Vaccaro was the most mechanically inclined of the bunch and was soon crawling under the jeep to get a better look at the damage.
“Think we can fix it?” Rupert wondered.
“Sure, if we had the tools, the parts, and maybe three days,” Vaccaro replied. “A heated garage would be nice while we’re at it.”
“Looks like we’re walking from here on out,” Cole announced.
Having gathered a few supplies from the jeep, Cole led their small group away from the abandoned vehicle. He looked around to see how everyone was doing as they set out.
It was one hell of a motley crew, he decided — two half-frozen snipers, a wet-nosed British officer, and a German prisoner. The only thing that would make them more ridiculous would be if the German was leading a dancing bear.
The young British officer sported bright-pink cheeks as a result of the cold. His uniform was a little too clean, indicating that he was not a combat officer. His winter gear mainly consisted of a wool overcoat that looked warm enough but would have been more appropriate on a fashionable city street than the snowy woods of the Ardennes. He wore tall leather riding boots that didn’t look comfortable for walking, but they would keep the snow out.
He’d been carrying only a sidearm, but Cole had insisted that the Brit be given an M1 carbine.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever used one of these,” he said, looking it over.
Cole showed him how to load the weapon and operate it. Rupert caught on quickly. Cole finished the lesson by adding, “The most important thing is not to shoot me or Vaccaro. You can shoot all the Germans you want, including this one we’ve got with us.”
Rupert nodded. It would be understandable if he saw his situation as having been thrown to the wolves. Nonetheless, he maintained a cheery can-do attitude. He didn’t complain. Cole couldn’t decide if that cheerfulness made him like Rupert or hate him — the jury was still out on that one.
The prisoner still had his hands bound in front of him, although in an act of mercy, one of the clerks at HQ had tugged mittens over his bare hands to ward off frostbite. His vaguely amused expression had returned. It was as if the German realized that he should have already been dead by now, so he could watch the events that unfolded with detachment. Through his silence, it seemed as if this German officer was determined to remain stoic until the very end.
Cole felt a twinge of admiration for the man’s resolve. He had expected their captive to bellyache or come up with some story that they had the wrong guy, but instead he seemed to accept his fate with quiet dignity. He hadn’t even seemed afraid when Brock and his crew had threatened him. Cole gave him points for that, even if he was a no-good murdering Kraut.
As for Vaccaro, he also appeared resigned to his fate, his head down, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Of course, Vaccaro also carried a scoped Springfield, but he had it slung over one shoulder as if confident they wouldn’t run into any trouble this close to the city.
Cole wasn’t so sure that they wouldn’t have need of their weapons sooner rather than later. He kept his own rifle ready and would remind Vaccaro to do the same when the time came.
“How long do you think it’s gonna take us to get there?” Vaccaro wondered.
“Tomorrow at most — if we don’t run into any trouble,” Cole said, adding, “Which we will.”
“You are a regular ray of sunshine.”
Cole smirked. “I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it. This won’t be easy.”
“Hillbilly, when you of all people say something isn’t going to be easy, it makes me nervous.”
“Well, don’t go sweating bullets about it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’d rather you were dodging bullets instead.”
“If this is going to take us two days, it means we’ll have to stay overnight somewhere. I hope there’s a decent hotel along the way.”
“I don’t know about that. Hell, we’ll be lucky if we can find a foxhole.”
“It’s damn cold, so the last place I want to sleep is a foxhole.” Vaccaro glanced over at the German and lowered his voice. “If we have to camp out, what are we going to do about him?”
“I dunno,” Cole admitted. “Hog-tie him if we have to.”
“He won’t like that.”
“I don’t really give a damn what he likes or doesn’t like.”
Vaccaro had raised a good point that nobody had thought through. Handling prisoners, especially important ones, was not usually in Cole’s line of work. This was all-new territory.
Maybe Brock was right, Cole thought. They should have taken him up on his offer to take the Kraut off their hands. Nobody could have put up much of a stink if they claimed that the Kraut had run off. However, Cole had instinctively disliked Brock. The man couldn’t be trusted. There was no way he would have handed the prisoner off to him.
Orders were orders, and Cole intended to follow them.
Bauer had overheard their conversation. “Excuse me,” he said. “If I may?”
Up until now he had been silent, and Cole had forgotten that the man spoke English. When he did speak, it was with the careful annunciation of the educated class. It didn’t make Cole like him any better — just the opposite.
“What the hell do you want?” Cole barked at him.
“There is no need to tie me up at night,” he said. “I give you my word not to attempt an escape.”
“The word of a murdering Nazi ain’t worth much in my book.”
“I am merely trying to save you some trouble and save me some discomfort. For that matter, I would appreciate it if you cut my hands free. It would make walking easier.”
“I don’t think so, Herr Barnstormer.”
“Obersturmbannführer,” Bauer said, correcting him.
“Yeah, like I said, Barnstormer.”
Bauer gave him a blank look but didn’t correct him this time.
Now on foot, they had no choice but to keep moving. Even that rattletrap jeep would have been better than slogging through the snow, mud, and slush up this road. There were a few tire tracks and tank treads, along with boot prints, to show that the road had been used recently — fresh enough that the snow hadn’t covered the tracks.
“What do you think, Cole?” Vaccaro asked. “Our guys or their guys?”
Cole and Bauer replied at the same time, “Both.”
Cole glanced over at Bauer, who arched an eyebrow at him. That damn Kraut is probably hoping that some of his fellow Germans will come along and rescue him. Cole had to admit that the odds were pretty good of that happening. The whole damn countryside had to be crawling with Krauts.
“Some of those are Studebaker treads,” Cole explained for Vaccaro’s benefit. “Some of the boots have hobnails, which means they’re German.” He might have added that the hobnailed boots seemed old-fashioned, but they actually provided better traction in the snow and mud. The rubber-soled US boots performed better on paved roads — and were that much quieter.
They kept going, with Cole keeping a wary eye on the surroundings trees. The trunks loomed dark and menacing on both sides of the road as the pitch grew steeper and they began to climb through the hilly country. The men were quiet except for the sound of their labored breathing. Halfway up, they paused for breath. Bauer was a little older and heavier than the Brit and the two Americans and seemed to be having the most trouble climbing the hill.
Again, it was Bauer who broke the silence. He nodded toward Vaccaro, who had stepped to the side of the road to relieve himself. “That is another reason why you may wish to free my hands.”
Cole caught on to what he was saying and glared at him. “You gotta be kidding me. I sure as hell ain’t gonna hold your schnitzel while you take a leak.”