Gritting his teeth, he reached down and ripped the bloody spikes from his thigh. Fortunately, he wore heavy canvas trousers and thermal underwear, which had cushioned the blow. Still, the wooden stakes had done damage. One sharp stick had sunk at least two inches into the meat of his leg. It came out reluctantly, with a nauseating sucking sound. He took time to cut a strip from his snow camouflage smock and then wrapped it around his leg.
Gingerly, he tested his weight on the leg. It seemed to support him — not that he had any choice but to keep going.
He did not cross the creek immediately but worked his way back to the fallen log where he had crossed initially, then walked up the far bank, looking for tracks. He wasn't so worried now about the American, who seemed more interested in fleeing than fighting. That alone was puzzling. What was the American’s motive?
His mind was a bit dazed from the pain, so at first he could not determine where the hillbilly had climbed out of the stream. Then it dawned on him that it was probably that the other sniper had simply stepped back into his old tracks, retracing his steps through the snow.
Von Stenger followed the footprints back up the hill and down the other side. It seemed unlikely that the American had simply lost his nerve and fled. Was he more badly wounded than Von Stenger had supposed? He was wet and cold — certainly that was a factor. But a man like this hillbilly—
That’s when he saw the rifle, tossed away beside the tracks. At first he thought it might be another trap, but looking more closely, he saw the damaged telescopic sight.
The American no longer had a functional weapon.
Smiling to himself, Von Stenger picked up his pace, wincing in pain with each step.
He struggled to reach the crest of the hill and saw the barn in the clearing ahead.
Is this where you have gone to ground, Ami? I am coming for you.
Most of the farm country in these parts had been abandoned, and the barn was as empty as the countryside. Cole slipped inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, knife at the ready. It was the only weapon he still had.
Somewhere in the rafters, some pigeons cooed. He took that as a sign that no one else was in the barn.
Quickly, he looked around the barn. Anything of value had been picked clean. He had been hoping to find an old horse blanket or a piece of canvas — anything that he could use for a coat. The only item he could find was a dry-rotted grain sack that crumbled to shreds in his hands. Though the barn offered some shelter, it was hardly warm.
He kept looking. The barn smelled strongly of horses and cows, but there was no recent evidence of livestock. The farmer had long since cleared them out.
His eyes fell on a broken rake and a wooden shovel, hanging from a post. Just the thing if he wanted to plant a garden, but not much use now. He looked a little higher and noticed another wooden object hanging from the rafters. Intrigued, he took a closer look. It was a homemade toboggan, about six feet long, built of slats fitted together and then curved at one end. There was a fine layer of wax on the slats to help the wood slide over the snow. Some kids had used this toboggan not that long ago — even the war couldn't stop some things, like kids going sled riding. The long, sloping hill below the barn would be perfect.
He left the toboggan and continued prowling through the barn. Nothing useful, unless you had a need for moldy straw and horse turds.
He was still figuring out what to do when a bullet zipped through the open door and punched a hole in the barn wall, inches from his head. The shot had come from the forest.
Von Stenger had found him.
At that same moment, out the window, he caught sight of movement on the road below. The dusty windows were hard to see through, so he rubbed a corner clean with his finger. He saw the deuce and a half trucks with the big white star on the door and figured it was a German unit driving the captured trucks. His heart sank.
Then he spotted GIs trailing the trucks. Unlike the Germans, most Americans hadn’t been issued white camo. For the first time that afternoon, his spirits lifted. He saw a Wolverine tank destroyer mounting a 3-inch gun, and two or three Jeeps, along with a couple of dozen men on foot. Not a large unit, but one that had, so far, managed to elude the larger German force.
They would have food, and they would be able to patch up his wound. He just had to get down there.
The problem was that crossing the open field would leave him exposed to the woods — where Das Gespenst was now waiting, bent on revenge. Also, he didn't like his chances walking down to the road toward a bunch of trigger happy GIs.
But if he was going to catch up with the GIs, he had to do it soon. Otherwise, he would miss his opportunity to link up with his own troops.
He could stay and get shot at by the German sniper, or take his chances with the GIs. It was six of one, half dozen of another.
Another bullet punched through the barn.
Now or never.
He glanced up again at the toboggan. His mind made up, he lifted it down.
Had he hit something?
Von Stenger glimpsed a figure silhouetted inside.
He worked the bolt and walked closer, then fired again toward where he had seen the American’s shadow.
He dropped to one knee and took aim.
When the other man did not return fire, Von Stenger aimed again, taking his time.
His heart hammering in his chest, Cole ran for the back of the barn, dragging the toboggan along. The rear foundation of the bank barn was several feet above the ground. He tossed down the toboggan, which landed on the snow and immediately began to slide downhill.
Another bullet whipped through the barn, bounced off a rafter, and ricocheted with a whine that made his spine crawl.
The toboggan picked up speed.
Cole jumped and just managed to catch the tail end of the toboggan. He got his knees under him and squatted down. Though it was snowing again, the snow beneath was mostly glazed with ice. With his added weight on the toboggan, it began to pick up speed.
Another shot plucked at the snow inches from where Cole's hands gripped the front curve of the toboggan.
The toboggan moved fasted on the ice-crusted slow. He was sliding fast toward the road. He leaned one way, then the other, to make the toboggan weave. Another bullet cracked past his ear.
By now, the troops on the road had noticed him. Someone pointed, and a burst of machine gun fire churned up the snow ahead, like a shot across the bow.
“Don’t shoot!” he shouted, but his words whipped back at him.
He gained speed, sliding directly into the guns below.
Lieutenant Mulholland looked up at the burst of machine gun fire, reaching instinctively for his rifle at the same time. He expected to see a tank bearing down on them, but blinked in disbelief at the sight of a soldier on a toboggan.
The soldiers around him were slow to react. They were cobbled together out of stray units, including a few refugees from the Malmedy massacre.
"We could use you with us," the major in charge had said to Mulholland. "Everything is a goddamn SNAFU, though. Up is down, front is back — nobody knows exactly where the Nazis are or how many there are."
"What's your plan?" Mulholland asked.
"To go after the Krauts," the major said. He wasn't much older than Mulholland, and etched in his face had the same worry lines that seemed unique to officers. They worried about keeping not just their own socks dry, but everyone else's, too.
"Sounds like as good a plan as any," Mulholland agreed.
Now, staring up at the slope above the road, Mulholland thought he had seen everything. But he had never seen a toboggan attack.