by David Healey
Having agreed to a temporary truce, the two sides met on the road leading to the village. The snowy, ice-covered surface of the road had been packed as hard as asphalt by the passage of trucks and tanks. Cold wind blew through the valley, carrying a few flakes of snow. With sunset approaching, the sun dipped low toward the surrounding mountains, tinging the sky in yellow and purple tones, like a brilliant bruise.
The approaching sunset left Cole feeling wistful. Considering that the fight for the town would begin before first light tomorrow morning, it was unsettling to think about who might not be around to see the next evening’s sunset.
Looking over the Germans, he recalled General Patton’s words, “No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.”
Cole hefted the submachine gun draped across his chest, eager to help those other poor dumb bastards do their part. Cole was armed to the teeth. Along with the submachine gun, his rifle was slung within easy reach over his shoulder. He wore a .45 in a side holster. His wicked-looking Bowie knife, custom made for him by his old friend Hollis Bailey, was stuck in his belt, Indian-fighter style.
“Keep your eyes open, son,” Colonel Allen had muttered to Cole, somewhat unnecessarily. “I wouldn’t trust these Kraut bastards as far as I could throw them.”
To Cole’s surprise, it was clear that the colonel was nervous about this meeting. “Yes, sir.”
The group going to parlay with the enemy consisted of the colonel, Lieutenant Mulholland, a medic, and Cole. Only Cole was armed. Mulholland carried a white rag tied to a stick, which made him look vaguely silly.
Of course, an entire company of GIs was ready to open up at long range with their M-1 rifles if the need should arise. But if that happened, there was a good chance that the colonel and all the rest would already be dead.
Similarly, by prior agreement, the German officers coming to meet them were not armed—with the exception of their pistols, Cole noticed. The pistols were tucked away into holders with a leather flap—not exactly a quick-draw weapon.
What was surprising was that the Germans had brought a civilian with them.
“What the hell?” the colonel said. “Is that a nun?”
Sure enough, a Catholic nun had accompanied the Germans to the parlay. Cole was struck by the fact that the nun was quite pretty, her youthful face framed by the nun’s habit she wore.
Cole wasn’t the only one was staring. With an effort, he flicked his eyes away from the nun to focus his attention on the one German who, like Cole himself, had come armed to this meeting. Like Cole, the man carried a submachine gun and a rifle. The German’s rifle also had a telescopic sight. Another sniper, then.
Perhaps it shouldn’t have been too surprising that the German officer had also chosen a sniper as a sort of bodyguard. In both armies, the snipers were not only the best all-around shots, but also the men who tended to be coolest under pressure. They wouldn’t lose control and start shooting. And if they did have to shoot, they weren’t going to miss.
As the other man came closer, Cole studied him. The details of the German’s face became more evident.
Cole felt a current of shock go through him. He knew this man. It was the same sniper whom Cole had fought against at Ville sur Moselle. His presence here verified that Cole hadn’t killed him, after all—that was a disappointment. This sniper had been a real bastard, murdering some villagers who had decided to play soldier. Their deaths had been cruel and unnecessary.
The enemy sniper seemed to recognize Cole as well. His eyes widened when he got a good look at Cole’s face. But after that first glimmer of surprise, a smile played across his thick lips.
Quickly, the officers made brief introductions. The German officer saved the sniper for last. “That is Hauer. We call him The Butcher.”
Colonel Allen nodded in Cole’s direction. “That’s Cole. We call him Hillbilly.”
While the officers got on with the negotiations, Cole and the enemy sniper settled into trying to stare one another down, fingers resting gently on the triggers of their submachine guns.
The officers got down to brass tacks. No mention of surrender was made by either side.
“I understand that you are holding American prisoners in the village,” Colonel Allen began.
“This is correct,” the German officer responded. “Two hundred and fifty-two to be exact. Well, two hundred and fifty-one. I believe one died this morning. If I were you, Colonel, I would avoid using any heavy weapons against this village, or there may be even fewer prisoners.”
The colonel bristled. “Is that a threat?”
“No, only a commentary on your poor aim. If a stray shell hits the church, you are the one responsible.”
“You could let them go.”
“Come now, Colonel,” the German remarked, as if the American officer had just said something mildly amusing. “If you were in my shoes, would you let your prisoners go?”
“It was worth a try, I suppose.”
The German turned to the nun, who had remained quiet, watching the exchange between the two men. “This is Sister Anne Marie. She has expressed special concern for the prisoners and has been caring for them. She can tell you what supplies are needed for them.”
“Thank you, Sister,” the colonel said. “How are the prisoners doing?”
Clearing her throat, the young nun spoke up. “They are doing as well as can be expected,” she said. “However, some of them are wounded and need medical attention. They are hungry. I asked Colonel Lang for supplies, but he said that he had none to spare.”
The German shrugged. “That is the truth. Anyhow, I have allowed the nun to help your men as best she can.”
“Listen, what I want to do is send supplies to those prisoners. I’ve got blankets and rations ready. Corporal Gregory here is a medic who volunteered to go back with you and see to their medical needs.”
The German acknowledged the medic with a nod. “Corporal Gregory, you are a brave man. Come back with us, then. No harm will come to you. Is that all, Colonel?”
“That is all. Thank you.”
The two officers saluted. No mention of surrender had been made by either side.
The German sniper edged closer and to Cole’s surprise whispered in heavily accented English, “I will see you later, Hillbilly.”
Then the two groups went their separate ways, boots crunching on the snow-packed road. The medic went with the Germans, hauling a sled that was loaded with supplies. Cole noticed that the nun was the only one who wasn’t wearing heavy winter gear or footwear. Cole thought she must be freezing, but she had not complained.
Out of earshot of the enemy soldiers, Colonel Allen remarked, “I think that went well. Best we could expect, under the circumstances. I just hope some of those supplies make it to our boys and that I didn’t just hand over all that food to the Krauts.”
As the German entourage returned to the village, Colonel Lang strode purposefully, forcing the others to keep up. Hauer practically trotted along beside him.
“Hauer, I thought you and that American sniper were going to shoot one another back there. Did you see the look he gave you?”
“He is nothing to worry about.”
“You don’t think so? Ha! If the Americans had another two hundred like him instead of those clerks in the church, we would not be the ones holding this village. The war would have been over already.”
“Maybe I will have the chance to finish him off tomorrow when they attack us.”
“I certainly hope so. Meanwhile, take half of the supplies they gave us to our own wounded. The nun and that medic can have the rest for the prisoners.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know what else, Hauer? We just saw why the Americans are going to win the war.”
Hauer was visibly taken aback. “Why is that, sir?”
“We are less than a hundred miles from Germany, and yet we have no supplies. The Americans are
thousands of miles from their homeland, and yet they have supplies to spare.”
“If you say so, sir. Just so long as we have enough bullets, that is enough.”
The colonel shook his head. “Bullets don’t always win wars, Hauer. You also need blankets and full bellies.”
Chapter Fifteen
The attack was set to begin in the coldest hours before dawn. The sky had cleared, leaving stars strewn across the void. In the distance, a fox barked, a sign that nature was oblivious to the soldiers at the edge of the forest.
“Cold enough for you?” Vaccaro muttered too loudly, his voice carrying in the winter air.
“Shut up, Vaccaro,” Lieutenant Mulholland whispered harshly. He was as nervous as anyone. It was Mulholland who would be leading them right into those German machine guns when they opened up. The others just had to follow. “You want to let the Krauts know we’re coming? Then keep it up.”
Chastised, Vaccaro fell into a sullen silence. In the dark, Cole just shook his head. Vaccaro always talked too much when he got nervous.
They stood in a ring of men, breath steaming like smoke, stamping their feet for some warmth, nervously checking and re-checking weapons. One or two men fumbled with their heavy clothing to relieve themselves yet again, not even bothering to take more than a couple of steps away. The last thing anybody wanted was to have to go during a fight. Though craving nicotine, the men weren’t allowed to light a cigarette, for fear that the sudden flare of a match would warn the enemy.
Given their concerns about being seen by the enemy, the starlight was a blessing and a curse. Reflected by the blanket of snow, the starlight provided the men preparing to attack with a little much-needed light. On the other hand, the light might reveal their movements to the Germans. Down the frozen road, across the valley, they could see the sleepy village, soon to be the target of their attack.
Like the others, Cole and Vaccaro had hardly slept, having been roused from their freezing foxholes as soon as they fell asleep, or so it seemed.
The captain came along, hurrying from squad to squad. “I need a couple of volunteers,” he said.
“I’m guessing it’s not to run down to Paris and bring back a case of champagne,” Vaccaro muttered.
“Lucky you, Vaccaro,” the lieutenant said. “You just volunteered.”
Vaccaro groaned. “For what?”
“We need to cut the line of communication between the Germans in the village and the ones on the hill,” the captain explained. He handed Vaccaro a pair of wire cutters. “They’ve got a telephone line running up there. See if you can find the damn thing and cut it.”
“Sir, won’t they just use their radio if that happens?”
“Sure they have radios, but if they’re like ours they don’t work right in these hills,” the captain said. “Go cut that wire.”
Orders given, the captain hurried off into the dark.
Mulholland spoke up. “Vaccaro, you heard the captain. Take Cole with you, if he’s up to it. If Cole goes with you, there’s at least a chance that you’ll come back in one piece. We attack at oh six hundred, so get a move on.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vaccaro turned to Cole. “Aren’t you glad that you’re feeling better?”
Cole shook his head. He was feeling much better than he had been, but he wasn’t eager for this mission to cut the German wires. “City Boy, what have you and your big mouth gone and gotten us into?”
“Good luck,” Mulholland said. “Remember, the attack starts whether you’re back here or not, so hustle.”
Before they started out, Cole reached into his pack and brought out a white smock that he had taken off a dead German. For whatever reason, the U.S. Army had been slow in adapting to this simple form of camouflage that was so effective in the snow. Cole even had a helmet cover. It was for a German helmet, but it fit well enough. While the camouflage wasn’t perfect, it went a long way toward helping him melt into the snowy backdrop.
“What about me?” Vaccaro asked.
“I took this off a prisoner,” Cole said. “I guess you’ll just have to capture a German.”
“Or shoot one.”
“Not if he shoots you first, which seems more likely, on account of how you make a right good target in all this snow. You stand out like a preacher at a whore house.”
“Great.”
The two moved off into the field. They were both exposed, but there was no helping it. Fortunately, some thin clouds were passing over the stars. If the moon had been out, a trip across the field would have been pure suicide.
They started across the snowy slope leading toward the hill north of town. While the Germans held the village, they also had troops on the hilltop, giving them the high ground above the entire valley. From up there, they had a clear field of fire to drop mortars or bring machine guns to bear on much of the ground surrounding the village. The troops themselves were hidden from view by the forest, but had a clear view out—almost like a one-way mirror in a funhouse.
You had to hand it to the Jerries, Cole thought. They knew their business, inside and out. Whoever controlled that hill could rain hellfire down on the approaches to the village, so the Germans had made sure that they were dug in up there.
What does that leave us? he wondered.
The Americans controlled the road leading toward the village. Unfortunately, to reach the village, they would have to go through the railroad underpass that had been the scene of the disastrous assault on the village earlier, before it was understood that the Germans were there in strength. The wrecked hulk of the Sherman tank still stood in the middle of the road, creating a barrier against further attack.
As the captain had noted, the success of the German defense also meant being able to coordinate between the forces in the village and those on the hill.
That was where Cole and Vaccaro came in.
“How in the hell are we ever going to find that wire?” Vaccaro wondered, speaking quietly. They were both well aware of being exposed, and how far sound carried in the still night air. With no choice, they climbed higher up the slope. The snow wasn’t more than eight inches deep, but between the snow and last fall’s deep grass, it was just enough to make crossing the slope difficult. Before long, they were both breathing hard. Cole realized that he could have used another day or two to recover from his bout with the flu.
“With any luck, we’ll see the tracks where the German engineers laid that wire down,” Cole said. “There ain’t been much snow since then. Not more than a dusting, anyhow.”
“If we see it, can’t you just shoot the wire from here?
“Yeah, that would be real smart. We’d have every German in those trees shooting back at us.”
“I noticed that you didn’t say you couldn’t hit the wire. It was the noise you were worried about. I mean, I was talking about shooting a wire.”
“Yep,” Cole said.
Vaccaro waved the wire cutters. “I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”
They trudged through the field, glad for the clouds, but keeping a wary eye on the trees above them. The tree-line began a couple of hundred feet away. They couldn’t see the Germans, but they were there, all right.
Finally, up ahead, they saw where the snow had been disturbed. In fact, a regular trail had been beaten through the snow, likely with men and supplies moving between the hill and village below.
“Give me the cutters,” Cole said. “You stay here.”
“What?”
“I’m the one with the camouflage, remember? If the Krauts have eyes on anything, they’ll have them on that trail.”
Cole unslung his rifle and moved on alone, taking his time. He wanted his motions to be slow and steady in order to attract less attention, just in case he was visible at all against the snowy backdrop. Although it was still dark, snow had a funny way of gathering what light there was.
He found the rubber-coated wire, half-buried in the snow. He had to take off his gloves to work
the wire cutters, but soon found that the damn things were useless. Dull as a butterknife. The wire just kept getting hung up in the blades. Not only that, but his cold fingers couldn’t seem to get enough leverage to cut through the wire, anyhow. Now what? Maybe Vaccaro was right. Maybe he’d have to shoot through the wire, after all.
But he had a better idea. Cole drew the big Bowie knife, placed the edge closest to the hilt against the wire, and started sliding the blade. After a moment of initial resistance, the knife cut right through the copper wire. Satisfied that the phone up on that hill had just gone dead, he started back toward Vaccaro.
He hadn’t gone far before the shooting started. Down on the road below, the attack into the village had begun. Tracers flashed across the snow, with fire from the village answering. From the hill above them, a mortar fired, and then another. More flashes lit the night. It was quite a fireworks show.
Cole and Vaccaro found themselves caught out in the open.
“Now what are we supposed to do?” Vaccaro wondered, crouching in the snow, his rifle aimed toward the trees.
“Forget that,” Cole said. “We’re sitting duck out here. Run!”
No sooner had Cole spoken, then a burst of fire stitched across the snow nearby. Cole felt the ice crystals kicked up by the burst sting his face.
They both ran like hell.
On the road, two Sherman tanks raced toward the village. Despite the dark, it was fairly easy for the drivers to follow the road. The lead tank charged ahead, engine roaring, spouting exhaust that was lost in the darkness, while the second tank moved along slightly to the left and behind the other.
Although the tanks didn’t show any lights, their sound and fury were enough to give them away. Tracers from their machine guns lit the night.
Both tanks had crew manning the fifty-caliber machine guns on the turrets. Mounted in the mid-sections of the tanks, the thirty-caliber machine guns blazed away, making the tanks seem like gunfighters shooting from the hip.