by David Healey
Again, Rohde forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Through the scope, he followed the progress of the American across the field.
Now that the soldier was halfway across, the American appeared to relax. He stood straighter. Before, he'd been hunched over. His gait seemed easier. He seemed to be thinking that if he'd made it this far, then nobody was going to shoot at him.
The sun was shining; it was too nice of a summer day to die.
The soldier kept going, and again, Rohde let him.
The sun beat down and turned the exterior of Rohde's helmet as warm as a teapot. Rivulets of sweat ran down his handsome face. Some of that sweat dripped past his eyebrow and into his eyes, the salt stinging. He blinked to clear his vision.
Attracted by the moisture, an ant crawled up Rohde's neck. Its tiny mandibles sank into the sweetness of human flesh, sampling the possibilities it offered. Rohde ignored the stinging. A red welt blossomed on his neck.
Other insects buzzed in the tall grass around him. A bird landed in a nearby bush, oblivious to the motionless human just feet away. Farther off was the chatter of a machine gun, a reminder that instant death lurked on this summer day.
Two hundred feet away, the American was now halfway across the field. Obliviously running at an oblique angle closer to the sniper.
This was as close as Rohde ever been to an American, not counting dead ones.
He heard a sound behind him. Someone heavy crawling through the brush. Trying to be stealthy about it, but making as much noise as an entire squad. He didn't take his eye off the scope because he knew who it was. If it had been an American coming up behind him, Rohde would already be dead.
"What are you waiting for? Shoot him, Rohde."
The disembodied voice belonged to Hauptmann Fischer.
Fischer had displayed a fascination on more than one occasion with snipers, or Jäger as they were sometimes known in the Wehrmacht. The German word meant hunter. Rohde half expected the impatient captain to take the rifle himself. It was Fischer, after all, who had seen Rohde's talent and put the sniper rifle in his hands. Rohde had become his special prodigy, his secret weapon.
Up close, Fischer had a masculine smell of Sandalwood-scented aftershave mixed with tobacco and fresh sweat. Even now, he managed to be cleanly shaven, his uniform neat except for a few burrs that now clung to it thanks to his crawl toward Rohde's position.
His neat appearance could have seemed prissy or affected in another officer, but Fischer had made it clear to the men in his command that appearance was synonymous with competence.
Rohde liked Fischer, even if he was wary of his increasingly frequent fits of temper. He was a capable officer from a Prussian military family, but like the Mauser rifle, he belonged to an earlier age. The Hauptmann would have been happier walking shoulder to shoulder in organized ranks toward the orderly files of Napoleon's army, for example. Volleys of musket fire could then be exchanged at close quarters, with the engagement settled by a bayonet charge. The officers might seek each other out and fight with swords, like gentlemen.
While the Hauptmann might have preferred a more organized form of battle, he remained a realist. Fischer seemed to find this business of crawling about on one's belly to be distasteful, even undignified, but that was modern warfare for you. He did not find it at all odd when German generals swallowed sodium cyanide—or the muzzles of their own pistols—when they had failed in their duty. It never occurred to a disgraced American or English general to shoot himself; most of them went home and ran for political office. Fischer took this as another indicator of German military superiority.
Fischer was a good soldier, but the long war was wearing him down. Still in his twenties, he was only somewhat older and more worldly than most of the troops he commanded. Lately, the replacement troops tended to be younger and younger to the point that he felt more like their father rather than an older brother. He had been a lieutenant for much of the war, but promotion was coming more quickly these days. At the rate the Wehrmacht was losing its officer corps in battle, he liked to joke that he might be a general by the end of the year.
He was a little too smart for his own good and in the heat of the moment he sometimes made deprecating comments about the German war effort that would have been dangerous if overheard by the wrong people.
Lately, he had developed a very bad temper. He had punched or slapped more than one soldier, and his men were sure that it was only a matter of time before he shot someone as a disciplinary measure. Such things were allowed in the Wehrmacht. In Fischer's case, his anger was a symptom of combat fatigue. But like his men, he had no choice but to go on until the bitter end.
While Fischer was Rohde’s champion in granting him sniper status, he had also made it clear that he was still passing judgment on Rohde as a soldier. This guarded view was based entirely on the rumors surrounding Rohde's older brother. Those rumors had left Rohde tainted goods in the eyes of his fellow soldiers, but the captain had given him a chance to be his own man. Fischer was pragmatic in that any good officer knew that his most important task was to make himself look good. Rohde helped him do just that.
"Why don't you shoot, for God's sake!" the captain muttered again. "He's going to make it across the field."
Rohde had come to realize that a good sniper was disconnected from time in a way that made others impatient.
There was no hurrying a good shot, but he couldn't keep the Hauptmann waiting forever.
Rohde whistled. The noise was just loud enough for the GI to hear. It was a noise that was out of place in a field where the primary sound was the buzzing of insects.
Startled, the American pulled up short and listened. In doing so, he unwittingly presented the perfect target. He must have thought that he was hearing one of his own men signaling him. He looked in Rohde's general direction, but could not see the concealed sniper.
Rohde fired.
Chapter Five
Rohde's bullet struck the GI in the leg, just above the knee. The impact raised a puff of atomized flesh and shredded olive drab uniform. He went down in the grass, thrashing in pain. Wounded, but not dead.
Fischer observed through Zeiss Dienstglas binoculars that would have cost two months of his officer's pay if he had not picked them up on the battlefield.
"You should have aimed a little higher," he said.
Somehow, the American managed to regain his feet. Tough bastard. He limped for the safety of the hedgerow on the opposite side of the field.
Rohde worked the bolt action, ejecting the spent round, and slapped home the bolt to lock a fresh 7.92 mm round in the chamber. In the time it took to work the bolt and reacquire the target, the GI had already moved several meters. Once again, Rohde wished for that semiautomatic rifle.
Aiming for the legs, he fired again.
This time, the GI stumbled as if someone had tripped him. He fell headlong into the grass. The bullet had gone through both legs, leaving them useless and mangled, but he tried to crawl on his elbows. Rohde watched, unconcerned. At that rate, it would take the wounded man all day to get across the field.
"What are you waiting for? You should finish him off," Fischer said, craning his head above Rohde's helmet in order to get a better view of the field.
"Please get down, sir," Rohde muttered, keeping his eye on the scope.
Fischer did not need to be told twice. He pressed his belly into the grass like he was humping the earth.
Having fired twice from the same position, Rohde's concern was that the Americans hidden in the hedgerow would return fire. When they did not, he was assured that he still remained hidden, at least for now. It was hard to pinpoint where a single shot originated, but the more times that he fired made his hiding place more obvious.
His shoulder ached dully, having taken a pounding from the K98. The rifle packed a wallop, and the bare wooden stock left a bruise after just a few rounds. Rohde had been doing a lot of shooting the last few days. Under his tunic, his shoulder and
upper arm were black and blue.
Rohde's ears rang from the crack of the rifle, but as the ringing faded, he began to hear again the insects in the grass around them, unperturbed by the rifle shots. Also, he could hear the American, calling for help. It was a horrible, pleading sound. The words were in English, but they needed no translation. Rohde tuned it out, managing to ignore the fact that he was the cause of that suffering. Beside him, Captain Fischer muttered something sympathetic but did not order to finish off the American.
Keeping his scope trained on the green tangle of the hedgerow at the edge of the field, Rohde waited.
German or American, it was against human nature to leave a wounded comrade in the middle of a field on a hot day.
The hedgerow did an excellent job of concealing the American squad hidden within it. He understood that such hedgerows were rare in America, but they were common enough in Europe. Much of the coastal countryside here in France was crisscrossed by them. The hedgerows had been most plentiful around Normandy, bogging down the Allied advance.
This patchwork of fields favored the German defensive strategy. The Allies were forced to capture France field by field. It was painstaking and deadly work.
Now, the country was more open as the fighting moved closer to Caen and Falaise, and ultimately to the Belgian border, as the Germans gave up ground, meter by meter, selling it dearly. However, much of the landscape was still comprised of small fields ringed by hedgerows, and this was where Rohde's unit had taken up a defensive position today.
The fields tended to contain no more than a few acres and were originally ringed by low stone walls. The hedgerows, made up of a medley of trees and shrubs, had grown up and over the stone walls and earthen berms. Some of the hedgerows were ancient, as he understood it, dating back to Roman times. Up to twenty feet high and almost as thick, the hedgerows eliminated the need for any fencing. Narrow sunken lanes sometimes ran between the fields, with the lanes surrounded on all sides by the hedgerows, so that traversing the countryside was almost like passing through a tunnel.
Now, Rohde kept his eyes trained on the hedgerow opposite him and waited.
The vegetation shifted. The drab green American uniforms blended effectively with the leaves and branches, but it was their movement that gave them away. He could see them shift into position, readying themselves up for action.
Rohde did not move a muscle. Every cell of his body felt like it was dipped in stone. A few more ants trooped across his neck and up under his collar. A fly landed on his cheekbone, tasting his sweat. The sun beat down. The heat was such that distant objects shimmered. He ignored the distractions, keeping his eye on the wall of vegetation. As the heat of the day increased, the insects and birds grew lazy and fell silent, so that the world seemed to be holding its breath.
Beside him, there was a sound as Fischer pulled his MP40 around and got it into position, putting the metal stock against his shoulder and bracing the weapon with his elbows. From that prone position, he would be able to sweep the field if necessary. What the MP40 lacked in range, it made up for in the quantity of 9 mm rounds it spewed out. Rohde just prayed that the captain wouldn't open fire and reveal their position to the enemy until the time was right. But an enlisted man didn't go giving orders to a Hauptmann.
Finally, there was decisive movement from the Americans. Two figures sprinted for the open field, headed for their wounded companion. Rohde tracked them through the scope. He became a little too excited by the appearance of the two targets and shot the first man through the torso, a killing shot.
He let out a breath as he worked the bolt, annoyed that he had to slap it into place. He acquired another target.
Take your time, he told himself.
He aimed lower. His next shot hit the running man, again through the legs, and he went down.
The others sheltering in the hedgerow opened fire, spewing bullets in every direction.
Beside him, Fischer cursed. He held his fire.
But the shots did not come near where they sheltered among the shrubs and grass, hugging the earth. The Americans didn't have any idea where he was hidden. When they let up off their triggers, it was possible to hear the desperate shouts of not one, but two wounded men in the field.
Rohde waited. The Americans knew he was there, which kept them from attempting to rescue the two men down in the field. The sun climbed higher. Sweat trickled down Rohde's face, but he didn't dare wipe it away. His mouth had gone dry and he was desperately thirsty, but he did not reach for his canteen. The slightest motion could give him away.
The sounds of the countryside gradually resumed. Insects buzzed and birds sang. Somewhere in the distance, a cow lowed. It might have been a bucolic scene if not for the fact that Rohde was watching it all through the eye of his Zeiss scope. The moans and pleas of the wounded Americans didn't help.
"This is awful to listen to," Fischer said. "Shoot them and be done with it."
Rohde weighed whether or not he should disagree with his officer. Because it was just the two of them out here, without any need for Fischer to save face, Rohde simply said, "We should wait."
Fischer sighed. “You are the sniper.”
He had baited the trap. In comparison, waiting was the easy part. Rohde was prepared to stay there all day if necessary.
The afternoon wore on. To his surprise, he heard Fischer breathing deeply beside him. The captain had fallen asleep.
Rohde's bladder was getting full to the point of bursting. Tired of the distraction, and not wanting to leave his sniper’s nest, he allowed himself to urinate where he lay. A puddle of warm liquid oozed out from beneath him and the smell of his own piss filled his nostrils. His bodily functions satisfied, he re-focused his full attention on the view through the telescopic sight.
The sun passed its zenith. The Americans lost patience. One of them broke from the hedgerow and ran toward his wounded companions, clutching a rifle in one hand and a canteen in the other.
Rohde tracked him through the scope, leading him just a little. Then he pulled the trigger and the American fell.
He worked the bolt, shot the first wounded man. Worked the bolt, and shot the second. Beside him, Fischer jerked awake as if he'd been shot himself.
The American squad fired blindly, bullets zipping through the grass. They had not figured out where he was, but he wasn't taking any chances of getting hit by a lucky shot.
"Come on," he said to Fischer, who was still addled with sleep, and started to back away, slithering out of his position, staying on his belly. Fischer didn't need to be told twice.
They retreated until they reached another hedgerow, and buried themselves in it. Safely on the other side of the field now, they straightened up and started down the road toward where their unit was holding the line against the Allied advance.
Fischer glanced at Rohde's wet trousers and wrinkled his nose. "Uggh. You've pissed yourself," Fischer remarked.
"I can always dry out my trousers, sir." Now that they were back among the Wehrmacht forces moving on the road, he was careful to address the Hauptmann properly. "But it's not every day that I can kill Amis."
To count as a kill, each one of Rohde's victories had to be verified independently. He was glad that the Hauptmann had come along today.
Fischer shook his head. "You are collecting dead men as if they were stamps. Why are you so worried about keeping score?"
"Do I need to tell you, sir?" Rohde gave him one of those puppy grins. Even Fischer found it disarming. "You must know."
"You and your Iron Cross," Captain Fischer said. "I doubt that any of us will live long enough to see that medal pinned on you."
"You can always send it home to my family, sir," Rohde said. "In any case, that was three more for me today."
Fischer snorted. Rohde was one of the few soldiers he had ever encountered who openly lobbied for a medal. The Iron Cross was Germany’s decoration for heroism on the battlefield. The medal was worn over the left pocket of the unifor
m tunic—over the heart. A soldier who wore the Iron Cross commanded respect.
Only one medal was more prestigious, and that was the Knight’s Cross, worn at the throat. Enlisted men didn’t have a chance at that.
As soon as Rohde had the sniper rifle in his hands, he had made his intentions clear that he would shoot as many of the enemy as it took to win the Iron Cross. While it was unusual for a soldier to announce that he sought to earn such a medal, in Fischer’s mind it made it clear that Rohde was a committed soldier. Anyway, whatever made Rohde look good, made Fischer look good. He had done the right thing by making him the unit's Jäger.
Fischer clapped him on the shoulder. "You are too much, Rohde. Go get yourself something to eat." He wrinkled his nose. "And for God's sake, get out of those pants."
"Yes, sir. But first I want to swing through some of the farm country behind us and scout it out."
"Suit yourself," Fischer said. "Always hunting, aren't you, Rohde?"
With a nod, Rohde slipped off into the fields to explore some of the surrounding farms.
It did not hurt that his reconnoitering would take him past the farm of the French girl whose bed he had been sharing the past few weeks.
He wouldn't come out and say it to the Hauptmann, but it was no secret that the Germans were steadily giving up ground. What looked to be peaceful fields would soon be a battleground, and Rohde knew that knowing the ground would only work to his advantage.
When the Allied advance arrived in force, Rohde would be ready to add even more notches to his rifle stock.
Chapter Six
Three weeks earlier
Lisette remembered well that summer day when she had met her German soldier.
