by David Healey
His hands struck mud, and he realized he had reached the opposite bank. He let himself come up for air, still praying the enemy snipers would not see him. He was just above the abandoned mill, so that was something. The muddy bank was slick and Cole couldn't seem to get a grip. To his horror, he realized he was being carried directly toward the old waterwheel, which spun fast and furious in the current.
He kicked for all he was worth and flayed his arms, struggling against the pull of the water, but it was like a leaf trying to fly against a hurricane. The force of the water was overwhelming. In another instant, the heavy wooden buckets of the waterwheel would come down on his head.
He reached out, desperately, as the stone foundation of the mill flashed by and caught a length of chain fastened to the stone, perhaps for an old mooring. The rush of the river nearly ripped his arm from its socket, but he didn't let go. He managed to slide the rifle onto the stone landing. Struggling, he got the fingertips of his other hand, and then his fingers, around the chain.
He was able to raise himself out of the water a little at a time, and then he got his toes wedged into the slimy sides of the stone foundation. He dug in his knees next, cutting and scraping them against the stone, until he got enough leverage against the water to pull himself up.
With a final effort, he dragged himself onto the stone landing where boats would have once tied up to load and unload sacks of grain. Bleeding and gasping, shivering uncontrollably and his bare flesh covered in goosebumps, Cole just lay there for a minute, gasping like a fish, glad he was on the far side of the mill, out of sight of the Germans. He glanced toward the far bank, looking for some sign of Jolie, but she had melted back into the fields. The little raft was there, though, and he pulled it across with the string.
Gathering his strength, he lifted himself off the flat stone pier and crept into the dark interior of the abandoned mill, keeping the rifle at the ready. The interior smelled of mice and dust. Someone had stripped most of the machinery, but the largest of the cogs and turnstiles remained. The wood was dark and worn with age, resembling iron more than the oak from which it was made. The stone walls were reassuringly thick, though patches of sky showed through holes in the thatch roof.
He found a window overlooking the field and the woods beyond where the German snipers were hidden. The window had no glass or frame—it was just a slit in the stone wall to let in fresh air and light. He reckoned it was a couple of hundred feet across the field, where the grass had been grazed. Looking around, he spotted three or four dairy cows, clearly dead, bloated and stiff where they lay on their sides. He had seen dead livestock all over Normandy, a result of stray bombs and bullets.
Studying the trees, Cole thought that what they could really use was for a P-51 Mustang to come along and pound the hell out of the Germans in the woods. That didn't seem likely, and so it came down to him and his rifle.
His rifle. He glanced down at the Springfield, which had come through without getting dunked in the river, if not exactly high and dry. He slid open the bolt, removed the magazine, and tilted the barrel to drain out any water. Later on, the mechanism would get rusty as hell if he didn’t get some oil on it, but that couldn't be helped. What mattered was that he could fire a few shots now and take out the German snipers.
He put his eye to the scope. By some small miracle, no water had gotten into the optics.
The natural thing to do would be to poke his rifle through the window slit. But that would be too obvious if anyone looked at the mill. The Germans might not be expecting anyone in the mill—the bridge was covered and the swift current did not make the river inviting to swim—so their attention would be elsewhere. That would change as soon as Cole took his first shot at them.
Through the thick stone walls, he could still hear firing in the distance. That must be Meacham and Vaccaro giving the Germans something to think about.
Still shivering, Cole found a wooden barrel and turned it upright several feet from the window, then put a stack of old burlap grain sacks on top of the barrel. He considered for a moment, then took out his knife and cut three holes in one of the sacks—one for his head and two for his arms—and slipped it on over his head. He used a length of string to belt the sack around his waist. Not exactly a regulation uniform. The fabric was itchy and dusty, and he probably looked silly as a preacher at a sack race, but his shaking soon stopped.
He used a box as a makeshift seat, and then rested the rifle on top of the barrel, cushioned by the grain sacks. His view of the woods was far more limited, but in the gloom inside the mill he would be invisible to the snipers beyond. They could fire through the slit, of course, but they would be shooting blind.
Cole worked the bolt and fed a round into the chamber, then began to scan the woods for the flash of a German rifle that would give him a target.
CHAPTER 15
In Russia, they had called him The Ghost. He came and went unseen—or so it seemed to the enemy. What appeared otherworldly to the Russians had, in fact, been simple preparation. Von Stenger and Wulf were in position long before dawn, having hiked the short distance toward the bridge near Caponnet over a tributary of the Merderet River.
Von Stenger knew it was a likely crossing point for American forces frustrated by the stalemate at the La Fiere bridge. When they tried to cross, he and Wulf would be waiting to pick them off. The two snipers would be able to hold off a fair-sized Allied force, freeing up German forces desperately needed elsewhere.
He'd also brought Fritz along. The boy was useless as a soldier, but he made a good pack horse, carrying food, the spare uniform and helmet and rope, and extra ammunition. Once Von Stenger had hidden himself in the trees, he planned to shoot as many Allied troops as possible without having to worry about resupplying.
"Here is what I want you to do with the uniform," Von Stenger said to the boy, and showed him how to stuff it with pine straw until it had some semblance of a human form. "Now, you climb. You can be a monkey, can't you?"
It was hard to see in the pre-dawn darkness, but Fritz managed to get maybe five meters into the tree, and then lowered a rope. Von Stenger tied the dummy to that and had the boy haul it up. Following the sniper's directions, Fritz perched the dummy on a long branch, then lashed a rifle along the branch, as if the dummy was aiming the weapon.
"Be careful, boy, that rifle is loaded."
Up close, the dummy was not very convincing. But seen from the other side of the river, obscured by trees, the dummy would be enough to fool an American marksman.
A string ran from the trigger of the rifle, then around a branch that served as a fulcrum, and from there down to the forest floor. Von Stenger waited until Fritz had climbed down. "When I tell you to, you pull that string. It will make the rifle fire."
Even in the dim light, Von Stenger could see the boy's quizzical look. "But Herr Von Stenger, the dummy can't hit anything."
"I don't want the dummy to shoot anything. That's my job and Wulf's. The dummy's job is to get shot. Now pay attention, and pull that string when I tell you to, and not a moment before. You are our eyes on the ground, so shout a warning if someone comes."
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann."
He turned to Corporal Wulf. "You and I will take alternating shots," he said. "You take the first one. They will send a scout across the bridge first—shoot to wound. The legs are good; the belly is better. The others will come out to rescue him, and then we can pick them off."
"What if they all come across the bridge at once, Herr Hauptmann?"
"Surely they can't be that stupid," he said. "But if they are, stay with the alternating shots. You never know when someone has the sense to shoot back, and it's best to keep them confused about the target."
Leaving the boy stationed at the foot of the oak holding the dummy—Von Stenger did not bother giving him a rifle, for fear that he might start shooting at shadows and give away the snipers' position prematurely—he and Wulf made their way up into trees approximately fifty meters apart and
ten meters or so from the edge of the field. They had a sight line on one another, and could signal the other man if necessary. Little communication would be necessary—they had already worked out that they would make alternating shots to confuse the enemy and keep the Americans from zeroing in easily on their positions. If the Americans did have a competent marksman, the dummy would help confuse him.
The tree with the dummy was just a few meters from Von Stenger, but he was more carefully hidden. He wore a camouflaged smock with a hood to which were secured twigs and branches. Even his rifle was wrapped with brownish canvas strips, into which he had stuck a few springs of leaves. He was straddling a thick limb, wedging himself into the crotch formed by the tree limb and the trunk, and while it was not comfortable, it made a solid shooting platform.
When he was finished, the only part of him visible were his eyes, which were light blue and clear. As the light grew in the east and the darkened landscape revealed itself, those sharp eyes kept a close watch on the bridge two hundred meters distant.
The morning was cold and damp, and being forced to lie still along the tree branch allowed the chill to creep through his bones. Of course, it was nothing like the cold of Stalingrad. Religious people liked to say that hell was full of fire and brimstone, but they were wrong. Hell was a cold place, full of ice and snow and Russian snipers who could shoot the eye out of a running hare at 100 meters. Von Stenger preferred Normandy.
The snipers did not have long to wait. The birds had started in the trees, singing in oblivion of the war going on around them, and the light grew stronger. A lone soldier appeared on the narrow bridge, moving slowly forward. He looked somewhat ridiculous, hunched under a heavy pack and with branches stuck into the netting that covered his salad bowl of a helmet, but Von Stenger knew better—the soldier was probably American airborne, a very tough unit.
They let the scout advance halfway across the bridge. Von Stenger had his crosshairs on him, just in case, but then Wulf's rifle fired off to his left. The soldier on the bridge went down as if someone had kicked his legs out from under him. He started to crawl back across the bridge, and his panicked cries for help carried across to the woods.
Von Stenger only had to wait a few seconds until two soldiers came running to drag their wounded man to safety. He waited for one soldier to lean over his companion and grab hold of the back of his pack to start dragging him, then settled the crosshairs on the soldier's knee and squeezed the trigger. The soldier went down screaming.
Wulf shot the other soldier through the belly.
No one else came across the bridge. He was thinking that the three wounded men were doing more to discourage anyone from crossing the bridge than the presence of a Panzer tank.
The soldiers lay there, calling out piteously for help. Their cries barely registered in Von Stenger's mind. He had long since hardened his heart to such things.
The morning grew brighter, and in the distance the chatter of small arms fire and the boom of artillery increased. That would likely be the skirmishing at La Fiere, he thought, or one of several vicious battles taking place in unnamed fields all across Normandy.
On their bridge, nothing happened. One of the wounded men managed to drag himself almost off the bridge and onto the road, but Von Stenger put the crosshairs on the man's belly and gut shot him. He'd lay like that for hours, alive, but too weak to do anything. It was a little trick he had learned in Russia. Perhaps the Americans would be foolish enough to send someone to try and snatch him to safety.
Von Stenger had brought along a flask of coffee and a ham sandwich. He drank the coffee and ate, keeping an eye on the bridge and road. It was only a matter of time before the Americans tried something. They had to get across that bridge, after all.
After a while the coffee worked its way through and he shifted around so that he could urinate without leaving his sniper's nest. Below, Fritz looked up in surprise at the sound of Von Stenger's stream spattering the forest floor.
He had been waiting for something to happen, and finally it did. Someone started shooting from the hill on the other side of the river, above the road. He had to admit it was a good position, one that offered a commanding view of the bridge and road, and as he and Wulf had done, the American snipers had climbed into the trees. They kept up a steady fire, but for the life of him, Von Stenger couldn't decide what they were shooting at other than the woods itself. Occasionally a bullet came singing in among the trees, ricocheting madly off the trunks, but obviously the American snipers had no target.
Von Stenger decided to give them one.
By then, he had picked out one of the American snipers. He was firing so often that it was fairly easy to locate him. The Americans seemed to be making an attempt to provide covering fire for the troops at the bridge. Through his telescopic sight, Von Stenger could easily see the American. He was not very well hidden because he had set up shop in a tree that had an open avenue through the branches that gave him a clear field of fire—but that also made him visible. He appeared to be a big, bulky fellow.
All indications were that the snipers were not very experienced. However, that did not necessarily mean that they were poor shots. He understood that Americans were, for the most part, far more familiar with guns than Europeans. They were a people who liked to hunt and shoot. Back in the encounter with the snipers in the field, the one with the Confederate flag on his helmet had come close. Too close. Given a target, these snipers in the trees might prove very capable. The distance from the trees occupied by the Germans to those occupied by the Americans was not unreasonable for a capable marksman. Von Stenger did not plan on giving the snipers more of a target than he had to.
"Fritz," he called down, without taking his eye from the sight. "Are you paying attention?"
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann?"
"I want you to start counting out loud to ten. Count slowly and speak so that I can hear the numbers. Exactly when you say ten, I want you to pull that chord and fire the rifle in the tree. Understand?"
"Yes, sir. When do I start counting?"
"Now."
"Yes, sir," the boy said. "One ..."
Von Stenger had not taken his eye off the American in the tree. It was always a strange experience to be watching someone through the rifle scope, because one part of your brain wanted to accept that he could also see you, especially when the other man's rifle was pointed in your direction.
The boy was counting out loud: "Two ..."
The American's rifle flashed and another crack of a rifle shot reached Von Stenger's ears, but he was confident that the man was not shooting at him.
"Three ..."
Through the high-powered optics, he could see the American's strong jawline and heavy features. The best snipers tended to be smaller, compact men—or women as had been the case in Stalingrad. They could hide more readily and had a lower center of gravity. This fellow was much too big for the job.
"Four ..."
Von Stenger calculated the distance as being perhaps 200 meters. There was very little wind. His rifle was sighted in for 100 meters, and so he elevated the crosshairs ever so slightly to a point high on the American's helmet.
"Five ..."
Due to the gravity of the earth, a bullet began falling soon after it was fired from a gun. The greater the distance it had to travel, the greater the drop. To compensate, a sniper had to elevate his rifle barrel to send the bullet in a higher arc.
"Six ..."
To illustrate the science involved to his students at the sniper training school, Von Stenger had sometimes used the example of the American sport of baseball. When the catcher wanted to get the ball to the first baseman, he threw a short, quick throw that had a relatively flat trajectory and beat the runner to base. If someone was throwing a ball to the catcher that had been hit into the outfield, the outfielder threw the ball in a higher arc because it had to cover a greater distance. A ball thrown horizontal to the field was pulled down by gravity before it could reach the catche
r.
"Seven ..."
A bullet traveled at much higher speed and far greater distances than a baseball, but the same rules applied.
"Eight ..."
The tree made an ideal rest for the rifle, which was padded with canvas camouflaging and resting directly on the limb. Von Stenger imagined how the limb was connected to the tree trunk, which reached down to the roots, deep in the earth. The hardest shots were those made from a standing position, without benefit of any support. This shooting position was nearly ideal. The crosshairs did not waver.
"Nine ..."
Keeping the crosshairs positioned at the crest of the helmet, Von Stenger let out his breath. His finger took up tension on the trigger, so gently that he was barely aware he was doing it.
"Ten ..."
With the last fraction of tension, the firing pin was released, springing forward to strike the center of the cartridge in the chamber. The primer exploded, igniting the powder, and the resulting explosion launched the bullet, the rifled barrel putting a spin on the slug that kept it on course during its flight, giving it a deadly accuracy.
In the tree nearby, Von Stenger was dimly aware of the dummy rifle firing at the same instant.
Traveling at nearly 2,800 feet per second, Von Stenger's bullet punched through the front of the American sniper's steel helmet, bored through the skull, and buried itself in the soft tissue of the American's brain. The fool hadn't tied himself into the tree, and the complete loss of muscle control at the moment of death caused the body to slide off the limb and fall to the forest floor as heavily as a sack of potatoes.
A bullet zipped nearby, fired from the trees across the river, but the dummy ruse had worked, confusing the other shooter.
Wulf took the opportunity to fire at the remaining American sniper, but the man must have had the sense to hide himself better than his unlucky companion.