One by one, old man Hollis took the objects from the sack: leaf springs, broken farm implements, a couple of discarded discs off a seed drill. It looked like junk, but Holli told him these were all good makings for knives.
"You been busy, ain't you, boy? I reckon these will do." He pulled the final piece of metal from the bag. Rusty as it was, the bar of metal appeared to be the least promising. Hollis smacked it against the woodpile to shake some of the rust off, then spat on a corner and worked the spit into the metal. "Huh, now where did you get this?"
"From up the mountain, sir. There was an old place there that burnt down a long time ago."
"That there is a special piece of metal," Hollis said, admiring the rusty metal. "That there is Damascus steel. They say some of the first settlers brought over metal like that. Mostly, we've lost the way of how to make it. Looks like you done found some."
He laid the metal almost delicately atop the rest of the pile.
"Pa said you buy metal."
"Normally, I pay cash money," Hollis said. "But I reckon you are the kind of boy who would give that money right over to his pa, like a boy should."
"Yes, sir."
What hung unspoken in the air was the fact that his pa would likely drink the money, or spend it on supplies to make moonshine.
Hollis rubbed his chin. "What if I was to pay you in canned goods? Maybe throw in a box of shells for that rifle of yours. You can tell your pa I'm short on cash money. Hell, cash money is as rare around here as an oyster.”
Cole nodded. He had thought about hiding the money from his pa. This way was better.
From then on, Cole had visited old man Hollis from time to time. Sometimes he brought bits of metal, but just as often he simply liked to sit in the corner and watch the old man work. Hollis heated the metal in a rough-built forge near the barn, shaped the glowing metal by pounding it on an anvil, then polished it on a grinder that he turned by a foot treadle. The handles were wood or antler, often from the supply that Cole now brought periodically. Sometimes, Cole helped by holding a rough blade to the grindstone. If he ever survived this war, making knives was something he might consider doing.
Over the years, the bar of Damascus steel that Cole had found sat untouched on the shelf. Once, Cole had asked about it.
"Oh, that there is for somethin' special one of these days," Hollis said. “You only get one chance in a lifetime to make a knife like that.”
Cole finally reached into the box. In his hands, he now held the knife that Hollis had made from that bar of ancient Damascus steel. The blade was patterned after a Bowie knife, with the back side tapered and sharpened so that the blade formed a wicked point. The finger guard was brass and the handle made of antler from one of the bucks that Cole had hunted. As a rule, mountain people were more concerned about meat than trophy antlers, but whenever Cole had gotten a decent pair of antlers, he had taken them to Hollis.
The shape of the blade was one thing, but it was the blade itself that really captured the eye. The metal seemed to shift and change patterns as Cole turned the blade.
Something special, all right.
Studying the blade in Cole's hand, Vaccaro gave a low whistle.
"That is one beautiful knife. What are you going to do with it?"
"What do you think? I'm gonna make old Hollis proud that he sent me this knife."
Vaccaro shook his head. "And here I thought that it was a box of cookies. I ought to know by now that there's nothing sweet about you, Cole."
Chapter Eighteen
Rohde lay awake in Lisette's bed, one hand cupping the girl's breast and his leg wedged between her warm thighs. He breathed in the girl’s doughy feminine smell. They had fallen asleep after making love, but after that nap he found himself wide awake. While Rohde's body was pleasurably spent, his mind was now racing. He willed himself to go back to sleep, but it was like telling the wind to stop blowing.
He was thinking about the American hillbilly sniper.
It nagged at him that this hillbilly was still alive. One more bullet would finish off the American and cement Rohde's own reputation. Captain Fischer had said as much. But how did one find a single soldier in the vast battlefield?
Rohde thought that the best way might be to set a trap.
To lure a mouse into a trap, one needed cheese. To lure a lion, one needed a goat. To lure a man, one needed… what, exactly?
That was the question Rohde contemplated as he lay awake in the girl's bed. He was supposed to be on patrol, plying his sniper's trade, and if anyone caught him here, he would surely be punished for dereliction of duty. He doubted that Fischer would have him shot, but who was to say? The punishment would depend upon the Hauptmann's mood.
Silently appraising the spent feeling in his loins and remembering their night of lovemaking, Rohde thought that each night he spent in Lisette's bed was well worth the risk.
Fortunately for him, being designated as a Jäger gave him a great deal of leeway and the ability to work alone. He was not the first German soldier who had slipped away to spend time with a French girl, nor was he likely to be the last, so long as the Allies had not yet driven German forces out of France.
Then Lisette would get herself an American boyfriend, or possibly a Frenchman. Rohde was nothing if not a realist.
He heard a vehicle on the road, coming fast, and he went tense all over. At this time of night it could only be a military vehicle. The curfew banned any travel by the French.
The vehicle sounded like a Kubelwagen, favored by officers and messengers. Headlights washed over the house as the vehicle went around a bend. He held his breath as the car drew even with the house, and then roared past.
Rohde breathed again.
He propped himself up on the pillow and lit a cigarette. It was a hot summer night so the windows were open. There were no screens on the farmhouse windows, but this far from the coast there didn't seem to be any mosquitoes. By day, of course, there were plenty of flies. Flies were a fact of farm life, especially in summer. The linen curtains waved in ghostly fashion in the slight breeze. Too hot for sheets or blankets.
From the room next door he heard the boy mumble in his sleep. Then all was quiet again. Lisette's niece and nephew were under strict orders to stay out of her room when he was there.
Starlight spilled through the window, giving a soft glow to the curves of Lisette's figure. She resembled a photograph taken in dim light. He gazed at her body in admiration, letting the image burn into his mind. Even though they had made love twice tonight, he felt a stirring that hinted at the possibility of a third time.
He recalled how the old men in the village would sigh at the sight of a pretty girl, and then gaze after her, lost in reverie. Was something like this what they were remembering? If he lived to be an old man, such an image might be a comfort someday, a reminder that he had lived a little and that he had been young once.
He hoped that his older brother had enjoyed some such comfort in his short life. Unlike the more prudish Allies, the SS and Wehrmacht often made informal arrangements for brothels to serve the troops.
Did you take a lover, Carl? I hope that you enjoyed that much, at least.
Until the death of his older brother, Rohde never had believed in heaven or any sort of life after death. He now hoped that there must, indeed, be something after this life. Otherwise, the finality of death overshadowed all the pleasure of living. Perhaps someday, he and Carl would be together once more, possibly in Valhalla, the hall of the gods where the dead enjoyed eternal feasting and camaraderie in the company of other heroes.