by David Healey
"Yeah?"
"You know that little French kid that Rohde tied up in the field? Rohde kidnapped the boy and used him as bait. Talk about a heartless bastard. The kid's aunt turned up to claim him. Some of our guys found her walking along the road and drove her here. The boy's father is here too. The man claims to be in the French Resistance, by the way."
Cole snorted. "Now that we just about won the war for them, half the men in France are claiming to be in the Resistance."
"Don't be too hard on them, Cole. Don't forget that without the French, we wouldn't have won the Revolutionary War."
Cole snorted at that. "My great great granddaddy fought the British. He picked off more than a few Redcoats with his flintlock rifle. I reckon that's what helped win the Revolution more than these Frenchies, judging from what I seen so far."
Mulholland looked sideways at Cole. He thought it was easy enough to picture Cole himself in buckskins and a coonskin cap. “With all respect to your great great grandaddy, now it's our turn to return the favor to the French people."
"If you say so."
“This isn’t the 18th century, Cole. It’s tough to fight the Germans with a few old hunting rifles and shotguns."
Cole wasn't so sure about that. He tried to imagine how things would have turned out for the Germans if they invaded the mountain country back home.
"I reckon," he said noncommittally.
"Anyhow, the boy's aunt" —Mulholland pronounced it awnt, while in Cole's mind it was ant— "knew this Rohde well. Real well, if you know what I mean."
“What you’re sayin’ is that she’s a collaborator?" Cole spat, adding in a minuscule way to the barnyard mud.
"It looks that way, and her brother—the boy's father—isn't real happy about that, I can tell you. Be that as it may, she could have useful information to help us nail this Rohde."
Cole looked around. The barnyard teamed with exhausted GIs. In the shadow of the barn, he could see a boy and a young woman, who was engaged in a heated argument with a Frenchman in his late twenties. Judging by the man's rugged clothes, and the rifle slung over his shoulder, Cole decided that this must be the Resistance fighter.
He and Mulholland walked over. The girl looked up at their approach. Cole noted the pretty, round face, with greenish eyes surrounded by dark curls. She wore an old dress that was worn thin and that clutched tightly across her hips, accentuating her figure. If Rohde had been collaborating with that body, he was one lucky son of a bitch.
Beside him, Cole also sensed Mulholland giving the girl a furtive going over. Damn, he thought. The last thing I need is me and Mulholland barking up the same tree again. The tree in this case being an attractive French girl in a tight dress.
"Excusez moi, mademoiselle," Mulholland began, using his stilted college French. "Nous voulons savoir sur le tireur d'élite. Celui nommé Rohde." We want to know about the sniper. The one named Rohde.
At the mention of the sniper's name, the Frenchman launched a fresh tirade at his sister. Cole didn't know any French, but when he heard the brother practically spit the word putain at her, Cole was fairly certain that the Frenchman had called his sister a whore.
Then the Frenchman stepped forward and slapped her.
The sight of his angry red hand print on her pretty face was nearly too much to bear. The girl might be a collaborator, but she also looked tired and frightened. When the Frenchman drew back his hand to hit her again, Mulholland raised his hand like he was asking a question and said in his sternest Sunday School teacher voice, "Now, now."
Cole slid between the girl and her brother, blocking him from hitting her again. When he tried to get around Cole, Cole moved with him.
The Frenchman was a farmer by trade, heavy through the shoulders from farm work, and if he couldn't hit his sister, he seemed intent on hitting someone else. He drew back a fist.
Instantly, Cole had the tip of his Bowie knife at the Frenchman's throat. The sister gasped. The Frenchman froze, his fist cocked back by his ear.
Finally, the lieutenant took action. He put a restraining hand on Cole's arm. "Hey, everybody calm down. Cole, put down that knife." To the Frenchman he said, "Calmez-vous."
Cole sheathed the knife, figuring that stabbing the brother would not win him the sister's favor. The Frenchman dropped his hands to his sides, although his eyes clearly showed that he would like nothing better than to pummel Cole.
Cole had to give the brother credit. He looked more angry than afraid. Maybe he really was a Resistance fighter.
Vaccaro seemed relieved that Cole had put the knife away, but he wanted his own slice of the Frenchman. "Tough guy, huh? Where were you four years ago when the Germans marched right in?"
His insults fell on deaf ears. Without a proper translator, they had to do their best to communicate using the lieutenant's college French. The young woman, whose name was Lisette, made it clear that she did not know the whereabouts of the German sniper. She also made it abundantly clear that she had no interest in seeing him again.
"Bâtard," she hissed at the mention of Rohde’s name.
It evolved that what Lisette was most concerned about was getting back to the farm and to her niece, Elsa, who was in the care of an elderly neighbor. Already, the day was getting late. No way was Lisette going to make it there before sunset, and the last thing she needed to do was to go wandering around the countryside after dark, not with Germans, Polish troops, and trigger-happy Americans shooting at anything that moved. Reluctantly, Lisette agreed to spend the night at the American command post for Leo's sake, if not her own. In the morning, the lieutenant told her that Cole would escort her home.
"He will get you there safely, if anyone can," Mulholland said.
Henri managed to explain that he needed more ammunition for his rifle. Cole was surprised to see that the Frenchman carried a battered but well-cared for Springfield. It must have been a relic from the Great War, but would be a thorn in the side of the Germans, all the same.
In English and broken French, Lieutenant Mulholland explained to Henri that the Americans were low on ammunition due to the supply lines being stretched thin. Cole gave him a couple of clips from his utility belt. Who knew, maybe the Frenchman would do some good with the rounds of .30/06. The more Germans that he shot, the fewer that the Americans would have to worry about.
Cole was getting low on ammo himself, and hoped that they would be resupplied soon. Then again, it suited Cole just fine if there weren't any bullets to waste. That was how he had been raised to think, back home in the mountains.
Henri gave his sister one last disapproving look, shouldered his rifle, and headed out to rejoin the Resistance fighters.
By some miracle, the farm that was serving as the forward command post still had a working telephone, and Lieutenant Mulholland got Lisette a few minutes on the phone to call home with the news that she would return in the morning.
Any ideas that Cole and Vaccaro had about keeping the French girl company were quickly squelched by the lieutenant.
"I'll see to it that the mademoiselle is comfortable for the night in our HQ here," Mulholland said. "Cole, you and Vaccaro and Harper had better take the first shift of sentry duty. There's no telling who's out there."
"Yes, sir," Vaccaro said, answering for all three of them. As soon as Mulholland was out of earshot, he grinned and mimicked the lieutenant's self-important tone. " 'I'll see to it that the mademoiselle is comfortable.' You bet your ass he will!”
Frustrated, Rohde pressed his luck and crept within range of the American command post. Through his binoculars, he could see Lisette, and Leo—and the hillbilly sniper, all talking together.
He was too far for an effective shot, and thought about moving closer. To his disappointment, however, he saw the American sniper move back out into the woods and fields, most likely to do some hunting of his own.
Rohde could have wreaked havoc on the command post, picking off an officer or two, but he felt too exposed. Besides, without
any confirmation, they would not be counted toward his official record. Why take the risk? The area was swarming with Allied troops, not to mention the fact that the American sniper was out there somewhere, surely eager to get Rohde in his sights.
Planes kept appearing overhead, making it difficult to move undetected across the roads and fields. The American planes were not above strafing a lone German soldier, especially if they had any inkling that he was a sniper.
In the relative safety of the falling dusk, Rohde worked his way back toward Lisette's farm. He did not know why, nor did he have any particular reason, other than that it was on the route toward the German base. He could see that the farm was going to be in the path of the battle to come.
Rohde approached the farmhouse stealthily. No one seemed to be around.
The old dog came out to greet him, not even bothering to bark because he knew Rohde by now; he had been laying in the cool dirt. Rohde scratched his ears.
He approached the house and peeked in a window, rifle at the ready. No sign of Lisette's brother, the Resistance fighter, at least. No sign of Lisette, either. He did see an old woman at the table, and the little girl, Elsa.
Rohde opened the door without bothering to knock. The old woman looked up, clearly startled. Elsa shouted his name happily, apparently unaware of the fact that he was responsible for her brother's disappearance. The old woman looked at her in surprise.
"Lisette?" he asked. There was no point in trying to communicate at any length with the old woman, but she could surely understand that much.
"Demain matin," the old lady blurted, with a glance at the telephone in the kitchen. "Elle a dit que un sniper va marcher ici."
"Un sniper? Ici?"
"Oui. Demain matin." The old woman nodded emphatically, almost fiercely. He realized that she had emphasized the sniper's arrival to scare him off.
Tomorrow morning. That was all Rohde needed to know. He turned and left.
He had glimpsed Lisette and the hillbilly sniper together at a distance at the American command post. What other sniper could the old woman possibly mean? On the walk back to headquarters, he wondered at his good fortune.
Come tomorrow morning, he was going to end this duel, once and for all.
Chapter Thirty
When Rohde returned to the base that evening, he learned that Hauptmann Fischer had sent for him. Having missed his chance at the American sniper, Rohde already felt frustrated by the day’s events. He hoped for better luck tomorrow in ambushing the American at Lisette’s farmhouse. Meanwhile, he was not eager to make his report to the Hauptmann.
With some trepidation, he waited outside Fischer's makeshift office, listening to him shouting at a sergeant over some infraction. Fischer's tendency to shout had become more frequent; it was easy to see that the stress of the war was getting to him.
Fortunately, Fischer seemed to have calmed down by the time Rohde was standing at attention before him. The Hauptmann was pleased when Rohde explained that he had set out early that morning and ambushed a squad of Americans nearby. Of course, Rohde left out the bit about using the French boy as bait, or about his encounter with the American sniper. With the Hauptmann being so touchy, the less said, the better.
But Fischer had not summoned him for small talk. The Hauptmann was clearly distracted and only half listening to Rohde’s report. After a few moments, the Hauptmann came around to what was on his mind.
"It was a strange thing, what happened with old Hohenfeldt," Fischer said.
Rohde stiffened. He thought it best to pretend that he knew nothing about it. "What do you mean?"
"He was found in the latrine area early this morning. Apparently, he shot himself."
"Suicide?" Rohde asked carefully, trying to put a note of surprise in his voice.
"Who would have thought it? Our old Staber was as solid as they come. All he cared about were guns and bullets."
"And requisition forms," Rohde muttered, then added more loudly, "War changes people."
"It does, doesn't it?" The Hauptmann looked more intently at Rohde. "War changes a boy from Mannheim into a killer, for example."
"If you say so, sir." Rohde was a little taken aback that the Hauptmann knew where he had grown up, but of course, that had been one of the questions answered by Major Dorfmann's propaganda article.
"The curious thing about Hohenfeldt was that he apparently shot himself, but was found with the pistol in his right hand. He was left-handed, you see."
"That is strange, sir." Rohde felt a trickle of sweat begin under his armpits, suddenly aware of how stifling Fischer's office was in the summer heat. "Maybe the Resistance had something to do with it."
"You think so? How curious that the French would sneak into the latrine and target Hohenfeldt, of all people." Fischer looked intently at him. "I was told that you were seen with him last night at the armory, and that you were seen again at the armory this morning when Hohenfeldt was not there."
"Yes, sir."
Fischer frowned when Rohde did not elaborate. "Well, what were you doing there?"
Rohde did not like the way that Fischer seemed ready to pounce upon his answer, like a cat on a mouse. Who had seen him with Hohenfeldt and then told the story to the Hauptmann? It had to be one of the young Soldaten that he had seen working there. "He was issuing me the new Gewehr 43. This morning, I realized that I needed more ammunition, but the Staber was not there."
"Really? He finally gave you that rifle? He was guarding that thing like it was his mistress." Rohde could not help but wince at the choice of words. Fischer went on, "What did Hohenfeldt say to you when he gave you the rifle last night? Did he give any indication that he was suicidal?"
"No, sir. He simply said that he wanted to see me put it to good use." Rohde kept his voice carefully neutral. He did not like the direction this conversation was taking. It was beginning to feel too much like an interrogation.
"I see," Fischer said doubtfully. "I have to say, Rohde, how curious it is that you ended up with that rifle, and Hohenfeldt ended up dead."
Rohde felt as if he was getting boxed into a corner. An idea came to him. "He did say one thing, sir. Something about how, now that I had a new rifle, that perhaps you would like to have the other sniper rifle for your personal use."
"He said that?"
"Yes, sir."
The Hauptmann studied him thoughtfully, taking a moment to think that over. "You are a slippery one, aren't you, Rohde? It's as if there is always a chess game going on in that head of yours. If you give up a pawn, can you capture a rook? Perhaps that is what makes you a good sniper."
No, Rohde did not like where this was going at all. He thought desperately for a way to get Fischer off his back. "Come with me tomorrow, sir. I am setting up an ambush for the American sniper."
"You mean the one that Dorfmann claimed you already shot?” Fischer gave a wry smile.
“That was Major Dorfmann’s article, sir. Not mine.”
“That is true, Rohde. Unfortunately, you and I both know that words don't kill. Only bullets do that. Do you know where this American sniper will be?"
Rohde leaped right into it, knowing that any hesitation would come off as false to the Hauptmann, with whom he had already pushed his luck. "There was a boy who got lost, and the Americans found him. They're bringing the boy back home in the morning."
"How would you know about that?"
"I know the boy's aunt." Rohde let slip a knowing smile.
"You would, wouldn't you?" Fischer knew that Rohde wouldn't have been the first soldier in his unit to consort with a French girl.
"Help me ambush him, sir. Together, we can get him."
Rohde saw from the way that the Hauptmann hesitated, that Fischer thought he should refuse. He was an officer, not a sniper. And he did not seem quite convinced about the business with Hohenfeldt. But Fischer always had expressed some fascination with sniping. The temptation was too much.
"In the morning?"
"Yes, sir
. With your permission, I will stop by the armory and get my old rifle. Of course, it is your choice which rifle you should use."
"The Mauser is fine. You use the new one. You are a much better shot than I am, anyway."
Rohde smiled and laid it on as thick as he dared. "I don't know about that, sir. I have seen you shoot. In the morning, you and I will teach the Americans a lesson. Maybe they will put us both in for an Iron Cross."
Fischer's mood had been improving at the thought of doing something as simple as going into the field. He scowled at the mention of the medal. "Don't you ever give up, Rohde? You and your damn medal!"
Rohde drew himself up straighter. He struggled, without much success, to keep his voice calm. That medal meant everything to him. "I have already earned that medal ten times over, sir. There are snipers who have not killed nearly as many enemies as I have who have the Iron Cross."
Ordinarily, a mere enlisted man such as Rohde would never dare to address an officer in that tone or to express such thoughts. But he and Fischer had a history together. The Hauptmann's patience, however, had its limits.
"Do not lecture me, Rohde! It is up to your commanding officer when and if you should be nominated for the Iron Cross. Many men have done much here. There are more than snipers under my command."
"Major Dorfmann said that he would nominate me."
Rohde's petulant tone caused Fischer's face to turn red, and a vein pulsed just above the tight collar of the Hauptmann's tunic. He drew in a breath as if to shout, then gulped it back, and instead said in a low voice that was far more menacing, "Let me tell you something, Rohde. Dorfmann wanted to put you in for the Iron Cross. He would do it in a heartbeat, for the sake of publicity. But I told him not to. How do you like that? If I were not here, you could go to Dorfmann and he could get you your piece of tin. Until then, you must still prove yourself to me. I still believe in a thing called a soldier's honor. Do you have honor, Rohde?"
Rohde took a deep breath and struggled to control the rage that must be showing on his face. How could Fischer deny him that medal?! "Of course I have honor, sir."