by David Healey
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?"
CHAPTER 18
"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."
“It is ironic, using the Germans’ own guns to shoot them.”
“You know, back home there’s a famous explorer folks still talk about named Daniel Boone, and he once said that all a man needs to be happy is a good rifle, a good horse, and a good woman.”
“I know you have a good rifle, but what about the horse and the woman?”
“Why?” Cole couldn’t help grinning. “You know where I can get me a good horse?”
Jolie snorted a
gain. “I was thinking more about the woman, but maybe we can find you a horse if that is what you prefer. Perhaps a donkey would suit you best. How do you say it? A jackass.”
Lieutenant Mulholland saw them talking and wandered over. "What have you got there?" he asked.
"A new rifle," Jolie said. "Your hillbilly sniper here is about to give me a shooting lesson."
"Mademoiselle, I would be happy to show you how to shoot."
"Lieutenant, that is very kind. I do not wish to trouble you. Micajah has already said he would teach me."
"Micajah?" The lieutenant blinked in puzzlement. "Who is that?"
"Why, that is your sniper's name. You did not know?"
"I guess I already forgot it. Apparently you two know each other pretty well," the lieutenant said sourly. He struggled to keep from sounding huffy. "I guess Cole—Micajah—is the man for the job."
"He has a very good eye."
"In more ways than one, apparently."
"I am sorry, but I do not understand."
"Oh, never mind. Just make sure you two don't attract unwanted attention from any Jerry patrols.”
The lieutenant moved off to where Fritz was poking at the fire, preparing to boil another pot of coffee.
"I think your lieutenant is jealous. Il est jaloux."
"Jealous of what?"
"Of you teaching me to shoot. What else? I believe he would like that job for himself."
Cole smirked.
"I hope he does not cause trouble for you."
"No, the lieutenant ain't like that. He’s all right."
"What about you? Do you play by the rules?"
"You mean there's rules? I'll be damned. Now come on, let's go teach you to shoot."
They left the shelter of the woods and crossed the field toward the old mill. At the water's edge some farmer had erected a fence years before to keep livestock out of the river. Most of the crosspieces had rotted away from neglect, but the bleached, weathered posts still stood upright. Cole paced off 200 feet from the posts and motioned Jolie over.
"I have only shot a gun a few times," Jolie admitted. "We never had much ammunition and we did not want to give ourselves away. The SS was always on the lookout for the Resistance."
"The first thing you want to do is make friends with your rifle," Cole said. He then showed her how to load and unload the Mauser, and then how to work the bolt action.
"You want I should stand up?"
"That's a good start for our lesson," Cole said. "But it's very hard to hit anything from a standing position. The rifle gets heavy, your aim starts to wobble. The best thing you can do is lay that rifle across anything you can find to steady it so all you have to worry about is your aim. Now, put it to your shoulder, tight, so that you move with the recoil and don't have the rifle butt slamming into you shoulder. Put your eye up near the scope, but not right up against it. Otherwise, when that rifle goes off and kicks back that scope will whack into your eye and you will start to look like one of them raton leveurs. Sometimes you can't avoid it, which is why a lot of snipers have bruises around their eyes."
"Is that how you knew Fritz was not a sniper?"
"That, and the fact that his hands were taped to his rifle.” Cole smirked. “That's generally a sign of someone who don't want to be holding a rifle in the first place."
"You would not let the other soldiers shoot him. Why not?"
"He reminds me of someone," Cole said, thinking of Jimmy, killed that first morning on Omaha Beach. There was someone else who didn't belong in the war. Nobody had taped his hands to a rifle, but Jimmy had been put on a landing craft with a one-way ticket for Omaha Beach, which amounted to the same thing. "Besides, I suppose there's been enough killin' these last fews days, though there's bound to be more."
Jolie nodded. "What is the next step?"
"You find your target. Look through the sight. Do you see that fence over yonder? Aim for one of them posts."
"All right."
"Now, the thing about shooting is that you've got to ease up on your shot. Keep your aim on the post, but you'll see your crosshairs float around. It's hard to hold steady."
"Merde," she muttered. "This is true."
"Keep your finger on the trigger. All you want on there is the pad of your finger. Take a breath. Let it out. Take another breath and hold it in. Let it out and take another one if you got to. Let the crosshairs do their little dance. All the time, your finger is taking up some more tension on the trigger. You get used to a rifle after a while and you know when it's almost goin' to fire. When your crosshairs drift onto that post, let your finger take up that last bit of tension, gentle like you were pulling on a baby's hair."
Jolie breathed, let it out, breathed again. When the rifle fired, it actually surprised her.
"I missed!"
"Well, that fence post ain't crossed the field yet to bayonet us. I reckon you've got time for another shot."
Jolie worked the bolt, ejecting the empty shell and feeding a live round from the magazine into the breech. She pressed the rifle tight to her shoulder. She felt Cole leaning in close, pressing against her. She could feel his breath on her cheek and his voice murmuring in her ear. "All right, I just want to see what you see through the scope. Those crosshairs do dance, don't they? Let me help."
His rough hands slipped over her own, steadying the rifle. There was something intoxicating about having him pressing close against her. None of them had washed much these last few days, living rough, and she could smell him—it wasn't a bad smell, just earthy like trees and grass and mud, undercut by the salty musk of sweat. She struggled to concentrate.
"All right," she said.
"What you want to do is squeeze the last bit out of the trigger just as it drifts across. Just try to relax. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in and hold it."
Listening to his voice in her ear, Jolie did as he instructed. The crosshairs did not move so wildly now, and she let them touch the post as she squeezed off the last fraction of tension in the trigger. The rifle fired and instantaneously through the scope she saw a chunk go flying out of the post.
"Oh!"
"Ain't so hard, is it?" Cole said. "They say women are the best shots anyhow, on account of their center of gravity being lower than a man's. All I know is you just shot the shit out of that fence post. Now, see if you can do it again."
Jolie fired several more shots. The last three hit the post. When she turned to look at Cole, he was standing a few feet away, smiling with satisfaction.
"Not bad?" she asked.
"Not bad."
"I want to be a good shot. That soldier you captured told me where the sniper Von Stenger is staying in the chateau. I know just where it is. I am going there tonight to kill him. He has killed enough Frenchmen and Americans." She didn't know why she had told him.
"All right."
Jolie gave him a look. "You are not going to try and stop me?"
"Darlin', back home in the mountains, revenge is a way of life. People polish up revenge and treasure it like a pretty stone. I reckon you've about had it with being kicked around by these Jerries. Fair enough. I just don't think you've got much of a chance against the likes of him with that rifle and I doubt you can just walk into that chateau carrying a Mauser with a scope on it. You might need something more sneaky like."
“Like what?”
He stooped and pulled a wicked-looking little knife from his boot. "If I was you, I'd get in close and stab that son of a bitch in the belly with this here pigsticker. He might take a while to die, but you'll kill him sure as shit."
She took the knife. "Thank you. And Cole—I like that name— please do not tell the lieutenant. He might not understand. I agree that he is one who plays by the rules."
"Like I said, Jolie, what rules? This here is a war."
CHAPTER 19
The shooting lesson over, the remaining band of snipers packed up and moved out. Lieutenant Mulholland had no clear orders other than to engage the e
nemy, and so they trudged along the road toward Carentan. The action at the bridge had taken up most of the long June day and already the shadows stretched far and deep across the fields.
After the rush of adrenalin and pounding hearts during the fight, they now felt curiously empty, like a balloon that the helium had gone out of.
It wasn't a feeling that lasted long. They had not gone far when they were overtaken by a Jeep tearing down the dirt road. It was a little unusual to see one of the Jeeps traveling alone. Considering that the woods and fields all around them were still contested by the Allies and Germans, the occupant would have been better off in a Sherman tank or even on foot. The sharp whine of the Jeep engine attracted too much attention. Whoever was at the wheel had to be either desperate or foolish. The vehicle skidded to a stop beside them.
"Ya'll are snipers?" the sergeant at the wheel asked. With the dark circles under his eyes and unshaven face, he had the haggard look of a man who hadn't slept in a while. His eyes went to the telescopic sights of their rifles, and he didn't wait for an answer to his own question. "You could maybe do some good up this road at a little town called Bienville. We took it from the Germans today but they chewed us up good. There's only about a hundred men holding the town, and it looks like the Germans will try to take it back tomorrow."
"Seems to me like you're going in the wrong direction," Mulholland said. "If they're so hard up for help, why are you heading away?"
"We only had two radios and they're both shot to hell. I volunteered to drive out and try to get us some reinforcements."
"We could hear that Jeep coming for miles. You're quite a target," Mulholland said. "You'd be better off on foot, or even on a bicycle."
"No time for that," the soldier said. His foot toyed with the clutch and the Jeep lurched forward, rolled back. "We need to hold that town when the Jerries show up in the morning. It's one of the key points along that road into Carentan. I think we took them by surprise, but if we give up that town we'll lose twice as many men getting it back."
