Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) by David Healey (great books for teens TXT) 📕

“Hell no, Hillbilly. All that I’ll need to do is think about this place and I’ll cool right off. Better than air conditioning.”

“I reckon I’d rather have it cold than hot all the time, like them fellas fighting in the Pacific. I hear tell the air is so swampy that they get jungle rot in places you don’t even want to think about.”

They thought about that anyway, and the images that came to mind made them cringe. “We’ve got frostbite and trench foot,” Vaccaro pointed out. “I’m telling you—Florida.”

Cole just shook his head. “Florida is way too flat for me. I need mountains.”

“Yeah, then you should feel right at home in this place.”

Cole was cleaning his rifle, working gun oil into the action, smoothing it over the barrel. The cold could make the oil gum up, so Cole had slipped out the bolt and put it inside his coat to stay warm. The rifle positively gleamed, which was something of an accomplishment in the grimy, slush-filled foxhole.

“I can tell that you’re feeling better,” Vaccaro said. “You were so sick before that you went a couple of days without cleaning that rifle—as if it even needed it.”

“I had to get better,” Cole said. “We’re about to launch another attack. You need me around to make sure you don’t get your ass shot off.”

“Shot off? Well, that’s a relief. For a while there, I was worried that I was going to freeze my ass off.”

Having agreed to a temporary truce, the two sides met on the road leading to the village. The snowy, ice-covered surface of the road had been packed as hard as asphalt by the passage of trucks and tanks. Cold wind blew through the valley, carrying a few flakes of snow. With sunset approaching, the sun dipped low toward the surrounding mountains, tinging the sky in yellow and purple tones, like a brilliant bruise.

The approaching sunset left Cole feeling wistful. Considering that the fight for the town would begin before first light tomorrow morning, it was unsettling to think about who might not be around to see the next evening’s sunset.

Looking over the Germans, he recalled General Patton’s words, “No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.”

Cole hefted the submachine gun draped across his chest, eager to help those other poor dumb bastards do their part. Cole was armed to the teeth. Along with the submachine gun, his rifle was slung within easy reach over his shoulder. He wore a .45 in a side holster. His wicked-looking Bowie knife, custom made for him by his old friend Hollis Bailey, was stuck in his belt, Indian-fighter style.

“Keep your eyes open, son,” Colonel Allen had muttered to Cole, somewhat unnecessarily. “I wouldn’t trust these Kraut bastards as far as I could throw them.”

To Cole’s surprise, it was clear that the colonel was nervous about this meeting. “Yes, sir.”

The group going to parlay with the enemy consisted of the colonel, Lieutenant Mulholland, a medic, and Cole. Only Cole was armed. Mulholland carried a white rag tied to a stick, which made him look vaguely silly.

Of course, an entire company of GIs was ready to open up at long range with their M-1 rifles if the need should arise. But if that happened, there was a good chance that the colonel and all the rest would already be dead.

Similarly, by prior agreement, the German officers coming to meet them were not armed—with the exception of their pistols, Cole noticed. The pistols were tucked away into holders with a leather flap—not exactly a quick-draw weapon.

What was surprising was that the Germans had brought a civilian with them.

“What the hell?” the colonel said. “Is that a nun?”

Sure enough, a Catholic nun had accompanied the Germans to the parlay. Cole was struck by the fact that the nun was quite pretty, her youthful face framed by the nun’s habit she wore.

Cole wasn’t the only one was staring. With an effort, he flicked his eyes away from the nun to focus his attention on the one German who, like Cole himself, had come armed to this meeting. Like Cole, the man carried a submachine gun and a rifle. The German’s rifle also had a telescopic sight. Another sniper, then.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have been too surprising that the German officer had also chosen a sniper as a sort of bodyguard. In both armies, the snipers were not only the best all-around shots, but also the men who tended to be coolest under pressure. They wouldn’t lose control and start shooting. And if they did have to shoot, they weren’t going to miss.

As the other man came closer, Cole studied him. The details of the German’s face became more evident.

Cole felt a current of shock go through him. He knew this man. It was the same sniper whom Cole had fought against at Ville sur Moselle. His presence here verified that Cole hadn’t killed him, after all—that was a disappointment. This sniper had been a real bastard, murdering some villagers who had decided to play soldier. Their deaths had been cruel and unnecessary.

The enemy sniper seemed to recognize Cole as well. His eyes widened when he got a good look at Cole’s face. But after that first glimmer of surprise, a smile played across his thick lips.

Quickly, the officers made brief introductions. The German officer saved the sniper for last. “That is Hauer. We call him The Butcher.”

Colonel Allen nodded in Cole’s direction. “That’s Cole. We call him Hillbilly.”

While the officers got on with the negotiations, Cole and the enemy sniper settled into trying to stare one another down, fingers resting gently on the triggers of their submachine guns.

The officers got down to brass tacks. No mention of surrender was made by either side.

“I understand that you are holding American prisoners in the village,” Colonel Allen began.

“This is correct,” the German officer responded. “Two