Iron Sniper: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Cole and Vaccaro sat up in the steeple, both of them smoking cigarettes and letting the adrenaline ebb out of their systems. From this high up, they had a good view of the surrounding countryside. Still, they kept their heads down. Cole stuffed the Confederate flag back into his pocket. He had sent his message to the sniper; no point in attracting additional attention.

With the German sniper gone, the American GIs were no longer pinned down in the field and had moved on. Across the countryside, Allied troops were moving toward Argentan and Falaise as if part of a huge incoming flood tide. The squad was one small eddy in that flood.

Some soldiers from the squad would not be going anywhere, however. Their bodies lay under the gray sky, victims of the German sniper. A few days from now, thousands of miles away, telegrams would be delivered to the doors of the dead soldiers' parents or wives.

Cole decided that maybe it was the German whose bullets had traveled the farthest today.

"Hell of a shot, Hillbilly," Vaccaro said, as if reading his thoughts. "You saved that kid and sent that Kraut sniper running for cover."

"Even a blind squirrel finds a nut now and then."

"And a stopped clock is right twice a day, too." Vaccaro shook his head and grinned. "See? Your hillbilly sayings are rubbing off on me. Now, let's get the hell out of here."

The German sniper had melted away into the landscape. They had seen the boy running for the American lines. With any luck, he was back at the command post right about now, eating a chocolate bar.

They went back down the ladder into the stillness of the old chapel. Cole liked to hear a good preacher thump a Bible now and then, but back home that had mostly been at clapboard-sided country churches and camp meetings, out in the open. This stone church felt too dark and brooding. The God who dwelt here wasn't like the one back home.

Harper looked shook up. He had been transferred from the typing pool just a few days before, after all. "Did you hear those bullets hit the church? God, what a sound a ricochet makes."

"I guess it's a little louder than that bell on the typewriter when you get to the end of a line," Vaccaro said with a smirk.

Cole touched his shoulder. "You did good, Harper. I been gettin' shot at for months now, and I still ain't used to it."

The forward command post consisted of a barnyard where a Jeep was parked, a map spread across its still-ticking hood. The air smelled unpleasantly of fresh manure churned up by the Jeep's tires. Three officers huddled over the map, one of them being Lieutenant Mulholland. He looked up eagerly as Cole, Vaccaro, and Harper walked in.

"Did you get that son of a bitch?" Mulholland asked.

Cole shook his head. "No, but he run off with his tail between his legs."

"I guess that's something. These goddamn Kraut snipers are wreaking havoc with the advance, and that sniper Rohde is the worst of them," Mulholland said. He turned to the map and thumped it with the flat of his hand for emphasis. "We've got an opportunity here to bag the whole German army, or what's left of it, anyway. There's a Polish division to the northeast, moving in to help us out."

"Polish?" They had seen their share of Brits and Canadians in Normandy, but Polish troops were something new.

"Yeah, so try not to shoot any of them by accident, and let's hope to hell they don't shoot us."

One of the other officers took his eyes off the map and looked at Cole. It was a captain whom Cole did not recognize.

"You must be Cole," he said. "I could tell by that 'Stars and Bars' on your helmet. I read about you in that newspaper article by Ernie Pyle."

Nearby, Vaccaro muttered, "Jesus, did anyone not read that story? Other than the hillbilly, I mean."

The captain went on, "That was a helluva good story. I did want to know though, what kind of name Micajah was? Never heard that one before."

"Micajah was a prophet in the Bible, sir."

"Is that so? The lieutenant here says you can shoot the buttons off a German at four hundred yards."

Cole was more than a little surprised that Mulholland would brag about him. Whatever animosity remained toward Cole over Jolie Molyneux must be wearing off.

Cole drawled, "If I get a German in my sights, sir, I'll be sure to shoot off more than his buttons."

The captain laughed. "I'll bet you will. Give 'em hell, soldier."

"Yes, sir."

"And get some rest, boys. All of you. This whole damn countryside is about to become a battlefield. What's left of the German army is over there." The captain waved vaguely to the east. "We've got the Brits closing in from the north, the Polish coming at them from the south, and none other than General Patton himself going straight into their teeth. With any luck, we'll finish the war right here and be home for Christmas. It's up to us, boys."

Cole distrusted enthusiastic officers. He moved off, intending to fill his canteen. It was already past mid-day, and humid.

Mulholland caught up with him. "Listen, Cole. We may have some intel on this German sniper, Rohde."

"Yeah?"

"You know that little French kid that Rohde tied up in the field? Rohde kidnapped the boy and used him as bait. Talk about a heartless bastard. The kid's aunt turned up to claim him. Some of our guys found her walking along the road and drove her here. The boy's father is here too. The man claims to be in the French Resistance, by the way."

Cole snorted. "Now that we just about won the war for them, half the men in France are claiming to be in the Resistance."

"Don't be too hard on them, Cole. Don't forget that without the French, we wouldn't have won the Revolutionary War."

Cole snorted at that. "My great great granddaddy fought the British. He picked off more than a few Redcoats with his flintlock rifle. I reckon that's what helped win the Revolution more than these Frenchies, judging from what I seen so far."

Mulholland looked sideways at Cole. He thought it was easy enough to picture Cole himself in buckskins and a coonskin cap. “With all respect to your great great grandaddy, now it's our turn to return the favor to the French people."

"If you say so."

“This isn’t the 18th century, Cole. It’s tough to fight the Germans with a few old hunting rifles and shotguns."

Cole wasn't so sure about that. He tried to imagine how things would have turned out for the Germans if they invaded the mountain country back home.

"I reckon," he said noncommittally.

"Anyhow, the boy's aunt" — Mulholland pronounced it awnt, while in Cole's mind it was ant— "knew this Rohde well. Real well, if you know what I mean."

“What you’re sayin’ is that she’s a collaborator?" Cole spat, adding in a minuscule way to the barnyard mud.

"It looks that way, and her brother — the boy's father — isn't real happy about that, I can tell you. Be that as it may, she could have useful information to help us nail this Rohde."

Cole looked around. The barnyard teamed with exhausted GIs. In the shadow of the barn, he could see a boy and a young woman, who was engaged in a heated argument with a Frenchman in his late twenties. Judging by the man's rugged clothes, and the rifle slung over his shoulder, Cole decided that this must be the Resistance fighter.

He and Mulholland walked over. The girl looked up at their approach. Cole noted the pretty, round face, with greenish eyes surrounded by dark curls. She wore an old dress that was worn thin and that clutched tightly across her hips, accentuating her figure. If Rohde had been collaborating with that body, he was one lucky son of a bitch.

Beside him, Cole also sensed Mulholland giving the girl a furtive going over. Damn, he thought. The last thing I need is me and Mulholland barking up the same tree again. The tree in this case being an attractive French girl in a tight dress.

"Excusez moi, mademoiselle," Mulholland began, using his stilted college French. "Nous voulons savoir sur le tireur d'élite. Celui nommé Rohde." We want to know about the sniper. The one named Rohde.

At the mention of the sniper's name, the Frenchman launched a fresh tirade at his sister. Cole didn't know any French, but when he heard the brother practically spit the word putain at her, Cole was fairly certain that the Frenchman had called his sister a whore.

Then the Frenchman stepped forward and slapped her.

The sight of his angry red hand print on her pretty face was nearly too much to bear. The girl might be a collaborator, but she also looked tired and frightened. When the Frenchman drew back his hand to hit her again, Mulholland raised his hand like he was asking a question and said in his sternest Sunday School teacher voice, "Now, now."

Cole slid between the girl and her brother, blocking him from hitting her again. When he tried to get around Cole, Cole moved with him.

The Frenchman was a farmer by trade, heavy through the shoulders from farm work, and if he couldn't hit his sister, he seemed intent on hitting someone else. He drew back a fist.

Instantly, Cole had the tip of his Bowie knife at the Frenchman's throat. The sister gasped. The Frenchman froze, his fist cocked back by his ear.

Finally, the lieutenant took action. He put a restraining hand on Cole's arm. "Hey, everybody calm down. Cole, put down that knife." To the Frenchman he said, "Calmez-vous."

Cole sheathed the knife, figuring that stabbing the brother would not win him the sister's favor. The Frenchman dropped his hands to his sides, although his eyes clearly showed that he would like nothing better than to pummel Cole.

Cole had to give the brother credit. He looked more angry than afraid. Maybe he really was a Resistance fighter.

Vaccaro seemed relieved that Cole had put the knife away, but he wanted his own slice of the Frenchman. "Tough guy, huh? Where were you four years ago when the Germans marched right in?"

His insults fell on deaf ears. Without a proper translator, they had to do their best to communicate using the lieutenant's college French. The young woman, whose name was Lisette, made it clear that she did not know the whereabouts of the German sniper. She also made it abundantly clear that she had no interest in seeing him again.

"Bâtard," she hissed at the mention of Rohde’s name.

It evolved that what Lisette was most concerned about was getting back to the farm and to her niece, Elsa, who was in the care of an elderly neighbor. Already, the day was getting late. No way was Lisette going to make it there before sunset, and the last thing she needed to do was to go wandering around the countryside after dark, not with Germans, Polish troops, and trigger-happy Americans shooting at anything that moved. Reluctantly, Lisette agreed to spend the night at the American command post for Leo's sake, if not her own. In the morning, the lieutenant told her that Cole would escort her home.

"He will get you there safely, if anyone can," Mulholland said.

Henri managed to explain that he needed more ammunition for his rifle. Cole was surprised to see that the Frenchman carried a battered but well-cared for Springfield. It must have been a relic from the Great War, but would be a thorn in the side of the Germans, all the same.

In English and broken French, Lieutenant Mulholland explained to Henri that the Americans were low on ammunition due to the supply lines being stretched thin. Cole gave him a couple of clips from his utility belt. Who knew, maybe the Frenchman would do some good with the rounds of .30/06. The more Germans that he shot, the fewer that the Americans would have to worry about.

Cole was getting low on ammo himself, and hoped that they would be resupplied soon. Then again, it suited Cole just fine if there weren't any bullets to waste. That was how he had been raised to think, back home in the mountains.

Henri gave his sister one last disapproving look, shouldered his rifle, and headed out to rejoin the Resistance fighters.

By some miracle, the farm that was serving as the forward command post still had a working telephone, and Lieutenant Mulholland got Lisette a few minutes on the phone to call home with the news that she would return in the morning.

Any ideas that Cole and Vaccaro had about keeping the French girl company were quickly squelched by the lieutenant.

"I'll see to it that the mademoiselle is comfortable for the night in our HQ here," Mulholland said. "Cole, you and Vaccaro and Harper had better take the first shift of sentry duty. There's no telling who's out there."

"Yes, sir," Vaccaro said, answering for all three of them. As soon as Mulholland was out of earshot, he grinned and mimicked the lieutenant's self-important tone. " 'I'll see to it that the mademoiselle is comfortable.' You bet your ass he will!”

Frustrated, Rohde pressed his luck and crept within range of the American command post. Through his binoculars, he could see Lisette, and Leo — and the hillbilly sniper, all talking together.

He was too far for an effective shot, and thought about moving closer. To his disappointment, however, he saw the American sniper move back out into the woods and fields, most likely to do some hunting of his own.

Rohde could have wreaked havoc on the command post, picking off an officer or two, but he felt too exposed. Besides, without any confirmation, they would not be counted toward his official record. Why take the risk? The area was swarming with Allied troops, not to mention the fact that the American sniper was out there somewhere, surely eager to get Rohde in his sights.

Planes kept appearing overhead, making it difficult to move undetected across the roads and fields. The American planes were not above strafing a lone German soldier, especially if they had any inkling that he was a sniper.

In the relative safety of the falling dusk, Rohde worked his way back toward Lisette's farm. He did not know why, nor did he have any particular reason, other than that it was on the route toward the German base. He could see that the farm was going to be in the path of the battle to come.

Rohde approached the farmhouse stealthily. No one seemed to be around.

The old dog came out to greet him, not even bothering to bark because he knew Rohde by now; he had been laying in the cool dirt. Rohde scratched his ears.

He approached the house and peeked in a window, rifle at the ready. No sign of Lisette's brother, the Resistance fighter, at least. No sign of Lisette, either. He did see an old woman at the table, and the little girl, Elsa.

Rohde opened the door without bothering to knock. The old woman looked up, clearly startled. Elsa shouted his name happily, apparently unaware of the fact that he was responsible for her brother's disappearance. The old woman looked at her in surprise.

"Lisette?" he asked. There was no point in trying to communicate at any length with the old woman, but she could surely understand that much.

"Demain matin," the old lady blurted, with a glance at the telephone in the kitchen. "Elle a dit que un sniper va marcher ici."

"Un sniper? Ici?"

"Oui. Demain matin." The old woman nodded emphatically, almost fiercely. He realized that she had emphasized the sniper's arrival to scare him off.

Tomorrow morning. That was all Rohde needed to know. He turned and left.

He had glimpsed Lisette and the hillbilly sniper together at a distance at the American command post. What other sniper could the old woman possibly mean? On the walk back to headquarters, he wondered at his good fortune.

Come tomorrow morning, he was going to end this duel, once and for all.