A voice called out, "Who the hell are you?"
The voice belonged to an American. Cole looked back at Vaccaro, who nodded, then stood up with his rifle raised over his head. Cole stayed on the rifle, eye to the scope, just in case.
Vaccaro shouted into the rain, identifying themselves. "Sniper squad," he added.
They waited a moment, and then several figures began to emerge from the rain, weapons at the ready. The rain made it difficult for anyone to see. It also made everyone wet and miserable. When they saw that the snipers really were Americans, the other soldiers visibly relaxed. Cole counted two dozen men, including a sergeant and a captain. They all moved off the road together into the shelter of some overhanging trees, trying to get a break from the rain. As if matching the mood of the landscape, the leaves had turned a sickly yellow in the fall temperatures. The branches broke up the downpour just enough that they could all light cigarettes.
"You see any Germans, sir?" Vaccaro asked the captain.
The officer shook his head. "Not yet, but you can be damn sure they're out there. This rain is giving them a chance to regroup. How about you? You see any Jerries?"
"Not today," Vaccaro said.
He nodded at Vaccaro's rifle. "Snipers, huh?"
"Yes, sir. There's been quite a lot of on-the-job training involved."
The captain fixed his gaze on Cole, who still hadn't said a word. Cole was still keeping watch down the road because no one else seemed to be paying attention. The war didn’t take smoke breaks. ”You don't say much, do you?"
"No, sir,” Cole drawled.
The captain's name was Norton. He took a deep drag on his cigarette. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, making him just a shade older than most of the soldiers. He was six feet tall with the dark good looks of an actor, like he could be Ronald Reagan’s younger brother. The trouble was that Captain Norton knew he was everything that his men were not and he expressed that in his supercilious tone. Cole had a natural dislike of uppity folks and had gotten on the wrong side of a few officers like that.
"I'm not a bad shot myself, you know, as long as I’ve got a decent rifle,” Captain Norton said. "I was one of the alternates on my team at Harvard for the '38 Olympics in the military patrol competition. Some people call it biathlon. You ever do much of that, soldier?”
“Ain’t never heard of it.”
“Basically, it's an athletic competition involving skiing and shooting."
Cole said, "If we come across any Krauts looking to challenge us to an athletic competition, I reckon I’ll let you know. Sir.”
Vaccaro made a noise that could have been a groan, but that was possibly indigestion. It was true that Cole didn’t say a whole lot, but when he did say something, he often managed to say the wrong thing. Especially where anyone higher ranking was concerned. It seemed like Cole couldn’t help being ornery.
Norton flicked away his cigarette and stared hard at Cole. "What's your name, Private?”
"Cole."
"No wonder you don't talk much, Cole. You sound like a goddamn hillbilly. What do you think about that?"
Cole took his time answering. A tense silence had fallen over the squad. The sound of rain on their helmets grew louder. ”Whatever you say, sir."
"Are you a good shot with that rifle?"
"I done some good with it."
"Yeah? Give it here a minute."
Cole hesitated.
"I said to give it here. That’s an order,” Norton snapped, his voice carrying too far, even with the muffling effect of the rain. If there were any Germans around, he had just alerted them. He held out his hand for the rifle.
Faced with a direct order from the captain and with the squad looking on, Cole had no choice but to hand over the sniper rifle that he had carried since Omaha Beach. "It's a Springfield, sir."
"I can see that," Captain Norton said, taking the rifle. He worked the action. He put the rifle to his shoulder and peered through the telescopic sight. "Not a bad rifle. Not the best I’ve seen, but not bad. I’ll tell you what. I'm going to hang onto this, Cole. We've got an extra grease gun around here somewhere, and you can have that. Sergeant Woodbine? Where’s that M-3?”
Captain Norton slung Cole's rifle over his own shoulder and stood there, as if expecting an affirmative answer from Cole. Cole's face was so hard to read that it was like wet stone in the rain. It was so quiet that the individual raindrops on the sickly leaves overhead sounded as loud as drumbeats.
Vaccaro broke the silence. "You can take my rifle, sir. Or I can give Cole mine. I can take the grease gun."
"No, we'll give the grease gun to the hillbilly," Captain Norton said. “Later on, he can maybe shoot some squirrels with it. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
Cole stiffened. “No, sir.”
But Captain Norton wasn’t done with him. Now he was glaring at the Confederate flag painted on Cole’s helmet. “In case you haven’t heard, the South lost the war. This is the United States Army, goddammit, not the Stonewall Brigade. I want that covered up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Norton indicated the men behind him with a thumb over his shoulder. "Your squad is with us now. Your vacation days are over. You’ll have to pull your weight for a change. Let's get ready to move out."
A sergeant stepped forward and handed the M-3 to Cole. All he said was, "Here you go," but with his eyes and body language, he managed to convey the fact that he thought the captain was being unreasonable. Not that anything could be done about it.
Cole hefted the grease gun and yanked back the cocking lever so hard it was a wonder that it didn't snap off in his hand. Cheaply made out of stamped metal, the entire gun was mass-produced junk intended as a disposable weapon. Its chief attribute was that it could spew a great quantity of lead at close range. It was nicknamed a grease gun because it looked exactly like what you’d expect in a mechanic’s garage if you needed to lubricate a chassis.
Though cheaply made, the M-3 had its uses. The thirty-round magazine was loaded with .45 ACP, which made it a deadly weapon at very close range. The gun basically sprayed bullets. Beyond a couple hundred feet, hitting anything was mainly a result of the number of bullets heading at the target rather than marksmanship.
By comparison, Cole's Springfield rifle could reach out across a vast distance. He wasn't scared of getting close to the Germans, but it just wasn't his style.
The grease gun’s muzzle wandered in the direction of Captain Norton. The captain had moved away to light a cigarette and didn’t notice.
Vaccaro put a restraining hand on Cole's arm and muttered, "Don't go shooting him now. I'd hate to be on your firing squad."
Giving Vaccaro a look with his hard eyes, Cole lowered the weapon. Cole had strange eyes that were so clear they could have been made out of ice. Vaccaro knew those eyes could see like an eagle’s, but a cold hatred burned in them as well. Hit with that glare, Vaccaro actually took a step back as if Cole had pushed him.
”City Boy, I'd a thought you'd volunteer for my firing squad," Cole said. ”But I can tell you that if anyone is gonna get shot around here, it ain't gonna be me."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Vaccaro said.
They fell in at the end of their new squad and moved out along the muddy road. Their new squad was a little sloppy, but the rain seemed to have washed away the Wehrmacht. The soldiers walked unchallenged down the muddy road, each step carrying them closer to Germany.
But the war was still out there, somewhere. The chatter of rapid fire carried toward them across the fields and they all tensed up. Out of habit, Cole went to put his rifle to his shoulder, ready to return fire, and remembered that he was now armed with an M-3.
Vaccaro was watching him. "Want to switch?"