Iron Sniper: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Twelve

In the barn, Rohde watched in disbelief as his first shot missed when the American leaped up. He worked the bolt, tried to hold the sight on the running man, and fired just as the American danced to the left. He fired and missed. He was still getting the sights lined up when the soldier dived into the brush surrounding a rocky place in the field.

The rock was hardly bigger than a bushel basket, but it was enough to give the sniper cover. Rohde muttered a curse, then noticed a bit of khaki-colored uniform showing above the rock. It was hard to tell just what he was looking at — part of an arm, maybe, or maybe a shoulder.

Rohde set his sights on that target and fired.

When the German sniper in the barn fired again, Cole felt the bullet strike like somebody punching him in the arm. His body went numb at the impact and he hugged the shelter of the rock, willing his body to shrink behind it. Then the pain began, the searing agony of a million raw nerve endings.

Cole had not been shot before. The closest approximation he could imagine to what he felt now was having someone drive a hot railroad spike into his upper arm.

He couldn't decide if he was scared, or just pissed off. Maybe a little of both. What he did know what that it hurt like hell.

Trying not to move more than necessary, Cole inspected the damage. Despite the pain, one glance told him that he was lucky. The bullet had cut a groove into the flesh and muscle of his upper left arm, almost like a slash. Blood ran down his arm and puddled in the humus of decayed leaves. Within a few minutes, the worst of the bleeding stopped.

Still, it hurt like a son of a bitch.

He knew he ought to shoot back. He knew that he had to shoot back. But the truth was, that he was spooked. His mind told his arms to raise the rifle, put the scope to his eye, and look for a target. But his body would not obey.

He froze up.

His mind was still going, though. He thought about the fact that his shoulder hadn't exactly been a big target.

Maybe the German had just gotten lucky.

Or, maybe the sniper in the barn was that damn good.

Rohde watched carefully for movement, but when he saw none, he relaxed his grip on the rifle and eased away from the gable window of the barn. He doubted that he had killed the American, but neither was the American going to forget him anytime soon.

That was a damn fine shot, he heard his dead brother's voice say.

That one was for you, Carl. I wanted to prove that the Rohde brothers are true soldiers.

Now, Rohde considered his options. He could wait to finish off the American, or he could move on. Staying in any one location for too long was a death sentence. He was already spooked by the thought of more Americans creeping into the barn. Time to go.

Where else would he hunt today? Yesterday he had done well and added several notches to the stock of his K98, but that was yesterday; today was a new day. A new opportunity.

He listened again for the sound of any intruders creeping up on him, but could only hear the birds twittering on, busy with the business of gathering food, mating, and raising their young, oblivious to the politics and ambitions of humankind. Survival was enough. Rohde understood.

Rohde crept back down the ladder and out of the barn, slipping away into the woods and fields, moving in the opposite direction from where he had last seen any American troops.

If he wanted an Iron Cross, he had to survive to hunt another day.

No more than a few minutes had passed since he’d been grazed in the head, but it felt like an eternity to Cole.

He kept his eye on the road, wondering if the American squad had moved off. What about Vaccaro?

His question was answered when he saw a figure emerge through the same hole in the hedge that he had used. If that sniper was still in the barn, and Vaccaro walked out into the field, he would be a dead man.

Out on the road, Vaccaro heard that lone shot from the field to his right. His first thought was, sniper. Nobody else took just one shot.

He knew that Cole was out there, but that had not been Cole's rifle. It was funny how after a while, he had gotten to where he could recognize the particular report that the Springfield made.

"Looks like your buddy got him," the captain said, nodding in the direction of the road ahead.

"Yeah, that's what it looks like." Vaccaro was distracted by another shot from the field, then another. Definitely not Cole's rifle. The shots were spaced out, indicating that the shooter was taking time to aim.

"We're going to advance," the captain said. "Our orders are to occupy Saint Dennis de Mere, and I'd like to do that by nightfall. You coming with us?"

"No, I'm gonna wait for Cole," Vaccaro said.

"Suit yourself," the captain said. "I've got to tell you, though, that this whole area is still crawling with Krauts."

"Thanks for the warning," Vaccaro said. "We'll try to take a few out."

"Good luck, soldier. And thanks. You and your buddy saved our bacon."

The captain gave the signal, and the squad began to move out. With the sniper in the copse of trees ahead silenced, there was nothing to impede their advance.

Vaccaro watched them go, and then turned his attention to the field beyond the road. What the hell was going on out there?

Cole had made his way through a gap in the hedgerow, and Vaccaro started to follow. He was just emerging into the field when a shot came out of nowhere and struck the dirt nearby, causing him to dive for cover.

No way was he going into that field now.

Unless he was mistaken, that had been Cole's rifle. He recognized the familiar crack of the Springfield. So now Cole was shooting at him. What the hell?

Cole had fired a couple of feet above Vaccaro's head, causing him to scramble for shelter. He just hoped that Vaccaro got the message to stay clear.

Cole bided his time, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as best he could. Another couple of inches to the right and that bullet would've blown his head clean off.

Damned if it didn't hurt, but all in all he was damn lucky. Of course, it would’ve been even luckier if he hadn’t gotten shot at all.

Was the German sniper still in the barn? He had no way of knowing, so he waited.

Despite the summer day, he began to feel chilled laying in the shadows in the damp field. He finished the water in his canteen, but it wasn't enough. What he would have given for another drink of water.

Now he knew how a wounded animal felt, gone to ground.

He wrapped his hands firmly around his rifle, and dozed to escape the pain gnawing at him.

When he woke, he saw that the shadows across the woods and fields had grown longer. Cole didn't need a watch to tell him it was six o'clock, then seven. When it was dark enough, he crept out from behind the rock and limped toward the road, feeling like a beaten dog.

Vaccaro emerged from the shadows of the hedgerow, where he'd been sitting, rifle across his knees. The squad that they'd rescued had long since moved on.

"Cole, is that you?" Vaccaro asked, alarm plain in the city boy's voice. "Why the hell did you shoot at me?”

“I was tryin’ to keep your fool head from gettin’ blowed off.”

“What the hell happened out there? You said this was supposed to be like a game of hounds and fox."

"Turns out that there was more than one fox," Cole said.

He meant to take another step toward Vaccaro, but found that it turned into a stagger.

Vaccaro caught him, and for the first time noticed the blood soaking Cole's uniform. "You dumbass hillbilly, you went and got yourself shot!"