Stephen Hunter - The Master Sniper

“You know what this is about, don’t you?” the man said.

“I don’t know anything except a man with a gun says dig, so I dig.”

“Well, it’s nothing to do with the war. The war’s over. What I hear is the big shots are escaping with the Jews’ gold. That’s right, all the gold they stole from the Jews. But the Americans want it. They’re going for the Jews’ gold too. Everybody wants it, now the Jews are finished. And we’re caught right in the middle. That’s what it’s—”

“To hell with fancy talk, Professor,” Repp said. “You can’t argue with a man with an automatic.”

They dug together in silence for a while, Repp working hard, finding a release in the effort. He squared his part of the pit off, packing the dirt into a rampart on the lip, sculpting a firing notch. Around him he could hear the clink of shovels going into earth and men quietly groaning, resigned. SS troopers prowled among them. Meanwhile, back among the vehicles on the bridge, other SS men moved about, arranging sandbags, tinkering with their weapons, uncrating ammunition. Now and then a single detonation sounded in the distance, and once a long sputter of automatic weapon fire clattered out.

“We ought to build a grenade trap,” said Repp, sweating profusely in his labor, his skin warm in the cool night air. He was half worried about blisters that might throw off his shooting, but he couldn’t take the possibility too seriously. If he didn’t get through tonight somehow, there’d be no shooting.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said the professor. “In case the bastards get in close.”

They bent to the bottom of the pit to scour out an angled hole into which to kick grenades to contain their blast, and suddenly the professor whispered into Repp’s ear, “I think we ought to make a break for it. Not now, but later, when the holes are all dug and the SS bastards are back by their tanks. We can move on down the river, get away from the fighting. When the Americans wipe out this bunch, we can—”

“Never make it,” Repp said. “Man on the turret has a machine gun. He’d have us cold unless we could fly like one of those fancy jets. I checked it out, first thing.”

“Damn! Come on, friend. It’s death here for sure. That’s what they got us here for—to die. They don’t care a shit for us; in fact they never did. They just want to take a few more Ameri—”

But Repp was listening to the officer—Buchner? perhaps—as he said to the sergeant, “Get me a driver and a machine gunner. I’m going to take a Kübel up the hill and see what’s keeping our visitors.”

“Sir, I could get some of the fellows—”

“I’ll do it myself,” said Buchner, typically. Yes, it was Buchner. In the East he’d quickly picked up a reputation for exposing himself unnecessarily to fire.

“I’ll blink my lights when I’m coming in. Got it?”

“Yes, Herr Major.”

He was gone then, and Repp waited with the professor in the trench.

“We can’t wait until the fight begins. We’ll never get out then. We’ll just get the Amis good and mad and they’ll blow our brains out,” the professor said. “They smell that gold.”

Heavy firing broke out ahead. The American column must have run into some resistance in the hamlet. Repp could hear machine guns and tank cannon. Whoever was left up there was putting up quite a fight.

“We’re right in the zone of that gun,” Repp replied. “He’d just chop us down. He’d make sausage of us. There’s no point to it. Relax for now. Do you have a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke. I was hit in the throat and lost my taste for it.”

“Okay, you men,” the sergeant called out. “Be alert. Any minute the show begins.”

“I can’t see a goddamned thing,” said the professor. “They must really want that gold. They usually don’t like to advance in the dark.”

“Now don’t get excited, fellows,” crooned the sergeant from back at the vehicles, low and gentle, “just take it easy.”

“We don’t have any guns, you bastards,” someone yelled from nearby.

“Oh, we haven’t forgotten the Wehrmacht.”

Repp could hear MP-40 bolts snapping. A report almost made him flinch—one of the Panthers kicking into life so there’d be power for its turret. The other joined and the smell of exhaust floated down, and over the engine purr came a deeper moan as the turrets tracked, aligning their long 75-millimeter barrels down the approach.

A man suddenly leaned over the edge of their hole.

“Here,” he said, his breath billowing foggily in the cool, “ever use one of these rocket things? Line up the target through the rear sight against the pin on the warhead. Trigger’s up top, the lever, crank it back to arm it, jam forward to fire. She’ll go like hell and blow anything the Amis make to smithereens.”

“Jesus Christ,” moaned the professor, “that’s all you’re giving us, Panzerfausts?”

“Sorry, brother. I do what I’m told. Go for the tanks first, then the half-tracks. But watch them too, they’re more than just troop carriers. Some of them mount four half-inch machine guns on a kind of wire frame. Devilish things. And remember, no firing till the major gives the word.”

He was gone into another hole.

“We’re cooked,” said the professor. “This is suicide.” He held up the Panzerfaust , a thirty-two-inch tube with a swollen five-inch bulb at one end. “One shot and it’s all over.”

The firing up ahead picked up in pitch. Light flashed through the night.

“Goddamn. I didn’t want to end up in a goddamn hole with American tanks in front and SS tanks in back. Goddamn, not after what I’ve been through.” He began very softly to pry, and put his head against his arm at the edge of the trench.

The firing stopped.

“All right,” Repp said quietly. “Here they come. Get ready, old friend.”

The professor leaned back in the trench. Repp could see the wet track of tears running down his face, but he’d come to some arrangement with himself and looked at least resigned.

“We should have at least tried,” he said. “Just to die like this, for nothing, that’s what’s so shitty about all this.”

“I think I see them,” said Repp, peering ahead. He cranked back the arm on the trigger lever to arm his Panzerfaust , and put it over his shoulder. It was slightly front-heavy but he braced it through the notch in the rampart he’d built. The sight was a primitive thing, a metal ring that lined up with a pin up at the warhead.

“Here they come,” he said flatly.

“Jesus Christ, that’s the major. He just blinked.”

“Easy, men, the major’s coming in,” the sergeant yelled.

“Here they come,” said Repp. He was really concentrating. His two right fingers tightened on the trigger lever.

“Are you crazy?” the professor whispered harshly. “That’s the major.”

“Here they come,” said Repp. He could see the Kübelwagen clearly now, its pale-yellow-and-sand camouflage scheme lighter against the blackness, as it ripped along the road at them, trailing dust. Its lights blinked once again. Willi Buchner stood like a yachtsman in the cockpit of his craft, hands set on the windscreen frame, hair blowing against the breeze, a bored look on his face.

Repp fired.

The Kübelwagen ruptured into a flash, concussion instantaneous and enormous. The vehicle veered to rest on its side, flames tumbling out its gas tank.

“Jesus,” said the professor in the moment of silence that followed, “those poor—”

“Who the fuck fired, goddamn I’ll kill you!” bellowed the sergeant. But then everybody opened up. Two or three more Panzerfausts flashed out and detonated, a machine gun back on the barricade began to howl, rifles barked up and down the line, and in exclamation point the Panther 75 boomed, a long gout of flame flaring out from its barrel.