Cole ran on, expecting at any moment to feel a bullet punch between his shoulder blades. He ran fifty feet, and it felt like he was running a marathon.
Then he was in among the thick branches of the hedge, worming his way deeper through the tangle. The hedge was practically impenetrable, but Cole had no choice but to fight his way through. Dead branches clawed at his face and ripped his clothes. His rifle got tangled up, but he managed to yank it free with such force that the shoulder strap snapped.
He kept going until he burst through the far side of the hedge. He jumped the last few feet and landed in a heap.
He was in a new field. But he wasn't alone.
A whole squad of troops was looking at him in disbelief. One or two pointed weapons at him, but no one fired.
He saw at once they weren't Germans. They weren't Americans, either.
Still on his knees from his ignominious arrival in the field, Cole raised his hands, not sure what the hell he had gotten himself into.
Then a very large soldier stepped forward and offered Cole a paw the size of a catcher's mitt.
Not sure what else to do, Cole took it, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.
"American?" the man asked in passable English.
"As Yankee Doodle," Cole replied.
That seemed to please the big soldier, who grinned. "We are the 1st Polish Division," he explained. "We are part of the trap closing in on the Germans. The English are coming at them from the west, and your forces along with ours are coming at them from the east."
It was no surprise to Cole that a big fight was brewing, but he had thought that the real action was going to be a little farther to the west. Having survived the last few minutes, his thoughts turned to Lisette with her little niece and nephew, who were about to find themselves in the middle of a battlefield.
The Polish soldier interrupted Cole's thoughts. "What is on the other side of this hedge?" he asked. "You seemed in a hurry to get away."
"German panzers and at least a couple dozen troops that I could see. Maybe more."
"Well, we will wait for them to go by. We need the element of surprise to complete the encirclement. Meanwhile, I hope that I have answered your questions."
"I got just one more," Cole said. He nodded at the vehicles parked nearby. "Can I borrow one of them Jeeps?"
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rohde touched his side, then took his hand away, staring in disbelief at the blood running off his fingers. The sight of so much blood — his own blood — instantly made him feel lightheaded. Fear gripped him. Was he going to die?
He inspected the wound, noting the spreading stain across his tunic. If he could just get some help, perhaps he would be saved. He was still on his feet, after all.
"Just a scratch, Carl," he said, trying to reassure his brother, whose presence he suddenly felt. The bullet wound was much more than a scratch, but he did not want his brother to worry. "I will be fine."
Soldiers swarmed around him, rushing alongside the tanks moving to attack the American forces. He cursed the American sniper who had shot him. Deep down, Rohde had to admit that the man was good. But if he'd been better, Rohde would already be dead. If only the attack hadn't come between them, perhaps Rohde would have had another chance at the American sniper. Who was the better man? Now, it seemed like he would never know.
"Medic!" Rohde shouted, glancing around desperately for one of their white helmets. Sometimes the medics also wore white tunics emblazoned with a red cross, making them look like medieval knights. None was in sight. "I need a medic!"
He tried to stop a soldier who was running past.
"You there, get me a medic!"
The soldier was young, hardly more than a boy, and looked terrified. His new uniform marked him as a recent replacement. "Are you hurt?" he asked stupidly. Then he saw Rohde's wound and his eyes grew big. The soldier’s reaction told Rohde what he already knew.
A sergeant pushed between them. He gave the young soldier a shove. "Go! Go!" He turned to Rohde. "He can't help you, you damn idiot. Get to the rear, assuming we still have one. Or better yet, surrender to the Amis. You'd better throw away that sniper rifle first if you do that."
Then the sergeant ran on, rejoining the assault. Within a minute, Rohde was alone on the field.
Or not quite alone. Several other wounded men lay there, along with a burning Sherman tank. A charred body lay near the tank, still smoldering. Rohde detected the horrible smell of burned human flesh.
Quickly, Rohde made up his mind that he would not surrender. Prisoners of war did not receive the Iron Cross. He still held out some dim hope that the medal might be his. More than that, he'd be damned if he would give up the Gewehr 43 rifle that had cost him so much. His only choice was to do as the sergeant had suggested, which was to make his way to the rear.
What he needed was some sulfa powder, some clean bandages — and a drink of water. Then he'd be as good as new. At least, that is what he told himself.
Rohde slipped his arm through the sling of the rifle and started toward where he thought the rear must be located. He hadn't gone more than a hundred meters when he stopped. With each step, his insides threatened to leak out of the gunshot wound. He pressed a hand against it to keep everything in. His fingers could not stop the blood, however. No way was he going to reach the rear.
And there was no guarantee that he would find any help there. The final fight for Falaise had left the entire countryside in turmoil. The German field hospital could be a mile away. Or it might no longer exist.
However, Lisette’s cottage was not that far away. She would have bandages and water. There, he could patch himself up enough to rejoin his own forces.
He turned around.
"No, Carl, she's not going to be happy to see me," he agreed. "I will get some bandages and be on my way. And something to drink. I am awfully thirsty."
Painfully, Rohde recrossed the field, careful to avoid the burned body and the flaming ruins of the tank. Even from a distance, on a summer day, he felt the heat radiating from the furiously burning hulk. This time, he definitely smelled the bodies in the flames. The smell caught in his throat and made him want to gag.
He entered the woods through which he had chased the American sniper not more than twenty minutes ago. His side definitely felt as if something was trying to squeeze out. He pressed harder, causing yet more blood to ooze between his fingers. He had to get some bandages on that wound, and fast.
Each step seemed harder and harder. The thought occurred to him that if he simply lay down here among the trees, his body might go undiscovered forever.
More blood leaked out of him, now almost black in color. Rohde realized that he was probably dying.
He paused and leaned against a tree. The woods felt peaceful.
"It wasn't like this for you, was it, Carl? They tied you to a post and made you wear a blindfold. Those SS bastards. I know that you were not a deserter. You were no coward."
When he looked up through the branches at the sky, everything seemed to circle and swirl above him. Black spots swam in his vision and fear came flooding back. He did not want to die. He pushed away from the tree and forced himself to keep going. As long as he kept moving, there was still some hope.