Cole surprised her by giving her a hug that crushed the breath out of her. “Goddamnit, Jolie. We heard you were captured.”
“I got away,” she said, then looked around. “Where is leetel Hank? Is he all right?”
“I’m right here,” the Kid said. “Those Krauts never saw me. You saved my life.”
Jolie grabbed Mulholland’s elbow. “You have to stop now. The Germans are right in front of us. If these men keep going, they are going to run right into German tanks.”
Mulholland called over the major. When he heard how close they were to the rear of the German column, the American commander called for them to stop for the night in that stretch of desolate forest. The major wanted to press on, but the darkness in the woods was too thick to do more than feel their way along the road. Using headlights was now too much of a risk, and even the noise of the truck engines was dangerous, given that the Germans could be closer than they thought.
Cole returned to the back of the truck in which he had been riding, getting what rest he could, and the other snipers joined him, making their camp in the back. Vaccaro draped some canvas half shelters across the opening in the back to keep out the cold, and he and the Kid camped out there, along with Lieutenant Mulholland. The driver let Jolie have the cab.
"It's not exactly warm, but you'll get a little heat off the engine," he said apologetically, before going off to find shelter elsewhere.
They settled down, looking forward to some much-needed sleep.
The snipers’ rest did not last long thanks to a corporal named Daryl Muckelroy, who was on his way back from sharing another soldier’s bottle of captured schnapps in a futile effort to stay warm. In fact, he had spotted the bottle and made a beeline for it, then managed to drink much of the schnapps. If it had been Muckelroy’s bottle, he wouldn’t have shared.
He passed by the truck and noticed Jolie sleeping inside. He recognized her right away as the French woman who had taken up with the snipers. He recalled that she had been none too friendly. One glimpse of her civilian clothes filled him with anger. Why should he be the one who had to sleep on the snowy ground tonight? He stopped and pounded on the door of the truck.
"No civilians!" he shouted. "If I'm going to be over here fighting for your lousy country, the least you can do is let me sleep in the cab."
His anger fueled by the schnapps, he pulled open the door and made the mistake of grabbing Jolie by the foot and trying to drag her out, which earned him a kick in the face.
"You little French bitch! Why don't you give me something to stay warm! Foutre, baby, foutre avec moi!"
The scuffle that followed brought Vaccaro, the Kid, and Lieutenant Mulholland crawling out from the back of the truck, where they had already been asleep. Cole climbed down stiffly from the truck, following the rest.
The corporal was outnumbered, but he wasn't ready to give up. "She ought to sleep in the goddamned mud and snow if she's not going to be friendly, if you know what I mean."
"Give it a rest, Corporal," Lieutenant Mulholland said wearily. It wasn’t the first time an American GI had gotten angry about the French not being more accommodating.
He saw Cole approaching and made sure he put himself between the soldier and Cole, who was carrying his huge hunting knife. He knew all too well that Cole had a short fuse and violent tendencies. Mulholland confronted the corporal. "She's killed a lot more Germans than you, believe me."
"It's not like I haven't made these French bitches pay up before, whether they wanted to or not. What is she to you, anyway? Just give me ten minutes with her and—"
“What’s your name, soldier?” Mulholland demanded.
The corporal hesitated. “Muckelroy.”
“That’s Muckelroy, sir,” Vaccaro said, standing shoulder to shoulder with the lieutenant.
"Get lost, Corporal Muckelroy, and I'll pretend I didn't hear what you just said," Mulholland said. "That's an order." He held the flashlight so that it lit up his rank, making it clear to this asshole that he was talking to an officer.
Looking around, the corporal seemed to realize that he was outnumbered and outranked. His eyes lingered on the flashing blade in Cole's hand. "Goddamn snipers. Nobody likes you sneaky bastards," he muttered, and strode off.
Vaccaro had also managed to put himself between Cole and the soldier. When the corporal had gone, he turned to Cole. "Jesus Christ, put that knife away. It’s as big as a sword. I was worried you were gonna cut his head off."
"It ain’t his head that I’d cut off," Cole said. "But I’m too tired to kill him right now. I reckon that down the road we might just need us a cull for the herd."
"That must be some kind of hillbilly saying. You're gonna have to translate that to normal American for me."
"It means we got us something to keep the wolf happy when he comes calling."
The others returned to the back of the truck, but Cole turned to Jolie. "Are you going to be all right up here?"
"I am not worried about that GI," she said. "Je m'en fou. But I have to tell you, it is getting cold in this truck."
"Move on over, then."
Cole slid into the truck. From the cold, and having been half asleep, he realized his body was stiffer than wet leather boots left too close to the fire. His muscles ached. Wading into the creek earlier that day — had all that really taken place in just one day? — had left his toes stinging with chilblains — the stage just before frostbite that left deep, painful bruises under the skin, like fruit that had frozen and thawed. His toes felt as if they had burrs between them.
His shoulder ached from the graze wound. It was a bone-deep ache — he had been lucky in that the bullet had struck a glancing blow and had not caused too much damage, but your body did not absorb all those foot-pounds of energy without penalty.
He reminded himself that it could have been much worse. Dead worse.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “When they told me you were captured — well, it didn’t sound good. I told them you would figure something out. How did you manage to get away, anyhow?”
She quickly debated whether or not to tell him, wondering how he would take it. Her mind made up, she said: “Das Gespenst let me go.”
“Jesus, Jolie. You actually saw that son of a bitch?”
“He came to see me, then cut the rope around my wrists.”
“It ain’t that I’m not happy to see you — but why the hell did he let you go?”
“He had a message for you. He said that he will see you again.”
“I just hope I’m the last thing that ol’ Ghost Sniper sees.” Cole paused. “How did he look to you?”
“Like he was in pain.”
Cole grinned. “I have to say, that’s good to hear. I reckon I owe him one, though, for letting you go.”
Jolie shook her head. “He is a cruel man. You can see it in his eyes. He did not let me go out of kindness, but only to taunt you. How many has he killed? Hundreds? No, if you face him again, you must end this for good.”
“I hope I get another chance at him.” Cole shifted, trying to get comfortable on the truck seat.
Jolie seemed to sense his aches and pains. "Come here," she said — as if they could possibly be any closer, huddled together for warmth across the seat of a Chrysler truck. They had a blanket and a canvas shelter half spread over them to keep off the cold. "No more frostbite for you today."