Righteous Sniper

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Cole and Vaccaro were looking forward to some well-deserved rest. Their sniper mission during the night had left them exhausted, but at least now the soldiers and citizens of Bastogne were able to move more freely without fear of being picked off.

That freedom was well worth the price of a little sleep. In fact, the mission had gone so well that they were planning to bring the fight to the Germans once darkness returned by doing some sniping of their own. It was high time that the enemy had something to fear.

They curled up in the basement of the house where they had spent their first night upon arriving in Bastogne. It was cold, dark, musty, and smelled a bit too strongly of the men who had sheltered there, but Vaccaro summed it up best.

“This sure as hell beats a foxhole,” he said.

Cole grunted in agreement, then rolled over and promptly fell asleep.

It felt like just minutes later that Lieutenant Mulholland was kicking their boots to wake them up.

“For pity’s sake, Lieutenant,” Vaccaro complained groggily. “We just went to sleep.”

“No rest for the weary,” Mulholland said. “We’re wanted at HQ. Be sure to grab your gear because you won’t be coming back here.”

Hank heard them and asked, “What about me?”

“Not you, kid. Go back to sleep. Colonel Roberts specifically requested these two knuckleheads. Apparently they have some kind of reputation.”

Leaving Hank behind, the three of them made their way to HQ, where they found Colonel Roberts waiting for them. His mood had not improved since receiving the communiqué earlier.

But he was not alone. In addition to the clerk who was busy typing away, there was also a young British officer. However, their attention was mainly drawn to a tall German officer standing by the fireplace, which continued its struggle to heat the room. Cole, Vaccaro, and Mulholland looked at the German with open curiosity.

At that moment an officer barged in with an urgent message for the colonel, who read the piece of paper thrust into his hands and swore.

Cole took that time to size up the German. The man stood tall and proud, his gaze fixed on the three soldiers before him. His uniform looked impeccable, the brass buttons of his jacket shining brightly in the dim light. The officer’s cap was perched perfectly on his head, a stark contrast to the disheveled clerk, hunched over his typewriter in the corner.

His hands were bound together, a testament to the fact that he was clearly a prisoner. His winter coat was open, revealing a thick white scarf draped around his neck, the only touch of color in the drab room. The scarf gave the officer a dashing, stylish air compared to the Americans.

But the German clearly wasn’t some aloof, cold fish. An amused smile played over his lips. For some reason the smile set Cole’s teeth on edge more than the sight of the officer’s uniform.

To his surprise, the German appeared to be sizing him up as well. He could almost feel the man’s eyes moving over him. He was appraising Cole from his boots to the helmet emblazoned with the Confederate flag. His eyes lingered on the Springfield sniper rifle before coming to rest on Cole’s face. The German’s look of amusement was gone, replaced by hostility, as if the sight of the rifle led him to the realization of how many Soldaten that rifle had claimed.

Cole glared back, not about to be cowed by some Kraut officer, no matter how fancy he seemed. Neither man appeared ready to be the first to look away.

It was the German who finally shifted his gaze, mainly because the colonel had launched into another fit of swearing after reading this latest communication.

“Get on the horn and tell them to hold at all costs, dammit!” the colonel finally exclaimed. He swore a few more times with such vehemence that it was like a car emitting a series of loud backfires, finally stopping to glare at the German, as if this were all this enemy officer’s fault.

Then again, it sort of was his fault — or, at least, it was definitely the fault of his fellow Germans that Americans were fighting and dying on this wintry battlefield.

The tension in the room was as palpable as the hissing of a gas leak, and it seemed as if the sparks popping from the fireplace like gunshots threatened to ignite the tense atmosphere into an inferno.

Cole and Vaccaro exchanged a look. What the hell had they found themselves in the middle of?

Mulholland chose that moment to clear his throat and announced, “Sir, here are the snipers I was telling you about.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” The colonel’s eyes flicked from Vaccaro to Cole and stayed there. “You must be Cole.”

Cole spoke up. “I reckon that’s me, sir.”

“You reckon?” The colonel gave him a hard look as he chewed on the stub of a cigar, his eyes finally coming to rest on the Confederate flag painted on Cole’s helmet. “Last time I checked, soldier, this was the United States Army, not the Confederate States Army.”

The colonel seemed to be expecting a reply, but Cole let it hang for a long moment before he responded, “Yes, sir.”

“I’ve heard about you, Cole,” the colonel continued, with a tone that indicated what he’d heard wasn’t all good. “There’s a rumor going around that you’re a crack shot and some kind of modern Daniel Boone.”

Cole didn’t say anything.

The colonel grunted. “So you’re a man of few words, huh? I like that in a soldier. Here’s the thing. I need a couple of men who know their way around the woods well enough that they won’t walk right into the Germans’ arms. Rumors aside, Mulholland here says that you’re both up to the task.”

“If the lieutenant says so, sir.”

“The German officer you see over there is Obersturmbannführer Bauer. What you need to do is get our guest here over to VIII Corps HQ at Neufchâteau. That’s about seventeen miles southwest of Bastogne. They want to know what he knows. Just so you know who you’re dealing with, this German piece-of-shit Obersturmbannführer is also a war criminal, having gunned down several of our boys in cold blood on the outskirts of Bastogne. Be that as it may, you will get him there in one piece. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You will also be taking Lieutenant Rupert with you.” The colonel nodded in the direction of the British officer, who had been standing quietly nearby, looking like the student in class who was hoping that nobody called on him. “I’m sure the lieutenant can fill you in later on his interest in Colonel Blitzkrieg here. He is our official deputy liaison with Montgomery’s boys, so don’t lose him along the way. That prickly bastard Montgomery might stop talking to us if that happened.”

Both Cole and Vaccaro couldn’t avoid looking doubtfully in the British officer’s direction. From his apple-cheeked complexion, he appeared to be embarrassed just to be standing there.

At this point, the colonel added, “Lieutenant Rupert, you’ll be the ranking officer, but you would do well to listen to what these men have to say. My advice is that when they tell you to jump, then jump. They might not look like much, but I have it on good authority that they’re your best chance of staying alive out there. Never forget that this is a war zone.”

Rupert managed to turn even redder with embarrassment, until his face resembled a ripe strawberry, or possibly a beet.

For his own part, the German simply looked bemused by it all.

“When do we move out, sir?” Cole asked.

“The sooner, the better. Right now would be good.”

“Right now?”

“I hope to hell your eyes work better than your ears, son. What part of ‘right now’ don’t you understand? Dismissed!”

The colonel then issued curt orders to the German to go with them. The German gave a single nod, showing that he understood. Apparently the Kraut spoke English well enough.

Moments later Cole, Vaccaro, and Mulholland found themselves standing outside HQ in the slush and cold, their numbers having been increased by one German prisoner and a British officer. The presence of the German caused several stares, not to mention a few hard looks. Many of the men on this street held a grudge against the Germans. They had lost friends to the enemy, after all. Others felt that the German attack through the Ardennes had been a dirty trick. The attitude seemed to be that the only good German was a dead German.

But they were supposed to keep this German alive.

Cole shook his head. How the hell had they ended up with this assignment?

Lieutenant Rupert was called away by one of the HQ clerks, who was trying to find him a warm hat and something more suitable to the winter conditions than his kidskin dress gloves. Cole and Vaccaro would just have to make do with what they already had.

It turned out that the German had better winter gear than the Americans. He had been allowed to keep his haversack, from which he produced another scarf, woolen mittens, a warm coat with a hood, even goggles against blowing snow and ice. It was more proof that the Germans had been well prepared for this winter campaign. His hands remained bound in front of him. The footing was slippery, and the German moved slowly, struggling to keep his balance.

Cole prodded him with the butt of his rifle. “We might be stuck with you, but you sure as hell ain’t gonna slow us down,” he said.

The German didn’t respond other than to pick up the pace.

“This is a hell of a mess,” Vaccaro said. “How did we end up having to babysit this Kraut.”

“Just lucky, I reckon.”

“What else is new?”

As it turned out, their mission nearly ended before it even got started. They had not gone far when several soldiers approached, making a beeline for them.

“What do you suppose they want?” Vaccaro muttered.

“Nothin’ good,” Cole replied. Instinctively, he tightened his grip on his rifle.

He was soon proved right. The biggest soldier in the group, apparently the ringleader, squared off in front of them, blocking their way.

“Where are you going with that Kraut?” he demanded.

“We have orders to move him,” Cole replied.

“We saw you come out of HQ,” the soldier said. “Where the hell else would you take him?”

“Like I said, we’ve got orders.” Cole didn’t elaborate.

“Listen, you probably don’t know this Kraut is responsible for murdering some of our guys.”

“So I heard. What about it?”

Seeing that Cole was going to operate by the book, the soldier changed tactics and adopted a friendly, reasonable tone. “Hey, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot here. My guys call me Brock.”

“Cole. This here is Vaccaro.”

“OK, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Making proper introductions and all. We’re all on the same side here, Cole. You can see that, right?”

“What’s your point, Brock?”

“My point is that it sounds to me as if you and your buddy drew the short end of the stick and got stuck hauling this Kraut piece of crap to wherever he’s supposed to go. My guess is you’re supposed to take him to Corps HQ. That’s a long way off, and it’s a shit show out there, believe me. You look like you’ve already seen your share of that show. Why don’t you save yourselves some trouble and hand him over to me.”

“What are you gonna do with him?”

Brock’s friendly tone lapsed and he grew angry. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’d rather that you told me. Who knows, I might even like what you’ve got planned.”

“Listen, buddy. Hand the Kraut over to me. Nobody is going to ask questions. Just say that the German got lost in the mail.”

“Does he look like a postcard to you?”

“Aw, for the love of Pete.” Brock had run out of patience. He stepped forward, rifle aimed at the prisoner’s head. “Why don’t you say something? Huh? You damn Kraut. I’m sure you can speak some English. Go ahead and say something.”

But the German officer remained silent, his expression unchanged. It was as if talking to Brock wasn’t worth the effort.

“We know you killed our boys back there,” Brock said, trying a different tactic. “Didn’t you?”

Still no response.

Frustrated, Brock reversed his rifle and prepared to hit the prisoner square in the face with the rifle butt. “Say something!” he shouted.

Cole stepped between them before Brock could strike. “That’s enough,” Cole said sternly. “You know what, I think I figured out what you’re gonna do with him.”

“It’s easier if you don’t know, buddy. But let’s just say this Kraut is going to die trying to escape. We might rough him up a little first, for what he did to our guys, but never mind about that. Think of all the trouble you’re going to save yourselves from going through, considering that you’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting from Bastogne to Neufchâteau in one piece.”

“I don’t think so.” Cole shifted his rifle ever so slightly, the muzzle not quite pointing at Brock, but the message was clear. “Now get the hell out of our way.”

Slowly, Brock lowered the butt of his rifle, making it clear that he had thought better of clubbing the prisoner. “All right, if that’s the way you’re gonna be about it.”

“I reckon it is.”

Brock and the other soldiers with him didn’t move. Neither did Cole and Vaccaro. They had reached a tense impasse.

That was when the British liaison officer showed up again, hastily pulling on a wool hat and mittens. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

“These boys don’t seem to agree that the German prisoner should be allowed to leave Bastogne,” Cole drawled, his eyes not straying from Brock’s face.

“Is that so?” Rupert said. “Well, we have our orders. Step aside, soldier.”

It was not a commanding voice, but an officer was an officer, British or American.

Besides, Cole backed him up. He said to Brock, “Best do what the lieutenant says and get the hell out of the way.”

Reluctantly, Brock and his men moved aside.

“This isn’t over,” Brock said. “When I get through with you, you’ll wish you’d done this the easy way.”

“Anytime you want to try me, you go right ahead,” Cole replied.

Cole kept an easy grip on his rifle, half expecting Brock and his group to try something. He didn’t think there would be any shooting, not on the streets of Bastogne, but the best way to avoid trouble would be to make it seem like he’d be willing to shoot first.

However, Brock and his men slowly faded into the background. Cole could feel their stares boring into him.

“One thing for sure, hillbilly. You make friends wherever you go,” Vaccaro said.

“You know me, city boy. Friendly as a porcupine.”

Vaccaro stifled a guffaw. “Maybe a porcupine with rabies.”

“I believe those men intended to cause us trouble,” Lieutenant Rupert said.

“You’d be right about that, sir,” Vaccaro said.

Cole glanced at the German officer. In the gray light, his face no longer wore its bemused expression. To his credit, the German did not appear frightened, but thoughtful. He seemed to know very well that he had just dodged a bullet. A literal one, in this case.

Looking back over his shoulder, Cole could see Brock and his crew still watching them in the distance. Cole had the sneaking suspicion that they might not have seen the last of Brock and his crew. As if the Germans weren’t enough, now they might have to worry about vigilantes from their own side.

In a way, Cole understood how they felt. Had the shoe been on the other foot, he might also have wanted revenge on the German officer and wouldn’t have cared who got in his way. But a job was a job, and orders were orders. More than that, he didn’t like being threatened. Nobody tells me what to do. Nothing stuck in his craw worse than that.

He had met men like Brock before, men used to getting their own way, in and out of the military. Most were bullies and loudmouths that he had dealt with in his own way. Just ask the bully who had enjoyed picking on weaker men during boot camp. Cole had sent him to the infirmary for an extended stay. The man had been bigger, more like Brock’s size, but he had been no match for the can of beans that Cole had swung inside a sock.

Back home in the mountains, a man made his own justice. Cole certainly hadn’t shared it with anyone, but as a boy of fourteen, he had hunted down and shot the rival moonshiner who had killed his father. It had been a fair fight, a running duel through the woods and peaks and valleys against a dangerous opponent who was half-crazy and a crack shot. What Cole had done was prompted by more than revenge; with his pa gone, that moonshiner had reckoned that he could have his pick of Cole’s sisters or maybe even push the family off their land.

That moonshiner had reckoned wrong.

Dead wrong.

Cole doubted that Brock was half the man that wily old moonshiner had been. That moonshiner had underestimated Cole. If Brock thought that he could push Cole around, he would be making the same mistake.