Iron Sniper: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Sixteen

"Look at this shit," Vaccaro said, holding up a copy of a newspaper. The paper was new and smelled strongly of fresh ink, unlike the stale newspapers that made it to the front. They were bivouacked not far from the command post, relaxing in the shade cast by a stone wall. "This is that Lightning News we keep finding around. I know the Krauts must write it, but at least it's something to read. It doesn't make bad ass wipe, either."

"You know I don't waste my time on them newspapers," Cole said.

Cole was busy cleaning his rifle, and Vaccaro stopped talking long enough to watch. Vaccaro was convinced that Cole had the cleanest rifle in the Army. His own weapon was fortunate to get wiped down with an oily rag just in time to keep the rust at bay. The lessons of basic training had not stuck with him.

In contrast, Cole polished the bolt action and chamber so lovingly that it was almost like he was stroking a lover. Cole was the kind of person who focused on a task and blocked out everything else. In fact, if it hadn't been for that business with Jolie Molyneaux, Vaccaro might have thought that Cole was more interested in guns than women.

"So you don't read newspapers, huh? What happens when you need to know something?"

"I know plenty," Cole said. "If there's any news I missed, then I reckon you'll tell me whether I want to hear it or not."

"Well, you ought to take a look at this."

"City Boy, I done told you—"

Before Cole could protest further, Vaccaro thrust the newspaper at him. "Recognize anything?"

Left without much choice due to the newspaper interposed between himself and the rifle, Cole looked. As usual, the words made as much sense to him as bird tracks across the page.

He still hadn't told Vaccaro that he could not read. Not for the first time, he regretted never having ventured into the one-room schoolhouse that was only a five-mile walk from the family cabin at Gashey's Creek. His pa never had made him go, saying that a body would spend his time better in the woods or doin' chores instead of book learnin'. Pa always pronounced those last two words with a disgusted snarl. Book learnin'.

Pa had been perversely proud of not being able to read. His mother could puzzle out a few words, but she struggled too much with reading to teach her children. Cole had once shared his father's pride in having no use for learning his letters, but the war had made him see that a man needed reading and writing to take his place in the world. He now hid his illiteracy even from Vaccaro.

As it turned out, Cole did not need to read to understand the front page photograph of a baby-faced German soldier, dressed in a sniper's camouflage uniform and holding a scoped rifle in one hand. Tucked under the German soldier's other arm was a GI helmet with a Confederate flag painted on it.

"I'll be damned," Cole said. He touched the helmet on his head that was decorated with a similar flag. His had been painted by Jimmy Turner, the gentle mountain boy who had died minutes after coming ashore at Omaha Beach on D Day. “I thought mine was the only one."

Vaccaro snatched back the newspaper and said harshly, "It's supposed to be your helmet, you dumb hillbilly. Didn't you at least read the picture caption?"

Cole glared at Vaccaro. His eyes were silvery as the water in a mountain river and as empty of emotion as the feral gaze of a wolf. Unconsciously, Vaccaro recoiled from that gaze.

The last time Vaccaro had seen eyes like that, they had belonged to a contract killer for the Irish mob. There was no shortage of mobsters in Brooklyn, but generally speaking, the Irish and Italians didn’t mix. It was downright unhealthy for anyone Irish to be caught in the Italian neighborhood where Vaccaro lived, especially after dark. The hitman had a girlfriend there that he liked to visit, but everyone left him alone.

Vaccaro lightened his tone. "That's a picture of the German who shot you. Lieutenant Mulholland says the German’s name is pronounced Row-duh. He's some hotshot sniper, apparently, who's been racking up the kills."

"Well, he damn near got me. I'll give him that much."

"That's what the article says. Hell, the article even has your name. They must have picked it up from that piece Ernie Pyle wrote about you. You're getting to be famous, Cole. The German must have seen your helmet and put two and two together."

"But that ain't my helmet he's holdin'."

"Cole, I hate to break this to you, but the Krauts invented jet engines and rockets and nerve gas. Don't you think they could figure out how to paint a Johnny Reb flag on a helmet and take a picture of it? It's a little thing called propaganda."

"Maybe they done that," Cole agreed. He paused. "What else does it say?"

Vaccaro offered the newspaper. "Christ on a cross, Cole. Do I look like your personal secretary? You can read it for yourself."

Cole studied the face in the photograph more closely. So this was the German who had shot him? The German looked more like a schoolboy than a sniper. Nonetheless, Cole felt a chill run through him. He was in no hurry to run into that kid again.

Cole waved Vaccaro off with the cleaning rag. "Can't you see I'm busy? Just tell me if it says anything important."

For once, Vaccaro clammed up. Cole prompted him, "Well?"

"It says that this German sniper is gonna finish you off."

Cole said nothing, but only continued to clean his rifle. From the sounds of things, he would be needing it again soon and he would need every advantage that he could get.

Rohde decided that he liked his chances as a sniper better if he had a different rifle. He was convinced that the bolt action K98 had cost him his killing shot against the American sniper. It simply took too much time to chamber another round. The bolt had that annoying tendency to stick, and when he whacked it into place with the heel of his hand it cost him precious time.

He had a solution for that. The Gewehr Model 43 rifle.

The trouble was, that bald bastard Hohenfeldt who ran the armory just laughed when Rohde asked about upgrading his rifle. Hohenfeldt oversaw the distribution of small arms and ammunition as if each rifle belonged to him personally.

He went to see Fischer about it.

"I would have gotten that American sniper if I hadn't been shooting that damn old rifle of mine," Rohde said, hastily adding, "Sir."

"There is nothing wrong with your rifle, Rohde."

"Hohenfeldt has one of the new Gewehr Model 43s just sitting there in the armory. If I'd had that, I wouldn't have missed."

The captain shook his head. "Your equipment is fine."

"The Gewehr is a semi-automatic. With a weapon like that, there is no need to take one's eye away from the sight between shots to work the action."

"I am aware of how a rifle works, Rohde," the captain said testily, taking umbrage to the sniper's tone.

"But sir, he has one just sitting there!"

"Look here, Rohde. I am not going to get involved in how Hohenfeldt runs the armory. Our Staber knows his business. If he won't issue that new rifle to you, he must have his reasons."

Right, Rohde was thinking. It's because I don't have a bowl of fat sausages to trade for it.

Rohde was not all that surprised by Fischer’s reluctance to get involved. It was no secret that most officers would not interfere with how a seasoned noncommissioned officer ran a supply operation. What he said was, "Yes, sir."

Rodhe knew better than to push too hard with the captain, who had already given him an enormous amount of leeway. Fischer was nothing if not mercurial. He would tolerate Rohde so long as he was useful and not too demanding. Once he became a pain in the Hauptmann’s ass, that was it. But Rohde wanted that rifle, so he would just have to come up with a way of obtaining it.

If there was one quality that Rohde possessed — in addition to being a good shot — it was determination.

Fischer said, "Never mind the rifle. At the rate you are going, you are going to be famous, Rohde!"

“Yes, sir."

"If you get killed, the SS will just make up a sniper who sounds even better than you are, ha, ha! I suspect that Major Dorfmann could turn a turnip into a roast beef if need be. In any case, if Dorfmann gets you into the Berlin newspapers it should make your family proud and make up for this bad business about your brother."

"Sir?"

I don't hold your brother's actions against you, Rohde. No one does. Some men are not up to the task and disgrace themselves — and their families."

Rohde's face burned. He knew very well that his brother was not a coward. Just in time, he bit back the angry retort on his lips, knowing that he could only go so far with Fischer.

"There is one thing that will set it right, sir."

"What's that, Rohde?"

"Just what I told the major. Winning that Iron Cross, sir. I was not joking when I said that to Major Dorfmann. You are the one who would have to put my name in for it when the time comes." He hastily added again, "Sir."

Fischer remained silent, staring at him nonplussed. Rohde worried that he had overstepped his bounds. Nobody asked his commanding officer for a medal. But the German military was not one to frown upon ambition. There was no higher ambition than to earn the Iron Cross.

Much to his relief, the captain laughed. He clapped Rohde on the shoulder. "You have style, Rohde! I saw that in you, which is why I made you a sniper. It is a shame that you did not finish off that American sniper. Maybe next time. Meanwhile, keep shooting Amis like you have been doing, and you will win that Iron Cross yet!"