“Enough,” Corporal McCann replied.
“Everybody got dry socks?”
“Yeah.”
Bullets and dry socks. That was all a GI needed. Well, maybe that and a C ration or two.
In the confusion of the ongoing battle for the town, nobody questioned them about where they were going. Considering that their uniforms and gear appeared worn out and battle-scarred, showing the marks of countless past missions and endless muddy miles, they had the look of battle-hardened troops who knew what they were doing.
Because they sure as hell did.
They were on the road to revenge.
Brock knew that the actual road they followed was the same one taken by the group escorting the captured German officer to HQ.
Brock was determined that the German would never make it that far.
In fact, he had watched the German and his escorts leave the city, keeping to the shadows cast by a shattered building. His eyes had narrowed, watching them go, and it gave him a feeling of power to know that the little group of Boy Scouts led by that righteous hillbilly had no idea what was coming for them.
He thrilled at the feeling, similar to the sense of power he’d always gotten from being a bully.
Spying on them from a distance, Brock had seen the hillbilly soldier who seemed so intent on doing his duty. The soldier carried a sniper rifle and looked as if he knew how to use it. He had to admit, that sniper worried him a little.
The hillbilly reminded him of a quiet boy who lived on a farm at the end of a long dirt road back home. In school, Brock had habitually teased the boy about his dusty, worn boots. The boy had ignored him until one day Brock had made the mistake of calling the boy’s little sister a name.
Though smaller than Brock, that farm boy had been tough as barbed wire and had ended up nearly kicking in Brock’s ribs with those dusty boots. On that day, the high school bully had learned the hard way that there were some people in this world that you didn’t mess with. He had steered clear of the farm boy and his sister after that.
This hillbilly sniper had that same look in his eyes.
Something to think about.
Brock also hadn’t missed the fact that the German was the tallest of the bunch, his back held ramrod straight like he was on dress parade rather than marching off to a prison camp. Thinking about that German, Brock clenched and unclenched his fist.
Next to him, Vern noticed and said, “Relax, Brock. That Kraut will get what’s coming to him before too long.”
“That Kraut bastard ought to be begging for mercy, not walking with his head held high,” Brock muttered.
“That’s for sure,” Vern agreed. “We’ll sure as hell make him pay for what they did to those guys.”
“Yeah,” Brock agreed. “That Kraut thinks he’s got nothin’ to worry about, but he’s wrong.”
“Let’s see how smug he is when he’s behind barbed wire,” one of the other soldiers said.
Brock rounded on the man, his voice almost a snarl. “Hey, numbnuts, I guess you haven’t been listening. A POW camp is too good for that Kraut. He’s not going to see any barbed wire unless I wrap it around his neck.”
“Whatever you say, Brock.”
“Damn right. Whatever I say.”
Among the men in the squad, Vern and Boot were the ones Brock was closest to. They hadn’t known any of the guys who had been gunned down by the Germans outside Bastogne, but like Brock, they felt a healthy sense of indignation about it.
Those two would do whatever he said and would back him up when push came to shove or if the others balked. The rest of the squad would fall in line if they knew what was good for them. In the end, he had opted to take just Vern and Boot with him.
His plan was to let the escort get a mile or two out of Bastogne, beyond any prying eyes, then overtake them. Maybe they would have the good sense not to put up a fight. If they did, well, that was too bad for them. Maybe that hillbilly wasn’t as tough as he looked.
“C’mon,” he said to the others, pushing off the wall. He tossed away the stub of his cigarette. “Keep your eyes open once we get out of Bastogne. There are still plenty of Krauts out there.”
“What are we gonna do when we catch up to those guys?” Vern wanted to know.
“We’re gonna ask them real nice to turn that Kraut bastard over to us, that’s what. They should have done that in the first place.”
“OK, but what if they don’t want to?” Vern pressed. “Then what?”
“Then we either take the Kraut from them or shoot him right there.”
“I dunno, Brock. That hillbilly guy looked like he meant business. You really think he’ll go along with that?”
“If he doesn’t, then too bad for him,” Brock said.
Boot lowered his voice. “I don’t want to shoot our own guys to get even with that German. What sense would that make?”
“Look, nobody is gonna get shot, except that Kraut. Anyhow, don’t be a granny about it,” Brock said, quickening his pace. “Now hurry it up. I want to catch up to those guys before it gets dark.”
To Brock’s satisfaction, Vern finally shut up. Boot didn’t seem worried about asking any questions and seemed content to do whatever Brock told him to. Neither said another word, but just went along. It was what followers always did.
Away from town, it was quickly apparent that they were on their own. They passed a couple of outpost positions, but otherwise they were soon in a kind of no-man’s-land.
The wind swept across the barren snow-covered fields and chilled them, tugging at the scarves and scraps of cloth that they had wrapped around their necks and faces. The wind always found a way in, often carrying crystals of ice or wet snow with it.
This winter weather had been relentless. Everyone said it favored the Germans because it was keeping the American planes grounded, but Brock wasn’t so sure. The Krauts had to be just as cold and miserable as everyone else in this mess.
Then again, Brock didn’t mind the cold. He scarcely noticed it. The thought of revenge warmed him. However, the empty landscape made him feel jumpy, especially as the shadows in the distant wooded hills grew longer.
“Hurry it up,” he said to the others. “The sooner we get this over with and get back to Bastogne, the better.”
As it turned out, it wasn’t going to be that easy. Up ahead, he could hear the sound of firing — not just small arms but also heavier stuff. If he didn’t know better, it sounded as if they were headed right toward a battle.
“You hear that?” Vern asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “This is the way that Kraut and his babysitters went, so it’s where we’re going too.”
“Sounds like tanks.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get off the road if we hear anything heavy coming our way,” Brock said.
Unknown to Brock and his squad, they weren’t the only ones on the trail of the German and his escort detail. After the skirmish with the American soldiers at the farmhouse, Hauptmann Messner and the Kübelwagen with the two other Germans had continued down the road.
“Keep your eyes open,” Messner warned, shouting to be heard over the roar of the straining motor and the wind in their ears.
His words weren’t really necessary. Gettinger kept his eyes squarely on the road ahead, dodging any obstacles, while keeping his foot planted as firmly on the gas as he dared.
As for Dietzel, his gaze roamed the roadside on both sides, his grip tight on his sniper rifle. If there was any more trouble ahead, he would be sure to be the first to see it.
Messner had his pistol along with an MP 40 submachine gun — dubbed a Schmeisser by American troops — that he had picked up from the unit armorer before leaving on their quest. Officers didn’t normally carry combat weapons, but Messner had decided that the more firepower they had, the better, considering that there were just three of them.