It turned out that the German had better winter gear than the Americans. He had been allowed to keep his haversack, from which he produced another scarf, woolen mittens, a warm coat with a hood, even goggles against blowing snow and ice. It was more proof that the Germans had been well prepared for this winter campaign. His hands remained bound in front of him. The footing was slippery, and the German moved slowly, struggling to keep his balance.
Cole prodded him with the butt of his rifle. “We might be stuck with you, but you sure as hell ain’t gonna slow us down,” he said.
The German didn’t respond other than to pick up the pace.
“This is a hell of a mess,” Vaccaro said. “How did we end up having to babysit this Kraut.”
“Just lucky, I reckon.”
“What else is new?”
As it turned out, their mission nearly ended before it even got started. They had not gone far when several soldiers approached, making a beeline for them.
“What do you suppose they want?” Vaccaro muttered.
“Nothin’ good,” Cole replied. Instinctively, he tightened his grip on his rifle.
He was soon proved right. The biggest soldier in the group, apparently the ringleader, squared off in front of them, blocking their way.
“Where are you going with that Kraut?” he demanded.
“We have orders to move him,” Cole replied.
“We saw you come out of HQ,” the soldier said. “Where the hell else would you take him?”
“Like I said, we’ve got orders.” Cole didn’t elaborate.
“Listen, you probably don’t know this Kraut is responsible for murdering some of our guys.”
“So I heard. What about it?”
Seeing that Cole was going to operate by the book, the soldier changed tactics and adopted a friendly, reasonable tone. “Hey, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot here. My guys call me Brock.”
“Cole. This here is Vaccaro.”
“OK, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Making proper introductions and all. We’re all on the same side here, Cole. You can see that, right?”
“What’s your point, Brock?”
“My point is that it sounds to me as if you and your buddy drew the short end of the stick and got stuck hauling this Kraut piece of crap to wherever he’s supposed to go. My guess is you’re supposed to take him to Corps HQ. That’s a long way off, and it’s a shit show out there, believe me. You look like you’ve already seen your share of that show. Why don’t you save yourselves some trouble and hand him over to me.”
“What are you gonna do with him?”
Brock’s friendly tone lapsed and he grew angry. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’d rather that you told me. Who knows, I might even like what you’ve got planned.”
“Listen, buddy. Hand the Kraut over to me. Nobody is going to ask questions. Just say that the German got lost in the mail.”
“Does he look like a postcard to you?”
“Aw, for the love of Pete.” Brock had run out of patience. He stepped forward, rifle aimed at the prisoner’s head. “Why don’t you say something? Huh? You damn Kraut. I’m sure you can speak some English. Go ahead and say something.”
But the German officer remained silent, his expression unchanged. It was as if talking to Brock wasn’t worth the effort.
“We know you killed our boys back there,” Brock said, trying a different tactic. “Didn’t you?”
Still no response.
Frustrated, Brock reversed his rifle and prepared to hit the prisoner square in the face with the rifle butt. “Say something!” he shouted.
Cole stepped between them before Brock could strike. “That’s enough,” Cole said sternly. “You know what, I think I figured out what you’re gonna do with him.”
“It’s easier if you don’t know, buddy. But let’s just say this Kraut is going to die trying to escape. We might rough him up a little first, for what he did to our guys, but never mind about that. Think of all the trouble you’re going to save yourselves from going through, considering that you’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting from Bastogne to Neufchâteau in one piece.”
“I don’t think so.” Cole shifted his rifle ever so slightly, the muzzle not quite pointing at Brock, but the message was clear. “Now get the hell out of our way.”
Slowly, Brock lowered the butt of his rifle, making it clear that he had thought better of clubbing the prisoner. “All right, if that’s the way you’re gonna be about it.”
“I reckon it is.”
Brock and the other soldiers with him didn’t move. Neither did Cole and Vaccaro. They had reached a tense impasse.
That was when the British liaison officer showed up again, hastily pulling on a wool hat and mittens. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
“These boys don’t seem to agree that the German prisoner should be allowed to leave Bastogne,” Cole drawled, his eyes not straying from Brock’s face.
“Is that so?” Rupert said. “Well, we have our orders. Step aside, soldier.”
It was not a commanding voice, but an officer was an officer, British or American.
Besides, Cole backed him up. He said to Brock, “Best do what the lieutenant says and get the hell out of the way.”
Reluctantly, Brock and his men moved aside.
“This isn’t over,” Brock said. “When I get through with you, you’ll wish you’d done this the easy way.”
“Anytime you want to try me, you go right ahead,” Cole replied.
Cole kept an easy grip on his rifle, half expecting Brock and his group to try something. He didn’t think there would be any shooting, not on the streets of Bastogne, but the best way to avoid trouble would be to make it seem like he’d be willing to shoot first.
However, Brock and his men slowly faded into the background. Cole could feel their stares boring into him.
“One thing for sure, hillbilly. You make friends wherever you go,” Vaccaro said.
“You know me, city boy. Friendly as a porcupine.”
Vaccaro stifled a guffaw. “Maybe a porcupine with rabies.”
“I believe those men intended to cause us trouble,” Lieutenant Rupert said.
“You’d be right about that, sir,” Vaccaro said.
Cole glanced at the German officer. In the gray light, his face no longer wore its bemused expression. To his credit, the German did not appear frightened, but thoughtful. He seemed to know very well that he had just dodged a bullet. A literal one, in this case.
Looking back over his shoulder, Cole could see Brock and his crew still watching them in the distance. Cole had the sneaking suspicion that they might not have seen the last of Brock and his crew. As if the Germans weren’t enough, now they might have to worry about vigilantes from their own side.
In a way, Cole understood how they felt. Had the shoe been on the other foot, he might also have wanted revenge on the German officer and wouldn’t have cared who got in his way. But a job was a job, and orders were orders. More than that, he didn’t like being threatened. Nobody tells me what to do. Nothing stuck in his craw worse than that.
He had met men like Brock before, men used to getting their own way, in and out of the military. Most were bullies and loudmouths that he had dealt with in his own way. Just ask the bully who had enjoyed picking on weaker men during boot camp. Cole had sent him to the infirmary for an extended stay. The man had been bigger, more like Brock’s size, but he had been no match for the can of beans that Cole had swung inside a sock.
Back home in the mountains, a man made his own justice. Cole certainly hadn’t shared it with anyone, but as a boy of fourteen, he had hunted down and shot the rival moonshiner who had killed his father. It had been a fair fight, a running duel through the woods and peaks and valleys against a dangerous opponent who was half-crazy and a crack shot. What Cole had done was prompted by more than revenge; with his pa gone, that moonshiner had reckoned that he could have his pick of Cole’s sisters or maybe even push the family off their land.