Ghost Sniper

He took out his Walther P38, set it on the table beside the plate, and put a newspaper on top of it. The orderly appeared in the doorway, followed by a French woman Von Stenger did not recognize. He guessed that she was in her early twenties, and she was good looking rather than pretty. She wore trousers, which was in itself unusual, and an unflattering sweater the color of old dead leaves; her hair was pulled back in a business-like bun and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. The dark eyes that glanced at him were wary and sly, like those of a fox. This was no simple local girl. One of the maquis, he thought. French Resistance. He stood out of politeness as she entered, but as he did so he kept one hand on the table beside the newspaper.

“Hello mademoiselle,” he said in French, bowing politely but keeping his eyes on her. “I do not believe we have met. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The young woman hesitated, and her hand drifted to the small of her back, just where she would keep a knife or pistol. His hand edged closer to the hidden Walther. Then the woman dropped her hand.

“You are Von Stenger? I have information for you.”

“In that case, you are just in time for supper.” He told the orderly to drag an empty chair up to the table. He would have done it himself but he did not want to turn his back on this woman. “Please, have a seat.”

“Really, I must—”

“Join me,” he said. “I insist. I hope you have not come to tell me that we have a bastard child together, like these poor wretches in the hall. What will you French do to them once we have gone?”

“Once you have gone?”

“Mademoiselle, the Allies have landed thousands of troops and scores of tanks. They control the skies. It is a foregone conclusion that we cannot hold Normandy. The numbers are not in our favor. But we shall make them pay dearly for it. Please, join me.”

The woman sat, and the orderly was back in a minute with an empty plate for her, as well as a knife and fork. She stared, somewhat wide-eyed, at the steak and potatoes. The French had to make do with less wholesome fare, while the best food went to the occupiers.

“That smells delicious,” she said, and slowly, as if against her better judgment, she reached for her knife and fork.

“The spoils of war,” he said. Von Stenger considered a moment, and then asked the orderly to bring him the bottle of Bordeaux that he had been keeping in his rucksack, wrapped carefully in a rag. “I have been saving this for a special occasion. I have the feeling that tonight may be my last opportunity to enjoy it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Please, let us enjoy this food and a glass of wine, and then we shall discuss whatever it is you have to tell me.”

The orderly produced two dusty water glasses that were none too clean, but Von Stenger supposed the alcohol in the wine would neutralize anything harmful. He then made sure the orderly found a third glass, which Von Stenger filled for the orderly before sending him into the hall.

“I did not realize that German officers were waited upon in this fashion,” she said.

He chuckled. “Rank has its privileges in the Wehrmacht. We don’t always have it so good, you know. I nearly lost my toes in Russia. Of course, you French are no strangers to the finer things. Might I remind you that we are in a chateau that was built in the seventeenth century as home to a baron. We should be grateful to him. Come now, enjoy your meal.”

They ate in silence for several minutes. Von Stenger thought the wine was particularly good with the steak. The orderly had left the bottle on the table, and he poured himself a second glass. They both must have been hungrier than they thought, for soon all that was left on their plates were a few scraps of fat and potato skins.

Von Stenger pushed his chair back from the table. “Now, what have you come to tell me?”

“In the morning, you Germans are planning to attack Bienville and take back the village, which is now held by the Americans.”

“Are we?” Von Stenger sipped some wine. “Hmm. That is quite delicious, wouldn’t you agree? If only we had some cheese to enjoy with it. Now, I don’t wish to be rude, mademoiselle, but usually when one is an informant it is customary to supply information about what the enemy is planning.”

“There is only a small force of Americans holding the town at the moment, but they have been reinforced by several snipers.”

“There are snipers everywhere in the bocage.”

“One of these snipers has a Confederate flag on his helmet. Some of his comrades call him the Johnny Reb Sniper. He is, by far, the best sniper in Normandy. He likes to say that he can shoot the eye out of a flying bird.”

“That would be fine shooting,” Von Stenger agreed. “But I have to respectfully take exception to him being the best sniper in Normandy. You see, that would be me.”

“I have heard you are called The Ghost.”

“It is a name I came by in Russia. The Eastern Front. Compared to Normandy, you might wonder why anyone would fight over that place.”