Righteous Sniper

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In the lull that followed the assault on the château, more bread and cheese were produced by Madame Jouret, along with a bottle of red wine.

“I could get used to this kind of war,” Vaccaro said. “You know, a war where we sleep on some cushions instead of the ground, there’s a fireplace to keep warm, then decent food and some wine in between gun battles.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Cole warned him. “The Krauts will be back. They may be more determined the next time around.”

“What about the other Americans out there?”

“Who knows. I reckon that they decided to sit this one out. Maybe they wanted to see what happened, let us wipe each other out, and then swoop in to pick up the pieces.”

“The pieces being our prisoner.”

“Seems like it,” Cole agreed.

They had gotten off easy during the attack. The only person to be wounded had been Lieutenant Rupert, who had rushed to help the women defend the front of the house. Seeing Lena being attacked had ignited a fury inside him that he didn’t know he had.

A bullet had grazed his arm, but he didn’t appear to mind, considering that Lena had insisted that he take his shirt off and was now bandaging his arm carefully. Like a typical Brit in a land where rain was more common than sunshine, his bare arms and chest looked milky white. However, judging by his well-toned muscles, he also appeared to keep himself quite fit, a fact that didn’t seem to be lost on Lena.

“Was it really necessary for her to take his shirt off?” Vaccaro wondered. “I guess it’s a good thing that he didn’t get shot in the ass. You know that thing has got to be white as a lily.”

“You’re just jealous, is all,” Cole said.

Bauer hadn’t had much to say. Maybe he was having second thoughts about shooting at his own kind. It had been good shooting, all the same.

Cole decided to leave the German to his own thoughts. He used the time to double-check their defenses, finding a few more pieces of furniture that he and Vaccaro could pile in front of the downstairs windows.

“Now what?” Vaccaro wondered.

“Now we wait.”

But as any soldier knew, waiting for the next attack was the hardest part.

Brock had watched in astonishment as the Germans attacked the château. What the hell were they thinking? To him, crossing that open ground had seemed like a suicide mission. They’d been lucky to have plenty of covering fire from the machine gun.

He still couldn’t figure out why the Krauts were so determined to get inside the old mansion. It wasn’t like he could saunter over and ask them.

With professional interest, he watched the assault unfold.

“What should we do?” Vern wondered. “It doesn’t seem right just to watch. Those are our guys in there.”

“Let’s see how far the Krauts get and then decide what to do.”

Under the covering fire, two Germans were able to reach the house itself. If they’d had grenades, that might have been the end of the fight. The Germans would have been able to toss in a few grenades and take out the Americans inside.

But the defenders had been able to return fire from an upstairs window, evidently wounding one of the attackers. The Krauts had then beat a hasty retreat back to the woods, where they still seemed to be licking their wounds.

“Damn, I was kind of hoping that they would crack open that nut for us,” Brock said.

“Should we try?”

“Not yet. Let’s see if the Germans make another go of it.”

“They will,” Vern said. “You know how the Germans are. Stubborn.”

“Yeah,” Brock agreed. “When they do attack again, we’ll come at the château from another direction.”

Another hour went by before the Germans tried again. Inside the château, their first warning was the sound of a vehicle engine on the cold air. The forest was very quiet, so a revving engine was quite noticeable.

Vaccaro was upstairs as a lookout, peering out one of the windows at the front of the house.

“What the hell are they up to?” Vaccaro shouted.

Cole raced up the stairs, Bauer right behind him.

They heard the racing engine, the sound of grinding gears, and then the Kübelwagen came flying out of the woods, headed directly toward the house.

This time, the Germans threw caution to the wind. All three were riding on the Kübelwagen. One man at the wheel, one riding shotgun, and another hanging on for dear life as he swung the machine gun toward the château.

Cole tried to get off a shot, but the machine gunner was faster, sweeping the front of the château with a burst from the gun. More stone chips flew, along with splinters from the wood shutters. The splinters threatened to be just as deadly as the bullets. Again, a couple of rounds found their way inside the house itself.

He and the others had no choice but to duck and cover. When they looked again, the passenger and driver of the Kübelwagen were already out, scrambling to reach the foundation of the house, where it would be harder to pick them off.

Against the backdrop of gloomy gray snow, Cole glimpsed a bright flash of burning flame. One of the men rushing toward the house appeared to be carrying something that was on fire.

Cole caught only a glimpse before he had to duck down again because the machine gunner was still with the stopped vehicle, firing away.

Downstairs, something exploded with a deep whumpf that shook them to the bone.

The explosion seemed to suck the air out of the house.

What the hell?

Cole put two and two together, realizing what the flaming object had been.

Lacking grenades, the Germans had made a Molotov cocktail. They must have drained some of the fuel out of the Kübelwagen to do so.

Clever Krauts, Cole thought.

“Get ready, boys,” Brock said. “We’re gonna go in the back door, so to speak.”

There wasn’t an actual door, just the side door for the kitchen made of stout wood, but there were ground-floor windows.

With Brock leading the way, they used the woods for cover to skirt the open ground and reach the back of the house.

Brock was betting on the defenders being occupied with beating off the German attack on the front of the house. From that direction, there were several shots, then the dull sound of an explosion. Not a grenade, he thought, but something else. The acrid smell of burning gasoline roiled skyward, and he wondered whether the Germans’ Kübelwagen had somehow blown up.

Right now that didn’t concern him. He sprinted hard across the open ground to the back of the château. For a big man, Brock could move quickly. The snow did slow him down, however. Vern and Boot came charging after him.

They knew the drill. They had all done this before, fighting from house to house in towns they had passed through since D-Day.

Brock reached the base of the château’s back wall and crouched there, panting and regretting every damn cigarette he’d ever smoked. The other two men spread out along the wall, keeping their heads below the windows.

Again, he wished for a grenade. But they would just have to make do.

Brock stood up and used the butt of the carbine to smash the shutter. He then poked the muzzle at the window, shattering glass.

Careful to keep his head down, he squeezed off three quick shots into the window. There was no target. His goal was to make anybody inside the château duck and cover.

When nobody shot back, Brock was pleased by the thought that the defenders must all be at the front of the house. The Krauts had created the perfect diversion.

Brock used the butt of his carbine once again to knock away more of the shutter and the shards of broken glass jutting from the window sash.

With an effort, he was able to lever himself up so he was hanging half-in and half-out of the window. There was still a lot of broken glass around, and he cursed as a shard cut the bottom of his forearm.

But he was almost inside. He stuck his head up and looked around.

He was surprised to find himself locking eyes with a young woman.

Who happened to be holding a double-barreled shotgun.

Brock’s gaze went from the young woman’s face to the twin muzzles.

Her eyes narrowed, squinting down the barrel. His own eyes widened.

He just had time to tumble back out the window as one of those muzzles unleashed a stab of flame and lead shot. The snow wasn’t as deep here in the lee of the foundation, and Brock felt the breath get knocked out of him as he landed on the frozen ground.

He gasped for breath, wondering whether he’d been hit.

Nearby, Vern stood up and fired through the window.

The shotgun roared again, and Vern cursed as a pellet stung the side of his neck. It wasn’t fatal, but it bled freely, leaving bright drops of red on the trampled snow around the base of the house.

More shots came from within. Not a shotgun this time, but the rapid-fire crack of a rifle. The girl wasn’t alone. One of the soldiers must have joined her in defending the house.

Brock had to admit that there was no way they were getting into the château if someone inside was covering the rear windows. Without grenades or a machine gun, they didn’t have the firepower. They had lost the element of surprise.

Like an exclamation mark on that thought, another shotgun blast followed. Boot had been taking a peek through the shutters and ducked down hastily — but his reaction wasn’t quick enough. He now had a nasty red gash on his cheek, either from a shotgun pellet or a flying splinter — or maybe a little of both.

Vern was already doing the smart thing and running back toward the trees. Brock couldn’t blame him. He struggled to his knees. All three had gotten a little beat up in the attack.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Brock shouted.

At the front of the house, the Germans were having more success.

Out on the front lawn, the machine gunner on the Kübelwagen was still firing short bursts, forcing the defenders to keep their heads down.

Cole had guessed correctly that the explosion had been caused not by a hand grenade, but by a Molotov cocktail that the Germans had crafted out of an empty schnapps bottle that they filled with gasoline siphoned from the Kübelwagen. A burning rag served as the wick.

It had been Messner who had thrown the bomb, waiting to get as close to a window as possible, although he had nearly lost his nerve at the thought of the bomb going off early and covering him with flaming gasoline. He had managed to smash the Molotov cocktail against the window and fill the front hall with flames and roiling, thick smoke. Only the fact that the interior walls were also stone had prevented the fire from spreading throughout the entire house.

A second Molotov cocktail soon followed, this one thrown by Gettinger, exploding against the front door and wreathing it in flame. The fire licked at the wood, threatening to engulf it, blackening the stone facade, sending clouds of acrid black smoke skyward. The occupants of the château had managed to keep a low profile by lighting fires only at night, but the smoke was now visible far and wide.

Messner fired shots into the smoke and flame, hoping to hit someone inside. Inadvertently, the flaming bombs had provided cover for the defenders. Near the burning front door, Gettinger also fired shots furiously.

But it was Dietzel behind the machine gun who was doing the real damage. Another burst hit the facade. If the Germans had been able to press the advantage with just a couple more men, the battle of the château would have been all but over.

Cole realized that he had to do something — and soon. He had positioned himself at an upstairs window alongside Bauer, but the leaping flames and smoke prevented them from repeating the tactics that had driven off the Germans last time.

“Go see if you can help downstairs,” Cole ordered.

Bauer gave a curt nod and hurried away. In the last few hours, Cole had given up worrying about Bauer’s loyalties. If the German had wanted to get the drop on his captors, Cole decided that he would have done it by now. He was fighting for survival like everybody else in the house.

He looked out the window to where the Kübelwagen crouched like a beast, spitting lead and fire at the château. Another burst made him duck down, but he had gotten a mental picture of his target.

One, two, three⁠—

Cole popped up and fired a quick shot at the German behind the machine gun. It was hard to say if he had hit him, but the firing suddenly stopped. When he took a closer look, he saw that there was nobody manning the gun.

He smiled with satisfaction, but not for long. A shot came from beneath the Kübelwagen, striking near his head.

Too close.

But without the machine gun, the Germans had lost the advantage. He heard a shout, and the attack came to an end. This time the Germans were smart enough to use blind spots created by the far ends of the house to screen their movements as they slipped back into the woods.

The sniper under the Kübelwagen must have managed to scurry away while Cole had his own head down, because when he got back on the scope, there was nobody there. On the plus side, the Germans had left the Kübelwagen behind.

Cole heard a sound behind him and turned to see Bauer entering the room.

“They are gone for now,” the German announced.

“For now,” Cole agreed.