David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

“That must be some kind of hillbilly saying. You’re gonna have to translate that to normal American for me.”

“It means we got us something to keep the wolf happy when he comes calling.”

The others returned to the back of the truck, but Cole turned to Jolie. “Are you going to be all right up here?”

“I am not worried about that GI,” she said. “ Je m’en fou. But I have to tell you, it is getting cold in this truck.”

“Move on over, then.”

Cole slid into the truck. From the cold, and having been half asleep, he realized his body was stiffer than wet leather boots left too close to the fire. His muscles ached. Wading into the creek earlier that day — had all that really taken place in just one day? — had left his toes stinging with chilblains — the stage just before frostbite that left deep, painful bruises under the skin, like fruit that had frozen and thawed. His toes felt as if they had burrs between them.

His shoulder ached from the graze wound. It was a bone-deep ache — he had been lucky in that the bullet had struck a glancing blow and had not caused too much damage, but your body did not absorb all those foot-pounds of energy without penalty.

He reminded himself that it could have been much worse. Dead worse.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “When they told me you were captured — well, it didn’t sound good. I told them you would figure something out. How did you manage to get away, anyhow?”

She quickly debated whether or not to tell him, wondering how he would take it. Her mind made up, she said: “Das Gespenst let me go.”

“Jesus, Jolie. You actually saw that son of a bitch?”

“He came to see me, then cut the rope around my wrists.”

“It ain’t that I’m not happy to see you — but why the hell did he let you go?”

“He had a message for you. He said that he will see you again.”

“I just hope I’m the last thing that ol’ Ghost Sniper sees.” Cole paused. “How did he look to you?”

“Like he was in pain.”

Cole grinned. “I have to say, that’s good to hear. I reckon I owe him one, though, for letting you go.”

Jolie shook her head. “He is a cruel man. You can see it in his eyes. He did not let me go out of kindness, but only to taunt you. How many has he killed? Hundreds? No, if you face him again, you must end this for good.”

“I hope I get another chance at him.” Cole shifted, trying to get comfortable on the truck seat.

Jolie seemed to sense his aches and pains. “Come here,” she said — as if they could possibly be any closer, huddled together for warmth across the seat of a Chrysler truck. They had a blanket and a canvas shelter half spread over them to keep off the cold. “No more frostbite for you today.”

But he was wrong about getting closer. Jolie’s hands slid under his shirt, warm and gentle, massaging. She pushed his own hands away when he reciprocated. “Ouch! Too rough. Your skin is like leather. How are your lips?”

He kissed her more roughly than he intended, his lips moving down her throat, to her breasts. Jolie’s hands moved down and undid his belt buckle.

Neither of them wanted to shed their clothes. It was too cold, and they were too tired. She tugged down her pants to her thighs, and Cole slid his hands over the soft, perfectly shaped ass. She could just spread her legs wide enough for him to slip inside. There was so much heat coming off her skin that Cole thought he might melt right into her. She clenched him inside her. “You are trapped,” she said. “What do you call that? A honey trap?”

Cole thrust deep into her, but gently and slowly, taking his time. He was too worn out for anything else.

Jolie gave a moan, and Cole moved his hand up to her mouth. She bit down on the edge of his hand. Both of them aware that the others were just on the other side of the thin wall of metal and canvas.

When they had finished, Jolie seemed to melt into him.

“Mon dieu,” she said, and sighed contentedly. “How is your frostbite now?”

Cole grinned at her in the frozen darkness. He felt his exposed ears and cheeks prickle in the cold, while under the blankets, belly to belly, their skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. “Honey, I hate to tell you this, but it wasn’t my pecker that was frostbit.”

“Good thing,” she said, and reached for him again.

The American column moved out as soon as it was light enough to see the road. For a change, the snow and rain had stopped. It was still cold, but the low clouds overhead began to lift just after daybreak. They were so used to sleeping on the ground that being in the truck made them uneasy.

It didn’t help that the Kid had woken them up, screaming from a nightmare. Considering that he had seen his buddies murdered by the SS, who could blame him? They all slept fitfully after that.

Vaccaro surveyed the gray dawn. “It ain’t exactly summer sunshine, but I’ll take it,” he said.

“The Germans won’t like it because it will mean our planes can fly,” Lieutenant Mulholland said. “The weather has been in their favor so far for every minute of this attack. It’s almost as if God loved Hitler more than us.”

“If there is a God, he’s a cruel bastard,” Cole said. Nobody bothered to argue with that statement. “What’s our plan, Lieutenant?”

“To go after the Germans. We’ll tag along with these guys. With any luck, we’ll catch up to Kampfgruppe Friel today.”

“You mean if we’re lucky, our fly boys will knock out their panzers before we catch up to them,” Vaccaro said.

The snipers rode in the back of the truck. They could deploy when the time came. For now, they could bide their time and save their legs.

The Kid handed Cole the scoped Springfield rifle he carried. “You need this more than I do,” he said.

Cole accepted it gravely. “McNulty’s?”

He nodded.

Corporal Muckelroy trudged past. When he saw the snipers, he stopped. “It’s our pleasure to drive you around,” he said, then casually leaned over and spat. “Wouldn’t want you sniper types to get your boots muddy.”

As he walked off, Vaccaro said, “Are we going to let him get away with that? Maybe I can accidentally shoot him.”

“If you shoot every dumbass in the Army, there won’t be nobody left to fight the Germans,” Cole said. “He’ll get his when the time comes, don’t you worry.”

The column was soon rolling. Cole spread a blanket on the bed of the truck and used the time to field strip and clean the Springfield rifle. It wasn’t long before they could hear sporadic firing in the distance. The Americans were not the only ones on the move.

“Nothing can stop us now.” Friel took his eyes off the map and looked at the road leading toward the bridge at Trois Ponts. “Today, we begin to turn the tide of the war.”

Von Stenger nodded, wishing he shared in Friel’s enthusiasm. What he said was: “You have done well, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”

This morning, Von Stenger was along for the ride as the Kampfgruppe made its final push toward the Meuse River. Food and a few hours of rest had worked to repair his injuries. He put weight on his leg to test it. Pain shot through him, but his leg was functional, if stiff from the stitches.

“Did you hear that our captured sniper escaped?” Friel asked. “I understand that you talked to her last night.”

Von Stenger tensed. Was Friel testing him in some way? Did Friel suspect that he had helped her escape?

He shrugged as he met Friel’s eyes. “All she did was curse at me and spit. She was trussed up like a hog when I left her. Sneaking French bitch,” Von Stenger said.