"Mulholland won't believe us," Cole said. "All we got to do is follow the sound of shooting."
Cole was right — to a point.
The lines changed daily because control of the surrounding countryside was in flux. While the Germans were steadily being pushed back by the overwhelming numbers of Allied forces, they sold each inch of ground dearly.
It didn't help the situation that other Allied forces were part of the mix: Brits, Canadians, the vicious and undisciplined French Resistance, even elements of the free Polish Army. There was enough confusion among American troops, let alone troops with soldiers who spoke their own brand of English, or none at all. Officers of different nationalities were eager to have their troops drive the farthest each day, for their personal and national glory. The sense of competition outweighed cooperation.
The situation was ripe for what GIs called a SNAFU — Situation Normal, All Fouled Up. Friendly fire incidents were becoming more common.
Cole didn't much like the idea of getting shot by his own side. The Germans were enough to worry about.
Chapter Ten
Fortunately, Cole and Vaccaro found the 118th before they found any trouble of the Kraut variety. Like every American GI in France, these guys looked haggard and worn out. Like Cole, they wore the same M41 Style Field Jackets they had come ashore with weeks before. Though durable, the densely woven cotton fabric was now stained, ripped, and filthy. Nobody had showered or shaved in days.
They barely looked up as Cole and Vaccaro appeared with their sniper rifles. Again, Cole was reminded that soldiers on both sides had mixed emotions about snipers. At best, there was a mystique about snipers. They were held apart from an ordinary rifleman because of their skill and special equipment. At worst, they were seen as sneaky sons of bitches, and disliked accordingly.
"Who's in charge of this here goat fuck?" Cole asked, and followed the pointed fingers until he found a young captain crouched over a map.
The captain flicked his eyes over Cole's face, and then at the rifle.
"I understand that you're here to solve our sniper problem," the captain said. "Fight fire with fire, right?"
Cole was immediately taken aback by the officer's Boston accent, so different from his own that it was difficult to fathom that they both came from the same country.
"Yes, sir."
"Here's the situation, Cole. We need to get up this road toward Saint Dennis de Mere. Only there's a German sniper who has set up shop in those trees up ahead. We could go around him, but it’s not exactly convenient." He waved a hand in the vague direction of the fields beyond. The road was hemmed in by hedges and fences. "For all we know, the Krauts may have planted mines. This road is the most direct route, and we've got a schedule to keep."
Cole looked to where the officer was pointing. Sure enough, there was a bend in the road ahead, where the road passed around a copse of trees. The sniper had hidden in those trees, and from that vantage point now commanded the road. It was a textbook example of how a single sniper could delay an infantry unit as effectively as a tank.
Cole considered his options. Continuing down the road would be suicide. Anyone who left cover would instantly be in the sniper's sights.
He would be another dead man among many.
He thought about the sniper in the trees. Having grown up hunting and trapping in the mountains he had learned to think like the game he was stalking. It might seem silly, the idea that he could get inside the head of a deer, or a bear, and predict what that animal would do, or where he would go. But Cole could. It was what made him a good hunter — that, and being a damn good shot.
Most animals did the expected because they followed their instincts. Their brains followed a road map to get them through various situations. Humans weren't all that different.
What would the German sniper do? Bide his time and wait. If the Americans attempted a full-on assault, the German could simply slip away — after inflicting severe losses. It was more than likely that the sniper was hidden in one of the treetops, which would offer a better vantage point. The disadvantage for the German sniper was that a tree could also become a trap.
The way Cole saw it, the possibility that he could tree that sniper like a ‘coon was the best he could hope for.
Cole looked at Vaccaro. "Hounds and foxes?"
Vaccaro groaned. "You and your goddamn hillbilly games. You know I hate hounds and foxes."
The captain was looking at them like headquarters had maybe sent him a couple of nut cases. "Hounds and foxes? What the hell has that got to do with anything? I've got a sniper holding up my squad, soldier."
"Don't worry, sir,” Vaccaro said. “It's a strategy that me and Cole here use. Hounds chase foxes, you know. We'll make the fox think we're chasing him, but meanwhile, there's a lone hound sneaking up on the sly."
"Lone wolf," Cole corrected him. "That'd be me, sir."
The captain shook his head. "Snipers. You're in a three-way tie for crazy with paratroopers and combat engineers."
"Thank you, sir," Vaccaro said. "That means a lot."
Cole turned to the captain. "All right, here's what I'm fixin' to do. I'm a gonna get off this here road and into this field right here—" in Cole's accent, the last two words sounded like rye cheer " — and work my way toward them trees. In exactly ten minutes, you hit them woods with everything you got. Vaccaro will stick with you and try to get a shot from the road. Ya'll are the hounds, you see. I'll be sneaking up on him on the sly. If Vaccaro don't get him, then I'll see where he's at when he shoots back."
The captain glanced at his type A-11 Army-issue watch, manufactured in Waltham, Massachusetts. Checking the alignment of the white hands on the black face, he said, "Ten minutes. You got it."
Taking a cue from the captain, Vaccaro checked his own watch. Or rather, watches. He had three strapped to his wrist. Spoils of war.
Their plan agreed upon, Cole eased his way into the field, careful not to attract any attention from the enemy sniper. To help create a diversion, Vaccaro took a couple of potshots at the German's position.
Cole chose the field to the north because his view of the copse of trees would not be blocked by the elbow in the road. This way he was traveling around the point of the elbow, rather than being caught in the crook. The countryside was more open here and the field reflected that, being mostly a wide-open expanse that stretched toward a distant line of trees. At one edge of the field, maybe two hundred yards away, was an ancient stone barn. Perfect cover for a sniper. Cole eyed the barn warily, but it appeared empty. There was a stillness about the structure. The only German around was in those woods, blocking the road ahead.
He crept forward.
Throughout the field were large boulders that generations of farmers had failed to move, allowing the scrub brush to grow up around them. Farmers back home did the same. These formed islands of vegetation in the cultivated field, which was otherwise knee-high with barley.
He slung the rifle so that it hung across his front, then got down on his hands and knees and started to crawl. The damp earth soaked his knees. Bits of stubble from last fall's crop jabbed into his hands. His plan was to reach one of those islands of stone and brush. From there, he would have a good vantage point toward the cluster of trees that hid the German sniper, and he would have some cover of his own.
Cole hit a patch of briers that snagged his trousers and stubbornly wouldn't let go. He got hung up and freed himself only by using his hands to pull away the brier canes. It hurt like fire, and his hands came away bloody. He kept moving.
Before he could get into position, shooting started on the road. Damn, but that captain was punctual. It sure didn't seem like ten minutes. Cole never bothered to wear a wristwatch — what good did it do for a sniper to watch the time pass? Not only that, but the glint of a crystal watch face had fatally betrayed more than one soldier. He had warned Vaccaro about that, but the damn fool city boy wouldn't listen.