Satisfied with his work, he remained hidden inside the hedge long enough to drink half his canteen of water and then smoke a cigarette. The sun was higher now, starting to touch the treetops and reach across the grass. Birds flitted everywhere.
A flash of movement on the ground caught his eye and Rohde reached for his rifle. But he saw that it was only a chipmunk. Nature went about its business, oblivious to the war.
He shook his head, chiding himself for being so careless. He had become so caught up in the work that he had let his guard down. If some enemy soldier had come upon him, Rohde would already be dead. That would have been an ignoble end to his sniping career, to die with a shovel in his hand. He smoked another cigarette, but this time he kept his grip on the rifle.
Rohde's series of holes, ditches, and brush was not exactly elegant, but it was certainly more elaborate than any series of hides he had created before. None of it qualified as any great feat of engineering or even of sniper craft. However, the fact that he had created three separate fallbacks here at the edge of the field went beyond anything he had done before.
To trap a lion, one needed a goat.
Now, all that he needed was the bait. He had just the thing in mind.
Chapter Twenty-One
Later that day, Rohde found Hohenfeldt at work, supervising a couple of teenaged Soldaten taking inventory of the ammunition stocks. The Stabsfeldwebel looked on, clipboard balanced on his heavy belly, sweat dripping off him in the airless tent, as the two Soldaten, shirtless in the heat and slick with sweat, climbed among the stacked crates and called numbers out to him. With camouflaged netting draped over the tent, the air was very close, and the interior of the tent smelled strongly of sweat, sawdust from the ammo crates, and gun oil.
He glanced around for the Gewehr 43, but it was nowhere in sight. That damn old Stabsfeldwebel had hidden it away.
Rohde was determined to get his hands on that Gewehr 43. He would take every advantage that he could as a sniper, and that included a superior weapon. The thought of the American hillbilly sniper loomed large in his mind. Having triumphed over the American sniper once before, he was certain that he could do it again. It would help if he had a new semi-automatic rifle. Having laid his trap, and armed with the Gewehr, all he would have to do was lure in the American sniper.
With the Allied troops about to bear down on the German positions around Perle des Champs, it made sense that every last Panzerfaust and round of 7.92 mm ammunition be accounted for. Already, the troops were being issued extra ammunition beyond the standard 65 rounds. Some grumbled about it because of the added weight, but those who had been in combat previously knew better than to complain about carrying extra clips of ammo. Soon enough, every bullet might count. The more experienced soldiers crammed every pocket full of ammo.
It was not a lack of ammunition that was causing problems for the Germans, but a lack of air power. On the ground, the Germans had the training and the firepower to hold off twice their number. The Germans sold each acre of French territory dearly. But from the air, they were vulnerable.
"Hey, Hohenfeldt," Rohde called to get the Stabsfeldwebel's attention.
Hohenfeldt turned around and acknowledged Rohde with a put-upon expression. "You don't give up, do you, Rohde? You are still after that rifle. The answer is no. Anyhow, can't you see that I’m busy?"
"Those two poor bastards look busy. Are you trying to give them heat stroke? You look like you're standing around."
"Rohde, it goes without saying that I am a Stabsfeldwebel and you are a Gefreiter. Which means that I outrank you. So piss off, unless you want to help count boxes."
Hohenfeldt turned his attention back to the clipboard. Rohde did not care to be so easily dismissed. He considered how gratifying it would be to put a bullet hole through Hohenfeldt's broad forehead, which was wrinkled now in concentration.
"I am not here to count bullets for you, Staber. I want to talk to you about getting hold of that rifle."
Hohenfeldt sighed audibly. "Get out of here, Rohde!"
"Come now, don't be that way. I think that you will want to hear what I have to say."
"Then what are you waiting for? Say it."
Rohde gave the two sweating soldiers a significant look. "Let's go have a cigarette."
Hohenfeldt couldn't help but be curious. He barked some orders at the two soldiers, and then followed Rohde outside.
Rohde lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Hohenfeldt, who considered it as if it might be booby-trapped, then shook out a cigarette and accepted a light from Rohde.
"What?" he asked, exhaling smoke through teeth stained yellow by nicotine and coffee. He sat down on a box and his whole body sagged. Hohenfeldt was not a model specimen of a German soldier. "Hurry up. I have things to do."
"I want that rifle," Rohde said.
"And I want a box of chocolates and a feather bed." He laughed. "I want a French girl to fondle my balls."
"There, you see? We all want something. What if I could get you something that you want, Hohenfeldt?"
Hohenfeldt's eyes narrowed. "This is tricky territory, Rohde. Are you trying to bribe me? That is not how I run my armory."
"Of course not, Herr Stabsfeldwebel. That would be against regulations. No, what I am offering you is a favor between friends."
Hohenfeldt inhaled deeply, held the smoke, then exhaled. "What did you have in mind?"
"I thought you might enjoy a visit with my French girl. That is, unless you would rather stand around watching these two sweaty boys."
"A visit?"
"A roll in the hay."
"And what does this girl think of that?"
"Don't worry about what she thinks. She will do what I tell her."
Hohenfeldt was thinking about it, trying to find the downside of the bargain. Rohde could almost imagine the gear's turning behind his rheumy eyes. In Hohenfeldt’s case, it was more like the cycling of a well-oiled weapon. “When?” he asked.
"Tonight. I will meet you here and we can walk over to her farm."
The armorer finally nodded. Then he actually licked his lips as if in anticipation of what was to come that night. "I hope that you are not planning to make a fool of me, or you will be sorry, Rohde."
Rohde turned to go, then stopped and said, "I will hold up my end of the bargain, Staber. You just be sure to have that rifle for me, or you will be the one who is sorry."
At midnight he met Hohenfeldt as agreed and brought him around to Lisette's farmhouse. He would have liked to walk, silent in the velvety night, but Hohenfeldt was having none of that. The armorer complained that his knees ached too much to walk the entire distance. They took a motorcycle instead, with Hohenfeldt stuffed into the sidecar. Never mind the fact that the countryside might be crawling with Machi fighters and possibly with Allied scouts. Any of them would be happy to cut their throats, and the loud engine made them a target.
They drove down the country roads with the headlight off, just in case there were any Allied aircraft lurking above. Between their slow progress and the loud motor, Rohde was sure that they would be ambushed at every curve and copse. By some miracle, they made it to the farmhouse.
Lisette emerged to greet them, her old dog hanging around her knees, barking.
"Who's this?" she asked, puzzled.
"An old friend of mine," Rohde said. "He wanted to meet you."
The Stabsfeldwebel hardly did more than take off his hat and nod. Rohde steered him toward a chair and announced, "I will be right back."