Stephen Hunter - Sniper's Honor

He and the sergeant spoke animatedly in Serbian and then he turned to Wili, who raised his hand for a somewhat desultory “Heil Hitler,” which Salid returned smartly.

“So, Sergeant,” he said in the same impeccable German that Wili recognized from his argument with Karl at the gate of Andrewski Palace, “you’ve come for your Flammenwerfer. I take it you are well dug in up at the canyon.”

“Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Wili replied, not finding it within himself to call an Arab pimp “sir,” “we’ve constructed a superb defensive position and mined the canyon itself, so that when the time comes, we can close it in one second to any Ivan tanks. Thirty pounds of Cyclonite make a very persuasive argument.”

“Good, good, I’m pleased. But you understand that is only part of the mission. The other part is to nab any bandits we drive before us when we sweep through.”

“Yes, Sturmbannführer, that has been explained. Major Von Drehle has half his complement on patrol in the forest to intercept any bandits on the move to the Womb.”

“I will make this point to Von Drehle over the radio, but I state it here for the record so there can be no misunderstanding. In two days or so, we will begin this sweep operation, and it is crucially important that we intercept a certain bandit.”

“The woman. The White Witch.”

“So they call her. She’s up there. We must get her. It is a Reich priority from highest headquarters. The obergruppenführer-SS is bravely putting himself at risk in order to lure her into the open so that we may take her alive. It is an honor for your unit that it was selected for this job. Clearly your operations have impressed all. No common group of infantry dregs could be trusted. It’s vital, because this woman must be interrogated in Berlin by specialists, so that the full breadth of her knowledge of various—”

“Who is that?” said Wili, interrupting.

“Excuse me. Please do not—”

“My God,” said Wili. “What the fuck is going on here?”

He had noticed a solitary figure sitting in the front row of pews, motionless. Wili stared, shifting slightly to get a better angle.

“General Von Bink! What on earth are you doing to General Von Bink?”

“This is no concern of yours, Sergeant Bober. I have authorized the transfer of the Flammenwerfer-41. Now please go about your business and leave me to mine.”

But Wili pushed past him, past the knot of men, got to the front of the church, and there indeed, ramrod-stiff, sat General Von Bink. His hands were clearly tied behind him. He wore his Knight’s Cross tight around his neck, his service cap with the stiffener removed for raffish effect, his black double-breasted Panzerjackit, a brown belt, and black boots, highly shined, under riding breeches with the general’s red stripe. His holster was empty, its flap open.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Bober,” he said. “How nice to see you. I would rise, but you know, it’s difficult under the circumstances.”

“Sir, I—What is going on?”

“Evidently these gentlemen have arranged transport to my next duty assignment, which appears to be in hell.” He smiled.

“This officer is to be hanged by piano wire,” said Salid, who had followed Wili to the spot. “He has been found guilty in absentia in Berlin. We are following orders. His execution is to be filmed and forwarded to Berlin. Now get out of here, Sergeant. You have your duty.”

Wili turned. “Are you mad? Or a fool? This officer has six wound stripes. He’s fought in three wars. He’s been in the front line of every tank offensive since 1939. He’s a survivor of Kursk and Stalingrad, Sebastopol, the entire Ukraine going and coming. He has the Knight’s Cross with oak leaves and every other goddamned bit of ribbon and tin there is. He is a great man, a hero of the nation. He is no traitor. You cannot treat him like this.”

“Sergeant, you grow wearisome. Don’t force me to have my men discipline you.”

“You crazy Arab bastard, you have no right to—”

“Sergeant, watch your mouth. You have already committed insubordination and are dangerously close to treason.”

Salid was suddenly surrounded by three of his men, including the muscular carpenters and one of the door guards with the MP-40. At the same time, Deneker had gotten around to Wili’s shoulder and was whispering quietly, “Wili, Wili, Wili, let’s not lose our heads.”

“You’re the fucking traitor, Arab. If you harm one hair on this man’s head, I’ll see you burn in hell. Who the fuck—”

“Sergeant,” barked Von Bink, “disengage now. Sturmbannführer Salid, the man is simply a blowhard, he meant no harm. Please excuse him.”

“You cannot hang this man on piano wire in a desecrated Ukraine church,” said Wili. “It is a sacrilege. It is against all that the German military stands for. It mocks the sacrifices of millions of men who gave their lives here in the East.”

“The Reich considers him a traitor, and I have very explicit orders.”

“Sergeant Bober,” the general said, “I am ordering you as commanding general of the Fourteenth Panzergrenadier Division to cease and desist. You do no one any good this way, and you rob me of what little dignity I have left. Please leave at once and return to your duty post. This is a direct order, and I expect it to be obeyed.”

Wili had a mind to draw his P38, shoot Salid, then turn and shoot Von Bink between the eyes. Better that than strangulation at the end of a piano wire loop lifting him six inches off the ground for the pornographic pleasure of Berlin perverts watching the film a week later. If the Serbs shot Wili, so what? He wasn’t going to survive the war anyhow, what difference did it make? Best die for something he believed in instead of holding open a pass so that SS motherfuckers like the Arab pimp here and his crew of Serb Jew-killers could make their getaway.

“Wili,” whispered Deneker, “think of the mess. You’ll get Karl and the fellows all fucked up, the politics will be a nightmare, they’ll go off to Dachau. After all the shit we’ve been through, they’ll end up hanging on piano wire.”

“Listen to your friend, Bober,” said the general. “He speaks wisely.”

Wili turned. He snapped to attention. He saluted the general with his right hand snapped sharply to his brow in the classic old style.

“Herr Generalleutnant Von Bink, my compliments and compliments of Second Parachute Infantry, Regiment Twenty-one, Battlegroup Von Drehle. You, sir, are a hero, an inspiration, and a gentleman. We were lucky to serve under you, and we will never forget you.”

He turned and stomped out.

The Carpathians

Heading South

THE PRESENT

“You sound like you’re running,” said Jimmy, two thousand miles away, presumably sitting on a sofa before a fire, sipping fine whiskey from a decanter.

“The same long story. Do you have anything?”

“Actually, yes.”

“You talk, I’ll walk. Pardon the heavy breathing.”

“We had very good chaps in radio intelligence and coding,” said Jimmy from his sofa, “and it seems we were aware that by 1944, Stalin was cutting off partisan units he didn’t trust in their pro-Soviet enthusiasm. He knew he’d won this war; he was trying to win the next one. So our people saw our own opportunity for some mischief-making. SOE sent a ‘black’ Halifax bomber to Alexandria. The SOE used its genius for code-breaking and was able to talk to a number of partisan groups. We offered the supply on which Stalin was reneging. This bomber went forth every night and flew from Alex into the underbelly of Europe and Russia, dropping C-containers of arms and ammunition to designated groups. I’m sure some were Russian ruses, but I’m also certain many were legit. The C-container load was exactly what one would need to run a guerrilla war, a revolution, a coup d’arms: one No. 4 T for sniper and assassination duty, five Stens, two thousand rounds of 9mm, fifty of .303, twenty-five Mills bombs, and five Webley revolvers. According to the records, the Bak Brigade of the Ukraine People’s Front received their loads—three C’s—on February 9, 1944. So to answer the question, that is exactly how a No. 4 T could be and in fact should have been available to your sniper in July 1944.”