The sounds of the countryside gradually resumed. Insects buzzed and birds sang. Somewhere in the distance, a cow lowed. It might have been a bucolic scene if not for the fact that Rohde was watching it all through the eye of his Zeiss scope. The moans and pleas of the wounded Americans didn't help.
"This is awful to listen to," Fischer said. "Shoot them and be done with it."
Rohde weighed whether or not he should disagree with his officer. Because it was just the two of them out here, without any need for Fischer to save face, Rohde simply said, "We should wait."
Fischer sighed. “You are the sniper.”
He had baited the trap. In comparison, waiting was the easy part. Rohde was prepared to stay there all day if necessary.
The afternoon wore on. To his surprise, he heard Fischer breathing deeply beside him. The captain had fallen asleep.
Rohde's bladder was getting full to the point of bursting. Tired of the distraction, and not wanting to leave his sniper’s nest, he allowed himself to urinate where he lay. A puddle of warm liquid oozed out from beneath him and the smell of his own piss filled his nostrils. His bodily functions satisfied, he re-focused his full attention on the view through the telescopic sight.
The sun passed its zenith. The Americans lost patience. One of them broke from the hedgerow and ran toward his wounded companions, clutching a rifle in one hand and a canteen in the other.
Rohde tracked him through the scope, leading him just a little. Then he pulled the trigger and the American fell.
He worked the bolt, shot the first wounded man. Worked the bolt, and shot the second. Beside him, Fischer jerked awake as if he'd been shot himself.
The American squad fired blindly, bullets zipping through the grass. They had not figured out where he was, but he wasn't taking any chances of getting hit by a lucky shot.
"Come on," he said to Fischer, who was still addled with sleep, and started to back away, slithering out of his position, staying on his belly. Fischer didn't need to be told twice.
They retreated until they reached another hedgerow, and buried themselves in it. Safely on the other side of the field now, they straightened up and started down the road toward where their unit was holding the line against the Allied advance.
Fischer glanced at Rohde's wet trousers and wrinkled his nose. "Uggh. You've pissed yourself," Fischer remarked.
"I can always dry out my trousers, sir." Now that they were back among the Wehrmacht forces moving on the road, he was careful to address the Hauptmann properly. "But it's not every day that I can kill Amis."
To count as a kill, each one of Rohde's victories had to be verified independently. He was glad that the Hauptmann had come along today.
Fischer shook his head. "You are collecting dead men as if they were stamps. Why are you so worried about keeping score?"
"Do I need to tell you, sir?" Rohde gave him one of those puppy grins. Even Fischer found it disarming. "You must know."
"You and your Iron Cross," Captain Fischer said. "I doubt that any of us will live long enough to see that medal pinned on you."
"You can always send it home to my family, sir," Rohde said. "In any case, that was three more for me today."
Fischer snorted. Rohde was one of the few soldiers he had ever encountered who openly lobbied for a medal. The Iron Cross was Germany’s decoration for heroism on the battlefield. The medal was worn over the left pocket of the uniform tunic — over the heart. A soldier who wore the Iron Cross commanded respect.
Only one medal was more prestigious, and that was the Knight’s Cross, worn at the throat. Enlisted men didn’t have a chance at that.
As soon as Rohde had the sniper rifle in his hands, he had made his intentions clear that he would shoot as many of the enemy as it took to win the Iron Cross. While it was unusual for a soldier to announce that he sought to earn such a medal, in Fischer’s mind it made it clear that Rohde was a committed soldier. Anyway, whatever made Rohde look good, made Fischer look good. He had done the right thing by making him the unit's Jäger.
Fischer clapped him on the shoulder. "You are too much, Rohde. Go get yourself something to eat." He wrinkled his nose. "And for God's sake, get out of those pants."
"Yes, sir. But first I want to swing through some of the farm country behind us and scout it out."
"Suit yourself," Fischer said. "Always hunting, aren't you, Rohde?"
With a nod, Rohde slipped off into the fields to explore some of the surrounding farms.
It did not hurt that his reconnoitering would take him past the farm of the French girl whose bed he had been sharing the past few weeks.
He wouldn't come out and say it to the Hauptmann, but it was no secret that the Germans were steadily giving up ground. What looked to be peaceful fields would soon be a battleground, and Rohde knew that knowing the ground would only work to his advantage.
When the Allied advance arrived in force, Rohde would be ready to add even more notches to his rifle stock.
Chapter Six
Lisette remembered well that summer day when she had met her German soldier.
"Elsa, get away from the road!" she had shouted at her niece, waving at her with a scooping gesture that was universal for "come here." The little girl ran toward her, with her twin brother, Leo, racing after her.
The two children, both five years old, had been tossing rocks into a puddle left in the dirt road by last night's rain. Already, their clothes were spattered with mud. Lisette put her hands on her hips to signal that she had lost patience. It wasn't that she was worried about the mud, but about vehicles. The road was not usually busy, but why take any chances? A speeding German motorcycle or Kübelwagen would not be concerned about a couple of French children getting in the way.
The children dashed toward her, their smiles and laughter making it impossible to be angry with them. Still, caring for her niece and nephew on her own was not easy. Not a day went by that she did not wonder what it would be like to be living in Paris, with her own apartment and friends her own age, instead of isolated on this farm. Even occupied Paris seemed more appealing than this farm.
She sighed. "Here, you can feed the chickens instead," she said, pouring a scoop of grain into both of their hands.
The twins were soon running around the yard being chased by the chickens, eager for a handful of grain. Leo and Elsa squealed with delight.
There had been more chickens, more than a dozen, in fact, but now their flock was down to four birds. It was enough for a few eggs, but not enough for the occasional chicken dinner. Wandering German soldiers had absconded with a few chickens, but the foxes that sneaked in during the night had taken a greater toll. Without Henri there to chase them off with his battered double-barreled shotgun, the foxes had run rampant. He had left the shotgun behind, along with a handful of shells. The Germans had seized almost all guns, but they had allowed farmers to keep their shotguns. Of course, it was almost impossible to find shells anymore.
Though it was an antique, complete with hammers that had to be cocked in order to fire the weapon, she kept the shotgun cleaned and well-oiled. Henri had given her lessons in how to use it, and she had spent an afternoon firing at pumpkins to get a feel for the gun. That exercise had left her with a sore shoulder, but a bit more confidence in her marksmanship. She kept it behind the kitchen door, unloaded, with the handful of shells that remained on a high shelf where the children could not reach them.