David Healey: Ghost Sniper

“Do you have any experience as a sniper, Meacham?”

“I used to do some hunting back home,” the kid said, managing to look embarrassed as he said it, like he’d been caught bragging.

Mulholland liked him and felt he could trust him.

He moved on to the next soldier. He had an olive complexion and a smirk. “Who are you, soldier?”

“Vaccaro, sir.”

“What’s your experience as a sniper, Vaccaro?

“I’m the best shot here. I’ve been on this beach for twenty-four hours and I’ve already sniped a dozen Jerries. I shot their Nazi asses off! Hell, we ought to be able to put marks on our rifles like the aces do when they shoot down planes.”

“We’ll see about that, Vaccaro.”

The lieutenant moved down the line to the third man. “You’re up,” he said. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“John Kingfisher, sir.”

“What is your experience as a sniper, Kingfisher?”

He shrugged. “I got volunteered.”

“Well, you must be good with a rifle.”

The soldier shrugged again. “To be honest, sir, the colonel was asking around for guys who could shoot, and my captain wanted to make the colonel happy, so he sent me because I’m part Cherokee.”

“You can shoot, right?” Mulholland asked hopefully.

“Sure I can shoot, as much as you can, sir. But before I was in the Army, the most shooting I done was at the county fair, plinking tin ducks in the shooting gallery.”

“I can guarantee this is going to be different from the shooting gallery at the county fair. Cherokee, huh? OK, Chief, you’re stuck with us now.

Vaccaro pointed to Cole. “What about him. Who are you?”

“The name’s Micajah Cole.”

“What the hell kind of name is that? Micajah? Is that even American?”

“What the hell kind of name is Vaccaro?” Cole replied. “Sounds more dago than American to me.”

“Huh? Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Micajah was a prophet in the Old Testament,” Meacham spoke up shyly. “He warns the Assyrians that they will be defeated for defying God. Thy kingdom will be plowed as a field and thy capital shall become a barren ruin .”

“Well, shit, there you go,” Vaccaro said. “If it’s in the Bible, that’s good enough for me. But lookin’ at that Confederate flag on his helmet, I’m gonna call him Reb.”

“It doesn’t matter what his name is, Vaccaro,” Mulholland said. “What matters is that Cole here is good with a rifle. He did quite a bit of damage with it yesterday when we came ashore. He’s a good man to have on our team.”

“You’re the boss, sir.”

“You just keep that in mind, Vaccaro, and we’ll get along fine,” the lieutenant said. He gestured toward their guide, who was watching from several feet away. “The last person on our team is Mademoiselle Molyneux. She’s a French Resistance fighter, and she’s agreed to guide us through the hedgerow country.”

“Mmm, mmm. She can guide me through her French bushes anytime she likes,” Vaccaro wisecracked.

“Shut up, Vaccaro. Headquarters tells me Miss Molyneux is one of the best guides there is and we’re lucky to have her. She will try to keep your sorry ass from being killed, because I’ve been assured the countryside here is thoroughly mined and booby trapped. Our job will be to go in there and eliminate as many German snipers as possible, because they are playing holy hell with our infantry units.”

It was some team, Mulholland thought. They were supposed to start conquering the Third Reich with a farmer, an Indian, a smart ass city kid, a French girl, and a hillbilly. God help them.

“Before we head out, I want to assess everyone’s skills as a sniper. I need to know what I’m dealing with here. We’re going to do a little shooting. Follow me.”

Mulholland took them to a relatively empty section of the beach. In the distance, a perimeter had been set up for captured Germans, who stood about singly or in small groups, watching the activity on the beach. No one paid much attention to Mulholland’s small team of soldiers, but their female French guide did get some notice. Her arrival was met with a few catcalls and whistles.

Using the heights as a backdrop, the lieutenant took a few empty booze bottles—there was no shortage of those around the empty German fortifications—and set them up on a sandbag. They now had a natural target range.

“Farm boy, you go first,” Mulholland said. “Three shots. Let’s see how good you are.”

Meacham had a head-down, aw shucks look as he stepped forward. There was something awkward and slow moving about the farm kid, but you had the feeling that there was a lot of strength in those shoulders.

“Look on the bright side,” Vaccaro said. “If Meacham here misses or runs out of bullets, he can beat the hell out of them.”

It was clear from the easy way that Meacham handled the rifle that he was familiar with weapons. He put the rifle to his shoulder and fired. A bottle shattered. He worked the bolt and fired again, then again. Three bottles were gone.

“That’s some good shooting,” the lieutenant said. “You must have been hell on the rabbits and woodchucks back home. You’re next, Chief.”

“One request, sir. I really don’t like to be called Chief.”

“You hit those three bottles and I’ll call you anything you want.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chief surprised them by sitting down on the sand, working his arm through the sling, and propping his elbows on his knees in a classic shooting position right out of boot camp. “I’ve never even fired this rifle, you know.”

“Just go ahead, Chief.”

“Pretend they’re cowboys, Chief, and you’ll mow them bottles right down!” Vaccaro said.

“Shut up, Vaccaro.”

They left the soldier alone and let him aim. Their French guide was standing off to one side, watching the show, and Mulholland caught his men giving her sidelong looks. It was clear that they wanted to impress her. No surprise there. As the colonel had said, she was a knockout. But there was also a tough and mysterious air about the young woman. She had been fighting the Germans a lot longer than any of them, that was for sure.

Chief fired and one of the bottles shattered. He took aim again. There was the sharp crack of the rifle, and instantly the bottle exploded.

“One more, Chief, and you win the Kewpie Doll!”

He took aim and fired, but the bottle remained standing.

“Damn!” he said. “Must have been the wind.”

“It ain’t the wind, Chief,” Vaccaro said. “It’s just that your ancestors were better with a bow and arrow.”

“Screw you, Vaccaro. Let’s see how you do.”

Vaccaro strutted forward—there was really no other way to describe it—and took aim. He fired three times, but hit nothing.

“Are there bullets in your rifle?” Chief asked. “Or were those blanks?”

“Goddamn thing ain’t sighted in. Not my fault.”

“Let me see it a minute, Vaccaro,” said Mulholland, stepping forward to take the rifle. He inspected the weapon, but could detect no obvious fault with it, though it was very possible that the telescopic sight needed adjustment. He put the scope to the eye and one of the bottles sprang closer. With the crosshairs settled just where the shoulder of the bottle began to fatten, he squeezed the trigger, and the bottle shattered.

“Maybe it’s not the rifle,” the lieutenant said, handing it back. “Cole, let’s see you shoot.”

“Yeah, let’s see if the hillbilly here really knows how to use a rifle,” Vaccaro said.

Cole walked to the spot where the three others had shot from. So far, he had been the quietest of the group, and the French guide eyed him with interest. He had a tough, competent look about him that reminded her of some of the Resistance fighters she knew. Cole raised the rifle and fired three times in rapid succession, but none of the bottles was touched.