Iron Sniper: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Three

Cole worked the bolt of the Springfield, but held his fire. There wouldn't be any need for a second shot.

He had felt as much as heard the sound of his bullet hitting something wet and solid. Meaty. Like a steak slapped down on a cutting board.

"I reckon that done it," Cole said.

"I hope so, because that was it for Gertrude," Vaccaro replied, looking down sadly at the broken head. "Maybe that's just as well. She was getting heavy to carry around."

They lay there for several minutes, letting the heat soak into them and waiting for any movement from the barn. Cole picked a stem of tall grass and put it in his mouth, sucking at the sweetness. Vaccaro flicked a finger at the pebbles in the road.

But there was only stillness. Then they began to creep forward. When they reached the doorway, Cole nodded at Vaccaro to cover him, and then stepped inside.

He blinked to adjust to the darkness after the bright daylight. He found the sniper's body just about where he thought that it would be. He grabbed hold of the collar and dragged the dead sniper out into the sunlight. It didn't take that much effort. The dead sniper was just a skinny kid. He couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. Blond hair. Staring blue eyes. Did he even understand what he was fighting for? Back home in Gashey's Creek, Cole had a younger brother about the same age. It was a hell of a thing.

"Goddammit," Vaccaro said. "He was just a kid."

Cole stared down at the body without comment.

One of the soldiers in the squad came up and ducked into the barn, emerging with the German's sniper rifle. It was a bolt action Mauser K98 on which was mounted a Zeiss Zielvier 4x scope. All in all, it was a very efficient weapon, produced in large quantities. This particular rifle had been made in Oberndorf. Judging by the dead kid at their feet, the Germans seemed to be running out of actual soldiers, but they didn't seem to have any shortage of weapons. In the hands of a skilled sniper, it had a range even greater than the Springfield. Even in the hands of a half-trained teenage kid, it had been more than deadly.

The GI whistled and held the rifle aloft. "Look at this, fellas. Pretty nice rifle."

"Hey, did he have a Luger on him?" somebody called out. We can't lug around another rifle."

"Give it here," Cole said.

The GI shrugged and handed it over. Expertly, Cole ejected the magazine clip, then pulled the bolt and flung it into the field. Then he took the rifle by the muzzle and swung it against the stone wall of the barn. The scope flew off and shattered, but Cole kept bashing the rifle against the stone, again and again. By then he was breathing heavily.

One of the soldiers started to say something, noticed the look on Cole's face, and clammed up.

Alarmed, Vaccaro spoke up. "C'mon now, Cole. Take it easy."

Cole kept going until the stock shattered. Only then did he fling what was left of the rifle far into the summer grass. He tossed the broken sight in the opposite direction.

Without a word, he picked up his own rifle and moved down the road.

Vaccaro just shook his head and followed, wondering if his buddy the hillbilly had finally lost it. The thought made him more than a little unnerved. If anyone was born to be a sniper, it was Cole. That hillbilly was a goddamn deadeye. Made you glad he was on your side.

If someone like Cole started to lose it, what the hell did that mean for a normal human being?

That night, Cole wasn't able to sleep. His body was exhausted, but his mind raced. Every time he started to drift off, he saw that dead German's eyes.

He gathered up his blanket roll and his rifle to head outside. The rest of the squad was strewn across the interior of a barn where they had taken shelter for the night, but he had a sudden need to be alone, and to have nothing overhead but the stars and sky.

Through the summer haze, he picked out Scorpius and Lyra and the Big Dipper. His pa, who had known more about the woods and mountains than any man alive, had taught him the constellations — when he'd been sober.

He looked for Orion, the Hunter, but that was a winter constellation.

Looking up at the stars made him feel better. Calmer. People had been gazing up at those same stars since the world began. The stars gave him some perspective on troubles and sorrows.

He had lost his cool today when that dumb cocksucker had grabbed up the German sniper's rifle like a damn trophy. That wasn't like him. Something in him had snapped.

He had needed some time tonight to think it through.

The thing about the Army was, there was never a moment's privacy. From the time you got to boot camp until the day you got your discharge papers, you were constantly surrounded by other soldiers. You ate together, showered together, slept together. Cole supposed that someone, somewhere, might enjoy that feeling of never being alone. Vaccaro came to mind. He thrived on being around other people. Then again, he was a city boy, so what could you expect?

Cole himself missed being alone. He longed for the solitary woods and empty mountain valleys. It was from these empty, lonely places that he gained his energy. Being around people all the time sapped his inner strength.

It wasn't the first time that Cole had gone off on his own. Vaccaro stirred long enough to ask, "You're not worried about some German saboteur coming around to cut your throat?"

"Ain't nobody sneaked up on me yet," Cole said.

He made sure the sentry on duty saw him — no sense in getting shot by your own side — then found a secluded spot and stretched out under the stars.

It was true that Cole was a light sleeper. A boyhood spent hunting alone in the mountains had ingrained that habit. The old-timers called it sleeping with one eye open. Deep in the mountains there were bears, a mountain lion or two, and crazy old moonshiners who would just as soon cut your throat than take a chance that you would rat out their still. Cole would take his chances with German saboteurs any day.

The truth was, he needed some time alone just to think. Cole was no philosopher, but he understood that there was a difference between being alone and being lonely. As much as possible, he put a shell around himself and didn't let many people inside. Vaccaro was an exception. Jolie Molyneaux had been another.

Cole looked up at the sky, guessing that it was close to midnight by the placement of the stars. He never bothered to wear a watch, but could tell time day or night to within a few minutes of the hour.

He realized that something else nagged at his mind. It was like the way that you could tell there was a storm coming. The way the air got very still, and the way that breeze stirred and cupped the pale underbellies of the mountain ash leaves.

You sensed the storm coming, and then you finally heard the thunder.

He wondered if it was Von Stenger.

Was the German dead? That German sniper had shot and badly wounded Jolie, and damn near killed Cole. The experience had left Cole spooked. It was not a feeling that he'd had before, and he didn't much like it. But as far as Cole knew, Von Stenger was dead in a flooded marsh near the town of Bienville.

No, it wasn't Von Stenger. Maybe that particular German would return to haunt him later. This didn't feel like him. The storm that was coming for Cole was a different one. But he could sense it all the same.

The coming storm would keep him focused. He would welcome the thunder and rain. He would much rather fight a real enemy than shoot brainwashed kids that had been given rifles.

Lying there under the stars, his thoughts kept flying every which way like they'd been shot out of a scattergun. He needed sleep. Three or four hours of shut-eye before heading back into the field would do him good.

Cole closed his eyes and slept, but deep down, the feral animal part of his mind prowled restlessly, keeping watch, waiting for the storm to break.