Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) by David Healey (best classic books txt) 📗

didn’t target medics—that wasn’t it at all. It was just that in the confusion of the battlefield, the red cross offered little protection.

The medic came over, his rubber-soled boots slipping and sliding on the icy road. If he had taken the time to notice, he might have seen that some of the tracks he passed in the snow had been made by German soldiers, who had passed this way not so long ago. The enemy footprints were easy to distinguish because the Germans still wore leather-soled boots with hobnails. The boots were old-fashioned and not nearly as waterproof as the Americans’ pac boots, which had a rubber sole and leather upper, but the hobnails offered more effective traction in the ice and snow.

The medic climbed up in the truck and gave Cole a quick examination.

“It’s the flu, all right. It’s been going around. You’ve got a fever of one hundred and two. We need to move you into the cab of one of the trucks, where you’ll be out of the wind, at least.”

“Hell no,” Cole said, his teeth chattering. “Just throw another blanket over me.”

“I figured you’d say that,” the medic sighed. Of course, the unheated cab of a Studebaker truck didn’t offer much in the way of comfort. He handed Cole some pills. “See if those help any. Meanwhile, stay as warm as you can. You’re pretty sick, so this is nothing to mess with. Next thing you know, you’ll have pneumonia if you’re not careful. I’ll check back on you the next time that we stop.”

“Thank you kindly, Doc.”

The truck motor turned over, signaling that the column was getting ready to move out. The medic patted Cole on the shoulder, then moved toward the tailgate, the men making way for him without complaint. Medics had universal respect among the men not only for their dedication, but also for their courage under fire.

As the truck got rolling again, every bone in Cole’s body seemed to ache and he felt awful. He swallowed the pills, hoping that they would help him sleep, if nothing else.

He closed his eyes, which felt like they had sand in them, opening them only when, to his surprise, he discovered Vaccaro tucking another blanket around him.

“Sleep tight, Hillbilly,” Vaccaro said. “You heard the medic. We’ve got to keep you healthy so the Germans can kill you later.”

“Thanks a hell of a lot,” Cole mumbled, then dozed as the truck kept rolling through the mountains.

Chapter Seven

For two days now, the soldiers of the 179th Infantry stationed in Wingen sur Moder had been hearing machine-gun fire in the distant hills, always creeping closer. Ratatatat. At night, they sometimes saw the flashes from artillery and mortar fire. Something big was happening, that was for sure.

It was no longer any secret that the Germans were on the move, headed in the direction of the town. The only question that seemed to remain was how long before the Germans got there.

And yet, their officers had not insisted on digging in or otherwise preparing for an attack.

“There aren’t any Germans in this sector,” their lieutenant had said nonchalantly. “Besides, what would they want with this place? No, the Krauts will be looking for bigger fish to fry.”

But no matter what the officers said, it was hard to ignore the shooting growing ever louder in the mountains beyond the town.

“I don’t like the sounds of that one bit,” muttered Tony Serra, looking off into the hills. It was impossible to see anything happening in the tree-covered hilltops, but the two headquarters company clerks walking down the village street could hear the fighting taking place in the distance. “All that shooting makes me nervous. Did you hear the lieutenant this morning? He tried to say it was nothing but hunters. Since when do hunters use machine guns?”

“Maybe the Krauts won’t come in this direction,” Joey Reed replied. “They might go around us. That’s what the lieutenant says, anyway.”

“Yeah, and Betty Grable might show up for lunch.”

“The whole unit is supposed to be relieved in a couple of days. It’s going to be someone else’s problem.”

“Just who is going to relieve us now? Joey, use your head. With these hills crawling with Krauts, they’re going to need every soldier. And that means us.”

Reluctantly, Joey had to admit that he secretly agreed with Tony. He couldn’t quite relax. No matter what their officers said, there was the distant chatter of gunfire. German forces were definitely in those hills.

It was true that they were supposed to be relieved, but that looked unlikely now. What they were coming to understand was that everyone was a front-line soldier. Currently, there were nearly four hundred troops and several officers scattered throughout the town.

The two clerks were part of the headquarters company. Joey had spent more time with a typewriter than with his carbine, which he hadn’t cleaned since arriving in France. That was all right by him; he wasn’t eager to mix it up with the Germans.

Like many of the units currently serving in Europe, the 179th had its roots as a National Guard unit. Most of the soldiers hailed from Oklahoma, which designated the buffalo as its state symbol. Considering that most of the young men in the unit had never been out of sight of the sweeping plains and red-dirt fields back home before the war began, the snow-covered mountains just didn’t look right.

New Year’s morning had dawned crystal clear and bitterly cold, a crisp start to 1945 and what everyone hoped would be the last year of the war. What they hadn’t counted on was starting the new year with a fight on their hands.

The quiet of the new year had been shattered by a Luftwaffe attack on the railroad bridge just beyond town. Bombs had fallen and wiped out the bridge, but thankfully, the German planes had spared the village.

When it was clear that the Luftwaffe was targeting the bridge, Billy and most of the other soldiers in Wingen had come out to