Cole decided to leave the German to his own thoughts. He used the time to double-check their defenses, finding a few more pieces of furniture that he and Vaccaro could pile in front of the downstairs windows.
“Now what?” Vaccaro wondered.
“Now we wait.”
But as any soldier knew, waiting for the next attack was the hardest part.
Brock had watched in astonishment as the Germans attacked the château. What the hell were they thinking? To him, crossing that open ground had seemed like a suicide mission. They’d been lucky to have plenty of covering fire from the machine gun.
He still couldn’t figure out why the Krauts were so determined to get inside the old mansion. It wasn’t like he could saunter over and ask them.
With professional interest, he watched the assault unfold.
“What should we do?” Vern wondered. “It doesn’t seem right just to watch. Those are our guys in there.”
“Let’s see how far the Krauts get and then decide what to do.”
Under the covering fire, two Germans were able to reach the house itself. If they’d had grenades, that might have been the end of the fight. The Germans would have been able to toss in a few grenades and take out the Americans inside.
But the defenders had been able to return fire from an upstairs window, evidently wounding one of the attackers. The Krauts had then beat a hasty retreat back to the woods, where they still seemed to be licking their wounds.
“Damn, I was kind of hoping that they would crack open that nut for us,” Brock said.
“Should we try?”
“Not yet. Let’s see if the Germans make another go of it.”
“They will,” Vern said. “You know how the Germans are. Stubborn.”
“Yeah,” Brock agreed. “When they do attack again, we’ll come at the château from another direction.”
Another hour went by before the Germans tried again. Inside the château, their first warning was the sound of a vehicle engine on the cold air. The forest was very quiet, so a revving engine was quite noticeable.
Vaccaro was upstairs as a lookout, peering out one of the windows at the front of the house.
“What the hell are they up to?” Vaccaro shouted.
Cole raced up the stairs, Bauer right behind him.
They heard the racing engine, the sound of grinding gears, and then the Kübelwagen came flying out of the woods, headed directly toward the house.
This time, the Germans threw caution to the wind. All three were riding on the Kübelwagen. One man at the wheel, one riding shotgun, and another hanging on for dear life as he swung the machine gun toward the château.
Cole tried to get off a shot, but the machine gunner was faster, sweeping the front of the château with a burst from the gun. More stone chips flew, along with splinters from the wood shutters. The splinters threatened to be just as deadly as the bullets. Again, a couple of rounds found their way inside the house itself.
He and the others had no choice but to duck and cover. When they looked again, the passenger and driver of the Kübelwagen were already out, scrambling to reach the foundation of the house, where it would be harder to pick them off.
Against the backdrop of gloomy gray snow, Cole glimpsed a bright flash of burning flame. One of the men rushing toward the house appeared to be carrying something that was on fire.
Cole caught only a glimpse before he had to duck down again because the machine gunner was still with the stopped vehicle, firing away.
Downstairs, something exploded with a deep whumpf that shook them to the bone.
The explosion seemed to suck the air out of the house.
What the hell?
Cole put two and two together, realizing what the flaming object had been.
Lacking grenades, the Germans had made a Molotov cocktail. They must have drained some of the fuel out of the Kübelwagen to do so.
Clever Krauts, Cole thought.
“Get ready, boys,” Brock said. “We’re gonna go in the back door, so to speak.”
There wasn’t an actual door, just the side door for the kitchen made of stout wood, but there were ground-floor windows.
With Brock leading the way, they used the woods for cover to skirt the open ground and reach the back of the house.
Brock was betting on the defenders being occupied with beating off the German attack on the front of the house. From that direction, there were several shots, then the dull sound of an explosion. Not a grenade, he thought, but something else. The acrid smell of burning gasoline roiled skyward, and he wondered whether the Germans’ Kübelwagen had somehow blown up.
Right now that didn’t concern him. He sprinted hard across the open ground to the back of the château. For a big man, Brock could move quickly. The snow did slow him down, however. Vern and Boot came charging after him.
They knew the drill. They had all done this before, fighting from house to house in towns they had passed through since D-Day.
Brock reached the base of the château’s back wall and crouched there, panting and regretting every damn cigarette he’d ever smoked. The other two men spread out along the wall, keeping their heads below the windows.
Again, he wished for a grenade. But they would just have to make do.
Brock stood up and used the butt of the carbine to smash the shutter. He then poked the muzzle at the window, shattering glass.
Careful to keep his head down, he squeezed off three quick shots into the window. There was no target. His goal was to make anybody inside the château duck and cover.
When nobody shot back, Brock was pleased by the thought that the defenders must all be at the front of the house. The Krauts had created the perfect diversion.
Brock used the butt of his carbine once again to knock away more of the shutter and the shards of broken glass jutting from the window sash.
With an effort, he was able to lever himself up so he was hanging half-in and half-out of the window. There was still a lot of broken glass around, and he cursed as a shard cut the bottom of his forearm.
But he was almost inside. He stuck his head up and looked around.
He was surprised to find himself locking eyes with a young woman.
Who happened to be holding a double-barreled shotgun.
Brock’s gaze went from the young woman’s face to the twin muzzles.
Her eyes narrowed, squinting down the barrel. His own eyes widened.
He just had time to tumble back out the window as one of those muzzles unleashed a stab of flame and lead shot. The snow wasn’t as deep here in the lee of the foundation, and Brock felt the breath get knocked out of him as he landed on the frozen ground.
He gasped for breath, wondering whether he’d been hit.
Nearby, Vern stood up and fired through the window.
The shotgun roared again, and Vern cursed as a pellet stung the side of his neck. It wasn’t fatal, but it bled freely, leaving bright drops of red on the trampled snow around the base of the house.
More shots came from within. Not a shotgun this time, but the rapid-fire crack of a rifle. The girl wasn’t alone. One of the soldiers must have joined her in defending the house.
Brock had to admit that there was no way they were getting into the château if someone inside was covering the rear windows. Without grenades or a machine gun, they didn’t have the firepower. They had lost the element of surprise.
Like an exclamation mark on that thought, another shotgun blast followed. Boot had been taking a peek through the shutters and ducked down hastily — but his reaction wasn’t quick enough. He now had a nasty red gash on his cheek, either from a shotgun pellet or a flying splinter — or maybe a little of both.