She had been an excellent guide, tough as nails, and beautiful to boot.
Conflict had arisen in the squad because, in wartime, men fought over a single filly like wolves fighting over a scrap of meat.
The lieutenant had figured that as an officer and educated man, Jolie would naturally go for him. Much to his surprise — and to Cole’s — she had quickly shown that she preferred the company of the sniper. That had been months ago, but Mulholland still seemed to hold it against him, which explained why Cole was now crossing the open field.
When Cole got closer, the tank commander visibly relaxed. He lowered his binoculars and climbed down from the tank.
The lieutenant stuck out his hand. “I’ve only seen Germans these last few days. I thought you might be more of the same.”
“Glad to see you,” Cole replied, shaking the lieutenant’s hand.
“I was worried about infiltrators too. Rumor has it that a lot of Krauts are wearing US uniforms and raising all sorts of hell.” The lieutenant paused. “Say, you’re not really a German, are you?”
“I reckon not, Lieutenant,” Cole replied in his mountain twang. It was not an accent that a German would bother to learn.
“Well, it would be one hell of a dumb infiltrator who walked right up to a tank, so I figured you weren’t a Kraut. Also, no offense intended, but you sound pure cornpone.”
“If you say so, sir.”
The lieutenant nodded at the men dug in on the slope. “What’s going on?”
“We’re a welcome party for the Krauts headed up this road into Bastogne. When we heard your engines, we reckoned it was the Germans arriving. They’re supposed to get here any minute now.”
The lieutenant grinned. “Mind if we join the party?”
“That would be right nice of you.”
“All righty, then. Sounds like there’s no time for proper introductions. Tell your CO that we’ll set up in those trees off to your flank, closest to the road. The Krauts will have to get past us if they want to get into Bastogne.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant took a long look at Cole’s rifle. “Sniper, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve got to say I don’t care much for snipers, present company excluded. I’ve only been in command of this bucket of bolts for three days. That’s because a Kraut sniper picked off the previous lieutenant when he stuck his head out of his hatch to have a look around.”
Falling prey to snipers was definitely an occupational hazard for tank commanders. Cole realized that he had picked off a few German tank commanders doing the exact same thing, but he didn’t say anything about that to the lieutenant.
“I’ll go let our CO know your plans.” Because he was feeling ornery, Cole couldn’t resist adding, “Oh, and keep your head down, sir.”
“Very funny.”
The lieutenant turned back to his tank, and Cole made his way back up the slope to report where the tanks would be positioned. Already, the Jumbo Sherman had revved up its engine and was hightailing it for the woods near where the road emerged into the field. The two smaller tanks followed along in its wake like puppies following the mama dog.
Captain Brown had come down to hear what Cole had to say. He nodded and added a small smile. “I’ll be glad to have their help. If three tanks got through, that means more will be on the way. Things are starting to turn around for Bastogne.”
The tanks weren’t the only card up the captain’s sleeve. Dug in on the hillside, Team SNAFU had their rifles and a handful of machine guns, but no heavy firepower. However, they would not be hung out to dry.
Out of sight back in Bastogne, the artillery had the coordinates of this field dialed in. When Captain Brown gave the word, the artillery would open fire on the Germans in the field. The Krauts would be in for a deadly surprise.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They didn’t have to wait much longer for the Germans to appear. The guttural sound of straining engines announced the approaching panzers and the arrival of the German advance. However, the Germans did not immediately cross the field as expected.
It was as if they smelled the trap that had been set for them.
The panzers stayed within cover of the trees on the opposite side, their engines growling like a pack of mechanical wolves preparing for the hunt. It was clear that the enemy had spotted the US troops dug in on the hillside. They were likely trying to determine the strength of the unit opposing them.
“What the hell are they waiting for?” Vaccaro wondered.
“The Krauts are always smarter than we give them credit for,” Cole replied. “They’re not gonna rush out into the open.”
He had the telescopic sight to his eye, hoping that a target would present itself.
For now, the German troops kept to the cover of the trees and tanks. None of the tanks had its hatch open. These tanks meant business.
Vaccaro seemed content to let Cole do the shooting for now. “See anything?”
“They’re keeping to the trees,” he said. “If there’s infantry with ’em, I can’t see them. Ain’t nothin’ to shoot at yet.”
Like the Americans, the Germans also had a few tricks up their sleeves. Instead of crossing the field, the panzers opened fire from the edge of the forest opposite the US position. Shells from the German guns began pummeling the US line. Due to the angle of the slope, some of the high-explosive rounds hit the frozen ground and ricocheted to explode in the forest behind the men. Even above the detonation of the rounds, they could hear the cracking and splitting of the wood.
Glad we ain’t in them trees, Cole thought.
Plenty of shells found their target. The German gunners had good aim and at this relatively close range were able to zero in on individual foxholes. Shells hit, exploding with such force that whatever had been in that foxhole was obliterated. Clods of earth — and worse — came raining down. Every man on that slope wished he had dug his foxhole deeper. They gripped their helmets tight and pressed their faces into the cold ground, willing themselves to sink deeper. Dirt clogged their nostrils and got into their mouths, but nobody cared. Meanwhile, shrapnel whistled overhead.
Every man had already been reminded not to fasten the strap of his helmet. This was because the concussive force of an explosive shell could get cupped inside a helmet like a pail scooping up water. The sheer force of it could take a man’s head clean off. Cole had seen it happen to more than one greenbean. With the strap left undone, the blast might blow the helmet off but leave his head attached to his shoulders.
More shells struck as the bombardment by the panzers continued. So far their own three tanks hidden nearby had held their fire.
The jeep that had carried Captain Brown out from Bastogne was parked within view near the boundary with the woods. A shell hit the jeep, and it was hurled skyward before its carcass went rolling away, fire pouring from the wreckage. Fortunately, there was nobody aboard, the driver having taken shelter in a foxhole.
“Holy hell!” the captain exclaimed, watching his ride reduced to a burning hulk.
After several minutes, the Germans seemed to determine that they had done enough to soften up the US defenses. The firing stopped, and the panzers came roaring out from the shelter of the trees on the far side of the field.
Cole lifted his head up enough to determine that there were eight panzers. One of them was bigger than the rest — a Tiger tank. No wonder the world had felt like it was coming to an end.
The panzers were not alone. As they churned across the snowy field, lines of infantry emerged. Cole was shocked at the sheer number of enemy troops. Most of the time in combat, he’d seen only small squads of Germans. There must have been close to a hundred soldiers advancing.