Red Sniper

A handful of townspeople began to shout angrily at him. Some shook their fists. Whitlock had no idea what they were saying, but he could guess.

The German soldier pushed Whitlock roughly toward the bodies. Then he bent down and pulled back the blanket. Whitlock guessed that they were twelve or thirteen years old. He had a kid sister that age. Both of the girls’ faces looked angelic in death, pale and peaceful, like in an old painting. But their bodies were torn and burned, resembling a raw steak that had made contact with a red-hot grill before being yanked off. The sight made him physically wince away. They’re just kids. School girls. He realized that the devastation to the village could have been from the bombs dropped by Lucky Girl. It didn’t matter if it was Whitlock’s plane or another, especially not to the dead girls or these villagers.

Whitlock tried to turn away, but the older German caught him and forced him closer to the bodies. He said something low and angry.

Whitlock had seen enough. He shoved the German away, which caused the two boyish soldiers to point their rifles nervously in his direction.

But Whitlock wasn’t interested in escape just then. He bent over and vomited with such force that he sagged to his knees. He was sick repeatedly until nothing came up but thin, ropy spittle.

The older German took hold of him again, but this time he did it almost gently, helping Whitlock to his feet. He even handed him a handkerchief to wipe his mouth.

“I’m so sorry. Whose children are they?” Whitlock asked, looking around at the crowd, which had fallen silent. They would not meet his eyes. Something about Whitlock’s reaction had clearly left them embarrassed. They were expecting a monster; what they got was a scared-looking young American who appeared just as horrified as they were at the carnage.

“They are God’s children, as are we all,” the German soldier said in clear but halting English. “Get in the truck. We will take you to the prison camp now.”

CHAPTER 4

For Cole and the rest of the squad, the next town that came into view around a bend in the road was Arnouthbourg.

“At least, that’s what the map says,” Lt. Mulholland explained. “I don’t know how to pronounce it. I also don’t know how the good people of this particular town feel about American GIs, so keep your eyes peeled.”

The squad approached cautiously, with the snipers leading the way. Since early April their squad had not encountered any serious resistance from German units. Most German soldiers with a lick of sense had tossed aside their weapons, changed out of their Wehrmacht uniforms, and tried to get home. As an organized fighting force, the Wehrmacht had essentially fallen apart.

The trouble was that there remained battle groups cobbled together out of a few die-hard soldiers from different units, or who served under the command of a particularly patriotic officer. As a result, the German military still had strong pockets of resistance even as the odds mounted against any outcome but defeat.

Then there were the lone sniper to worry about, like that kid in the barn.

“I wish these bastards would just give up,” Vaccaro said, keeping to the edges of the macadam road leading into Arnouthbourg. “All that they’re doing is prolonging the inevitable.”

“If the Germans were marching into Brooklyn, would you give up?” Cole asked.

“Damn it, Hillbilly. Why did you have to go and put it that way? I’d fight with sticks and stones if I had to, so thinking about some Kraut with an MP-40 and the same attitude is not reassuring.”

“Just keeping you on your toes.”

“Yeah, thanks a million.”

Cole saw movement on the road ahead. He put his rifle to his eye to get a better view. He blinked once or twice to make sure that he wasn’t seeing things. A white-haired man wearing a suit stood waiting for them. In one hand, the old man held a stick with a strip of white cloth tied to one end.

“You see that?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think?”

“Somehow, I doubt that old man has a machine gun up his sleeve. It’s a better welcoming committee than a panzer and a battalion of SS stormtroopers.”

Cole raised a fist to signal a halt. The lieutenant came running up. Like any experienced soldier, he barely made a sound as he moved, even though he was loaded down with his pack and gear. Strips of cloth and string secured anything that might rattle as he ran and give him away. You could always tell green troops because when they ran anywhere, they made a racket. Vaccaro liked to say that that green troops sounded like Mama Leoni carrying the trash can out to the curb.

Mulholland studied the older man through binoculars, then swept his eyes over the windows of the houses facing the road. He didn’t see any soldiers, but in several windows the concerned faces of women or elderly residents peered out.

“Nothing but civilians, as far as I can tell,” he said. “Maybe that guy is the local burgermeister.”

“The what?” Vaccaro asked.