Where else would he hunt today? Yesterday he had done well and added several notches to the stock of his K98, but that was yesterday; today was a new day. A new opportunity.
He listened again for the sound of any intruders creeping up on him, but could only hear the birds twittering on, busy with the business of gathering food, mating, and raising their young, oblivious to the politics and ambitions of humankind. Survival was enough. Rohde understood.
Rohde crept back down the ladder and out of the barn, slipping away into the woods and fields, moving in the opposite direction from where he had last seen any American troops.
If he wanted an Iron Cross, he had to survive to hunt another day.
No more than a few minutes had passed since he’d been grazed in the head, but it felt like an eternity to Cole.
He kept his eye on the road, wondering if the American squad had moved off. What about Vaccaro?
His question was answered when he saw a figure emerge through the same hole in the hedge that he had used. If that sniper was still in the barn, and Vaccaro walked out into the field, he would be a dead man.
Out on the road, Vaccaro heard that lone shot from the field to his right. His first thought was, sniper. Nobody else took just one shot.
He knew that Cole was out there, but that had not been Cole's rifle. It was funny how after a while, he had gotten to where he could recognize the particular report that the Springfield made.
"Looks like your buddy got him," the captain said, nodding in the direction of the road ahead.
"Yeah, that's what it looks like." Vaccaro was distracted by another shot from the field, then another. Definitely not Cole's rifle. The shots were spaced out, indicating that the shooter was taking time to aim.
"We're going to advance," the captain said. "Our orders are to occupy Saint Dennis de Mere, and I'd like to do that by nightfall. You coming with us?"
"No, I'm gonna wait for Cole," Vaccaro said.
"Suit yourself," the captain said. "I've got to tell you, though, that this whole area is still crawling with Krauts."
"Thanks for the warning," Vaccaro said. "We'll try to take a few out."
"Good luck, soldier. And thanks. You and your buddy saved our bacon."
The captain gave the signal, and the squad began to move out. With the sniper in the copse of trees ahead silenced, there was nothing to impede their advance.
Vaccaro watched them go, and then turned his attention to the field beyond the road. What the hell was going on out there?
Cole had made his way through a gap in the hedgerow, and Vaccaro started to follow. He was just emerging into the field when a shot came out of nowhere and struck the dirt nearby, causing him to dive for cover.
No way was he going into that field now.
Unless he was mistaken, that had been Cole's rifle. He recognized the familiar crack of the Springfield. So now Cole was shooting at him. What the hell?
Cole had fired a couple of feet above Vaccaro's head, causing him to scramble for shelter. He just hoped that Vaccaro got the message to stay clear.
Cole bided his time, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as best he could. Another couple of inches to the right and that bullet would've blown his head clean off.
Damned if it didn't hurt, but all in all he was damn lucky. Of course, it would’ve been even luckier if he hadn’t gotten shot at all.
Was the German sniper still in the barn? He had no way of knowing, so he waited.
Despite the summer day, he began to feel chilled laying in the shadows in the damp field. He finished the water in his canteen, but it wasn't enough. What he would have given for another drink of water.
Now he knew how a wounded animal felt, gone to ground.
He wrapped his hands firmly around his rifle, and dozed to escape the pain gnawing at him.
When he woke, he saw that the shadows across the woods and fields had grown longer. Cole didn't need a watch to tell him it was six o'clock, then seven. When it was dark enough, he crept out from behind the rock and limped toward the road, feeling like a beaten dog.
Vaccaro emerged from the shadows of the hedgerow, where he'd been sitting, rifle across his knees. The squad that they'd rescued had long since moved on.
"Cole, is that you?" Vaccaro asked, alarm plain in the city boy's voice. "Why the hell did you shoot at me?”
“I was tryin’ to keep your fool head from gettin’ blowed off.”
“What the hell happened out there? You said this was supposed to be like a game of hounds and fox."
"Turns out that there was more than one fox," Cole said.
He meant to take another step toward Vaccaro, but found that it turned into a stagger.
Vaccaro caught him, and for the first time noticed the blood soaking Cole's uniform. "You dumbass hillbilly, you went and got yourself shot!"
Chapter Thirteen
Cole limped into the French chateau that served as a forward command post, trailing blood. He looked like hell, and felt about the same. He had scratches on his face from diving for cover in the field. Blood covered his uniform. He took off his helmet that was decorated with the Confederate flag, revealing hair that was matted to his head with sweat. He could smell himself.
Vaccaro lurched in behind him, not looking much better. He was more than a little shaken that some German sniper had gotten the better of Cole.
It was full dark by now. The fighting had knocked out any electricity, so the command post was lighted by a few candles that wavered in the evening breeze. A kerosene lantern was smoking up the interior. Only vestiges of the chateau’s grandeur remained, such as the high ceilings and finely carved woodwork. The Germans had looted most everything of value, leaving behind echoing rooms, cracked walls, and peeling paint. The dim, flickering light emphasized Cole's battered and hollow-eyed countenance.
Lieutenant Mulholland saw them and hurried over.
"What the hell happened to you guys?" the lieutenant asked, looking alarmed.
"We got shot at."
Mulholland grabbed for Cole's arm, turned him toward what light there was, and winced at the sight of the bloody furrow cut by the enemy sniper's bullet. "Dammit, Cole. You of all people are not supposed to get shot. If the Germans can shoot you, then they can shoot anybody."
"I hate to break this to you, sir, but I sure as hell ain't bulletproof." Cole sank to the stone floor along one wall. He noticed that the room was so big that the cabin in Gashey’s Creek would fit inside.
The lieutenant hovered over him like a mother hen. He decided that maybe he had been wrong about Mulholland wanting to get rid of him. Some officers had gathered in a corner and were waving at Mulholland, so he gave Cole a pat on his good shoulder and promised to be back.
Vaccaro grabbed a canteen from a nearby soldier. Cole tilted it up and guzzled water, the muscles of his throat working under the surface like pistons. He drank until the canteen ran dry.
"Let me see that shoulder," Vaccaro said. He bent down and unbuttoned Cole's jacket and shirt, then eased it off. The fabric was stiff with dried blood. He got a rag, wet it, and dabbed at Cole's wound to get a look at the damage. He whistled.
"Bet that hurts like hell," he said.
"I've seen worse," Cole said. He craned his neck to inspect the wound, wincing at the sight of the raw flesh.
"You know what? Another couple of inches to the right and your head would be missing."
"You got a real bedside manner, City Boy."
"Let me get the medic over here to fix you up."