He gathered up his blanket roll and his rifle to head outside. The rest of the squad was strewn across the interior of a barn where they had taken shelter for the night, but he had a sudden need to be alone, and to have nothing overhead but the stars and sky.
Through the summer haze, he picked out Scorpius and Lyra and the Big Dipper. His pa, who had known more about the woods and mountains than any man alive, had taught him the constellations — when he'd been sober.
He looked for Orion, the Hunter, but that was a winter constellation.
Looking up at the stars made him feel better. Calmer. People had been gazing up at those same stars since the world began. The stars gave him some perspective on troubles and sorrows.
He had lost his cool today when that dumb cocksucker had grabbed up the German sniper's rifle like a damn trophy. That wasn't like him. Something in him had snapped.
He had needed some time tonight to think it through.
The thing about the Army was, there was never a moment's privacy. From the time you got to boot camp until the day you got your discharge papers, you were constantly surrounded by other soldiers. You ate together, showered together, slept together. Cole supposed that someone, somewhere, might enjoy that feeling of never being alone. Vaccaro came to mind. He thrived on being around other people. Then again, he was a city boy, so what could you expect?
Cole himself missed being alone. He longed for the solitary woods and empty mountain valleys. It was from these empty, lonely places that he gained his energy. Being around people all the time sapped his inner strength.
It wasn't the first time that Cole had gone off on his own. Vaccaro stirred long enough to ask, "You're not worried about some German saboteur coming around to cut your throat?"
"Ain't nobody sneaked up on me yet," Cole said.
He made sure the sentry on duty saw him — no sense in getting shot by your own side — then found a secluded spot and stretched out under the stars.
It was true that Cole was a light sleeper. A boyhood spent hunting alone in the mountains had ingrained that habit. The old-timers called it sleeping with one eye open. Deep in the mountains there were bears, a mountain lion or two, and crazy old moonshiners who would just as soon cut your throat than take a chance that you would rat out their still. Cole would take his chances with German saboteurs any day.
The truth was, he needed some time alone just to think. Cole was no philosopher, but he understood that there was a difference between being alone and being lonely. As much as possible, he put a shell around himself and didn't let many people inside. Vaccaro was an exception. Jolie Molyneaux had been another.
Cole looked up at the sky, guessing that it was close to midnight by the placement of the stars. He never bothered to wear a watch, but could tell time day or night to within a few minutes of the hour.
He realized that something else nagged at his mind. It was like the way that you could tell there was a storm coming. The way the air got very still, and the way that breeze stirred and cupped the pale underbellies of the mountain ash leaves.
You sensed the storm coming, and then you finally heard the thunder.
He wondered if it was Von Stenger.
Was the German dead? That German sniper had shot and badly wounded Jolie, and damn near killed Cole. The experience had left Cole spooked. It was not a feeling that he'd had before, and he didn't much like it. But as far as Cole knew, Von Stenger was dead in a flooded marsh near the town of Bienville.
No, it wasn't Von Stenger. Maybe that particular German would return to haunt him later. This didn't feel like him. The storm that was coming for Cole was a different one. But he could sense it all the same.
The coming storm would keep him focused. He would welcome the thunder and rain. He would much rather fight a real enemy than shoot brainwashed kids that had been given rifles.
Lying there under the stars, his thoughts kept flying every which way like they'd been shot out of a scattergun. He needed sleep. Three or four hours of shut-eye before heading back into the field would do him good.
Cole closed his eyes and slept, but deep down, the feral animal part of his mind prowled restlessly, keeping watch, waiting for the storm to break.
Chapter Four
Hidden in the tall summer grass, Dieter Rohde did not look like a stone-cold killer. He was apple-cheeked and baby-faced, making him appear even younger than he was. It was a face that could best be described as boyishly pretty, rather than handsome.
With his helmet off, his dirty blond hair was wavy and too long for a soldier's. Women of all ages often had an irresistible urge to reach out and brush the unruly strands away from his face. They were rewarded with a smile, complete with dimples.
He had the warm brown eyes of a puppy, disguising the fact that he saw with the acuity of a hawk. And Rohde, having been spoiled all his life by women, viewed them in much the same way that a hawk saw a rabbit. Beneath his handsome adolescent appearance lurked a cruel heart.
Peering now with one of those keen eyes through the 4x Zeiss ZF42 telescopic sight on his Mauser K98 rifle, Rohde aligned the single-post reticule on a soldier in the distance. An American.
He had been watching the GI for a while. An entire squad sheltered in the thick hedgerow behind this one soldier. But this unlucky bastard had been designated as the point man. The scout. If there were Germans guarding this particular field, it was his job to reveal their presence.
To put it another way, the lone Ami was sniper bait.
Rohde could easily have taken him, but he bided his time.
Maybe the enemy soldier took some pride in his skills as a scout. He was half hidden behind a stone wall, peering across the field. If he was trying to spot Rohde, he was out of luck. The sniper had hidden deep in the underbrush. He wore a camouflage uniform, which made him stand out from most of the Germans in his unit, but which blended perfectly with the brush. Netting covered his Stahlhelm, and he had affixed bits of branches and grass to the helmet to break up his outline even more.
Rohde's rifle rested on a stone. He had put a rag under the wooden forearm to cushion the stock yet more. Anchored by the stone and the French earth itself, Rohde could not have asked for a better rifle rest. Steady as a rock, he could wait all day if need be.
From the brush that disguised him to the sun at his back, it was the perfect sniper's lair. Many of his fellow German snipers working to stop the relentless American advance after Operation Cobra preferred taking up positions in trees so that they had a better vantage point. However, a sniper in a tree could be trapped. It was not convenient to take one shot and move on, which was the best strategy for a sniper who wished to survive another day. Once discovered, a sniper in a tree was nothing more than target practice. The Americans had more than a few marksmen of their own.
Maybe this lone American was one of those marksmen, hoping to set his sights on a German sniper. Rohde kept watch through the scope. Although he handled it with the utmost care, even going so far as removing it at night to secure the optic in a wooden case, moisture had gotten inside and the lens had recently started to cloud over. Consequently, Rohde saw everything now through the scope as if a sea fog was rolling in. But for now, it would have to do. Unless it was the exact same Zeiss optic, affixing a scope to a K98 required the work of a machinist, so it was not a quick battlefield adjustment. Hohenfeldt, his unit’s miserly armorer, wasn't about to issue him another telescopic sight, no matter how many Ami soldiers he bagged. For whatever reason, fat old Hohenfeldt had taken a dislike to Rohde.