David Healey - Ghost Sniper

They soon heard the sound of running water and came out into a field bordering the tributary of the Merderet River. This smaller river was swollen with spring rains and running swiftly, threatening to overflow its banks and flood the low fields beyond. Though not particularly wide, the river was too swift and deep to wade across. No wonder the bridges were proving so essential, and why the Germans were either blowing them up or fighting tooth and nail to keep them in the hands of their own troops.

They came to another road that curved away from the river, and Jolie led them down it. Before long, they encountered a unit of American airborne troops, hunkered at the base of a towering hedge at a bend in the road. Mulholland found the captain in charge, who looked weary, his face covered in stubble, and asked him what was happening.

“German snipers have us pinned down,” he said. He jerked his chin at two bodies that lay fifty feet further along. Another man was in the middle of the narrow bridge, crying out for a medic. “My men went to help him, and it turns out the snipers were using him for bait. We’re in their blind spot right now, but when we move toward that bridge we’re right in their line of fire. Those poor bastards never had a chance, never knew what hit them. We could rush the bridge, but they would get a hell of a lot of us by the time we got across.”

“How many snipers?” Mulholland asked.

“There’s one up ahead, and another one in the woods on that hill to the right. I hate these goddamn snipers. Nothing but sneaky bastards.” For the first time, the airborne captain seemed to notice the scoped rifle Mulholland was carrying. “Present company excepted. You’re on our side, after all. We’ve captured two Jerry snipers so far, and let’s just say they died of lead poisoning before they made it back to the POW processing point.”

“We’ll have a go at them,” Mulholland said.

“Be my guest,” the captain said. He shook a Marlboro out of a red and white pack, then raised his voice to address his men. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em, boys. We’re gonna let someone else have all the fun for a change.”

While Lieutenant Mulholland was talking with the squad leader, Cole took a good look at the countryside. The woods and fields of the bocage were green with spring, and yet the morning gloom managed to make the landscape appear dismal and foreboding. The road meandered toward the bridge, reminding him of one of the winding roads back home, which folks liked to say followed whichever way the cows had wandered back in the old days when livestock and deer made most of the trails.

On the far side of the river was an abandoned mill with a rotting, moss-covered mill wheel that still turned in the current. Beyond the river and mill was an open field that sloped up toward the woods that hid the snipers. Behind the Americans, and before the curve in the road that hid them from the snipers, was a similar hill.

He turned to Jolie. “Is there another bridge across that river?”

“Non,” Jolie said. “Not for miles. This is the only way across.”

“I was afraid you might say that.”

“ Bien sur it is the only bridge, which is why the Germans are guarding it.”

They were in the bottom of a kind of bowl, with the river running through like a crack. If someone could get up on the high ground, into a tree, they might have a good shot at the enemy snipers. But it was at least 600 feet from the German position—someone would have to be a damn good shot, assuming he even had a target. It was likely that the Germans would be camouflaged and hard to spot.

There were now six in the sniper team, including the Brit and Jolie. It was hard to know how many German snipers they were going up against, but from the sounds of it there were at least two, and the Jerries had the upper hand. They needed a plan. The wounded soldier on the bridge was sobbing in pain.

The sound brought Cole’s blood to a slow boil. The wounded man had been left out there as bait. These Jerry snipers were real sons of bitches.

Lieutenant Mulholland came back to them, looking worried. “These men need to cross this bridge to reach their objective. If we don’t neutralize these snipers for them, a lot of them are going to die.”

“We can’t shoot the Jerries if we can’t see ’em, sir,” Vaccaro pointed out.

“I know that,” Mulholland snapped.

“Sir, I have an idea,” Cole said. “Put Meacham and Vaccaro up in those woods behind us. It’s good high ground to shoot from and the trees will provide cover. That will give the Jerries something to think about.”

“Yeah, and what are you going to do, Cole?” Vaccaro wanted to know. “I’ll bet while Meacham and I are getting our asses shot at, you’ll be down here playing Tiddlywinks with our French Girl Scout.”

“You got nothin’ to worry about, Vaccaro,” Cole said. “That woods is so far away the Germans won’t be able to hit anything—if you’re lucky, that is. Of course, you won’t be able to hit a damn thing either, but they won’t know that.”

“Like I said, easy for you to say and me to do.”

“Well, once you’re up in the trees givin’ them Nazis something to think about, what I’m goin’ to do is swim that river and get into that old mill on the other side. It’s good cover and when you draw the Jerries’ fire I’ll see where they’re hiding at.”

“Swim that river?” They all looked at the roiling current. The water ran fast here and looked deep. Vaccaro sounded incredulous. “You’re crazy, Reb.”

“All right,” Mulholland said. “Cole has a good plan. Let’s do it.”

Meacham and Vaccaro shed their gear, taking only their rifles, and moved off into the fields, following the hedges to keep out of sight of the German snipers until they worked their way into the trees. Vaccaro was still grumbling as he moved off.

“You’re really going to swim that river, mate?” Neville asked.

“I reckon.”

“Then you are bloody crazy.” Neville smiled. “I like that in a man.”

Cole worked his way across the field toward the water, keeping out of sight of the enemy snipers. Jolie came along with him. She was adept at moving silently through the fields, like a cat after a mouse. They moved upstream, to a point where Cole judged he would land near the mill once he factored in the current. The river wasn’t very wide—you could pitch a stone across. But the current was racing.

The truth was, Cole mistrusted water. He had been around cold, swift creeks a lot as a boy, trapping muskrats and even beaver, and he knew how dangerous water could be. More than one trapper had been drowned by the weight of his winter clothes and the shock of the cold water when he lost his footing and went under. It was Cole’s worst nightmare.

For Cole, the beach landing had been terrifying. He had feared the Nazi machine guns much less than the thought of being pulled under the surf and not coming back up, gasping for breath. As it turned out, it had been a near thing. He stared doubtfully at the swift brown water, and then began to take off his boots.

“I hope you ain’t shy,” he said to Jolie. He handed Jolie his rifle. “Hold this, will you?”

Boots and socks off, he stripped off his jacket and trousers. All he had on were the khaki military-issue boxer shorts. Thinking about the tug of the current in the river, he might have stripped off the underwear if Jolie hadn’t been there. He strapped his utility belt with the ammunition and a sheath knife around his waist.

They had found a board to float the rifle across on. Cole would pull it over with a string. He wished he had plastic or something to wrap the rifle in, like they had done with their M1s during that beach landing, but that couldn’t be helped. He shivered; he tried to tell himself it was just from the morning cold.