‘Range six hundred and forty yards north-east,’ Goldberg said, as he rapidly chalked figures on the blackboard. ‘Wind gusting three to seven knots, heading south, temperature eighty degrees, humidity high, target eighty metres above the firing position.’
The trainees each had pieces of chalk, a handheld slate and a selection of pre-printed range tables.
‘Time,’ Goldberg said, after about forty seconds.
The four boys held up their slates, each with figures for vertical and horizontal aim-off chalked on them.
‘The good news is that you’ve all got similar figures,’ Goldberg said. ‘The bad news is that you’re all going to send bullets ploughing into the dirt well short of the target. High humidity makes air more dense, which means?’
Sam raised his hand. ‘The arc of the bullet is less pronounced and the denser air makes the trajectory decay faster, sir.’
‘Correct,’ Goldberg said. ‘So why didn’t you take that into account in your calculation? Assuming you don’t have a barometer handy, how can you judge humidity?’
Paul raised a hand, ‘You can expect high humidity after rainfall, sir. Humidity is more likely to be high if you’re near to large bodies of water …’
Goldberg interrupted. ‘I didn’t ask where humidity was, I asked how you judge it.’
Paul hesitated. ‘The amount you sweat is a clue, and if you fog a piece of glass such as the back of your scope, or breathe on a cold mirror, rapid evaporation means that humidity is low, sir.’
‘Good,’ Goldberg said. ‘But it’s going to be different depending on which mirror you use. Your breath will have less moisture in it if you’re breathing heavily. So if you’re in a climate where it’s hot and humidity is likely to affect your shooting, you’ve got to practise. Find a barometer with a humidity gauge, test your mirror under different circumstances.’
Sam raised his hand again. ‘Can you get little humidity gauges that you can carry around, sir?’
Goldberg nodded as he walked towards Marc, who’d apparently lost concentration. He flicked Marc’s ear, before grabbing all the velocity and distance charts on his desk.
‘When you’re working in near dark, you can’t stand around looking at charts, or squinting at a mercury bar on a tiny humidity gauge,’ Goldberg said. ‘A good sniper knows the underlying physics so well that he feels his shot. Senses the wind, temperature and humidity, and rattles off the maths as easily as you’d do your two times table.
‘That level of skill only comes with years of experience. So when this course ends tomorrow I want you to keep memorising your charts. Take your weapon out and practise regularly, in rain, snow and heat. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the boys barked.
‘Right,’ Goldberg said. ‘New calculation. Range one thousand three hundred and thirty feet. Shooting north, wind twenty-two knots, gusting south by south-west. Target is eighteen yards above your shooting position, and you’re lying in thick snow, with your breath visible.’
*
After a morning of shooting and an afternoon of brain-numbing maths, Goldberg had devised an evening potato hunt that would raise morale, while testing the four recruits’ stealth and camouflage skills.
A sack of potatoes had been distributed in the area around the old village school, Henderson’s cottage and the nearby church graveyard. The trainees worked alone and had to collect as many spuds as possible, while Goldberg had mustered more than a dozen staff and fellow trainees to hunt them.
If a trainee was caught, they had five potatoes taken out of their sack and had to run back to a starting position near the campus gates before resuming the hunt.
The first round of the game only lasted ten minutes, at which point Henderson’s wife Joan emerged from their cottage and began yelling. She was trying to get her two-year-old to sleep, but it was proving impossible because he kept running to the window every time he heard something exciting going on outside.
After that little glitch, all potatoes were moved away from the Hendersons’ cottage and the game resumed. When ninety minutes running around in twilight were up, Paul surprised everyone by winning. His cunning strategy had been to hide all the potatoes he’d collected until the end of the game, which meant he didn’t have to worry about losing five of them every time he got caught.
Goldberg had thrown himself into his role as a hunter, and his uniform was wet and streaked with grass stains as he walked up to the dormitory rooms on the first floor. All the kids who’d taken part were in high spirits, and a new battle had broken out with pillows, flying boots and balled-up socks as they got changed for bed.
‘I’ve enjoyed working with you four,’ Goldberg told his trainees, once they’d gathered around. ‘People your age learn fast, which makes my job easier. There’s going to be one final exercise tomorrow morning. Kindhe and I are driving out early to set up four shooting points in the woods.
‘You’ll each work alone, four shots per target and you’ll lose a point if you don’t reach each shooting zone within twenty minutes. I want you at the front door ready to shoot at 9 a.m., so I’d suggest you all get a good night’s sleep. The two trainees who score highest will parachute into France with Henderson.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Group A dorm was full of snores and nasal whistles as Marc opened one eye and peered at his bedside clock. It was 2:30 a.m. He rolled out of bed, dressed in underpants and grubby from all the running around he’d done the previous evening.
After sweeping his boots, shirt and trousers from under the bed, Marc did a furtive three-sixty glance before dashing through the open door, along the hallway and down to the ground floor. The main door creaked alarmingly as he pulled it open; then he ran on bare, blistered, feet to the side of the building.
Marc leaned against a cold wall as he stepped into his trousers. He did his shirt up in the wrong button holes, pushed grit-covered soles into his boots and dashed off towards the graveyard with his laces trailing behind.
Cutting across the graveyard brought him out on to a path, and he reached the armoury after a three-minute jog. It seemed empty, but he nervously circled the building to make sure.
The main door was padlocked, but it was an easy climb over a shoulder-height fence on to the pistol shooting range and once he’d dropped into the compound the door between the pistol range and armoury had no lock at all.
The armoury hut was split in two. One half was behind a locked steel mesh, with boxes of ammunition and unissued service weapons stacked on shelves. The larger half had slotted wooden gun racks along the walls, coat hooks, a few benches and three large workbenches, each with built-in slots for the lubricants, polishing cloths and brushes used to clean weapons.
In most cases these guns kept in the armoury were the personal property of shooting enthusiasts in the USAF, so almost all of the weapons lived in bags or wooden boxes. The four trainees’ sniper rifles were stacked near the main entrance in zipped canvas bags.
Marc and Paul’s guns were next to each other, and Sam’s was distinctive now that it had the shorter stock, but it was Luc’s weapon Marc was interested in. He felt a twinge of guilt as he unzipped Luc’s rifle and laid it across the nearest bench, but Luc was a nasty piece of work and Marc reasoned that this mission would be better off without him.
Every gun comes with its own cleaning and maintenance kit, but Marc ignored Luc’s kit and took a small screwdriver from a wooden drawer beneath the worktop.
A rifle is more accurate than a short weapon such as a pistol because its long barrel is bored with a spiral pattern that spins a bullet. Marc expertly removed the bolt handle and receiver from Luc’s gun, then jammed the screwdriver into the near end of the barrel and roughed up the surface with the sharp end.
The scraping left several silver gouge marks in the oiled metal, so Marc dripped gun oil on to a cloth and smeared it over to disguise them. The result wasn’t invisible, but while you’d have had to look hard to find the scratches Marc hope
d they’d be enough to reduce the spin of the bullet leaving the gun and make Luc miss a couple of his more difficult shots.
*
As usual Pippa the cook fed her French boys with a hearty English breakfast. The four lads on the sniping course were nervous and sick of each other’s company, so Luc sat alone, Sam joined his big brother Joel, and Marc sat with PT.
Marc had seen Paul get out of bed, but didn’t see him again until he walked into the toilet. Paul was emerging from a cubicle, looking weak, with the tang of sick hanging in the air.
‘You OK?’ Marc asked.
‘Nerves,’ Paul said weakly, as he put his mouth under a cold tap and rinsed.
‘I’ll bet you do better than you’re expecting,’ Marc said, grinning and half tempted to tell Paul what he’d done the night before.
‘It’s doing well that I’m scared of,’ Paul confessed.
Marc looked baffled. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Goldberg’s had us shooting car tyres, alarm clocks, paper targets, dead chickens and rugby balls,’ Paul said. ‘But if I get the mission, it’s going to be real people I’m seeing through my scope.’
‘You can do what it takes,’ Marc said. ‘You killed Germans and saved Rosie’s life in Lorient two summers back.’
‘This is different,’ Paul said. ‘Lining up someone a thousand feet away and executing them. It’s cold-blooded. Part of me hopes Luc does beat me this morning. This job suits a cruel bastard like him.’
Marc looked crestfallen. ‘How can you start this up?’ he blurted. ‘People always call you a wimp, but I never thought it was true until now.’
Paul looked wounded and Marc immediately felt bad.
‘Try your best today and we’ll talk this through afterwards, yeah?’ Marc said.
Paul was used to people calling him a wimp, but Marc was his best friend so this was different. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words formed so he barged Marc and stormed towards the stairs.
Marc yelled from the top landing, ‘Paul, I’m sorry.’
But Paul ignored him and Marc felt like crap as he headed off to the armoury to get his weapon.
*
The atmosphere stayed tense as Goldberg drove the quartet out to the woods in a canvas-sided Royal Navy truck. The boys set off from the starting point at ten-minute intervals so that they didn’t reach the shooting zones at the same time. To minimise the chances of catching each other up, they went in order of speed, with fastest runner Marc going first, then Luc, Sam and Paul last.
Until now all the training had been in pairs because snipers most commonly work that way in the field. Marc enjoyed being able to move without Paul holding him back and reached his first shooting zone after an eight-minute uphill run.
It had rained heavily that morning and his thighs grew soggy as he settled into a firing position where a boulder served as cover. As it was daylight, he had an easy time spotting a pair of circular targets set at four-eighty and six hundred yards.
The instructions stapled to his map said he had to take two shots at each target. Goldberg’s point system only distinguished between hit and miss, but Marc still took pride in two hits on the centre of the nearer target.
A wind gusted strongly into his face as his first shot at the more distant target punched the earth several metres short. He corrected upwards by half a degree to compensate for the wind and got his final shot dead on.
The route to the second shooting zone involved doubling back, and Marc and Luc exchanged grunts as they passed on a steep slope. Marc got slightly lost on his way to the second target, but scraped inside the twenty minutes he needed to avoid losing a point.
The firing position for the second target was down at a sharp angle, but he still hit with four out of four. He missed two shots on the third target, but the range was over seven hundred yards and he was the only one of the four trainees who could regularly hit targets over that sort of distance.
The final shooting zone was more than five kilometres from the third. Rather than kill himself trying to run it in under twenty minutes, Marc walked, trading the loss of a point for being in good shooting condition when he arrived.
The final target was two hundred and fifty yards away, but the shooting position was a muddy riverbank and late morning sunlight reflecting off fast-moving water meant he saw nothing but golden blurs when he tried using his split-image rangefinder.
Marc was concerned. There was no certainty he could hit the target without a clear view through the scope and if it clouded over when the other lads arrived they’d have four easy shots. He looked up hoping to see a cloud heading towards the sun, but the only thing in the sky was birds.
Luc had tried to beat the twenty-minute arrival time and burst through the undergrowth between two large trees as Marc sent his first shot a few inches wide of the target.
‘Sir?’ Luc shouted, sounding a touch desperate.
Marc broke out of his sniper state, to look around. Henderson and Goldberg were walking uphill towards the shooting zone.
‘Sir, I’d like another go.’ Luc said. ‘There’s something wrong with my gun.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Goldberg asked.
‘I’ve not hit a thing,’ Luc said. ‘Might have caught the edge of one target, but that was more a fluke than anything.’
Marc’s nerves jangled as he turned back to his scope and tried to focus. He’d hoped that the scratches he’d made in the barrel would cause two or three missed shots and be dismissed as Luc having a bad day. But if Luc had missed all but one target, there was sure to be an investigation.
Marc’s second shot was a near miss, but a minor correction sent the third and fourth flying into the centre of the rectangular target.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Marc said, standing up as Henderson stepped up to him.
‘How did it go?’
‘I hit eleven out of sixteen, sir,’ Marc said, trying to sound confident. ‘Minus one for arriving late at the last target.’
‘Sounds good,’ Henderson said. ‘I’d be surprised if that isn’t enough to book your ticket.’
As Marc spoke he kept one eye on Goldberg, who’d begun inspecting Luc’s gun.
‘I expect it’s dirty,’ Goldberg said unsympathetically. ‘I’ve warned you enough times. You’ve nobody to blame but yourself.’
Sam came scrambling out of bushes from the opposite direction to which Marc and Luc had arrived, which brought a smile to Henderson’s face.
‘Why are you coming from that way?’
‘Got lost, sir,’ Sam said, breathlessly.
‘How’s the shooting going?’
‘Can’t get it right today, sir,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve only hit four from twelve. And I’m late to this shooting zone, so I’ve lost a point for that too.’
‘See if you can make it up here then,’ Henderson said.
‘Luc’s scored one or zero,’ Marc said. ‘Claims there’s something wrong with his gun.’
Marc expected to see a grin, but Sam looked worried as he found a shooting position a couple of yards left of the one Marc had taken. Sam had deliberately missed a couple of shots on the assumption that it would be enough to ensure he finished behind Luc. But if Luc had scored one or less, then all his misses had done was gift second place to Paul.
As he’d already beaten Luc, Sam saw no reason not to try his best. He didn’t need binoculars to identify the target, but was surprised when he looked through his telescopic sight and saw nothing but golden blurs. It was the first time he’d encountered problems with reflected light, but he remembered something that Goldberg had said on the second day of the course.
After a quick rummage in his kit bag, Sam pulled out a leather pouch filled with optical filters and screwed a polarising lens to the end of his scope. The polariser was designed to cut out light coming from a specific direction, and by looking through the scope and rotating the filter, Sam was able to eliminate all the reflections.
The filter also cut out
a lot of regular light, so the image through Sam’s scope was gloomy, but still better than anything you’d see when shooting at night. As Marc kicked himself for not remembering the filter pack, Sam aimed his rifle at the target and made four clean hits.
‘That’s more like it,’ Henderson said, as he gave Sam a slap on the back.
‘Seven out of sixteen’s not great,’ Sam said, as he wondered if it would be enough to beat Paul.
While Sam had been shooting, Goldberg had rolled a piece of canvas out on the ground and begun disassembling Luc’s rifle.
‘A bullet seems to have partially disintegrated inside the chamber,’ Goldberg said stiffly. ‘You’ve ruined the barrel. You’re lucky you’re not in the army, because this weapon is useless and you’d have been docked at least three month’s wages.’
‘There was no dirt in there, sir,’ Luc said, sounding uncharacteristically shrill. ‘I spent half an hour cleaning that weapon last night. It was spotless.’
‘Then how could this have happened?’ Goldberg shouted, but his expression changed as he raised the barrel up to his eye and looked down towards the disc of sunlight at the far end. ‘Did you try dislodging a bullet with something sharp?’
‘No, sir,’ Luc said.
‘Explain this to me then,’ Goldberg said, as he passed the weapon across. ‘Bullets move fast, they leave long straight trails. How did those great wiggly gouges get there?’
Marc gulped as Luc looked down the barrel.
‘Sabotage, sir!’ Luc shouted indignantly. ‘I cleaned that gun last night, running through with a soft clean cloth just like you showed me. Those scratches weren’t there, I swear on my dead mother’s grave, sir.’
‘That’s a serious allegation, Luc,’ Goldberg said. ‘Are you certain you want to stick with it?’
Luc glowered furiously at Marc. ‘I know this was you,’ he roared, before charging towards Marc.
One Shot Kill Page 12
