David Healey: Red Sniper

When he raised his arms in surrender, he realized that he was shaking.

The two younger Germans looked excited about having captured an American. Wearing giddy smiles, the boys herded Whitlock toward the truck at gunpoint. It was as if they had just won a game of Capture the Flag, and he was the prize.

The older man looked grim, evidently more aware than the boys of the seriousness of the situation. He did not seem to outrank the boys, at least not by any rank visible on his uniform, but was their de facto commander due to his age. In civilian life, he could have been their schoolteacher or perhaps a successful village merchant. He had that softness about him of an indoors man, but also an air of casual authority.

The boys certainly shaped up when he barked something at them in German. The older man used his rifle to point Whitlock toward the truck, and then climbed in after him with the boys. An even older man was behind the wheel. He hadn’t bothered to get out.

They all rode together in the back of the truck. Nobody bothered to tie his hands—he was unarmed, and where could he go? These young guys had already shown that they could run like rabbits, and the older one looked like he wouldn’t mind using that rifle of his. Unlike the boys, he did not appear excited, but world weary and distracted, as if he missed his classroom or his shop.

One of the young ones offered him a drink from a canteen, which Whitlock accepted gratefully. He drank and drank, having been unaware of how thirsty he was. He supposed it was fear that had turned his mouth to cotton.

He finally remembered to think of Bronson. They had waited together in the chow line this morning. Now Bronson was dead. Lucky Girl was gone. He glanced at his Timex watch and realized that from the time the German fighter had attacked until he had touched down in the field, just fifteen minutes had elapsed. It seemed like hours. The whole thing felt unreal, like a bad dream.

Whitlock sat in the battered truck, aware that the three German soldiers were staring at him. Nobody attempted conversation. They drove out of the countryside, and into a town. In the distance, Whitlock could see heavy smoke rising, presumably from where the squadron had delivered its payload.

At least one of the bombs had gone off target and struck the town. The truck slowed, and then stopped as they passed a smoking crater, beside a building that was now largely rubble. A crowd of people, mainly civilians, was attempting to put out several small fires with buckets. Whitlock realized that there wasn’t much to burn—mostly there were just piles of rubble. Other villagers stood nearby, weeping.

“Get out, American,” the middle-aged soldier said in English. “I want to show you something.”

Whitlock did as he was told, surprised that the man spoke English, though it was heavily accented. I vant to show you sum-tink.

On the ground, the two young guards gestured at Whitlock, and then seemed to make an appeal to the older man. He held out his hand to Whitlock. “These boys want your coat.”

Whitlock shrugged out of the heavy leather jacket with its warm sheepskin lining. He felt exposed without it—and cold. The boys flipped a coin, and the winner slipped on the coat, which was too big for him. Searching the pockets, the kid found a packet of Beeman’s gum, which he gave to the other boy as a consolation prize.

The older man pointed the way, and they walked a short distance to the ruined building. Whitlock had no idea what the German wanted him to see. Maybe it was a portrait of Hitler or some other symbol of the Third Reich? The walls of this building still stood, and Whitlock noticed a smear of red. It looked exactly as if someone had dipped a large paintbrush in crimson paint and swiped it on the wall.

Then Whitlock saw. Nearby on the ground were the bodies of two girls in school uniforms, partially covered with a blanket. He was horrified to realize that it wasn’t paint that he saw on the wall, but blood.

A handful of townspeople began to shout angrily at him. Some shook their fists. Whitlock had no idea what they were saying, but he could guess.

The German soldier pushed Whitlock roughly toward the bodies. Then he bent down and pulled back the blanket. Whitlock guessed that they were twelve or thirteen years old. He had a kid sister that age. Both of the girls’ faces looked angelic in death, pale and peaceful, like in an old painting. But their bodies were torn and burned, resembling a raw steak that had made contact with a red-hot grill before being yanked off. The sight made him physically wince away. They’re just kids. School girls. He realized that the devastation to the village could have been from the bombs dropped by Lucky Girl . It didn’t matter if it was Whitlock’s plane or another, especially not to the dead girls or these villagers.

Whitlock tried to turn away, but the older German caught him and forced him closer to the bodies. He said something low and angry.

Whitlock had seen enough. He shoved the German away, which caused the two boyish soldiers to point their rifles nervously in his direction.

But Whitlock wasn’t interested in escape just then. He bent over and vomited with such force that he sagged to his knees. He was sick repeatedly until nothing came up but thin, ropy spittle.

The older German took hold of him again, but this time he did it almost gently, helping Whitlock to his feet. He even handed him a handkerchief to wipe his mouth.

“I’m so sorry. Whose children are they?” Whitlock asked, looking around at the crowd, which had fallen silent. They would not meet his eyes. Something about Whitlock’s reaction had clearly left them embarrassed. They were expecting a monster; what they got was a scared-looking young American who appeared just as horrified as they were at the carnage.

“They are God’s children, as are we all,” the German soldier said in clear but halting English. “Get in the truck. We will take you to the prison camp now.”

For Cole and the rest of the squad, the next town that came into view around a bend in the road was Arnouthbourg.

“At least, that’s what the map says,” Lt. Mulholland explained. “I don’t know how to pronounce it. I also don’t know how the good people of this particular town feel about American GIs, so keep your eyes peeled.”

The squad approached cautiously, with the snipers leading the way. Since early April their squad had not encountered any serious resistance from German units. Most German soldiers with a lick of sense had tossed aside their weapons, changed out of their Wehrmacht uniforms, and tried to get home. As an organized fighting force, the Wehrmacht had essentially fallen apart.

The trouble was that there remained battle groups cobbled together out of a few die-hard soldiers from different units, or who served under the command of a particularly patriotic officer. As a result, the German military still had strong pockets of resistance even as the odds mounted against any outcome but defeat.

Then there were the lone sniper to worry about, like that kid in the barn.

“I wish these bastards would just give up,” Vaccaro said, keeping to the edges of the macadam road leading into Arnouthbourg. “All that they’re doing is prolonging the inevitable.”

“If the Germans were marching into Brooklyn, would you give up?” Cole asked.

“Damn it, Hillbilly. Why did you have to go and put it that way? I’d fight with sticks and stones if I had to, so thinking about some Kraut with an MP-40 and the same attitude is not reassuring.”

“Just keeping you on your toes.”

“Yeah, thanks a million.”

Cole saw movement on the road ahead. He put his rifle to his eye to get a better view. He blinked once or twice to make sure that he wasn’t seeing things. A white-haired man wearing a suit stood waiting for them. In one hand, the old man held a stick with a strip of white cloth tied to one end.