Stephen Hunter - Sniper's Honor

“And of course the SS?”

“Yes, yes, the SS, correct.”

“It’s sort of a secret escape route for the SS, then?” said Karl.

“I sense sourness in your voice. Why can’t SS invest its own troops in protecting its way out? The answer is, the Waffen-SS units are very badly mauled, almost nonoperational. We do have a new group from Thirteenth SS-Mountain, called Scimitar, a police battalion I’m told, but they’re specialists in anti-bandit operations, not in static warfare. This would seem perfect for them, but they’re on their own special security assignment for Dr. Groedl. They work directly for him. Not available. So it’s fallen to us. That means I need a bunch of extremely professional boys to hold Natasha’s Womb until the very last second, then blow it so that no Russian vehicles can pursue, and get out the best way possible. Obviously, Battlegroup Von Drehle is best suited for a special-needs job like this.”

“Yes sir.”

“Now, not so down, Major Von Drehle. It’s quite possible Ivan won’t be interested in it, won’t consider it worth sending troops. He can’t get tanks up there, and it’s quite likely, given his lack of attention to details, that he’ll just ignore it. It may be like a summer vacation for your fellows, and when you get the signal, you can blow it, come out of the Carpathians, having had a nice rest.”

“On the other hand, we could get hit by a battalion-sized unit, isn’t that right, sir? All fifteen of us?”

“Major, if that happens, I know you will inflict massive casualties on the enemy before withdrawing. And if it’s close, between you and me, I don’t give a damn if you engage the enemy or not. Just blow the goddamn thing and come through to Uzhgorod.”

“So we just wait until the signal and blow it?”

“Well, there’s another thing. While you’re up there, you’ll have to assist Police Battalion.”

“Rounding up Jews?”

“I think most of them have been rounded up,” said the general. “It’s one of the things the SS is reasonably good at. No, it’s not that. Evidently at some high level, one of our intelligence agencies has learned that Comrade Stalin himself has sent a sniper in to liquidate the senior group leader.”

“I’ll happily hold the rifle for—”

“Sergeant Bober, you flirt with destruction both in and out of battle. There are people in the very next room who would have you shot for uttering such a thing. Von Drehle, if you can’t control him, I’ll have a couple of large sergeants tape his mouth shut.”

“I understand, sir,” said Von Drehle.

“I can watch my tongue, but not my brain,” said Bober.

“A fair compromise. Anyhow, the word is that this sniper isn’t a him, it’s a her. It’s a woman who has operated in battle against us in Stalingrad and at Kursk. Her name is Petrova, she’s got over a hundred kills, she’s very skilled. In the east, they have a name for her. They call her the White Witch.”

Von Bink narrated the adventures of the White Witch in evading the ambush and probably preparing to assassinate Groedl.

“Police Battalion has been conducting sweep operations and intelligence gathering in the villages beneath Natasha’s Womb. I believe hostages have been shot and interrogations are vigorous. Typical SS operating procedures.”

“Aren’t they run by some kind of Arabian pimp, sir?” said Von Drehle.

“As I understand it, he’s not a pimp but the cousin of an important Reich supporter who broadcasts to the Middle East from Berlin these days. This cousin is a very determined young man. Do you know him?”

“We’ve had words.”

“So he has developed some information that suggests one area as a likely hiding spot for this White Witch. He means to run a sweep with dogs up that way. If she’s there, she will head for Natasha’s Womb and escape into uncontested country.”

“What is the Russian army going to be doing this time, sir?”

“Almost certainly attacking. Yes, it will be quite busy around here. The First Ukrainian Front has over one-point-two million men, twenty-two hundred tanks, and twenty-eight-hundred planes. Sometime soon they will launch all of them in our direction. We have only Army Group North Ukraine spread through these parts, about half as many men and machines, and the men are, many of them, Hungarian, perhaps not that inclined to give their all. So when Ivan comes, he will come in deadly earnest. And in the middle of that will be poor little Battlegroup Von Drehle, hunting for a single girl. Your job is to catch her, if indeed she makes for the Womb, and hold her for Police Battalion. Please pay no attention to the one-point-two million Red soldiers.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’ve made arrangements for you to draw ammunition and other supplies. You’ll also have a radio transmitter, and you know how hard to get they are. Division intelligence has already put a map package together for you. I want you to check with them for detailed briefing; they’re expecting you. Your transportation will get you through Yaremche tomorrow at 0630, and I want you in place by 1200. I’ll want a daily report, as will Police Battalion. SS must be kept in the communications network or they’ll make trouble, and this Police Battalion officer has Groedl’s ear.”

“Understood, sir. One question, if I may.”

“Go ahead,” said Von Bink.

“If I’m in the shit and I have to hold on against a large attack, I’d dearly love to have a Flammenwerfer in my bunker. Ivan hates the bite of the Flammenwerfer. A few squirts of burning fuel and he loses his taste for the charge.”

The Flammenwerfer-41 was the flamethrower, which spat out bolts of pure fire for twenty-five meters in half-second units. Everybody hated to go against it; that was the primal power of flame.

“Yes, but not right away. It seems Police Battalion has requested them, and with their high Kommissariat authority, they’ve got them all, for some damned reason or other. I’ll put through an order so that when they’re done with the things, they’ll radio you. I’ll give you a Kübel so that you can run back to Yaremche and pick up your Flammenwerfer.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Look, I know you don’t like this, but we are all going to be in the shit in the next few days as we fight our way through another retreat. Be glad you’re not on some lone 8.8 battery facing Ivan’s thousand T-34s.”

“Yes sir.”

“And Bober, watch that mouth. It could get you killed.”

It hit him in the middle of the night.

“Gershon, where are you going?”

“To the office.”

“Gershon, it can wait until morning. Come back to bed.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“There is some yogurt in the fridge, but I am not going to get up to make you coffee. You can make your own coffee, you madman.”

He drove through the quiet streets of Herzliya, a suburb not unlike any in the civilized world. Now and then a light was on in a house, but mostly it was dark, people asleep and secure in their beds. No one would come to arrest them and send them off to a bitter destiny of night and fog, he thought, recalling that his grandparents had not made it out of the night and fog of Poland to disappear in the Shoah, as had most of his wife’s family. His children, a photographer and a gym teacher, had no idea about any of this beyond perfunctory acknowledgment, unrooted in emotion, of family history. He himself rarely thought of it, as his mind was mechanical in its genius, based on mathematics, memory, the ability to see patterns or factors where no one else did, as opposed to empathetic, a conjurer of emotions. But for some reason, tonight the Shoah seemed alive to him as he drove through neighborhoods of sleeping Jews. Nobody protected them then. Who protects them now? Well, the best air force, army, and navy in the world. Also Gershon Gold.