Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) David Healey (little bear else holmelund minarik .TXT) 📖

Deep down, he knew Vaccaro was correct, even if he wasn’t happy about it. Cole gave one last look toward the German stronghold in the forested hilltop, then shook his head and turned away.

Chapter Eighteen

Slowly, house by house, shop by shop, control of the village was wrested from the Germans.

The fighting remained bitter. One house would be cleared, only for more firing to open up from across the road. Then there would be another attack on the next house—more shooting, more grenades tossed through windows. The capture of each house was a battle in miniature.

At the same time, they tried to avoid shooting into basements or tossing grenades into houses, unless the Germans were in there shooting at them. Many of the villagers had taken refuge in their cellars and basements, trying to dodge the stray bullets and shrapnel. Most of the villagers who remained were older, or very young families. Flight for them had proved too difficult. Anyone who could do so had fled as soon as the Germans began to move in, knowing that a battle was coming.

Cole watched as Vaccaro emptied a clip at a tall stucco house. The firing from the house stopped.

“Why the hell won’t these Krauts just give up?” Vaccaro wondered.

“Because they’re Krauts, that’s why. Besides, we’re almost on their front porch. They’re going to fight harder and harder now.”

Like most of the American troops, Vaccaro looked like Cole felt—cold, exhausted, minor wounds wrapped with dirty bandages. Everybody was either wet or covered in snow, shivering.

The conditions and the prolonged fight wore on their patience. For some men, their pilot light of decency had gone out. Sometimes when German soldiers emerged from a house with their hands up, they were not taken prisoner. Instead, a few quick shots rang out. The officers looked the other way. Some might have called it murder or simple revenge, but often, the soldiers had half-frozen tears in their eyes—not for the Germans they shot down, but for their dead buddies, sprawled in the snow nearby.

It didn’t help that the specter of Malmedy was on all their minds—helpless American POWs machine-gunned at a crossroads. These particular Germans might not have had anything to do with that, but they were the enemy all the same.

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