"Shut up, Vaccaro," Jolie whispered. "Cole is trying to shoot."
Cole was only dimly aware that either of them had spoken. He had already slipped into his shooter's trance. Nothing existed beyond the target and his finger on the trigger. He let out a breath. Held the crosshairs on that point in space that felt right. It was not something that he could measure or even explain — it was simply where the bullet needed to be.
Gently, gently, he took up tension in the trigger. When the rifle fired, the Springfield pounding into his shoulder, it actually surprised him.
The German tank commander crumpled and slid down into the tank like a dead gopher.
Cole worked the bolt. "T rex my ass."
The bullet had taken out the tank commander, but it had not stopped the tank. Like an angry bull, but one made of steel and spewing diesel fumes, it kept coming. The red flag this bull saw, however, was not the snipers hidden in the woods but the American column on the road before it. The Americans deployed across the road, but they were no match for the panzer. A machine gun opened up on the German tank, but the stream of bullets bounced harmlessly off the steel hide. Then the tank did come to a stop. The main gun elevated slightly, and then moved a little to the left.
All the while, more tanks were coming up the road behind the first panzer. They were turning down a side road, though — a narrow track that roughly paralleled the river. The Germans were not interested in returning down the road they had already traveled. The single King Tiger had been assigned to pin down the Americans while the other tanks in the column took the side road. The tank’s barrel was pointed right down the road.
"Cole?" Vaccaro asked.
Again, Cole ignored him. He was hunched behind the scope, studying every inch of the armored behemoth. Finally, he found what he was looking for — a tiny glass lens no more than two inches high and six inches wide, just where the armor sloped down. This was the tank driver’s periscope. At this range, hitting that periscope would be like hitting the moon.
Dimly, Cole was aware of the whirring noise the tank turret made as it took aim, and the nervous shouts of the soldiers on the road who were being targeted.
Cole put his crosshairs on the tank and fired.
The King Tiger seemed to pause. Cole's bullet had found its mark, smashing the periscope and effectively blinding the tank. Even if he had not hit anyone, the bullet would have rattled the crew inside.
"I'll be damned," Vaccaro muttered.
One rifle bullet was not enough to stop a tank. The tank was only temporarily blinded. After a pause, the gun in its turret made some final adjustments.
But Cole had bought the Americans time. They managed to spread out. When the tank fired, it would no longer have a concentrated target. Far behind the panzer assigned to pin down the American column, a row of tanks and trucks turned down the other road as steadily as ants.
Then came the whine of aircraft engines. Coming fast. The snipers looked at the sky. Two planes flew nearly wing tip to wing tip, at no more than two hundred feet elevation, moving at astonishing speed through the leaden sky.
"I hope to God those aren't Luftwaffe planes," Vaccaro said.
It took just seconds to answer that question. They saw the familiar American star on the wings. These were P-47 Thunderbolts, moving at more than four hundred miles per hour. The planes dipped even lower and released a pair of bombs that sailed down as expertly as a touchdown pass toward the German tank.
The snipers burrowed themselves as far under the fallen log as they could and covered their ears.
The tank vanished in a burst of smoke and debris. The ground shook and the blast seemed to suck the oxygen from the air. The tank, which until an instant before had been about to dole out death and destruction to the Americans, now burned like a July Fourth bonfire.
In perfect precision, the planes circled back and swept low toward the German column. Though caught by surprise, the Germans quickly sprang into action. Lines of white-hot trailers stitched searing patterns against the sky as several heavy machine guns opened up on the planes. But these were not clay pigeons — the planes moved too fast for the reflexes of the gunners. The planes were soon out of range, but not before they had dropped more bombs, leaving another flaming tank and a burning truck in their wake.
The planes looped around and returned again, but this time they simply strafed the Germans on the road. The big .50 caliber bullets chewed up anything that wasn't armored, leaving behind more wreckage. The German gunners were better prepared, leading the planes like a duck hunter leads his quarry, so that the planes flew right into a stream of machine gun fire reaching toward the sky. Smoke trailed from one of the planes as the Thunderbolts raced away. This time, they did not reappear.
The German column quickly regrouped. While the aerial attack had wreaked havoc, these soldiers were veterans of many such attacks. Those who could got back to business, and the Kampfgruppe rolled on.
"Looks like they forgot about us," the Kid said.
"Don't be so sure," Vaccaro replied.
The Germans were not about to leave their flank unprotected from the soldiers on the road. A second panzer rolled into position beside the burning hulk. It wasted no time pumping a shell into the nearest American truck on the road. The truck blew apart, scattering fenders, doors and hood like steel confetti. The Americans on the road scattered, but the snipers were well hidden.
"What now, Lieutenant?" Vaccaro asked. "I don't think we can do much good here without a bazooka."
Mulholland patted the front pocket of his coat, where he kept a map. "The Germans must be headed toward Habiemont. There's another bridge near that town where they'll try to cross the river. We can try to beat them there."
"How, sir? They're thick as hookers in Times Square on that road."
"Who said anything about taking the road?" Mulholland said. "We're going cross country."
Some things were easier said than done. Cutting cross country through snow-covered fields on a sprawling battlefield was one of them. The snipers stared out at the world of white before them.
Through that snow, every mile on the way to the bridge at Habiemont would be as exhausting as running a marathon.
“I got an idea,” Cole said.
He drew his knife and headed toward a stand of saplings at the field’s edge. With two swift motions, he cut down two of the saplings. Taking one, he bent it around until it was in an oval shape, then tied the two ends together with a piece of half-inch rope. He then wove the rope back and worth in a rough web pattern, like a drunken spider might make. He repeated the process on the other sapling. Within five minutes, he had the makeshift snowshoes strapped to his boots.
With Cole’s help, the others followed suit. “Keep this up, Cole, and you’re going to make Eagle Scout one of these days,” Vaccaro said.
The snowshoes would not have held up for an Arctic expedition, but they were enough to get them to the bridge — which they needed to do, fast.
“Cole, do you have any other tricks we should know about?” the lieutenant asked, already breathing hard. With the snow shoes they didn’t sink as far into the drifts, but it was still a workout to move quickly.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Cole said. “It’s a little something I call running. It gets you there faster.”
The snipers broke into a trot. Off to their left, they could see the German column far in the distance. Headed to the same place. The race was on.
They heard more planes coming. “Those planes will slow them down and buy us some time,” the lieutenant said. “Like Cole said, let’s hoof it.”
CHAPTER 24
Von Stenger stared in horror and wonder as the American planes decimated the column. A P-47 Thunderbolt fighter-bomber carried two 500-pound bombs. For the Germans on the receiving end, it was a devastating arsenal. The thousands of pounds of high explosive turned once-fearsome tanks into burning hulks.