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  In hindsight, the decision by Confederate General Robert E. Lee to attack the Union position seemed like sheer folly. One Browning machine gun could very well have held off Pickett's entire division. Any general who attempted a similar frontal—suicidal—attack today would be swiftly relieved of command, if not sent before a court martial. The Russians seemed to be the only ones who regularly went in for such madness.

  Of course, there had been no machine guns at Gettysburg. Ike understood Confederate General Robert E. Lee's vision—or perhaps it was better described as a hope. One desperate gamble, one grand gesture, and the war might be won or lost in a single July afternoon.

  Unfortunately, the war in France was not so simple. For starters, there was not one field to cross, but countless ones.

  July had come and gone without any version of Pickett's charge. It was now August, and everyone knew that the battle for France was entering its end game.

  As a cadet at West Point, Ike had been a pretty good football player. The battle for France was in the last quarter.

  On June 6, Allied forces had come ashore on D Day. Operation Overlord had required months of planning and subterfuge to convince the Germans that the attack would come at Calais, rather than at Normandy. While the campaign of misinformation had worked, the success of the landing had not been guaranteed. The weather in early June was stormy, meaning a rough crossing of the English Channel. With only a narrow window of opportunity in the forecast and the tides, Ike had given the order, "OK, let's go."

  Those simple words launched the largest amphibious invasion in history.

  Thousands of good men had died, although some predictions of the losses had been far more catastrophic. Finally, the Allies had gained a toehold on the beach that June day. From there, day by day, week by week, Allied forces had pushed deeper into Normandy.

  But the Wehrmacht was far from defeated. The fighting in the hedgerow country had been particularly savage and favored the defenders.

  It was only after Operation Cobra that Allied forces had been able to break free of the awful hedgerow region. Just a few days previously, on July 25, the Army Air Corps and Royal Air Force had dropped millions of pounds of explosives on German positions. Those P-47 Typhoons and the RAF’s Hawker Hurricanes hit German fuel depots, convoys, command posts, troops in the field, and even trains. An unfortunate casualty had been the many French towns and cities in the path of the bombing.

  The bombing had done its job, though, by utterly demoralizing German forces and throwing them into a disarray.

  With the German stranglehold on Normandy broken, that was when the real charge across France could begin.

  "Sir, it's General Patton again. He insists—"

  "He insists, does he?" Ike interrupted, unable to hide the annoyance in his voice. "Fine, I'll take it."

  He stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, as he girded his mental faculties for a conversation with the general. If it was Tuesday, George Patton would insist it was Wednesday. He was contrary and pushy. He saw himself as a modern-day Alexander, a conquering hero armed with an ivory-handled revolver, rather than a sword. It was only his incompetent superiors who kept him from attaining his full glory. Patton didn't keep his opinion of himself, to himself. He had somehow covered his uniform with more stars than any other Allied general. Ike mused that there might even be more stars on Patton’s uniform than could be found in the Milky Way.

  For the last year, Ike had kept Patton in the doghouse for slapping shell-shocked soldiers and other general asininity, such as making public speeches that included such nuggets of wisdom as a soldier who won't fuck, won't fight. Quote, unquote. Most of the troops loved comments like that; the public back home, not so much.

  A hothead such as Patton caused Ike plenty of headaches, but he had his uses. Now, Ike was about to unleash Patton, who was the best battlefield general that the Allies had. The Germans were actually afraid of Patton, which was saying something.

  Of course, if Patton had been called upon to navigate a single day of managing Allied headquarters, the war would have been lost by sunset. But for now, Patton and his 3rd Army were just what Ike needed to get the job done of kicking the Germans out of France.

  Chapter Three

  Cole worked the bolt of the Springfield, but held his fire. There wouldn't be any need for a second shot.

  He had felt as much as heard the sound of his bullet hitting something wet and solid. Meaty. Like a steak slapped down on a cutting board.

  "I reckon that done it," Cole said.

  "I hope so, because that was it for Gertrude," Vaccaro replied, looking down sadly at the broken head. "Maybe that's just as well. She was getting heavy to carry around."

  They lay there for several minutes, letting the heat soak into them and waiting for any movement from the barn. Cole picked a stem of tall grass and put it in his mouth, sucking at the sweetness. Vaccaro flicked a finger at the pebbles in the road.

  But there was only stillness. Then they began to creep forward. When they reached the doorway, Cole nodded at Vaccaro to cover him, and then stepped inside.

  He blinked to adjust to the darkness after the bright daylight. He found the sniper's body just about where he thought that it would be. He grabbed hold of the collar and dragged the dead sniper out into the sunlight. It didn't take that much effort. The dead sniper was just a skinny kid. He couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. Blond hair. Staring blue eyes. Did he even understand what he was fighting for? Back home in Gashey's Creek, Cole had a younger brother about the same age. It was a hell of a thing.

  "Goddammit," Vaccaro said. "He was just a kid."

  Cole stared down at the body without comment.

  One of the soldiers in the squad came up and ducked into the barn, emerging with the German's sniper rifle. It was a bolt action Mauser K98 on which was mounted a Zeiss Zielvier 4x scope. All in all, it was a very efficient weapon, produced in large quantities. This particular rifle had been made in Oberndorf. Judging by the dead kid at their feet, the Germans seemed to be running out of actual soldiers, but they didn't seem to have any shortage of weapons. In the hands of a skilled sniper, it had a range even greater than the Springfield. Even in the hands of a half-trained teenage kid, it had been more than deadly.

  The GI whistled and held the rifle aloft. "Look at this, fellas. Pretty nice rifle."

  "Hey, did he have a Luger on him?" somebody called out. We can't lug around another rifle."

  "Give it here," Cole said.

  The GI shrugged and handed it over. Expertly, Cole ejected the magazine clip, then pulled the bolt and flung it into the field. Then he took the rifle by the muzzle and swung it against the stone wall of the barn. The scope flew off and shattered, but Cole kept bashing the rifle against the stone, again and again. By then he was breathing heavily.

  One of the soldiers started to say something, noticed the look on Cole's face, and clammed up.

  Alarmed, Vaccaro spoke up. "C'mon now, Cole. Take it easy."

  Cole kept going until the stock shattered. Only then did he fling what was left of the rifle far into the summer grass. He tossed the broken sight in the opposite direction.

  Without a word, he picked up his own rifle and moved down the road.

  Vaccaro just shook his head and followed, wondering if his buddy the hillbilly had finally lost it. The thought made him more than a little unnerved. If anyone was born to be a sniper, it was Cole. That hillbilly was a goddamn deadeye. Made you glad he was on your side.

  If someone like Cole started to lose it, what the hell did that mean for a normal human being?

  That night, Cole wasn't able to sleep. His body was exhausted, but his mind raced. Every time he started to drift off, he saw that dead German's eyes.

  He gathered up his blanket roll and his rifle to head outside. The rest of the squad was strewn across the interior of a barn where they had taken shelter for the night, but he had a sudden need to be alone,
and to have nothing overhead but the stars and sky.

  Through the summer haze, he picked out Scorpius and Lyra and the Big Dipper. His pa, who had known more about the woods and mountains than any man alive, had taught him the constellations—when he'd been sober.

  He looked for Orion, the Hunter, but that was a winter constellation.

  Looking up at the stars made him feel better. Calmer. People had been gazing up at those same stars since the world began. The stars gave him some perspective on troubles and sorrows.

  He had lost his cool today when that dumb cocksucker had grabbed up the German sniper's rifle like a damn trophy. That wasn't like him. Something in him had snapped.

  He had needed some time tonight to think it through.

  The thing about the Army was, there was never a moment's privacy. From the time you got to boot camp until the day you got your discharge papers, you were constantly surrounded by other soldiers. You ate together, showered together, slept together. Cole supposed that someone, somewhere, might enjoy that feeling of never being alone. Vaccaro came to mind. He thrived on being around other people. Then again, he was a city boy, so what could you expect?

  Cole himself missed being alone. He longed for the solitary woods and empty mountain valleys. It was from these empty, lonely places that he gained his energy. Being around people all the time sapped his inner strength.

  It wasn't the first time that Cole had gone off on his own. Vaccaro stirred long enough to ask, "You're not worried about some German saboteur coming around to cut your throat?"

  "Ain't nobody sneaked up on me yet," Cole said.

  He made sure the sentry on duty saw him—no sense in getting shot by your own side—then found a secluded spot and stretched out under the stars.

  It was true that Cole was a light sleeper. A boyhood spent hunting alone in the mountains had ingrained that habit. The old-timers called it sleeping with one eye open. Deep in the mountains there were bears, a mountain lion or two, and crazy old moonshiners who would just as soon cut your throat than take a chance that you would rat out their still. Cole would take his chances with German saboteurs any day.

  The truth was, he needed some time alone just to think. Cole was no philosopher, but he understood that there was a difference between being alone and being lonely. As much as possible, he put a shell around himself and didn't let many people inside. Vaccaro was an exception. Jolie Molyneaux had been another.

  Cole looked up at the sky, guessing that it was close to midnight by the placement of the stars. He never bothered to wear a watch, but could tell time day or night to within a few minutes of the hour.

  He realized that something else nagged at his mind. It was like the way that you could tell there was a storm coming. The way the air got very still, and the way that breeze stirred and cupped the pale underbellies of the mountain ash leaves.

  You sensed the storm coming, and then you finally heard the thunder.

  He wondered if it was Von Stenger.

  Was the German dead? That German sniper had shot and badly wounded Jolie, and damn near killed Cole. The experience had left Cole spooked. It was not a feeling that he'd had before, and he didn't much like it. But as far as Cole knew, Von Stenger was dead in a flooded marsh near the town of Bienville.

  No, it wasn't Von Stenger. Maybe that particular German would return to haunt him later. This didn't feel like him. The storm that was coming for Cole was a different one. But he could sense it all the same.

  The coming storm would keep him focused. He would welcome the thunder and rain. He would much rather fight a real enemy than shoot brainwashed kids that had been given rifles.

  Lying there under the stars, his thoughts kept flying every which way like they'd been shot out of a scattergun. He needed sleep. Three or four hours of shut-eye before heading back into the field would do him good.

  Cole closed his eyes and slept, but deep down, the feral animal part of his mind prowled restlessly, keeping watch, waiting for the storm to break.

  Chapter Four

  Hidden in the tall summer grass, Dieter Rohde did not look like a stone-cold killer. He was apple-cheeked and baby-faced, making him appear even younger than he was. It was a face that could best be described as boyishly pretty, rather than handsome.

  With his helmet off, his dirty blond hair was wavy and too long for a soldier's. Women of all ages often had an irresistible urge to reach out and brush the unruly strands away from his face. They were rewarded with a smile, complete with dimples.

  He had the warm brown eyes of a puppy, disguising the fact that he saw with the acuity of a hawk. And Rohde, having been spoiled all his life by women, viewed them in much the same way that a hawk saw a rabbit. Beneath his handsome adolescent appearance lurked a cruel heart.

  Peering now with one of those keen eyes through the 4x Zeiss ZF42 telescopic sight on his Mauser K98 rifle, Rohde aligned the single-post reticule on a soldier in the distance. An American.

  He had been watching the GI for a while. An entire squad sheltered in the thick hedgerow behind this one soldier. But this unlucky bastard had been designated as the point man. The scout. If there were Germans guarding this particular field, it was his job to reveal their presence.

  To put it another way, the lone Ami was sniper bait.

  Rohde could easily have taken him, but he bided his time.

  Maybe the enemy soldier took some pride in his skills as a scout. He was half hidden behind a stone wall, peering across the field. If he was trying to spot Rohde, he was out of luck. The sniper had hidden deep in the underbrush. He wore a camouflage uniform, which made him stand out from most of the Germans in his unit, but which blended perfectly with the brush. Netting covered his Stahlhelm, and he had affixed bits of branches and grass to the helmet to break up his outline even more.

  Rohde's rifle rested on a stone. He had put a rag under the wooden forearm to cushion the stock yet more. Anchored by the stone and the French earth itself, Rohde could not have asked for a better rifle rest. Steady as a rock, he could wait all day if need be.

  From the brush that disguised him to the sun at his back, it was the perfect sniper's lair. Many of his fellow German snipers working to stop the relentless American advance after Operation Cobra preferred taking up positions in trees so that they had a better vantage point. However, a sniper in a tree could be trapped. It was not convenient to take one shot and move on, which was the best strategy for a sniper who wished to survive another day. Once discovered, a sniper in a tree was nothing more than target practice. The Americans had more than a few marksmen of their own.

  Maybe this lone American was one of those marksmen, hoping to set his sights on a German sniper. Rohde kept watch through the scope. Although he handled it with the utmost care, even going so far as removing it at night to secure the optic in a wooden case, moisture had gotten inside and the lens had recently started to cloud over. Consequently, Rohde saw everything now through the scope as if a sea fog was rolling in. But for now, it would have to do. Unless it was the exact same Zeiss optic, affixing a scope to a K98 required the work of a machinist, so it was not a quick battlefield adjustment. Hohenfeldt, his unit’s miserly armorer, wasn't about to issue him another telescopic sight, no matter how many Ami soldiers he bagged. For whatever reason, fat old Hohenfeldt had taken a dislike to Rohde.

  Acrimonious thoughts would not help his shooting, so Rohde put his feud with Hohenfeldt out of mind and focused on what he could see through the slightly foggy scope.

  Still, the American lookout had not spotted him. Slowly, the soldier eased over the stone wall and crept into the field.

  Rohde let him, keeping watch through the scope.

  Next, the American began to cross the field, running in a crouch, his rifle held to one side. Rohde guessed that the weapon was an M1 and he frowned. Like Rohde, most German soldiers were equipped with the bolt action Mauser K98. This was an incredibly accurate and reliable weapon, based on decades of use and refinement since the
days of the Kaiser. In fact, the Americans had long ago stolen the bolt action design for use in their own Springfield rifles. Back before the Great War, the Mauser brothers had taken the federal Springfield Armory to court and won a judgment against the armory. It became one of history's ironies that even as the war raged, the United States continued to honor its legal obligations by paying royalties to the Mauser firm.

  But in many ways, the Mauser was a weapon from an earlier era, better suited to colonial occupations and the trench fighting of the First World War than to modern warfare.

  The rifle had one major shortcoming, which was its reliable and much-copied bolt action design. Each time a soldier fired a shot, he had to manipulate the bolt, which ejected the spent shell. The spring in the magazine then fed a fresh shell into the chamber. Then the bolt was pushed forward, and with a swift downward motion, locked into place. Now the rifle could be fired again. In practice, it took just a second or two to complete this action in the hands of a competent soldier. Unfortunately, working the bolt action often meant that the shooter had to acquire the target all over again.

  Given the opportunity for multiple targets, Rohde found this to be a huge disadvantage.

  His rifle also had its own quirk in that the bolt tended to stick, forcing him to lock it down using a quick whack with the heel of his palm. Again, the motion cost precious time.

  The M1 carried by the American was a semiautomatic. This meant that the weapon fired every time that the trigger was pulled. The rifle ejected the spent shell, loaded a new round from the clip of eight bullets, and cocked itself in a fraction of a second. The gas operation of the action slightly reduced the recoil. All the while, the shooter could keep his eye on the target. In terms of elapsed time, the advantage of the M1 over the K98 would seem to be an infinitesimal one, but in combat conditions the improved rate of fire was a huge asset.

  Rohde wanted one of those semiautomatics. He wished for something new and modern. Not an M1, but the German version known as the Gewehr 43. There were even a few sniper versions outfitted with telescopic sights. They were few and far between in Normandy, but Rohde knew for a fact that that fat sausage of an armorer Hohenfeldt had one such rifle sitting unused, if one could believe it.