Ghost Sniper

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Neville said. “Do me a favor, mate, and walk in front of me. I’m a little worried that you might accidentally shoot someone.”

“You limeys ought to be glad we’re here. Otherwise you’d all be speaking German this time next year.”

“Bollocks to that.” Neville patted his submachine gun. “We were doing just fine on our own.”

Vaccaro snorted. “You live on an island. It’s not even like a real country.”

“Keep it up, Yank, and I’ll save the Jerries the trouble.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Knock it off, you two,” Mulholland said. “Neville, I didn’t make you part of this squad to pick fights with my men.”

“Sorry, sir,” Neville grumbled.

They moved out. Jolie kept them off the main roads that brought the greatest chance of running into German troops or tanks, leading them down sunken roads between the hedges or dirt lanes that were little more than paths through the countryside. It was clear she knew the territory well, because she never paused to consult a map or compass. The only map she appeared to need was the one in her head.

They soon heard the sound of running water and came out into a field bordering the tributary of the Merderet River. This smaller river was swollen with spring rains and running swiftly, threatening to overflow its banks and flood the low fields beyond. Though not particularly wide, the river was too swift and deep to wade across. No wonder the bridges were proving so essential, and why the Germans were either blowing them up or fighting tooth and nail to keep them in the hands of their own troops.

They came to another road that curved away from the river, and Jolie led them down it. Before long, they encountered a unit of American airborne troops, hunkered at the base of a towering hedge at a bend in the road. Mulholland found the captain in charge, who looked weary, his face covered in stubble, and asked him what was happening.

“German snipers have us pinned down,” he said. He jerked his chin at two bodies that lay fifty feet further along. Another man was in the middle of the narrow bridge, crying out for a medic. “My men went to help him, and it turns out the snipers were using him for bait. We’re in their blind spot right now, but when we move toward that bridge we’re right in their line of fire. Those poor bastards never had a chance, never knew what hit them. We could rush the bridge, but they would get a hell of a lot of us by the time we got across.”

“How many snipers?” Mulholland asked.

“There’s one up ahead, and another one in the woods on that hill to the right. I hate these goddamn snipers. Nothing but sneaky bastards.” For the first time, the airborne captain seemed to notice the scoped rifle Mulholland was carrying. “Present company excepted. You’re on our side, after all. We’ve captured two Jerry snipers so far, and let’s just say they died of lead poisoning before they made it back to the POW processing point.”

“We’ll have a go at them,” Mulholland said.

“Be my guest,” the captain said. He shook a Marlboro out of a red and white pack, then raised his voice to address his men. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em, boys. We’re gonna let someone else have all the fun for a change.”

CHAPTER 14

While Lieutenant Mulholland was talking with the squad leader, Cole took a good look at the countryside. The woods and fields of the bocage were green with spring, and yet the morning gloom managed to make the landscape appear dismal and foreboding. The road meandered toward the bridge, reminding him of one of the winding roads back home, which folks liked to say followed whichever way the cows had wandered back in the old days when livestock and deer made most of the trails.

On the far side of the river was an abandoned mill with a rotting, moss-covered mill wheel that still turned in the current. Beyond the river and mill was an open field that sloped up toward the woods that hid the snipers. Behind the Americans, and before the curve in the road that hid them from the snipers, was a similar hill.

He turned to Jolie. “Is there another bridge across that river?”

“Non,” Jolie said. “Not for miles. This is the only way across.”

“I was afraid you might say that.”

“Bien sur it is the only bridge, which is why the Germans are guarding it.”

They were in the bottom of a kind of bowl, with the river running through like a crack. If someone could get up on the high ground, into a tree, they might have a good shot at the enemy snipers. But it was at least 600 feet from the German position—someone would have to be a damn good shot, assuming he even had a target. It was likely that the Germans would be camouflaged and hard to spot.

There were now six in the sniper team, including the Brit and Jolie. It was hard to know how many German snipers they were going up against, but from the sounds of it there were at least two, and the Jerries had the upper hand. They needed a plan. The wounded soldier on the bridge was sobbing in pain.