But he was wrong about getting closer. Jolie's hands slid under his shirt, warm and gentle, massaging. She pushed his own hands away when he reciprocated. "Ouch! Too rough. Your skin is like leather. How are your lips?"
He kissed her more roughly than he intended, his lips moving down her throat, to her breasts. Jolie's hands moved down and undid his belt buckle.
Neither of them wanted to shed their clothes. It was too cold, and they were too tired. She tugged down her pants to her thighs, and Cole slid his hands over the soft, perfectly shaped ass. She could just spread her legs wide enough for him to slip inside. There was so much heat coming off her skin that Cole thought he might melt right into her. She clenched him inside her. "You are trapped," she said. "What do you call that? A honey trap?"
Cole thrust deep into her, but gently and slowly, taking his time. He was too worn out for anything else.
Jolie gave a moan, and Cole moved his hand up to her mouth. She bit down on the edge of his hand. Both of them aware that the others were just on the other side of the thin wall of metal and canvas.
When they had finished, Jolie seemed to melt into him.
"Mon dieu," she said, and sighed contentedly. "How is your frostbite now?"
Cole grinned at her in the frozen darkness. He felt his exposed ears and cheeks prickle in the cold, while under the blankets, belly to belly, their skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. "Honey, I hate to tell you this, but it wasn't my pecker that was frostbit."
"Good thing," she said, and reached for him again.
The American column moved out as soon as it was light enough to see the road. For a change, the snow and rain had stopped. It was still cold, but the low clouds overhead began to lift just after daybreak. They were so used to sleeping on the ground that being in the truck made them uneasy.
It didn't help that the Kid had woken them up, screaming from a nightmare. Considering that he had seen his buddies murdered by the SS, who could blame him? They all slept fitfully after that.
Vaccaro surveyed the gray dawn. "It ain't exactly summer sunshine, but I'll take it," he said.
"The Germans won't like it because it will mean our planes can fly," Lieutenant Mulholland said. "The weather has been in their favor so far for every minute of this attack. It's almost as if God loved Hitler more than us."
"If there is a God, he's a cruel bastard," Cole said. Nobody bothered to argue with that statement. "What's our plan, Lieutenant?"
"To go after the Germans. We'll tag along with these guys. With any luck, we'll catch up to Kampfgruppe Friel today."
"You mean if we're lucky, our fly boys will knock out their panzers before we catch up to them," Vaccaro said.
The snipers rode in the back of the truck. They could deploy when the time came. For now, they could bide their time and save their legs.
The Kid handed Cole the scoped Springfield rifle he carried. “You need this more than I do,” he said.
Cole accepted it gravely. “McNulty’s?”
He nodded.
Corporal Muckelroy trudged past. When he saw the snipers, he stopped. "It's our pleasure to drive you around," he said, then casually leaned over and spat. "Wouldn't want you sniper types to get your boots muddy."
As he walked off, Vaccaro said, "Are we going to let him get away with that? Maybe I can accidentally shoot him."
"If you shoot every dumbass in the Army, there won't be nobody left to fight the Germans," Cole said. "He'll get his when the time comes, don't you worry."
The column was soon rolling. Cole spread a blanket on the bed of the truck and used the time to field strip and clean the Springfield rifle. It wasn't long before they could hear sporadic firing in the distance. The Americans were not the only ones on the move.
CHAPTER 22
"Nothing can stop us now." Friel took his eyes off the map and looked at the road leading toward the bridge at Trois Ponts. "Today, we begin to turn the tide of the war."
Von Stenger nodded, wishing he shared in Friel’s enthusiasm. What he said was: "You have done well, Herr Obersturmbannführer."
This morning, Von Stenger was along for the ride as the Kampfgruppe made its final push toward the Meuse River. Food and a few hours of rest had worked to repair his injuries. He put weight on his leg to test it. Pain shot through him, but his leg was functional, if stiff from the stitches.
“Did you hear that our captured sniper escaped?” Friel asked. “I understand that you talked to her last night.”
Von Stenger tensed. Was Friel testing him in some way? Did Friel suspect that he had helped her escape?
He shrugged as he met Friel’s eyes. “All she did was curse at me and spit. She was trussed up like a hog when I left her. Sneaking French bitch,” Von Stenger said.
Friel laughed. “Since I can’t shoot her, I should shoot her guards. But I fear that I will need every man before the day is through.”
Von Stenger followed Friel’s glance toward the sky. The long stretch of overcast weather was beginning to clear. For a change, no snow or rain fell. He would have welcomed the change if it hadn't meant that the sky could soon be raining bombs.
As the clouds lifted, the Allied planes would soon be on the prowl. There would be few Luftwaffe fighters to give them cover. It would be like a shooting gallery.
Since the start of Operation Watch on Rhine, Friel had one objective, and that was to get across the Meuse River at any cost. The Meuse was the unofficial boundary of the Ardennes. Once he was across, the stopper would be out of the bottle. With General Patton and his Third Army still to the south, there would be nothing to stop his Kampfgruppe from rushing headlong back into the plains of Belgium and even into France. If enough Germans managed to break out of the Ardennes, it would cost the Allies dearly and perhaps even change the dynamic of the war.
Hitler had chosen the Ardennes as his breakout point through the encircling Allied forces because the region seemed an unlikely choice. The rugged hills and terrain made it difficult country for moving troops. As a result, the Americans had barely defended it. Many of the troops stationed in the Ardennes were veteran units due a good rest, or green units who needed time in the field.
While in many ways the choice of the Ardennes was brilliant, the rugged nature of the region also worked against the Germans. Massive tanks had to follow each other single file down the narrow country lanes, forcing the Kampfgruppe to spread out over many miles. Given enough time, the Germans could still break out. However, the clearing sky meant the clock was ticking.
Over coffee that morning, Friel had explained to Von Stenger that the Ardennes was not like Russia, where the flat plains had enabled his armored column to move swiftly as it captured village after village, leaving flames and ashes in their wake. That was why they had nicknamed themselves The Blowtorch Brigade, much to Hitler's delight.
"A more apt name for us now might be The Turtle Brigade," he mused.
Friel ordered his driver to get him to the front of the column. With as much speed as possible, the driver maneuvered between trucks and massive tanks, all of them creeping along the muddy road.
The car bounced wildly over the ruts, doing Von Stenger's head no favors. He had enjoyed a bit too much wine last night, but Friel had roused him early to ride along with him. The jarring motion made his headache throb. Thick diesel fumes permeated the air itself, making his stomach churn. But the car ride beat walking. His injured leg was stiff as a result of the hillbilly sniper's trap.
They soon ground to a halt behind a stalled panzer. Friel cursed in frustration.
"Faster!" he shouted at his harried driver.
He took out his map and attempted to read it. The town at the crossing was called Trois Ponts. The river loomed ahead like a finish line. They had to get across.