by David Healey
Cole never finished the thought. Immediately to his left, he became aware of a metallic rumbling and clanking. Fleeing from Rohde had given him tunnel vision.
He hadn't even noticed that there was a German Tiger tank coming right at him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Weighing fifty tons, a Tiger tank was a formidable beast with armor several inches thick, treads three feet across, and a cannon the size of a tree trunk. The sight of it turned Cole's heart into a trip hammer inside his chest. The thing was churning toward him.
All thoughts of Rohde vanished. Cole had more immediate concerns. Like staying alive for the next sixty seconds.
Against that behemoth, his rifle would be of no more use than a peashooter. The only thing that Cole could think to do was to get out of the way. He dodged right and ran, but it didn't do him much good. Moving in tandem on the Tiger's flank was a second German tank.
Though slower than a Sherman tank, the massive panzers still moved faster than Cole could sprint at top speed. For a fleeting moment, he feared that he would be run over and crushed. He felt like some animal caught trying to cross a backcountry road, hoping to avoid becoming roadkill while some bootlegger's car bore down on him relentlessly.
He had seen more than a few guys run over by tanks. What was left of them resembled persimmon jelly. Oozing in the bottom of a tank track.
Hell of a way to go.
Just then, both tanks clanked to a halt.
It soon became clear why the panzers had stopped. It certainly wasn't to avoid running Cole down. There must be men inside the tanks, but the machines seemed as monstrous to him as a boot must look to an ant.
Above the rumble of the tank engines, he heard the whine of their big guns being positioned. He could see that the guns were elevated too high to be aimed at him. Besides, no panzer crew was going to waste a shell on a lone soldier, sniper or not.
Cole ran harder, thinking that he was going to make it across the field.
That's when the first panzer, the one closest to him, opened fire.
Considering that the 88 mm cannon was no more than fifty feet away, the sensation was like the world was exploding. Flame stabbed from the muzzle. The blast was deafening, so loud that it was like a physical wave washing over him. He actually stumbled.
That's when the second tank fired.
Cole kept running, sensing rather than hearing someone hollering. He realized that the hollering was coming from him. This wasn't a sound of fear, but more like a primal scream of defiance.
When he spotted an old shell hole ahead, he dove down into it.
To his left, he was dimly aware of another ear-splitting cannon blast. He looked in that direction and saw not one, but two Sherman tanks emerge from a copse of brushy, second-growth trees.
The large white stars on the tanks, designating them as U.S. Forces, might even have been a welcome sight if he hadn't been caught practically in the middle of a tank battle.
Cole wished that he could help, but the best that he could do right now was to keep his head down. He reached for his utility belt, thinking to reload—but it wasn't there. He must have lost it somewhere between Lisette's farm and the shell hole. Maybe in that tangle of briers? It was a hell of a thing, but there was no going back to look for it now, which meant that he was down to the bullets in his clip. He had, what, two bullets left?
As he watched, the other Sherman fired, the shell hitting the thickly plated front of the Tiger and karooming off. That was one hell of a ricochet. The sound itself was terrifying, but not nearly as frightening as the thought that the shell from the direct hit had bounced harmlessly off the panzer.
Then the panzer fired again.
This time, the Germans' aim was better. The round hit almost dead center in the turret, peeling back the three-inch armor as easily as a can opener.
Bullseye, Cole thought, mesmerized by the sight.
The game little Sherman bounced on its treads as fire erupted through every seam and joint in the armor plating, like a tin can with a firecracker going off inside. While the German rounds tended to be solid, they had a nasty habit of igniting the fuel supply in the gasoline-powered Sherman tanks. The hatch popped open. Cole understood that tanks held a crew of four, but just one man came out. The German shell must have killed the other three.
The lone escapee from the burning tank was on fire.
Burning gasoline from the detonation had coated his clothes so that he flamed like a six-foot torch. The screaming was awful. He had seen men burn to death before, and knew that death came too slowly.
Cole couldn't bear it. He shot the man, ending the tanker's suffering instantly.
The soldier fell to the ground and lay still, flames licking over him. The sickeningly sweet smell of cooked flesh reached Cole's nostrils.
One bullet left.
Now the tanks opened fire upon each other again, making the air feel as if it was being ripped apart. The noise made it difficult to breathe. He had to get the hell out of there. He was still in the shell hole, so he climbed out and got to his feet.
The three remaining tanks maneuvered for position, the faster and nimbler Sherman trying to get around behind the panzers, where the thinner armor plating gave the Americans some chance of destroying the German tank. Off to the side, Cole felt like a spectator at a football game—only this game had deadly consequences.
That’s when he happened to look across the field and saw a figure looking back at him. Rohde. Had to be. He wore the same camouflage pattern uniform. Cole had damn near forgotten about him in the confusion of the tank battle. But Rohde had not forgotten about him.
As Cole watched, Rohde raised his rifle and aimed in his direction. A bullet snapped past, then another. Wasted shots. Some part of Cole scoffed. Where he came from, you didn't waste a bullet.
Maybe Rohde wasn't as good a shot as everyone made him out to be. Then again, with the semi-automatic sniper rifle, maybe he didn't have to be. Another bullet tore the air, close to Cole's head. Cole’s spine tingled involuntarily. Rohde was walking in his bullets.
Cole did not have that luxury. He had one bullet. One chance. The distance was about 300 feet. Farther than he would have liked for an offhand shot.
He took a breath, held it, and set the crosshairs on the enemy sniper. Another shot zipped past, this one so close that it seemed to pluck at his buttons. He ignored that and blocked out everything, even the grinding tanks, now just yards away.
Cole fired.
Through the scope, he watched Rohde go down.
The hit felt right, but there was no time to make certain that Rohde was dead. No sooner had Cole taken his eye from the scope, then he saw one of the panzers angling right at him with multiple tons of steel and whirring treads. Like an afterthought, the panzer opened up with its machine gun, plowing the ground in front of him.
Cole did the smart thing, and ran.
His only thought was to get out of that killing field. Away from those tanks. Another hedgerow loomed ahead. He didn't know what was on the other side, but he was hopeful that it wouldn't be more German tanks.
Out of the corner of his eye, he detected more movement. He looked to his left. There must have been fifty German soldiers following in the wake of the panzers. Two of the soldiers spotted him and peeled away from the rest, running to get between Cole and the hedge, seemingly intent on capturing him.
Cole was glad that they hadn't decided to shoot him outright. But they were on a fool's errand if they thought that they were going to capture him. Cole had no intention of sitting out the rest of the war in some POW camp. Never mind the fact that he didn't like his chances if he got caught with a sniper rifle. Captured snipers on both sides had a funny habit of not making it to the rear.
Right now, that sniper rifle was out of ammo. He wished that he had stuffed a few clips in his pockets and not put it all in that goddamn utility belt. But like his pa used to say, shit in one hand and wish in the other, and see which one fills up f
irst.
His only weapon was the Bowie knife. It didn't seem like much use against a German MP-40.
The soldiers ran faster, closing in on their quarry. The angle that they had been running at meant that they had less distance to cover to reach the hedge, and now they were between Cole and relative safety. The two were so close now that he could make out the details of their faces. They looked young but weather-beaten. Peachy stubble on their chins. Excitement lit their eyes. He noticed that one set of eyes was blue; the other was brown.
Both raised their weapons, expecting Cole to stop.
He charged toward them, his hand reaching for the antler handle of the Bowie knife. Cole let go of a rebel yell, high and keening, that froze both Germans in their tracks. The sound of it sent a shiver up his own spine.
He ran full tilt into the soldier on the right. The German was bigger than Cole, but Cole's momentum knocked the German off his feet. His helmet and his weapon went flying in different directions.
To his left, Cole heard the other German shouting something, waving the MP-40 at him. The German could have touched the trigger and killed him with a single burst, but still seemed intent on capturing him. Besides, if he fired now, he had an equal chance of killing the other German along with Cole. Cole crouched and pivoted, grabbing the muzzle and pointing it away with his left hand. In his right hand was the knife. The German's eyes got big at the sight of it. Cole had intended to stab him in the throat, but at the last instant he turned the knife and hit the German across the bridge of the nose with the brass guard. That German went down too.
Cole ran on, expecting at any moment to feel a bullet punch between his shoulder blades. He ran fifty feet, and it felt like he was running a marathon.
Then he was in among the thick branches of the hedge, worming his way deeper through the tangle. The hedge was practically impenetrable, but Cole had no choice but to fight his way through. Dead branches clawed at his face and ripped his clothes. His rifle got tangled up, but he managed to yank it free with such force that the shoulder strap snapped.
He kept going until he burst through the far side of the hedge. He jumped the last few feet and landed in a heap.
He was in a new field. But he wasn't alone.
A whole squad of troops was looking at him in disbelief. One or two pointed weapons at him, but no one fired.
He saw at once they weren't Germans. They weren't Americans, either.
Still on his knees from his ignominious arrival in the field, Cole raised his hands, not sure what the hell he had gotten himself into.
Then a very large soldier stepped forward and offered Cole a paw the size of a catcher's mitt.
Not sure what else to do, Cole took it, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.
"American?" the man asked in passable English.
"As Yankee Doodle," Cole replied.
That seemed to please the big soldier, who grinned. "We are the 1st Polish Division," he explained. "We are part of the trap closing in on the Germans. The English are coming at them from the west, and your forces along with ours are coming at them from the east."
It was no surprise to Cole that a big fight was brewing, but he had thought that the real action was going to be a little farther to the west. Having survived the last few minutes, his thoughts turned to Lisette with her little niece and nephew, who were about to find themselves in the middle of a battlefield.
The Polish soldier interrupted Cole's thoughts. "What is on the other side of this hedge?" he asked. "You seemed in a hurry to get away."
"German panzers and at least a couple dozen troops that I could see. Maybe more."
"Well, we will wait for them to go by. We need the element of surprise to complete the encirclement. Meanwhile, I hope that I have answered your questions."
"I got just one more," Cole said. He nodded at the vehicles parked nearby. "Can I borrow one of them Jeeps?"
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rohde touched his side, then took his hand away, staring in disbelief at the blood running off his fingers. The sight of so much blood—his own blood—instantly made him feel lightheaded. Fear gripped him. Was he going to die?
He inspected the wound, noting the spreading stain across his tunic. If he could just get some help, perhaps he would be saved. He was still on his feet, after all.
"Just a scratch, Carl," he said, trying to reassure his brother, whose presence he suddenly felt. The bullet wound was much more than a scratch, but he did not want his brother to worry. "I will be fine."
Soldiers swarmed around him, rushing alongside the tanks moving to attack the American forces. He cursed the American sniper who had shot him. Deep down, Rohde had to admit that the man was good. But if he'd been better, Rohde would already be dead. If only the attack hadn't come between them, perhaps Rohde would have had another chance at the American sniper. Who was the better man? Now, it seemed like he would never know.
"Medic!" Rohde shouted, glancing around desperately for one of their white helmets. Sometimes the medics also wore white tunics emblazoned with a red cross, making them look like medieval knights. None was in sight. "I need a medic!"
He tried to stop a soldier who was running past.
"You there, get me a medic!"
The soldier was young, hardly more than a boy, and looked terrified. His new uniform marked him as a recent replacement. "Are you hurt?" he asked stupidly. Then he saw Rohde's wound and his eyes grew big. The soldier’s reaction told Rohde what he already knew.
A sergeant pushed between them. He gave the young soldier a shove. "Go! Go!" He turned to Rohde. "He can't help you, you damn idiot. Get to the rear, assuming we still have one. Or better yet, surrender to the Amis. You'd better throw away that sniper rifle first if you do that."
Then the sergeant ran on, rejoining the assault. Within a minute, Rohde was alone on the field.
Or not quite alone. Several other wounded men lay there, along with a burning Sherman tank. A charred body lay near the tank, still smoldering. Rohde detected the horrible smell of burned human flesh.
Quickly, Rohde made up his mind that he would not surrender. Prisoners of war did not receive the Iron Cross. He still held out some dim hope that the medal might be his. More than that, he'd be damned if he would give up the Gewehr 43 rifle that had cost him so much. His only choice was to do as the sergeant had suggested, which was to make his way to the rear.
What he needed was some sulfa powder, some clean bandages—and a drink of water. Then he'd be as good as new. At least, that is what he told himself.
Rohde slipped his arm through the sling of the rifle and started toward where he thought the rear must be located. He hadn't gone more than a hundred meters when he stopped. With each step, his insides threatened to leak out of the gunshot wound. He pressed a hand against it to keep everything in. His fingers could not stop the blood, however. No way was he going to reach the rear.
And there was no guarantee that he would find any help there. The final fight for Falaise had left the entire countryside in turmoil. The German field hospital could be a mile away. Or it might no longer exist.
However, Lisette’s cottage was not that far away. She would have bandages and water. There, he could patch himself up enough to rejoin his own forces.
He turned around.
"No, Carl, she's not going to be happy to see me," he agreed. "I will get some bandages and be on my way. And something to drink. I am awfully thirsty."
Painfully, Rohde recrossed the field, careful to avoid the burned body and the flaming ruins of the tank. Even from a distance, on a summer day, he felt the heat radiating from the furiously burning hulk. This time, he definitely smelled the bodies in the flames. The smell caught in his throat and made him want to gag.
He entered the woods through which he had chased the American sniper not more than twenty minutes ago. His side definitely felt as if something was trying to squeeze out. He pressed harder, causing yet more blood to ooze between his fingers.
He had to get some bandages on that wound, and fast.
Each step seemed harder and harder. The thought occurred to him that if he simply lay down here among the trees, his body might go undiscovered forever.
More blood leaked out of him, now almost black in color. Rohde realized that he was probably dying.
He paused and leaned against a tree. The woods felt peaceful.
"It wasn't like this for you, was it, Carl? They tied you to a post and made you wear a blindfold. Those SS bastards. I know that you were not a deserter. You were no coward."
When he looked up through the branches at the sky, everything seemed to circle and swirl above him. Black spots swam in his vision and fear came flooding back. He did not want to die. He pushed away from the tree and forced himself to keep going. As long as he kept moving, there was still some hope.
Then the farmhouse came into sight. There was the body of the American by the water trough. Farther off, Hauptmann Fischer still lay slumped across the low stone wall where they had lain in ambush. Otherwise, the farmhouse and surrounding barnyard appeared quiet and untouched.
As he approached the house, he was still fifty meters away when Lisette's old dog spotted him and barked a warning.
Inside the cottage, Lisette had been trying to calm everyone down. Just twenty minutes before, the two American soldiers had gone walking out the kitchen door, only to be shot at.
"Do you think that the soldiers are still out there?" Madame Pelletier asked, clutching the front of her sweater in one hand.
"No, I saw them run off."
Madame Pelletier did not look relieved. She sank into a kitchen chair, apparently with no thoughts of returning to her own home down the road. Who could blame her, now that the war had come to their little corner of the countryside?
"I should be going," Madame Pelletier said half-heartedly, as if reading Lisette's mind.
"Please stay here and help with the children," Lisette said, knowing full well that the old woman would accept. "In a little while, we shall have something to eat."
