And now, because Fujita had listened to Hayashi without immediately bawling for his arrest, he too was complicit. If the Kempeitai came for Hayashi, they'd come for him as well. Maybe not right away, but they would. And once they got their hands on him… In spite of the disgrace, he would almost rather the Russians caught him.
"Get out of here," he said roughly. "Shigata ga nai, neh? You can't do anything at all about it-except make sure your foxhole has as much top cover as you can put on it and still be able to fight. Go on, kid. Scram." Hayashi went away. All the answerless questions he'd asked lingered in Fujita's mind like the snow in a long Siberian winter.
Chapter 19
Another hotshot on this stretch of the line. Willi Dernen saw the need. The son of a bitch with the monster rifle on the other side was still killing people at ranges that stretched to almost two kilometers. He'd sure put paid to the last fellow the Wehrmacht sent against him. Willi was one of the men who'd brought in Sergeant Fegelein's body under cover of darkness. The late sergeant had very little head left north of the bridge of the nose. Willi'd seen a lot of dreadful wounds. He was damn glad he hadn't seen this one by daylight.
Oberfeldwebel Marcus Puttkamer was younger than his late, lightly lamented predecessor had been. He took the guy on the other side seriously. Well, Willi took anybody who carried an antipanzer rifle seriously. Using that thing to kill people was like using a U-boat's torpedo to sink a canoe… which didn't mean it wouldn't work. Oh, no. It worked fine.
Puttkamer set about slaughtering any officers and men he could reach with his own Mauser. It bore about the same relation to Willi's rifle as a thoroughbred did to a cart horse. Still… "How come you don't use one of those big mothers, too?" Willi asked.
A lot of senior noncoms thought they were gods. (So did some junior noncoms-Arno Baatz, for instance.) But Puttkamer seemed like a human being, as Fegelein had before him. He drank beer or wine when he came off duty. He played skat-not too well, either. He laughed at dirty jokes, and told some of his own.
Now he said, "I like the piece I've got. He may have a little more range, but I've got more accuracy. This baby's made to special tolerances. It's tighter than a five-hundred-mark whore's pussy. I've got special ammo, too. If I can see it, I can hit it-you'd best believe I can."
"I'm not arguing," Willi answered. Puttkamer had a sharpshooter's arrogance, all right. Well, if you weren't self-confident, you had no business going into his line of work.
Willi wondered how Wolfgang Storch was doing in a French POW camp. He hoped his buddy'd made it into a camp, that the froggies hadn't just knocked him over the head. Either way, though, he was bound to be better off than if the SS bastards started gnawing at his liver.
"Matter of fact," the Oberfeldwebel went on, "I hit the fucker square in the helmet. Only thing wrong was, he didn't have his head in it. He had it on a stick-in the scope, I watched it spin. Oh, he's cute, all right, but not cute enough."
"Does he think you think he's dead?" Willi inquired.
"I hope so, but I don't believe it. He's no dope," Puttkamer replied. Fegelein had said the same thing. The current sniper went on, "I kind of wish I hadn't rung his bell, too. He was wearing a Czech helmet, and there aren't that many of them over there. Now he's bound to have an Adrian, so he'll look like every other froggy who isn't a tadpole any more."
"Would he get another Czech job to fool you?" Willi asked.
"Hmm." The sniper eyed him. Unlike the other sharpshooter, Marcus Puttkamer was dark and not especially big. "You're pretty cute yourself, aren't you?"
"I'm glad you think so, sweetie." Willi batted his own eyes.
Puttkamer laughed and made as if to punch him. "Ah, you got me there. Yeah, he might be that cute. Never can tell. One more thing to worry about. Danke schon."
"Glad to help," Willi said.
"Are you?" Puttkamer's gaze sharpened. All at once, Willi felt as if a goose were walking over his grave. The Oberfeldwebel had sniper's eyes after all, even if they were dark. "Feel like being my number two? I could use somebody with his head on straight."
"Your decoy, you mean? How many have you gone through? Are any of them still breathing?" Willi tried to keep his tone light, but he was kidding on the square. He knew some of what a sniper's number two did: drew the enemy sniper's fire, so the fellow with the scope-sighted rifle could find his target. That was an honor Willi could do without. He remembered Fegelein's ruined head, and wished he hadn't. You wouldn't stop a round from an antipanzer rifle. Anything made to punch through a couple of centimeters of hardened steel would punch right on through flesh and blood, too.
"I'm not asking you to stick your head up," Puttkamer said, reading his mind-but not answering his question. "You can hold a Stahlhelm up on a stick, same as that Czech mother did with his pot. Where's the risk in that?"
"Oh, I'm sure it's there somewhere," Willi said dryly. A few months of combat were plenty to convince him there was risk in anything that had anything to do with the enemy.
Marcus Puttkamer laughed again, on a different note this time. "You do have to put some chips in the game if you expect to take any out."
"I don't want to cash in my chips," Willi retorted.
"You get up to the front, that can happen any old place," the sniper said. "Come on, man. Do you want to keep taking orders from-what do you call the asshole?-from Awful Arno, that's it? And he is, too."
If anything could pump Willi up about the prospect of serving as a sniper's assistant, getting out from under Corporal Baatz's thumb did the trick. "Where do I sign up?" he asked, suddenly champing at the bit.
One more laugh from Puttkamer. "Leave it to me. I'll talk the guy into it." He sounded altogether matter-of-fact. Willi suspected he would have sounded the same way had he said I'll plug the guy if he gives me any grief. And if Awful Arno did give him any grief, Puttkamer might threaten to plug him, too. He also might follow through, and Awful Arno would have to be a real jerk not to understand as much. Of course, he was Awful Arno…
The corporal came up to Willi the next morning. "The sniper says he wants you for his number two."
"That's right." Willi nodded.
"You want to do it?"
If Willi seemed too eager, Baatz would tell him no on general principles. Long acquaintance made Willi sure of it. So he only shrugged and said, "I don't mind. It's something different, anyhow."
"Good way to get yourself blown up, you mean." Awful Arno had also heard the stories about what happened to a sniper's helper. Puttkamer had seemed sympathetic. Baatz sounded as if he looked forward to Willi's untimely demise. Chances were he did. Why not? If Willi caught one with his face, it wouldn't hurt Arno a bit.
Willi shrugged again. "Can happen to anybody. Those SS guys were just visiting the village. French guns didn't know-or care. They chewed that one fellow up regardless."
Baatz's fleshy face hardened, or maybe congealed was the better word. "I still say you had something to do with Storch going missing when the SS wanted him."
"You can say whatever you want. Talk is cheap."
"Funny man." Awful Arno made as if to spit. "Go on. Hang with Puttkamer-for as long as you last. Won't be long, I bet, but don't come crying to me after you get your balls blown off. I'm glad to be rid of you."