Righteous Sniper

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Outside the ancient house, Hauptmann Messner and the two other Germans had grown impatient. They had been up since before the bitter winter dawn, waiting for their quarry to show itself.

The plan was a simple one — to catch Bauer and his escort as soon as they left the shelter of the château. They would take them by surprise and eliminate Bauer once and for all — and his American escorts along with him.

But the gray light grew and there was still no sign of any activity.

Dietzel had already scouted around the house as soon as there was sufficient light, putting Messner’s fears to rest that their quarry had somehow given them the slip. More snow had fallen during the night, partially covering the four sets of tracks that led to the house. There were no fresh tracks in the snow, which meant that no one had fled the château.

“Why don’t they come out?”

“Maybe they have seen us.”

Messner had to admit that once again Dietzel was likely correct. When they had stopped the Kübelwagen last night, they had not realized in the dark that it was within view of the house. That had been an unfortunate oversight. On the positive side, they could easily bring the machine gun mounted on the back of the vehicle to bear on the château or front lawn, as needed.

Perhaps they had lost the element of surprise, but no matter. Bauer and his escort couldn’t hide from them forever.

“They will have to come out sooner or later,” Messner said.

“Or they could fight,” Dietzel pointed out.

Messner thought about that. “In that case, perhaps the time has come to offer them a deal — their lives for Bauer’s. I doubt that the Americans will be willing to die for their German prisoner.”

From inside the château, Cole kept watching the Germans, wondering what they were up to and what they were waiting for. He ran through a few mental scenarios, none of them promising.

The Germans were too far away to tell much about them, but they appeared to be Wehrmacht troops wearing winter-white camouflage. Their Kübelwagen carried a mounted machine gun, giving the Germans a distinct advantage in firepower. Through the scope, he was surprised to notice that one of the Germans was also studying the château through the scope on his own rifle.

So, a sniper then.

He felt a quiver of interest run through him like an electric current. He wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but deep down, the thought of matching wits and bullets with another sniper excited him.

“What do you think?” Vaccaro asked.

“Doesn’t look good,” Cole said. “They must have spotted the smoke rising from the chimney, or maybe they saw the tracks we made in the snow, leading right to the house. They figure that somebody is in here. They just don’t know who.”

“You don’t suppose the ladies of the house sold us out, do you?” Vaccaro wondered. “Maybe last night was just an act and they’re actually German collaborators — or selling us out for some sausages or something.”

Cole hadn’t considered that possibility, but he quickly dismissed it. “Madame Jouret wasn’t too keen on our German friend here. That wasn’t any act.”

“You’ll think differently if she comes down the stairs this morning and shoots us in the back with that antique shotgun of hers.”

“I don’t buy it,” Cole said. “Plus that girl had the hots for Rupert. That wasn’t any act either.”

Vaccaro grinned. “Yeah, I’m surprised Rupert didn’t sneak upstairs last night to give that girl the business, but there he is, sleeping innocent as a baby.”

“Don’t forget Mama standing guard with her shotgun. He probably didn’t like his chances.”

Vaccaro nodded. “All right, so they’re not collaborators. I thought that was a long shot, anyhow. As for the Krauts out there, maybe they’ll just keep going and leave us the hell alone.”

“When have you ever known the Krauts not to be thorough? If they suspect that there are Americans in here, they’re not just going to ignore us. Hell, we wouldn’t either. You can see them out there, sizing the place up.”

“Maybe poke your rifle out there and pick them off,” Vaccaro suggested.

Cole shook his head. “I wouldn’t be able to get them all before they scattered and got into those trees. Besides, that’s small for a patrol, and there might be more Krauts out there that we can’t see. Also, one of them is a sniper.”

“Are you afraid he’ll shoot back?”

“What I’m saying is, shooting at them might just piss them off if I don’t get them all. Maybe you’re right and they really will just keep going. I sure as hell hope so.”

Cole woke up Bauer and Lieutenant Rupert, informing them of the situation. Rupert peered through the gap in the drapes and immediately looked worried, but Bauer just shrugged and wondered whether he could get some coffee. “Perhaps the ladies of the house have some hidden away?” he suggested.

“You just sit tight and stay out of the way,” Cole told him. The German’s hands were still bound. “Lieutenant, why don’t you go upstairs and look out the back windows to see if there are more Krauts around the back of the house. Better tell Madame Jouret and your new girlfriend not to go outside.”

“She’s not⁠—”

Cole didn’t wait to hear Rupert deny his romantic interests. “Go on, Lieutenant. The last thing we need is for one of the ladies to open the back door because they don’t know what’s going on and let those Germans waltz on in. That would be one hell of a mess that we don’t need right now.”

Rupert ran upstairs, then shortly reported back. “I don’t see anyone,” he reported. “Just those soldiers out front.”

“All right, that much is good news.”

From his position by the window, Vaccaro said, “One of the Krauts is headed for the house.”

“All right, let’s shoot him.”

“Hold on. You won’t believe this, but he’s waving a white flag. What the hell do you think he wants?”

Cole had been about to break the window glass with the muzzle of the rifle to get a good shot at the German. Reluctantly, he took his finger off the trigger. Outlined against the snow, the approaching German soldier made a perfect target. He was either a brave bastard or a fool. “Let’s see what he’s got to say.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Vaccaro said.

Before leaving the room, Cole suggested that Lieutenant Rupert take out his pistol and cover Bauer. “Herr Barnstormer, sit your ass down on that sofa. Lieutenant, shoot him if he tries anything.”

Out in the great hall, Vaccaro asked, “Shouldn’t we send Rupert out to negotiate? He is an officer, after all.”

“You don’t send the hen to talk to the hawk,” Cole pointed out. “You send the meanest rooster you’ve got. You want the hawk to think twice about swooping down on the henhouse.”

Vaccaro had to yank on the front door to get it to open a crack. He peered through. “Here he comes. He looks like a mean bastard. It’s not too late to shoot him.”

“Might as well hear what he’s got to say.”

“How’s your German?”

“If he doesn’t speak English, we’ll get the girl. I think she can Sprechen Sie Deutsch.”

Outside, the German was walking right up to the massive front door. Built of thick oak, it hadn’t been used for some time and wasn’t easy to open, having swollen in the winter damp so that it was stuck in the doorframe. Cole opened it just enough to stick his head out, keeping the rest of his body behind the thick door.

He found himself face-to-face with another German officer. This one had a grimy rag tied to a stick. He said something to them in German, and he seemed angry about it. Seeing that Cole hadn’t understood a word, he switched to English. Though heavily accented, Cole could understand the words well enough.

“I am Hauptmann Messner,” he declared. “I wish you to release Obersturmbannführer Bauer to us.”

“How the hell do you know we’ve got Bauer?” Cole had the fleeting thought that maybe Vaccaro was right and the two women really were collaborators. How else could the Germans possibly know about Bauer?

“We have been tracking him,” the German said. “Give him to us and there will be no need for bloodshed.”

“What do you want with him?”

“He is a traitor. Give him to us and we will let you go.”

“Can’t do that.”

“You do not seem to understand your situation,” the German said.

“My situation?” Cole snorted. He didn’t like the looks of this German officer. Hell, he didn’t like the looks of any German officer. “The way I see it, there’s just three of you, and we are holed up behind these nice thick walls. We ain’t givin’ him up. So come and get him if you want to. But you’d better bring a rifle next time instead of a rag tied to a little stick.”

The German frowned. He didn’t have a good answer for that. He muttered a curse, then dropped the stick with the rag tied to it into the snow.

Too late, Cole realized that dropping the flag of truce was some sort of signal.

In the next instant, a rifle fired from the tree line and a bullet struck the door an inch from Cole’s head. The bullet would have hit him if he hadn’t tilted his head down to look at the flag the German had dropped.

Behind him, Vaccaro slammed the door shut just as another bullet hit. The wood was too thick for the bullets to punch through, the dense grain of the ancient oak making it nearly as good as armor plating.

Cole ran to a window, and through the shutters he saw the officer hightailing it back to cover. He was out of sight before there was a chance for Cole to bring his rifle into play.

“Well now, don’t that beat all,” Cole said, lowering his rifle. “It’s gonna be an interesting day around here.”

“Dammit, that was close,” Vaccaro said.

“That Kraut sniper almost got me,” Cole agreed.

“You can’t trust these damn Krauts. Next time one of them wants to talk, let’s just shoot him.”

“I ain’t gonna argue with that.”

“What the hell do those Krauts want with our prisoner?” Vaccaro wondered.

“To hell if I know. Let’s go ask him.”

Once darkness fell, Brock and his squad had made camp. It was a cold camp, without any fire that might attract the attention of the enemy. Consequently, the trio had shivered through the night. There was grumbling from Vern and Boot, but they knew better than to complain too much to Brock.

They feared the Germans who might be creeping up on them, and frostbite was a constant threat. But their healthy fear of Brock outweighed both. They knew that when Brock set his mind on doing something, then you had better get out of the way or follow along.

He’d been just as cold as anyone. Zeal only did so much to keep you warm, and his own determination to track down the German had started to wane in the cold, dark, wee hours of the morning.

When the gray light of morning finally arrived, Brock had been just about ready to call it quits, get everyone turned around, and head back to Bastogne empty-handed without their quarry.

That was when they heard two gunshots, not very far away, somewhere toward the end of the lane that they had been traveling before darkness had rolled in.

It was the first sign that they weren’t the only ones out there.

He’d been afraid that the trail had gone cold, but here was a spark, at least.

And in Brock’s experience, where there was smoke, there was fire.

“C’mon,” he said to the others. “On your feet. Let’s go see what that shooting is all about.”

As they started to get up, it was clear that Boot was having trouble.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded.

“It’s my toes, Brock,” Boot explained. “I can’t feel them at all. It might be frostbite.”

“Dammit, how many times have I warned you and everybody else in the squad to make sure you were wearing dry socks.”

“Never mind dry socks,” Vern spoke up. “Cold as it was, we’re lucky that we didn’t freeze to death.”

“I don’t want to hear your crap,” Brock growled, prompting Vern to clam up. “All right, Boot, let me have a look at those feet.”

Boot’s fingers were so stiff that Brock had to help him unlace his boots. His socks were stiff, too, either with grime or partially frozen. They finally peeled off to reveal his toes.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. The toes were dark, the skin resembling bruised fruit.

Watching over Brock’s shoulder, Vern winced and looked away. Brock forced himself not to react.

“You’ll be all right,” he said, trying for a positive note. “You just need to get up and moving, is all. Get the blood flowing, you know.”

“I guess you’re right, Brock,” Boot replied, although the words were emitted through shivering lips.

We’re all cold, Brock thought. Too damn cold.

He told himself that it was all going to be worth it to get some justice, not just for his old pal Charlie Knuth, but for all the poor bastards that the German officer had ordered gunned down in the woods outside Bastogne. For once in his life, Brock felt like he had to do something right.

He straightened up and wriggled his own toes, grateful that he could feel them. The morning was grim and unforgiving, the sky a dull shade of gray, as if it were reflecting the miserable circumstances they found themselves in. The barren trees and snowy ground added to the gloomy atmosphere. He realized that their voices sounded strained and tense in the frosty air, their words clipped and urgent as they communicated with each other.

Brock trudged forward, feeling the biting cold and dampness seep into his bones. He knew that it was always coldest in the early hours of the morning, and he told himself that they would warm up soon enough.

He glanced over at Boot, who managed to hobble along. He decided that it was one hell of a nickname for a lame guy. Boot was going to lose his toes, sure as the sun came up in the morning. They would get the German and then get Boot back to Bastogne, where the docs could get a look at him.

His shoulders slumped under the weight of his rifle and gear as he led the others forward. They passed between two stone pillars and found themselves looking at a massive stone château.

The tracks they had been following led right to the château.

It irritated him that the German prisoner and his escort had apparently spent the night there, where they’d been warm and dry. Probably sleeping in a bunch of damn feather beds.

He studied the old house. The château was an impressive place, rising like a solid wall of stone from the clearing surrounded by forest. He considered the kind of money the people who owned that place must have and whistled softly to himself. Somebody was definitely the lord of the manor. So far the war hadn’t seemed to touch this remote château.

The war had left so many towns and villages a wreck. Growing up in Florida, he had once seen the aftermath of a hurricane that had swept in from the sea and turned entire towns into scattered piles of sticks and rubble. He and his friends had driven around, amazed at the debris. The surrounding Belgian countryside reminded him of that same destruction, although in this case it was war that had swept in rather than a storm.

There was no doubt that the local people were suffering, especially now that the Germans were on the rampage, but there were occasional reminders, such as this massive stone house, that Europe was the land of princes and princesses.

Brock settled in to watch the house and plan his next move.