Ghost Sniper

Restless, he poured more wine, sitting by the fire and smoking, making plans for the morning. It was better to think ahead than dwell on the past. There was no doubt the Americans would attack, and when they did, there would be a trap waiting for them at one of the river crossings.

• • •

“Let’s move out,” Lieutenant Mulholland said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, but his voice sounded croaky and tired nonetheless.

The Americans woke up cold and groggy, with any hopes for a hot cup of coffee dashed by the chatter of machine gun fire nearby. The German defenders were hard at work in the early morning light, if they had even slept.

A colonel was making the rounds, handing out orders, the stub of an unlit, well-chewed cigar hanging from his mouth. Mulholland had reported to him last night, making him aware of the sniper squad’s presence. “Lieutenant Mulholland, I need you and your men on a counter sniper operation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have us a situation at the La Fiere Bridge,” the colonel said. He produced a map, which was damp and badly wrinkled. Taking the cigar out of his mouth, he used it to jab at the map, leaving wet, ashen smudges. “Our boys are trying to get across the Merderet River there, only the Jerries won’t let them. We keep throwing more men at it, and they keep throwing more men at it, and meanwhile it’s a big goddamn Mexican standoff.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Do you? Then hell, you are way ahead of me. That bridge should have been taken by oh six hundred on D-Day, and here we are on D plus three still messing around with the Jerries. But you’re not going to the goddamn La Fiere Bridge.” The colonel stabbed at the map again. “This is a tributary of the Merderet and it’s got a much smaller bridge. It’s near a village called Caponnet. The bridge is too small for armor because the damn thing would probably collapse under the weight, but we can move some men across and maybe come in behind the Jerries at La Fiere.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s the same story there, though, in that the Jerries don’t want us to cross the goddamn bridge. I’ve got reports coming in this morning that the Jerries have it covered with snipers, thick as ticks as a hound dog that’s been coon huntin’ all night. I need you and your boys to dig ’em out.”

Mulholland tried not to reflect on the fact that his experience as a sniper spanned roughly three days. “We’ll sweep it clean, sir.”

“You’ve got a can-do attitude, son, and I like that. Just keep your head down and give those Jerry snipers hell.”

Lieutenant Mulholland started to salute, then stopped himself, remembering that it was bad policy. At any rate, the colonel had already moved on. Dawn was breaking, daylight was sweeping over the wood and fields of Normandy’s bocage country, and there was much to be done. It looked as if the sun was actually going to show itself today, which would be something, after a string of gloomy, overcast days. Instead of the sound of birdsong, he could hear the distant chatter of small arms fire, growing louder.

Mulholland thought that it was a hell of a thing to watch the sun come up and yet know that you had a good chance of being killed before it set. He tried not to think about that too much.

He looked around for the French girl. She was standing beside Private Cole, sharing a cigarette with him. They both looked up as he approached. For the first time, he noticed that she had flat, black eyes like wet stones. There was certainly nothing soft or feminine in her glance. Cole’s eyes couldn’t have been more different—clear as cut glass or river water on a cold morning. They were just as empty of emotion. It was hard to tell what Cole was thinking, but there was a kind of primal intelligence and cunning in those eyes that unsettled the lieutenant. It was like looking a wolf in the eye.

“Mademoiselle? I need you to take us to the Caponnet bridge.”

“Oui.” She exhaled smoke. “I know the way.”

A couple of the men moved off into the brush to relieve themselves, and then they started down the road toward the bridge.

Chief was dead, killed by the sniper in the church steeple. That left the lieutenant, Cole, Jolie, Meacham and the wisecracking Vaccaro. The British airborne trooper had asked to tag along.

“I’ll be damned if I’ll ever find my bloody unit,” he said. “I’ve yet to see another Brit. It’s Americans everywhere I look. Maybe I could join up with your squad, sir.”

“Suit yourself, Neville. But we’re supposed to be snipers. Are you any good with a rifle?”

Neville hefted his submachine gun. “You worry about the long shots, sir, and I’ll take care of the close work. I’m also prepared to grenade Jerries, knife them, garrote them, beat them at poker or drink them under the table as the need arises.”

Mulholland had to smile. “All right, Neville. We can use a man of your talents.”

“I’m sticking close to this one,” Neville said, nodding at Cole. “He looks mean.”

Vaccaro spoke up: “What about me? I’m goddamn deadly with this rifle.”