The fate of the defeated Germans was hard to determine. There couldn't have been more than a dozen men left with that German general. They would either surrender, find another river crossing, or fight to the end until they were wiped out once the Allied planes got back in the air. Nobody really cared what awaited the Krauts, so long as they left the village alone.
As the fires in the burning barricade died down, the people of Ville sur Moselle began to emerge from their homes to survey the damage.
An older woman saw Cole standing there alone and held out a basket of food and a bottle of wine. He slung his rifle and accepted the food with a grateful nod.
"The Germans are gone for good!" someone shouted in French. The ragged cheer that followed was feeble and short-lived. The ensuing silence was punctuated by the crackling from the fires and the sound of a woman sobbing.
"Mon deu," an older man muttered, looking around at the smoldering barricade, the shattered windows, and a few bodies sprawled on the cobblestones. Their peaceful village had largely been spared from the war — until now.
A woman cried over the body of a middle-aged man, who had died clutching his shotgun. Nearby lay a dead German. Cole walked over and looked down at the German. He was no more than nineteen or twenty, his blue eyes staring and a vivid red pool of blood surrounding him. Judging by the proximity of the bodies, it seemed apparent that one had shot the other.
Cole shook his head. He wasn't one to dwell much on what this war meant, or the cost of it, because his job was to fight the war. But it was hard to ignore this tableau. Cole did not think much about consequences in the middle of a battle but now he took time for reflection.
The young soldier should have had girls to make love to, lager to drink, an entire life to live, but all that was gone now. The older man might have had grandchildren someday to bounce on his knee and his plump wife to keep him warm on winter nights. Just two more lives lost in the wastefulness of a war in which millions had already died.
Tomorrow, it would be somebody else's turn to die. Maybe even Cole's.
He put his hand on his rifle and smiled grimly to himself. If he could, he sure as hell would make sure that some German son of a bitch would die instead.
"Sergeant Woodbine, put together a detail to clear out the dead," Tolliver said. "See if you can get any of the villagers to help. I want our men posted as sentries, just in case those Jerries do come back."
"Yes, sir," Woodbine said, and saw to it.
While the damage and loss were significant, Cole knew that it could have been much worse. He had seen how other towns in the path of the fighting had been utterly destroyed by artillery or Allied planes — usually as they tried to root out German defenders. Here, there had been no artillery shells or even tanks to take a toll. The fighting had been limited to rifles and a few machine guns and grenades. Still, it was enough.
Nearby, General Tolliver was talking with Vaccaro and some of the other men. He gave orders for them to report to Woodbine for sentry duty or burial detail. Then he came marching purposefully toward Cole, with Vaccaro following the general at a respectful distance.
"Cole, goddammit, why didn't you tell me the whole story about what happened at that bridge?"
"I'm not sure what you mean, sir.” Earlier, Cole had given the general a brief rundown of events at the bridge.
“You told me that you attempted to blow up that bridge by setting off the charges with a grenade, but that the plane beat you to it.”
"Yes, sir."
"You didn't explain that the grenade was still attached to a German engineer who was placing charges under the bridge. Vaccaro filled me in on that little detail, along with a couple of others. Vaccaro said you fired at the same time the plane did, so there’s an even chance that your bullet took out the bridge. What have you got to say about that?”
"Lucky shot, sir."
"Cole, I think there is exactly one soldier in the United States Army who could make that shot, and I am looking at him. Even if you are a peckerwood."
"Thank you, sir." Cole grinned. "I reckon."
"From now on, though, don't go blowing up any bridges against orders. Not every general is as forgiving as I am.”
"Yes, sir." Cole paused. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Granted."
"We're lucky you showed up when you did, sir. You saved this village. You saved us. You stopped the Germans, bridge or no bridge."
Tolliver grunted. "You know what? I'm just a bean counter, Cole. For most of this war I’ve been a pencil pusher polishing a chair."
"I heard a rumor to that effect, but I wouldn’t have believed it. I’d say you make a mighty fine general, sir. Then again, what the hell would I know? I'm just an ignorant peckerwood, like you said."
The general shook his head and walked off. But he was grinning.
Vaccaro had hovered close enough to hear the exchange, and he came up to Cole. "I had to tell him. He said that he'd put you in for a medal, but nobody would believe it."
"I don't hardly believe it myself. Let's go see how ol' Frenchie is doin'.
They walked over to the aid station. The rooms of Margot's small house now overflowed with wounded, with the furniture shoved out of the way or even carried into the street to make room. Other villagers had come to help. There were only a few GIs among the wounded — there hadn't been that many to begin with. Most of the injured were villagers who had come to the defense of the village or who had been caught in the crossfire. There were even a couple of badly wounded German soldiers. Although they were the enemy, they were clearly suffering and in pain, so it was hard to have anything but compassion for them.
Fortunately, an actual doctor was on the scene. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, he went from person to person, staunching wounds and administering morphine from the Americans' limited supply.
Frenchie was among the walking wounded. With his arm tightly bandaged, he was doing his best as a one-armed medic. More importantly, he was also translating between the wounded Americans and the French doctor.
"How you feeling, Frenchie?" Vaccaro asked.
"Hurting some," he said, wincing as he lifted his arm. "But I'm a lot better off than most of these people. I got sulfa on there and it's wrapped up tight, plus I had a couple swigs of calvados."
"Morphine?"
Frenchie shook his head. "Others here need it more, and we don't have that much. Besides, I'll be useless if I take a hit of that stuff. I'm going to do what I can to help the doctor."
"Where did he come from?" Vaccaro wondered, nodding at the doctor.
"Turns out he lives out in the countryside. He slipped into town once the fighting was over, to see how he could help."
Cole and Vaccaro nodded. Like most American soldiers, they appreciated the fact that in the process of fighting the Germans, they were also liberating the French, who were basically a defeated and occupied people. When you thought about it, Cole found it amazing that the Germans had conquered a country as vast and powerful as France in less than six weeks.
Americans ought to take lesson from that, he thought. You never wanted to get too comfortable or soft as a people. Then again, it was hard to imagine enemy troops conquering the Tennessee or Kentucky hills. More than a few Americans still owned guns and knew how to shoot them, thank God.
Still, it felt good to give the French their freedom back, returning a national favor that went all the way back to the Marquis de Lafayette and the American Revolution. However, the soldiers’ opinions of the French weren’t always positive because many had accepted the Germans and even collaborated with them. Cole found it refreshing to see the French doctor doing what he could for the American wounded.