Again, the hits that the Sherman tank had taken were evident in its log-covered sides that showed the scarred fresh wood. Thick steel armor was preferred, but the makeshift armor provided by the logs had probably saved the tank on more than one occasion by deflecting the full force of a German shell.
“Let’s ask these guys if they’ve seen that escort party,” Brock said. “At least then we’ll know that we’re still headed in the right direction.”
“You think they’ll stop for us?” Boot asked. “They look like they’re hell-bent on getting to Bastogne.”
Boot needn’t have worried about the tank not stopping for them. When the tank commander spotted them, he steered the Sherman closer to the middle of the road to block their path. The tank stopped short of pointing its gun at them, but the Sherman’s machine gun was now trained on them.
Behind the tank, the infantry squad fanned out, keeping their weapons trained on Brock and his companions.
The engine turned off, leaving an ominous silence in the winter woods. Brock felt his insides give a little flip. He didn’t like the looks of this at all.
“What gives?” he shouted, his voice sounding too loud in the sudden silence. “You fellas are pointing those guns at the wrong guys.”
“Oh yeah, how can we be so sure of that?” the lieutenant in the tank hatch replied. “We hear there are German commandos dressed as our guys all over the place. They speak English. Three men headed the wrong way from Bastogne doesn’t seem right to me.”
Normally, as a battle-hardened enlisted man, Brock felt dismissive toward lieutenants, especially ones who rode around in tanks. However, this lieutenant seemed no-nonsense, like maybe he had been promoted up through the ranks. It didn’t help that not only was Corporal Brock outranked, but he was seriously outgunned.
“We’re supposed to link up with a squad escorting a German POW,” Brock said, deciding that he would tell only half the story. “You haven’t seen anybody like that, have you?”
“Mostly, the only Germans we’ve seen that haven’t been dead have been shooting at us,” the lieutenant said. “But we did see some of our guys apparently escorting a German officer back where we had a skirmish with the Krauts. They were in the distance, and they ran off instead of helping us fight, which makes the fact that you’re looking for them even more suspicious. Like I said, how do we know you’re not Germans?”
“C’mon, Lieutenant—”
“Better start talking before we start shooting.”
“So ask us a few questions,” Brock replied.
“That sounds like just the sort of thing a German agent would say.” The lieutenant seemed to think it over. “OK, sing us some of ‘Mairzy Doats.’”
Brock stared at him incredulously, wondering whether he had heard the lieutenant right. The song filled with seemingly nonsensical words had been a big hit when released in 1943. He knew the name of the song, all right, but couldn’t remember any of the words.
“You mean that kids’ song?”
“You heard me right. Start singing, if you know what’s good for you.”
Brock stared at Vern, who shrugged. Neither of them had a clue.
One or two of the soldiers in the infantry squad cocked their weapons.
It was Boot who saved them. Breaking the tense silence, he belted out a few lines of the song, tunelessly. It was a convincing performance, if painful on the ears. Boot was no singer.
Brock couldn’t have known it, but similar scenes were being played out all over the sprawling battlefield, with even colonels and generals being quizzed by doubtful sentries. The mere rumor of German saboteurs had wreaked far more havoc than the saboteurs themselves.
“How’s that, Lieutenant?” Brock wondered. “You maybe want us to dance too?”
“Naw, that’s good enough for me,” the lieutenant finally said. The song might have been childish, but the lieutenant’s threat had been real enough. However, he seemed more than satisfied by the rendition that Boot had offered. “Like I said, that squad you were looking for ran off into the woods. You can link up with us if you want to. We’re headed to Bastogne.”
“Thank you, sir. But I think we’d better keep looking.”
“Suit yourself.”
The tank engine roared back to life, and the Sherman started moving forward with a clank of treads. Still, the troops moving with the tank eyed Brock and his squad warily. Brock didn’t relax until they were out of sight.
“You think that lieutenant was serious about shooting us?” Vern asked.
“He looked damn serious to me. How did he look to you?”
“Serious as a heart attack,” Vern agreed.
“Staring into that tank’s machine gun sure as hell almost gave me a heart attack,” Brock admitted. “Boot, how the hell did you know that song?”
“Aw, my niece sang it nonstop the last time I was home on leave,” he said. “She used to make me sing it with her.”
Brock just shook his head. “Ain’t it a wonder, boys. We’ve got all the ammo we need, but it was a damn kids’ song that kept us from ending up as worm food.”
It wasn’t long after that when they reached the wreckage of the skirmish that the lieutenant and his tank had survived. They could see the smoking remains of another Sherman that hadn’t been so lucky. Several bodies lay in the slush and snow, most of them German.
He looked over the bodies — at least the ones where the faces were still recognizable. He didn’t see their German among them — or the hillbilly sniper either. He wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed. To be honest, part of him was ready to give up the chase and turn around, promises be damned. It would be night soon, and he didn’t relish the notion of sleeping out here in the woods, where there might be a German hiding behind every tree.
Brock recalled what the lieutenant had said about seeing some Americans accompanied by a German officer. Surely, those had to be the same men that he was looking for — they would be on this road. Apparently they had tried to avoid the skirmish that had taken place here. But where had they gone?
“Hey, Brock!” Vern called. “I found something.”
Brock hurried over to where Vern stood by a low stone wall at the opposite end of a wide place in the road.
“What is it?”
“Looks like a Kraut officer’s hat to me,” he replied, kicking at the hat in question.
“It’s got to be our Kraut,” Brock said.
Vern nodded toward the trees, where four sets of tracks disappeared into the growing darkness of the woods. Curiously, there was also a set of tire tracks headed in that direction. “It looks like they went this way.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“We’ll bed down here for the night,” Cole announced. He glanced at Rupert. “That is, if it’s all right with you, Lieutenant.”
“Carry on,” Rupert said.
“All right, then,” Cole said. “We’ll keep the fire going, spread out some blankets. I’ll take first watch tonight.”
Vaccaro groaned. “C’mon, Cole. We’re snug as a bug in a rug in this place. We don’t really need to have guard duty.”
“You never know who’s out there,” Cole said with finality.
Lieutenant Rupert weighed in, backing Cole up. “I agree with Private Cole,” he said. “Better safe than sorry. For all we know, these woods could be crawling with Germans.”
The truth was that Cole felt uneasy in these surroundings. It wasn’t the empty old château that put him on edge, but the trappings of wealth. Although the château had seen better days and had an air of abandonment, everything from the soaring ceilings to the antique carved-wood furniture hinted at an opulence that was completely foreign to the likes of someone like Cole.