by David Healey
Since coming ashore on D-Day, Cole had grappled with a whole whirlwind of emotions, from fear to anger to loss. He had seen too many good men die.
But now he felt a gnawing doubt. Somewhere out there was a German sniper who had almost killed him today. Cole felt like he'd been lucky. What if they met again? What about the next German sniper? Had Cole just been lucky all this time in France? Luck eventually burned out, like a candle.
The question was, had Cole's luck truly run out, or had he simply met his match today?
He was half drunk now, and dizzy with exhaustion. On the way to the door, he shoved a soldier out of the way. The man rounded on him angrily, saw the expression on Cole's face, and walked away. Cole had shoved a man, but it felt like he was shoving the thoughts out of his mind.
Cole was a survivor. He had grown up in a mountain shack without electricity or running water. He had known cold and hunger. Yet he had endured.
He thought of his pa, who had every trait in common with a rattlesnake when he'd been drinking corn liquor. When he was sober, pa had taught him what it meant to survive in the mountains. His knowledge was considerable. If he'd been born a hundred years earlier, pa would have been a real mountain man like the Coles who had come before. Instead, he had mostly been a moonshiner, but pa had known more about the woods and mountains than anyone alive.
Pa had always said that when you were cold, when there were miles to go, when maybe there was something tracking you instead of the other way around, well, you could whine and be afraid all you wanted. Being afraid didn't do a bit of good. The mountain sure as hell didn't give a damn.
"You got to get your dander up, boy. You want to live, you got to fight."
Cole thought about that now.
"I'll get that son of a bitch and nail his Nazi hide to the barn door."
Vaccaro snorted. "Look at you, Cole. You're a mess. You can hardly walk, and you want to go after the Kraut who did this to you? You are one crazy son of a bitch."
Cole couldn't argue with that. He spread some blankets on the ground and tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he relived that moment of getting hit. Finally, he just lay awake, thinking of the mountains back home.
Chapter Fourteen
"Ah, there you are, Rohde."
"Yes, sir."
Captain Fischer had sent for him, which was worrisome. He suspected that Fischer would either want to scold him for some perceived infraction or send him on some hare-brained mission.
He felt tired after hunkering in the barn most of the day before, and while he had certainly winged the American sniper who had, by good fortune, ended up in Rohde's sights, he had not killed him outright as he had hoped. Of course, without corroboration, there would have been no credit for killing the American sniper.
Rohde had already made his report, and was thinking about working a different sector today. Considering that the countryside was crawling with Allied troops, there was no shortage of targets.
When he entered the command post, he was surprised to find that Fischer was not alone. With him was a Waffen SS officer whom Rohde did not recognize, a man who was rather short and rotund to be an SS officer. He was also old enough to be Rohde's father, or even Fischer's father, for that matter. This was no battle squad leader, yet he managed to project an air of self-satisfied competence, not unlike a Zurich banker.
Normally, Rohde was casual with Fischer, but in the presence of the SS officer he came to attention and saluted smartly.
"At ease, Rohde. This is Major Dorfmann from the Skorpion unit," Fischer explained. "He is the man responsible for the Luftpost."
Rohde was familiar with the Luftpost; it was the equivalent of the weekly newspaper for soldiers at the front.
Rohde eyed both officers with apprehension. The major might be a journalist, but an SS officer was an SS officer. Rohde shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, wondering what Fischer and Dorfmann wanted with him. He decided that he would find out soon enough.
While he appreciated the fact that Captain Fischer had taken him under his wing and encouraged him as a sniper, Rohde well understood that Fischer was, in part, motivated by self-interest. Whatever his star sniper accomplished also reflected well on the captain. Rohde had the uncomfortable feeling of being something of a status symbol, like a fine racehorse or hunting dog.
Fischer had not come up through the rank and file, but had essentially been born into the officer's corp. He was from a wealthy family that was more than likely quite used to owning a stable of fine horses and hunting dogs. Yet what happened to a horse that was no longer useful? The lucky ones got put out to pasture. More often than not, they were trundled off to the slaughterhouse for whatever value could be gotten from their hides, hooves, and meat. Aristocrats such as Fischer were not much given to sentiment where profit was involved. Rohde was sure that he would be favored only as long as he was useful.
"Yesterday, you said that you encountered an American sniper. One with some insignia painted on his helmet," Fischer said.
"Yes, sir. That would be correct."
Rohde was on his guard. He had only mentioned the insignia in passing, yet the captain seemed to be making a big deal out of it. He wondered where this was going, and why the captain cared so much about one enemy soldier. Normally, the captain was only interested in numbers. How many Rohde had shot, not who. The battlefield was nothing if not anonymous. What could be so special about one man? Rohde guessed that he was about to find out.
The captain turned to the SS officer. "Major?"
The SS officer stepped forward. In his hand was a newspaper, but not the familiar Luftpost. The newspaper was folded to isolate a headline and article, which, to Rohde's surprise, was written in English. He recognized the language, although he couldn't speak a word of it. There was also a photograph accompanying the article. With a nod, the SS officer invited him to take a closer look. What Rohde saw was a grainy black and white photograph on newsprint, but it was detailed enough. The photograph revealed a lean, fox-like face under the American helmet, on the front of which was painted the same insignia he had seen on the sniper's helmet yesterday.
"Does that soldier look familiar?" the officer asked.
"I don't know that I would recognize the face, sir," Rohde said carefully. "However, his helmet had the same insignia."
The captain and major exchanged a knowing glance.
"It is not unit insignia," the captain said, turning back to his sniper. "At least, not from this war! It is a flag. I would not expect you to know American history, Rohde, so let me enlighten you. This is what is known as a Confederate flag, the symbol of rebellious forces during the American Civil War. Some Americans from the South still favor this symbol, known as 'the Stars and Bars,' as a nod to their heritage."
"Yes, sir," Rohde said when the captain looked at him expectantly. Rohde still had no clue what this was about.
"The sniper in the newspaper article has such a flag painted on his helmet," the SS major added helpfully. "This is the sniper that you shot yesterday."
"I wounded him, sir. That is correct."
Rohde peered intently at the article, but could puzzle out nothing else. His English was marginal at best. Like most German soldiers, he could understand and speak a smattering of English words. The spoken languages were similar in some ways. Reading anything written in English was another matter.
The SS major saw him looking. "Do you know English, Rohde?"
"No sir."
"No matter," the SS major said in a dismissive tone that made Rohde dislike him immediately. "I will summarize it for you. This sniper is called Micajah Cole, and he is from the Appalachian Mountains. These are much like our own Hartz Mountains. He is what the Americans call a hillbilly. He was quite the hunter growing up, according to the article."
"What does this have to do with me, sir?"
"I am getting there, Rohde! Let me finish. This article was written by a famous American journalist named Ernie Pyle. He likes
to go among the troops and write about their struggles to encourage the people back home. You might call him something of a pastoralist, like Goethe. His epic poem Hermann and Dorothea comes to mind."
Here the major paused and looked at Fischer, as if Rohde would have no idea what he was talking about. Truth be told, he did not know the poem. One could not be German and not have heard of Goethe, but that was the limit of Rohde's knowledge. The smug officer had a pale, fat forehead and Rohde could not resist imagining the satisfaction it would give him to put a bullet hole in the center of it.
"Ah, Goethe," Fischer said, putting a vague but fond look on his face. The SS major seemed satisfied with Fischer's show of literary appreciation, but Rohde was not convinced. The only thing that Rohde had ever seen the captain read intently were pornographic French magazines.
Rohde was not as dim as the major seemed to think. He could see where this was going. "That is the sniper I wounded. I shot their hero."
The major's face lit up. "You did, indeed. Well done, Rohde! It is my role to exploit opportunities such as this. You see, we publish a newspaper in English that is dropped by the Luftwaffe over the American forces, in order to share our viewpoint with them. We even put it in artillery shells for special delivery, ha, ha, so that copies are scattered behind enemy lines. We call it Lightning News: Condensed News for Service Men. Nothing over the top, you know, but enough to plant a seed of doubt in their minds. Subtle but effective, you see. It has been a very successful campaign."
The major showed him a copy of a newspaper with a front-page photograph that showed an American GI kissing a girl, with the famous Big Ben clock tower in the background. The prettiness of the girl got Rohde's attention. "This was our most recent issue. Very popular! I've been told that some of the English troops we captured last week were carrying copies, ha, ha! The article here is about Americans in England stealing all the local girls while the English boys are off doing the fighting."
"Is it true?" Rohde blurted out.
The very idea of GIs stealing the local girls made him indignant, even if he wasn't English.
The major laughed, clearly pleased with himself. "See, that is exactly the result I am going for! The English troops will now be jealous of the Americans and mistrust them. Two weeks ago, the front page article was about blacks and Jews making love to all the lonely girls back home in America. The article simply nurtures what some GIs already suspected, you see. Where there is a seed of doubt, we water it. We confirm their nagging fears. My next issue is going to be about you shooting their heroic sniper."
The major invited him to sit, and for the next thirty minutes he peppered Rohde with questions about everything from his boyhood upbringing to his tactics. Rohde answered carefully, not wanting to seem anything less than a loyal German. The major seemed a little disappointed that Rohde did not have a sweetheart back home.
"No one writes you letters? What is wrong with our young girls?" he demanded, then sighed. "They are not doing their part. Not to worry, I will give you a nice girl back home named Heidi, or maybe Greta.”
Rohde did not tell him about the French girl, of course.
When the interview ended, the major called in a photographer. He had Rohde pose with his rifle, and also with an American combat helmet on which was painted a Confederate flag.
"How did you get this from him?" Rohde asked in wonder.
"Do you think that this is actually the American's helmet? Wonderful! Keep thinking that! There, hold it up like a trophy!"
The camera flash popped again and again, until Rohde's eyes danced with spots.
When the photo session was finished, the major gathered his notes and patted Rohde on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Rohde. You are going to be famous!"
“Sir, will this be in the Luftpost and the Vőlkischer Beobachter?" Rohde asked. The second newspaper was the official publication of the Nazi party, distributed nationwide.
"We will start by informing the enemy so that they fear you," Major Dorfmann said. "This story will be distributed to the Allies in my Lightning News. That is the priority."
"May I add something to the interview, Herr Major?"
The major seemed puzzled at first, but then flipped to a blank page in his notebook and looked indulgently at Rohde. "Of course."
"You did not ask me why I want to be the best sniper possible."
"Maybe you should be the journalist, ha, ha," the major said. "But I think I know your answer. Why, you wish to serve the Fatherland, of course! And to make your parents proud."
Rohde stiffened. "My parents are already proud of both their sons."
The major looked knowingly at Fischer, and then back at Rohde. It was clear that he knew all about Rohde's older brother. Had Fischer told him, or did the whole goddamn SS know? "This article is for the Allies. They know nothing about your brother. Besides, your brother may have deserted, but you are a hero for the Fatherland."
"My brother was not a deserter,” Rohde said coldly.
The SS major blinked, at a loss for words for the first time. Captain Fisher spoke up, breaking the uncomfortable silence. He sounded annoyed that his star sniper had been impertinent with the SS major. "The major here is writing about you, Rohde, not your brother. Come now, have some sense. You are doing this for the Fatherland and your parents, and leave it at that."
"And for one more thing, sir," Rohde said.
"What's that?" the major asked, his perpetual smile growing thin.
"I want to win the Iron Cross."
Relieved, the major grinned widely at that answer. "That's the spirit, Rohde! Ha, ha! Kill this American sniper and I shall put a story about you on the front page of Vőlkischer Beobachter that will be read in Berlin by the leader himself!"
Chapter Fifteen
To his surprise, Rohde found that in the wake of the interview with the SS major that he was more excited than he might have expected. It was not the prospect of being on the front page of a newspaper going out to enemy troops that enthused him so much as the thought of being noticed by one enemy soldier in particular—the sniper that he had wounded in the field.
Given the vagaries of the battlefield, they might never meet again. Major Dorfmann's newspaper would pour salt in the enemy sniper's wound and doubt upon his soul.
He had seen that sniper shoot, and the American was very good. If they ever did encounter one another in the field, Rohde was certain that he would now have the mental edge over the American.
The SS major had said that the American journalist Ernie Pyle had made this Cole into a hero. Now, he would be a tarnished hero, having been bested by a German sniper. With a single bullet, Rohde had shown him what was what and given him a taste of German superiority. Rohde had definitively answered the question of who was the better man.
Most of all, the article left him excited by the prospect of being noticed by someone other than Captain Fischer. The article was not the Iron Cross, but it was an affirmation of Rohde's talents. His coveted medal might very well follow.
What if he did get put into the Berlin news and the paper crossed the desk of none other than Hitler himself? It was a daydream, of course, but it could clinch the Iron Cross for him.
How he ached for that bit of metal. The other soldiers sometimes joked about an Iron Cross being worth no more than a few pfennig. And yet, it was so much more than a piece of cheap tin. In Rohde's mind, the Iron Cross represented respect and redemption. He did not doubt his older brother, but others did. Winning the Iron Cross would put those doubts to rest for once and for all. The Iron Cross was not just for Dieter or for Carl; the medal would be for them both.
Carl had been six years older. The family had lived just outside Mannheim—so far, the family home had been spared destruction by Allied air raids. His father worked in one of the factories that the British bombers were so intent on destroying. Many of the small city's beautiful old buildings were now ruined or damaged, including the Mannheim Palace that had once been home to German aristocrat
s and whose grand architecture had been the pride of the city. He could not quote poetry, but he knew what Goethe had said about architecture being frozen music. He remembered how he and Carl had both been awed by the palace as boys; it was likely a ruin now, another vestige of childhood.
Dieter thought back to those years before the war. If he and Carl had been closer in age, there might have been more competition, more of a sibling rivalry, and thus different feelings toward his brother. But a difference in age of six years between two boys is vast. It meant that Carl was always the bigger and stronger one. The one that Dieter could look up to. And Carl looked out for him. He had even shown Dieter how to shave.
Once, an older boy had gotten it into his head to pick on Dieter, as boys will do. There was no real rhyme or reason for it. It started with some name-calling and shoving in the schoolyard. Dieter was no coward, but when he squared off against the bigger boy, whose name was Lenerz, Dieter did not have a chance. The older boy must have outweighed him by forty pounds and was a good fifteen centimeters taller. Dieter went home that day with a fat lip and a black eye, but it was mostly his pride that was wounded.
"Who did this to you?" Carl wanted to know.
"Never mind," Dieter said. The last thing he wanted to be was a tattletale, especially to his brother. He could fight his own battles. "It doesn't matter."
"Was it that fat bastard Lenerz?"
Dieter just shrugged.
"I thought so. He is my age! He ought to know better than to go around picking on you—or anybody else, for that matter."
That was all that Carl said about it. But the next day at school, it was Lenerz who had a fat lip and a black eye. He never again so much as looked in Dieter's direction.
It was simply Carl's nature to stick up for others. He was indignant on behalf of the underdog, whether it was his little brother or a war-torn nation. Germany had seen itself as the underdog, and so naturally, Carl had come to its defense, like so many other young men.
