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

with the Germans, Colonel Allen had gathered a team that included Lieutenant Mulholland, an Army medic, and Private Cole. Cole still felt weak from his bout with the flu, but his fever had finally broken. He felt some of his old strength return with each passing hour.

“Why Cole, sir?” Lieutenant Mulholland had asked when he was momentarily alone with the colonel.

“Because Cole and that rifle of his look scary as hell,” the colonel said. “Maybe it will help put the fear of God in these Krauts. Besides, I don’t entirely trust these Krauts and if any shooting breaks out, I want Cole to have my back.”

“I’ll be there too, sir.”

“I know you will, Lieutenant.” The colonel seemed to ponder that thought. “Come to think of it, give Cole a submachine gun, too.”

“Are you going to ask the Germans to surrender, sir?” Lieutenant Mulholland asked.

“Son, as much as I would like to do that, what do you think the chances are that the Krauts would surrender?”

“Slim to none, sir.”

“Right, so I’m not going to waste my breath,” the officer said. “They’re welcome to volunteer to surrender. Besides, for all I know they’ll be expecting us to surrender to them. We’re pretty evenly matched up, you know. This fight could go either way.”

The lieutenant looked taken aback. “I hadn’t thought about that, sir. Ich ergebe mich!”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s German for I surrender, sir. I suppose it could work in either direction, depending on how things play out.”

“Well, don’t brush up on your German phrases just yet, son. What I really what to talk to the Krauts about would be these prisoners. The villagers said they’ve got more than two hundred of our boys held in the church. From their reports, it sounds like a lot of those boy are in bad shape. I want to see if we can get any supplies to them. Food, blankets, bandages—whatever they need.”

“Do you think that will work?”

“I’m sure the Krauts will steal whatever they want first, but something will get to the prisoners.”

A response came back to the colonel’s messenger, who had been sent into the village under a white flag. It all seemed very gentlemanly, this business of white flags and truces, like something out of an earlier era. But the flag had worked. The Germans hadn’t shot the colonel’s messenger, and now word came back that the Germans would meet.

The fight that was taking place at Wingen sur Moder was being mirrored in a handful of other places throughout the rugged terrain as the German’s Operation Nordwind continued. The advance was Hitler’s version of a one-two punch. Truth be told, Hitler had hit them hard. However, the American forces were proving to be tough adversaries.

Some of the fighting took place in and around towns, while in other locations, the fighting was dictated by nothing more than the collision of troops from both sides. The much-feared German Panzers had managed to press deep into the Allied lines, creating yet another bulge known as the Colmar Pocket.

But the German advance encountered difficulties, bogging down before long. Even the heaviest Panzers struggled for traction on the steep, snowy roads through the mountain forests. There was also the matter of food and fuel. The men needed one; the tanks and trucks needed the other. The Germans simply didn’t have the supply lines to supply the essentials of food and fuel. The whole situation was like a rubber band that kept stretching and stretching—at some point it was either going to break or snap back into place, its energy spent.

Meanwhile, massive Soviet forces pressed closer to Berlin. The Third Reich was fighting for its life on two fronts against determined adversaries, a situation that was impossible to sustain.

The maps were something for the generals to worry about, however. For every soldier on both sides, the only battle that really mattered was the one that he fought in. His war was often limited to his foxhole and the man fighting beside him.

So far, the Americans held the hills to the south and west, as well as the main road leading into town, the one that led to the railroad underpass where the disastrous first encounter with the Germans had taken place. The Germans still held the big hill almost due north, overlooking the town. Though their force was divided, their defensive strategy proved quite effective.

Holding that high ground, with the ability to put machine-gun fire or mortars on all of the approaches to town, gave the defenders a distinct advantage. It was assumed that the German troops on the hill maintained contact with the rest of the unit in the town through radio communication or telephone lines. If the Americans could cut that line at some point, it would give them an advantage.

Like the Americans, the Germans had laid down endless miles of wire as they advanced because the hills severely limited radio communication.

Unlike the Germans in the village, the Americans were roughing it in the woods and fields surrounding Wingen sur Moder. They didn’t have the benefit of buildings to get out of the wind. Instead, the U.S. forces sheltered in cold foxholes.

They had enough to eat, if you could call combat rations enough. Everything was eaten half-frozen. The more fortunate soldiers warmed up their food on the engine block of a tank or truck to at least take the chill off. They didn’t even have hot coffee because orders had come down against building any fires that might give away their positions to the enemy.

The men grumbled about that. It wasn’t as if the Germans didn’t know they were out here.

It would have been better if the snow and ice hadn’t turned to slush in the bottom of the foxholes. The freezing slush soaked everybody and made them colder.

“I’ve had enough of this snow,” Vaccaro said, his teeth chattering violently. “When I get back home, I swear I’m going to buy a place in Florida. Maybe New Mexico or Arizona.”

“You’ll be bitching about the heat