Ghost Sniper

Cole had already reassembled the Springfield, and now he set it aside and laid the rifle taken from the dead German sniper on the table. “Mauser K98. One thing about these Germans is that they make good equipment. Good planes, good tanks, good rifles. All I can say is we are damn lucky we’re fighting ’em now, after the Russians done worn them down. We’re mostly fighting older men and boys. Good thing, too, or they would have tossed our asses right back into the ocean.”

Expertly, even though he had never done it before, he disassembled the German rifle and set the parts on the blanket: bolt, magazine, scope. Then he dabbed some solvent on a clean rag and began to rub down the bolt action, almost lovingly, removing tiny metal filings and powder residue. When he finished, the metal gleamed.

“Lieutenant Mulholland was not happy with me for going to see Von Stenger.”

“You told him?” Cole shook his head. “The lieutenant ain’t a bad man, Jolie, but he’s a man who follows the rules, which don’t include sneaking behind enemy lines and meeting with the Jerries. Besides, I’ve seen how the lieutenant looks at you like you were a piece of French pastry. Maybe a slice of chocolate cake. Mmm. Mmm.”

Jolie laughed. “You are joking!”

“He was worried about you.”

“Were you worried about me?”

“Hell no. I’ve heard all about you French maquis. Resistance fighters. You’re too tough to worry about.”

“So you do not see me as a piece of chocolate cake?”

“Nope. You look more like stale French bread to me. Or maybe an old baked potato with a leathery skin. Like I said, you’re tough.”

“You know how to flatter a girl!” From the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, she could tell that he was teasing her. She could not help but smile. Then her smile faded as Jolie thought again about how she had not been able to bring herself to stab the German sniper. He would be out there, waiting for them, waiting for Cole, in the morning. “Maybe some of us are not as tough as you think.”

Cole started on the rifle barrel next, threading a cotton patch soaked in solvent onto the cleaning rod. He entered the barrel from the action end, following the path that a bullet would take through the barrel. The Mauser was a slightly different diameter from the Springfield and the rod going into the barrel was a tight fit. He eased the tip in, then worked the rod through until the patch emerged at the muzzle, showing streaks of black where it had reached deep into the contours of the rifled grooves.

Jolie watched him work over the rifle and then finally put the Mauser back together, thinking that he was wasting all that attention on a weapon. Hmm. When he was done, she reached across the table and took his hand.

“What?” he asked.

“Tomorrow may be our last day. I want a good memory to take to my grave.”

She led him into one of the bedrooms upstairs. Neither of them spoke a word. She unbuttoned her blouse, took his hand, and placed it on her breast.

“You call yourself a lone wolf,” she said. “Show me how a wolf makes love.”

Jolie stepped out of her trousers, revealing milky white legs. Cole had heard rumors that the French girls didn’t shave, but her legs were a smooth alabaster. She guided his hand between her legs. Cole’s fingers opened her up and Jolie moaned happily at the realization that he had done this before. This was not the night for virgins. She fumbled for his belt and shoved his fatigues down.

They did not bother to undress all the way. He laid her across the bed and Jolie hooked one leg around him, resting her foot at the small of his back. It was a good thing they were alone in the house because the headboard was soon banging rhythmically against the walls. A framed picture shook loose and fell, but they ignored it.

Noise carried far in the almost deserted town, so Jolie took his fist and put it in her mouth, biting down as a shudder ran through her. When they had both finished, they lay tangled together for several moments, hearts pounding, breath jagged.

Cole noticed the broken picture frame on the floor. He figured the French owners would suppose a bomb had shaken it off the wall; he had to smile at what they would think if they knew the real reason—and what had happened on their bed while they were hiding in the bocage.

Cole rolled over and held her, but there was nothing possessive in his embrace. His lean arms were corded with muscle; Jolie was sure he could have crushed her if he had chosen to.

She wondered how it would have been to have made love to the lieutenant. His body would have been softer, his touch gentler. He would have felt guilty; he would have apologized. He might have proposed marriage. Cole just stroked her contentedly without saying a word. For a night such as this she had chosen the right man.