Soon enough, the tide would rush even faster and sweep everything away.
Lisette finished her wine, then raised the globe of the lamp, allowing the moth to come to its fiery end.
Chapter Eight
Hidden in the hayloft of the barn, lying prone on the dusty wooden floorboards, Rohde was immobile as a snake. He had been there since before dawn, keeping watch over the field as the shadows gave way to day under gray skies. So far, there had been no movement of American troops through the summer grass.
For a moment, his mind drifted. He thought of his dead brother, Carl. Sometimes, he carried on a conversation with Carl as a way to pass the time on these lonely sniper hunts.
You would like it here in France, Carl, Rohde thought. In the early morning quiet, up under the rafters of the barn, it almost seemed as if he had spoken his thoughts out loud. The countryside is so peaceful. It reminds me of when we used to hunt rabbits when we were boys. You always thought that you were the better shot, but look at me now. Those rabbits would not stand a chance, Carl!
The report of a rifle snapped him back to the present. That would be Scheider. The other sniper had placed himself in a copse of trees just to the west of the barn, in order to hold up the movement of American troops on the road that lay just beyond the hedgerow bordering Rohde's field.
Rodhe had talked with Scheider just that morning before sunrise. Their unit had been there for a few weeks now, and the cooks had settled in, preparing hearty breakfasts from sausages and eggs. It seemed hard to believe that was possible, with the Allies closing in, but here was the delicious-smelling evidence on his plate.
Now that the American advance had reached this deep into France, the makeshift kitchen would soon be closed, along with the regular offerings of fresh-baked bread and fresh eggs from the surrounding countryside. There was even the occasional offering of ham or bacon.
French patriotism only went so far, it seemed. Local farmers were eager for a bit of cash or to trade for coffee or other supplies, although there would be hell to pay for trading with the enemy once the Germans cleared out and the vengeful Machi forces took over. They were all Communists — no better than the Russians. But for now, the field kitchen was still in operation, and Rohde stuffed himself in preparation for a long day of action.
"Hunting again, eh, Rohde? Where are you off to today?" Scheider had asked him around 4 a.m., when they had both run into one another, getting a cup of coffee at the field kitchen set up in a barn.
"Here and there," Rohde said, not wanting to reveal too much. If he had any rival as a sniper and Jäger, it was Scheider. Short and sturdy, Scheider had once told him that he had grown up in the farm country around Munich, hunting and shooting. He was an excellent shot. Fortunately for Rohde, Hauptmann Fischer evidently found it hard to relate to the earthy farm boy. Scheider himself seemed oblivious to any sense of rivalry. He cut two thick slices of bread and handed one to Rohde.
Unbidden, a plan came to mind for how he might use Scheider.
"Have you thought about trying your luck on the road to Saint Dennis de Mere?" Rohde asked.
A light seemed to go on behind Scheider's eyes. "That is a good plan. Easy pickings. I spotted a copse of trees at a bend in the road yesterday. Perhaps I will set up shop there, unless you were thinking of it.”
“No, no, you go ahead. You would give the Amis quite a surprise," Rohde said as nonchalantly as possible.
"How many did you get yesterday?"
"Six," Rohde said.
Scheider gave a low whistle as he layered butter on his slice of bread. "If I set up on the road maybe I will get that many today. Or more."
"Maybe so."
"Are you sure you don't mind?" Scheider laughed good-naturedly. “You had better watch out, or I will beat your record!"
"Good luck with that," Rohde said as genially as possible, although Scheider's words made him nervous. He moved off to fill his plate.
He tended to eat by himself. No one but a fellow Jäger like Scheider was much interested in conversation at four o'clock in the morning. Rohde had found that he liked the time alone, to focus his thoughts for the day. Anyhow, nobody was all that eager to break bread with a man they saw as a lone wolf.
After breakfast, he walked out to the latrine to evacuate his bowels. He had trained himself to make that basic bodily function part of his morning routine. He did not want to be caught in the field needing to relieve himself.
He thought about what Scheider had said about breaking his record. Though spoken in jest, perhaps Scheider planned to knock Rohde off his pedestal as a sniper. The very idea that anyone might be pulling ahead of Rohde was worrisome.
All that Rohde could think about was that Iron Cross. He wanted that medal. He needed that medal. Nobody was going to stop him, least of all a farm boy like Scheider.
That medal is for us, Carl, he thought.
With any luck, that farm boy was going to help him shoot a few Amis today, whether Scheider knew it or not.
Rohde knew that copse of trees well enough, along with the surrounding countryside. In his mind's eye, he could picture the Americans stacking up on the road, bottlenecked by the sniper. What would they do? If they had a Sherman tank, they would reduce the copse to splinters, along with Scheider. The trick was to fire into the treetops and shatter the branches, amplifying a single shell burst into a thousand deadly oak splinters.
Without support from a tank, the Americans would move off the road into the field in an effort to flank the sniper. They would probably move into the field to the north, which would give them a better approach to the wood where Scheider would be positioned.
Rohde thought about a squad moving into the field. He could pick them off at random. There was an old barn that, if memory served, would be an ideal location from which to shoot. The barn would offer protection and height.
At first light, Rohde was there, waiting.
He had ascended the ladder into the loft. He had found some old sleigh bells and draped them over the ladder leading up to the loft. He would be alerted instantly if anyone tried the ladder.
Again, his mind wandered to his brother. A good sniper hide, Carl. Though I would not mind something warm to drink. Isn't it supposed to be summer? The mornings are still cold.
Then Rohde settled down to wait for someone to enter his killing field.
Chapter Nine
Having just come from headquarters, Lieutenant Mulholland approached with purpose in his stride.
"Hey, Cole,” he shouted, still on the move. "Get your hillbilly ass over here."
The lieutenant had directed his shout toward a handful of GIs sprawled in the grass, limp as rag dolls with exhaustion. Lack of sleep, the heat and humidity, and constant exertion had left them worn out. Their uniforms had white salt stains from constant sweating. Their grimy appearance and ragged uniforms underscored the fact that they had all become battle-hardened warriors since coming ashore two months before. The war now seemed like all that they had ever known.
Unlike the other men prostrate in the grass, Cole rested on his haunches as if ready to spring into action at any moment. The others had put down their weapons, but a rifle with a telescopic sight was balanced across his knees. Cole's grayish eyes flicked toward the lieutenant, simultaneously alert and disinterested, like the glance of a predator that was sizing you up as prey.