Vaccaro couldn't help but notice. "What's gotten into you?"
"Nothin'," Cole responded.
The look that Vaccaro gave him indicated that he didn't believe it for a minute.
Normally, Vaccaro thought, Cole was cool as ice. Nothing much rattled his cage. Now, he was smashing things and trying to eat with shaking hands. What the hell was wrong with him? That German sniper had really gotten to him.
Vaccaro was wise enough to leave Cole alone. The two men ate in silence. When they were finished, Vaccaro said, "Get some sleep, Hillbilly. You'll feel better in the morning. I'll talk to the lieutenant. Maybe he can get you sent to the rear for a day or two."
"Like hell," Cole said. "In the morning, I am going after that Kraut son of a bitch who shot me."
Vaccaro looked at him incredulously. "Hillbilly, we just got our asses kicked by that German. Don't be in any hurry to find him again."
"Don't worry, City Boy. That German ain't gonna be so lucky the second time around.”
Cole had spoken with more bravado than he felt. The truth was that some feelings you didn't shake — like getting shot. Vaccaro was right. That German had damn near killed him, and would've killed Vaccaro too. It had been a while since Cole had encountered anyone that good. They were lucky to be alive.
Since coming ashore on D-Day, Cole had grappled with a whole whirlwind of emotions, from fear to anger to loss. He had seen too many good men die.
But now he felt a gnawing doubt. Somewhere out there was a German sniper who had almost killed him today. Cole felt like he'd been lucky. What if they met again? What about the next German sniper? Had Cole just been lucky all this time in France? Luck eventually burned out, like a candle.
The question was, had Cole's luck truly run out, or had he simply met his match today?
He was half drunk now, and dizzy with exhaustion. On the way to the door, he shoved a soldier out of the way. The man rounded on him angrily, saw the expression on Cole's face, and walked away. Cole had shoved a man, but it felt like he was shoving the thoughts out of his mind.
Cole was a survivor. He had grown up in a mountain shack without electricity or running water. He had known cold and hunger. Yet he had endured.
He thought of his pa, who had every trait in common with a rattlesnake when he'd been drinking corn liquor. When he was sober, pa had taught him what it meant to survive in the mountains. His knowledge was considerable. If he'd been born a hundred years earlier, pa would have been a real mountain man like the Coles who had come before. Instead, he had mostly been a moonshiner, but pa had known more about the woods and mountains than anyone alive.
Pa had always said that when you were cold, when there were miles to go, when maybe there was something tracking you instead of the other way around, well, you could whine and be afraid all you wanted. Being afraid didn't do a bit of good. The mountain sure as hell didn't give a damn.
"You got to get your dander up, boy. You want to live, you got to fight."
Cole thought about that now.
"I'll get that son of a bitch and nail his Nazi hide to the barn door."
Vaccaro snorted. "Look at you, Cole. You're a mess. You can hardly walk, and you want to go after the Kraut who did this to you? You are one crazy son of a bitch."
Cole couldn't argue with that. He spread some blankets on the ground and tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he relived that moment of getting hit. Finally, he just lay awake, thinking of the mountains back home.
Chapter Fourteen
"Ah, there you are, Rohde."
"Yes, sir."
Captain Fischer had sent for him, which was worrisome. He suspected that Fischer would either want to scold him for some perceived infraction or send him on some hare-brained mission.
He felt tired after hunkering in the barn most of the day before, and while he had certainly winged the American sniper who had, by good fortune, ended up in Rohde's sights, he had not killed him outright as he had hoped. Of course, without corroboration, there would have been no credit for killing the American sniper.
Rohde had already made his report, and was thinking about working a different sector today. Considering that the countryside was crawling with Allied troops, there was no shortage of targets.
When he entered the command post, he was surprised to find that Fischer was not alone. With him was a Waffen SS officer whom Rohde did not recognize, a man who was rather short and rotund to be an SS officer. He was also old enough to be Rohde's father, or even Fischer's father, for that matter. This was no battle squad leader, yet he managed to project an air of self-satisfied competence, not unlike a Zurich banker.
Normally, Rohde was casual with Fischer, but in the presence of the SS officer he came to attention and saluted smartly.
"At ease, Rohde. This is Major Dorfmann from the Skorpion unit," Fischer explained. "He is the man responsible for the Luftpost."
Rohde was familiar with the Luftpost; it was the equivalent of the weekly newspaper for soldiers at the front.
Rohde eyed both officers with apprehension. The major might be a journalist, but an SS officer was an SS officer. Rohde shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, wondering what Fischer and Dorfmann wanted with him. He decided that he would find out soon enough.
While he appreciated the fact that Captain Fischer had taken him under his wing and encouraged him as a sniper, Rohde well understood that Fischer was, in part, motivated by self-interest. Whatever his star sniper accomplished also reflected well on the captain. Rohde had the uncomfortable feeling of being something of a status symbol, like a fine racehorse or hunting dog.
Fischer had not come up through the rank and file, but had essentially been born into the officer's corp. He was from a wealthy family that was more than likely quite used to owning a stable of fine horses and hunting dogs. Yet what happened to a horse that was no longer useful? The lucky ones got put out to pasture. More often than not, they were trundled off to the slaughterhouse for whatever value could be gotten from their hides, hooves, and meat. Aristocrats such as Fischer were not much given to sentiment where profit was involved. Rohde was sure that he would be favored only as long as he was useful.
"Yesterday, you said that you encountered an American sniper. One with some insignia painted on his helmet," Fischer said.
"Yes, sir. That would be correct."
Rohde was on his guard. He had only mentioned the insignia in passing, yet the captain seemed to be making a big deal out of it. He wondered where this was going, and why the captain cared so much about one enemy soldier. Normally, the captain was only interested in numbers. How many Rohde had shot, not who. The battlefield was nothing if not anonymous. What could be so special about one man? Rohde guessed that he was about to find out.
The captain turned to the SS officer. "Major?"
The SS officer stepped forward. In his hand was a newspaper, but not the familiar Luftpost. The newspaper was folded to isolate a headline and article, which, to Rohde's surprise, was written in English. He recognized the language, although he couldn't speak a word of it. There was also a photograph accompanying the article. With a nod, the SS officer invited him to take a closer look. What Rohde saw was a grainy black and white photograph on newsprint, but it was detailed enough. The photograph revealed a lean, fox-like face under the American helmet, on the front of which was painted the same insignia he had seen on the sniper's helmet yesterday.