Ghost Sniper

The soldier climbed down and kneeled with the bazooka over one shoulder, then nodded at a bazooka rocket propped up nearby. “I found this thing by the side of the road and thought I’d put it to good use. Lend a hand, mate, and load me up. It’s the least you can do, considering I just saved your Yankee arse.”

Cole fed the shell into the rear of the tube, hooked the fuse wire to the launcher, and tapped the Brit on the shoulder.

“You best look out,” Cole told him. “There’s a sniper in the church steeple.”

“Not anymore,” the Brit said, and fired at the church. The top of the steeple exploded, spewing stone and smoke, and through it all came the sharp gong of the church bell. “Now that’s how to make short work of a Jerry sniper.”

Having tossed down the empty bazooka tube, the British soldier got to his feet. By now, the scattered sniper squad had regrouped. Meacham had been nicked in the leg by a machine gun bullet, and came up limping, but Lieutenant Mulholland and Vaccaro had made it through unscathed.

“Private James Neville, British Sixth Airborne Division,” he said, shaking hands all the way around, as if they were at a pub, rather than in the middle of a road in war-torn Normandy. “What you’ll find with your Tiger tanks is that they are tough as a nut to crack, except from above, which is where the Nazis made the armor plating thinner to save on weight. Hit ’em there and it’s like a good, swift kick in the bollocks. Of course, it’s even better if the Jerries have the top open, ha, ha!”

They gazed in wonder at the burning wreck of the Tiger. No one had come climbing out right after the tank was hit, and judging from the spreading flames, they wouldn’t be getting out now.

“We were goners,” Lieutenant Mulholland said. “We can’t thank you enough.”

“I think he got the sniper as well,” Meacham said. “I haven’t heard any more shots from the steeple.”

“We’d better investigate,” Lieutenant Mulholland said. “It’s our job to eliminate snipers, and if he’s not dead, we can’t leave him in place to shoot the hell out of the next unit to come down this road.”

“Mind if I tag along?” the Brit said.

“Suit yourself,” the lieutenant said. “Where’s your unit?”

“Scattered between the coast and Paris, I’d wager,” Neville said. “The drop yesterday morning was something of a TARFU.”

“What’s that?” the lieutenant asked.

“Totally and Royally Fucked Up,” Neville explained. “It’s like your SNAFU but in our own special British way.”

“Good to know,” Mulholland said. “Now let’s go see if you fixed that Nazi’s wagon.”

CHAPTER 12

The snipers edged their way past the burning hulk of the German tank, which popped now with exploding rounds like a Fourth of July celebration and smelled disconcertingly like a barbecue, then headed toward the steeple. The road was like the floor of a slaughterhouse with bodies scattered about. The tank tracks had squashed some of the remains into jelly, oozing now into the thick French mud.

The farm boy, Meacham, stopped, put his hands on his knees, and began to vomit.

“That poor chap has got it right,” the Brit said. “It’s bloody awful, is what it is.”

The next landmark they passed was the still-burning wreckage of the Sherman tank. From there, they moved cautiously, just in case the German sniper was still in residence. But the tower had been quiet since the Brit had fired the bazooka at it.

“I think you cooked that Kraut,” Vaccaro said.

“We’ll see.”

They moved on toward the church, spreading out and running one by one from shrubs or whatever cover presented itself. Still, there was no sign of life in the steeple. The bazooka blast, and before that the glancing shot from the Sherman, had done little visible damage to the church tower aside from stripping off the plaster veneer. The stone walls beneath still appeared sound. Built to last centuries, the steeple was indeed largely unscathed.

They crept cautiously toward the church itself, but there was still no sign of Germans.

“Cole and Vaccaro, go check it out,” the lieutenant said.

The two men approached the doorway, but paused just outside. “I wonder if there’s anybody still in there,” Cole said.

“We’ll just have to put the tip in and see how it feels,” Vaccaro suggested. “I know it always worked with my girlfriend.”

“Well, I ain’t your girlfriend, and thank God for that. You want to flip a coin?”

“Nah, I got this one.” With that, Vaccaro took a quick peek inside. “Nobody.”

Both men entered, soon followed by Mulholland and Meacham. The lieutenant started toward the stairs that led up into the tower, his .45 out and the sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. “Cole, you come with me. We’ll go take a look up top. The rest of you stay here. If there’s a German up there still, we don’t need him tossing down a grenade and wiping out the whole squad. He could do that even if he’s wounded.”

Peering up into the gloom of the stairway, Lieutenant Mulholland went up one step, and then another, making his way slowly.