by David Healey
“I have been saving it," she said. "I thought your men could use it."
Finally, he stood and made his way to the midden pail, bent over, and held up the empty tin of canned ham, known as Schinkenwurst, the German equivalent of what Americans called Spam. The can was clearly stenciled with German markings.
"Where did you get this, Lisette?" he demanded in an accusing tone. Moving closer, he practically shoved the tin in her face.
She thought quickly, studying her brother's hard expression. She had coached the children to keep Dieter’s visits a secret, but she wondered if they had let that secret slip. Was it possible that Henri now knew the truth and was only trying to catch her in a lie? “I traded some eggs for it," she said.
"You traded with Germans?" Henri nearly spat the last word. ”Lisette, what are you thinking? They are the enemy."
Lisette felt relieved that her secret was safe—so far. Yet she was still indignant. “What can I say? The children and I need to eat. It is only a little tin of meat, hardly enough to feed us, let alone you and your friends."
"They are not friends," he corrected her. "They are soldiers fighting for a free France."
Try as she might, Lisette could not equate these shabby, leering men with heroes. "If you say so."
"I do say so," he said. He caught her wrist, squeezing it painfully. He pressed the empty ration can closer to her face, filling her nose with the metallic odor of factory-processed meat. "Listen to me, Lisette. You are playing a dangerous game. Stay away from the Germans. First you start trading eggs, but then who knows what else you might start trading with them? You should see how the girls who collaborated with the Germans are being treated in the areas that have been liberated. I would not want to see that happen to my sister.”
Having made his point, he released his grip.
Lisette snatched back her hand and rubbed her wrist. She could only imagine how angry Henri would be if he knew the truth about her German lover.
Glaring at her, Henri tossed the empty tin back in the midden pail.
He had expected her to be cowed, but Lisette found herself struggling to control her growing anger. She was no longer the little sister that she had been before he left. Henri started to leave the kitchen, but she blocked his path.
“Listen to you, Henri! You go away for a few weeks and suddenly you are full of wisdom? Now you are a hero of France? Let me tell you how it is. You left me here alone to tend this farm and your children. What am I to feed them? None of the neighbors bring me food! They have little enough for themselves. What have you brought me tonight but grief and more mouths to feed?"
If Henri had been angry before, the look of rage brought on by her outburst was all too clear. She stared in disbelief at his raised hand. He slapped her so hard that Lisette staggered back against the sink.
"You don't know what you are saying!" he shouted. Spittle flew from his lips. She had never seen him so angry. "You have not seen the things that I have seen these last few weeks, or done the things that I have done. When I tell you to stay away from the Germans, you had better listen unless you want to end up with a shaved head, or worse!”
“What could be worse?”
“In some places they are banishing the girls who took up with the Germans. Sometimes they are beaten to within an inch of their lives. Is that what you want, Lisette?"
Finally, he dodged around her and headed out the door to join his companions, smoking their cigarettes in the dooryard. Passing around her bottle of wine. The shy one named Stefan gave her a furtive look, like a rat eying the cheese.
Lisette's cheek stung, but one did not grow up on a farm without enduring pain from time to time. This was nothing. She stayed behind in the kitchen, to clean up the mess that her brother and the other men had made. The story of my life, she thought.
She just hoped that she could continue to keep Dieter’s visits a secret from Henri. The war had changed him. What might Henri be capable of, if he discovered the truth about her German soldier? Would he stand by if she was punished in public, or would he join in?
Chapter Twenty
Rohde dodged a couple of SS patrols out looking for French Resistance fighters or perhaps American commandos and made it back to the command post in time for a few hours of sleep.
He was up even earlier than usual on that August morning. Not so much as a hint of sunrise had touched the horizon and no birds sang. The air was heavy with dew and smelled of wet grass and plowed earth. Rohde liked mornings because they were full of promise.
He relieved himself in the slit trench near the command post. After a moment's reflection, he took with him the short-handled camp shovel that had been stuck into a pile of earth to freshen the latrine from time to time. He would need the shovel for what he had planned.
He went back and retrieved his rifle, then took the Zeiss telescopic sight from its protective wooden box and mounted it to the K98. He double-checked the mounts, satisfied that the rifle was ready for action. Rohde's last piece of equipment for the day was a bayonet that he liberated from a bunkmate's gear. There was little use for bayonets on the battlefield, but the 18-inch blade would be perfect for what Rohde had in mind.
He stopped at the barn that served as the unit's mess. There, he grabbed a quick cup of coffee and a roll. A few sleepy men were already starting the business of the day, but none of them so much as acknowledged Rohde.
He hardly noticed that Scheider was not there. Rohde felt no regrets. Scheider had thought that Rohde had let slip some nugget and had been only too eager to ambush the American unit on the road to St. Dennis de Mere. He had not counted on the American sniper coming along, but then again, neither had Rohde.
"Has it gotten so bad that snipers have to dig their own graves now, eh, Rohde?"
He looked up from his coffee and roll in surprise to see that it was the armorer, Hohenfeldt, who had spoken. The armorer pointed at the camp shovel propped against the bench where Rohde sat, then raised his coffee mug in salute, as if it were a beer stein. The slight sneer and tone of his voice belied the gesture. "You are up very early. It is good to see that you are so eager to get busy shooting Amis. You are getting quite the reputation."
"No thanks to you," Rohde said.
"Whatever do you mean?" Hohenfeldt asked with an air of mock innocence.
"I might not have to get up so early if you would just give me that damn Gewehr 43 you're so attached to."
Hohenfeldt snorted. "I am not the only one attached to something. I hear that you are quite attached to some French girl in the countryside nearby."
Rohde paused with a chunk of bread halfway to his mouth. "That is none of your damn business."
Where in the world had Hohenfeldt heard about Lisette? Rohde knew well that you were never really alone in the countryside. Sentries and patrols might have seen him coming and going from Lisette's place. Soldiers loved to gossip. It was not against regulations to have a French girlfriend. Visiting her when he should have been on duty was another matter, however.
"I only make the point that you have your girlfriend, and I have my rifle."
"They are hardly one and the same," Rohde said.
"Maybe, and maybe not," he said. Hohenfeldt fixed him with a knowing smile and pushed back from the table, preparing to leave. "You just let me know if you ever want to trade."
Rohde watched the armory sergeant go, without comment. Old Hohenfeldt could be trying to undermine him somehow, or he could just be busting his balls—annoying, to be sure, but ultimately harmless. The question was, which game was Hohenfeldt playing at?
Rohde had no time to think about that now. He wanted to get out in the field under cover of darkness. Hohenfeldt had been right when he'd said that Rohde wanted to get busy hunting Americans. What he did not know was that Rohde had one particular American in mind.
The hillbilly sniper.
He shouldered his rifle and trudged away from the command post in the pre-dawn light. The few sentries that he passed mum
bled a greeting or simply nodded at him. Within twenty minutes he had left the more secure areas behind and was in the countryside. The Americans had not penetrated this far yet in their advance. Not yet, at any rate. In other day or two, they would be reaching this territory.
When they did, Rohde would be waiting.
He began to scrutinize his surroundings with the practiced eye of a sniper. Trees grew at intervals along the roads, and any one of them would have made a good perch. He paid special attention to the farm buildings he passed, mostly small cottages and stone barns, seeking out the advantages of each one, and just as quickly dismissing them. Instinctively, Rohde wished to avoid trees or buildings. He did not wish to become trapped, but preferred open country where he could move.
He pressed on, moving deeper into the countryside as the light grew in the east. The red rim of the sun appeared on the horizon like a bloodshot eye. The landscape was still full of shadows, and if any hostile eyes were watching, his camouflage uniform enabled him to pass through relatively unseen.
Rohde soon found what he was looking for. He found one such field, perhaps measuring 25 hectares and ringed by a scrubby hedgerow, out of which grew a few taller trees. Judging by the tall grass, this seemed to be a hay field. The war had created a shortage of farm workers, and this field had not been kept as tidy as it should. Brush and tall weeds encroached from a corner near the hedgerow, where it was difficult for the horse-drawn scythe to reach, and the field had gone untended. The farmer's loss was Rohde's gain.
The fields here near Argentan were much larger than the ones nearer to Normandy. Anyone crossing this field would be badly exposed. Praying that no enemy snipers were about, Rohde stepped into the field to get his bearings.
To catch a mouse, one needed cheese ...
As a general rule, a sniper did not have the luxury of creating his hide, but had to adapt to his surroundings. He had to blend into them to be most effective.
He remembered the test they had been given during sniper training. The trainees were sent out into a no-man's land. There, they were told to set up their hides. The instructor kept watch, and anyone he saw was "out"—in combat, they would have been dead, picked off by the enemy. Rohde had dug himself a shallow hole and managed to stay hidden until the instructor had called them in. Rohde had turned out to be one of the last men who had managed to stay hidden from the instructor’s eyes. Fortunately, he had drank little and eaten sparingly that morning. The lesson had been simple, but it had stuck with Rohde. Beyond a rifle, a sniper's best friends were a shovel and patience.
Now that more of the sun was showing through the trees beyond the field, Rohde had enough light to get to work. He placed the rifle within easy reach. Stuck in his belt was the camp shovel. He took it out now and began to dig.
Though the morning was cool, his muscles soon warmed to the work. Breaking through the tangled mesh of roots in the field caused him to break out into an actual sweat. He ended up cutting out blocks of sod and setting them aside. The rich soil itself was easy to remove, and he scattered the shoveled earth across the field so that there would be no telltale piles of soil. Soon, he had shoveled out a depression just deep enough and long enough to hide him from sight.
He stretched out in the hole, then used the shovel to notch out a bit more space for his elbows. Satisfied, he climbed out, brushed off the dirt, and went to work on a narrow trench back toward where brush and shrubs marched out from the hedgerow.
The distance wasn't more than 10 meters, but it was still backbreaking work to cut through the sod with the short-handled camp shovel. Rohde wished that he had thought to bring along a mattock as well. Fortunately, the ditch did not need to be particularly deep. He just needed it to be deep enough that he could writhe his way through it on his elbows and knees. The tall grass would provide the rest of the camouflage.
He cut the ditch toward a clump of multiflora rose. The thick, thorny canes made excellent cover, and yet, through a gap in the rose bush, Rohde had a clear view of the field.
He straightened up and stretched out his back, stiff from digging, and walked toward the hedgerow. There, he spent several minutes hunting for just what he needed—a stout forked branch. He used the bayonet to chop a rough point at the long end and then used the flat of the shovel to drive the branch into the earth in front of the gap in the rose bush. He now had a sturdy rest for his rifle.
That left the final stretch between the rose bush and the hedgerow itself. Rohde took the bayonet and walked some distance away, then began hacking down branches and brush. He dragged them back and used the material to create a screen between the rose bush and the hedgerow. He should be able to move relatively unseen behind it.
Satisfied, he found a gap in the hedgerow itself. At the heart of the hedgerow was an ancient wall made of stone and earth. Trees and brush had grown up around it, anchored by the wall deep within the hedgerow's interior. Rohde burrowed inside the tangled growth until he reached the wall. There was a large, flat stone that made an excellent bench rest. He was able to position himself behind it. With the rifle laid across the stone, he had a solid platform from which to shoot. The view of the field was somewhat obscured by the overhanging branches and wooded growth, but the elevation of the wall offered its own advantages. Also, the vegetation would screen him from the enemy, in that it was easier for him to see out than to be seen within.
Satisfied with his work, he remained hidden inside the hedge long enough to drink half his canteen of water and then smoke a cigarette. The sun was higher now, starting to touch the treetops and reach across the grass. Birds flitted everywhere.
A flash of movement on the ground caught his eye and Rohde reached for his rifle. But he saw that it was only a chipmunk. Nature went about its business, oblivious to the war.
He shook his head, chiding himself for being so careless. He had become so caught up in the work that he had let his guard down. If some enemy soldier had come upon him, Rohde would already be dead. That would have been an ignoble end to his sniping career, to die with a shovel in his hand. He smoked another cigarette, but this time he kept his grip on the rifle.
Rohde's series of holes, ditches, and brush was not exactly elegant, but it was certainly more elaborate than any series of hides he had created before. None of it qualified as any great feat of engineering or even of sniper craft. However, the fact that he had created three separate fallbacks here at the edge of the field went beyond anything he had done before.
To trap a lion, one needed a goat.
Now, all that he needed was the bait. He had just the thing in mind.
Chapter Twenty-One
Later that day, Rohde found Hohenfeldt at work, supervising a couple of teenaged Soldaten taking inventory of the ammunition stocks. The Stabsfeldwebel looked on, clipboard balanced on his heavy belly, sweat dripping off him in the airless tent, as the two Soldaten, shirtless in the heat and slick with sweat, climbed among the stacked crates and called numbers out to him. With camouflaged netting draped over the tent, the air was very close, and the interior of the tent smelled strongly of sweat, sawdust from the ammo crates, and gun oil.
He glanced around for the Gewehr 43, but it was nowhere in sight. That damn old Stabsfeldwebel had hidden it away.
Rohde was determined to get his hands on that Gewehr 43. He would take every advantage that he could as a sniper, and that included a superior weapon. The thought of the American hillbilly sniper loomed large in his mind. Having triumphed over the American sniper once before, he was certain that he could do it again. It would help if he had a new semi-automatic rifle. Having laid his trap, and armed with the Gewehr, all he would have to do was lure in the American sniper.
With the Allied troops about to bear down on the German positions around Perle des Champs, it made sense that every last Panzerfaust and round of 7.92 mm ammunition be accounted for. Already, the troops were being issued extra ammunition beyond the standard 65 rounds. Some grumbled about it because of the added weight, but
those who had been in combat previously knew better than to complain about carrying extra clips of ammo. Soon enough, every bullet might count. The more experienced soldiers crammed every pocket full of ammo.
It was not a lack of ammunition that was causing problems for the Germans, but a lack of air power. On the ground, the Germans had the training and the firepower to hold off twice their number. The Germans sold each acre of French territory dearly. But from the air, they were vulnerable.
"Hey, Hohenfeldt," Rohde called to get the Stabsfeldwebel's attention.
Hohenfeldt turned around and acknowledged Rohde with a put-upon expression. "You don't give up, do you, Rohde? You are still after that rifle. The answer is no. Anyhow, can't you see that I’m busy?"
"Those two poor bastards look busy. Are you trying to give them heat stroke? You look like you're standing around."
"Rohde, it goes without saying that I am a Stabsfeldwebel and you are a Gefreiter. Which means that I outrank you. So piss off, unless you want to help count boxes."
Hohenfeldt turned his attention back to the clipboard. Rohde did not care to be so easily dismissed. He considered how gratifying it would be to put a bullet hole through Hohenfeldt's broad forehead, which was wrinkled now in concentration.
"I am not here to count bullets for you, Staber. I want to talk to you about getting hold of that rifle."
Hohenfeldt sighed audibly. "Get out of here, Rohde!"
"Come now, don't be that way. I think that you will want to hear what I have to say."
"Then what are you waiting for? Say it."
Rohde gave the two sweating soldiers a significant look. "Let's go have a cigarette."
Hohenfeldt couldn't help but be curious. He barked some orders at the two soldiers, and then followed Rohde outside.
Rohde lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Hohenfeldt, who considered it as if it might be booby-trapped, then shook out a cigarette and accepted a light from Rohde.
