David Healey: Ghost Sniper

“I understand, sir. But—”

“Is that fellow you teamed up with yesterday still alive?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Good. Round him up. He’s now part of your squad. I understand he’s quite a shot. That’s just what we need.”

“So it’s just us two, sir?”

“Hell, no, son. I’m way ahead of you there. I talked to the company commanders and got their crack shots. Either that or they were lying to get rid of a pain in their ass. Well, they’re yours now. I even got you a guide. She claims to be with the French Resistance, so I suppose you can trust her. She’s also easy on the eyes, I have to say, so that’s a bonus.”

“Why do I need a guide?”

“Let me paint you a picture, Lieutenant. The country all back beyond here is nothing but fields.” The colonel waved his good arm in the general direction of the countryside beyond the beach. “The French call it le bocage , which means hedgerow country. I’d call it a goddamn nightmare. The Germans have it mined, booby trapped, defended with machine gun nests and snipers. It’s ideal defensive ground, and unfortunately we’ve got to fight our way through it. Your mission, Lieutenant, is to make my job easier by eliminating as many of these German snipers as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You and your men will be equipped with the Springfield sniper rifle. It’s got a scope on it but it’s a bolt action rifle. It’s not as good as what the Jerries have, from what I understand, but it will get the job done. For the most part, the Germans have a lot more firepower than we do. They are very well equipped.”

Mulholland nodded. He’d given his own sniper rifle to Cole yesterday, and it was clear that the man knew how to use it. Mulholland had equipped himself with the rifle because no one else in his unit had been particularly proficient, and being a couple of rifles short, he’d rather have one of the men get the semi-automatic M1 Garand. In Cole’s hands, the bolt-action rifle had proven more than effective.

“Once you step off the beach, you’re on your own. Work your way through the bocage country and reconnect with the 116th at St. Lo. Any questions?”

Mulholland had several, but he knew better than to ask. In the Army, it paid to act as if everything made perfect sense. “No, sir.”

“Good. Then let me introduce you to your guide.” The colonel led him toward a group of civilians. One glance told him they were French—the first French people he’d seen so far. Most of the men seemed to be wearing suit coats and berets, and smoking cigarettes. All of them had weapons slung over their shoulders or within reach. Mostly, they were equipped with hunting rifles, but there were a few deadly looking Sten guns among them. They were a hard-looking bunch and they studied Mulholland with flat grey eyes.

“I’m glad they’re on our side, sir.”

“Resistance fighters,” the colonel muttered to Mulholland. “ Maquis . They’ve been fighting the Germans since 1941—wrecking trains, spying on troop movements, cutting throats.”

One of the Resistance fighters stepped forward. Though wearing trousers and a beret like the men, this one was most definitely a woman. She had high cheekbones, dark hair, and soft brown eyes. The colonel had been right about her being a looker.

She stood for a moment, checking him out, smoking a cigarette with one hand while the other hand cupped her elbow, forearm across her belly. “Jolie Molyneux,” she finally said, exhaling smoke. “ Je suis heureux d’être votre guide. En d’autres termes, je vais essayer de ne pas vous faire tuer, même pensé que putain douteuse.”

Mulholland attempted a smile. He looked to the colonel for help, but it was clear the man hadn’t understood a word. His own high school French was so rusty it creaked, so all he could manage was, “ Bonjour, Mademoiselle Molyneux. I’m afraid I didn’t understand what you said. Uh, comment allez-vous? ”

His guide sucked deep on her American cigarette, exhaled. “Do not worry, Lieutenant, I speak English. What I said was, I will be your guide, but we are probably screwed.”

Mulholland blinked. “Oh.”

“There you go, son,” the colonel said. He gave Mulholland a hearty clap on the shoulder. “Get your men together and move out as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” He saluted.

The colonel moved off, leaving him with the Resistance fighters. Looking around at them, Mulholland couldn’t help but wonder what the hell he and rest of the 29th Division were doing in France. It wasn’t exactly a warm welcome.

“The first rule of sniper warfare is not to salute anyone,” his new guide said in a matter of fact manner. “Not unless you want to get them shot. Snipers target the officers”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind, Mademoiselle Molyneux. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find my men.”

Mulholland found the sniper right where he had left him not long after dawn. He was eating some kind of stew out of a tin cup, his rifle propped up nearby. There was something watchful about the sniper, as if he were sizing you up the way that a fox eyes a rabbit. He made Mulholland uneasy. He didn’t bother to salute or stand—it was clear he didn’t have much use for officers.

“That was some shooting you did yesterday,” Mulholland said. “I never did catch your name, soldier.”

“Cole.”

“My name’s Mulholland. Get your gear together and come with me,” the lieutenant said.

Cole simply nodded, not bothering to yes, sir him.

He finished off the stew in two or three unhurried bites, wiped out the cup, and got to his feet. They’d been so busy yesterday killing Germans—and trying to stay alive while they were at it—that Mulholland hadn’t really gotten a good look at Cole. He did so now. The sniper was not a particularly tall man, definitely shorter than Mulholland, but he was so lean and wiry that he gave the illusion of being taller. Though young, he looked tough and weather beaten, like a piece of oak root or a leather belt that had gotten wet and been left in the sun to dry. Nothing soft or citified about him. Up close, he looked mean and tough.

Yesterday, Mulholland had noticed that there was a country twang in the sniper’s voice, some kind of hillbilly accent that came from someplace deep and old back in the mountains, the kind of accent they still had in the sort of places across America that didn’t listen much to the radio or make it to the movies.

Cole’s eyes were his most striking feature. They were nearly colorless, empty of any emotion. Spooky. The lieutenant looked away.

They headed back to headquarters, Mulholland leading the way and Cole following along a couple of paces behind, off to one side.

He found the other men waiting for him. There were three of them. With himself, Cole and the French guide, that made six of them to take on the Jerries.

“Listen up, I’m Lieutenant Mulholland. I don’t know how much you know, but basically we’ve been designated as a counter-sniper unit.”

“Just six of us, sir?” asked a big, raw-boned soldier.

“That’s right, soldier, just us.” Mulholland knew it was crazy, one of those FUBAR situations that seemed an everyday occurrence in the United States Army. He couldn’t tell that to these men, of course, so he put it in simpler terms. “The German snipers have been chewing us up something terrible, and it’s our job to put a stop to it. What’s your name, soldier?”

“Meacham, sir. Tom Meacham.”

Meacham was some sort of farm boy, well over six feet tall. The rifle looked small in his hands. If they had been picking a football team, Meacham would have been his first choice. But a sniper? The kid looked like he’d be too big and clumsy.