Righteous Sniper

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The colonel ordered up a jeep for them. Transportation down the cold and snowy road would be welcome, but they would hardly be traveling in luxury.

A corporal from the motor pool delivered the jeep with some explanation. Well, it was really a disclaimer. He hopped out and approached them with a bowlegged swagger, wearing his grease-stained khakis like a badge of honor.

“If it was just you two and the prisoner, Colonel Roberts said he wouldn’t have bothered,” the corporal admitted. “But he had to make an effort to accommodate that British liaison. Heaven forbid that we should make a British officer walk anywhere. You’d almost think they were still sore about losing the Revolutionary War.”

Cole glanced over at Lieutenant Rupert but had a hard time imagining him as a redcoat with a powdered wig, possibly carrying a Brown Bess musket. Then again, who knew — maybe one of his ancestors had tangled with one of Cole’s people way back then. They were both on the same side now, at least.

He took a second look at the British lieutenant. Rupert wore a newer uniform and hadn’t been living rough like the GIs, so that with his fresh-scrubbed face he barely managed to look older than a teenager. He had grown a thin mustache in the style of Clark Gable, as if to make himself look older. However, the mustache was so sparse that it more closely resembled the tines of a rake than a thick brush, so that it only managed to highlight his youth.

“Once the gas runs out, you’re on your own,” the corporal said cheerfully, as if that thought pleased him. “That’s if the engine doesn’t up and quit first. Or the brakes give out. I’d say it’s a coin toss which one happens first. Nobody is going to miss this bucket of bolts, that’s for sure.”

“Gee, thanks,” Vaccaro said.

The corporal strode off, whistling tunelessly.

Vaccaro got behind the wheel and started it up. The jeep ran about as well as the motor pool corporal whistled. Cole eyed it doubtfully. The strong scent of gasoline filled the air as the jeep’s motor rumbled and sputtered, racing one minute and then threatening to die the next. A pool of black oil steadily expanded across the snow beneath the vehicle. A few bullet holes pockmarked the sides.

Though the average jeep was truly basic transportation, this one wasn’t much more than a motor and four wheels held together with wire and rusty bolts. It had already been beat to pieces by untold miles of European back roads. Between the bullet holes and the rust, the thing had more spots than a leopard. Gasoline remained in short supply, but somehow a full tank had been procured for the jeep.

Though battered, the jeep beat walking. Within minutes of the vehicle’s arrival, they were on their way. Cole wanted to cover as many miles as they could before dark — and hopefully put some distance between themselves and the fighting around Bastogne.

Their jeep threaded its way through the outskirts of Bastogne, with Vaccaro at the wheel. Cole rode shotgun, an old term from stagecoach days when it was the job of the armed man sitting beside the driver to defend the stagecoach against highwaymen. Cole obliged by keeping his rifle at the ready. The German and the British officer sat in the back seat. Everyone was squeezed in tight, and it promised to be a long, cold, uncomfortable ride in the open air.

Several times Vaccaro had to slow down and steer around the wreckage of mangled trucks or the burned-out remains of a tank. Fresh snow dusted the blackened metal skeletons as well as the bodies nearby, as if nature itself was trying to hide the ugly charnel house horrors left by men at war. Under their blanket of snow, it was hard to tell whether the dead were German, Americans, or civilians caught in the cross fire. For the dead, it no longer mattered whose side they had been on.

The road was rough, worsened by the winter conditions and cratered by shell holes. Deep ruts seemed to want to reach out and grab the tires, so that Vaccaro had to slow down and maneuver carefully. Even on the good stretches of road, the jeep loaded with four men struggled to reach speeds of more than forty miles per hour. The motor struggled and wheezed in protest. In the open air, that much speed felt as reckless as being in a race car.

Cole still appreciated the fact that they didn’t have to walk, although it was anybody’s guess if the gas in the tank would be enough to get them to their destination. There was also the nagging thought of how much oil the jeep was leaking.

Vaccaro broke his concentration long enough to pat the dashboard and say, “Hang in there, Betsy. You can do this.”

As it turned out, running out of gas or engine troubles would be the least of their worries.

Just a few miles out of Bastogne, a mortar shell came screaming in. It was hard to say who had fired at them, and it really didn’t matter. Any vehicle moving on the road might be considered fair game by either side.

“Holy hell!” Vaccaro shouted, his natural inclination being to jerk the wheel to one side, away from the sound of the incoming round.

His reaction kept them from continuing in the straight line that would have carried them right into the mortar shell, which burst off to their left. Hot metal flashed overhead, but they weren’t hit.

However, Vaccaro had steered the jeep directly into a deep rut, one so deep that it was practically a trench. The forward motion of the jeep came to an abrupt halt as the front tires disappeared into the rut. The force of the jolt sent Cole, Rupert, and the German flying out of the vehicle.

Cole managed to grab the German by the back of his coat collar and shoved him toward a roadside ditch that offered some cover as another mortar shell rained down. Cole threw Bauer in the ditch and landed on top of him. The last thing he wanted was for the man to run away.

Fortunately, the barrage halted. Cole picked himself up out of the ditch and dragged the German after him.

“Everybody all right?” he asked, looking around.

Nobody had been hit. Lucky for them, the snow and mud had softened their landing when they had been thrown clear of the jeep. Vaccaro wasn’t as lucky, slamming his head against the steering wheel with such force that he came away with a bloody nose.

“Dammit, I think it might be broken,” he said, pressing a handkerchief to his face.

“It’s better than a fat chunk of shrapnel in your face,” Cole said.

“If you say so.” He dabbed at his nose again. “Hurts like hell in this cold.”

“I thought you said you were a good driver.”

“Normally when I’m driving, people aren’t shooting at me.”

“There is that,” Cole agreed. He didn’t say it to Vaccaro, but Cole had never actually driven a vehicle. Growing up, the Cole family had been too poor to own so much as a rusty old Ford. Or a mule. If they wanted to get anywhere, they walked. In the mountains, all that they ever needed were their own two feet.

Vaccaro’s bloody nose was no picnic, but as it turned out, the jeep got the worst of it. The four of them pushed it out of the hole that had caught the front wheels, but the force of the impact had shredded one of the tires, bent the steering rod, and bashed in the radiator. Considering the nearly indestructible nature of the average jeep, the amount of damage was testament to the force with which they had hit that hole.

Vaccaro was the most mechanically inclined of the bunch and was soon crawling under the jeep to get a better look at the damage.

“Think we can fix it?” Rupert wondered.

“Sure, if we had the tools, the parts, and maybe three days,” Vaccaro replied. “A heated garage would be nice while we’re at it.”

“Looks like we’re walking from here on out,” Cole announced.

Having gathered a few supplies from the jeep, Cole led their small group away from the abandoned vehicle. He looked around to see how everyone was doing as they set out.

It was one hell of a motley crew, he decided — two half-frozen snipers, a wet-nosed British officer, and a German prisoner. The only thing that would make them more ridiculous would be if the German was leading a dancing bear.

The young British officer sported bright-pink cheeks as a result of the cold. His uniform was a little too clean, indicating that he was not a combat officer. His winter gear mainly consisted of a wool overcoat that looked warm enough but would have been more appropriate on a fashionable city street than the snowy woods of the Ardennes. He wore tall leather riding boots that didn’t look comfortable for walking, but they would keep the snow out.

He’d been carrying only a sidearm, but Cole had insisted that the Brit be given an M1 carbine.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever used one of these,” he said, looking it over.

Cole showed him how to load the weapon and operate it. Rupert caught on quickly. Cole finished the lesson by adding, “The most important thing is not to shoot me or Vaccaro. You can shoot all the Germans you want, including this one we’ve got with us.”

Rupert nodded. It would be understandable if he saw his situation as having been thrown to the wolves. Nonetheless, he maintained a cheery can-do attitude. He didn’t complain. Cole couldn’t decide if that cheerfulness made him like Rupert or hate him — the jury was still out on that one.

The prisoner still had his hands bound in front of him, although in an act of mercy, one of the clerks at HQ had tugged mittens over his bare hands to ward off frostbite. His vaguely amused expression had returned. It was as if the German realized that he should have already been dead by now, so he could watch the events that unfolded with detachment. Through his silence, it seemed as if this German officer was determined to remain stoic until the very end.

Cole felt a twinge of admiration for the man’s resolve. He had expected their captive to bellyache or come up with some story that they had the wrong guy, but instead he seemed to accept his fate with quiet dignity. He hadn’t even seemed afraid when Brock and his crew had threatened him. Cole gave him points for that, even if he was a no-good murdering Kraut.

As for Vaccaro, he also appeared resigned to his fate, his head down, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Of course, Vaccaro also carried a scoped Springfield, but he had it slung over one shoulder as if confident they wouldn’t run into any trouble this close to the city.

Cole wasn’t so sure that they wouldn’t have need of their weapons sooner rather than later. He kept his own rifle ready and would remind Vaccaro to do the same when the time came.

“How long do you think it’s gonna take us to get there?” Vaccaro wondered.

“Tomorrow at most — if we don’t run into any trouble,” Cole said, adding, “Which we will.”

“You are a regular ray of sunshine.”

Cole smirked. “I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it. This won’t be easy.”

“Hillbilly, when you of all people say something isn’t going to be easy, it makes me nervous.”

“Well, don’t go sweating bullets about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’d rather you were dodging bullets instead.”

“If this is going to take us two days, it means we’ll have to stay overnight somewhere. I hope there’s a decent hotel along the way.”

“I don’t know about that. Hell, we’ll be lucky if we can find a foxhole.”

“It’s damn cold, so the last place I want to sleep is a foxhole.” Vaccaro glanced over at the German and lowered his voice. “If we have to camp out, what are we going to do about him?”

“I dunno,” Cole admitted. “Hog-tie him if we have to.”

“He won’t like that.”

“I don’t really give a damn what he likes or doesn’t like.”

Vaccaro had raised a good point that nobody had thought through. Handling prisoners, especially important ones, was not usually in Cole’s line of work. This was all-new territory.

Maybe Brock was right, Cole thought. They should have taken him up on his offer to take the Kraut off their hands. Nobody could have put up much of a stink if they claimed that the Kraut had run off. However, Cole had instinctively disliked Brock. The man couldn’t be trusted. There was no way he would have handed the prisoner off to him.

Orders were orders, and Cole intended to follow them.

Bauer had overheard their conversation. “Excuse me,” he said. “If I may?”

Up until now he had been silent, and Cole had forgotten that the man spoke English. When he did speak, it was with the careful annunciation of the educated class. It didn’t make Cole like him any better — just the opposite.

“What the hell do you want?” Cole barked at him.

“There is no need to tie me up at night,” he said. “I give you my word not to attempt an escape.”

“The word of a murdering Nazi ain’t worth much in my book.”

“I am merely trying to save you some trouble and save me some discomfort. For that matter, I would appreciate it if you cut my hands free. It would make walking easier.”

“I don’t think so, Herr Barnstormer.”

“Obersturmbannführer,” Bauer said, correcting him.

“Yeah, like I said, Barnstormer.”

Bauer gave him a blank look but didn’t correct him this time.

Now on foot, they had no choice but to keep moving. Even that rattletrap jeep would have been better than slogging through the snow, mud, and slush up this road. There were a few tire tracks and tank treads, along with boot prints, to show that the road had been used recently — fresh enough that the snow hadn’t covered the tracks.

“What do you think, Cole?” Vaccaro asked. “Our guys or their guys?”

Cole and Bauer replied at the same time, “Both.”

Cole glanced over at Bauer, who arched an eyebrow at him. That damn Kraut is probably hoping that some of his fellow Germans will come along and rescue him. Cole had to admit that the odds were pretty good of that happening. The whole damn countryside had to be crawling with Krauts.

“Some of those are Studebaker treads,” Cole explained for Vaccaro’s benefit. “Some of the boots have hobnails, which means they’re German.” He might have added that the hobnailed boots seemed old-fashioned, but they actually provided better traction in the snow and mud. The rubber-soled US boots performed better on paved roads — and were that much quieter.

They kept going, with Cole keeping a wary eye on the surroundings trees. The trunks loomed dark and menacing on both sides of the road as the pitch grew steeper and they began to climb through the hilly country. The men were quiet except for the sound of their labored breathing. Halfway up, they paused for breath. Bauer was a little older and heavier than the Brit and the two Americans and seemed to be having the most trouble climbing the hill.

Again, it was Bauer who broke the silence. He nodded toward Vaccaro, who had stepped to the side of the road to relieve himself. “That is another reason why you may wish to free my hands.”

Cole caught on to what he was saying and glared at him. “You gotta be kidding me. I sure as hell ain’t gonna hold your schnitzel while you take a leak.”

Bauer shrugged and offered what appeared to be an apologetic smile. “That makes two of us. There are some things you would prefer that I do on my own.”

Cole thought about it. As much as he didn’t want to cut the German’s bonds, he wanted to help him take a leak even less. “All right, hold out your hands.”

Cole drew his big bowie knife, the razor-sharp edge flashing even in the dull winter light. Bauer’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

“I have never seen such a knife,” he said.

“An old friend of mine from back home made it,” Cole said, surprising himself by the proud tone he heard in his own voice. Most GIs carried the combat knives that they had been issued. While the standard-issue blade was an excellent knife, the blade that Hollis Bailey had forged for him was in a class by itself.

Bauer grunted in approval, although he eyed the blade warily. He did as he was told and held out his hands.

Cole started toward him, then stopped. He pointed the blade at Bauer as he spoke. “Listen up, Herr Barnstormer. If this is some trick and you try to run, or you try to fight us, I’ll use this blade to cut your heart out.”

The German nodded. “Fair enough.”

Cole cut him free. The blade was so sharp that it sliced through the strands as soon as it touched the rope.

Bauer stood rubbing his wrists. The tightly wound rope had left deep red gouges. Whoever had tied him up back at HQ hadn’t been taking any chances. Cole stood tensely, waiting to see if Bauer tried anything.

“Thank you,” the German said. “What was your name again?”

“Never mind that,” Cole snapped. “Let’s get one thing clear. I ain’t your friend, Herr Barnstormer. I just didn’t want to hold your dick while you took a piss. Now go on and take a leak.”

Bauer moved beside Vaccaro and was soon sending his own stream into the snow. He even uttered a sigh of relief.

At least he hadn’t lied about having to take a leak, Cole thought.

He returned the knife to its sheath and slid the rifle off his shoulder, watching up and down the road. It was only a matter of time before they ran into someone else. The question was, Would they be friendly or not? Cole stayed alert, hoping that if they encountered Germans, they would have time to get off the road before being seen.

They were taking a big chance by staying on the road. But they didn’t have much choice, other than striking out through the woods, where the snow lay heavily among the trees. He didn’t like that prospect, not if they wanted to make good time. They would just have to stay on the road and keep alert.

Bauer had buttoned himself back up and rejoined the group on the road. He still wore the heavy mittens, which Cole took to be a good sign. If Bauer planned on making a grab for one of their weapons, or otherwise make a run for it, he probably wouldn’t have the clumsy mittens on.

“I won’t tie you back up,” Cole said. “But like I said, if you make a run for it, you’re a dead man. Now let’s all get moving. We need to cover as much ground as possible while there’s still daylight.”