Chapter Five

Rohde's bullet struck the GI in the leg, just above the knee. The impact raised a puff of atomized flesh and shredded olive drab uniform. He went down in the grass, thrashing in pain. Wounded, but not dead.

Fischer observed through Zeiss Dienstglas binoculars that would have cost two months of his officer's pay if he had not picked them up on the battlefield.

"You should have aimed a little higher," he said.

Somehow, the American managed to regain his feet. Tough bastard. He limped for the safety of the hedgerow on the opposite side of the field.

Rohde worked the bolt action, ejecting the spent round, and slapped home the bolt to lock a fresh 7.92 mm round in the chamber. In the time it took to work the bolt and reacquire the target, the GI had already moved several meters. Once again, Rohde wished for that semiautomatic rifle.

Aiming for the legs, he fired again.

This time, the GI stumbled as if someone had tripped him. He fell headlong into the grass. The bullet had gone through both legs, leaving them useless and mangled, but he tried to crawl on his elbows. Rohde watched, unconcerned. At that rate, it would take the wounded man all day to get across the field.

"What are you waiting for? You should finish him off," Fischer said, craning his head above Rohde's helmet in order to get a better view of the field.

"Please get down, sir," Rohde muttered, keeping his eye on the scope.

Fischer did not need to be told twice. He pressed his belly into the grass like he was humping the earth.

Having fired twice from the same position, Rohde's concern was that the Americans hidden in the hedgerow would return fire. When they did not, he was assured that he still remained hidden, at least for now. It was hard to pinpoint where a single shot originated, but the more times that he fired made his hiding place more obvious.

His shoulder ached dully, having taken a pounding from the K98. The rifle packed a wallop, and the bare wooden stock left a bruise after just a few rounds. Rohde had been doing a lot of shooting the last few days. Under his tunic, his shoulder and upper arm were black and blue.

Rohde's ears rang from the crack of the rifle, but as the ringing faded, he began to hear again the insects in the grass around them, unperturbed by the rifle shots. Also, he could hear the American, calling for help. It was a horrible, pleading sound. The words were in English, but they needed no translation. Rohde tuned it out, managing to ignore the fact that he was the cause of that suffering. Beside him, Captain Fischer muttered something sympathetic but did not order to finish off the American.

Keeping his scope trained on the green tangle of the hedgerow at the edge of the field, Rohde waited.

German or American, it was against human nature to leave a wounded comrade in the middle of a field on a hot day.

The hedgerow did an excellent job of concealing the American squad hidden within it. He understood that such hedgerows were rare in America, but they were common enough in Europe. Much of the coastal countryside here in France was crisscrossed by them. The hedgerows had been most plentiful around Normandy, bogging down the Allied advance.

This patchwork of fields favored the German defensive strategy. The Allies were forced to capture France field by field. It was painstaking and deadly work.

Now, the country was more open as the fighting moved closer to Caen and Falaise, and ultimately to the Belgian border, as the Germans gave up ground, meter by meter, selling it dearly. However, much of the landscape was still comprised of small fields ringed by hedgerows, and this was where Rohde's unit had taken up a defensive position today.

The fields tended to contain no more than a few acres and were originally ringed by low stone walls. The hedgerows, made up of a medley of trees and shrubs, had grown up and over the stone walls and earthen berms. Some of the hedgerows were ancient, as he understood it, dating back to Roman times. Up to twenty feet high and almost as thick, the hedgerows eliminated the need for any fencing. Narrow sunken lanes sometimes ran between the fields, with the lanes surrounded on all sides by the hedgerows, so that traversing the countryside was almost like passing through a tunnel.

Now, Rohde kept his eyes trained on the hedgerow opposite him and waited.

The vegetation shifted. The drab green American uniforms blended effectively with the leaves and branches, but it was their movement that gave them away. He could see them shift into position, readying themselves up for action.

Rohde did not move a muscle. Every cell of his body felt like it was dipped in stone. A few more ants trooped across his neck and up under his collar. A fly landed on his cheekbone, tasting his sweat. The sun beat down. The heat was such that distant objects shimmered. He ignored the distractions, keeping his eye on the wall of vegetation. As the heat of the day increased, the insects and birds grew lazy and fell silent, so that the world seemed to be holding its breath.

Beside him, there was a sound as Fischer pulled his MP40 around and got it into position, putting the metal stock against his shoulder and bracing the weapon with his elbows. From that prone position, he would be able to sweep the field if necessary. What the MP40 lacked in range, it made up for in the quantity of 9 mm rounds it spewed out. Rohde just prayed that the captain wouldn't open fire and reveal their position to the enemy until the time was right. But an enlisted man didn't go giving orders to a Hauptmann.

Finally, there was decisive movement from the Americans. Two figures sprinted for the open field, headed for their wounded companion. Rohde tracked them through the scope. He became a little too excited by the appearance of the two targets and shot the first man through the torso, a killing shot.

He let out a breath as he worked the bolt, annoyed that he had to slap it into place. He acquired another target.

Take your time, he told himself.

He aimed lower. His next shot hit the running man, again through the legs, and he went down.

The others sheltering in the hedgerow opened fire, spewing bullets in every direction.

Beside him, Fischer cursed. He held his fire.

But the shots did not come near where they sheltered among the shrubs and grass, hugging the earth. The Americans didn't have any idea where he was hidden. When they let up off their triggers, it was possible to hear the desperate shouts of not one, but two wounded men in the field.

Rohde waited. The Americans knew he was there, which kept them from attempting to rescue the two men down in the field. The sun climbed higher. Sweat trickled down Rohde's face, but he didn't dare wipe it away. His mouth had gone dry and he was desperately thirsty, but he did not reach for his canteen. The slightest motion could give him away.

The sounds of the countryside gradually resumed. Insects buzzed and birds sang. Somewhere in the distance, a cow lowed. It might have been a bucolic scene if not for the fact that Rohde was watching it all through the eye of his Zeiss scope. The moans and pleas of the wounded Americans didn't help.

"This is awful to listen to," Fischer said. "Shoot them and be done with it."

Rohde weighed whether or not he should disagree with his officer. Because it was just the two of them out here, without any need for Fischer to save face, Rohde simply said, "We should wait."

Fischer sighed. “You are the sniper.”

He had baited the trap. In comparison, waiting was the easy part. Rohde was prepared to stay there all day if necessary.

The afternoon wore on. To his surprise, he heard Fischer breathing deeply beside him. The captain had fallen asleep.

Rohde's bladder was getting full to the point of bursting. Tired of the distraction, and not wanting to leave his sniper’s nest, he allowed himself to urinate where he lay. A puddle of warm liquid oozed out from beneath him and the smell of his own piss filled his nostrils. His bodily functions satisfied, he re-focused his full attention on the view through the telescopic sight.

The sun passed its zenith. The Americans lost patience. One of them broke from the hedgerow and ran toward his wounded companions, clutching a rifle in one hand and a canteen in the other.

Rohde tracked him through the scope, leading him just a little. Then he pulled the trigger and the American fell.

He worked the bolt, shot the first wounded man. Worked the bolt, and shot the second. Beside him, Fischer jerked awake as if he'd been shot himself.

The American squad fired blindly, bullets zipping through the grass. They had not figured out where he was, but he wasn't taking any chances of getting hit by a lucky shot.

"Come on," he said to Fischer, who was still addled with sleep, and started to back away, slithering out of his position, staying on his belly. Fischer didn't need to be told twice.

They retreated until they reached another hedgerow, and buried themselves in it. Safely on the other side of the field now, they straightened up and started down the road toward where their unit was holding the line against the Allied advance.

Fischer glanced at Rohde's wet trousers and wrinkled his nose. "Uggh. You've pissed yourself," Fischer remarked.

"I can always dry out my trousers, sir." Now that they were back among the Wehrmacht forces moving on the road, he was careful to address the Hauptmann properly. "But it's not every day that I can kill Amis."

To count as a kill, each one of Rohde's victories had to be verified independently. He was glad that the Hauptmann had come along today.

Fischer shook his head. "You are collecting dead men as if they were stamps. Why are you so worried about keeping score?"

"Do I need to tell you, sir?" Rohde gave him one of those puppy grins. Even Fischer found it disarming. "You must know."

"You and your Iron Cross," Captain Fischer said. "I doubt that any of us will live long enough to see that medal pinned on you."

"You can always send it home to my family, sir," Rohde said. "In any case, that was three more for me today."

Fischer snorted. Rohde was one of the few soldiers he had ever encountered who openly lobbied for a medal. The Iron Cross was Germany’s decoration for heroism on the battlefield. The medal was worn over the left pocket of the uniform tunic — over the heart. A soldier who wore the Iron Cross commanded respect.

Only one medal was more prestigious, and that was the Knight’s Cross, worn at the throat. Enlisted men didn’t have a chance at that.

As soon as Rohde had the sniper rifle in his hands, he had made his intentions clear that he would shoot as many of the enemy as it took to win the Iron Cross. While it was unusual for a soldier to announce that he sought to earn such a medal, in Fischer’s mind it made it clear that Rohde was a committed soldier. Anyway, whatever made Rohde look good, made Fischer look good. He had done the right thing by making him the unit's Jäger.

Fischer clapped him on the shoulder. "You are too much, Rohde. Go get yourself something to eat." He wrinkled his nose. "And for God's sake, get out of those pants."

"Yes, sir. But first I want to swing through some of the farm country behind us and scout it out."

"Suit yourself," Fischer said. "Always hunting, aren't you, Rohde?"

With a nod, Rohde slipped off into the fields to explore some of the surrounding farms.

It did not hurt that his reconnoitering would take him past the farm of the French girl whose bed he had been sharing the past few weeks.

He wouldn't come out and say it to the Hauptmann, but it was no secret that the Germans were steadily giving up ground. What looked to be peaceful fields would soon be a battleground, and Rohde knew that knowing the ground would only work to his advantage.

When the Allied advance arrived in force, Rohde would be ready to add even more notches to his rifle stock.

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