Gods & Snipers: A World War II Thriller

Chapter One

On the day that Caje Cole lost his sniper rifle, it finally rained. After a spell of summer heat and drought, the skies opened up and drenched the French countryside. Lightning laced the sky and thunder rumbled deep as any distant German 88. An autumn chill rode in with the rain and wind.

It was September 1944. The fight to push the Germans out of France had been tough and bloody. Even the rain couldn’t wash away the many signs of war in the wrecked vehicles, burned villages, and fresh graves in the fields.

The wet weather also kept Allied planes grounded, which meant that German tanks could operate unimpeded, roving the French countryside. Sherman tanks were suddenly scarce, forced into inaction by a lack of fuel. For the men on the ground, nothing felt quite so unnerving as wondering if you were going to run into a Panther tank around the next bend in the road.

German forces had been in an organized retreat since they had lost the final battle for Normandy at the Falaise Pocket, but the weather gave them a window of opportunity to organize a counterattack. One thing about the Germans — they weren't giving up anytime soon. The Jerries were making the Allies pay a heavy price for every square mile of territory gained.

As a result, Cole and the rest of the small patrol moved cautiously along a narrow road, spread out in single file, with Cole just ahead of Vaccaro. Vaccaro was also a sniper, but he didn’t have Cole’s gift with a rifle. He wasn’t a natural-born predator like Cole. If Cole was a wolf, Vaccaro was more like a junkyard dog. Even now, Vaccaro’s feet plodded, shambling along with his head down, while Cole's eyes moved tirelessly across the landscape on both sides of the road.

Cole was one of those people who was always switched on. He never relaxed. It was a survival trait inherited from cavemen, to worry constantly that a saber-tooth tiger was waiting around the bend. Or a German tank. Before joining the Army, Cole had known only a hardscrabble life in the Appalachian Mountains, where his father was a moonshiner. His own baptism by fire had taken place in those mountains, when he had hunted down his father’s killer when he was scarcely old enough to shave.

Without taking his eyes off the sodden landscape, Cole said, "When it stormed like this back home, the old Cherokee people would say that the gods must be angry."

"The gods, huh?" said Vaccaro, shaking his head. He had grown up Italian Roman Catholic in Brooklyn. He knew about Mary, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, but not gods in the pagan sense. "If you ask me, I don't think the gods — or God — pay a whole lot of attention to what's happening down here."

"I reckon you'd be surprised," Cole said.

Cole didn't rightly know what religion he was, but he sure as hell believed in the Almighty. The Army chaplains liked to say that there was no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole, and Cole was no exception. He had always enjoyed what the old folks back home called a “bawl and jump” preacher, whenever the Cole family had gone to camp meeting to get some religion. His pa had mostly spent those gatherings selling a few bottles of moonshine and drinking with the other men among the battered, dusty trucks parked in the field. You never would have known it was a dry county.

The problem was that his pa drank more moonshine than he sold. Never mind that he had a wife and children to feed — he was more interested in getting good and drunk. Even now, Cole couldn’t hate his pa. He had come to understand that his pa was a weak man in many ways — bad with money and driven to drink. When he was sober, he was at home in the woods like no man alive. You might say that his pa had been a mix of strengths and weaknesses, like most folks.

At those camp meetings, Cole kept among the crowd watching the preacher threaten hellfire and eternal damnation for their sins. He had searched his soul as a boy for sins and come up empty. Now he knew better than to look. "We call him God and the old Cherokees called them gods, so take your pick. The question is, are them gods angry at us fightin' each other, or for not fightin' enough?"

"When I get to the Pearly Gates, I'll be sure to ask St. Peter."

"St. Peter is up in heaven, City Boy, so it ain't likely you'll see him anytime soon."

"Very funny, Hillbilly," Vaccaro said. He grew thoughtful. ”What do you think God looks like?"

Cole thought about that. "Well, I reckon he's about as big as a mountain, with a stony face, and a shock of white hair and a big ol’ beard to match," he said. The rain muffled their voices, so he wasn't much worried about the sound carrying and alerting any Germans down the road.

"Yeah? A big white beard and white hair? That seems about right," Vaccaro agreed.

They walked on. It had been so hot, and for so long, that at first the rain was welcome. The rain washed away some of the blood and softened the scars of war in the landscape. Occasionally, they passed the trunks of shattered trees, bone white in the gloom, or the burned hulks of tanks. The clean smell of the rain kept the smell of burned rubber — and worse — at bay. But for a soldier on foot, rain isn't pleasant for long. Churned by tank treads and horses' hooves and the boots of countless men, the roads turned into a morass.

Their scout-sniper squad was down to four men — Cole, Vaccaro, and two others named Airey and West. The last two were not replacement troops but had been in Normandy since D Day. Cole didn’t know them well because they had only been thrown together a few days ago. Their function was more as spotters — Cole and Vaccaro were the only ones with designated sniper weapons, both of them equipped with scope-mounted Springfield rifles.

Lieutenant Mulholland had been temporarily reassigned to headquarters and the squad had been handed off to a sergeant named Stern, who had caught a burst of machine gun fire two days ago and wouldn't be in charge of anything, ever again. The four men knew their business, though, and Cole was nominally in charge.

Officially, they were attached to an infantry regiment, but the truth was that they were on their own. That was just fine with Cole. Their mission was simple. Whenever they encountered a German sniper, they were to take him out.

It was an important task. A single enemy sniper could hold up an entire company. Worse yet, a sniper might move unseen along a unit's flank and pick off soldiers as the unit advanced. The Germans had a regular training program for snipers and were quite adept at the tactics involved. German snipers learned about camouflage and were equipped with the best telescopic sights available. On the U.S. side, snipers were men who fell into the job and didn’t receive any real training, putting the Americans at a distinct disadvantage.

At this late stage, most of the German snipers tended to be fanatical teenagers — often members of the Hitler Youth — who had been given a modicum of training. They had been taught to shoot but not to survive. Cole and the others didn't much like killing kids who couldn’t have been much more than fifteen or sixteen, but even these kids could be very deadly with a scoped Mauser in their hands.

Unlike adults, these boys didn't understand the rules of engagement. One minute, they would surrender, and then the next minute, they would pull a Luger out of nowhere and start shooting. Crazy kids. It was best not to take prisoners.

They had not encountered any Germans today, but that didn't mean the Jerries weren't there.

Up ahead, he saw a blur of movement through the curtain of rain. Cole raised his fist, signaling a halt. They crouched, ready to fire. Cole put his rifle to his shoulder and peered through the telescopic sight, but all that he could see was more rain.

A voice called out, "Who the hell are you?"

The voice belonged to an American. Cole looked back at Vaccaro, who nodded, then stood up with his rifle raised over his head. Cole stayed on the rifle, eye to the scope, just in case.

Vaccaro shouted into the rain, identifying themselves. "Sniper squad," he added.

They waited a moment, and then several figures began to emerge from the rain, weapons at the ready. The rain made it difficult for anyone to see. It also made everyone wet and miserable. When they saw that the snipers really were Americans, the other soldiers visibly relaxed. Cole counted two dozen men, including a sergeant and a captain. They all moved off the road together into the shelter of some overhanging trees, trying to get a break from the rain. As if matching the mood of the landscape, the leaves had turned a sickly yellow in the fall temperatures. The branches broke up the downpour just enough that they could all light cigarettes.

"You see any Germans, sir?" Vaccaro asked the captain.

The officer shook his head. "Not yet, but you can be damn sure they're out there. This rain is giving them a chance to regroup. How about you? You see any Jerries?"

"Not today," Vaccaro said.

He nodded at Vaccaro's rifle. "Snipers, huh?"

"Yes, sir. There's been quite a lot of on-the-job training involved."

The captain fixed his gaze on Cole, who still hadn't said a word. Cole was still keeping watch down the road because no one else seemed to be paying attention. The war didn’t take smoke breaks. ”You don't say much, do you?"

"No, sir,” Cole drawled.

The captain's name was Norton. He took a deep drag on his cigarette. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, making him just a shade older than most of the soldiers. He was six feet tall with the dark good looks of an actor, like he could be Ronald Reagan’s younger brother. The trouble was that Captain Norton knew he was everything that his men were not and he expressed that in his supercilious tone. Cole had a natural dislike of uppity folks and had gotten on the wrong side of a few officers like that.

"I'm not a bad shot myself, you know, as long as I’ve got a decent rifle,” Captain Norton said. "I was one of the alternates on my team at Harvard for the '38 Olympics in the military patrol competition. Some people call it biathlon. You ever do much of that, soldier?”

“Ain’t never heard of it.”

“Basically, it's an athletic competition involving skiing and shooting."

Cole said, "If we come across any Krauts looking to challenge us to an athletic competition, I reckon I’ll let you know. Sir.”

Vaccaro made a noise that could have been a groan, but that was possibly indigestion. It was true that Cole didn’t say a whole lot, but when he did say something, he often managed to say the wrong thing. Especially where anyone higher ranking was concerned. It seemed like Cole couldn’t help being ornery.

Norton flicked away his cigarette and stared hard at Cole. "What's your name, Private?”

"Cole."

"No wonder you don't talk much, Cole. You sound like a goddamn hillbilly. What do you think about that?"

Cole took his time answering. A tense silence had fallen over the squad. The sound of rain on their helmets grew louder. ”Whatever you say, sir."

"Are you a good shot with that rifle?"

"I done some good with it."

"Yeah? Give it here a minute."

Cole hesitated.

"I said to give it here. That’s an order,” Norton snapped, his voice carrying too far, even with the muffling effect of the rain. If there were any Germans around, he had just alerted them. He held out his hand for the rifle.

Faced with a direct order from the captain and with the squad looking on, Cole had no choice but to hand over the sniper rifle that he had carried since Omaha Beach. "It's a Springfield, sir."

"I can see that," Captain Norton said, taking the rifle. He worked the action. He put the rifle to his shoulder and peered through the telescopic sight. "Not a bad rifle. Not the best I’ve seen, but not bad. I’ll tell you what. I'm going to hang onto this, Cole. We've got an extra grease gun around here somewhere, and you can have that. Sergeant Woodbine? Where’s that M-3?”

Captain Norton slung Cole's rifle over his own shoulder and stood there, as if expecting an affirmative answer from Cole. Cole's face was so hard to read that it was like wet stone in the rain. It was so quiet that the individual raindrops on the sickly leaves overhead sounded as loud as drumbeats.

Vaccaro broke the silence. "You can take my rifle, sir. Or I can give Cole mine. I can take the grease gun."

"No, we'll give the grease gun to the hillbilly," Captain Norton said. “Later on, he can maybe shoot some squirrels with it. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

Cole stiffened. “No, sir.”

But Captain Norton wasn’t done with him. Now he was glaring at the Confederate flag painted on Cole’s helmet. “In case you haven’t heard, the South lost the war. This is the United States Army, goddammit, not the Stonewall Brigade. I want that covered up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Norton indicated the men behind him with a thumb over his shoulder. "Your squad is with us now. Your vacation days are over. You’ll have to pull your weight for a change. Let's get ready to move out."

A sergeant stepped forward and handed the M-3 to Cole. All he said was, "Here you go," but with his eyes and body language, he managed to convey the fact that he thought the captain was being unreasonable. Not that anything could be done about it.

Cole hefted the grease gun and yanked back the cocking lever so hard it was a wonder that it didn't snap off in his hand. Cheaply made out of stamped metal, the entire gun was mass-produced junk intended as a disposable weapon. Its chief attribute was that it could spew a great quantity of lead at close range. It was nicknamed a grease gun because it looked exactly like what you’d expect in a mechanic’s garage if you needed to lubricate a chassis.

Though cheaply made, the M-3 had its uses. The thirty-round magazine was loaded with .45 ACP, which made it a deadly weapon at very close range. The gun basically sprayed bullets. Beyond a couple hundred feet, hitting anything was mainly a result of the number of bullets heading at the target rather than marksmanship.

By comparison, Cole's Springfield rifle could reach out across a vast distance. He wasn't scared of getting close to the Germans, but it just wasn't his style.

The grease gun’s muzzle wandered in the direction of Captain Norton. The captain had moved away to light a cigarette and didn’t notice.

Vaccaro put a restraining hand on Cole's arm and muttered, "Don't go shooting him now. I'd hate to be on your firing squad."

Giving Vaccaro a look with his hard eyes, Cole lowered the weapon. Cole had strange eyes that were so clear they could have been made out of ice. Vaccaro knew those eyes could see like an eagle’s, but a cold hatred burned in them as well. Hit with that glare, Vaccaro actually took a step back as if Cole had pushed him.

”City Boy, I'd a thought you'd volunteer for my firing squad," Cole said. ”But I can tell you that if anyone is gonna get shot around here, it ain't gonna be me."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Vaccaro said.

They fell in at the end of their new squad and moved out along the muddy road. Their new squad was a little sloppy, but the rain seemed to have washed away the Wehrmacht. The soldiers walked unchallenged down the muddy road, each step carrying them closer to Germany.

But the war was still out there, somewhere. The chatter of rapid fire carried toward them across the fields and they all tensed up. Out of habit, Cole went to put his rifle to his shoulder, ready to return fire, and remembered that he was now armed with an M-3.

Vaccaro was watching him. "Want to switch?"

“Hell yeah, but ain’t no sense rocking the boat no more. I reckon the captain done made it clear that he wants me to have this here grease gun," Cole said. The firing in the distance tapered off, so he lowered the grease gun and spat. "Fine weapon that it is."

"You'll get your rifle back," Vaccaro said, although he didn't sound convinced. “Give it some time.”

Cole said, "One thing about me, I ain't nothin' but patient."

Vaccaro shook his head. Sure, Cole was patient when he was behind a rifle scope. But at other moments, he was impulsive. And he was vindictive pretty much all of the time. Cole got even, no matter what, and no matter how long it took. A story had gone around that in boot camp, Cole had put up with a bully just long enough to jump him one night and damn near beat him to death with a can of beans stuck inside a sock. You were better off staying on Cole’s good side.

"It's the part about you being patient that's got me worried," Vaccaro said.