CHAPTER 13

The German snipers slept that night in an old chateau commandeered by the Wehrmacht. The French owners had fled, leaving the German army to inhabit its rooms and grounds. The house was neglected and damp, but it was far better than the cold woods and fields. The mansion had been converted into an indoor campground by hordes of weary, muddy troops. The Germans had also occupied the kitchen, so there was plenty of hot soup and even fresh-baked bread.

As an officer, Von Stenger was able to secure a room that was grand enough to have been the domain of some long-ago Norman baron. The room was able to accommodate Von Stenger, as well as Wulf and Fritz. He took a chance that the chimney still worked and started a small fire in the fireplace, then worked to clean the Russian rifle.

"Do you need help, Herr Hauptmann?" Fritz asked.

"A man always cleans his own weapons. Of course, they need to be fired first," Von Stenger said, giving the youthful soldier a sideways look. At the church steeple today, the boy hadn't fired so much as a single shot. He tossed his boots at the boy. "These could do with a shine. Make sure you do it out in the hallway."

Fritz frowned down at the muddy boots. "Yes, sir."

The boy took the boots and went out. Over in his corner, Wulf gave a low laugh. He was cleaning his own weapon, the standard-issue Mauser that had been converted to sniper use with the addition of a telescopic sight.

"Honestly, sir, I don't know where you got him. That boy has his head in the clouds the whole time."

"You might say I inherited him," Von Stenger said, thinking back to his old companion Willi, whose body was now likely mouldering in some mass grave the Allies had dug. That was duty for you.

"You should send him away, sir," Wulf said. "He will only cause trouble for us."

"He will prove useful when the times comes," Von Stenger said. "Until then, who else would I get to shine my boots?"

Wulf made a guttural, mirthless sound that Von Stenger took to be a laugh. "Are we going back to the church steeple in the morning, sir?"

"A sniper never returns to the same place if he can help it," Von Stenger said. He was a little surprised Wulf had thought that's what they would be doing, but he reminded himself that while Wulf had been to sniper training, this was his first time in actual combat.

Earlier that day, he had worried briefly about being trapped in the church steeple by the enemy, or perhaps once the American tank opened fire. The tank crew had proved to be terrible shots, and then the Tiger tank had come along and destroyed the Sherman with a spectacular show of German superiority. If that was the best that American tanks could do against Panzers, an awful lot of them were going to be turned into burning wreckage.

He found himself lapsing into the instructor tone he would have taken at the sniper school. "Never use the same sniper's nest two days in a row. Never come and go by the same route. If you can, fire and move on. Those are the rules a sniper must follow if he wishes to survive long on the battlefield."

"Like you, Herr Hauptmann?"

"Yes, Wulf, like me."

Fritz appeared in the doorway again. "How many men have you killed, Herr Hauptmann?"

Both the boy and Corporal Wulf waited keenly for his answer, but Von Stenger took so long to respond that they thought it was possible he had not heard the question. Finally, he spoke. "When I began my career, in Spain where we supported General Franco’s troops, I used to keep count. It was a matter of pride. And the Spanish were very tough to kill, so that was something."

"How many?"

"Eighty in Spain. Then came Poland. I ran out of bullets because there were so many to shoot."

"You were in Russia," Wulf said. Every German soldier knew that to have fought and survived as a sniper on the Eastern Front was the ultimate test. “That’s where you earned your Knight’s Cross.”

Von Stenger touched the medal, then shrugged. "Well, I gave up counting back in Poland. One begins to realize that a sniper does not kill so many as a few well-placed bombs, but do you think our Luftwaffe bombers worry about their tally? So I stopped counting. There are many ways to determine one's success in war. For example, having done my duty for the Fatherland, I came home from Russia with my life, and with this rifle."

"A Russian sniper rifle."

"Yes," Von Stenger said.

When Von Stenger did not elaborate, the boy said, "I must finish your boots, sir."

"Good, and after you have shined my boots I want you to find the following four items and bring them to me. A burlap sack, forty feet of rope, a uniform tunic and a helmet."

The boy suddenly looked near panic. "Where am I going to get a uniform and a helmet, sir?"

"From someone who isn't wearing them," he said. "Be resourceful."

Once the boy had left to complete his assignment, Wulf asked, "Sir? What's all that business about with the tunic and helmet?"

"We are going hunting tomorrow for our own kind, and we must have a trap for them."

While the old house was short on warmth, there appeared to be no shortage of wine from the cellars. The boy returned with a bottle as well as the items Von Stenger had requested. They shared the wine by the fire, and then both Wulf and Fritz went to their blankets. The boy curled up and went to sleep instantly, reminding Von Stenger of a dog, legs kicking, mouth hanging open. Only the young could sleep so deeply and artlessly. Wulf was soon snoring in his corner.

Von Stenger hardly thought of himself as old, but in some ways he already had a lifetime of memories, and not all of them were pleasant. Wulf and the boy had asked how many he had killed in his career as a sniper. While he had shot a great number of men — and even women — he could easily recall many of the individual deaths. These memories clung to him and weighed down his mind, fending off sleep like armor.

Restless, he poured more wine, sitting by the fire and smoking, making plans for the morning. It was better to think ahead than dwell on the past. There was no doubt the Americans would attack, and when they did, there would be a trap waiting for them at one of the river crossings.

* * *

"Let's move out," Lieutenant Mulholland said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, but his voice sounded croaky and tired nonetheless.

The Americans woke up cold and groggy, with any hopes for a hot cup of coffee dashed by the chatter of machine gun fire nearby. The German defenders were hard at work in the early morning light, if they had even slept.

A colonel was making the rounds, handing out orders, the stub of an unlit, well-chewed cigar hanging from his mouth. Mulholland had reported to him last night, making him aware of the sniper squad's presence. "Lieutenant Mulholland, I need you and your men on a counter sniper operation."

"Yes, sir."

"We have us a situation at the La Fiere Bridge," the colonel said. He produced a map, which was damp and badly wrinkled. Taking the cigar out of his mouth, he used it to jab at the map, leaving wet, ashen smudges. "Our boys are trying to get across the Merderet River there, only the Jerries won't let them. We keep throwing more men at it, and they keep throwing more men at it, and meanwhile it's a big goddamn Mexican standoff."

"I understand, sir."

"Do you? Then hell, you are way ahead of me. That bridge should have been taken by oh six hundred on D-Day, and here we are on D plus three still messing around with the Jerries. But you're not going to the goddamn La Fiere Bridge." The colonel stabbed at the map again. "This is a tributary of the Merderet and it's got a much smaller bridge. It’s near a village called Caponnet. The bridge is too small for armor because the damn thing would probably collapse under the weight, but we can move some men across and maybe come in behind the Jerries at La Fiere."

"Yes, sir."

"It's the same story there, though, in that the Jerries don't want us to cross the goddamn bridge. I’ve got reports coming in this morning that the Jerries have it covered with snipers, thick as ticks as a hound dog that's been coon huntin' all night. I need you and your boys to dig ‘em out."

Mulholland tried not to reflect on the fact that his experience as a sniper spanned roughly three days. "We'll sweep it clean, sir."

"You've got a can-do attitude, son, and I like that. Just keep your head down and give those Jerry snipers hell."

Lieutenant Mulholland started to salute, then stopped himself, remembering that it was bad policy. At any rate, the colonel had already moved on. Dawn was breaking, daylight was sweeping over the wood and fields of Normandy's bocage country, and there was much to be done. It looked as if the sun was actually going to show itself today, which would be something, after a string of gloomy, overcast days. Instead of the sound of birdsong, he could hear the distant chatter of small arms fire, growing louder.

Mulholland thought that it was a hell of a thing to watch the sun come up and yet know that you had a good chance of being killed before it set. He tried not to think about that too much.

He looked around for the French girl. She was standing beside Private Cole, sharing a cigarette with him. They both looked up as he approached. For the first time, he noticed that she had flat, black eyes like wet stones. There was certainly nothing soft or feminine in her glance. Cole's eyes couldn't have been more different — clear as cut glass or river water on a cold morning. They were just as empty of emotion. It was hard to tell what Cole was thinking, but there was a kind of primal intelligence and cunning in those eyes that unsettled the lieutenant. It was like looking a wolf in the eye.

"Mademoiselle? I need you to take us to the Caponnet bridge."

"Oui." She exhaled smoke. "I know the way."

A couple of the men moved off into the brush to relieve themselves, and then they started down the road toward the bridge.

Chief was dead, killed by the sniper in the church steeple. That left the lieutenant, Cole, Jolie, Meacham and the wisecracking Vaccaro. The British airborne trooper had asked to tag along.

"I'll be damned if I'll ever find my bloody unit," he said. "I've yet to see another Brit. It's Americans everywhere I look. Maybe I could join up with your squad, sir."

"Suit yourself, Neville. But we're supposed to be snipers. Are you any good with a rifle?"

Neville hefted his submachine gun. "You worry about the long shots, sir, and I'll take care of the close work. I'm also prepared to grenade Jerries, knife them, garrote them, beat them at poker or drink them under the table as the need arises."

Mulholland had to smile. "All right, Neville. We can use a man of your talents."

"I'm sticking close to this one," Neville said, nodding at Cole. "He looks mean."

Vaccaro spoke up: "What about me? I'm goddamn deadly with this rifle."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Neville said. "Do me a favor, mate, and walk in front of me. I'm a little worried that you might accidentally shoot someone."

"You limeys ought to be glad we're here. Otherwise you'd all be speaking German this time next year."

"Bollocks to that." Neville patted his submachine gun. "We were doing just fine on our own."

Vaccaro snorted. "You live on an island. It's not even like a real country."

"Keep it up, Yank, and I'll save the Jerries the trouble."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Knock it off, you two," Mulholland said. "Neville, I didn't make you part of this squad to pick fights with my men."

"Sorry, sir," Neville grumbled.

They moved out. Jolie kept them off the main roads that brought the greatest chance of running into German troops or tanks, leading them down sunken roads between the hedges or dirt lanes that were little more than paths through the countryside. It was clear she knew the territory well, because she never paused to consult a map or compass. The only map she appeared to need was the one in her head.

They soon heard the sound of running water and came out into a field bordering the tributary of the Merderet River. This smaller river was swollen with spring rains and running swiftly, threatening to overflow its banks and flood the low fields beyond. Though not particularly wide, the river was too swift and deep to wade across. No wonder the bridges were proving so essential, and why the Germans were either blowing them up or fighting tooth and nail to keep them in the hands of their own troops.

They came to another road that curved away from the river, and Jolie led them down it. Before long, they encountered a unit of American airborne troops, hunkered at the base of a towering hedge at a bend in the road. Mulholland found the captain in charge, who looked weary, his face covered in stubble, and asked him what was happening.

"German snipers have us pinned down," he said. He jerked his chin at two bodies that lay fifty feet further along. Another man was in the middle of the narrow bridge, crying out for a medic. "My men went to help him, and it turns out the snipers were using him for bait. We're in their blind spot right now, but when we move toward that bridge we're right in their line of fire. Those poor bastards never had a chance, never knew what hit them. We could rush the bridge, but they would get a hell of a lot of us by the time we got across."

"How many snipers?" Mulholland asked.

"There's one up ahead, and another one in the woods on that hill to the right. I hate these goddamn snipers. Nothing but sneaky bastards." For the first time, the airborne captain seemed to notice the scoped rifle Mulholland was carrying. "Present company excepted. You're on our side, after all. We've captured two Jerry snipers so far, and let's just say they died of lead poisoning before they made it back to the POW processing point."

"We'll have a go at them," Mulholland said.

"Be my guest," the captain said. He shook a Marlboro out of a red and white pack, then raised his voice to address his men. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em, boys. We're gonna let someone else have all the fun for a change."

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