Cole built a fire better and faster than anyone in the squad, hands down. He cleared a place on the stone floor of the barn, then found a weathered pine plank. With a few strokes of his razor-sharp knife, he had long dry shavings that he added to a pile of old straw. He struck a match and the flames licked up to catch a few smaller pieces of wood that Vaccaro had scavenged for him. In a few minutes, they had a small fire going. The flames did not create much warmth inside the cavernous barn on a frigid December night, so they huddled around the flickering glow.
Cole looked around the fire, relieved to see that the only face missing was Rowe’s. He had seen him go down, killed by a single bullet. He was sure it was not some lucky shot from an SS trooper.
The other new sniper, McNulty, had a heavy bandage around his upper arm.
"What happened to you?" Cole asked.
McNulty shook his head. "Damnedest thing. I thought for sure nobody could see me. I was in a pile of hay, dug in like a tick, but if that bullet had been another couple of inches in the wrong direction, I wouldn't be here right now."
"Huh," Cole said, mulling it over. Whoever had killed Rowe and wounded McNulty was one hell of a shot, but there had been no sign of him. Like a ghost. He recalled the gold-tipped cigarette and Mosin-Nagant shells from earlier today. His mind spun at the thought that they may have encountered Von Stenger at the ambush. Could it have been Das Gespenst?
Vaccaro brewed coffee over the fire. He poured a mug for Cole, who barely even glanced at it before giving it to the Kid, who took it gratefully. Vaccaro shook his head. That was Cole for you — he could be the meanest son of a bitch you ever met, meaner than a pissed-off copperhead snake having a bad day, and yet he would give you his left nut if he liked you.
"I know that huh thing," Vaccaro said. "It means you've got a theory. So, what does your theory have to do with Rowe getting killed and McNulty getting winged?"
"I reckon it was that sniper. Das Gespenst."
"The Ghost? But I thought he was dead. You killed him in that flooded field back in Bienville."
"Maybe, maybe not," Cole said. "Back at the massacre site I found those shell casings with the Russian markings, and one of those fancy gold-tipped cigarettes. Then someone killed Rowe with a one-of-a-kind shot and winged McNulty."
"Nah, could be anybody," Vaccaro said.
“How many Germans can shoot like that?”
Vaccaro fixed his eyes on Cole’s. “Not many.”
"It's him," Cole said. "It's Das Gespenst."
"How do you know for sure?"
"I just got a feelin' is all."
Nobody questioned Cole further. In the last several months of combat, they had learned that a hunch usually meant something. Especially when it was Cole's.
Vaccaro poured him more coffee. "If you run into him again, this time make sure he stays dead."
Jolie took McNulty off to one side to have a look at his bandage, which had been done hastily in the field and needed to be readjusted. Vaccaro and the Kid went to poke around the barn to see what they could find. That left the lieutenant and Cole sitting together near the fire. They both sipped coffee. A tension hung between them, and they both knew what it was — Jolie Molyneaux. Mulholland acted like some kind of Sunday school chaperone around her, but he wasn't fooling anyone — the French girl had caught his eye as far back as the beach in Normandy.
But it was Cole she had chosen. That fact hurt his pride and left him puzzled. Wasn't he the officer? Wasn't he the one who had been to college? Cole was nothing more than a hillbilly who was handy with a rifle. Mulholland was the one who was supposed to get the girl.
"Listen, Cole," he began. “This thing with you and Miss Molyneaux—"
"What thing?"
Cole was rubbing salt in the wound. "You know what I'm talking about," Mulholland snapped. "We're not supposed to be fraternizing with the civilians."
Even to his own ears, Mulholland thought that had to be one of the lamest excuses he had ever heard. Fraternizing with the civilians? Could he sound any more pompous? He didn't like to admit it to himself because it was a base emotion, but the truth was that he was jealous that Jolie Molyneaux had picked Cole, of all people. Most of the time, Cole was about as friendly as barbed wire. Come to think of it, Jolie was not all that welcoming herself.
"Whatever you say, sir," Cole said in a tone that made it clear that wasn't what he thought at all, and fixed him with those cut-glass eyes that always seemed to be taking Mulholland’s measure.
Mulholland tried to meet Cole's gaze, but soon gave up.
"All right, let's not make a big deal out of this," Mulholland said. Somehow, without actually saying it, they had agreed to disagree about Jolie Molyneaux. "We've got enough problems as it is."
"I reckon we do," Cole said. "We got hundreds, if not thousands of problems, all of them with swastikas on their helmets."
"In the morning, we're going after them. We can't do too much damage, and I know that we're certainly not going to stop them, but we can harass the hell out of that German column."
Cole nodded. "That's just what I was thinking. But there's one thing that's got me worried about that plan."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"Das Gespenst."
"He's just another German."
"He shot Jolie."
Again, Mulholland felt that twinge of jealousy. It was like a blister on his heel. Always rubbing. He tried to get past it, but deep down it was hard to change the way he felt. No getting around it.
"So now you can shoot him."
Cole smirked. A flicker of uncertainty passed across his face. "He's damn good. I'll give him that."
Mulholland dug a bottle of schnapps out of his pack, took a swig, and handed it to Cole. It was a small gesture that made him feel better about his earlier feelings of jealousy. Whatever their differences might be over Jolie, they were still just two young men a long way from home. "Didn't you say you had a relative who was in the Civil War?"
"Sure, my Uncle Lucas. Well, great uncle, I reckon."
"What did he do?"
"He was a sharpshooter."
Mulholland didn't have to ask which side Cole's relative had fought on, considering that a Confederate flag decorated Cole’s helmet. Mulholland had asked about that flag before, and learned that it had been painted by a kid who Cole had gone through boot camp with and then landed at Omaha Beach with in the first wave. The kid had lasted about five minutes. Though obscured now with dirt, scarred and faded, it was clear that the flag meant something to Cole.
"My grandfather served on General Grant's staff," Mulholland said. There was a family story about how his grandfather had saved the general from a ruthless Confederate assassin — a sniper, as a matter of fact — probably someone who was a lot like Cole. The incident had been hushed up at the time to prevent any kind of panic, but his grandfather had spoken of it long after the war.
Mulholland took the bottle that Cole handed back, then put the cork in it. He felt the warmth of the schnapps working through him. It would definitely help him sleep. "Listen, Cole. That German doesn't stand a chance against you."
"I'll take the first watch," Cole said, and headed for the hay loft.
CHAPTER 14
Cole was not on watch long before Jolie came up the ladder after him.
“Il fait chaud,” she said, setting down beside him. She wore a blanket across her shoulders for warmth and tugged it across Cole as well. This close, he could smell her hair, a touch of lavender perfume, and the faint smell of soap on her skin. He knew what he smelled like — campfires, gunpowder, and sweat-soaked wool.