David Healey - Ghost Sniper

“A Russian sniper rifle.”

“Yes,” Von Stenger said.

When Von Stenger did not elaborate, the boy said, “I must finish your boots, sir.”

“Good, and after you have shined my boots I want you to find the following four items and bring them to me. A burlap sack, forty feet of rope, a uniform tunic and a helmet.”

The boy suddenly looked near panic. “Where am I going to get a uniform and a helmet, sir?”

“From someone who isn’t wearing them,” he said. “Be resourceful.”

Once the boy had left to complete his assignment, Wulf asked, “Sir? What’s all that business about with the tunic and helmet?”

“We are going hunting tomorrow for our own kind, and we must have a trap for them.”

While the old house was short on warmth, there appeared to be no shortage of wine from the cellars. The boy returned with a bottle as well as the items Von Stenger had requested. They shared the wine by the fire, and then both Wulf and Fritz went to their blankets. The boy curled up and went to sleep instantly, reminding Von Stenger of a dog, legs kicking, mouth hanging open. Only the young could sleep so deeply and artlessly. Wulf was soon snoring in his corner.

Von Stenger hardly thought of himself as old, but in some ways he already had a lifetime of memories, and not all of them were pleasant. Wulf and the boy had asked how many he had killed in his career as a sniper. While he had shot a great number of men—and even women—he could easily recall many of the individual deaths. These memories clung to him and weighed down his mind, fending off sleep like armor.

Restless, he poured more wine, sitting by the fire and smoking, making plans for the morning. It was better to think ahead than dwell on the past. There was no doubt the Americans would attack, and when they did, there would be a trap waiting for them at one of the river crossings.

“Let’s move out,” Lieutenant Mulholland said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, but his voice sounded croaky and tired nonetheless.

The Americans woke up cold and groggy, with any hopes for a hot cup of coffee dashed by the chatter of machine gun fire nearby. The German defenders were hard at work in the early morning light, if they had even slept.

A colonel was making the rounds, handing out orders, the stub of an unlit, well-chewed cigar hanging from his mouth. Mulholland had reported to him last night, making him aware of the sniper squad’s presence. “Lieutenant Mulholland, I need you and your men on a counter sniper operation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have us a situation at the La Fiere Bridge,” the colonel said. He produced a map, which was damp and badly wrinkled. Taking the cigar out of his mouth, he used it to jab at the map, leaving wet, ashen smudges. “Our boys are trying to get across the Merderet River there, only the Jerries won’t let them. We keep throwing more men at it, and they keep throwing more men at it, and meanwhile it’s a big goddamn Mexican standoff.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Do you? Then hell, you are way ahead of me. That bridge should have been taken by oh six hundred on D-Day, and here we are on D plus three still messing around with the Jerries. But you’re not going to the goddamn La Fiere Bridge.” The colonel stabbed at the map again. “This is a tributary of the Merderet and it’s got a much smaller bridge. It’s near a village called Caponnet. The bridge is too small for armor because the damn thing would probably collapse under the weight, but we can move some men across and maybe come in behind the Jerries at La Fiere.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s the same story there, though, in that the Jerries don’t want us to cross the goddamn bridge. I’ve got reports coming in this morning that the Jerries have it covered with snipers, thick as ticks as a hound dog that’s been coon huntin’ all night. I need you and your boys to dig ’em out.”

Mulholland tried not to reflect on the fact that his experience as a sniper spanned roughly three days. “We’ll sweep it clean, sir.”

“You’ve got a can-do attitude, son, and I like that. Just keep your head down and give those Jerry snipers hell.”

Lieutenant Mulholland started to salute, then stopped himself, remembering that it was bad policy. At any rate, the colonel had already moved on. Dawn was breaking, daylight was sweeping over the wood and fields of Normandy’s bocage country, and there was much to be done. It looked as if the sun was actually going to show itself today, which would be something, after a string of gloomy, overcast days. Instead of the sound of birdsong, he could hear the distant chatter of small arms fire, growing louder.

Mulholland thought that it was a hell of a thing to watch the sun come up and yet know that you had a good chance of being killed before it set. He tried not to think about that too much.

He looked around for the French girl. She was standing beside Private Cole, sharing a cigarette with him. They both looked up as he approached. For the first time, he noticed that she had flat, black eyes like wet stones. There was certainly nothing soft or feminine in her glance. Cole’s eyes couldn’t have been more different—clear as cut glass or river water on a cold morning. They were just as empty of emotion. It was hard to tell what Cole was thinking, but there was a kind of primal intelligence and cunning in those eyes that unsettled the lieutenant. It was like looking a wolf in the eye.

“Mademoiselle? I need you to take us to the Caponnet bridge.”

“ Oui. ” She exhaled smoke. “I know the way.”

A couple of the men moved off into the brush to relieve themselves, and then they started down the road toward the bridge.

Chief was dead, killed by the sniper in the church steeple. That left the lieutenant, Cole, Jolie, Meacham and the wisecracking Vaccaro. The British airborne trooper had asked to tag along.

“I’ll be damned if I’ll ever find my bloody unit,” he said. “I’ve yet to see another Brit. It’s Americans everywhere I look. Maybe I could join up with your squad, sir.”

“Suit yourself, Neville. But we’re supposed to be snipers. Are you any good with a rifle?”

Neville hefted his submachine gun. “You worry about the long shots, sir, and I’ll take care of the close work. I’m also prepared to grenade Jerries, knife them, garrote them, beat them at poker or drink them under the table as the need arises.”

Mulholland had to smile. “All right, Neville. We can use a man of your talents.”

“I’m sticking close to this one,” Neville said, nodding at Cole. “He looks mean.”

Vaccaro spoke up: “What about me? I’m goddamn deadly with this rifle.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Neville said. “Do me a favor, mate, and walk in front of me. I’m a little worried that you might accidentally shoot someone.”

“You limeys ought to be glad we’re here. Otherwise you’d all be speaking German this time next year.”

“Bollocks to that.” Neville patted his submachine gun. “We were doing just fine on our own.”

Vaccaro snorted. “You live on an island. It’s not even like a real country.”

“Keep it up, Yank, and I’ll save the Jerries the trouble.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Knock it off, you two,” Mulholland said. “Neville, I didn’t make you part of this squad to pick fights with my men.”

“Sorry, sir,” Neville grumbled.

They moved out. Jolie kept them off the main roads that brought the greatest chance of running into German troops or tanks, leading them down sunken roads between the hedges or dirt lanes that were little more than paths through the countryside. It was clear she knew the territory well, because she never paused to consult a map or compass. The only map she appeared to need was the one in her head.