David Healey: Winter Sniper

The face was turned partially into the snow, but Ty could still make out one blue eye, staring at nothing. A crushed cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He still wasn’t sure.

“It’s Crandall.”

Ty recognized Ike’s voice. He looked up into the general’s lined face, the blue eyes distinctly unhappy. Ike was not one to lose his temper, but Ty could see that he was struggling not to fly into a rage. What seemed to be holding him back was the fact that Mamie slumped against him, sobbing hysterically. Eva stood a little apart from them. He met her eyes, expecting her to be just as upset as the general’s wife. She was glaring at him with a look of pure hatred. Any doubts he’d had about her being a German spy vanished. Small flecks of blood dotted her features and more blood was splashed across the leather bomber jacket. Ty didn’t bother to ask if she was hurt.

Ty looked back at Eisenhower. “Sergeant Crandall is dead,” he said stupidly.

“Captain, this has to be one of the most idiotic stunts I’ve ever seen pulled off,” Ike said. Pure fury played across his face. “You put all of us in danger.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m taking Mrs. Eisenhower and Miss Von Stahl inside,” the general said. “Meanwhile, you straighten out this mess. Goddamnit .”

Considering that Ike rarely cursed, let alone took the Lord’s name in vain, that final utterance was like a thunderbolt. Ty nearly jumped. He managed to mumble something affirmative and then turned away from Ike’s angry gaze. He looked down at Crandall. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he had one eye open, it almost looked as if Crandall was taking a nap in the snow. The only visible wound was an ugly, purple hole in Crandall’s temple, just above the ear. Ty crouched down and took hold of the sergeant’s shoulder, rolling him to one side.

Now Ty could see that the bullet had come out the other side of Crandall’s head, leaving an exit wound the size of a silver dollar. White flecks of skull were visible and the snow under his body was pooled with dark blood. Ty’s stomach lurched. He stood up and managed to take a few steps away before vomiting his breakfast. Get hold of yourself, soldier . He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then started toward the woods.

As Hess watched the body crumple, he thought he could hear a woman scream from four hundred yards away. He was fairly certain it was not Eva but the woman on the snowmobile. He worked the bolt, ejected the spent cartridge, slid a fresh round into the chamber. The second man had reacted too quickly for Hess to get off another shot. He grabbed Eva and pulled her down under him, flattening them both into the snow and shrubs that lined the walking path. At the same time he shouted something to the woman on the snowmobile, who rolled off and put the machine between herself and the woods.

Hess played the scope across the snow but could only make out a brownish lump — not much of a target. He would just be wasting a bullet and giving away his position. Besides, he could not take a second shot without the chance that he might hit Eva. Hess just hoped that he had killed the right man, thanks to Eva’s signal. Surely, she had stepped away to give him a clear field of fire.

Time to go . Soldiers swarmed out of the hotel and nearby buildings. Someone got them organized and a line of men came toward the woods. They were lightly armed with rifles and pistols. One man — a cook, judging by the white apron he wore — had rushed into the snow with nothing more than a rolling pin for a weapon. Hess took one last look through the scope — still no target — and started to crawl out from his sniper’s nest beneath the log. He had hoped to have more time to escape. His only chance was to get deep into the forests and mountains where the Americans would have a hard time tracking him.

But to do that, he would have to buy himself some time. The ragged line of men was advancing quickly toward the woods. It was foolhardy, crossing an open field toward a sniper’s position. Hess got clear of the log and put the rifle to his shoulder. The advancing soldiers sprang closer in the scope. He was aware that he was breaking all the rules of sniper warfare — shooting from a relatively exposed position and firing twice from the same location. But this was not Stalingrad. He had to do something to slow down the advancing soldiers. He put the sight on the officer who had organized the advance and brought him down.

Some of the men, realizing what was happening, threw themselves down in the snow. A couple of the soldiers opened fire, shooting uselessly into the woods. The ones with the pistols were so far away that they might as well have been throwing snowballs. Dressed in white, with even his rifle camouflaged, Hess did not present much of a target. He worked the bolt, put the post sight on one of the men who was shooting blindly into the woods, and fired. The 9 mm took off the crown of the man’s head, leaving a crimson spray across the snow. That stopped the advance toward the woods.

Hess was just turning to go when a bullet ripped through his shoulder. There was no pain at first, but only an impact like being hit with a club.

He dropped his rifle, then sagged to his knees. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. He stared in disbelief at the blood running down his arm into the snow. The little scarlet pool steamed as it cooled. Hess felt the world begin to spin and forced himself to focus. He reached for his rifle, hoping the snow had not clogged the barrel. As long as he had his rifle he had a chance of staying alive.

He realized it was a good thing he had turned at just that moment. Otherwise the bullet would have hit him full in the lungs and he would have drowned in his own blood. Then again, if the other sniper had been trying for a head shot, Hess’s brains would already be scattered across the snow. Hess had seen enough wounds to know this one wouldn’t be fatal — the bullet had passed right through — but he must stop the bleeding. He got his back to the log and started ripping off sections of sheeting, then stuffed them up under his coat, into the wound. It wasn’t much of a field dressing, but it would have to do for now.

Grudgingly, he had to admire the man who had shot him. He had no doubt it was another sniper. Hess had broken the rules and paid the price. He had not seen the other man or even guessed that he was there. Stupid to let himself get shot like that.

He peered above the log and saw that the soldiers were advancing again. Even more people had come out onto the snowy field and now there were knots of men around the dead general as well as the two soldiers Hess had shot. He also saw a man dressed completely in white, just as Hess was, carrying a rifle with a telescopic sight and leading a group of soldiers toward the spot where Hess lay. This was the other sniper.

He thought about making a run for it, but knew that he would not be able to move fast enough before the Americans caught him. Not only that, but he would be leaving a blood trail to follow, like a wounded animal. His only choice was to fight.

Hess struggled with his own rifle, trying to get it into shooting position. With his wounded shoulder, he could barely lift the weapon, much less aim it. He felt dizzy from blood loss. The Americans had reached the woods and he could hear them thrashing through the brush toward him.

Hess slumped back against the log and propped the rifle butt against the frozen ground. There was a round in the chamber — if someone came close enough he might be able to get off one shot, but he would not be able to work the bolt to reload.

There was a movement in the undergrowth a few feet away and a very young, very frightened American face stared at him from behind a mountain laurel bush. “Over here!” the boy called in a voice that cracked with fear. Then he aimed his rifle at Hess. The muzzle danced wildly.