Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) Page 15

Cole put a pillow across the windowsill to create a pad, then set his rifle across it. The window offered a perfect vista not only of the church, but of anything that moved on the street leading to it.

  “Shoot Germans, that’s what,” Cole said, pulling the rifle tight against his shoulder. “You call out any targets you see. And keep an eye out for any Germans making a move on us. This is our house now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Like an incoming tide, the U.S. troops worked their way deeper into the village. From the second-floor window of the house that they had captured from the enemy, Cole and Vaccaro watched the soldiers move up the street. It wasn’t an easy task. Other houses were still held by the Germans, who peppered the attackers with fire. The Germans also held the street corner nearest the church, where a machine gun kept up a steady and withering fire. There were few sounds as sure to send a shiver up the spine of a GI as that.

  However, it wasn’t just the machine gun that the attackers had to worry about. Occasional rifle shots rang out with deadly accuracy, dropping Americans in their tracks. Cole had wondered what had become of The Butcher, and now he knew. He also had a good idea of where the sniper was located. Like Cole, he had chosen a high place with a good view of the streets below.

  “That Kraut sniper is in the church steeple,” Cole said.

  “Can you see him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He picked a good spot,” Vaccaro said, scanning the church. “He knows we can’t take him out with a tank or a grenade launcher, not with that church full of our guys.”

  “He’s also got himself a bird’s eye view up there. He’s higher than we are, anyhow.”

  Cole pressed his eye tight against the telescopic sight, focusing every bit of his concentration on the church steeple. He was hoping for a glimpse of movement that would provide him with a target.

  It wasn’t the first time that Cole had encountered a sniper in a church. A question occurred to him that he hadn’t asked before.

  “Vaccaro, are you Catholic?”

  “Sure I am. Well, don’t expect me to be carrying rosary beads or anything, but yeah, I’m Catholic.”

  “Huh.”

  “What are you?”

  “God-fearing.”

  “Sounds about right. Just remember what the chaplain says—there’s no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole. Did you want to discuss religion right now?”

  “Hell, no. I was just thinking about that nun helping the prisoners in the church.”

  “I saw her. The young and pretty one. I’ve got to say, we didn’t have any nuns like that growing up.”

  “What would lead a young woman like that to become a nun?”

  “Faith.”

  Cole snorted, but Vaccaro wasn’t done.

  “Don’t knock it. Some people have faith in God, Hillbilly, just the same as you’ve got faith in that rifle. That’s what that nun has. Plenty of faith.”

  “I reckon I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “Yeah? Well, there you go. Now, will you think about shooting that sniper, for God’s sake?”

  Cole didn’t need to be told twice. The trouble was that he didn’t have a clear target. The German had hidden himself so cleverly that Cole didn’t have the slightest glimpse of him.

  He thought about what he would be doing if he were the one in that steeple, instead of Hauer. The entire structure could not have been more than eight feet wide on each side. There was a roof, covering a bell that was no longer there—the last time that the Germans had come through earlier in the war, they had taken the church bell to be melted down for the war effort. Brick walls, essentially solid railings, covered each side of the steeple, each about three feet high. There was no way for a bullet to punch through that brick.

  Cole didn’t see any sign of The Butcher using the top of the brick wall for a bench rest. That was what any ordinary sniper would have done, but of course, The Butcher was no ordinary sniper.

  So where was the son of a bitch? He had to be up there somewhere.

  His eye went to the bottom of the wall. All around the steeple, small arches ran along the base of the solid railing. They had been designed to drain water that blew in, similar to the scuppers on the deck of a ship.

  That’s where he is, Cole realized. He’s down on the floor of the steeple, looking out through one of those scuppers.

  Cole pushed the rim of the sight so hard against his eye that it pressed a ring into his flesh. Moving his gaze from scupper to scupper, he still saw no sign of the German sniper.

  Again, Cole considered what he would do. If he didn’t want to be seen, then he would have positioned himself more in the center of the space, where he could see from—and shoot out of—any of the scuppers.

  Cole grinned, showing some teeth, but his smile was hidden behind the rifle.

  If he could shoot through one of those scuppers, he had a good chance of shooting the German. Considering the distance, it was far from an easy shot to make.

  Vaccaro interrupted him before he even started to aim. “Hey, something’s happening.”

  All of Cole’s attention had been focused on the church steeple, but Vaccaro had been keeping an eye on the bigger picture of what was happening in the street below.

  “What?” Cole asked, annoyed. The last thing he wanted to do was break his sight picture.

  “I think you’d better have a look.”

  Muttering a curse, Cole pulled his eye away from the scope and looked at the scene before them just in time to see the nun running out of the church door and into the street, toward the two fallen Krauts.

  “What—”

  “I think maybe those were the guards from the church,” Vaccaro said. “They ran out to join the fight and got hit right away. She’s going to help them.”

  “They’re Germans.”

  “She’s a nun, Cole. They don’t take sides.”

  It was indeed apparent that Sister Anne Marie was running to the aid of the two Germans, both of whom were now fallen in the snowy street. One lay unmoving, but the other was holding his belly and rolling in the snow, clearly wounded.

  “Is she trying to get herself killed?” Cole wondered.

  “Nobody is going to shoot a nun. Not unless they want to burn in hell.”

  For the nun’s sake, Cole hoped that Vaccaro was right. The fight for the village remained intense. Even with the machine gun knocked out, there was still fighting from house to house, brutal and vicious.

  The young nun knelt in the snow beside the wounded German, seemingly oblivious to the bloody snow soaking into her cassock. She had a handful of bandages and tried to staunch his wound. However, he was badly hit and too far gone for her to be able to do much more than hold his hand and say a prayer. Sometimes, it was the best that could be hoped for.

  Captivated by the scene, Cole’s attention remained riveted on the nun. But out of the corner of his eye, he detected movement in the steeple. The Butcher had finally shown himself. Cole could see him above the brick railing of the steeple, aiming down at the street below, directly in front of the church.

  Puzzled about what the sniper was up to, Cole was slow in bringing his rifle to bear. There was nobody down there but the nun and the dying soldier. Who was the German aiming at?

  Cole saw the muzzle flash, even heard the crack of the rifle. Instantly, the nun collapsed in the street.

  Cole’s heart clenched. What the hell? That sniper had just shot the nun.

  He and Vaccaro hadn’t been the only ones to witness the shooting. A young American soldier with a bandage around his head ran from the open door of the church. Keeping his head down, he sprinted toward the still figure of the nun and sank to his knees beside her.

  The rifle fired again. The young soldier crumpled, his body falling beside that of the nun.

  Cole was still stunned, hoping that the nun or even the young soldier might stir. But the shots from above had been too precise and deadly.

  Almost too late, he
swung his rifle up at the steeple. He caught a glimpse of a head, maybe a shoulder, disappearing behind the brick wall. Dammit. The German was out of sight.

  But he was still there in the steeple, likely crouched right behind that brick wall. Several inches of brick wall, he reminded himself. The sniper could hide behind that all day if he wanted to.

  Through the scope, Cole studied the steeple, hoping for any sign of the sniper scurrying away like the rat that he was. But the sniper wasn’t showing himself again.

  If Cole could put a bullet through the gap at the bottom, right through the drainage scupper, he might have a chance of hitting the sniper.

  He rested the rifle across the windowsill, forcing himself to breathe, to be calm. It wasn’t easy. His heart hammered and he kept wanting to check on the nun, to see if the sniper’s shot had been fatal.

  Vaccaro’s muttered curses told him all he needed to know in that regard.

  He took a deep breath, held it, let it out again. He lined up the sights on the scupper. Not an easy shot—the target was essentially a half-circle, four inches across and four inches high.

  A stray burst of machine-gun fire struck the house, but Cole ignored it.

  Cole squeezed the trigger.

  There was no puff of dust, no flying chips of mortar. The bullet had gone right in.

  “Did you get the son of a bitch?” Vaccaro asked.

  “Only one way to find out,” Cole said. “Come on.”

  Cole didn’t give Vaccaro any choice but to follow him down through the house and out into the street. The Americans were still mopping up, with the Germans shooting at anything that moved, which included Cole and Vaccaro.

  “This is nuts, Hillbilly!” Vaccaro protested, one hand on his helmet and the other wrapped tightly around his M-1.

  “Shut up and run.”

  They sprinted for the church, juking right and left as they ran to make themselves difficult targets. They passed the bodies out front, then ran right through the door of the church.

  Inside, more than two hundred American soldiers were huddled down, waiting to see what happened next. They had been expecting to see their German guards return after running outside to join the fight. The prisoners recognized the U.S. uniforms worn by Cole and Vaccaro. Some whooped with joy, but most looked too cold and exhausted for much of any reaction.

  It might have been expected that once the guards disappeared, that the soldiers might flee the church and join the fight. However, none of them had weapons and these mostly weren’t combat troops. Running unarmed into the middle of a firefight was certain suicide.

  “Boy, are we glad to see you guys,” the nearest soldier said. “I hope there’s more where you came from.”

  “They’re right behind us, I can promise you that,” Cole said. “The smart thing to do right now is stay put inside these brick walls.”

  A look of concern crossed the soldier’s face. “What about Sister Anne Marie? What about that dumb kid who ran out after her? Did you see them out there? Is the sister all right?”

  Cole shook his head.

  The soldier slumped back down. “Dammit!”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m going after the Kraut SOB who shot them. Now, which way to the steeple?”

  The soldier pointed to the far end of the church, where a door to one side of the altar gave access to the steps leading up to the steeple. “Watch out. We saw that German sniper heading back there a while ago. From the look in his eye, we thought he was going to shoot a few of us.”

  Cole thought about that, then handed the soldier his pistol. “Take this. If any more Germans come through that door, shoot them.”

  “No problem.”

  Cole and Vaccaro headed toward the stairs leading up to the steeple. It wasn’t the first time that he had gone after a sniper in a church steeple. The sniper might be trapped, but he had every defensive advantage. There was nothing more dangerous than a cornered animal. Cole half expected to hear a grenade come bouncing down the steps at them. He peered carefully up the stairs that spiraled into shadow.

  “After you,” Vaccaro said.

  “Out of the way.”

  Cole pushed him aside and started up the steps. If that Kraut sniper was up there, he intended on nailing him, no matter what. He got as far as the first landing and stopped.

  “Hold on, City Boy. I don’t think he’s up there anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look at that blood.”

  Cole nodded toward a bloody footstep, just visible on the dusty stone landing. There was a brick arch there, more of a vent or even like a castle archer’s slit than a window, intended to provide natural lighting for the stairs. The opening was just wide enough for someone to squeeze through. More blood was visible on the brick windowsill.

  “The son of a bitch went out the window!” Vaccaro cried.

  “Maybe. How high up are we, anyhow?”

  Cautiously, Cole looked out the slit. The snow-covered ground was about ten feet below, with footprints in the snow leading away from the church. A few flecks of blood showed against the white snow.

  “He’s getting away!” Vaccaro said.

  “I ain’t about to jump out that window and twist an ankle. That frozen ground is about as hard as concrete. I’m surprised he made it. Come on.”

  With no other choice, they lost precious time making their way back through the church, out the front door, and around back again to the spot where the Kraut sniper had jumped out the window. Cole hated to admit it, but Vaccaro was right. The sniper was escaping.

  Cole was a skilled tracker, but he didn’t need any of those skills to follow the German. The tracks were plain as day. They followed the trail to the outskirts of town. Cole kept his rifle at the ready, hoping for a glimpse of their target, but the Kraut managed to keep out of sight.

  “Be ready to hit the ground,” Cole said. “He might be trying to get the drop on us, if he thinks we followed him.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “It’s the same damn sniper I ran into back in Ville sur Moselle. There’s some unfinished business between us.”

  “You’re not the only one he’s got unfinished business with. The whole village will be out to get him. He shot that poor nun.”

  “Just keep your eyes open.”

  They lost the trail in a jumble of other German tracks but managed to pick it up again on the other side when he saw another fleck of blood in the snow.

  Soon, it became clear that Cole’s worries about an ambush were unfounded.

  The tracks struck out across the field, toward the hilltop where the German forces still held the high ground. Nearest the village, the slope was wide open, but closer to the forest, small trees and shrubs provided cover. The enemy sniper had simply disappeared.

  Like a rat fleeing a sinking ship, the German had fled the fight in the village.

  “Come on, let’s go after him,” Cole said.

  Vaccaro grabbed Cole by the shoulder, but seeing the look in his eyes, quickly let go. “He’s gone, Hillbilly. We both know that forest is full of Krauts. No way we can go after him.”

  “I can’t let him get away with what he did. It ain’t right.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re fighting a war. There’s nothing right about it.”

  Deep down, he knew Vaccaro was correct, even if he wasn’t happy about it. Cole gave one last look toward the German stronghold in the forested hilltop, then shook his head and turned away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Slowly, house by house, shop by shop, control of the village was wrested from the Germans.

  The fighting remained bitter. One house would be cleared, only for more firing to open up from across the road. Then there would be another attack on the next house—more shooting, more grenades tossed through windows. The capture of each house was a battle in miniature.

  At the same time, they tried to avoid shooting into basements or tossing grenades into houses, u
nless the Germans were in there shooting at them. Many of the villagers had taken refuge in their cellars and basements, trying to dodge the stray bullets and shrapnel. Most of the villagers who remained were older, or very young families. Flight for them had proved too difficult. Anyone who could do so had fled as soon as the Germans began to move in, knowing that a battle was coming.

  Cole watched as Vaccaro emptied a clip at a tall stucco house. The firing from the house stopped.

  “Why the hell won’t these Krauts just give up?” Vaccaro wondered.

  “Because they’re Krauts, that’s why. Besides, we’re almost on their front porch. They’re going to fight harder and harder now.”

  Like most of the American troops, Vaccaro looked like Cole felt—cold, exhausted, minor wounds wrapped with dirty bandages. Everybody was either wet or covered in snow, shivering.

  The conditions and the prolonged fight wore on their patience. For some men, their pilot light of decency had gone out. Sometimes when German soldiers emerged from a house with their hands up, they were not taken prisoner. Instead, a few quick shots rang out. The officers looked the other way. Some might have called it murder or simple revenge, but often, the soldiers had half-frozen tears in their eyes—not for the Germans they shot down, but for their dead buddies, sprawled in the snow nearby.

  It didn’t help that the specter of Malmedy was on all their minds—helpless American POWs machine-gunned at a crossroads. These particular Germans might not have had anything to do with that, but they were the enemy all the same.

  However, most of the Germans who did give up without a fight were treated well enough, herded into a courtyard, and put under guard. The GIs weren’t taking any chances. Most of the battle-hardened veterans had preferred to die fighting rather than surrender. The guards soon realized that many of the prisoners were quite young, hungry, and shivering just as much as the Americans. As the sounds of combat faded and emotions calmed, it was hard to see the prisoners as anything but fellow soldiers. Many spoke passable English. Besides, it was no secret that the German soldiers at the tail end of this war didn’t have much choice about putting on a uniform.