Colonel Mulholland picked them up promptly, pulling up in his BMW in front of the hotel.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Cole said, slipping into the front seat while Danny got into the back. “I haven’t felt so nervous since D-Day, but I’ve got to say, this car is a lot more comfortable than a landing craft.”
“Here we go then,” Mulholland replied, pulling away crisply from the hotel.
The museum was just a few minutes away. When they arrived, Cole was amazed to see soldiers, Jeeps, and a couple of German Kübelwagen pulled up on the lawn. Pup tents dotted the grass. Some of the troops wore vintage WWII GI uniforms, some had on the sheepskin coats favored by aviators, but most had on Wehrmacht uniforms.
“Who the hell are they?” Cole asked. “Actors?”
“They’re WWII reenactors,” Mulholland said. “You know, like Civil War reenactors back home? Over here, reenacting WWII is becoming a popular hobby. Of course, you’re going to see mainly German reenactors. Nobody wants to be the bad guys.”
“Bad guys?”
“Us,” Mulholland said. “Americans.”
“That’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Cole said.
“They go out on the weekend to shoot blanks at each other, and maybe camp out,” Mulholland said. “It’s also an excuse to drink, pee in the woods, and get away from their wives. They were more than happy to come out for this event.”
Cole shook his head, not sure what to say. Who wanted to play at being a soldier? He’d had enough of the real thing.
They continued to the parking lot, only to discover that more of these reenactors stood along the sidewalk leading to the entrance.
“Looks like we have an honor guard,” Mulholland said.
“You do see that these are Germans? Should I put my hands up to let them know we surrendered?”
Mulholland laughed. “I think we’ll be OK.”
Inside, there was quite a crowd already. Almost everyone looked to be older, and well-dressed. Drinks flowed from an open bar and servers offered trays of fancy hors d'oeuvres. Cole didn’t know what some of the things were, so he stuck with the miniature sausages on toothpicks. The delicious smells of food and tangy champagne filled the air, mixing with wafting cologne and perfume.
One thing for sure, Cole thought, was that tonight was all a long way from the mud, the stink of open latrines and death, the shivering in the chill air or sweating in the heat, that all soldiers had known back then.
Cole heard a lot of English being spoken, sometimes in British accents, with only a smattering of German. It made sense that most of those in attendance seemed to be American or English because from what he had seen during the preview, this museum celebrated the Allied contribution to winning the war. Most of the pictures of Germans showed them with their hands up. Most of the photos of Germany showed the devastation wrought by the Allied bombing.
To his relief, he spotted Hans strolling around the exhibit hall. His pretty grand-niece accompanied him. The old German smiled when he spotted Cole. The girl wore a big smile as well, but it wasn’t for Cole.
“Hello,” she said to Danny.
“Hi!”
The two young people drifted away, leaving Cole and Hans to explore the exhibits together. Cole had seen some of them before, but it was all somewhat overwhelming. Everywhere he looked, there were life-size images of soldiers. Many had been black-and-white photographs originally, but were now colorized. Physical artifacts that ranged from rifles to grenades to helmets were on display.
“It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? Back then, who would have thought that all this would be in a museum. I mean, they’ve got ration cans and old packs of cigarettes on display. Stuff we threw away. Hell, we were mostly just trying not to get shot.”
Hans smiled sadly. “Difficult memories,” he agreed.
They came to the exhibit focused on sniper warfare, and the reason for Cole having come all the way from the United States for the museum opening. The exhibit briefly explained tactics, and a battered rifle with a telescopic sight was on display in a glass case. The worn wooden stock had several notches carved into it, and while just about everything else in the museum was explained in detail, no explanation was needed for what those notches meant. This was not Cole’s actual rifle from the war, but there was no doubt that this sniper rifle had seen use during the war.
A large photograph featured an American GI hunched over a rifle with a telescopic sight. The young man’s face looked gaunt, the single eye that was visible looked startlingly intense.
“You,” Hans said.
“Yep,” Cole said. “That’s me when I was a whole hell of a lot younger.”
“Ha, we were all younger then, my friend,” Hans said, then grew serious. “You must have been an accomplished sniper to be featured here.”
“The truth is, I made the mistake of letting them write a story about me way back then. A famous reporter named Ernie Pyle wrote it. They even took my picture.” Cole pointed to a copy of the news clip, which had been reproduced here.
“He would not have written a story about just anyone,” Hans said. “You must have been a very good sniper to be noticed.”
“I’m not proud of it,” Cole said, although he knew he wasn’t entirely telling the truth. He was proud of what he had done. Hell, he was proud of what every last soldier had done to win the war. “I was just doing what I was supposed to do. Doing my duty.”
“Then you should take pride in that,” Hans said. He straightened. “We all should.”
For a split second, Cole felt an old warning vibrate within him. It was that sixth sense that had kept him alive, warning him of danger. He had not felt that in a long, long time.
Behind them, a deep voice spoke, heavily accented, “I wonder, did you have the father or grandfather of someone here tonight in your crosshairs when that photograph was taken?”
Cole realized that it was a good question.
He turned to find himself staring into the face of someone he had not seen in decades. It didn’t matter how many years had passed — he could still recognize those features and those cold eyes. Back then, the face had been magnified some distance away in his telescopic sight. It was not a face that he had ever wanted to see again, that was for damn sure.
Cole stared. The man smiled back at him, but there was no warmth in his expression. Neither man spoke, both of them tense, waiting to see what the other would do next. It was as if two old rival wolves had suddenly crossed paths in the forest.
Standing in front of Cole was Gefreiter Hauer, the German sniper that Cole had known as Das Schlachter.
The Butcher.
Part II
Chapter Six
Gefreiter Hauer scowled at a man who had stepped on a brittle branch buried under the snow, the sharp crack sounding like a gunshot in the stillness.
“Dummkopf,” he muttered. “Do that again and I will cut your throat.”
“Never mind him, Hauer,” whispered the Oberleutnant nearby. The officer had grown more anxious as they approached their objective, a mountain village that they were to capture. “Do we have a clear way forward?”
Acting as the spearpoint of the German advance, Hauer turned his attention to the forest ahead, rifle at the ready.
Nothing moved, so he glanced at the Oberleutnant, who signaled for the company to advance.