“I ain’t gonna argue with that.”
“What the hell do those Krauts want with our prisoner?” Vaccaro wondered.
“To hell if I know. Let’s go ask him.”
Once darkness fell, Brock and his squad had made camp. It was a cold camp, without any fire that might attract the attention of the enemy. Consequently, the trio had shivered through the night. There was grumbling from Vern and Boot, but they knew better than to complain too much to Brock.
They feared the Germans who might be creeping up on them, and frostbite was a constant threat. But their healthy fear of Brock outweighed both. They knew that when Brock set his mind on doing something, then you had better get out of the way or follow along.
He’d been just as cold as anyone. Zeal only did so much to keep you warm, and his own determination to track down the German had started to wane in the cold, dark, wee hours of the morning.
When the gray light of morning finally arrived, Brock had been just about ready to call it quits, get everyone turned around, and head back to Bastogne empty-handed without their quarry.
That was when they heard two gunshots, not very far away, somewhere toward the end of the lane that they had been traveling before darkness had rolled in.
It was the first sign that they weren’t the only ones out there.
He’d been afraid that the trail had gone cold, but here was a spark, at least.
And in Brock’s experience, where there was smoke, there was fire.
“C’mon,” he said to the others. “On your feet. Let’s go see what that shooting is all about.”
As they started to get up, it was clear that Boot was having trouble.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded.
“It’s my toes, Brock,” Boot explained. “I can’t feel them at all. It might be frostbite.”
“Dammit, how many times have I warned you and everybody else in the squad to make sure you were wearing dry socks.”
“Never mind dry socks,” Vern spoke up. “Cold as it was, we’re lucky that we didn’t freeze to death.”
“I don’t want to hear your crap,” Brock growled, prompting Vern to clam up. “All right, Boot, let me have a look at those feet.”
Boot’s fingers were so stiff that Brock had to help him unlace his boots. His socks were stiff, too, either with grime or partially frozen. They finally peeled off to reveal his toes.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. The toes were dark, the skin resembling bruised fruit.
Watching over Brock’s shoulder, Vern winced and looked away. Brock forced himself not to react.
“You’ll be all right,” he said, trying for a positive note. “You just need to get up and moving, is all. Get the blood flowing, you know.”
“I guess you’re right, Brock,” Boot replied, although the words were emitted through shivering lips.
We’re all cold, Brock thought. Too damn cold.
He told himself that it was all going to be worth it to get some justice, not just for his old pal Charlie Knuth, but for all the poor bastards that the German officer had ordered gunned down in the woods outside Bastogne. For once in his life, Brock felt like he had to do something right.
He straightened up and wriggled his own toes, grateful that he could feel them. The morning was grim and unforgiving, the sky a dull shade of gray, as if it were reflecting the miserable circumstances they found themselves in. The barren trees and snowy ground added to the gloomy atmosphere. He realized that their voices sounded strained and tense in the frosty air, their words clipped and urgent as they communicated with each other.
Brock trudged forward, feeling the biting cold and dampness seep into his bones. He knew that it was always coldest in the early hours of the morning, and he told himself that they would warm up soon enough.
He glanced over at Boot, who managed to hobble along. He decided that it was one hell of a nickname for a lame guy. Boot was going to lose his toes, sure as the sun came up in the morning. They would get the German and then get Boot back to Bastogne, where the docs could get a look at him.
His shoulders slumped under the weight of his rifle and gear as he led the others forward. They passed between two stone pillars and found themselves looking at a massive stone château.
The tracks they had been following led right to the château.
It irritated him that the German prisoner and his escort had apparently spent the night there, where they’d been warm and dry. Probably sleeping in a bunch of damn feather beds.
He studied the old house. The château was an impressive place, rising like a solid wall of stone from the clearing surrounded by forest. He considered the kind of money the people who owned that place must have and whistled softly to himself. Somebody was definitely the lord of the manor. So far the war hadn’t seemed to touch this remote château.
The war had left so many towns and villages a wreck. Growing up in Florida, he had once seen the aftermath of a hurricane that had swept in from the sea and turned entire towns into scattered piles of sticks and rubble. He and his friends had driven around, amazed at the debris. The surrounding Belgian countryside reminded him of that same destruction, although in this case it was war that had swept in rather than a storm.
There was no doubt that the local people were suffering, especially now that the Germans were on the rampage, but there were occasional reminders, such as this massive stone house, that Europe was the land of princes and princesses.
Brock settled in to watch the house and plan his next move.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cole and Vaccaro went to confront their prisoner, having made sure that the Germans outside weren’t planning an immediate attack, considering that their meeting under a flag of truce had not gone well.
“What did the Germans want?” Lieutenant Rupert asked. “I heard shooting.”
“It turns out they wanted to negotiate,” Cole said. “It didn’t go well.”
The commotion had also roused Madame Jouret and her daughter, who had come down the stairs half-dressed. The sight of the thickset Madame Jouret in her dressing gown, her hair disheveled, was a sight that the young soldiers would gladly have been spared. However, the appearance of her daughter certainly drew the eyes of the young men. Her dressing gown had been worn thin with use, probably a necessity of wartime and reduced circumstances. The worn gown did little to hide the shape of her body and left little to the imagination.
Gallantly, Rupert moved to drape a blanket around the girl’s shoulders to keep off the morning chill in the room — and perhaps to protect her from the other male eyes.
Cole had to give him points for that act of thoughtfulness. Evidently the girl did as well, her sleepy face breaking into a shy, grateful smile.
Vaccaro started to explain what had just taken place during the parlay with the Krauts, keeping his eyes on their German prisoner.
“The funniest thing just happened,” Vaccaro said. “That Kraut officer asked for you by name. He wanted to invite you outside, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t for a picnic. What do you think, Cole?”
“Not unless the picnic involved Herr Barnstormer getting used for target practice.”
Vaccaro nodded. “Definitely not a picnic. In fact, that Kraut officer said something about you being a traitor. He wanted to make a trade. He said that he and the other Krauts would let us go if we handed you over to them.”
“Then they tried to shoot us,” Cole pointed out. “Don’t forget that part.”
Vaccaro nodded. “Oh yeah, they tried to shoot us when we declined his kind offer.”
“Never trust a Kraut,” Cole said.
Cole decided to let Vaccaro ask the questions, since he was the talkative one. Instead, he stood off to one side, looking through the gap in the shutters to keep one eye out for any move by the Krauts who had disappeared into the woods. He kept his other eye on Bauer with his rifle pointed in the German’s direction. He wanted to send a not-very-subtle message.