"Nicht gut," muttered Hasso, as he rested his cheek against the stock of his rifle; it was up, but his finger wasn't on the trigger and he hadn't chambered a round yet. Instead, he was wrapping the sling, supple and soft leather, around his wrist to get a steadier sort of aim. 600 meters was a long way off and he was nowhere near about to waste precious ammo firing a harassing shot at that range. Had there been a scope on his rifle, that would have been a different story -- the G34 was hellishly accurate, as all Augstbergen rifles were -- they reflected a design for riflemen by riflemen who were also exacting craftsmen. Other armies did things to the triggers and actions, but the G34 was a simple matter of drilling, tapping and mounting off-set to the side. 

Granted, he was one of the top marksmen in the platoon but he didn't have a scope on his rifle -- no one seemed to here, but the reality was that there was little a scoped rifle would do in the face of the roaring fury of a half-track; it was perhaps to their advantage that they hadn't been seen yet, but that half-track wasn't exactly running away either. Sooner or later, they'd have to engage...but that was going to have to be an order. The idea that they were at war kept him hesitant to even work the bolt on his rifle and chamber that first fateful round...