David Healey - Ghost Sniper

Cole couldn’t help but be impressed by how sly these Germans were. The boy had said the other German was some kind of super sniper. He reckoned the boy was right.

He walked among the trees, looking for some clue as to where this sniper had been hidden. Something bright winked at him from the mossy forest floor, and he stooped to pick up a spent brass rifle cartridge. The base was marked with the strange Cyrillic characters.

“I’ll be damned,” he said. He looked around some more and spotted one of the gold-tipped stubs of a fancy French cigarette, just like the ones he had found in the sniper’s nest back at the hedgerow and in the church steeple. It was too much to be a coincidence. They had to be dealing with the same sniper here.

Cole waved Jolie and the boy over. “Tell me more about this Von Stenger,” he said. “I have a bad feeling that we’re goin’ to run into him again.”

“There is a good chance of that,” Jolie agreed. “According to our prisoner here, Von Stenger is bivouacked in an old chateau. I know just where it is.”

“Considering that it’s probably surrounded by Jerries and Tiger tanks, that don’t do us much good.”

Jolie showed her teeth in a smile. “Leave that to me,” she said.

“What are you planning to do?”

“Kill him,” she said. “What else would I do with him? But first, I want you to give me a shooting lesson.”

Soon after they had overrun the snipers’ nest, the paratroopers prepared to move on. Their captain shook hands with Lieutenant Mulholland, then tried to talk Neville into coming with them.

“We’re heading for St. Lo to link up with the rest of the 101st Airborne. We could use a crazy Tommy bastard like you,” their captain said. “We lost a lot of good men in the drop.”

“Thanks, mate, but all the same I think I’ll stay on with this lot,” he said. “They’ve done a fair job so far of killing these bloody Germans.”

“Cheerio then.”

Neville laughed. “You Yanks catch on to the lingo fast. Stick with it and we’ll have you speaking proper English in no time.”

The American paratroopers drifted away through the trees and out into the open fields, toward the not-so-distant sound of machine gun fire and the whump, whump of artillery rounds.

The snipers stayed right where they were because the woods offered good cover until they could decide what to do next.

The lieutenant spotted Vaccaro coming across the bridge and waved him toward the woods. He had made it back from where he had been positioned in the woods on the high ground across the river.

“Meacham?” the lieutenant asked, but Vaccaro only shook his head. For once, he didn’t seem to have a wisecrack handy.

“He never had a chance,” Vaccaro finally said. “That Jerry sniper picked him off from way over here? Damn, but that German can shoot. I climbed up and got the body down and put him beside the road.” He nodded at the German. “Maybe we should get him to go back and dig the grave.”

“There will be a burial detail coming by,” the lieutenant said, though how he knew that was hard to say. “We’ll eat here and take a rest. At least we know it’s clear of Germans.”

“Well, we got us a Jerry right here from the looks of it,” Vaccaro pointed out.

“He’s just a dumb kid who’s barely old enough to shave,” the lieutenant said. “We can keep an eye on him. It’s only the rest of the German Army that we have to watch out for.”

It turned out that the German soldier’s last name was Fritz. Now that it was becoming clear that the Americans didn’t plan to shoot him, his fear had given way to a puppy-like cheerfulness. If he’d been a dog, Mulholland was sure the boy would be happily licking all their faces and wagging his tail. Instead, he kept bouncing around with a happy grin.

He knew a smattering of English, but they relied on Jolie to question him further in German. Based on what she found out, the puppy quality made sense. Their German prisoner was just sixteen years old, one of the young recruits that the increasingly desperate Wehrmacht was bringing in to fill the depleted ranks even as the enemy pressed in from two fronts. It was more than evident that the boy was no member of the Hitler Youth or any sort of fanatic. He was just a kid who found himself far from home in a place he really didn’t want to be.

They opened up C rations, sat or stumps or logs, and began to eat. When it was clear that they were taking a break for some chow, the kid set about building a fire and boiling water for coffee—the rations each came with a packet of instant. Cole handed the kid a can of cubed turkey, and he wolfed it down.

Each of them, in their own minds, reminded themselves that this kid was the enemy, though it was hard to take the boy seriously as any kind of threat. Mainly, he seemed happy to be alive. His cheerfulness was a little infectious.

“That goddamn Meacham,” Vaccaro said. “He was all right. If you’ve got to go, you know, one quick bullet is the way to go out. Pop. He never felt a thing.”

Crouched over the fire, waiting for the water to boil, the German kid was now trying out his English. “Hey, Yank!” he said. “Baseball! Apple pie!”

Jolie turned to Cole. “How about that shooting lesson?”

“The first thing you need is a decent rifle,” Cole said.

“What is wrong with this one?”

He studied the ancient hunting rifle in her hands. The stock was scarred and the barrel, though it had been cleaned and oiled, showed signs of once having been pitted with rust. It was a single shot, bolt action rifle with iron sights, and probably none too accurate. The Germans had confiscated all French hunting rifles, so this was the best the Resistance could scrounge up to fight the occupiers. Considering all the weaponry available since the landing, he was a little surprised that no one had provided her with a better rifle.

“C’mon,” he said. “I got an idea.”

He led her over to the tree that held the dead German sniper. No one had wanted to climb up and cut him down, which in hindsight was a good thing, from Cole’s point of view. It meant that no one had gotten his hands on the dead German’s scoped Mauser K98. He shimmied up the tree and in no time had claimed the sniper rifle.

“You are good at climbing trees,” Jolie said once he was back on the ground.

“I used to do a little coon huntin’,” he said. “Sometimes you have to go up after ’em if you can’t get a clear shot.”

“Coon? What is coon?” Jolie looked perplexed.

“You know, raccoon. Back home we called them mountain bandits.”

“Ha! I like that name. We call them raton laveur .”

“Raton? Like in rat?”

“Yes, raton . And laveur means wash.” Jolie rubbed her hands together in a washing motion. She laughed. “The washing rat!”

Cole shook his head. “I reckon that’s French for you. Calling a raccoon a washing rat.”

“And where does raccoon come from? Is that an English word?”

“It comes from an Indian word way back.”

“Ha! I am going to call you le raton laveur if you are not careful. So come, what is your given name? You already know mine.”

“Micajah.”

Jolie considered that. “Hmm. Well, it is a better name than raton .”

“Thanks, I reckon.”

He gave the dead German’s rifle a once over, working the bolt, checking the barrel, and then reinserting the magazine. He handed it over to Jolie. “Try that on for size. The Jerries make a decent rifle. It’s a whole lot better than grandpa’s shootin’ iron you got there. You won’t never have no shortage of ammunition. All you got to do is pick some off a dead German. Lots of ’em around, in case you ain’t noticed.”