David Healey - Ghost Sniper

“Please, let us enjoy this food and a glass of wine, and then we shall discuss whatever it is you have to tell me.”

The orderly produced two dusty water glasses that were none too clean, but Von Stenger supposed the alcohol in the wine would neutralize anything harmful. He then made sure the orderly found a third glass, which Von Stenger filled for the orderly before sending him into the hall.

“I did not realize that German officers were waited upon in this fashion,” she said.

He chuckled. “Rank has its privileges in the Wehrmacht. We don’t always have it so good, you know. I nearly lost my toes in Russia. Of course, you French are no strangers to the finer things. Might I remind you that we are in a chateau that was built in the seventeenth century as home to a baron. We should be grateful to him. Come now, enjoy your meal.”

They ate in silence for several minutes. Von Stenger thought the wine was particularly good with the steak. The orderly had left the bottle on the table, and he poured himself a second glass. They both must have been hungrier than they thought, for soon all that was left on their plates were a few scraps of fat and potato skins.

Von Stenger pushed his chair back from the table. “Now, what have you come to tell me?”

“In the morning, you Germans are planning to attack Bienville and take back the village, which is now held by the Americans.”

“Are we?” Von Stenger sipped some wine. “Hmm. That is quite delicious, wouldn’t you agree? If only we had some cheese to enjoy with it. Now, I don’t wish to be rude, mademoiselle, but usually when one is an informant it is customary to supply information about what the enemy is planning.”

“There is only a small force of Americans holding the town at the moment, but they have been reinforced by several snipers.”

“There are snipers everywhere in the bocage.”

“One of these snipers has a Confederate flag on his helmet. Some of his comrades call him the Johnny Reb Sniper. He is, by far, the best sniper in Normandy. He likes to say that he can shoot the eye out of a flying bird.”

“That would be fine shooting,” Von Stenger agreed. “But I have to respectfully take exception to him being the best sniper in Normandy. You see, that would be me.”

“I have heard you are called The Ghost.”

“It is a name I came by in Russia. The Eastern Front. Compared to Normandy, you might wonder why anyone would fight over that place.”

“Did you shoot many Russians?” she asked with a disgusted tone.

“As many as I could. More wine, mademoiselle?”

The French woman stood, her hand going again to the small of her back. He could see that she was shaking, and Von Stenger had been fighting long enough that he recognized it as the kind of tremor that overcame someone when they were about to do something foolish and brave.

Von Stenger thought that the time for subtlety had passed, and he tossed the newspaper aside to reveal the pistol. “Please,” he said. “Let us not do anything that will give us indigestion.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and she let her hand drop. “Now you know,” she said. “This Johnny Reb Sniper will be at Bienville in the morning. The question is, will you?”

“I look forward to seeing him in my crosshairs.” Von Stenger smiled. “And then we shall see who is the best shot.”

With that, the woman turned and left. It took him a moment to realize that he had just been challenged to a duel.

Jolie slipped back through the American lines and returned to where the snipers had set up camp in the courtyard of an old house. She wasn’t ready yet to face Cole and give him back his knife. She wasn’t sure how she would explain to him that she had failed to kill the German sharpshooter.

Instead, she decided to report to Lieutenant Mulholland. He had dragged an old chair into the garden shed and was using an upended wooden pail as a desk as he went over a map of Normandy.

His M1 rifle was propped nearby. It was a semi-automatic, which was not as accurate as the 1903 Springfield, but it could send more lead in the enemy’s direction, in less time. The higher rate of fire was an advantage if one wasn’t such a crack shot, and the lieutenant had no illusions about his abilities with a rifle, despite the fact that he commanded a counter sniper squad.

Mulholland’s face lit up at the sight of Jolie, but his expression soon changed when she explained where she had been and what she had learned. She had expected him to be grateful for the information. Instead, he slapped the top of the makeshift table in anger.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” the lieutenant said. “You went to see the Germans? What the hell were you thinking?”

“We needed information,” Jolie explained. “That is how we maquis find out what the Germans are up to. We go talk to them.”

“It was a stupid thing to do,” Mulholland said. “You could have been captured.”

Jolie blinked in surprise. The French Resistance had been successful by being daring and taking chances. It was the only real weapon they had against the occupying Germans. “Do not lecture me, Lieutenant. I have been fighting the Germans for four years. You yourself have been fighting them for four days. It stands to reason that I know what I am doing, n’cest pas? ”

“I hate to point this out to you, mademoiselle, but after four years the Germans are still here. Your tactics may take some revision.”

“Are you going to ask me what I found out, or are you more interested in insulting me and my countrymen?”

“All right then, what did you find out?”

“I did not go to see just any German,” Jolie clarified. “The boy we captured, Fritz, told me where the German sniper was staying. His name is Captain Von Stenger, and he is the best sniper the Germans have in Normandy. He has fought in Russia, and Spain before that. He was even an instructor at the German’s sniper school.” She recalled Von Stenger’s cold blue eyes and good manners. “He is from the upper classes. I would say he likes the finer things. Good food, good wine. I know because I had supper with him in front of the fire at a chateau about five miles from here. We had steak and potatoes and wine, and were waited upon.”

The lieutenant’s jaw dropped. “You ate with this sniper? Excuse my French, but holy shit.”

“What is French? I think you mean merde .”

“Never mind. Did you find out anything useful, or did you just get a good meal out of him?”

Jolie took her time answering, studying the lieutenant before she spoke. He was not a bad-looking man, and under the stubble and grime and fatigue she could see that he was still a very young man. Command did not seem to come easily to him, and his earlier anger appeared to be out of genuine concern for her safety.

When she had first laid eyes on him she had thought hmm . In a war, it was dangerous to think about romance or anything but surviving that day and the next. Her love affair with Charles had taught her that much. But someday the war would be over, n’est-ce pas?

Her thoughts then drifted to Cole. He was a rough, hard man, savage and almost feral, so very different from the lieutenant. He had more in common with the really vicious Resistance fighters—perhaps even with the ruthless SS men—than he did with the other Americans. She thought again—Cole? Hmm —then pushed that thought away and focused on the unhappy lieutenant.

“I set a trap for him,” she said. “I told him that your sniper unit is in Bienville. Here in this town. I told him that Cole is the best sniper in the American Army, and that Cole is here.”