Cole lay still as a copperhead.
From a strategic viewpoint, the fact that there was just one fairly narrow door into the ancient stone barn had its plusses and minuses. In the plus category was the fact that there was just one approach to defend. In the minus category was the fact that a grenade lobbed through the open door of the barn would turn the German into raw goetta, which to the uninitiated was a dish that consisted of loose sausage and mush. Scrapple, Cole would have called it.
At least one brave idiot in the squad had tried that direct approach. Trouble was, not even Dizzy Trout could have hurled a pineapple grenade from the road through that barn door, even though the Detroit Tigers pitcher was leading the American League that summer in strikeouts.
It had been necessary for the soldier to creep much closer, then spring up to throw the grenade. He had been in the process of cocking his arm back for the pitch when the German shot him, causing the grenade to bounce just a few feet away and detonate.
Flies buzzed around the bloody remains. The squad had not sent in a relief pitcher.
Fortunately, Cole and Vaccaro had happened along and were in the process of solving the sniper problem.
Cole thought about where that sniper would be. Deep enough into the barn so that he was hidden in shadow, but not so deep that his own view out would be any more limited than necessary. He would be using something to rest the rifle on, maybe the top of a stall.
Cole did not lack for imagination, but he was equally good at concentration. He had grown up on a hardscrabble mountain homestead where absently walking behind a mule could mean getting kicked in the head, where missing a shot with the one bullet you had in your rifle meant that the family went hungry that night, and where a wandering thought meant that an ax landed the wrong way and took off a foot. A boyhood spent swinging a sharp ax trained one's mind wonderfully in the art of staying focused.
Cole stared into the rectangle of velvety darkness, hoping for some flicker of movement. The sniper, however, did not betray his position. Cole could fire blindly into the barn, but his odds of hitting the German would be slim at best. In the process, he would be giving away his own position for the German to shoot back. He was going to need another plan.
"Hey, City Boy—"
"Goddammit, Hillbilly."
"What? I ain't even asked you for anything yet."
"But I know what you are gonna ask."
This was another reason why it helped to work as a team. One man could set up a lure. Snipers relied on subterfuge almost as much as marksmanship.
"Helmet on a stick?" Vaccaro suggested.
"These boys done tried that and he didn't fall for it. Best use Gertrude."
"Poor Gertrude."
Gertrude was the nickname for the mannequin head that Vaccaro had found in what was left of a dress shop. He dug around in his haversack and pulled her out. Made of plaster, with bright yellow hair and lips painted into a red pout, the mannequin head made for such a startling sight as it popped above a wall that more than one German sniper had fallen for the trick, firing at the lure and revealing his position. Gertrude herself had paid a heavy price. There was a bullet-sized divot in her forehead. Most of her right ear had been shot away, so Vaccaro turned the head so that the good ear was toward the barn.
"Get ready, Hillbilly," he whispered. "Here goes."
He lifted the head, keeping his hands below the wall, and almost instantly a shot struck Gertrude. One of her prominent cheekbones vanished in a puff of pulverized plaster. Vaccaro lost his grip on the dummy head, which fell to the dusty road and split in two.
Cole fired at the enemy sniper's muzzle flash.
Chapter Two
Ike looked out at the perfect blue sky of a summer's day and watched a squadron of P-47 Thunderbolts streak toward some unseen target.
"Good luck, boys," he said quietly. "Go get 'em."
The P-47s were more than up to the task, carrying up to 2500 pounds of high explosives in the form of bombs and rockets. Each plane was armed with eight Browning M-2 machine guns, four on each wing, that delivered 800 rounds a minute on targets below. A single plane was almost as destructive as an entire infantry division.
Out the window, the squadron looked no more threatening than a flock of birds in the sky.
It was a hell of a thing, Ike thought, to sit around headquarters, studying maps and looking out the window, not to mention endlessly chain-smoking cigarettes, while young American men fought and died. Ike would not have admitted it out loud, but he also thought with regret of the young German men who were also dying. He saw these German soldiers and the Wehrmacht itself as an adversary, but not really as an enemy — it was Hitler and the rest of his henchmen for whom Ike reserved his real enmity.
General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of Allied Forces in Europe, was equal parts politician and general. He had to be, because his job involved juggling American leaders and touchy British leaders. The Brits had defeated Napoleon, after all, back in 1812, so they seemed to feel this gave them the expertise to win all over again in Europe. Then there were the Canadians — not terribly demanding, and good soldiers — and the Polish forces, eager for their pound of German flesh. Most difficult of all were the French.
Ah, yes, the French. Some of Ike’s colleagues couldn’t believe that they had the audacity to want their country back after years of Nazi occupation. The thought made him smile. The trouble was that there were various factions vying for power. They couldn't seem to agree on the future of France.
The Americans and British were backing General Charles de Gaulle, who for all his difficult nature, had a clear vision of a democratic France that aligned with the American and British worldview. Unfortunately, much of the French resistance was controlled by Communists who, on the brink of ousting the Germans, seemed ready to welcome the Soviets with open arms.
The Russians were supposed to be allies, but Ike did not like the thought of liberating Europe from one despot, only to have him replaced by the likes of Stalin.
Ike sighed and stepped away from the window. He turned back to the endless maps and ringing phones.
"Sir, General Patton is on the phone for you. He says he wants to—"
"Tell the general I will call him back."
He didn't have the energy for Patton right now.
Ike lit another cigarette to gather his thoughts. It wasn't quite noon, and he had already smoked a pack. These days, he lived off cigarettes, coffee, and hot dogs. In the evenings, he allowed himself two fingers of bourbon. Sometimes he watched a movie or played cards with Kay Summersby, the pretty young Irish WAC who had started out as his driver and become something more. Nobody was supposed to know that she was his mistress, but it may have been the worst-kept secret at headquarters. Ike was amazed that an entire invasion had been planned in secret, but an affair was impossible to keep quiet. From the strained tone of Mimi Eisenhower's letters, it was clear that the rumors must have reached his wife's ears back home.
The general decided that he would have to deal with that situation when the time came. At the moment, he had a war to win.
The arrival of July put Ike in mind not just of Independence Day, but also of Pickett's Charge at Gettysburg. As a student of military history and of the American Civil War, Ike had stood on that ground at Seminary Ridge and looked across that vast field the Confederates had crossed on July 3, 1863.
In hindsight, the decision by Confederate General Robert E. Lee to attack the Union position seemed like sheer folly. One Browning machine gun could very well have held off Pickett's entire division. Any general who attempted a similar frontal — suicidal — attack today would be swiftly relieved of command, if not sent before a court martial. The Russians seemed to be the only ones who regularly went in for such madness.