Ghost Sniper

“Exactly. I need you to distract him. Walk straight toward him. Do not run. Give him some time to notice you.”

“Notice me?” Fritz’s eyes grew wide. “But sir—”

“I will be here in the woods with my rifle, covering you. If you do not do exactly as I have explained, I will shoot you myself. And I never miss.”

The boy had gone pale. Von Stenger had wondered if he had as much between the ears as a rabbit, but it was clear he knew that he had just been given orders for a suicide mission. If the American sniper did not shoot him, Von Stenger would.

Von Stenger positioned himself behind a good-sized log on the forest floor, using the log to steady the rifle. “Now go.”

The boy stepped out of the woods. Von Stenger trained the crosshairs on the black slit of the mill window, waiting for the American sniper to reveal himself.

• • •

What the hell?

Cole watched in disbelief as a German sniper walked out of the woods. A slew of possibilities ran through his mind. Cole wondered if the German was challenging him to a duel. Maybe the German planned to surrender? But the Jerries he had seen so far in Normandy weren’t the surrendering type. Besides, this one had a firm grip on his rifle, holding it as if he expected to use it as soon as he found a target.

Didn’t the Jerry know he was a dead man walking, out in the open like that?

Cole kept his eye pressed tightly against the rifle scope. He didn’t know for sure what was going on, but he didn’t like it one bit. Not so long ago he had been shivering, but now sweat ran down his sides from his armpits, making the rough material of the grain sacks itch. He didn’t dare scratch for fear the movement would give him away.

One thing for damn sure, if there was still a sniper in those woods, his crosshairs were on the mill window.

Cole’s sweat ran faster.

• • •

The Airborne troops taking shelter on the road couldn’t really see what was happening in the field, but up in the woods on the American-held side of the river, Vaccaro did have a clear view. He was also mad as hell that Meacham was dead, and feeling vengeful. It wasn’t that he had known Meacham all that well, but he was one of their own, goddamnit.

When he saw the German heading down the hill toward the mill, it was like a gift. Vaccaro wasn’t the best shot in the world, but with the crosshairs settled on the German he thought it would be hard to miss.

Vaccaro tightened his finger on the trigger.

He fired before the German sniper had taken five steps out of the woods. But Vaccaro hadn’t been able to hit three empty liquor bottles from 100 feet back on the beach. His skills fell short of hitting a real live walking German from more than 600 feet. The bullet kicked up dirt five yards from the soldier’s feet. The soldier seemed to stumble, and he looked back at the woods, but then he kept coming straight at the mill. Walking, not running.

That Jerry has either got some brass balls or he’s the biggest idiot to ever cross the Rhine, Vaccaro thought.

He put his eye to the scope again. This time, he aimed a little higher.

• • •

Down in the mill, Cole held his fire.

It made no sense to him that the Jerry kept coming. Up on the hill, Vaccaro or Meacham fired again. The shot smacked off a tree trunk somewhere behind the Jerry. Had to be Vaccaro. Hell, that city boy really couldn’t shoot for shit. What about Meacham? Had one of the German snipers gotten lucky and taken him out?

The next shot from the hill answered his question. It went wide, kicking up dirt and grass.

Definitely the city boy.

The German sniper was halfway across the field, walking faster now that the bullets were zipping in, but not quite running.

Cole put his crosshairs on the German’s chest. The soldier’s face sprang up close. The face in the optics belonged to a fresh-faced boy, who looked scared as hell.

This wasn’t some Nazi fanatic or battle-hardened soldier. There was a lot of baby fat in that face—evidence of yet another boy who had been caught up in war and didn’t belong there, only this one was German. Cole couldn’t help but think of Jimmy. Another lamb to the slaughter.

Looking closer, that’s when Cole saw the tape on the German’s hands. Was the boy wounded? Hell no, somebody had taped his hands to the rifle.

Cole couldn’t figure that one, but the young sniper was getting within can’t miss range of the mill. Forty feet. Thirty feet. The Jerry pointed the rifle at the mill window.

With the crosshairs still on the German, his finger began to squeeze the trigger. If the Jerry came two steps closer—

The chatter of machine gun fire interrupted his concentration. Off to his right was another slit window and through it he had a view of the bridge. The Brit, Neville, was charging across, submachine gun spraying bullets toward the woods. He stopped at the wounded man, grabbed him by the back of the collar, and started dragging him to safety.