Even with a glancing blow, all that energy still rattled his skull enough to knock him out for a few seconds.
The M1 helmet issued to U.S. troops since April 1941 was comprised of 2.85 pounds of steel alloy, shaped to encase the skull in a protective layer of metal that was a uniform one-eighth of an inch thick. Made by the McCord Radiator and Manufacturing Company, the helmet was famously tough and could be used for everything from a trenching tool to a hammer for tent stakes and even a cooking pot if the need arose, although this last use was discouraged because intense heat made the metal too brittle to withstand shrapnel. There were even rumors that a sergeant outside the town of Bienville had snapped and used his helmet to beat a captured SS officer to death. This use, also, was officially discouraged.
Tough and multifunctional as a helmet was, it could not stop a round from a Mauser K98.
Cole had gotten his bell rung good and proper, although his head had not actually rung like a bell. No, that was far too poetic a way of putting it. The sound inside his skull was more like what you heard when a sledgehammer pounded a rock.
Mountain people had a saying for being in a bad situation. I'd jest as soon be in hell with my back broke. That was about how he felt just then in the middle of a field, in some Kraut sniper's sights, his head full of shattering rocks.
The sniper wasn't done with him. Another bullet kicked up the dirt inches from Cole's face. Aw, hell.
His only chance was to find some cover. The nearest option was one of those big rocks that the farmer had plowed around.
While that made some kind of sense to his scrambled brain, his body itself seemed unwilling to move.
But it was move or die.
He began to count.
One. Two. Three—
Rohde could not believe that he had missed his second shot.
Willing himself to take his time and make the next shot a killing one, Rohde steadied his breathing. His heart still hammered with excitement, however, which did not help his aim.
He was angry with himself for missing not once, but twice. What kind of Dummkopf did that? He would not be putting that in his report to Captain Fischer when he brought him the American sniper's rifle as a trophy.
What made him even more uncomfortable was knowing that he himself could be in some unseen enemy's sights. The business of sniping was multi-layered in that you never knew who was watching, or who was creeping up behind you. It was like chess; you thought that you were thinking two moves ahead, but your opponent was three moves ahead. Checkmate.
The thought was enough to make him pull his eye back from the scope and tilt his head to listen. Was it possible that the soldier in the field was some sort of decoy to distract him while others crept into the barn? His ears rang from the two shots, but even so, he would have heard any telltale sounds from the barn below.
The sleigh bells he had hung on the ladder remained silent.
Reassured that he was still alone in the barn, he pressed his eye once more to the scope.
He wasn't sure how hard the American was hit. Was the American sniper dying or simply dazed?
One more shot would settle that question.
He had to make it count. He kept the post sight settled right between the American's shoulder blades.
Rohde took in a breath, held it, and let his finger take up tension on the trigger.
At that moment three hundred feet away, Cole coiled his arms and legs under him and sprang up out of the grass, running like hell.
He dodged and weaved like a jackrabbit.
He heard a shot, but kept going. He knew exactly how long it took to work the bolt action of a rifle and aim again because he had done it himself hundreds of times.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
When he got to three, he juked sideways.
The bullet passed through the air that Cole's body would have occupied a fraction of a second longer.
The sound was enough to turn his legs to rubber, but he kept running, jack rabbiting it as he went. The big rock with the brush around it was just ahead.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
He gave himself until three Mississippi and dove for cover, glad to get a thick boulder and brush between himself and the shooter.
The fact that the German sniper held his fire told Cole that he'd made it. The rock wasn't any bigger than he was, so Cole willed himself to shrink into the surrounding brush. He sunk down, panting hard.
Winded, heart hammering, skull ringing, Cole kept his head down and bunched his knees up to his chin. He wasn’t aware that the only part of him showing was a patch of his left shoulder that didn't quite fit behind the rock.
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.