However, most of the Germans who did give up without a fight were treated well enough, herded into a courtyard, and put under guard. The GIs weren’t taking any chances. Most of the battle-hardened veterans had preferred to die fighting rather than surrender. The guards soon realized that many of the prisoners were quite young, hungry, and shivering just as much as the Americans. As the sounds of combat faded and emotions calmed, it was hard to see the prisoners as anything but fellow soldiers. Many spoke passable English. Besides, it was no secret that the German soldiers at the tail end of this war didn’t have much choice about putting on a uniform.
“They look as cold as we are, poor bastards,” Vaccaro said, passing a group of prisoners being rounded up. “You still want to shoot them, Hillbilly?”
“Never mind about me. Anyhow, this fight ain’t over yet.”
Most of the shooting in the village had died down. Over by the railroad underpass carrying the road into the village, the tank still fired at its opponent up on the hilltop, where a German force remained dug in.
Another round from the tank shot toward the forest, bursting among the snow-covered trees. In response, a round struck the frozen ground near the Sherman, showering the tank with frozen clods of earth. The tank fired again. A tremendous explosion ripped through the trees this time, and the enemy gun finally fell silent.
“Got him,” Cole said with satisfaction.
“Maybe the Jerries will clear out now.”
Cole couldn’t help thinking that The Butcher was somewhere up there on that hill, maybe trying to put a few Americans in his crosshairs. Hauer had been wounded, but it was too much to hope that the wound was incapacitating. The Germans still held that high ground, which could only mean one thing for the troops who had just taken the village.
“We’re gonna have to go up there and take that hill,” Cole said.
“Not until I warm up first, we’re not.”
Dotted around the streets, near where the machine-gun positions had been, the Germans had built warming fires in barrels. Now, it was the Americans who warmed themselves around these fires. Cole and Vaccaro joined the others in their squad, took off their gloves and mittens, and held their stiff fingers closer to the flames.
More villagers emerged. Some of the old folks had died of exposure from days and nights spent cowering in the cold cellars, and their bodies were carried out and laid in the streets. The sight of the dead brought a wave of fresh weeping from the villagers, who thought that they had already cried themselves out.
The villagers eyed the Americans warily. Some looked just plain shaken and haunted. The village had been occupied before by the Americans, but then lost. Would that happen again? So close to the German border, there were even more than a few villagers who didn’t necessarily welcome the U.S. victory.
As always, the children seemed frightened but resilient. Cole gave a nearly frozen chocolate bar to a child, who smiled and said, “Merci.”
They counted more than forty enemy dead, with about as many enemy soldiers taken prisoner. The Germans looked worried, as if convinced Americans would shoot them like what had taken place at Malmedy. Some soldiers wanted to shoot the ones with American watches on, but Lieutenant Mulholland wouldn’t let them.
Before dark, an assault was organized on the hilltop, with the tank leading the way. Cole and Vaccaro found themselves following in the wake of the tank, sucking in exhaust fumes.
“How come we got to take part in this?”
“Just lucky, I reckon.”
The truth was that somebody wanted Cole and his rifle handy, and following the tank was the best way to make sure that he reached the hilltop in one piece — unless the Germans decided to ambush the tank with a Panzerfaust. Then all bets were off.
Cautiously, the assault team approached the forest, more exposed than they wanted to be, but without much choice given the bare, snowy slope leading up from the village. At any moment, they expected deadly fire to be unleashed against them.
But when they reached the tree line, all that they found were empty foxholes and the smoking wreckage of the German artillery.
The Germans had slipped away.
Finally, there remained one task for the survivors of the fight for Wingen sur Moder, and that was to bury the dead. The ground remained frozen hard beneath the snow and ice, so digging through the frost was backbreaking work. No one complained about this final chore. The soldiers mostly just had their trenching tools, but the able-bodied villagers arrived with picks and mattocks and soon joined the soldiers to work side by side with them.
Cole joined in and despite the bitter cold, soon found himself sweating. He hadn’t grown up as a farmer, but he was no stranger to hard work. Taking turns and trading off whenever one person grew tired, the soldiers and villagers dug down. Some of the former prisoners who had been held in the church, the ones who weren’t in bad shape, also turned out to help once they had gotten some food and something hot to drink.
It was easier to dig one large hole for a mass burial, rather than trying to cut several small graves through the frosted earth. This wasn’t how things were normally done, but there was something that felt right about burying the victims of the fighting together. A separate grave was dug for the dead Germans.
One of the soldiers who had been held in the church knelt by the body of the private who had been shot dead when he ran to help the nun.
“Serra, what are you doing?”
“Hold it,” he said to the soldiers who were about to finish wrapping the body in a blanket. He reached inside his shirt and produced a tiny crucifix on a thin chain, which he then slipped over his head. He laid it on his dead buddy’s chest, mumbled a prayer, then wiped at his eyes with the back of his hands. “Go on, then.”
The bodies of the dead young soldier and the nun were wrapped in blankets like the others, and then laid in the bottom of the hole. Soldiers and villagers gathered, hats and helmets off despite the snow. Some of the villagers sobbed. A few days ago, they had celebrated Christmas and all seemed right with their world as the end of the war seemed to be coming into sight. Now, not even a week into the new year, it seemed as if their whole world had shattered.
Prayers were said, and then began the slow work of refilling the grave. The fresh earth was one more scar in the village left by the fighting.
But not for long. More snow fell during the night, covering the landscape in a new blanket of white, as if giving the world a fresh start.
“All right, get ready to move out,” Lieutenant Mulholland shouted. Enough gasoline had been found to keep the trucks running, and two more tanks joined them as the unit prepared to head down the mountain roads.
“Sir, are we going after those Germans?”
“No such luck. Division is sending us somewhere else. Besides, those guys are probably halfway back to Berlin by now. Chances are that we’ll have to fight them again.”
Cole listened, disappointed. Some officer, somewhere, was probably sending them to clean up someone else’s mess. He had hoped that they would be going after the Germans who had escaped from Winger sur Moder. Then again, he agreed with Mulholland that too much time had elapsed. That unit could be anywhere in these mountains.
Truth be told, he wouldn’t have minded another shot at that German sniper. After all, Hauer wasn’t just another soldier. The way that Cole saw it, Hauer was a murderer. It also nagged at Cole that the enemy sniper had eluded him. Cole knew that he was the better shot. He just needed a chance to prove it.