Working carefully, he set the trap. A steel trap has a system of dual springs that require all the weight of a lean fourteen-year-old boy to set them — and then some. With one boot on each spring, Cole got the jaws open, then set the pan that held them in place. It was not an easy task with bare fingers on cold steel in the frigid air. The slightest touch would trigger the jaws to snap shut. From one spring ran a length of chain, at the end of which was a loop of steel through which was threaded a length of wire that ran down into the water.
When the jaws snapped shut on a beaver, the weight of the trap dragged the animal down into the deep water and drowned it.
Cole knew to be careful around the traps, but the cold made him hurry and take a shortcut. Instead of setting the trap from beneath — a safety precaution in case the jaws snapped shut, although it required extra effort — he set the pan from above. The trigger caught and held, and he started to take his hand away. But the movement caused his feet to shift on the ice and the jaws clamped around his wrist, catching him in his own trap.
The jolt of pain caused him to slip on the icy bank and he encountered an even bigger shock when he plunged into the creek.
The extra winter clothes and layers of wool intended to keep him warm instantly soaked through, weighing him down like a granite shroud. With a 10-pound trap around one hand, he could not swim. Bubbles escaped toward the surface, but he was trapped beneath the water.
How long could he hold his breath? This wasn't some summertime swim. One minute in the icy creek, maybe two, and it would all be over.
Not much time. He had to think of something.
Cole let himself sink to the bottom. There was some current but the wire that ran through the ring at the end of the trap's chain tethered him in place. The only way back to the surface was to get the trap off his hand. But it would take both his feet to do it.
The icy water was very clear; he could look all the way back up to the surface. Like he was the fly in the bottom of a Mason jar of moonshine.
The creek bed was soft and muddy, but he kicked around, ignoring the pain in his hand, until he found a good, flat rock. He put the trap on the rock, then stood on the springs. There was some give, but the buoyancy of the water meant his full weight wasn't on the springs. He raised both feet at once and did a kind of jump. Nothing. His lungs screamed for air. Try again. He bobbed up and came down again on the springs. The added force was just enough to make the jaws loosen their grip and he wrenched his hand free, leaving a good bit of skin behind.
He then kicked his way to the surface and swam the short distance to the creek bank. Once there, he lay half in and half out of the water, taking big gulps of air like it was money some rich man was giving away. Then he crawled the rest of the way up the creek bank.
Though he had not drowned, the frigid air would kill him almost as quick in this cold. It was only about five degrees above zero at midday, which meant ice immediately formed on his wet clothes. His hair froze. He was three miles from home.
Move, he told himself.
He took the time to pick up the sack of spare traps. Pa would whip him if he left those behind.
Then Cole started running, trying to outrace the cold. He trotted through the snowy woods, leaving spots of blood in the snow. His heart hammered with the effort, but he did not stop.
The last couple hundred yards as he came into sight of the shack, its plume of woodsmoke coming from the rusty stovepipe, were the hardest. By the time he reached the porch he was staggering rather than running.
His ma and pa helped get his clothes off him, wrapped him in a dry blanket, and stood him by the wood stove. His sister pressed a hot mug of sassafras tea into his good hand. Once he stopped shivering enough to talk, he explained what had happened.
His pa was half drunk and Cole expected to catch a beating, or a cussing out at the very least. Instead, his old man gently washed his cut hand and poured some whiskey over it, then wrapped it with strips of clean rags. "You done good, boy. You kept your head. That can make the difference between livin' and dyin'. You remember that."
Cole had remembered. He had kept his head time and time again when others panicked. And so far he had stayed alive, which for anyone who had survived until December 1944 in the Ardennes Forest was something of an accomplishment.
He looked out at the darkness, keeping watch.
CHAPTER 15
In the morning, the snipers awoke to yet more fresh snow. Flakes drifted in through the gaps in the thatched roof, covering the cold remains of their campfire. Nobody moved to rekindle the fire. They wouldn't be there long enough, and there was no point in the smoke from a fire letting any Germans in the area know that they had company.
"Does it ever stop snowing in this frickin' place?" Vaccaro muttered. He tried to take a drink from his canteen, but the water was frozen. McNulty handed him a bottle of schnapps instead. He took a swig of liquor and grimaced.
"I reckon it will stop snowing right about the time you stop griping," Cole said. "Now pass that bottle around. It ain't moonshine, but it ought to give a little heat this morning."
"Who the hell drinks moonshine?" Vaccaro wondered.
"My daddy drank it for breakfast. Of course, he was a mean son of a bitch. Moonshine killed him in the end."
"Drank too much, did he?"
"No, he messed around with some other man's still and got shot."
"Cole, sometimes you leave me at a loss for words, which is saying something."
Cole winked. "You come around the holler after this here war and I'll treat you to a jar of the best white lightning you ever tasted."
"Gosh, Cole, now I've got something to live for. I sure as hell hope some German doesn't shoot me before I can get all liquored up on some rotgut you cooked up in a radiator."
The others rolled out of their blankets, looking stiff and creaky in the frigid air. It was so cold that their nose hairs felt brittle. The Kid had not slept far enough away from the opening in the roof so that the snow made him resemble a cruller dusted with sugar.
Cole climbed up to the loft and looked out the hay window at the south end that faced the road where they had encountered the Germans yesterday. Nothing moved on the wintry fields except a handful of crows. He could hear them cawing; for all Cole knew, the crows were bitching about the cold, too.
He moved to the window at the opposite end of the barn. Again, nothing was visible but empty fields, stone walls and hay stacks. Not even so much as a sheep or cow. He knew that the quiet was deceptive. The Germans were out there. Even now, Das Gespent might be in some tree on the other side of the snowy landscape, waiting for someone or something to move. They didn’t call him The Ghost for nothing. Maybe he’d known all along that the Americans were hiding in the barn and was waiting for daylight to pick them off.
Cole pushed the thought from his head. He had been fighting the enemy for months, one bullet at a time. He did not keep count as Vaccaro did of how many Germans he had shot. What was the point? Wasn't a contest — not that Vaccaro would have won. Although he had dealt more than his share of death, he did not take his own survival lightly. Somewhere out there was a German soldier who might be faster, a better shot, or goddamnit, just luckier.
It was one thing to have a vague idea of an enemy sniper who was better. It was another thing altogether to know that Das Gespent was somewhere nearby. Flesh and blood, lead and powder. He was the real deal. Cole just hoped to get another crack at him — before the Ghost Sniper picked him off.
Vaccaro came up the ladder to the loft just as Cole began to unbutton his trousers to take a leak from the window. Vaccaro joined him and their twin streams arced down, steaming in the cold, and made patterns in the snow below.