Cole didn’t need to be told twice to dig deep. The metal blade of the entrenching tool jolted his arms each time it bit into the rigid ground. He swiveled the blade so that he could use the tool more like a pick than a shovel, hacking at the soil knitted with crystals of ice.
They were really exposed here. The ground beneath the trees was so barren of underbrush that it was like a park, with no cover other than the trees above.
From time to time, Cole glanced with apprehension at the stark bare branches overhead. He had seen how an artillery burst could transform trees into whirling deadly splinters.
“What am I, a soldier or a farmer?” Vaccaro complained.
“Shut up and dig,” Cole said. “The deeper, the better. You heard the officers. Sounds like we’ll be facing tanks. Those panzers will tear us apart.”
Like aircraft, a tank was one of those machines that sparked joy in the heart of an infantryman — as long as it was one of their own. When it was an enemy tank that they were facing, the emotion was quite the opposite.
And so they burrowed down into the frozen ground, grunting with the effort.
But no sooner had they made some progress laboriously hacking through the frozen ground than orders came to move out. A chorus of groaning went up from the men.
They took up new positions, still on the hillside, even closer to the road, but beyond the trees. That was fine by Cole, who hadn’t liked the thought of being shelled while under those branches.
The lack of tree roots made the digging that much easier, although the frozen ground still made them fight for every inch. The digging warmed the soldiers, who were almost grateful for the exercise because of that, but it created a new problem.
“Take it slow,” advised Captain Brown, walking among the foxholes being excavated. “You don’t want to break a sweat or those wet clothes will chill you to the bone once you quit. You’ve got time — the Germans aren’t anywhere in sight.”
Once the captain had moved on, Vaccaro said, “Damn, that’s the first time anybody in the army has told me to take my time.”
“Don’t get used to it,” somebody said.
“Just make sure it’s deep,” Cole said. “If there are Krauts headed this way, it’s gonna get ugly in a hurry.”
They had a good view of the road and the open field beyond. Given that their flanks were covered by wooded, rugged hills, the Germans would have little choice but to follow the road through the field, where they would be caught out in the open.
Cole touched his rifle and smiled.
However, the grin faded as he looked around him. He hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a distinct absence of any real firepower other than GIs with rifles and a few machine guns. He reminded himself that they would likely be facing panzers. German armor would chew them up and spit them out fast as a mule went through sweet clover.
“I got a bad feeling about this,” he muttered.
“You and me both,” Vaccaro said. “I sure wish we had some tanks of our own. The Krauts will sure as hell have panzers.”
Vaccaro wasn’t wrong about that. Bastogne was still cut off and isolated, the Germans attempting to punch holes through the dike. US armor was still nowhere to be seen. Cole had the dismal thought that they’d be fighting enemy tanks with rifles.
Once the foxholes were dug, the men settled in to wait. They lay in their holes, shivering, as a new layer of snow covered them, eventually melting to soak through their clothing and make them even colder.
The waiting proved to be almost as nerve-racking as an actual battle. Time passed slowly in the cold holes they had dug.
There was nothing to do now but be patient. The cold settled over the men like an icy blanket, with the dampness seeping into joints and bones still sore from the marathon truck ride. Hardly any of the soldiers were past thirty years old, but the raw cold made their knees and elbows ache like they were a bunch of grandfathers.
Worn down from exhaustion, many of the men were getting sick from the cold, and the sounds of sneezing and coughing carried through the still winter air. It was a lousy, miserable place to be getting sick.
The worst part was how a man’s thoughts gave way to his imagination. Every flicker of a bird among the trees became a German. Shadows in the gloom appeared to be menacing tanks. The distant boom of artillery surely meant that a shell was headed their way.
To make matters worse, a freezing fog had rolled in, blending with the snowy landscape to create a world of whiteness. The fog reduced visibility and skewed their perspective to the point where the trees opposite them seemed to be like so many tall marching soldiers.
The damp air had a way of carrying sound long distances, and odd noises seemed to come at them from all directions at once. Cole could hear a man in a foxhole a hundred feet away talking to his buddy, and it sounded like they were right next to him.
“Keep it down,” Lieutenant Mulholland ordered in a hoarse whisper. “No sense letting the Krauts know exactly where we are.”
The fog was more than a little unnerving. They were all relieved when the fog began to lift, but it stopped at the level of the treetops.
When they finally did hear the rumbling of engines, it was coming from their rear.
“What the hell is that? The Krauts are behind us!”
“Goddammit!”
Everyone spun around, fearing that the Germans had somehow gotten behind them. A cheer went up when they realized that it wasn’t German armor, but their own.
The cavalry had arrived in the nick of time.
However, the tanks soon stopped, as if unsure whether the men in the foxholes were Germans or Americans. A figure appeared in the lead tank, gazing at the men through binoculars.
You couldn’t blame him. Many of the soldiers had donned sheets for camouflage or whitewashed their helmets, trying to blend in with the snowy background. Considering that the Germans also wore white camouflage, it was hard to tell them apart.
Lieutenant Mulholland stood up and waved, but the tank commander wasn’t buying it. They had good reason to be wary of German Panzerfaust. Plus they didn’t seem to have any supporting infantry, making the tanks more vulnerable.
“Cole, go down there and let those tankers know whose side we’re on,” Mulholland said.
“You got it, Lieutenant.”
Cole shucked off his improvised white smock so that whoever was in the tank could get a look at his US uniform. Next he slipped his rifle through the sling and walked down the slope to meet them.
He was surprised to see that the lead tank was bigger than the others. He decided that it must be one of those Jumbo Shermans that he’d heard rumors about. They were supposed to be big enough and tough enough to tangle with a Tiger tank.
The name Cobra King was painted on the side. A single white star on each side of the turret identified it as a US fighting tank.
This battlefield beauty had been built at the Fisher Tank Arsenal in Michigan, one of fewer than three hundred M4 Sherman “Jumbo” tanks. Powered by a Ford V8 engine, theoretically it could reach speeds of around twenty miles per hour, but that wasn’t possible in the rugged terrain of the Ardennes region.
He wasn’t one to be nervous, but Cole couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off the machine gun on the front of the tank, not to mention the black maw of the 75 mm main weapon. If that tank crew didn’t like his looks and decided to open fire, Cole knew there wouldn’t be enough of him to bury in a shoebox — if they found anything at all. His mouth went dry at the thought.
Lieutenant Mulholland could have sent anyone, but he had decided to send Cole. Why? Cole could only guess, but he suspected that Mulholland still harbored a grudge about Jolie Molyneaux. Jolie had been a French Maqui, or freedom fighter, assigned to be their guide way back in Normandy.