“Please,” she said.
“Hauer! What are you doing?”
They both turned to see the officer heading in their direction. Hauer scowled, while she felt relieved.
“I am inspecting these items she is taking to the prisoners,” Hauer said.
“Stop pestering that nun. Let me worry about the prisoners. I need you up in the church steeple. There are reports of American troops headed this way. You and your rifle are going to help hold them off.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sniper gave her one last glare, then moved toward the church so that he could take the stairs up to the steeple.
The officer turned his attention on Sister Anne Marie. His flinty glare softened. She could see that he was younger than he looked at first, and that his face was tight with exhaustion. “Don’t mind him, Sister. Go on and take that to the prisoners.”
She took a few minutes to pick up the blankets, shaking the snow off them as best she could.
As she moved toward the church, the officer shouted a warning. “Look out! Achtung!”
She froze. An instant later, a dark bundle flew through the air in front of her and hit the frozen ground with a resounding thud.
To her astonishment, she realized that a body had just crashed to the ground directly in her path.
She gasped, staring down at a dead soldier wearing an American uniform. She realized that it must be the body of the soldier who had been in the steeple earlier; this was the man that the German sniper had shot.
She looked up at the steeple and saw Hauer leering down at her. He had tossed the dead body out of the steeple, clearly intending for the corpse to drop on her head. If it hadn’t been for the officer’s warning shout, she would have taken another step and been crushed by the falling body.
The German sniper had just tried to kill her.
For once, Sister Anne Marie did not offer a prayer of thanks, but a silent curse directed at the sniper above. It was only with a powerful act of sheer willpower, brought about by reminding herself that she was a nun and should act accordingly, that Sister Anne Marie managed not to shout the ugly words that came to mind.
Behind her, the officer had no such compunctions. He cursed at the soldier in the tower, who looked down and shrugged, not looking chastened in the least. Then the sniper disappeared from view as he took up a position with his rifle.
Shuddering with suppressed fear and anger, she hurried into the shelter of the church.
Chapter Eleven
By the time Cole and the rest of his unit finally rolled up on Wingen sur Moder, the town had fallen and was firmly in enemy hands.
“It’s a hell of a thing,” Mulholland said, having gathered the platoon around. “The Germans have taken this village and we can’t let them keep it. You know what that means.”
“Yeah,” Vaccaro said. “It means that we’re going to get our asses shot off.”
“That about sums it up,” Mulholland said. “Happy New Year.”
“New year, same old story,” Vaccaro muttered.
The lieutenant turned his attention to Cole, who sat nearby, wrapped in blankets. He shivered with fever. “Cole, how are you holding up?”
“I reckon I’ll live,” Cole said, his voice raspy.
“You sit this one out,” Mulholland said.
“Like hell I will, sir.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say. I won’t order you to stay put because we can use every man. Just don’t make the medic carry you back.” Mulholland looked around the assembled men. “Any other questions?”
A soldier raised his hand. “Sir, I feel the flu coming on.”
“Me too, sir. Can I sit this one out?”
“Very funny. You want to be as sick as Cole, go right ahead. Doesn’t look like much fun to me. Anyhow, he said he’s coming along.”
Several men nodded. Sick or not, they were glad to have Cole along. “Yes, sir.”
“Word is that this is a small unit in the village. Not much more than a squad. We should make short work of them.”
Lieutenant Mulholland’s prediction would soon fall into the category of “famous last words,” but the squad had no way of knowing that just yet. It would turn out that there were a lot more Germans defending the village than anybody knew.
Quickly, they got organized for the attack. The Americans had approached on the main road through the mountains, which meant that the most direct way into the village was through an underpass that carried the road beneath a set of railroad tracks.
“The Krauts will be expecting us, sir,” the sergeant pointed out. “We could go around the village and attack from another direction.”
Mulholland shook his head. “Don’t think I didn’t already suggest that, Sarge. The CO informed me that skirting the town would take too long. He wants this town captured as fast as possible. Our orders are to attack head-on. If someone had their facts straight and there really aren’t that many Germans, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The plan of attack was simple. A handful of men would advance through the underpass and see if anybody shot back.
The lieutenant led the way himself. He had been in enough scrapes since coming ashore back in June that his voice quavered a little as he whispered orders to the men accompanying him. Nobody said anything about it. They knew the lieutenant had plenty of sand. More than a few of them also shook with more than the cold.
Cautiously, the lieutenant moved forward, flanked by two soldiers, Bigelow and Carpenter. For a change, Cole and Vaccaro hung back instead of leading the attack.
At first, it seemed as if the village might be deserted. They emerged from the underpass and started down the road into the village, feeling more confident with every step.
Suddenly, the dreaded rip of an MG-42 machine gun shattered the quiet. The weapon had been nicknamed “Hitler’s Zipper” for the way that the machine gun seemed to tear the air. The Americans’ sturdy Browning machine guns didn’t come close to the same rate of fire. There was nothing like the sound of Hitler’s Zipper opening up to turn a man’s insides to water.
The burst kicked up snow and ice from the road, then caught Private Carpenter and spun him around like a top. Mulholland and Private Bigelow had a split second to dive for the roadside ditch just before another burst filled the air.
From inside the tunnel, the men fired back. More shots came from the village. Bullets pecked at the stones, forcing the men to keep their heads down. It was hard to say just exactly where the Germans were hidden. The buildings of the village offered too many hiding places.
“Get Cole up here!” the sergeant shouted. “We need to take out that machine gun.”
Having been called upon to put his rifle to work, Cole crept forward into the increasing fire. Bullets whacked against the stones around him, ricocheting inside the tunnel. Other bullets kicked chips from the icy road.
If he hadn’t been so sick, he might have paid more attention to the fact that he was advancing when the rest of the men were falling back.
As it was, he felt dizzy. It was hard to focus, too, as if he was crawling through the middle of a dream instead of a snowy road. Every bone ached as if he had already been hit with the slugs coming from the German machine gun. His head throbbed. And yet, he was expected to fight a battle. It was a hell of a thing. It was only the sheer adrenalin of combat that kept him in the fight.
“Tell me what you see, City Boy.”
“You got it, Hillbilly. But I’ve got to say, I don’t see much. Just a bunch of houses and shops. Brooklyn, it ain’t.”