Stephen Hunter - The Master Sniper

Still, below, he could make out the ribbon of water, smooth and flat and dark, bisected neatly by a six-arched stone bridge. A road led down the cliff to it and, looking carefully in the falling darkness, he was able to detect two Mark IV Panthers dug in next to the bridge. Dappled Kübelwagens and a few motorcycles were ranged along it. He thought he could see men laboring just beyond the bridge to dig defensive positions. And wasn’t that a raft of some sort moored to one of the center arches, and two soldiers struggling to plant explosives? Repp realized the mess in a flash. Of course. The engineers who’d been sent south to blow the thing had been executed.

He knew that if he headed down there with his vague story and obsolete papers, he’d either be shot out of hand as a deserter or thrown into the perimeter. These boys were sure to make a fight of it when the Americans arrived, have some fun with their antitank gear, and then fall back across the bridge and blow it to pebbles in the Ami faces. He envied the fellow whose job it was—a real war to fight, not these games—and briefly wondered about him; an old hand, probably, from the cleverness of the arrangement, not one to panic in the face of fire. He wished him luck, but it wasn’t his business. His job was merely to get beyond, to keep moving south.

But how to get beyond?

He felt the press of time. How soon would the Americans arrive? Damn, he had to get across before they showed. He didn’t want to give them another crack at him: one had been enough. Yet to head farther east along this bank was no solution; if anything the river became more of an obstacle. There were certain to be other bridges and other battles.

Repp pondered, crouched at the edge of the cliff.

“Enjoying the scenery, soldier?” a harsh voice demanded.

Repp turned; the man had approached quietly. He knew what he was doing. In the fading light, Repp recognized tough features and unsympathetic eyes: an SS sergeant in camouflage tunic, cradling an STG, stood before him. Over the sergeant’s shoulder back through the trees, Repp could see a half-track out on the road, its cargo a crowd of soldiers.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Repp replied. His hand had edged cautiously inside his tunic.

“You’re another wanderer, I suppose. Separated, but still trying to join up, eh?” Rich amusement showed in his eyes.

“I have papers,” Repp explained.

“Well, damn your papers. Wipe your ass with them! I don’t care if you’ve got a note from the Führer himself, excusing you from heavy duty. We’re preparing a little festival for the Americans down at the bridge and I’m sure you’ll be happy to join us. Everybody’s invited. You’ll fight one more battle and fight it as an SS man, or you’ll taste this,” the STG.

Repp stood. Should he shoot the man? If he did, the only way out was down, fifty meters, the face of the cliff.

“Yes, sir,” he said reluctantly.

Goddamn! he thought. What now?

He bent to pick up the rifle.

“Leave that, my friend,” the sergeant said sweetly, as if he were delivering a death sentence. “It’s no good against tanks and tanks are on the menu tonight. Or had you thought I’d turn my back and you’d let me have it?”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Major Buchner said round up bodies, and by God I’ve done it. Sorry, stinking cowardly bodies, but bodies just the same. Now move your butt,” and he grabbed Repp and threw him forward contemptuously.

Repp landed in the dirt, scraping his elbow; as he rose, the sergeant kicked him in the buttocks, driving him ahead oafishly, a clown. Repp stood, rubbing his pain—some of the men in the half-track laughed—and ran forward like a fool, the sergeant chasing and hooting.

“Run, skinny, run, the Americans are coming.”

Repp scurried to the half-track. Hands drew him in and he found himself in a miserable group of disarmed Wehrmacht soldiers, perhaps ten in all, over whom sat like lords two SS corporals with machine pistols.

“Another volunteer,” said the sergeant, climbing into the cab of the vehicle. “Now let’s get moving.”

That Repp had been taken again and was about to fight in what must certainly be counted a suicidal engagement was one of his great concerns; but another, more immediate one was this Major Buchner, who, if his first name was Wilhelm, had served with Repp at Kursk.

“Okay, boys,” the sergeant yelled when the half-track, after a descent, halted, “time to work for your suppers. Sir,” he called, “ten more, shirkers the lot, but charmed to join us just the same.”

“Good, they’re still trying to get this damned thing mined,” replied a loud voice from ahead somewhere in the dark—Willi Buchner’s voice? “Now get ’em digging. Our friends will be here, you can bet on it.” His voice seemed to come from above and Repp realized, as his eyes adjusted in the night, that the officer stood atop the turret of one of the Panthers.

He turned to his fellows, who lounged around the informal barricade of vehicles at the bridge. “I promise you some fun before sunrise, boys, party favors and all.” A chorus of laughter rose from around him but someone close to Repp muttered, “Christ, another crazy hero.”

“Here, friend,” someone said without troubling to veil his hostility to Repp, “your weapon for the evening.” It was a shovel.

“Now come on, ladies, let’s get moving. You’re SS men now and the SS always stays busy.” Repp and the other new arrivals were directed to the approach where others were already digging under the machine pistols of patrolling SS troopers.

“I’d dig if I were you. When the Americans come in their big green tanks, you’ll want a place to stay.”

Repp saw the implication of the arrangement in a fraction of a second. The SS men would be clustered around the dug-in vehicles at the barricade with the heavier weapons—he’d seen a 75-millimeter gun as well as the two tanks, and several MG-42’s; the rest of them, the new recruits rounded up at gunpoint, would be out here in the open in holes. At the last moment they’d be armed with something— Panzerfausts , Repp supposed, but their main job was merely to die—to attract some fire, knock out a tank or two, confuse the invaders, impede their progress for just a moment while the Panthers and the gun took their bearings to fire. Then the SS boys would fall back across the bridge on the time bought by the conscriptees, and blow it, and wait out the end of the war in Tuttlingen; for the Wehrmacht there’d be no retreat, only another Stalingrad.

“Herr Sergeant,” a man next to Repp protested, “this is a mistake. I’ve got leave papers. Here. I was in the hospital—Field Number Nine, up near Stuttgart—and they let me out, just before the Americans came. I’m no good anymore. Blown up twice in Russia and once in—”

“Shut up,” said the SS man. “I don’t give a shit what your papers say. Here you are and by God here you stay. I hope you can work a Panzerfaust as well as you do that tongue of yours.” He stalked away from the fellow.

“It’s no fair,” said the man bitterly, hunkering down next to Repp to dig. “I’ve got the papers. I’m out of it. I did my part. Pain in my head, bad, all the damn time. Headaches just won’t stop. Shake so bad sometimes I can hardly piss.”

“Best dig for now,” Repp cautioned. “That doesn’t count a bit with these shits. They’d just as soon shoot you as the Americans. They hanged a bunch of engineers back a way.”

“It’s just no fair. I’m out of it, out of the whole thing. I never thought I’d get out of Russia but somehow—”

“Keep down,” Repp whispered, “that sergeant just looked over here.” He threw himself into the shoveling.