Red Sniper

Unfortunately for Whitlock, his descent had not gone unnoticed. As he wrestled with the chute, trying to get out of the harness, he saw a truck with bluish-gray paint drive up at the edge of the field. Three figures started running toward him. Soldiers.

Whitlock looked around him. The field was large, and there was absolutely no cover. He was having a hard time getting out of the harness. By the time he did, the soldiers were close enough that he could make out the details of their faces under the square helmets. Damn, but two of them were fast. He soon saw why. The quick soldiers were just teenagers, skinny and rangy. The third soldier, who was running more slowly, bringing up the rear, was practically an old man, closer to sixty than forty. The trio was some sort of home guard, then, not regular Wehrmacht. That did not change the fact that all three had rifles. Pointing at him.

When he raised his arms in surrender, he realized that he was shaking.

• • •

The two younger Germans looked excited about having captured an American. Wearing giddy smiles, the boys herded Whitlock toward the truck at gunpoint. It was as if they had just won a game of Capture the Flag, and he was the prize.

The older man looked grim, evidently more aware than the boys of the seriousness of the situation. He did not seem to outrank the boys, at least not by any rank visible on his uniform, but was their de facto commander due to his age. In civilian life, he could have been their schoolteacher or perhaps a successful village merchant. He had that softness about him of an indoors man, but also an air of casual authority.

The boys certainly shaped up when he barked something at them in German. The older man used his rifle to point Whitlock toward the truck, and then climbed in after him with the boys. An even older man was behind the wheel. He hadn’t bothered to get out.

They all rode together in the back of the truck. Nobody bothered to tie his hands—he was unarmed, and where could he go? These young guys had already shown that they could run like rabbits, and the older one looked like he wouldn’t mind using that rifle of his. Unlike the boys, he did not appear excited, but world weary and distracted, as if he missed his classroom or his shop.

One of the young ones offered him a drink from a canteen, which Whitlock accepted gratefully. He drank and drank, having been unaware of how thirsty he was. He supposed it was fear that had turned his mouth to cotton.

He finally remembered to think of Bronson. They had waited together in the chow line this morning. Now Bronson was dead. Lucky Girl was gone. He glanced at his Timex watch and realized that from the time the German fighter had attacked until he had touched down in the field, just fifteen minutes had elapsed. It seemed like hours. The whole thing felt unreal, like a bad dream.

Whitlock sat in the battered truck, aware that the three German soldiers were staring at him. Nobody attempted conversation. They drove out of the countryside, and into a town. In the distance, Whitlock could see heavy smoke rising, presumably from where the squadron had delivered its payload.

At least one of the bombs had gone off target and struck the town. The truck slowed, and then stopped as they passed a smoking crater, beside a building that was now largely rubble. A crowd of people, mainly civilians, was attempting to put out several small fires with buckets. Whitlock realized that there wasn’t much to burn—mostly there were just piles of rubble. Other villagers stood nearby, weeping.

“Get out, American,” the middle-aged soldier said in English. “I want to show you something.”

Whitlock did as he was told, surprised that the man spoke English, though it was heavily accented. I vant to show you sum-tink.

On the ground, the two young guards gestured at Whitlock, and then seemed to make an appeal to the older man. He held out his hand to Whitlock. “These boys want your coat.”

Whitlock shrugged out of the heavy leather jacket with its warm sheepskin lining. He felt exposed without it—and cold. The boys flipped a coin, and the winner slipped on the coat, which was too big for him. Searching the pockets, the kid found a packet of Beeman’s gum, which he gave to the other boy as a consolation prize.

The older man pointed the way, and they walked a short distance to the ruined building. Whitlock had no idea what the German wanted him to see. Maybe it was a portrait of Hitler or some other symbol of the Third Reich? The walls of this building still stood, and Whitlock noticed a smear of red. It looked exactly as if someone had dipped a large paintbrush in crimson paint and swiped it on the wall.

Then Whitlock saw. Nearby on the ground were the bodies of two girls in school uniforms, partially covered with a blanket. He was horrified to realize that it wasn’t paint that he saw on the wall, but blood.