He noticed the wreckage of a Kübelwagen, upside down, half in and half out of the water at the bottom of the steep bank. Sure enough, the front tire was missing — it was now embedded in the stone wall, having nearly taken Cole’s head off. The officer, driver, and machine gunner who’d been on that vehicle must be in Valhalla right about now, Cole reckoned — or wherever dead SS went. Considering that nothing moved on the wrecked bridge, it was probably safe to say that the whole damn SS squad was in Valhalla, along with that German sniper.
Now it made sense that he had glimpsed the German sniper looking away. He must have seen the plane coming for him like a reckoning. Maybe he’d even taken a shot at it. Cole only hoped that the son of a bitch had felt at least a few seconds of terror when he saw doom itself headed right for him.
Cole looked over to his right. Hunkered down behind the stone wall, Vaccaro nodded at him. He had a dazed look in his eyes. Frenchie looked up from trying to wrap a rag around his bleeding arm. He’d been shot through the upper left arm.
"I was worried you two was goners," Cole said. The words sounded muffled. Somebody seemed to be ringing a bell in his head and his ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton.
"It's not for lack of you trying to kill us," Vaccaro said. "That explosion was too close for comfort. Let's not do that again anytime soon."
"How's that arm?" Cole asked Frenchie.
The kid was using his teeth to pull the bandage tight. "Missed anything important," he said. "No broken bones. Hurts like hell, though."
"Being shot will do that."
Movement in the water caught their eye. They could see an SS soldier swimming toward shore. He appeared to be the only survivor.
Cole put his crosshairs on the German's head and shot him. The body sank beneath the muddy surface.
Frenchie stared at him, looking pale, but didn't say anything.
"Let's get you back into the village," Cole said to him. "I have a notion that Margot is goin' to fix you right up, one way or another.”
Behind them, they could still hear the sounds of the fight taking place in town. There were single shots, interspersed with bursts of automatic fire. It sounded as if the battle for Ville sur Moselle had become up close and personal.
Cole spat dust and the taste of cordite from his mouth.
"You know what, Cole?" Vaccaro said. "General Tolliver is not going to be happy that you wrecked that bridge.”
“Me? Hell, City Boy, it was that plane.”
“I was there, remember? You shot at the same time that the plane hit the bridge,” Vaccaro said. “That plane fired one rocket and you fired one bullet. The bridge blew up and killed all those SS. I mean—" Vaccaro sputtered to a stop, shaken by the destruction that he had seen. "I mean, what the hell? Either way, somebody made one helluva lucky shot.”
"Lucky shot," Cole agreed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Leaving the river, they made their way back into town, following the stone wall for whatever cover it provided. They had no way of knowing how far the Germans might have advanced. For all that Cole knew, the town could have fallen and they were walking right into what might now be German lines. Behind them, a pall of dust and smoke still hung in the air above the shattered bridge. They advanced carefully, keeping an eye out for Germans.
They soon reached the center of town, where the situation balanced on a knife's edge. While Cole, Vaccaro, and Frenchie had been down at the river, the Germans had overrun the second line of defense. The first barricade that had been made up of everything from furniture to mattresses was still burning, sending pillars of smoke into the overcast sky. Maybe the smoke had gotten the attention of that passing plane. The air in town smelled strongly of burning household goods and gunpowder.
The fighting in town was now alley to alley, and house to house. Staccato bursts of fire were punctuated with the deep booms of hand grenades and single rifle shots. Somewhere, a woman's cry of terror ended in a blood-curdling shriek.
"The Jerries must have seen the bridge go up in smoke," Vaccaro said. "You'd think that they'd give up."
"Bridge or not, they'll still want to get across that river, even if they have to swim," Cole said. "As far as the Jerries are concerned, we're all that's standing between them and Germany."
"I didn't like that scream," Frenchie said. "Let's see how Margot is doing at the aid station."
Before Cole or Vaccaro could say otherwise, Frenchie was running up the street, his boots pounding across the cobblestones. A burst of fire hit the stones near his feet and Frenchie stumbled, but kept going. Cole and Vaccaro had no choice but to go after him, rifles at the ready.
The door to Margot's house stood open. The interior now looked more than ever like a hospital, with wounded soldiers and villagers occupying the floors and furniture. Most were too badly injured to fight. One or two stared with open eyes, far beyond any hope of medical care. Margot, however, was nowhere to be seen. From the second floor, they heard shouting.
"Upstairs!" Frenchie shouted, and went bounding up the steps two at a time.
A German soldier suddenly appeared at the upstairs landing. He aimed a rifle at Frenchie, who with his bandaged arm, could only fumble for his own weapon.
"Down!" shouted Cole, who was right behind him on the stairs.
Frenchie dropped to his knees, and Cole fired over his head at the German, who slumped in a heap in the landing. Cole shot him again for good measure.
An instant later, Frenchie was back on his feet and running into one of the bedrooms. No sooner had he disappeared from sight, but there came the sound of a gunshot from the room, then a scream.
Cole ducked around the doorway, keeping low. He saw three things at once: Margot holding a fireplace poker, Frenchie collapsed in a heap, and a German soldier swinging a rifle in Cole's direction. He fired at Cole, but the bullet struck just over his head. Cole fired his own rifle and missed. That was the last shot in his clip. He tossed the Springfield at the German, who ducked reflexively. Then Cole drew his Bowie knife and launched himself at the German.
In two slashing strokes, the fight was over. The German fell to the floor, clutching at his wounds but still alive, and Cole kicked his rifle away.
He joined Margot, who was kneeling beside Frenchie.
"Winged me," Frenchie said through gritted teeth.
Cole could see that Frenchie was partially correct. The bullet had hit him in the arm that was already bandaged. But it was a lot worse than a flesh wound. Margot grabbed a pillowcase and attempted to stop the fresh bleeding.
"Dammit, kid. You could have waited."
"I was worried about Margot."
Cole glanced over at the German he had knifed. His eyes stared. He was gone.
Cole had never killed anyone with a knife before. He could clearly remember the way that the blade felt, slicing through flesh. That slightly wet resistance of flesh. The thought made him shudder. He was glad that the German was dead and not him, no regrets there, but killing with the knife was not something that he was eager to do again. Cole was a hunter, but he was no butcher.
Behind him, he heard Vaccaro pounding up the stairs. He came into the room, breathing hard. "All clear downstairs — at least for now. The town is crawling with Krauts." He looked down at Frenchie, took in the blood-soaked bandage. "Aw, for Christ's sake, Frenchie. What have you gone and done?"
Margot was busy securing the makeshift bandage tightly. She let loose with a stream of angry French, directed at her patient.