Everybody except the enemy sniper, of course. But Willi wasted no sympathy on him. Every so often, that big, distinctive boom! would echo from the trenches off in the distance. And then, as often as not, some German who'd been careless or naive would fall over screaming-or sometimes just twitching.
"Fucker's good," Fegelein allowed, spooning up a stew of cabbage and sausage and potatoes from his mess tin. "I've got a couple of shots at him, but he's still in business."
"How come you missed?" Awful Arno asked.
Fegelein looked through him. The senior noncom didn't have to put up with Baatz's bullshit the way Willi did. "You try it, sonny boy," he said. "You got a split second at extreme long range, and maybe you hit and maybe you don't. He stays well back, too-that antipanzer rifle's got more reach reach than a Mauser."
Willi smiled at his corporal. Sonny boy, was it? He liked that, and liked it all the better because Awful Arno obviously didn't. "You ought to get closer, then-that's all I've got to say," Baatz remarked.
"If that's all you've got to say, keep your big fat dumb mouth shut," Fegelein answered. "I didn't come here to get my head blown off, either. This guy hasn't been doing it for long, or I never would have got a shot at him at all. But he's sharp. He keeps learning. I haven't got a glimpse of him for a day and a half. If I were talking to most people, I'd tell 'em to keep their heads down till I nail him."
"But not me?" Baatz reddened with anger. "Why not?"
"Because you don't have enough brains in there to worry about getting 'em blown out," the sniper answered. "If he shoots you in the ass, though, you're liable to end up with a concussion."
Somebody behind Awful Arno guffawed. Willi would have, if he were sitting where Baatz couldn't see him doing it. And Baatz couldn't even round on the miscreant, not with Fegelein's cold gray gaze pinning him down. People talked about sniper's eyes. Willi hadn't seen any examples of that unfailing, scary watchfulness before. But the Oberfeldwebel had it in spades.
"Were you a sniper in 1918, too?" Willi asked him as they washed out their tins side by side.
"Nein." Fegelein shook his head and lit a small, stinky cigar. "I was an assault trooper. I carried a machine pistol and a big sack of grenades. I started this business in one of the Freikorps after the war. I'd had it up to here with fighting the other guys at twenty meters. They don't have to be good to kill you at that range-just lucky. I figured I'd give myself better odds. I got into the Reichswehr in… was it '21 or '22? Anyway, I've been doing this ever since."
"Makes sense to me," Willi said. "The farther away the enemy stays, the better I like it."
That chilly stare appraised him for a moment. Sure as hell, Willi felt as if he were in the crosshairs. Then Fegelein gave him a smile-a thin smile, but a smile. "Yeah, I've heard a lot of guys go on like that," the sniper said. "Half the time, it's right before they do something that gets 'em a Ritterkreuz."
"I don't want one," Willi said with great sincerity.
Helmut Fegelein only shrugged. "Sometimes you want the medal, sometimes the medal wants you. When the time comes, you'll know what needs doing. That piece of crap you've got for a corporal, now…"
Willi laughed out loud. "You mean Awful Arno?" Sure as hell, Fegelein was a keen judge of character.
The veteran chuckled. "Is that what you call him?"
Belatedly, Willi realized he might have stuck his foot in it. An Oberfeldwebel could land a Gefreiter in all kinds of trouble for badmouthing another noncom senior to him. "Well…" Willi said reluctantly.
"That's what you call him when you don't think anybody'll gig you for it," Fegelein said, which was perfectly true. The sniper reached into his pocket and pulled out the stogies again. He offered Willi one. "Here you go. I don't blab. I remember what I called the jerks who ordered me around."
Next morning, the son of a bitch with the antipanzer rifle potted a captain-knocked him off a motorcycle, in fact. And that evening, as darkness descended, Fegelein did go out into the no-man's-land between the lines. "About time," Arno Baatz said-but not where the Oberfeldwebel could hear him.
Willi didn't see Awful Arno volunteering to go out there. He couldn't say that, but thought it very loudly. Baatz strutted off to do some of the important things corporals did. One of those things was to make sure Willi stood sentry in the middle of the night and broke up his sleep. As always, Willi appreciated it.
Come morning, he saw no sign of Helmut Fegelein. The sniper was out there somewhere, sprawled in a shell hole or under one piece of wreckage or another. He had his rifle and he had a hunter's patience. Somewhere farther off, the enemy sniper had the same patience and an even nastier weapon.
The antipanzer rifle thundered, its report distinctive even though it came from a long way northwest of the trench in which Willi waited. Fegelein's piece stayed silent. Either he didn't spot the enemy or he had no chance to hit him from wherever he hid.
Fegelein came in after dark. He slipped past the German pickets, which was bound to raise officers' blood pressure. If all the Frenchmen out there were as good as he was, they could do it, too. And if cows pissed gasoline, the Reich wouldn't have to worry about running low on fuel.
Some time in the middle of the night, the sniper vanished again. Maybe he was going back to the same hidey-hole, or maybe he changed his lair daily like a hunted wolf. Willi thought he would have if he were doing that job. He thanked heaven he wasn't.
No sign of the Oberfeldwebel when the sun came up. He'd be waiting-or, for all Willi knew, he'd be sound asleep right now. Who was going to tell him he couldn't do that if he felt like it?
Sweat ran down Willi's face. Summer was coming in, all right. When he pushed his way through the Ardennes in the middle of winter, he'd thought the war would be over by now. "Shows what I knew," he muttered.
Then the antipanzer rifle spoke again, seemingly right in front of him. A split second later, a Mauser in no-man's-land answered. Willi's ears told him about where the shot came from, but he still couldn't spot Fegelein.
He couldn't, but the enemy sniper could. That goddamn elephant gun fired once more, as soon as it could have after the man using it worked the bolt. Silence returned, punctuated only by the skrawks of frightened crows.
Helmut Fegelein didn't come back for supper after sundown. Willi guessed he wasn't hungry any more, and never would be again.
Chapter 14
Pussy didn't like tanks, not even a little bit. Alistair Walsh wasn't surprised. The cat had come to take gunfire for granted. Animals sometimes got used to things more easily than people did. Pussy couldn't know what bullets and shell fragments did to soft, vulnerable flesh. She didn't know how lucky she was to be ignorant, either.
Tanks were a whole different business, though. She didn't just hear them rattle and clank. She could see them move. Here was something bigger than an elephant that could-and might want to-squash her flat. Tanks smelled funny, too. No wonder the cat disappeared into the smallest hole she could find.
Regardless of Pussy's opinion, Walsh liked tanks in the neighborhood fine. These Mark I Cruisers seemed a vast improvement over the poor Matildas that had tried to hold off German panzers the winter before. The Matildas mounted nothing more than a machine gun, and a running man could easily keep up with them. They did have thick armor… and they needed it.
These cruisers were a different business. Their turrets packed a two-pounder cannon and a machine gun, while they mounted two more MGs in the front of the hull, one on each side of the driver's position. It was probably crowded as all get-out up there, but enemy infantry in front of them would be very unhappy.