Ghost Sniper

Mulholland attempted a smile. He looked to the colonel for help, but it was clear the man hadn’t understood a word. His own high school French was so rusty it creaked, so all he could manage was, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Molyneux. I’m afraid I didn’t understand what you said. Uh, comment allez-vous?”

His guide sucked deep on her American cigarette, exhaled. “Do not worry, Lieutenant, I speak English. What I said was, I will be your guide, but we are probably screwed.”

Mulholland blinked. “Oh.”

“There you go, son,” the colonel said. He gave Mulholland a hearty clap on the shoulder. “Get your men together and move out as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” He saluted.

The colonel moved off, leaving him with the Resistance fighters. Looking around at them, Mulholland couldn’t help but wonder what the hell he and rest of the 29th Division were doing in France. It wasn’t exactly a warm welcome.

“The first rule of sniper warfare is not to salute anyone,” his new guide said in a matter of fact manner. “Not unless you want to get them shot. Snipers target the officers”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind, Mademoiselle Molyneux. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find my men.”

CHAPTER 7

Mulholland found the sniper right where he had left him not long after dawn. He was eating some kind of stew out of a tin cup, his rifle propped up nearby. There was something watchful about the sniper, as if he were sizing you up the way that a fox eyes a rabbit. He made Mulholland uneasy. He didn’t bother to salute or stand—it was clear he didn’t have much use for officers.

“That was some shooting you did yesterday,” Mulholland said. “I never did catch your name, soldier.”

“Cole.”

“My name’s Mulholland. Get your gear together and come with me,” the lieutenant said.

Cole simply nodded, not bothering to yes, sir him.

He finished off the stew in two or three unhurried bites, wiped out the cup, and got to his feet. They’d been so busy yesterday killing Germans—and trying to stay alive while they were at it—that Mulholland hadn’t really gotten a good look at Cole. He did so now. The sniper was not a particularly tall man, definitely shorter than Mulholland, but he was so lean and wiry that he gave the illusion of being taller. Though young, he looked tough and weather beaten, like a piece of oak root or a leather belt that had gotten wet and been left in the sun to dry. Nothing soft or citified about him. Up close, he looked mean and tough.

Yesterday, Mulholland had noticed that there was a country twang in the sniper’s voice, some kind of hillbilly accent that came from someplace deep and old back in the mountains, the kind of accent they still had in the sort of places across America that didn’t listen much to the radio or make it to the movies.

Cole’s eyes were his most striking feature. They were nearly colorless, empty of any emotion. Spooky. The lieutenant looked away.

They headed back to headquarters, Mulholland leading the way and Cole following along a couple of paces behind, off to one side.

He found the other men waiting for him. There were three of them. With himself, Cole and the French guide, that made six of them to take on the Jerries.

“Listen up, I’m Lieutenant Mulholland. I don’t know how much you know, but basically we’ve been designated as a counter-sniper unit.”

“Just six of us, sir?” asked a big, raw-boned soldier.

“That’s right, soldier, just us.” Mulholland knew it was crazy, one of those FUBAR situations that seemed an everyday occurrence in the United States Army. He couldn’t tell that to these men, of course, so he put it in simpler terms. “The German snipers have been chewing us up something terrible, and it’s our job to put a stop to it. What’s your name, soldier?”

“Meacham, sir. Tom Meacham.”

Meacham was some sort of farm boy, well over six feet tall. The rifle looked small in his hands. If they had been picking a football team, Meacham would have been his first choice. But a sniper? The kid looked like he’d be too big and clumsy.

“Do you have any experience as a sniper, Meacham?”

“I used to do some hunting back home,” the kid said, managing to look embarrassed as he said it, like he’d been caught bragging.

Mulholland liked him and felt he could trust him.

He moved on to the next soldier. He had an olive complexion and a smirk. “Who are you, soldier?”

“Vaccaro, sir.”

“What’s your experience as a sniper, Vaccaro?

“I’m the best shot here. I’ve been on this beach for twenty-four hours and I’ve already sniped a dozen Jerries. I shot their Nazi asses off! Hell, we ought to be able to put marks on our rifles like the aces do when they shoot down planes.”

“We’ll see about that, Vaccaro.”

The lieutenant moved down the line to the third man. “You’re up,” he said. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“John Kingfisher, sir.”

“What is your experience as a sniper, Kingfisher?”

He shrugged. “I got volunteered.”

“Well, you must be good with a rifle.”