by David Healey
The only time that Dieter had been jealous of Carl was when his brother had first come home in his SS uniform. Dieter ached to be a soldier, but he was much too young.
Then the war began. Everyone could remember that day in 1939 when the news came that German troops had invaded Poland. Then France fell. The English army was nearly driven into the sea at Dunkirk. Those were heady and glorious days when anything seemed possible, when Germany was on the march, and any young man who could was eager to rush into uniform.
When word arrived that Carl was dead, it was delivered in a terse telegram from the SS. A single sentence stated that Carl Rohde had been shot for desertion.
Neither his father nor his mother, and especially not Dieter, had believed a word of it. They had their theories. Carl must have been visiting a girl—he had been handsome enough—or some other adventure had taken him away from his unit. Perhaps he had defied orders by being drawn into the defense of another underdog, to his detriment. There were rumors about darker things being done by the SS, and Carl may not have felt that he had signed on for that.
It was likely that they would never know the truth of what happened, not when the SS was involved. But could Carl have been a coward? Had he deserted his duty? Never. Never in a thousand years.
In unguarded moments, Dieter sometimes wondered how it must have been for Carl in his final moments, waiting to be shot. His last thoughts would have been of home and family. Then the clap of a gunshot, a flash of white light, and eternal nothingness. Death was like the time before one was born, a return to nonexistence. Imagining Carl's last moments pushed Rohde toward despair, so he did his best not to think about it.
While there had never been any official announcement about Carl's fate, rumors had gotten around back home. There were whispers. Some of their neighbors looked at Dieter and his parents with disgust, but what was even worse was the fact that far more looked at them with pity, especially the ones who had sons and husbands in the military. They knew very well that any one of them might be the next to receive such a telegram. Dieter hated those pitying looks worst of all.
And now, here was his chance at redemption by being a sniper who won the Iron Cross, not just for himself, but for his mother and father. And most of all, in some small way, it would mean redemption for Carl.
Chapter Sixteen
"Look at this shit," Vaccaro said, holding up a copy of a newspaper. The paper was new and smelled strongly of fresh ink, unlike the stale newspapers that made it to the front. They were bivouacked not far from the command post, relaxing in the shade cast by a stone wall. "This is that Lightning News we keep finding around. I know the Krauts must write it, but at least it's something to read. It doesn't make bad ass wipe, either."
"You know I don't waste my time on them newspapers," Cole said.
Cole was busy cleaning his rifle, and Vaccaro stopped talking long enough to watch. Vaccaro was convinced that Cole had the cleanest rifle in the Army. His own weapon was fortunate to get wiped down with an oily rag just in time to keep the rust at bay. The lessons of basic training had not stuck with him.
In contrast, Cole polished the bolt action and chamber so lovingly that it was almost like he was stroking a lover. Cole was the kind of person who focused on a task and blocked out everything else. In fact, if it hadn't been for that business with Jolie Molyneaux, Vaccaro might have thought that Cole was more interested in guns than women.
"So you don't read newspapers, huh? What happens when you need to know something?"
"I know plenty," Cole said. "If there's any news I missed, then I reckon you'll tell me whether I want to hear it or not."
"Well, you ought to take a look at this."
"City Boy, I done told you—"
Before Cole could protest further, Vaccaro thrust the newspaper at him. "Recognize anything?"
Left without much choice due to the newspaper interposed between himself and the rifle, Cole looked. As usual, the words made as much sense to him as bird tracks across the page.
He still hadn't told Vaccaro that he could not read. Not for the first time, he regretted never having ventured into the one-room schoolhouse that was only a five-mile walk from the family cabin at Gashey's Creek. His pa never had made him go, saying that a body would spend his time better in the woods or doin' chores instead of book learnin'. Pa always pronounced those last two words with a disgusted snarl. Book learnin'.
Pa had been perversely proud of not being able to read. His mother could puzzle out a few words, but she struggled too much with reading to teach her children. Cole had once shared his father's pride in having no use for learning his letters, but the war had made him see that a man needed reading and writing to take his place in the world. He now hid his illiteracy even from Vaccaro.
As it turned out, Cole did not need to read to understand the front page photograph of a baby-faced German soldier, dressed in a sniper's camouflage uniform and holding a scoped rifle in one hand. Tucked under the German soldier's other arm was a GI helmet with a Confederate flag painted on it.
"I'll be damned," Cole said. He touched the helmet on his head that was decorated with a similar flag. His had been painted by Jimmy Turner, the gentle mountain boy who had died minutes after coming ashore at Omaha Beach on D Day. “I thought mine was the only one."
Vaccaro snatched back the newspaper and said harshly, "It's supposed to be your helmet, you dumb hillbilly. Didn't you at least read the picture caption?"
Cole glared at Vaccaro. His eyes were silvery as the water in a mountain river and as empty of emotion as the feral gaze of a wolf. Unconsciously, Vaccaro recoiled from that gaze.
The last time Vaccaro had seen eyes like that, they had belonged to a contract killer for the Irish mob. There was no shortage of mobsters in Brooklyn, but generally speaking, the Irish and Italians didn’t mix. It was downright unhealthy for anyone Irish to be caught in the Italian neighborhood where Vaccaro lived, especially after dark. The hitman had a girlfriend there that he liked to visit, but everyone left him alone.
Vaccaro lightened his tone. "That's a picture of the German who shot you. Lieutenant Mulholland says the German’s name is pronounced Row-duh. He's some hotshot sniper, apparently, who's been racking up the kills."
"Well, he damn near got me. I'll give him that much."
"That's what the article says. Hell, the article even has your name. They must have picked it up from that piece Ernie Pyle wrote about you. You're getting to be famous, Cole. The German must have seen your helmet and put two and two together."
"But that ain't my helmet he's holdin'."
"Cole, I hate to break this to you, but the Krauts invented jet engines and rockets and nerve gas. Don't you think they could figure out how to paint a Johnny Reb flag on a helmet and take a picture of it? It's a little thing called propaganda."
"Maybe they done that," Cole agreed. He paused. "What else does it say?"
Vaccaro offered the newspaper. "Christ on a cross, Cole. Do I look like your personal secretary? You can read it for yourself."
Cole studied the face in the photograph more closely. So this was the German who had shot him? The German looked more like a schoolboy than a sniper. Nonetheless, Cole felt a chill run through him. He was in no hurry to run into that kid again.
Cole waved Vaccaro off with the cleaning rag. "Can't you see I'm busy? Just tell me if it says anything important."
For once, Vaccaro clammed up. Cole prompted him, "Well?"
"It says that this German sniper is gonna finish you off."
Cole said nothing, but only continued to clean his rifle. From the sounds of things, he would be needing it again soon and he would need every advantage that he could get.
Rohde decided that he liked his chances as a sniper better if he had a different rifle. He was convinced that the bolt action K98 had cost him his killing shot against the American sniper. It simply took too much time to chamber another round. The bolt had that annoying tendency to stick, and when he whac
ked it into place with the heel of his hand it cost him precious time.
He had a solution for that. The Gewehr Model 43 rifle.
The trouble was, that bald bastard Hohenfeldt who ran the armory just laughed when Rohde asked about upgrading his rifle. Hohenfeldt oversaw the distribution of small arms and ammunition as if each rifle belonged to him personally.
He went to see Fischer about it.
"I would have gotten that American sniper if I hadn't been shooting that damn old rifle of mine," Rohde said, hastily adding, "Sir."
"There is nothing wrong with your rifle, Rohde."
"Hohenfeldt has one of the new Gewehr Model 43s just sitting there in the armory. If I'd had that, I wouldn't have missed."
The captain shook his head. "Your equipment is fine."
"The Gewehr is a semi-automatic. With a weapon like that, there is no need to take one's eye away from the sight between shots to work the action."
"I am aware of how a rifle works, Rohde," the captain said testily, taking umbrage to the sniper's tone.
"But sir, he has one just sitting there!"
"Look here, Rohde. I am not going to get involved in how Hohenfeldt runs the armory. Our Staber knows his business. If he won't issue that new rifle to you, he must have his reasons."
Right, Rohde was thinking. It's because I don't have a bowl of fat sausages to trade for it.
Rohde was not all that surprised by Fischer’s reluctance to get involved. It was no secret that most officers would not interfere with how a seasoned noncommissioned officer ran a supply operation. What he said was, "Yes, sir."
Rodhe knew better than to push too hard with the captain, who had already given him an enormous amount of leeway. Fischer was nothing if not mercurial. He would tolerate Rohde so long as he was useful and not too demanding. Once he became a pain in the Hauptmann’s ass, that was it. But Rohde wanted that rifle, so he would just have to come up with a way of obtaining it.
If there was one quality that Rohde possessed—in addition to being a good shot—it was determination.
Fischer said, "Never mind the rifle. At the rate you are going, you are going to be famous, Rohde!"
“Yes, sir."
"If you get killed, the SS will just make up a sniper who sounds even better than you are, ha, ha! I suspect that Major Dorfmann could turn a turnip into a roast beef if need be. In any case, if Dorfmann gets you into the Berlin newspapers it should make your family proud and make up for this bad business about your brother."
"Sir?"
I don't hold your brother's actions against you, Rohde. No one does. Some men are not up to the task and disgrace themselves—and their families."
Rohde's face burned. He knew very well that his brother was not a coward. Just in time, he bit back the angry retort on his lips, knowing that he could only go so far with Fischer.
"There is one thing that will set it right, sir."
"What's that, Rohde?"
"Just what I told the major. Winning that Iron Cross, sir. I was not joking when I said that to Major Dorfmann. You are the one who would have to put my name in for it when the time comes." He hastily added again, "Sir."
Fischer remained silent, staring at him nonplussed. Rohde worried that he had overstepped his bounds. Nobody asked his commanding officer for a medal. But the German military was not one to frown upon ambition. There was no higher ambition than to earn the Iron Cross.
Much to his relief, the captain laughed. He clapped Rohde on the shoulder. "You have style, Rohde! I saw that in you, which is why I made you a sniper. It is a shame that you did not finish off that American sniper. Maybe next time. Meanwhile, keep shooting Amis like you have been doing, and you will win that Iron Cross yet!"
Chapter Seventeen
"Mail call!"
At the shout from the mail orderly, a group of GIs pressed around. It was something of a logistical miracle that personal mail got through to the front lines, never mind the fact that the letters and packages from home were sometimes weeks getting there. The mail was certainly a morale builder, but more than that, it was a matter of pride that the mail got through. The military postal service was not going to let a thousand miles of ocean, scores of U-boats, and a hostile Wehrmacht stop the mail.
Vaccaro pushed his way to the front of the group. He almost always got a package from home, or at least a letter. The package contents were invariably practical and sometimes delicious. Socks, one week. Homemade Italian cookies and candy, another week. Once, an entire cake had arrived. That had made Vaccaro the most popular guy in the squad.
Vaccaro was still waiting for his latest package when Cole's name was called.
Cole never got mail. The mail orderly paused and glanced at the label a second time before stating more quizzically, "Cole?"
"I'll take that." Vaccaro grabbed the package and waded to the back of the crowd, where Cole was going over his rifle with an oily rag. He thrust the neatly wrapped box at him, giving it a good shake in the process to try and hear what was inside. No luck there. "Hell must be freezing over, Hillbilly. You got a package."
"Must be cookies," Cole said nonchalantly. He kept on cleaning his rifle.
"You can't tell me that somebody back home in Possum Holler or wherever you’re from made you a batch of cookies. Maybe it's moonshine."
"Blow it out your ass, Vaccaro," Cole said, reaching for the box, not quite successfully hiding a grin. He was just as curious as Vaccaro as to the contents of the package. "Give that here."
"Is it from your mama?"
Cole glanced at the return address. He couldn't actually read, but he could recognize names. "No, it ain't from my mama. Not unless she done changed her name to Hollis Bailey."
"Who the hell is that?"
"An old friend from back home."
The cardboard box within was neatly wrapped in heavy brown paper tied with the sort of rough twine that gardeners favored. Judging from the label on the box, it had once held canning jars. Maybe Vaccaro wasn't that far off about the moonshine.
Hollis had not bothered with a note. A narrow object lay inside, carefully wrapped in layer after layer of newspaper.
"Is there anything in there or is that just a box full of old newspapers?" Vaccaro asked.
"Hollis always liked to say that if you think one nail is good enough, then better make it two."
"Ah, the wisdom of Possum Holler. You ought to write a book."
By now, a little crowd had gathered thanks to Vaccaro's loud mouth. Cole was something of a man of mystery to the rest of the company. He kept to himself. He definitely never talked about home or sweethearts. He never received so much as a postcard.
The thought of someone like Cole getting cookies in the mail seemed ridiculous. It was as if he had arrived fully formed as a sniper, hands forever wrapped around a scoped rifle and clear-cut eyes scanning the horizon. Vaccaro had joked about moonshine, which seemed more likely.
If Cole had, in fact, gotten a jar of moonshine, they all wanted a taste.
Cole unwrapped the object that had been so carefully sent these many miles and held it up. The final layer of wrapping was a Confederate flag about a foot long, just the size that bystanders might wave at a parade. Just the size to mark a grave.
Cole stretched out the flag and admired it.
Vaccaro was busy looking over Cole’s shoulder at the contents of the box. "I'll be damned," he said, more than a little awestruck by what he saw.
The Cole family and Hollis Bailey went back a ways. Hollis lived two miles as the crow flies from the Cole family shack on Gashey's Creek. In the mountains, it helped to be a crow or to have two good feet if you wanted to get somewhere. The Coles were so far back in the woods that nothing more than a trail led to their place. Nobody was driving a car back in there, that was for damn sure. It was only after he'd gotten into the Army and understood more about such things that Cole began to wonder if his family even owned the land that their shack was on. That far back in the woods, nobody b
othered much with deeds or property lines. Coles had been living on that land since before the Revolutionary War, but it would be just like a Cole to be a squatter.
The shack was hammered together out of mismatched boards that very well might have gone missing from the side of someone's barn in the dead of night. Sheets of tin covered the roof, so spotted with rust that they resembled a Palomino hide.
Cole still remembered the first time that Hollis had wandered up to the shack, kicking the hounds out of the way, because he was one of the few visitors they'd ever had. With his gray hair and beard, Hollis had looked like an old man even back then. It turned out that he had seen the smoke from their chimney and gotten curious. He was their closest neighbor.
In his mind's eye, Cole could picture his mother greeting Hollis in her bare feet and threadbare dress. If it was warm out, Cole and his brothers didn't wear shirts or shoes. For a dress, one of his little sisters wore a flour sack with holes cut in it for her head and arms. Cole hadn't known any different then, but being in the Army had given him a new perspective on just how poor they’d been.
Old Hollis's eyes had never held a look of pity or of contempt. He had always greeted them with a warm smile, and once or twice, a stick of candy. There had even been a few times when a box of canned food was left on a stump near the start of the trail leading to the shack. Who would have left it but Hollis? No one else had ever given a damn about the Cole family. He turned up every now and then to buy deer antlers and buckskin off pa. He was never interested in buying any of pa’s moonshine, which he called, “Devil spit.”
Once Cole was old enough, it wasn't long before his wanderings took him out to Hollis Bailey's place. He'd heard that old Hollis was always on the lookout for scrap metal, and Cole had brought him whatever he could find. He reckoned it was an easier way to make money than trapping.