher pounded on it and shouted in German. Cole couldn’t understand the words, but it was unmistakably the stern tone of a schoolmarm. He heard movement inside, and put his hand on the pistol. Wouldn’t do him a damn bit of good if those German schoolboys shot through the door.
He heard some arguing on the other side of the locked door, but finally the door opened. Four boys stood just inside, crowded into the doorway. One boy had an old hunting rifle that had a stock wrapped with twine, and a second boy held a rusty shotgun. The third kid didn’t have a weapon and seemed to be there for moral support. The fourth boy held a standard issue Mauser K98 military rifle. The sight of it made Cole’s spine tingle. Given half a chance, the fourth kid wouldn’t have had any trouble picking off American GIs passing on the road.
The teacher seemed to be scolding the boys. When she finished, she turned to Cole expectantly. “What should they do now?”
“Tell them to put their guns down on the floor, miss. Tell them there ain't no shame in it. The war is over. It ain't their fault. And one of you has got a sister back in town who is awfully worried about you."
The boy holding the Mauser started crying. Cole kept one hand on his pistol until, one by one, the boys put down their guns and filed out of the house. Cole didn’t realize until then that he had been holding his breath. The schoolteacher herded her students back toward town like a mother hen, looking back over her shoulder to give Cole a grateful nod.
Cole gathered up the weapons and unloaded them. The ancient shotgun didn’t even lock up tight — it likely would have blinded whoever had fired it. He pulled the bolts from the rifles and hurled them into the weeds. Then he tossed the ammunition in another direction. One by one, he took the rifles by their muzzles and swung them as far into the surrounding fields as he could.
Vaccaro walked up. He was holding the rifle that Cole had left on the road. “That's it? We just let them go?”
"You got a better idea?” Cole grunted as he hurled the shotgun into some bushes. “Maybe you want to line ’em up and shoot these kids?”
"I guess not.” Vaccaro handed Cole his rifle. He looked shaken. “Those kids could have killed us both. I can’t believe you walked right up to that house and got them to surrender. Cole, you are one crazy son of a bitch. It’s not like I haven’t said that before.”
“Yep, but that’s the first time today. I reckon I must be getting worried about living until the war’s over.”