Gods & Snipers: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Seventeen

"Sniper!" someone shouted.

The warning wasn't really needed, considering that the crack of the rifle shot from beyond the village spoke for itself.

One of the men from Captain Norton’s squad was down in the square, a pool of blood already spreading out from beneath him. The man had died instantly. Cole scrambled for the fountain, Vaccaro close on his heels. A third man pressed himself against the stone, panting for breath. Cole was surprised to see that it was the general.

"You reckon this is the start of another attack?" Vaccaro wondered.

"No, they'll need time to regroup," Tolliver said. He added with a bitter note, "The Jerries are just doing this to harass us."

Cole said nothing, but watched the surrounding hills with his pale eyes.

Another shot rang out. A woman screamed, and Cole turned in time to see a puff of stone dust drifting away from the wall of a house. Margot had been carrying a pile of clean sheets and towels for the makeshift aid station that had been set up in her house. Margot stood there as if pinned to the wall, her eyes wide with terror.

"Someone get her indoors!" Tolliver shouted.

No sooner had the words had even left his mouth, then Frenchie came running out of the house, grabbed Margot by the arm, and pulled her inside. A couple of towels fell off the pile she'd been carrying and fluttered to the pavement.

Another bullet smacked into the stone where she had stood only an instant before.

Cole turned back to the woods. Low hills rose just beyond the village, which sat in a kind of hollow bowl beside the river. All that the sniper would have to do is get up in those hills, into one of those trees, and he could pick off the defenders.

Which was just what he was doing.

The problem was that it was almost impossible to determine where the shots originated. Cole couldn't see the muzzle flash — the day was gloomy, but not gloomy enough. The noise of the rifle echoed and bounced off the low hills, giving no indication of where the sniper was hidden.

As Cole's eyes searched and his ears strained for any clue, the sniper fired again. Someone screamed from one of the houses. The screaming went on and on, and he could envision someone standing over a dead body in horror. Someone must have been peeking out a window, and the German noticed. That sniper was good; he'd give him that much. But in rankled Cole that he was shooting at civilians.

Cole fired the rifle at the hills. He didn't even have a target. He ducked down, and an instant later a bullet smacked into the fountain. The sound of the rifle shot rolled and echoed toward them.

"What the hell?" Vaccaro said. "He knows we're here now."

"Now that we got his attention, he's not going to shoot at the people in town."

The general spoke up. "This is your department, son. We can't let a sniper pin us down until the next attack. We need to prepare."

"Yes, sir."

“I like your plan. He doesn't know that you're shooting at nothing. Shoot back and give the son of a bitch something to worry about. I'm going to make a run for it."

Cole grinned crookedly. "I reckon it's your funeral, sir."

Tolliver shook his head. “That’s not the best way to put it, Private.”

“Ain’t no good way to say it, sir.” Cole turned to Vaccaro. “City Boy, here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna shoot. When that Jerry shoots at me, you shoot back. Get down low on the side of the fountain, like you were there waiting for him and I was just the bait."

"What am I shooting at?" Vaccaro asked. "I can't see him."

"Just aim for that hill yonder. I reckon even you can hit that. Like the general said, he don't know if we figured out where he's at or not, so he'll keep his head down for a while." Cole turned to the general. "Ready, sir?"

Tolliver nodded, got in position to run, looking like a sprinter.

Cole stuck his head above the rim of the fountain long enough to get off a shot, then ducked down. The general was already running for the solid walls of the aid station. From the hills, he heard the sound of a rifle shot and then a bullet smacked the fountain. From the ground beside the base of the fountain, Vaccaro fired.

The German didn't shoot back.

"Maybe you got him," Cole said.

"If I did, that would be the luckiest damn shot of the war."

"Yeah, well. Like the general said, you done gave that Jerry somethin' to worry about. If he's smart, he's gonna move."

They had just executed the classic sniper trick of bait and switch. Lure the enemy into firing at a target, and then have a second sniper take the shot when the enemy had revealed himself. The German would recognize the tactic. For his part, it stood to reason that the Americans must have a target. Right about now, he would be wondering how the Americans had somehow spotted him.

The hills had fallen silent. One of the first rules of surviving as a sniper was to keep moving. Even after one shot, it was wise to think that your position was now on its way to being compromised. The enemy could zero in on where you were hidden. The best option was to move with stealth to a new sniper hide. Cole supposed this was exactly what the German was doing. After all, he had plenty of woods and hills to choose from. And then he could start shooting up the village all over again.

Cole kept low behind the fountain and rubbed at a gouge in the smooth curve of the lip that hadn't been there ten minutes ago. Those Mauser bullets could do some damage. His stomach rumbled, and he realized he was hungry. And thirsty. He took a swig from his canteen, the water tasting metallic. He gulped it down. The hunger would just have to wait. In fact, he liked being a little hungry because it kept him sharp.

"Maybe I could get in behind him," Cole said. "It would only take me, what, a few hours to sneak out of the village and up on one of those ridges, and then work down toward him."

Vaccaro snorted. "You could do that if you had a few hours, but it's going to be dark soon. He'll be long gone by then. Besides, you're just as likely to run into half the German army in the meantime."

"Half the German army?" Cole snorted. "You think that's what's out there trying to take this village?"

“To hell if I know," Vaccaro said, annoyed at Cole’s mocking tone. "Feels like it, anyway. So, what are you going to do?"

"You mean, what are we gonna do? We are gonna stay right here and shoot at the bastard from time to time."

"Shoot at what? We can't see him. We have no idea where he's at."

"Don't matter," Cole said. "He don't know that we don’t know where he’s at. Not for certain he don’t. As long as he keeps focused on us and worries about us shooting back at him, he won't bother to shoot up the rest of the village."

"In other words, we're the bait. Sitting ducks.”

"You got it. We can move once it gets dark. Just try not to get shot in the meantime, City Boy."

Over in the makeshift aid station, Frenchie was trying to calm down Margot. She had nearly been a victim of the German sniper, whose bullet had barely missed her. As that realization settled in, Margot began shaking badly. This was a normal reaction to almost getting shot. She was a brave woman, but her nerves were already stretched thin by the day’s events. Margot and her small village had found themselves thrust into war.

Frenchie had poured her a glass of water, but her hands were shaking so badly that she couldn't bring it to her lips. She put the glass down in frustration.

"Here, let me help you," he said gently in French.

Margot took the glass once again in her trembling hands. Frenchie put his hands over hers and helped guide the glass to her lips. Margot smiled.

"Thank you," she said.

"See? Just like you helped me when I first got out of that river. I was weak as a baby, but you fixed me right up.”

Margot smiled shyly in reply.

At that moment, General Tolliver came barreling through the door. He was panting; the last time that Frenchie had seen him, he'd been taking cover behind the village fountain with Cole and Vaccaro. The general must have sprinted over from there. Frenchie started to get to his feet, but the general waved him down. It took him several moments to catch his breath.

”Not as young as I used to be,” Tolliver said. “She OK?"

"She's pretty shaken up, sir."

Tolliver nodded, then seemed to finally notice that Frenchie was on his knees beside her chair, helping her hold a glass. A faint smile crossed the general's face. "You seem to be taking good care of her, soldier."

"Yes, sir."

"If there's any fighting that needs to be done, though, I don't want you skulking in here with this young lady. I know you're the next thing we've got to a medic, but when those Jerries hit us again we're going to need bullets, not bandages. There just aren’t enough of us. You report to Sergeant Woodbine when the time comes."

"Yes, sir."

Tolliver nodded. "Now, is there a back door to this place, and where does it go? That sniper has the front covered and I need to make sure that we are ready to defend this village, which I can't do hunkered down in here."

Frenchie asked Margot that question, and she pointed and explained that it opened into the alley.

That was all that Tolliver needed to hear. Seconds later, he was out the back door.

"That sniper could shoot anyone in the village!" Margot said. "I must make sure that Marcus stays inside."

She had started to get up, but Frenchie held her gently by the elbow before she could run out the door. "Your brother will be fine," he reassured her, speaking French. “He wouldn’t want you to get shot, either, while looking for him. If he takes after his big sister at all, he has plenty of sense."

"How can we stop the sniper?" Margot wondered.

"That's the problem with snipers. They are pretty hard to deal with. But we have a couple snipers of our own. Especially that guy Cole. Let's let him deal with that German."

"Cole? I know the man you mean. He has the look of a killer." Margot held up her right hand, which trembled like a leaf in a storm. She exclaimed, "Look at it shake!"

"Being shot at has a tendency to do that to a person. Believe me, I know,” Frenchie said. "I've got an idea. This might help."

Along with some meager supplies for bandages and a pot of soup, one of the townspeople had provided a bottle of rough red wine. Frenchie poured her a small glass full, and helped Margot steady the glass that she raised to her lips. Her fingers felt warm and soft to the touch, milky white. And so clean! He was a little embarrassed about his own hands, which were rough as sandpaper and stained with gun oil and grime, no matter how hard he scrubbed them. He was glad, at least, that his swim in the river had washed the stink off him. Any sort of shower or clean clothes were out of the question in the combat conditions he had been living in.

She drank down the wine in one long swallow.

"Better?" he asked.

Margot nodded.

"Sugar or alcohol always help the jitters." He held up the bottle. "More?"

"Non," she said. "We have work to do."

Their work consisted of caring for the wounded. So far, they had been able to patch the wounded right back up with the exception of Private West, the soldier who had been carried into the village after the skirmish on the road to Ville sur Moselle. He was badly hurt beyond anything Frenchie or Margot could do for him. He felt cold to the touch no matter how many blankets they covered him with, and he had slipped into unconsciousness. Perhaps that was a blessing. He had lost a lot of blood and the only real hope for his survival would be a bag of plasma and possibly a surgeon. For that, though, they would have to link up with the advancing Allied forces. Right now, a German unit stood between them and any kind of help, so getting the man to a field hospital was not an option.

Their other job was to make ready for more casualties. There were bound to be more wounded once the Germans hit them again. This was why Margot had been carrying in towels and old sheets when the sniper had gotten his crosshairs on her.

"How long do we have?" she asked.

"The attack could come at any moment," he said. He nodded at the sheets. "We had better start making bandages."

With the general gone out the back door, it was just him and Margot working quietly, side by side. This close, he noticed how good she smelled. Like clean laundry and vanilla. He stopped working for a moment and just sat watching her. Margot must have felt his eyes on her, because a red flush crept across her face.

He would gladly have spent all day here, working alongside Margot. Frenchie hoped that the Germans took their time getting around to the next attack.