Iron Sniper

by David Healey

  Still, it hurt like a son of a bitch.

  He knew he ought to shoot back. He knew that he had to shoot back. But the truth was, that he was spooked. His mind told his arms to raise the rifle, put the scope to his eye, and look for a target. But his body would not obey.

  He froze up.

  His mind was still going, though. He thought about the fact that his shoulder hadn't exactly been a big target.

  Maybe the German had just gotten lucky.

  Or, maybe the sniper in the barn was that damn good.

  Rohde watched carefully for movement, but when he saw none, he relaxed his grip on the rifle and eased away from the gable window of the barn. He doubted that he had killed the American, but neither was the American going to forget him anytime soon.

  That was a damn fine shot, he heard his dead brother's voice say.

  That one was for you, Carl. I wanted to prove that the Rohde brothers are true soldiers.

  Now, Rohde considered his options. He could wait to finish off the American, or he could move on. Staying in any one location for too long was a death sentence. He was already spooked by the thought of more Americans creeping into the barn. Time to go.

  Where else would he hunt today? Yesterday he had done well and added several notches to the stock of his K98, but that was yesterday; today was a new day. A new opportunity.

  He listened again for the sound of any intruders creeping up on him, but could only hear the birds twittering on, busy with the business of gathering food, mating, and raising their young, oblivious to the politics and ambitions of humankind. Survival was enough. Rohde understood.

  Rohde crept back down the ladder and out of the barn, slipping away into the woods and fields, moving in the opposite direction from where he had last seen any American troops.

  If he wanted an Iron Cross, he had to survive to hunt another day.

  No more than a few minutes had passed since he’d been grazed in the head, but it felt like an eternity to Cole.

  He kept his eye on the road, wondering if the American squad had moved off. What about Vaccaro?

  His question was answered when he saw a figure emerge through the same hole in the hedge that he had used. If that sniper was still in the barn, and Vaccaro walked out into the field, he would be a dead man.

  Out on the road, Vaccaro heard that lone shot from the field to his right. His first thought was, sniper. Nobody else took just one shot.

  He knew that Cole was out there, but that had not been Cole's rifle. It was funny how after a while, he had gotten to where he could recognize the particular report that the Springfield made.

  "Looks like your buddy got him," the captain said, nodding in the direction of the road ahead.

  "Yeah, that's what it looks like." Vaccaro was distracted by another shot from the field, then another. Definitely not Cole's rifle. The shots were spaced out, indicating that the shooter was taking time to aim.

  "We're going to advance," the captain said. "Our orders are to occupy Saint Dennis de Mere, and I'd like to do that by nightfall. You coming with us?"

  "No, I'm gonna wait for Cole," Vaccaro said.

  "Suit yourself," the captain said. "I've got to tell you, though, that this whole area is still crawling with Krauts."

  "Thanks for the warning," Vaccaro said. "We'll try to take a few out."

  "Good luck, soldier. And thanks. You and your buddy saved our bacon."

  The captain gave the signal, and the squad began to move out. With the sniper in the copse of trees ahead silenced, there was nothing to impede their advance.

  Vaccaro watched them go, and then turned his attention to the field beyond the road. What the hell was going on out there?

  Cole had made his way through a gap in the hedgerow, and Vaccaro started to follow. He was just emerging into the field when a shot came out of nowhere and struck the dirt nearby, causing him to dive for cover.

  No way was he going into that field now.

  Unless he was mistaken, that had been Cole's rifle. He recognized the familiar crack of the Springfield. So now Cole was shooting at him. What the hell?

  Cole had fired a couple of feet above Vaccaro's head, causing him to scramble for shelter. He just hoped that Vaccaro got the message to stay clear.

  Cole bided his time, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as best he could. Another couple of inches to the right and that bullet would've blown his head clean off.

  Damned if it didn't hurt, but all in all he was damn lucky. Of course, it would’ve been even luckier if he hadn’t gotten shot at all.

  Was the German sniper still in the barn? He had no way of knowing, so he waited.

  Despite the summer day, he began to feel chilled laying in the shadows in the damp field. He finished the water in his canteen, but it wasn't enough. What he would have given for another drink of water.

  Now he knew how a wounded animal felt, gone to ground.

  He wrapped his hands firmly around his rifle, and dozed to escape the pain gnawing at him.

  When he woke, he saw that the shadows across the woods and fields had grown longer. Cole didn't need a watch to tell him it was six o'clock, then seven. When it was dark enough, he crept out from behind the rock and limped toward the road, feeling like a beaten dog.

  Vaccaro emerged from the shadows of the hedgerow, where he'd been sitting, rifle across his knees. The squad that they'd rescued had long since moved on.

  "Cole, is that you?" Vaccaro asked, alarm plain in the city boy's voice. "Why the hell did you shoot at me?”

  “I was tryin’ to keep your fool head from gettin’ blowed off.”

  “What the hell happened out there? You said this was supposed to be like a game of hounds and fox."

  "Turns out that there was more than one fox," Cole said.

  He meant to take another step toward Vaccaro, but found that it turned into a stagger.

  Vaccaro caught him, and for the first time noticed the blood soaking Cole's uniform. "You dumbass hillbilly, you went and got yourself shot!"

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cole limped into the French chateau that served as a forward command post, trailing blood. He looked like hell, and felt about the same. He had scratches on his face from diving for cover in the field. Blood covered his uniform. He took off his helmet that was decorated with the Confederate flag, revealing hair that was matted to his head with sweat. He could smell himself.

  Vaccaro lurched in behind him, not looking much better. He was more than a little shaken that some German sniper had gotten the better of Cole.

  It was full dark by now. The fighting had knocked out any electricity, so the command post was lighted by a few candles that wavered in the evening breeze. A kerosene lantern was smoking up the interior. Only vestiges of the chateau’s grandeur remained, such as the high ceilings and finely carved woodwork. The Germans had looted most everything of value, leaving behind echoing rooms, cracked walls, and peeling paint. The dim, flickering light emphasized Cole's battered and hollow-eyed countenance.

  Lieutenant Mulholland saw them and hurried over.

  "What the hell happened to you guys?" the lieutenant asked, looking alarmed.

  "We got shot at."

  Mulholland grabbed for Cole's arm, turned him toward what light there was, and winced at the sight of the bloody furrow cut by the enemy sniper's bullet. "Dammit, Cole. You of all people are not supposed to get shot. If the Germans can shoot you, then they can shoot anybody."

  "I hate to break this to you, sir, but I sure as hell ain't bulletproof." Cole sank to the stone floor along one wall. He noticed that the room was so big that the cabin in Gashey’s Creek would fit inside.

  The lieutenant hovered over him like a mother hen. He decided that maybe he had been wrong about Mulholland wanting to get rid of him. Some officers had gathered in a corner and were waving at Mulholland, so he gave Cole a pat on his good shoulder and promised to be back.

  Vaccaro grabbed a canteen from a nearby soldier. Cole tilted
it up and guzzled water, the muscles of his throat working under the surface like pistons. He drank until the canteen ran dry.

  "Let me see that shoulder," Vaccaro said. He bent down and unbuttoned Cole's jacket and shirt, then eased it off. The fabric was stiff with dried blood. He got a rag, wet it, and dabbed at Cole's wound to get a look at the damage. He whistled.

  "Bet that hurts like hell," he said.

  "I've seen worse," Cole said. He craned his neck to inspect the wound, wincing at the sight of the raw flesh.

  "You know what? Another couple of inches to the right and your head would be missing."

  "You got a real bedside manner, City Boy."

  "Let me get the medic over here to fix you up."

  "I don't need a goddamn medic. I need a drink."

  "Looks to me like you could use both."

  Vaccaro left in search of a medic and some alcohol, leaving Cole sitting there alone. Now that he was back in the relative safety of the command post, a thousand thoughts swirled through his mind, not the least of which was that he was lucky to be alive. You didn't almost get killed without dwelling on that.

  Sure, he'd only been grazed across the shoulder. That wouldn't even get him a Purple Heart—as if he gave a damn about such things. But it hurt like hell. Most important of all, the German sniper had gotten a piece of him. That shoulder hadn’t been much of a target. Cole guessed that the target he had presented wasn't any bigger than a playing card, and yet the German had managed to hit him from that barn.

  The German sniper was that good, and it was unnerving.

  He had already dealt with one nasty German sniper named Von Stenger. They'd had a showdown in a flooded field outside the little French crossroads town of Bienville. That was the same encounter in which Jolie Molyneaux had been shot.

  He did not know whether or not Von Stenger had survived their final encounter. It seemed unlikely, but Cole couldn't be one hundred percent sure. If Von Stenger still lived, it wasn't from lack of effort on Cole's part.

  But something about today's encounter had him thinking that it wasn't Von Stenger that he had run across. Snipers had a style, and this one's style was different. He and Von Stenger had a history, and Cole was certain that the German wouldn't have let him crawl out of there alive. He would have made sure to finish the job, one way or another. Von Stenger knew better than to let Cole live to fight another day.

  The only conclusion Cole could reach was that this must be a different sniper. Just as deadly, and just as much of a marksman as his old adversary.

  He shook his head, feeling like a kicked dog. What was it with these Germans? What made them so ruthless? Give them a rifle with a telescopic sight, and they were all a bunch of goddamn killers.

  Cole reached for the full canteen that Vaccaro had left behind and found that his hand was shaking. He had been through D-Day and then the fight at Bienville without getting the shakes. He wrapped both hands around the canteen in order to lift it to his lips.

  Vaccaro returned with the medic, who was instantly recognizable by the red cross in a white circle on his helmet and the white armband with its red cross on his left arm.

  "Let's have a look," the medic said. The poor guy looked exhausted, as if he might fall asleep on his feet.

  "It ain't nothin'," Cole said. "Jest a scratch."

  "Some scratch," the medic said, then set about cleaning and binding the wound. He coated it heavily with sulfa powder. He was so intent on Cole's wound that he only noticed the rifle with its telescopic sight propped against the wall as he finished up. "Sniper, huh?" Then he studied Cole's face more intently. "Hey, you're the guy I read about."

  "If you say so," Cole said noncommittally.

  Vaccaro spoke up. "Yeah, he's the one. Got a story written about him by none other than Ernie Pyle. How's that for famous?"

  "I'd ask for your autograph if I had a pen." To Cole's surprise, the medic seemed to mean it. "Shoot a Kraut for me, will ya?"

  Cole said nothing.

  "You've lost some blood, so be sure to drink lots of water and make sure you get something to eat. Sugar would be good for starters. You'll need to keep that dressing dry, and stay off your feet for a few days if possible."

  "I appreciate the thought, pardner," Cole said. "But in case you ain't noticed, there's a war on."

  "I hear you," the medic said. "But it's my job to say it, right? You know, in the German army, if you suffer a flesh wound or get shot through the meat of your leg, you get five days to recuperate. That's the rule in the Wehrmacht. Then, it's back to the front."

  "Does this look like the German army to you?"

  "What I'm sayin' is, the Krauts have their backs against the wall and they still give their soldiers five days to recover." He nodded at the bandaged shoulder. "If that wound of yours festers, you'll be out of commission for a lot longer."

  "Like I said, thanks for the advice."

  The medic finished and moved off to help the next man; there was no shortage of patients.

  Vaccaro had managed to find Cole a fresh shirt—one that was only slightly used—and helped him put it on. For now, Cole would have to make do with his bloody jacket.

  "What do you think that medic meant with all that talk about wounded Germans?" Cole asked. "Whose side is he on?"

  "Don't get your shorts in a twist, Hillbilly. He was just trying to help."

  "You didn't have to tell him about the newspaper article."

  "Hey, he recognized you from the photo. See, you're getting to be famous. I saved you a copy of that newspaper story, by the way," Vaccaro said. "I can't believe you didn't want to read it."

  "Why in hell would I want to read about myself?"

  "Here, take my copy. It will give you something to do while you recuperate." Vaccaro reached into his pocket and took out a scrap of newspaper, carefully folded and wrapped in plastic to keep it protected from the mud and rain.

  Cole shook his head. "I'm too tired to fool with that right now."

  "Go on, take it."

  "Do I look like I've got time to read?"

  "Suit yourself." Vaccaro put the paper away. He reached into another pocket and this time pulled out a flask. "I know he put some sulfa powder on that arm, but this will help cure you on the inside."

  "What is this stuff?"

  "Calvados." Vaccaro grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "Otherwise known as French moonshine. That ought to make you feel right at home."

  "Moonshine my ass." Still, Cole took a swig. And another. The apple brandy that was a specialty of Normandy went down a lot easier than any moonshine Cole had tasted. He drank deeply again.

  "Careful now, Hillbilly. Between the booze and that flesh wound there, some officer might court martial you under Article 92."

  "Yeah? What's that?" If there was one thing that Cole knew about the Army, it was that it never tired of rules and regulations. The Army had more rules than a witch had warts.

  "Cole, how do you get through this world being such an ignorant hillbilly?" Vaccaro reached for the flask, took a pull, gave it back. "Article 92 concerns dereliction of duty by rendering oneself unfit by self-inflicted wounds or drunkenness."

  "Shee-it. Article 92? You sound like a lawyer." Cole drank. He had not eaten much, and he could feel the liquor go right to his head. "Like to see 'em try to pin that on me."

  After another couple of drinks, he attempted to get to his feet. His shoulder felt sore as hell but he didn't need it to walk, and he didn't need his left shoulder to shoot. In other words, there wasn't going to be any dereliction of duty.

  He took two shuffling steps like an old man, ignoring the pain. He stumbled, knocking painfully against a pile of wooden crates that someone had brought in to fuel the fireplace. Angrily, he grabbed one of the crates using his good arm and smashed it to the ground. It felt so good to smash something that he grabbed another crate and turned it into kindling.

  Nearby, an officer looked up in irritation. "Knock it off, soldier."

  Cole th
ought about bashing the next crate over the officer's head, and he might have, if he hadn't felt a hand on his arm.

  "Easy there, Cole," Vaccaro said. "Let's get some chow, and then maybe some sleep."

  Cole shrugged off Vaccaro's hand. The motion made him wince. "I'm fine, goddammit."

  "You'll feel better once you eat. Remember what that medic said."

  Mostly, they had subsisted on K rations for the last few days. But the cooks had gone to work in the chateau's old kitchen, which was like something out of the last century, complete with soapstone counters and a stone sink. There was hot coffee, and spaghetti. It smelled delicious, and Vaccaro got plates for them both. Cole's hand shook as he took the plate.

  Vaccaro couldn't help but notice. "What's gotten into you?"

  "Nothin'," Cole responded.

  The look that Vaccaro gave him indicated that he didn't believe it for a minute.

  Normally, Vaccaro thought, Cole was cool as ice. Nothing much rattled his cage. Now, he was smashing things and trying to eat with shaking hands. What the hell was wrong with him? That German sniper had really gotten to him.

  Vaccaro was wise enough to leave Cole alone. The two men ate in silence. When they were finished, Vaccaro said, "Get some sleep, Hillbilly. You'll feel better in the morning. I'll talk to the lieutenant. Maybe he can get you sent to the rear for a day or two."

  "Like hell," Cole said. "In the morning, I am going after that Kraut son of a bitch who shot me."

  Vaccaro looked at him incredulously. "Hillbilly, we just got our asses kicked by that German. Don't be in any hurry to find him again."

  "Don't worry, City Boy. That German ain't gonna be so lucky the second time around.”

  Cole had spoken with more bravado than he felt. The truth was that some feelings you didn't shake—like getting shot. Vaccaro was right. That German had damn near killed him, and would've killed Vaccaro too. It had been a while since Cole had encountered anyone that good. They were lucky to be alive.