David Healey: Red Sniper

“You see that?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think?”

“Somehow, I doubt that old man has a machine gun up his sleeve. It’s a better welcoming committee than a panzer and a battalion of SS stormtroopers.”

Cole raised a fist to signal a halt. The lieutenant came running up. Like any experienced soldier, he barely made a sound as he moved, even though he was loaded down with his pack and gear. Strips of cloth and string secured anything that might rattle as he ran and give him away. You could always tell green troops because when they ran anywhere, they made a racket. Vaccaro liked to say that that green troops sounded like Mama Leoni carrying the trash can out to the curb.

Mulholland studied the older man through binoculars, then swept his eyes over the windows of the houses facing the road. He didn’t see any soldiers, but in several windows the concerned faces of women or elderly residents peered out.

“Nothing but civilians, as far as I can tell,” he said. “Maybe that guy is the local burgermeister.”

“The what?” Vaccaro asked.

“The mayor, or whatever you want to call him. Cole, Vaccaro, you two check it out. The rest of us will cover you.”

Vaccaro looked at Cole. “I was afraid he’d say something like that.”

“Shut up, Vaccaro,” said the lieutenant. “Now get a move on.”

The lieutenant hurried back to join the rest of the squad. Cole thought that Mulholland wasn’t a bad guy, except for the fact that if there was an i to dot, he had to dot it. He was a rule follower. If somebody like General Patton was full of piss and vinegar, Lieutenant Mulholland was maybe full of Coca Cola and sweet tea. He was just a little too damned decent to be a soldier.

Maybe that was a good thing, considering that he and Mulholland had had something of a falling out over Jolie Molyneaux, the French resistance fighter who had been their guide in the days after D-Day. Jolie had taken up with Cole, despite the lieutenant’s efforts otherwise. If Mulholland harbored a grudge, his Boy Scout nature wouldn’t let him act on it.

By now, Jolie was back in France, trying to help piece together a country—and a life—that had been wrecked by the Nazis.

In the end, Mulholland was typical of many officers—they were all trying to look good for the boss. Meanwhile, soldiers like Cole and Vaccaro were mostly trying not to get killed. Being the first Americans to march into a German town was not a good way of improving their odds of getting home, but orders were orders.

“You first,” Vaccaro said. “I’ll cover you.”

“We need to have us a united front,” Cole said. “Get your ass up here.”

They advanced toward the white-haired German. As they approached, they could see that he held himself ramrod straight, maintaining a dignified pose. He raised his arms to show that they were empty. While his body language indicated neutrality, his deeply line face showed the strain of having to welcome the enemy.

After the long winter, and the scarcity of good food, he looked pale and unwell. He was a tall man, towering several inches above them. Given his fine suit and height, he could have been intimidating in other circumstances, if his eyes had not expressed uncertainly. Even terror.

“What can we do you for, pops?” Vaccaro wanted to know. “ Sprechten zie English? ”

“Welcome,” the man said in heavily accented English. “I wish to surrender the town peacefully to you. I have gathered the town fathers so that we can do that officially. It is our wish to avoid any violence.” He paused. “There has been enough of that already.”

Vaccaro looked at Cole. “Well, there you go. Should we head back and get Mulholland?”

Cole thought about it. He glanced toward the windows overlooking the road into town, but still could see no dangers there. For all he knew, this was some sort of trick and there was a tank hiding just around the bend, but it seemed unlikely. “Let’s see what he has to say before we bring up the others.”

Vaccaro nodded. “Lead on, Herr Burgermeister.”

They followed the tall man toward the Rathaus , or town hall. The town was small enough, and far enough from Berlin, to have avoided the wrath of the high-altitude bombers that had devastated so much of the country. Arnouthbourg remained downright picturesque.

A few spring flowers poked through the soil. The bright yellow daffodils punctuated the tiny front yards with bursts of color. The air smelled pleasantly of damp stones and vegetable soup.

None of the buildings was more than three stories high. The streets were macadam, except for directly in front of the town hall, which was paved in cobblestones. Warming to his task, the tall gentleman attempted a smile and waved them inside. Cole unsnapped the holster of his Browning and kept a good grip on his rifle, just in case.

The interior of the Rathaus was freshly painted and neatly kept. Paintings of local scenes lined the walls. The dark and somber paintings looked as if they were maybe a couple hundred years old. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases contained leather-bound volumes of what Cole assumed were local records. It reminded him of the courthouse back home, where he and his pa had once gone to pay a fine to get his uncle out of jail after he had gotten drunk and smashed up a roadhouse. This room represented order and civility. He became acutely aware of his own muddy clothes that stank of sweaty wool and wood smoke. It was as if they had brought the war in with them.

With a final gesture and urging, “Come, come,” the white-haired man brought them into what appeared to be the burgermeister’s office. As promised, the town fathers had assembled. There was also what Cole supposed was a town mother, a well-dressed grandmotherly woman. Her eyes widened at the sight of Cole and Vaccaro. The burgermeister joined them, and the group of elderly, dignified town officials stood solemnly around the mayor’s desk, which seemed to be covered with the inventory of a pawn shop.

He spotted binoculars, wristwatches, cameras, hunting shotguns, and even an antique brass telescope.

He could see at once that it was an offering or a kind of ransom. It was payment in advance for not destroying the town, even though that was the last thing that the Americans had on their minds.

Cole looked over the loot that the townspeople had gathered, and he felt embarrassed. Not for himself. Instead, he felt ashamed for these people. He could tell they were a proud bunch. They wanted to be in control, even here at what to them must be the end of the world. They had tried to organize their defeat and package it up neatly to avoid anything messy.

He didn’t give a damn about these valuables. It was true that Mulholland’s squad had “liberated” some things along the way, but you couldn’t call it actual looting. Did these people really think that the Americans were here to pillage?

Beside him, Vaccaro’s eyes lit up at the collection of watches. He’d always had a hard time saying no to another watch. He grabbed a nice gold model, worth twenty dollars at least, and prepared to shove it into his pocket. The townspeople simply watched, their faces stoic.

This was just what they expected from the barbarians, Cole thought. Greedy for the spoils of war. He reckoned that he would disappoint them.

“Jesus, Vaccaro, how many watches do you need? You still ain’t been on time yet. Put it back.”

“Hillbilly, are you nuts?”

Cole picked up a delicate teapot and handed it to the elderly woman. Then he turned to the burgermeister. ”We ain’t here to steal your teapots and cameras. You can tell your friends that you are now officially surrendered. Deutschland kaput. ”

Grasping the teapot, the old woman nodded at Cole in understanding, while tears flooded her eyes.