He hadn't been sure of what Cole meant by that until he heard the snap of the trap, audible in the cold, clear dawn. He heard something clanking, then cursing. That would be the German tugging at the chain.
The SS sergeant was trapped.
He heard footsteps approaching behind him, and was surprised when Lieutenant Mulholland appeared, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. He handed one of the mugs to the Kid and settled down next to him.
"Thank you, sir."
"I thought you might want some company. Besides, another pair of eyes helps. You spend enough time staring out into the snow and you start seeing things."
They didn't have to wait long. The Kid had just finished the coffee, feeling the warmth go all the way down to his toes, when the gloom dissipated enough for him to make out a figure standing on the other side of the field. He had heard the jaws snap shut. Sure enough, there was the German. But was it his German?
The lieutenant had his binoculars out. "You said this German sergeant had scars on his face?"
"Yeah."
"That must be him, all right."
The Kid peered at him through the scope. It was not quite as powerful as the binoculars. The light increased rapidly — he wondered if the sun might even come out this morning. If it did show itself, it would be the first time in days.
Even in the gray light, the man’s features were unmistakeable. It was the same SS sergeant who had cut down so many Americans at Malmedy.
The Kid settled the crosshairs on the German’s chest.
His finger took up tension on the trigger, but too fast. The first shot went wild, kicking up snow at the German's feet. The man tugged at the chain, his face grimacing with pain, but the German wasn't going anywhere.
Just as Breger had feared, the Americans were shooting at him now that it was light enough to see.
A bullet zipped past his head. If it hadn’t been the dead of winter, he might have thought it was a fat, angry bumblebee.
Frantically, he tugged at the chain with new urgency. The effort seemed to set his foot on fire. What had been a dull throbbing now roared with agony each time he moved.
Zip.
Another bullet flicked past.
Sweat dripped from Breger’s brow, even though the temperature was well below freezing.
He had not brought a rifle, but he did have a pistol in a holster. He unsnapped the holster and drew the pistol, then pointed it toward the American lines and squeezed off a shot. At this distance, it was impossible to hit anything, but it was better than nothing.
He raised the pistol and fired another shot. Again and again.
Then he tugged again at the chain in frustration, crying out at the pain that the struggle with the leg trap cost him.
When no one shot back, he thought that maybe he had gotten lucky and by some miracle had struck the sniper. But then he began to itch all over. He could almost feel the American’s crosshairs upon him.
Shoot the chain, he thought. He blasted at the chain but the links held firm. No wonder. They were almost as thick as his little finger.
The pistol clicked on an empty chamber. Angrily, he threw it as far as he could into the snow.
Then he faced the American lines, hands at his sides.
Hurry up and get this over with, he thought.
He stood there, waiting for a bullet.
The Kid wasn't a very good shot, not like the actual snipers, but this was like target practice. He worked the bolt action and slid another brass-jacketed round into the chamber.
The lieutenant watched through the binoculars. "The crosshairs should be sighted dead on at this range," he said. "Take a breath, let it out, squeeze the trigger. Easy peasy."
Some part of the Kid's mind registered that this was revenge, pure and simple. Could he really shoot someone in cold blood?
Then he thought about Ralph Moore, gunned down in that field. With a twinge of guilt, he reflected that he had been so busy trying to stay warm and stay alive that he had barely thought of Ralph in the last couple of days. He had been a good guy, and he was never going home again. Then he thought about himself, cowering in that field, waiting to die.
Could he pull that trigger?
The rifle kicking into his shoulder answered that question.
The bullet went wild, no telling where. Its supersonic crack carried across the open field. The German tugged even more desperately at the trap. He pulled a pistol and fired blindly, but the shots came nowhere close.
"Almost," Mulholland said casually. "Take another shot. Hold it steady."
The German was just standing there. The Kid pinned the crosshairs to the German's chest.
The rifle kicked again.
This time, he did not miss.
Friel did nothing without a plan — even his marriage had been arranged by the SS, after all — and the retreat from La Gleize was no exception. He gathered his officers for a briefing at two a.m. Von Stenger was included as an officer, although he commanded no one but himself.
No one wanted to call it a retreat, so Friel used the term "tactical withdrawal." Orders were reviewed. All of their equipment would be left behind. The men would take rations and their small arms — it was likely they would have to fight their way back into Germany, but using the panzers was out of the question. There was no petrol and their ammunition was mostly spent. The remaining petrol would be used to douse the trucks and panzers, then a small team would move from tank to tank, setting them ablaze. By then, the bulk of Friel's men would have slipped out of town and into the safety of the forest.
"We move out at five a.m. under cover of darkness," he said. "Soon after that, we should have enough light to find our way through the woods. Is everything understood."
"Yes, Herr Obersturmbannführer!" Not everyone agreed with the retreat, but now that there were clear orders, they would be followed. They were SS; they were good at that.
"Kurt, come with me," Friel said.
Von Stenger fell into step with Friel as they left the makeshift headquarters. He waited for Friel to speak.
"I see that you brought your rifle. In fact, I have noticed that you rarely go anywhere without it. One of the men told me that you shot your nemesis in the fighting yesterday. What did you call him? The hillbilly sniper? If you shot him, why are you still carrying that rifle everywhere?"
It was true that Von Stenger had seen the American sniper fall. His bullet had hit hard. Nonetheless, he would keep his rifle close.
"One must always be prepared," Von Stenger said. He did not admit it to Friel, but the truth was that he felt like a part of him was missing when he did not have the rifle with him. There was something reassuring about the feel of cold iron and solid wood, as well as the smell of gun oil and gunpowder. "It is how one stays alive on a battlefield."
"You are a hunter at heart, Kurt, which is why I want you in the vanguard, in case we run into any American scouts. They are not to make it back to the enemy lines to give us away. We need all the time we can get. If we have enough of a head start, the Americans may not bother to come after us. They will be satisfied with capturing La Gleize."
"Very well," Von Stenger said. "I will shoot any Americans I see."
They made their way toward the town hall, where the wounded were receiving care. It was on the top floor of this building that Von Stenger had made his sniper's nest yesterday. There were many more wounded now — the day-long battle with the American forces had taken its toll.