by David Healey
He reflected that this was much like a game of chess in which one had made a fatal error, and yet it was too early to give up. One's opponent might still make some foolish mistake. Some brilliant move might still present itself and thus save the game.
Down below, near the bridge, some soldier's helmet edged above the rim of his foxhole. Von Stenger put a hole in it. An instant later, a bullet nicked through the bushes not far from his head.
He had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. Some soldier had lured him with an empty helmet so that he would fire and reveal his position.
He pressed his eye more tightly to the telescopic sight. There. He could see a soldier in another foxhole nearby scanning the bank where Von Stenger was hidden. Fortunately, the American did not have a telescope mounted on his rifle. These were airborne commandos equipped with light automatic weapons intended for close fighting. It was an odd sensation, being able to see the man clearly even as he tried to see him, but could not. Von Stenger took aim and shot him. One could not have the enemy thinking they were real snipers.
This time, a few more shots tore into the brush, but by then he had melted away. The first rule of being a sniper was to change one's position frequently, to maintain the element of surprise and uncertainty. Once the enemy knew where you were, you were as good as dead. It was only a matter of time before they picked you off.
At least a dozen American bodies lay sprawled on the ground beside the line of German dead.
Welcome to the war, Von Stenger thought.
CHAPTER 6
Omaha Beach
D Plus 1
"Hey, watch it, buddy!" Lieutenant Mulholland turned just in time to dodge a detail that was carrying a wounded man toward the makeshift hospital set up on the beach. The medic, who looked dog tired, noticed his rank and muttered, "Sorry, sir."
Mulholland trudged up the beach, the heavy, wet sand clinging to his boots with every step. Some of the sand was stained red in patches. He was so bone weary himself that he hadn't even noticed he was walking into the path of the medical team. The poor bastard in the stretcher was covered in several places with blood-soaked bandages. He'd be going onto a launch to be carried out to one of the hospital ships, and from there to England—if he made it.
Considering that the wounded soldier was still breathing, he was better off than the dead men who were literally being stacked in the backs of trucks for removal from the beach. They would be buried further inland in a makeshift cemetery.
Mulholland tried to estimate the number of dead, but quickly gave up. God knew how many there were. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. He looked away. Much of his own platoon was part of the butcher's bill for taking the beach. Most of them died in seconds as machine gun fire poured into their landing craft when it hit the beach. He saw their faces, imagined the last letters home they had written in the hours before the invasion. What an utter waste of life, thanks to Adolf Hitler.
Mulholland felt guilty about it, but he was glad to be alive. Of course, there was a great deal of fighting yet to come. Who knew if he would survive? He could hear the whump of heavy guns a couple of miles inland. The Germans had lost the beach, but rumor was that they were fighting for every inch of countryside. Normandy’s endless fields ringed by tall hedgerows made for a completely different kind of fighting.
Everywhere he looked, men and materials were in motion, with more swarming ashore at every moment. Stacked boxes and crates awaited transit off the beach. Tanks and trucks bulled their way through the surf and up onto the sand. The beach head established here was now the gateway to Europe. Through this portal would begin the liberation of France and Europe, until the Allied troops were at Hitler's door step. The sight of all the gear and men coming ashore somehow reassured him that the men on his landing craft had not died in vain.
While gunfire could be heard not so far off, the army bureaucracy had already established itself on the beach. Under a rough canvas sheet that flapped in the wind, typewriters had been set up on crates, where clerks were busy typing dispatches and keeping records of the material coming ashore—and of the dead. Telephone lines snaked from the clerical area into the dunes and countryside beyond. As Mulholland watched, two engineers were busy unrolling another spool of telephone wire. The clack of typewriters, the sight of telephone wires—it all seemed shockingly pedestrian after the carnage and sheer terror on the beach yesterday.
The lieutenant had been summoned to brigade headquarters for the 116th Infantry. He knew that being called to headquarters was never a good sign. It usually meant that you had screwed up somehow—or worse yet, that you were being singled out for some kind of special duty. Although he wasn't looking forward to what awaited him, he marched resolutely toward HQ.
The beach remained a combat zone, and so HQ was nothing more than a canvas tarp that had been rigged to keep off the rain and wind. More of the now ubiquitous telephone lines ran toward it. Sandbags had been stacked around the tarp to create a barrier, behind which a machine gun was set up in case of counterattack, although the likelihood of the Jerries recapturing the beach faded by the hour. He soon found himself standing before a harassed-looking colonel.
"Lieutenant Mulholland reporting, sir." He brought himself to attention and saluted.
"At ease, Lieutenant," the colonel said, returning the salute. The colonel was trying without much success to light a cigarette in the breeze off the ocean, also hampered by the fact that his left arm was heavily bandaged. Mulholland hurried to hold the military-issue lighter for him. "Thank you, son. You know, I used to like the beach, but I don't believe I'd care to spend a day at the beach again. I've got sand in cracks I didn't know I had."
"I know what you mean, sir."
"Well, it's our beach now, which is goddamn something. We paid a heavy price for this real estate, Lieutenant. And the Jerries are making us fight for every foot inland. Let me be clear that they are not in retreat but are fighting a defensive battle. The interior is nothing but fields, hedgerows and trees, and it's crawling with Germans. They've got tanks, artillery, snipers, and they're highly organized. The bastards are stubborn."
"Yes, sir." Mulholland wondered why the colonel was telling him this, which seemed to be something that everyone already knew. The colonel seemed to be leading up to something, which the lieutenant suspected would involve him and the reason he had been summoned to HQ.
"Like I said, the whole goddamn Cotentin Peninsula is lousy with Germans. Our own armored units can handle the Panzers and all the rest. But I have to say that the snipers are tearing us up pretty bad. We hadn't really counted on that. They're sneaky, cowardly bastards, but we need to adopt some of the same tactics if we're going to fight back. And that's where you come in, Lieutenant."
"Sir?"
"I understand that you worked with a sniper in the fighting yesterday to eliminate German resistance."
"We were just kind of thrown together, sir."
"Be that as it may, son, you are now the 116th Infantry's resident expert on sniper warfare." The colonel clapped him on the shoulder, then winced. "Damn, this arm hurts. Got to get it tended to. Listen, you've heard of an ad hoc committee? You are now in charge of an ad hoc squad. Your assignment is to eliminate as many of the German snipers as possible. Counter sniper warfare."
"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 pai
nt 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."
CHAPTER 7
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.
"Do you have any experience as a sniper, Meacham?"
"I used to do some hunting back home," the kid said, managing to look embarrassed as he said it, like he'd been caught bragging.
Mulholland liked him and felt he could trust him.
He moved on to the next soldier. He had an olive complexion and a smirk. "Who are you, soldier?"
"Vaccaro, sir."
"What's your experience as a sniper, Vaccaro?
"I'm the best shot here. I've been on this beach for twenty-four hours and I've already sniped a dozen Jerries. I shot their Nazi asses off! Hell, we ought to be able to put marks on our rifles like the aces do when they shoot down planes."
"We'll see about that, Vaccaro."
The lieutenant moved down the line to the third man. "You're up," he said. "What's your name, soldier?"
"John Kingfisher, sir."
"What is your experience as a sniper, Kingfisher?"
He shrugged. "I got volunteered."
"Well, you must be good with a rifle."
The soldier shrugged again. "To be honest, sir, the colonel was asking around for guys who could shoot, and my captain wanted to make the colonel happy, so he sent me because I'm part Cherokee."
"You can shoot, right?" Mulholland asked hop
efully.
"Sure I can shoot, as much as you can, sir. But before I was in the Army, the most shooting I done was at the county fair, plinking tin ducks in the shooting gallery."
"I can guarantee this is going to be different from the shooting gallery at the county fair. Cherokee, huh? OK, Chief, you're stuck with us now.
Vaccaro pointed to Cole. "What about him. Who are you?"
"The name's Micajah Cole."
"What the hell kind of name is that? Micajah? Is that even American?"
"What the hell kind of name is Vaccaro?" Cole replied. "Sounds more dago than American to me."
"Huh? Is that supposed to be a joke?"
"Micajah was a prophet in the Old Testament," Meacham spoke up shyly. "He warns the Assyrians that they will be defeated for defying God. Thy kingdom will be plowed as a field and thy capital shall become a barren ruin."
"Well, shit, there you go," Vaccaro said. "If it’s in the Bible, that’s good enough for me. But lookin’ at that Confederate flag on his helmet, I’m gonna call him Reb."
"It doesn't matter what his name is, Vaccaro," Mulholland said. "What matters is that Cole here is good with a rifle. He did quite a bit of damage with it yesterday when we came ashore. He's a good man to have on our team."
"You're the boss, sir."
"You just keep that in mind, Vaccaro, and we’ll get along fine," the lieutenant said. He gestured toward their guide, who was watching from several feet away. "The last person on our team is Mademoiselle Molyneux. She's a French Resistance fighter, and she's agreed to guide us through the hedgerow country."
