Righteous Sniper

EPILOGUE

Slowed by Rupert’s wound and the rugged terrain, it took them longer than Vaccaro expected to reach the road again, even with Lena’s knowledge of the trails through the forest.

They still didn’t know the outcome of the showdown between Cole, Bauer, and the German pursuers. Vaccaro’s money was on Cole, of course, but he knew well enough that there were no sure bets in this war.

“Leave me here,” Rupert said. He looked even more gray-faced from pain, and he shivered in the cold. “You two will have a better chance of getting out of these woods on your own.”

“No way in hell, Lieutenant,” Vaccaro replied, grunting with the effort of supporting Rupert across a section of trail covered by gnarled, icy tree roots. Lena continued to support him on the other side, nursing her own twisted ankle. Every step was an effort.

“I could order you to leave me here,” Rupert said.

“That won’t work, Lieutenant,” Vaccaro said. “Besides, your girlfriend here isn’t going to follow orders either.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Rupert said. “Help me get back to the road, and then we’ll see what’s what.”

There was no more discussion after that. Instead, they concentrated their energies on traveling the paths made by the deer and wild pigs that Lena had set them upon.

When they finally reached the road, they were met with a surprise. They had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when they heard a shout behind them. Vaccaro looked back and saw two figures gaining on them. He would have recognized the loping gait of the leaner man anywhere.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, then smiled.

Cole trotted toward them, with Bauer on his heels. He explained that they had reached the road sooner by cutting directly downhill through the forest. It wasn’t a route that the other three could have managed.

“I reckoned we’d run into your sorry ass sooner or later once we got back to the road,” Cole said.

“How did it work out with those Krauts?”

“Let’s just say they won’t be bothering us again,” Cole replied.

“Glad to hear it,” Vaccaro said. “They were starting to get annoying.”

“You and the girl take point,” Cole said. “Let me and Bauer lug the lieutenant for a while.”

“You really must leave me,” Rupert insisted.

“Shut up, Lieutenant,” Cole said, not unkindly. “Let’s go.”

They reached the outskirts of Neufchâteau not long after dark, having navigated the last couple of miles groping their way along the road. Cole had been worried about running into more Germans, but it turned out that US sentries posed the biggest danger. They had materialized out of the gloom, rifles leveled.

“What’s the password?” the sentry asked.

“Do I look like I know the damn password?” Cole snapped back, exasperated. “We just came from Bastogne to deliver this prisoner.”

“Holy hell, all the way from Bastogne?”

The sentries lowered their rifles. Although they had been warned against German infiltrators, the battered group of misfits on the road — an exhausted and half-frozen GI, a Belgian girl, a wounded British officer, a German POW, and a bad-tempered sniper — did not seem to pose much threat.

Without further delay, they were pointed toward headquarters. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Rupert and Lena were guided toward the field hospital.

“How about if you deliver Herr Barnstormer? I think you can handle it from here,” Vaccaro said to Cole. “I’m gonna see if I can find some hot grub and coffee.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Cole said.

The army had taken over an entire crossroads village, with soldiers and officers hurrying from one small house to another. Only a few lights burned due to the threat, however remote, of a Luftwaffe attack. Nonetheless, a few desperately cold GIs had started small fires fed with scrap wood or broken-up furniture to keep warm. The fires were small enough that they could be kicked out or smothered with snow at the first sound of enemy aircraft.

There was enough light thrown by the sputtering flames to see the gray slush churned up under countless tire treads and tank tracks. The firelit faces they passed looked grim and determined. When they noticed Bauer’s enemy uniform, some of the faces wore looks of curiosity while others scowled as if ready to shoot him. News of the massacre at Malmedy and the smaller murderous incident perpetrated by Hauptmann Messner outside Bastogne had spread, meaning that precious few German prisoners would be taken alive in the days ahead.

Word had also arrived that the fight for Bastogne was finally being won. Cole and Vaccaro would soon be returning to see for themselves how the fight was going. The worst of the German advance seemed to have been stopped, but there was still plenty of fight left in the Krauts.

An intelligence officer found them and told them to wait outside as he ducked back inside the house. He seemed excited by Bauer’s arrival but not quite sure what to do with him. It seemed to be understood that Cole would continue to keep his prisoner under guard. Wisely, Bauer had already handed back his weapon.

The two men stood surrounded by the dirty snow, waiting for the officer to return. They faced each other, stamping their feet to stay warm. Their breath made clouds that hung in the frosty air, but no words passed between them. No one else was around, and nobody seemed to be taking much interest in them.

Soon the officer would come back out and Bauer would be thrown into the meat grinder of military justice. But for now it was just two soldiers who had survived an ordeal together.

“I could let you escape,” Cole finally said. “It’s not too late.”

“You will do no such thing, Private Cole,” Bauer replied. “You will continue to do your duty. You set out to deliver me to your headquarters for questioning, and that is exactly what you have done.”

“If you get into those woods, nobody will find you.”

Bauer shook his head. “The time for that is past, but thank you for the suggestion.”

“What do you think will happen to you?”

“Don’t worry, they are unlikely to hang me until Germany has lost the war. That may be months from now. At that point I will no longer be a prisoner of war, but a common criminal.”

“For what it’s worth, the way I see it, you aren’t a criminal,” Cole said. “You’re just on the wrong side.”

Bauer nodded. “Keep your head down, hillbilly.”

The German straightened up, coming to attention. Cole did the same, and the two men saluted each other. The officer came back out with two MPs and took Bauer into custody. Then Cole turned and headed back down the snowy street to locate Vaccaro in hopes he had found some hot grub.

Before heading out for the return trip to Bastogne, Cole and Vaccaro stopped by the field hospital to check on Lieutenant Rupert. The hospital had been set up in a church. This was no cathedral, but a simple village chapel. A crucifix with an almost life-size Jesus overlooked the scene, and Christ’s eyes seemed to watch the suffering with sadness.

The pews had been removed to make more room, so that the wounded lay on the cold stone floor. Portable kerosene heaters had been brought in, but they were struggling. Most of the warmth came from the collective body heat, which was a mixed blessing. Cole wished that somebody would open a window — the interior reeked of unwashed soldiers, fever sweat, rubbing alcohol, and a whiff of rotting meat. He wrinkled his nose against the assault of smells.

They found Rupert propped up on his blankets, letting Lena help him drink a hot mug of broth. He still looked exhausted, but some of his color had returned. Fortunately, his wounds weren’t going to be fatal. What he needed was rest and hot food.

Some of the cases were far worse. Several men were so heavily bandaged that it was hard to tell where the gauze ended and the men began. In other cases, frostbite had turned the flesh of the victims’ toes, fingers, even noses, black like bruised fruit.

“The sawbones tell me that I should be out of here in a few days,” Rupert said.

“Don’t be in a hurry, sir,” Vaccaro replied. “I rushed to get out of the hospital so that I could get to Bastogne. What the hell was I thinking?”

“You weren’t,” Cole said. “And I told you so too. Don’t make the same mistake, Lieutenant.”

Lena smoothed a stray lock of hair and offered him more broth, showing the same intensity as when she had guided them through the forest.

“It looks to me like you’re in good hands, Lieutenant,” Vaccaro said knowingly.

“Lena is going to stay here and volunteer at the hospital as a nurse,” Rupert said. “At least for a few days until the fighting around Bastogne is over. It’s just too dangerous for her to head home right now, although she is more than a bit worried about her mother.”

“Something tells me Madame Jouret will be just fine,” Cole said. “She’s one tough customer.”

Lena laughed. “Oui, c’est vrai!”

Rupert had a question for Cole. “What about Bauer?”

“I delivered him to HQ just like we were supposed to, sir.”

“If he had anything to do with those prisoners being shot, they’ll hang him eventually.”

“Yeah, I know,” Cole said.

There didn’t seem to be much more to say after that. Cole and Vaccaro made sure that the lieutenant had everything he needed. Then again, considering that he had his own personal nurse, he seemed to be well taken care of. They said their goodbyes and made their way out of the hospital. Cole was glad for some fresh air.

“Like I said before, the officers always get the girls,” Vaccaro said.

“Aw, quit your bellyachin’. Let’s see if we can find some more ammo. If we’re headed back to Bastogne, we’re gonna need it. The Krauts ain’t licked yet.”

At that moment, many miles away, a heavy tarp moved in the expansive attic of Château Jouret, as if stirred by a cold draft. There was certainly no shortage of those. As the tarp moved yet more, it revealed that the cloth had been draped over a heavy piece of furniture in such a way as to create a sort of tent.

Madame Jouret’s face appeared at the gap in the fabric, peering out, as she listened intently to the house. She strained her ears, but the only sound in the house below was the distant scurrying of a mouse.

Inside the tent created by the dust tarp, there was a mattress, a washbasin, and a candle. All in all, it was a comfortable space, with the tent keeping in just enough body heat to make it bearable to sleep in the attic. It helped that Madame Jouret was rather plump, with plenty of middle-aged insulation against the cold.

There was also a double-barreled shotgun within her tent. If the Germans found her, she had planned on getting at least one of them.

But there had been no need. Having lived here for decades, she knew every creak and groan of the château. It was as if the old house could speak to her, verifying that it was empty. Satisfied that she was alone, she crept from her hiding place.

In the end, no one had even ventured into the attic. She had heard first the Germans and then the Americans venture into the house. There was a gap in the top of the walls that enabled sound to carry from the first floor. The words they had shouted to each other while searching the house had given them away. Madame Jouret understood the Germans well enough. She supposed that the words in English had much the same meaning.

But no one had been there since yesterday, so she had judged it safe to come out. Cautiously, she went downstairs.

Everything was a shambles from the fighting. Bullet holes pocked the walls. The shattered windows let in the snow and cold. Inexplicably, the searchers had slashed open the upholstered furniture. Who or what could they have thought was hiding there? Perhaps they were only being vindictive.

The lady of the house sighed. Windows could be boarded up. Walls could be repaired. The house had stood for a long time and wasn’t going anywhere.

Her only real worry was that her daughter had made it to safety with the British officer and the Americans who were escorting the captured German. Then again, she had every confidence in her daughter. The two American soldiers had been tough and competent. Reluctantly, she also had to admit that the German officer had fought like a tiger to help defend them all.

In that short time, Lena had also taken a liking to the young British officer. Madame Jouret smiled at the thought. Perhaps something good would come out of this war after all.

Brock and his men returned to Bastogne, where the fighting was slowly winding down. Nobody seemed to notice that they’d been gone or asked where they had gone. There was simply too much confusion — not to mention that many troops had gone missing in the cold, dark woods. In some cases their remains wouldn’t be found for decades.

It would have been easy enough to simply reappear and keep his head down, but he wasted no time getting the maps and documents that he’d “found” into the hands of his company commander, who immediately passed them up the food chain.

His CO found him later and announced, “You did good, Brock. Word is that what you and your boys found was really useful. The colonel suggested putting you in for a medal.”

“Just doing my part, sir.”

“Keep doing it, that’s for sure. Tell me again, where did you say you found those documents?”

“We killed some Krauts we ran across, and they had those documents on them.” The story came so easily that Brock himself almost believed it.

“Well, that was lucky. Good job.”

Brock didn’t have a medal yet, but he puffed out his chest a bit as he made his way through the streets of Bastogne, Vern at his side. They’d already left Boot at the field hospital, where it wasn’t looking good for his frostbitten toes. He’d looked for Charlie Knuth, to tell him that he’d found the German who had gunned down those GIs. Knuth had been too weak to ask for details, and Brock hadn’t bothered to explain that he’d let the German officer go in exchange for the captured documents.

Anyhow, like that hillbilly sniper had said, the German would get what was coming to him.

Up the street, Brock spotted a soldier carrying a bottle of wine. The GIs had gone through Bastogne like a plague of locusts, looking for anything to eat or drink, but the soldier had somehow found another bottle in the ruined town. He moved to block the smaller soldier’s path and “liberate” the wine, just as he’d done a couple of days before with a different soldier.

Beside him, Vern chuckled. “Same old Brock,” he muttered.

The comment made Brock stop and think. Was he the same old Brock? He’d made good on his promise to get justice by hunting down the German, even if it wasn’t exactly the justice he had first envisioned. He’d brought his men back, more or less in one piece. Hell, it even sounded like he was going to get a medal.

In the street ahead, the soldier found Brock blocking his path. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Stick that bottle of wine under your coat before somebody tries to take it from you,” Brock said.

The soldier nodded and took Brock’s advice, then went on his way.

Vern was staring at him. “Hey, Brock, you know what? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve gone soft.”

“Not soft, just older and wiser. Anyhow, don’t push it,” Brock growled.

Days after the dismal meeting in Verdun, General Dwight D. Eisenhower surveyed the map again, feeling a sense of relief. The Battle of the Bulge was far from won, and Ike had been forced to throw everything he had at the Germans to halt the advance.

However, the map reflected that Hitler’s Operation Christrose was a fading dream. The wintry roads and lack of fuel had bogged down the German tanks. The snow-covered, rugged Ardennes didn’t play favorites, however. The weather and rough terrain had been just as challenging for the Allied forces. But it was clear that the tide had turned.

Much of that success in stopping the enemy was thanks to General Patton and his Third Army. Patton’s fighting spirit was exactly what had been needed, taking on the enemy panzers wherever his Sherman tanks and tank destroyers encountered them.

Soon the weather would clear enough for the Army Air Corps planes to resume flying. Once that happened, they would begin picking off enemy tanks and trucks like hawks swooping down on the chicken coop.

Then again, it hadn’t been just Patton’s troops who had stopped the Germans. No, each and every soldier who had shivered in his foxhole, holding his position, had done just that. Patton might get all the glory, but Ike was well aware that thousands of unsung heroes were responsible for this victory.

The stand made at Bastogne had also stopped the Germans in their tracks. They had not been able to advance any farther and had been forced to stop and fight once General McAuliffe had given his famous reply to enemy demands for surrender: “Nuts!”

Ike grinned, thinking about the consternation that response must have caused the Germans.

The Battle of the Bulge was being won, slowly but surely. Ike wasn’t quite ready to relax, but he’d actually managed to get some sleep the night before.

He looked at the map, to what was next. Beyond the Ardennes lay the Rhine River.

Then Germany itself.