David Healey - Ghost Sniper

All indications were that the snipers were not very experienced. However, that did not necessarily mean that they were poor shots. He understood that Americans were, for the most part, far more familiar with guns than Europeans. They were a people who liked to hunt and shoot. Back in the encounter with the snipers in the field, the one with the Confederate flag on his helmet had come close. Too close. Given a target, these snipers in the trees might prove very capable. The distance from the trees occupied by the Germans to those occupied by the Americans was not unreasonable for a capable marksman. Von Stenger did not plan on giving the snipers more of a target than he had to.

“Fritz,” he called down, without taking his eye from the sight. “Are you paying attention?”

“Yes, Herr Hauptmann?”

“I want you to start counting out loud to ten. Count slowly and speak so that I can hear the numbers. Exactly when you say ten, I want you to pull that chord and fire the rifle in the tree. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. When do I start counting?”

“Now.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said. “One…”

Von Stenger had not taken his eye off the American in the tree. It was always a strange experience to be watching someone through the rifle scope, because one part of your brain wanted to accept that he could also see you, especially when the other man’s rifle was pointed in your direction.

The boy was counting out loud: “Two…”

The American’s rifle flashed and another crack of a rifle shot reached Von Stenger’s ears, but he was confident that the man was not shooting at him.

“Three…”

Through the high-powered optics, he could see the American’s strong jawline and heavy features. The best snipers tended to be smaller, compact men—or women as had been the case in Stalingrad. They could hide more readily and had a lower center of gravity. This fellow was much too big for the job.

“Four…”

Von Stenger calculated the distance as being perhaps 200 meters. There was very little wind. His rifle was sighted in for 100 meters, and so he elevated the crosshairs ever so slightly to a point high on the American’s helmet.

“Five…”

Due to the gravity of the earth, a bullet began falling soon after it was fired from a gun. The greater the distance it had to travel, the greater the drop. To compensate, a sniper had to elevate his rifle barrel to send the bullet in a higher arc.

“Six…”

To illustrate the science involved to his students at the sniper training school, Von Stenger had sometimes used the example of the American sport of baseball. When the catcher wanted to get the ball to the first baseman, he threw a short, quick throw that had a relatively flat trajectory and beat the runner to base. If someone was throwing a ball to the catcher that had been hit into the outfield, the outfielder threw the ball in a higher arc because it had to cover a greater distance. A ball thrown horizontal to the field was pulled down by gravity before it could reach the catcher.

“Seven…”

A bullet traveled at much higher speed and far greater distances than a baseball, but the same rules applied.

“Eight…”

The tree made an ideal rest for the rifle, which was padded with canvas camouflaging and resting directly on the limb. Von Stenger imagined how the limb was connected to the tree trunk, which reached down to the roots, deep in the earth. The hardest shots were those made from a standing position, without benefit of any support. This shooting position was nearly ideal. The crosshairs did not waver.

“Nine…”

Keeping the crosshairs positioned at the crest of the helmet, Von Stenger let out his breath. His finger took up tension on the trigger, so gently that he was barely aware he was doing it.

“Ten…”

With the last fraction of tension, the firing pin was released, springing forward to strike the center of the cartridge in the chamber. The primer exploded, igniting the powder, and the resulting explosion launched the bullet, the rifled barrel putting a spin on the slug that kept it on course during its flight, giving it a deadly accuracy.

In the tree nearby, Von Stenger was dimly aware of the dummy rifle firing at the same instant.

Traveling at nearly 2,800 feet per second, Von Stenger’s bullet punched through the front of the American sniper’s steel helmet, bored through the skull, and buried itself in the soft tissue of the American’s brain. The fool hadn’t tied himself into the tree, and the complete loss of muscle control at the moment of death caused the body to slide off the limb and fall to the forest floor as heavily as a sack of potatoes.

A bullet zipped nearby, fired from the trees across the river, but the dummy ruse had worked, confusing the other shooter.

Wulf took the opportunity to fire at the remaining American sniper, but the man must have had the sense to hide himself better than his unlucky companion.

Von Stenger was smiling to himself, secretly pleased. That’s when the other bullet came in and killed Wulf.

He heard the corporal grunt in pain and then saw him go limp. Wulf had tied himself into the tree, but his rifle fell free and clattered to the forest floor.

Scheisse!

Even now, Von Stenger might be in the enemy rifleman’s sights. He felt his insides freeze. Checkmate. Game over.

Von Stenger held his breath, expecting the fatal shot at any moment. The seconds ticked by, and Von Stenger was surprised still to be alive. The cold dagger in his belly thawed.

The American sniper had not seen him, after all. But the shot that killed Wulf had come from someplace close. Directly in front of their position. From this side of the river.

Where was the American sniper? The field leading down to the river was empty. He used the scope to scan the river bank. There was little brush along the bank because cattle had grazed right to the edge of the river. No good cover there. He would have seen someone crouched along the bank with a rifle. Then his gaze settled upon the dilapidated mill house. Had someone swum the river and gotten in there? Impossible.

But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The thick stone walls of the mill would be like a fortress. He had considered it for their own sniper’s den, and just as quickly dismissed it, because the view of the countryside was limited. These trees on the hill gave a much more commanding view.

Where would a sniper be? The only position was the slit window facing the field. Von Stenger saw no one there, but one of the Americans could have set up in there a few feet back from the window, where he couldn’t be seen. It’s what he himself would have done. Clever, clever .

He considered his options. His sniper position, so carefully chosen, was now compromised. If he fired again, the sniper in the mill was close enough to spot his muzzle flash. The dummy rifle ruse had been played.

He could possibly send Fritz into the tree to reload the rifle, but it was better not to use the same trick twice.

Besides, a better use for the boy suddenly came to him.

Slowly, slowly, he unwound himself from his position. Any sudden movement might attract the eye of the American sniper in the mill. Von Stenger had chosen well, however, because he was deep enough into the woods that no one in the mill could see his movements as he climbed down.

Once on the ground, he realized he had been holding his breath.

“Fritz, I want you to do two things. The first one is to go and retrieve Corporal Wulf’s rifle and bring it to me. The second is to fetch the medical kit.” He added, “And keep your head down.”

The boy was soon back with the rifle. Fortunately, the Mauser had not been damaged in the fall. Von Stenger checked to make certain that the barrel was not obstructed and that the action was clear. Wulf had fired several shots, so he reloaded the rifle.