While Fischer was Rohde’s champion in granting him sniper status, he had also made it clear that he was still passing judgment on Rohde as a soldier. This guarded view was based entirely on the rumors surrounding Rohde's older brother. Those rumors had left Rohde tainted goods in the eyes of his fellow soldiers, but the captain had given him a chance to be his own man. Fischer was pragmatic in that any good officer knew that his most important task was to make himself look good. Rohde helped him do just that.
"Why don't you shoot, for God's sake!" the captain muttered again. "He's going to make it across the field."
Rohde had come to realize that a good sniper was disconnected from time in a way that made others impatient.
There was no hurrying a good shot, but he couldn't keep the Hauptmann waiting forever.
Rohde whistled. The noise was just loud enough for the GI to hear. It was a noise that was out of place in a field where the primary sound was the buzzing of insects.
Startled, the American pulled up short and listened. In doing so, he unwittingly presented the perfect target. He must have thought that he was hearing one of his own men signaling him. He looked in Rohde's general direction, but could not see the concealed sniper.
Rohde fired.
Chapter Five
Rohde's bullet struck the GI in the leg, just above the knee. The impact raised a puff of atomized flesh and shredded olive drab uniform. He went down in the grass, thrashing in pain. Wounded, but not dead.
Fischer observed through Zeiss Dienstglas binoculars that would have cost two months of his officer's pay if he had not picked them up on the battlefield.
"You should have aimed a little higher," he said.
Somehow, the American managed to regain his feet. Tough bastard. He limped for the safety of the hedgerow on the opposite side of the field.
Rohde worked the bolt action, ejecting the spent round, and slapped home the bolt to lock a fresh 7.92 mm round in the chamber. In the time it took to work the bolt and reacquire the target, the GI had already moved several meters. Once again, Rohde wished for that semiautomatic rifle.
Aiming for the legs, he fired again.
This time, the GI stumbled as if someone had tripped him. He fell headlong into the grass. The bullet had gone through both legs, leaving them useless and mangled, but he tried to crawl on his elbows. Rohde watched, unconcerned. At that rate, it would take the wounded man all day to get across the field.
"What are you waiting for? You should finish him off," Fischer said, craning his head above Rohde's helmet in order to get a better view of the field.
"Please get down, sir," Rohde muttered, keeping his eye on the scope.
Fischer did not need to be told twice. He pressed his belly into the grass like he was humping the earth.
Having fired twice from the same position, Rohde's concern was that the Americans hidden in the hedgerow would return fire. When they did not, he was assured that he still remained hidden, at least for now. It was hard to pinpoint where a single shot originated, but the more times that he fired made his hiding place more obvious.
His shoulder ached dully, having taken a pounding from the K98. The rifle packed a wallop, and the bare wooden stock left a bruise after just a few rounds. Rohde had been doing a lot of shooting the last few days. Under his tunic, his shoulder and upper arm were black and blue.
Rohde's ears rang from the crack of the rifle, but as the ringing faded, he began to hear again the insects in the grass around them, unperturbed by the rifle shots. Also, he could hear the American, calling for help. It was a horrible, pleading sound. The words were in English, but they needed no translation. Rohde tuned it out, managing to ignore the fact that he was the cause of that suffering. Beside him, Captain Fischer muttered something sympathetic but did not order to finish off the American.
Keeping his scope trained on the green tangle of the hedgerow at the edge of the field, Rohde waited.
German or American, it was against human nature to leave a wounded comrade in the middle of a field on a hot day.
The hedgerow did an excellent job of concealing the American squad hidden within it. He understood that such hedgerows were rare in America, but they were common enough in Europe. Much of the coastal countryside here in France was crisscrossed by them. The hedgerows had been most plentiful around Normandy, bogging down the Allied advance.
This patchwork of fields favored the German defensive strategy. The Allies were forced to capture France field by field. It was painstaking and deadly work.
Now, the country was more open as the fighting moved closer to Caen and Falaise, and ultimately to the Belgian border, as the Germans gave up ground, meter by meter, selling it dearly. However, much of the landscape was still comprised of small fields ringed by hedgerows, and this was where Rohde's unit had taken up a defensive position today.
The fields tended to contain no more than a few acres and were originally ringed by low stone walls. The hedgerows, made up of a medley of trees and shrubs, had grown up and over the stone walls and earthen berms. Some of the hedgerows were ancient, as he understood it, dating back to Roman times. Up to twenty feet high and almost as thick, the hedgerows eliminated the need for any fencing. Narrow sunken lanes sometimes ran between the fields, with the lanes surrounded on all sides by the hedgerows, so that traversing the countryside was almost like passing through a tunnel.
Now, Rohde kept his eyes trained on the hedgerow opposite him and waited.
The vegetation shifted. The drab green American uniforms blended effectively with the leaves and branches, but it was their movement that gave them away. He could see them shift into position, readying themselves up for action.
Rohde did not move a muscle. Every cell of his body felt like it was dipped in stone. A few more ants trooped across his neck and up under his collar. A fly landed on his cheekbone, tasting his sweat. The sun beat down. The heat was such that distant objects shimmered. He ignored the distractions, keeping his eye on the wall of vegetation. As the heat of the day increased, the insects and birds grew lazy and fell silent, so that the world seemed to be holding its breath.
Beside him, there was a sound as Fischer pulled his MP40 around and got it into position, putting the metal stock against his shoulder and bracing the weapon with his elbows. From that prone position, he would be able to sweep the field if necessary. What the MP40 lacked in range, it made up for in the quantity of 9 mm rounds it spewed out. Rohde just prayed that the captain wouldn't open fire and reveal their position to the enemy until the time was right. But an enlisted man didn't go giving orders to a Hauptmann.
Finally, there was decisive movement from the Americans. Two figures sprinted for the open field, headed for their wounded companion. Rohde tracked them through the scope. He became a little too excited by the appearance of the two targets and shot the first man through the torso, a killing shot.
He let out a breath as he worked the bolt, annoyed that he had to slap it into place. He acquired another target.
Take your time, he told himself.
He aimed lower. His next shot hit the running man, again through the legs, and he went down.
The others sheltering in the hedgerow opened fire, spewing bullets in every direction.
Beside him, Fischer cursed. He held his fire.
But the shots did not come near where they sheltered among the shrubs and grass, hugging the earth. The Americans didn't have any idea where he was hidden. When they let up off their triggers, it was possible to hear the desperate shouts of not one, but two wounded men in the field.
Rohde waited. The Americans knew he was there, which kept them from attempting to rescue the two men down in the field. The sun climbed higher. Sweat trickled down Rohde's face, but he didn't dare wipe it away. His mouth had gone dry and he was desperately thirsty, but he did not reach for his canteen. The slightest motion could give him away.