Mulholland’s forward momentum stopped at the sight of those eyes.
Cole said, "Yeah?"
"I just heard from headquarters. They've got a job for you."
Cole got to his feet, not so much standing, as uncoiling. He didn't ask what the job involved. Cole was a sniper. Nobody was going to ask him to change a tire or type a report.
"The 118th is running up against a sniper," the lieutenant explained. "A goddamn good one. He shot three guys yesterday."
"Three, huh? Maybe he got lucky."
"That's three in one day, Cole. Just as many the day before. And the day before that."
Cole exhaled through his teeth, making a thin whistle. "I reckon that's a lot of marks on the stock of his Mauser."
"That's where you come in. You need to take that Mauser and shove it up his ass."
Cole's grin left a chill along the lieutenant's spine, even in the heat of the French summer. Not for the first time, he was glad that Cole was on his side.
“I reckon I can do that." He turned to look at Vaccaro, who usually teamed up with Cole as his spotter. Vaccaro also carried a rifle with a telescopic sight, but at the moment, both the rifle and its owner lay stretched out in the grass. "You up for this, City Boy?"
Vaccaro opened one eye and shook his head. "Goddammit, Cole. Why do you always have to volunteer me for this shit?"
"Suit yourself." Cole turned away.
Vaccaro rolled to a sitting position and reached for his rifle. "C'mon, Cole. Don't get a stick up your ass. All I'm saying is that some of us want a break now and then."
Cole was already walking away, so Vaccaro hurried to catch up.
"I thought you weren't comin'?"
"I don't even know why you want me along, Hillbilly. I’d almost think you were lonely, if you weren’t the most solitary individual I’ve run across. Next time, let me sleep unless you need help with the rough stuff. You know this is just some German kid who got lucky with a rifle."
"You sure about that?" Cole didn't believe that the German sniper he was being sent to dispatch was simply lucky. Luck ran out; anyone who had lasted several days as a sniper with any success had skill, and skill was far more worrisome. Skill got you killed. ”Anybody gets lucky once in a while, City Boy, but not three days in a row. This German knows his business."
Having gotten his orders, Cole set off toward where the lieutenant had told him the German sniper was operating. Vaccaro trailed along, grumbling under his breath. Cole had heard it all before, so he ignored him.
Cole had no doubt that somebody was needed to settle this German's hash, but the truth was that he did not trust Lieutenant Mullholland's motives one hundred percent. Mulholland could have sent another sniper — hell, he could have sent Vaccaro — but he had singled out Cole. From a young age, Cole had been schooled to expect the worst from people.
Few people acted out of goodness. The Army hadn't taught him any different.
While Mulholland was mostly trustworthy, it was also true that he and the lieutenant had some baggage. It was the kind of thing that went unsaid, but it was there all the same. Just a few weeks before, they had both fallen for a certain member of the French Resistance named Jolie Molyneaux.
She had been assigned as their scout through the bocage countryside around Normandy. From her role in the Resistance, Jolie knew the paths and trails through that maze of hedgerows and fields.
She had been more than capable, but they had run into some trouble along the way. Cole had found himself in a duel with a German sniper, one of the best there was, and had barely come out of it alive.
Jolie hadn't gotten off so easy. She was still recuperating in a field hospital after being shot by the German. Mulholland was not only jealous that Jolie had preferred Cole, but he blamed Cole for Jolie being shot.
The way Cole saw things, it was the German's fault that Jolie had been shot. He was the one who had been doing the shooting. But that wasn't how Mulholland saw it. He blamed Cole for putting her in harm’s way. He had this chivalrous idea that women didn't belong in a combat zone. Never mind the fact that Jolie was a damn good fighter.
Cole hated to think that the lieutenant had some ulterior motive, hoping that Mulholland might be the exception to the rule, but it seemed to him that missions like this were payback. Mulholland had volunteered him. While it was true that Cole was more likely than others to solve the sniper problem, it was a good bet that in Mulholland's book it would be a bonus if Cole got his ass shot off in the process.
He doubted that anyone at headquarters would have asked for him by name. Or had they? None other than the well-known journalist Ernie Pyle had written a story about him a couple of weeks before. Everyone had seemed impressed by the famous reporter and the story that he had written.
Because Cole couldn't read, he had to take everybody’s word that it was a good story. So far, he had managed to keep his illiteracy a secret. He didn’t mind if everybody thought he was a hillbilly, which he was, but he didn’t like being seen as ignorant. One of these days, he promised himself that he would get some book learning. Until then, he had developed a few tricks to hide the fact that he couldn’t read, although Vaccaro was starting to suspect the truth.
Cole loped along a country road that overflowed with soldiers. Vaccaro’s gait was lumbering, but he didn't have any trouble keeping up. A city boy was used to walking fast. But while Vaccaro put his whole body into moving fast, swinging his arms for momentum with his rifle slung over one shoulder, Cole's legs seemed to glide over the landscape while his upper body held itself still, rifle always ready in his arms.
Most of the troops they passed were on the move toward some destination defended by German soldiers. Many more men lounged in the shade, smoking cigarettes and sipping warm water from aluminum canteens. Some just stared into the distance, so dazed by the endless threat of combat and by the rough conditions that they were not much better off than walking scarecrows. Here and there a man was busy scribbling a letter home, knowing full well that it might be his last.
Their rifles drew a few stares, not all of them friendly. Snipers were not exactly beloved — no soldier liked the idea of death being delivered from a distance, and snipers had a reputation for picking men off in their more vulnerable moments: having a smoke, taking a leak, trying to catch a glimpse above a wall or around a corner.
Death that came in the form of a mortar shell or a burst of machine-gun fire was awful and frightening, but it was also anonymous. Death from a sniper, someone who had picked out and targeted a single man, was far more personal, not to mention sly and sneaky.
The sniper from your own side was tolerated; a sniper from the other side seldom made it to the rear if captured.
Cole ignored the looks he was getting, and took stock of the situation.
The 118th occupied what could loosely be called the left flank, which in this case was to the northeast. Wouldn't be hard to find. If he missed the unit somehow, he'd know, because he would run smack dab into the Germans instead. The countryside was crawling with Kraut troops — Wehrmacht, Waffen SS, even Panzers.
Cole wasn't in a hurry to see a Panzer again anytime soon. There was nothing quite like the sight of a Panzer to turn your guts to water.
Vaccaro spoke up. "You know what? We could always go back and say that we couldn't find the 118th. We can just sit in the shade for a while and then head back. The lieutenant won't be any the wiser."