Of course, there had been no machine guns at Gettysburg. Ike understood Confederate General Robert E. Lee's vision — or perhaps it was better described as a hope. One desperate gamble, one grand gesture, and the war might be won or lost in a single July afternoon.
Unfortunately, the war in France was not so simple. For starters, there was not one field to cross, but countless ones.
July had come and gone without any version of Pickett's charge. It was now August, and everyone knew that the battle for France was entering its end game.
As a cadet at West Point, Ike had been a pretty good football player. The battle for France was in the last quarter.
On June 6, Allied forces had come ashore on D Day. Operation Overlord had required months of planning and subterfuge to convince the Germans that the attack would come at Calais, rather than at Normandy. While the campaign of misinformation had worked, the success of the landing had not been guaranteed. The weather in early June was stormy, meaning a rough crossing of the English Channel. With only a narrow window of opportunity in the forecast and the tides, Ike had given the order, "OK, let's go."
Those simple words launched the largest amphibious invasion in history.
Thousands of good men had died, although some predictions of the losses had been far more catastrophic. Finally, the Allies had gained a toehold on the beach that June day. From there, day by day, week by week, Allied forces had pushed deeper into Normandy.
But the Wehrmacht was far from defeated. The fighting in the hedgerow country had been particularly savage and favored the defenders.
It was only after Operation Cobra that Allied forces had been able to break free of the awful hedgerow region. Just a few days previously, on July 25, the Army Air Corps and Royal Air Force had dropped millions of pounds of explosives on German positions. Those P-47 Typhoons and the RAF’s Hawker Hurricanes hit German fuel depots, convoys, command posts, troops in the field, and even trains. An unfortunate casualty had been the many French towns and cities in the path of the bombing.
The bombing had done its job, though, by utterly demoralizing German forces and throwing them into a disarray.
With the German stranglehold on Normandy broken, that was when the real charge across France could begin.
"Sir, it's General Patton again. He insists—"
"He insists, does he?" Ike interrupted, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice. "Fine, I'll take it."
He stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, as he girded his mental faculties for a conversation with the general. If it was Tuesday, George Patton would insist it was Wednesday. He was contrary and pushy. He saw himself as a modern-day Alexander, a conquering hero armed with an ivory-handled revolver, rather than a sword. It was only his incompetent superiors who kept him from attaining his full glory. Patton didn't keep his opinion of himself, to himself. He had somehow covered his uniform with more stars than any other Allied general. Ike mused that there might even be more stars on Patton’s uniform than could be found in the Milky Way.
For the last year, Ike had kept Patton in the doghouse for slapping shell-shocked soldiers and other general asininity, such as making public speeches that included such nuggets of wisdom as a soldier who won't fuck, won't fight. Quote, unquote. Most of the troops loved comments like that; the public back home, not so much.
A hothead such as Patton caused Ike plenty of headaches, but he had his uses. Now, Ike was about to unleash Patton, who was the best battlefield general that the Allies had. The Germans were actually afraid of Patton, which was saying something.
Of course, if Patton had been called upon to navigate a single day of managing Allied headquarters, the war would have been lost by sunset. But for now, Patton and his 3rd Army were just what Ike needed to get the job done of kicking the Germans out of France.
Chapter Three
Cole worked the bolt of the Springfield, but held his fire. There wouldn't be any need for a second shot.
He had felt as much as heard the sound of his bullet hitting something wet and solid. Meaty. Like a steak slapped down on a cutting board.
"I reckon that done it," Cole said.
"I hope so, because that was it for Gertrude," Vaccaro replied, looking down sadly at the broken head. "Maybe that's just as well. She was getting heavy to carry around."
They lay there for several minutes, letting the heat soak into them and waiting for any movement from the barn. Cole picked a stem of tall grass and put it in his mouth, sucking at the sweetness. Vaccaro flicked a finger at the pebbles in the road.
But there was only stillness. Then they began to creep forward. When they reached the doorway, Cole nodded at Vaccaro to cover him, and then stepped inside.
He blinked to adjust to the darkness after the bright daylight. He found the sniper's body just about where he thought that it would be. He grabbed hold of the collar and dragged the dead sniper out into the sunlight. It didn't take that much effort. The dead sniper was just a skinny kid. He couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. Blond hair. Staring blue eyes. Did he even understand what he was fighting for? Back home in Gashey's Creek, Cole had a younger brother about the same age. It was a hell of a thing.
"Goddammit," Vaccaro said. "He was just a kid."
Cole stared down at the body without comment.
One of the soldiers in the squad came up and ducked into the barn, emerging with the German's sniper rifle. It was a bolt action Mauser K98 on which was mounted a Zeiss Zielvier 4x scope. All in all, it was a very efficient weapon, produced in large quantities. This particular rifle had been made in Oberndorf. Judging by the dead kid at their feet, the Germans seemed to be running out of actual soldiers, but they didn't seem to have any shortage of weapons. In the hands of a skilled sniper, it had a range even greater than the Springfield. Even in the hands of a half-trained teenage kid, it had been more than deadly.
The GI whistled and held the rifle aloft. "Look at this, fellas. Pretty nice rifle."
"Hey, did he have a Luger on him?" somebody called out. We can't lug around another rifle."
"Give it here," Cole said.
The GI shrugged and handed it over. Expertly, Cole ejected the magazine clip, then pulled the bolt and flung it into the field. Then he took the rifle by the muzzle and swung it against the stone wall of the barn. The scope flew off and shattered, but Cole kept bashing the rifle against the stone, again and again. By then he was breathing heavily.
One of the soldiers started to say something, noticed the look on Cole's face, and clammed up.
Alarmed, Vaccaro spoke up. "C'mon now, Cole. Take it easy."
Cole kept going until the stock shattered. Only then did he fling what was left of the rifle far into the summer grass. He tossed the broken sight in the opposite direction.
Without a word, he picked up his own rifle and moved down the road.
Vaccaro just shook his head and followed, wondering if his buddy the hillbilly had finally lost it. The thought made him more than a little unnerved. If anyone was born to be a sniper, it was Cole. That hillbilly was a goddamn deadeye. Made you glad he was on your side.
If someone like Cole started to lose it, what the hell did that mean for a normal human being?
That night, Cole wasn't able to sleep. His body was exhausted, but his mind raced. Every time he started to drift off, he saw that dead German's eyes.