Red Sniper

The news came and went that President Roosevelt had died. Nobody had known what to make of that, or what to make of this new president, Truman. He seemed to be a steady and reliable man. The Russians and even the Germans had speculated on what the news meant, considering that FDR had been president for sixteen years—in fact, he had been in power longer than Stalin or Hitler. But the transfer of power turned out to be uneventful. Democracy’s institutions made for a smooth transition. The Soviets could scarcely believe that there had been no coupe attempts or secret plots to seize power.

The grand events taking place on the world stage gave the average soldier something to think about as he contemplated his place in these events. Cole, however, was mostly bored.

Today, he finally planned to have a little fun.

He looked pointedly at Vaccaro. “Come on, then, if you’re comin’.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Cole and Vaccaro struck out for the countryside. It felt strange to walk along the roads without having to worry about meeting an enemy patrol. Cole carried a pack, but along with ammunition, it held four bottles of beer wrapped in damp rags to keep them cool, and some ham sandwiches.

They walked through woods and pastures, until they came to a large, level field. “This here spot will do,” Cole said.

Strictly speaking, what Cole had in mind was against regulations. It was a funny thing, but in the Army, you weren’t allowed to shoot your rifle whenever you wanted. Especially now that the war was over, there was not much call for shooting.

When the Russians had paid them a visit, Cole had sought out one of the Russian drivers who was not part of the festivities or photo shoots. The driver happened to have an almost brand new Mosin-Nagant rifle. The Russian had been glad to trade it for a carton of cigarettes.

Since then, Cole had been eager to shoot it. He knew this was the rifle that the Ghost Sniper had used with deadly effect in Normandy, and then in the Ardennes Forest. What was so damn special about it?

Cole walked out and used four sticks, like giant pushpins, to secure a target to a haymow two hundred yards away. The target in this case happened to be the front cover of Life magazine, featuring a picture of a Buddha statue in Japan. Then he walked back and picked up the rifle.

It was a heavy beast, weighing much more than his Springfield. There was nothing graceful about the Mosin-Nagant. The Russians had manufactured a blunt instrument in the plainest way possible, almost like a shovel or a hammer that happened to shoot.

This rifle had open sights rather than a telescope, so he would not be able to use it for real distance shooting. However, the target in the field would give him an idea of what this weapon was like.

The driver had thrown in a few rounds of 7.62 mm ammunition. Cole inserted the five-round magazine.

He put the rifle to his shoulder, lined up the rear sight with the front sight so that they both hovered over the paper target. He took a deep breath, held it, let the ball of his finger gently take up the pressure on the trigger. Almost by surprise, the butt slammed into his shoulder.

“Damn thing kicks like a mule,” he said. “How did I do?”

Vaccaro had brought along Zeiss binoculars that he had liberated from one of the small towns they had passed through early that spring.

“Looks like you nicked old Buddha’s ear. See if you can do any better.”

Cole fired four more shots, two from a standing position, doing yet more damage to Buddha. He passed the rifle to Vaccaro, who also fired it five times. That used up the ammo he had gotten from the Russian.

Cole decided the Mosin-Nagant wasn’t any better than the Springfield or a Mauser. In his assessment, the rifle was too heavy and kicked too much. He had no doubt, though, that in the right hands it was a deadly sniper weapon.

“Ready to trade up?” Vaccaro asked.

“I think I’ll keep ol’ Betsy,” Cole said. “The thing about shooting is that it’s like an apple pie. There’s different recipes, but it all comes down to the apples.”

Vaccaro looked at him. “Now that was hillbilly wisdom if ever I’ve heard it.”

Cole set aside the Russian rifle and reached for his Springfield. Everything about it, right down to how it fit his left hand and the pocket made by his shoulder, felt so familiar. ”Let’s see how rusty I’ve gotten with this thing. You ready? Call the targets.”

They started with the paper target. With the four-power scope on the Springfield, Cole was able to put a bullet square in the Buddha’s forehead. Vaccaro said the magazine cover was too easy, and picked out a tree on the other side of the field where a huge branch had sheared off, leaving a blank patch on the trunk.

Cole fired. Wood chips flew.

Next was a stone that someone had set on top of the wall in the next field over.

Cole’s bullet knocked it flying.