Iron Sniper Read online

  The neat, white farmhouse and red barn couldn't have been more different from the Cole family's shack. There was also the fact that Bailey's place lay within sight of the county road. The road wasn't paved, and it wasn’t busy, but the occasional passing car or truck raised clouds of dust.

  That first time, he'd found Hollis out in the barn.

  “Why, if it ain’t one of the Cole boys. How you gettin' along back there?"

  Cole shrugged. "I reckon just fine, Mr. Bailey."

  Hollis looked the skinny boy in front of him up and down, then sighed and patted the heavy leather apron he wore. Fine metal dust flew up and sparkled in the sun. "What can I do for you, boy? Looks like you got somethin' in that poke."

  Cole did. He had been wandering the countryside, finding scraps of metal where he could. Basically, he gathered any metal that looked flat and straight enough to make a knife out of.

  One by one, old man Hollis took the objects from the sack: leaf springs, broken farm implements, a couple of discarded discs off a seed drill. It looked like junk, but Holli told him these were all good makings for knives.

  "You been busy, ain't you, boy? I reckon these will do." He pulled the final piece of metal from the bag. Rusty as it was, the bar of metal appeared to be the least promising. Hollis smacked it against the woodpile to shake some of the rust off, then spat on a corner and worked the spit into the metal. "Huh, now where did you get this?"

  "From up the mountain, sir. There was an old place there that burnt down a long time ago."

  "That there is a special piece of metal," Hollis said, admiring the rusty metal. "That there is Damascus steel. They say some of the first settlers brought over metal like that. Mostly, we've lost the way of how to make it. Looks like you done found some."

  He laid the metal almost delicately atop the rest of the pile.

  "Pa said you buy metal."

  "Normally, I pay cash money," Hollis said. "But I reckon you are the kind of boy who would give that money right over to his pa, like a boy should."

  "Yes, sir."

  What hung unspoken in the air was the fact that his pa would likely drink the money, or spend it on supplies to make moonshine.

  Hollis rubbed his chin. "What if I was to pay you in canned goods? Maybe throw in a box of shells for that rifle of yours. You can tell your pa I'm short on cash money. Hell, cash money is as rare around here as an oyster.”

  Cole nodded. He had thought about hiding the money from his pa. This way was better.

  From then on, Cole had visited old man Hollis from time to time. Sometimes he brought bits of metal, but just as often he simply liked to sit in the corner and watch the old man work. Hollis heated the metal in a rough-built forge near the barn, shaped the glowing metal by pounding it on an anvil, then polished it on a grinder that he turned by a foot treadle. The handles were wood or antler, often from the supply that Cole now brought periodically. Sometimes, Cole helped by holding a rough blade to the grindstone. If he ever survived this war, making knives was something he might consider doing.

  Over the years, the bar of Damascus steel that Cole had found sat untouched on the shelf. Once, Cole had asked about it.

  "Oh, that there is for somethin' special one of these days," Hollis said. “You only get one chance in a lifetime to make a knife like that.”

  Cole finally reached into the box. In his hands, he now held the knife that Hollis had made from that bar of ancient Damascus steel. The blade was patterned after a Bowie knife, with the back side tapered and sharpened so that the blade formed a wicked point. The finger guard was brass and the handle made of antler from one of the bucks that Cole had hunted. As a rule, mountain people were more concerned about meat than trophy antlers, but whenever Cole had gotten a decent pair of antlers, he had taken them to Hollis.

  The shape of the blade was one thing, but it was the blade itself that really captured the eye. The metal seemed to shift and change patterns as Cole turned the blade.

  Something special, all right.

  Studying the blade in Cole's hand, Vaccaro gave a low whistle.

  "That is one beautiful knife. What are you going to do with it?"

  "What do you think? I'm gonna make old Hollis proud that he sent me this knife."

  Vaccaro shook his head. "And here I thought that it was a box of cookies. I ought to know by now that there's nothing sweet about you, Cole."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rohde lay awake in Lisette's bed, one hand cupping the girl's breast and his leg wedged between her warm thighs. He breathed in the girl’s doughy feminine smell. They had fallen asleep after making love, but after that nap he found himself wide awake. While Rohde's body was pleasurably spent, his mind was now racing. He willed himself to go back to sleep, but it was like telling the wind to stop blowing.

  He was thinking about the American hillbilly sniper.

  It nagged at him that this hillbilly was still alive. One more bullet would finish off the American and cement Rohde's own reputation. Captain Fischer had said as much. But how did one find a single soldier in the vast battlefield?

  Rohde thought that the best way might be to set a trap.

  To lure a mouse into a trap, one needed cheese. To lure a lion, one needed a goat. To lure a man, one needed ... what, exactly?

  That was the question Rohde contemplated as he lay awake in the girl's bed. He was supposed to be on patrol, plying his sniper's trade, and if anyone caught him here, he would surely be punished for dereliction of duty. He doubted that Fischer would have him shot, but who was to say? The punishment would depend upon the Hauptmann's mood.

  Silently appraising the spent feeling in his loins and remembering their night of lovemaking, Rohde thought that each night he spent in Lisette's bed was well worth the risk.

  Fortunately for him, being designated as a Jäger gave him a great deal of leeway and the ability to work alone. He was not the first German soldier who had slipped away to spend time with a French girl, nor was he likely to be the last, so long as the Allies had not yet driven German forces out of France.

  Then Lisette would get herself an American boyfriend, or possibly a Frenchman. Rohde was nothing if not a realist.

  He heard a vehicle on the road, coming fast, and he went tense all over. At this time of night it could only be a military vehicle. The curfew banned any travel by the French.

  The vehicle sounded like a Kubelwagen, favored by officers and messengers. Headlights washed over the house as the vehicle went around a bend. He held his breath as the car drew even with the house, and then roared past.

  Rohde breathed again.

  He propped himself up on the pillow and lit a cigarette. It was a hot summer night so the windows were open. There were no screens on the farmhouse windows, but this far from the coast there didn't seem to be any mosquitoes. By day, of course, there were plenty of flies. Flies were a fact of farm life, especially in summer. The linen curtains waved in ghostly fashion in the slight breeze. Too hot for sheets or blankets.

  From the room next door he heard the boy mumble in his sleep. Then all was quiet again. Lisette's niece and nephew were under strict orders to stay out of her room when he was there.

  Starlight spilled through the window, giving a soft glow to the curves of Lisette's figure. She resembled a photograph taken in dim light. He gazed at her body in admiration, letting the image burn into his mind. Even though they had made love twice tonight, he felt a stirring that hinted at the possibility of a third time.

  He recalled how the old men in the village would sigh at the sight of a pretty girl, and then gaze after her, lost in reverie. Was something like this what they were remembering? If he lived to be an old man, such an image might be a comfort someday, a reminder that he had lived a little and that he had been young once.

  He hoped that his older brother had enjoyed some such comfort in his short life. Unlike the more prudish Allies, the SS and Wehrmacht often made informal arrangements for brothels to serve the troops.
/>
  Did you take a lover, Carl? I hope that you enjoyed that much, at least.

  Until the death of his older brother, Rohde never had believed in heaven or any sort of life after death. He now hoped that there must, indeed, be something after this life. Otherwise, the finality of death overshadowed all the pleasure of living. Perhaps someday, he and Carl would be together once more, possibly in Valhalla, the hall of the gods where the dead enjoyed eternal feasting and camaraderie in the company of other heroes.

  Maybe there really was a Valhalla? In the meantime, take joy where you can, he thought. His eyes wandered again to Lisette's naked body.

  The cigarette was nearly smoked down, and he was thinking about lighting another, when he heard another vehicle on the road. This one was moving more slowly, feeling its way along the dark country road almost with stealth. He moved to the window and glanced out, but saw no headlights. Was it a military vehicle, he wondered, or something else? It was just possible that it might be a farmer moving illegal produce along the road, taking a huge chance. The price of breaking the curfew was a bullet in the head.

  A French farmer did not worry him. But if it was a squad of SS on patrol—or worse yet, members of the French Resistance—he did not want to be caught in the house. The SS might very well shoot him and be done with it. However, the French Machis would take their time cutting him into pieces with small, sharp knives, or perhaps torture him with hammers—he had heard rumors that this was their favorite implement to use on captured Germans. The thought made him shudder.

  The French were nothing more than cowards, not real soldiers at all, but they were vicious all the same. With the advance of the Allies, and the Germans losing their grip on the countryside, the Resistance had grown bolder.

  The vehicle was coming closer; he heard the engine slow as it approached the house. He didn't like the sound of that at all.

  He moved away from the window and quickly tugged his clothes back on. His rifle was in a corner; he snatched it up before touching Lisette's shoulder. She only mumbled sleepily, so he shook her roughly until her eyes blinked awake.

  On the road beyond the house, the vehicle came to a stop. The engine idled a moment, then switched off. He heard hushed male voices. They spoke French, which could only mean one thing.

  "Machi ici," he said to Lisette, which was the best explanation he could give in French. He tried again in German, "The Resistance is here."

  But Lisette had understood his broken French well enough. She sat bolt upright and pointed at her nightgown, flung on the back of a chair. Rohde grabbed it and tossed it at her.

  Lisette peered out the window. “Mon frere,” she whispered.

  Lisette had explained that the children were her brother's and that he was away. Away where? Rohde had wanted to know. She had been vague on that point. Now, Rohde thought that he had the answer. Her brother must be a member of the Resistance. In the dead of night, her brother must have returned to see Lisette and his children. Rohde was sure now that the Frenchmen were not after him. There was no way that they even knew he was at the house.

  Rohde intended to keep it that way. He did not even think of staying to fight. He did not like the odds, taking on an unknown number of Resistance fighters on their own territory. Lisette would just have to deal with her brother on her own. For her sake, Rohde hoped that her brother didn’t figure out that Lisette had taken a German lover.

  He straightened up from hurriedly tying his boots and gave Lisette a lopsided grin, then blew her a kiss. "Au revoir," he whispered, testing the limits of his French once more, then slipped out of the room, through the small farmhouse, past the useless old dog asleep in the farmhouse kitchen, and out the back door into the farmyard.

  He was as silent as moonlight and shadow. Rohde hadn't survived as a sniper without possessing certain skills; by now, stealth was second nature.

  He imagined his brother's ghost moving alongside him, keeping him company.

  We make a good team, Carl. No one can hear us. We move like shadows in the night!

  Moments later he was running across the farmyard. The humid night air was full of conflicting smells—honeysuckle, and the musky scent of some passing wild animal; the sweet scent of dewy grass being crushed under his boots, and then pungent manure.

  He legged it across the next field toward the safety of the dark woods, the only sound coming from the long grass swishing against his legs. From the farmhouse, he finally heard the dog bark, then men's voices.

  Rohde melted into the shadowy trees and was gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Back in the farmhouse, feeling her way in the gloom of night, Lisette pulled on her nightgown and then fluffed the pillow that still held the shape of the young German soldier's head. She smoothed out the tangled sheets. She hoped that it would enough to erase any signs that Dieter had been there. The last thing that she wanted was for her brother to find any clue that a German soldier had been in her bed.

  She felt ambivalent toward the German. What was he to her? To answer truthfully, he was more than any single thing. He was a lover, which she had never had before. It was a delicious secret to have a lover. And yet, she felt no actual love toward him. The feel of his body next to hers at night was pleasant, and she was sure that the German enjoyed every bit of what he had taken from her. But she sensed nothing like love from him, either. In the end, she decided that it was simply a bargain that had been struck between them, without any particular sentiment.

  And then there was the more practical matter that the German soldier brought them food. Tins of rations, including canned meat. Chocolate. Even bread from the Wehrmacht bakeries that somehow still managed to operate even as the war closed in around them. Without the arrival of the German that day at their water pump, Lisette and the children would have gone hungry.

  Thanks to the German, she and the children had been eating like barons for the past two weeks.

  Their old dog finally heard the voices approaching from the road and barked a warning.

  Lisette rushed into the kitchen, which a moment later was filled with the bulky figures of men. Their body odor was pronounced in the summer heat, new sweat layered on top of old. In the country where so few houses had running water, sweat was usually the familiar smell of honest toil, but she thought that she detected a tang of fear under it all. At any moment, they might be found out by the SS. The French weren't the only ones who patrolled the roads at night.

  Her brother pushed forward. Even in the dark she recognized him. He was not a particularly tall man, but years of farm toil had made him strong. He took her by the shoulders, but they did not hug.

  "Henri," she said. "Thank God you are safe."

  Her brother did not bother to acknowledge her concern. She had the sense that he was making a show of bravado for the men. And yet, something in his face seemed different. He looked older, somehow, as if the last few weeks of fighting with the Resistance had hardened him. He was more than the simple farmer he had been.

  "These men are hungry and thirsty," he said gruffly. "We dodged the Germans on the road twice just now.”

  “Mon Dieu,” she said, well aware of the consequences of encountering a well-armed German patrol.

  “We were too smart for those Germans. These are good men.” Henri clapped a nearby man on the back and gave him a little push toward Lisette. “You remember Stefan from the village? He is with us."

  Clearly, Henri wanted Lisette to notice Stefan. She found herself face to face with a vaguely familiar farm boy until he ducked away shyly.

  “You must give these men something to eat,” Henri ordered.

  "We do not have much," Lisette heard herself say. "There is barely enough as it is."

  "See that you fix them something," Henri said sharply. "Where are my children?"

  "Wide awake and frightened in their beds, I'm sure," she responded, sounding more annoyed than she meant to. "Go see them, now that you have woken them up."

  "I will."
<
br />   Henri left, leaving her in the crowded kitchen. The men were unshaven, with hollow cheeks, as if they had been living rough in the woods and fields. The kitchen grew stifling with the smell of stale tobacco, old wine, and unwashed bodies.

  She scrambled to give them something to eat. First, she brewed coffee and served it with lots of milk. At least there was plenty of that, though sugar for the coffee was scarce.

  There was some bread that the German had brought. She sliced the bread and fried the slices in some bacon fat that she had been shepherding these last few weeks. The smell of food seemed to lift the spirits of the men, who began talking more freely to one another. They did not really include her in the conversation, however, but cast looks at her figure in the tight-fitting, worn dress when they thought she wasn't looking.

  What else did she have to give them? A few eggs, which she broke, one by one, into the fat, and fried them just until the yolks had started to set. Still, it did not seem like enough. She thought of a can of chopped ham that the German had given her. She had been saving it, but these men seemed to need all the nourishment that she could spare. They were loyal Frenchmen, after all.

  She took the can from the cabinet, opened it, and added the ham to the bread and eggs. She tossed the empty can into the midden pail.

  It was a meager meal, but the four men accepted it gratefully. She saved a fifth plate for Henri, but did not eat anything herself, saving it for the men.

  Henri returned in a few minutes, having tucked the children back into bed. He took his place at the crowded table and ate silently.

  When they were finished, the men left their dirty plates at the table and went outside to smoke. Somehow, her precious bottle of red wine went out the door with them.

  Henri stayed behind, watching as she cleared the table.

  "You're eating better than I thought," he said ruefully. "Where did you get that canned ham? I would not have thought it was possible."