Cole distrusted enthusiastic officers. He moved off, intending to fill his canteen. It was already past mid-day, and humid.
Mulholland caught up with him. "Listen, Cole. We may have some intel on this German sniper, Rohde."
"Yeah?"
"You know that little French kid that Rohde tied up in the field? Rohde kidnapped the boy and used him as bait. Talk about a heartless bastard. The kid's aunt turned up to claim him. Some of our guys found her walking along the road and drove her here. The boy's father is here too. The man claims to be in the French Resistance, by the way."
Cole snorted. "Now that we just about won the war for them, half the men in France are claiming to be in the Resistance."
"Don't be too hard on them, Cole. Don't forget that without the French, we wouldn't have won the Revolutionary War."
Cole snorted at that. "My great great granddaddy fought the British. He picked off more than a few Redcoats with his flintlock rifle. I reckon that's what helped win the Revolution more than these Frenchies, judging from what I seen so far."
Mulholland looked sideways at Cole. He thought it was easy enough to picture Cole himself in buckskins and a coonskin cap. “With all respect to your great great grandaddy, now it's our turn to return the favor to the French people."
"If you say so."
“This isn’t the 18th century, Cole. It’s tough to fight the Germans with a few old hunting rifles and shotguns."
Cole wasn't so sure about that. He tried to imagine how things would have turned out for the Germans if they invaded the mountain country back home.
"I reckon," he said noncommittally.
"Anyhow, the boy's aunt" — Mulholland pronounced it awnt, while in Cole's mind it was ant— "knew this Rohde well. Real well, if you know what I mean."
“What you’re sayin’ is that she’s a collaborator?" Cole spat, adding in a minuscule way to the barnyard mud.
"It looks that way, and her brother — the boy's father — isn't real happy about that, I can tell you. Be that as it may, she could have useful information to help us nail this Rohde."
Cole looked around. The barnyard teamed with exhausted GIs. In the shadow of the barn, he could see a boy and a young woman, who was engaged in a heated argument with a Frenchman in his late twenties. Judging by the man's rugged clothes, and the rifle slung over his shoulder, Cole decided that this must be the Resistance fighter.
He and Mulholland walked over. The girl looked up at their approach. Cole noted the pretty, round face, with greenish eyes surrounded by dark curls. She wore an old dress that was worn thin and that clutched tightly across her hips, accentuating her figure. If Rohde had been collaborating with that body, he was one lucky son of a bitch.
Beside him, Cole also sensed Mulholland giving the girl a furtive going over. Damn, he thought. The last thing I need is me and Mulholland barking up the same tree again. The tree in this case being an attractive French girl in a tight dress.
"Excusez moi, mademoiselle," Mulholland began, using his stilted college French. "Nous voulons savoir sur le tireur d'élite. Celui nommé Rohde." We want to know about the sniper. The one named Rohde.
At the mention of the sniper's name, the Frenchman launched a fresh tirade at his sister. Cole didn't know any French, but when he heard the brother practically spit the word putain at her, Cole was fairly certain that the Frenchman had called his sister a whore.
Then the Frenchman stepped forward and slapped her.
The sight of his angry red hand print on her pretty face was nearly too much to bear. The girl might be a collaborator, but she also looked tired and frightened. When the Frenchman drew back his hand to hit her again, Mulholland raised his hand like he was asking a question and said in his sternest Sunday School teacher voice, "Now, now."
Cole slid between the girl and her brother, blocking him from hitting her again. When he tried to get around Cole, Cole moved with him.
The Frenchman was a farmer by trade, heavy through the shoulders from farm work, and if he couldn't hit his sister, he seemed intent on hitting someone else. He drew back a fist.
Instantly, Cole had the tip of his Bowie knife at the Frenchman's throat. The sister gasped. The Frenchman froze, his fist cocked back by his ear.
Finally, the lieutenant took action. He put a restraining hand on Cole's arm. "Hey, everybody calm down. Cole, put down that knife." To the Frenchman he said, "Calmez-vous."
Cole sheathed the knife, figuring that stabbing the brother would not win him the sister's favor. The Frenchman dropped his hands to his sides, although his eyes clearly showed that he would like nothing better than to pummel Cole.
Cole had to give the brother credit. He looked more angry than afraid. Maybe he really was a Resistance fighter.
Vaccaro seemed relieved that Cole had put the knife away, but he wanted his own slice of the Frenchman. "Tough guy, huh? Where were you four years ago when the Germans marched right in?"
His insults fell on deaf ears. Without a proper translator, they had to do their best to communicate using the lieutenant's college French. The young woman, whose name was Lisette, made it clear that she did not know the whereabouts of the German sniper. She also made it abundantly clear that she had no interest in seeing him again.
"Bâtard," she hissed at the mention of Rohde’s name.
It evolved that what Lisette was most concerned about was getting back to the farm and to her niece, Elsa, who was in the care of an elderly neighbor. Already, the day was getting late. No way was Lisette going to make it there before sunset, and the last thing she needed to do was to go wandering around the countryside after dark, not with Germans, Polish troops, and trigger-happy Americans shooting at anything that moved. Reluctantly, Lisette agreed to spend the night at the American command post for Leo's sake, if not her own. In the morning, the lieutenant told her that Cole would escort her home.
"He will get you there safely, if anyone can," Mulholland said.
Henri managed to explain that he needed more ammunition for his rifle. Cole was surprised to see that the Frenchman carried a battered but well-cared for Springfield. It must have been a relic from the Great War, but would be a thorn in the side of the Germans, all the same.
In English and broken French, Lieutenant Mulholland explained to Henri that the Americans were low on ammunition due to the supply lines being stretched thin. Cole gave him a couple of clips from his utility belt. Who knew, maybe the Frenchman would do some good with the rounds of .30/06. The more Germans that he shot, the fewer that the Americans would have to worry about.
Cole was getting low on ammo himself, and hoped that they would be resupplied soon. Then again, it suited Cole just fine if there weren't any bullets to waste. That was how he had been raised to think, back home in the mountains.
Henri gave his sister one last disapproving look, shouldered his rifle, and headed out to rejoin the Resistance fighters.
By some miracle, the farm that was serving as the forward command post still had a working telephone, and Lieutenant Mulholland got Lisette a few minutes on the phone to call home with the news that she would return in the morning.
Any ideas that Cole and Vaccaro had about keeping the French girl company were quickly squelched by the lieutenant.
"I'll see to it that the mademoiselle is comfortable for the night in our HQ here," Mulholland said. "Cole, you and Vaccaro and Harper had better take the first shift of sentry duty. There's no telling who's out there."