Red Sniper: A World War II Thriller

CHAPTER 10

Vaccaro looked at the Mosin-Nagant rifle in Cole's hands.

"You're really going to do it, aren't you?" he asked.

"I'd like to see someone try to stop me. You comin’ or not?"

“Hell yeah," Vaccaro said. "What's the worst that could happen? It’s not like they can send us to the front. The war’s over.”

Cole was feeling itchy, or maybe just plain ornery — there wasn't any other way to describe it. It all came down to there being nothing to do. He did not mind sitting for hours on end, staring through a rifle scope — but this business of having nothing to do jangled his nerves. Some men passed the time drinking and playing cards, or chasing the local fräuleins. Fraternization with the enemy was officially forbidden, but there wasn’t much the hungry local girls wouldn’t do, being so desperate for food from the well-supplied Americans.

The women didn’t much interest Cole. If he longed for anything, it was the sense of power that being a sniper had given him. Now he was just a nobody. He missed the biting smell of cordite. He spent hours cleaning his rifle, and then cleaning it all over again.

The war had just plain petered out. For the Americans, there had been no final, climactic battle. The fighting at the end had been in fits and starts, with brief but vicious skirmishes in a final bloodletting. Then the Germans surrendered. Spring became summer and now there was talk of starting to send everyone home. Guys were talking about the first thing that they were going to do once they got home.

From their side of the Elbe River, the Americans kept a nervous eye on the Russians, who, in turn, kept watch on them.

They had gone through the motions of seeming like Allies and old friends, but the actions rang hollow. The Russians had sent over some emissaries to meet the Americans, and there had been much swapping of cigarettes, toasts with vodka, and many photographs taken. Everyone kept their guns handy, just in case.

The news came and went that President Roosevelt had died. Nobody had known what to make of that, or what to make of this new president, Truman. He seemed to be a steady and reliable man. The Russians and even the Germans had speculated on what the news meant, considering that FDR had been president for sixteen years — in fact, he had been in power longer than Stalin or Hitler. But the transfer of power turned out to be uneventful. Democracy’s institutions made for a smooth transition. The Soviets could scarcely believe that there had been no coupe attempts or secret plots to seize power.

The grand events taking place on the world stage gave the average soldier something to think about as he contemplated his place in these events. Cole, however, was mostly bored.

Today, he finally planned to have a little fun.

He looked pointedly at Vaccaro. “Come on, then, if you're comin'."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Cole and Vaccaro struck out for the countryside. It felt strange to walk along the roads without having to worry about meeting an enemy patrol. Cole carried a pack, but along with ammunition, it held four bottles of beer wrapped in damp rags to keep them cool, and some ham sandwiches.

They walked through woods and pastures, until they came to a large, level field. "This here spot will do," Cole said.

Strictly speaking, what Cole had in mind was against regulations. It was a funny thing, but in the Army, you weren't allowed to shoot your rifle whenever you wanted. Especially now that the war was over, there was not much call for shooting.

When the Russians had paid them a visit, Cole had sought out one of the Russian drivers who was not part of the festivities or photo shoots. The driver happened to have an almost brand new Mosin-Nagant rifle. The Russian had been glad to trade it for a carton of cigarettes.

Since then, Cole had been eager to shoot it. He knew this was the rifle that the Ghost Sniper had used with deadly effect in Normandy, and then in the Ardennes Forest. What was so damn special about it?

Cole walked out and used four sticks, like giant pushpins, to secure a target to a haymow two hundred yards away. The target in this case happened to be the front cover of Life magazine, featuring a picture of a Buddha statue in Japan. Then he walked back and picked up the rifle.

It was a heavy beast, weighing much more than his Springfield. There was nothing graceful about the Mosin-Nagant. The Russians had manufactured a blunt instrument in the plainest way possible, almost like a shovel or a hammer that happened to shoot.

This rifle had open sights rather than a telescope, so he would not be able to use it for real distance shooting. However, the target in the field would give him an idea of what this weapon was like.

The driver had thrown in a few rounds of 7.62 mm ammunition. Cole inserted the five-round magazine.

He put the rifle to his shoulder, lined up the rear sight with the front sight so that they both hovered over the paper target. He took a deep breath, held it, let the ball of his finger gently take up the pressure on the trigger. Almost by surprise, the butt slammed into his shoulder.

"Damn thing kicks like a mule," he said. "How did I do?"

Vaccaro had brought along Zeiss binoculars that he had liberated from one of the small towns they had passed through early that spring.

"Looks like you nicked old Buddha’s ear. See if you can do any better."

Cole fired four more shots, two from a standing position, doing yet more damage to Buddha. He passed the rifle to Vaccaro, who also fired it five times. That used up the ammo he had gotten from the Russian.

Cole decided the Mosin-Nagant wasn't any better than the Springfield or a Mauser. In his assessment, the rifle was too heavy and kicked too much. He had no doubt, though, that in the right hands it was a deadly sniper weapon.

"Ready to trade up?" Vaccaro asked.

"I think I'll keep ol' Betsy," Cole said. "The thing about shooting is that it's like an apple pie. There’s different recipes, but it all comes down to the apples."

Vaccaro looked at him. "Now that was hillbilly wisdom if ever I've heard it."

Cole set aside the Russian rifle and reached for his Springfield. Everything about it, right down to how it fit his left hand and the pocket made by his shoulder, felt so familiar. ”Let’s see how rusty I've gotten with this thing. You ready? Call the targets."

They started with the paper target. With the four-power scope on the Springfield, Cole was able to put a bullet square in the Buddha’s forehead. Vaccaro said the magazine cover was too easy, and picked out a tree on the other side of the field where a huge branch had sheared off, leaving a blank patch on the trunk.

Cole fired. Wood chips flew.

Next was a stone that someone had set on top of the wall in the next field over.

Cole's bullet knocked it flying.

A hawk soared far in the distance, drifting on the air currents as if in slow motion. Vaccaro called it, but added, "Cole, if you hit that bird I'll name my first born after you."

Seconds later, the hawk tumbled from the sky.

Vaccaro said nothing for a while, which was unusual for him. Then he gave a low whistle. "I'll be damned. You are scary with that rifle. I'm not sure that even I could have hit that hawk."

"Vaccaro, you can barely hit that paper target. Who are you kidding? Here, take the rifle.”

Vaccaro shook his head. “That’s the difference between you and me, Hillbilly. I don’t care if I ever shoot a rifle again. What would I do with a rifle in Brooklyn? Nah, once every summer I can go out to the shooting gallery at Coney Island, and that will be plenty for me.”

“Well, City Boy, let me just say it straight. You done earned yourself that trip to Coney Island. Now, you want a ham sandwich?”

Vaccaro took the sandwich, then glanced over a Cole. Most soldiers talked about home, how good they’d had it with mom’s cooking or maybe how lucky they’d been with the local girls, and how they couldn’t wait to get back there. Vaccaro understood that distance put things in soft focus and that home was never as good as anyone remembered it.

Cole, however, hardly ever talked about growing up. In fact, it was hard to think of Cole as a kid — except maybe a smaller version that was just as lean and rangy, with the same serious expression on his face. He did know that Cole’s daddy had been a mean drunk. He knew that Cole had never really gone to school. Beyond that, Vaccaro knew better than to ask.

Cole handed him another sandwich. “Just like a Sunday School picnic,” he said.

“Did your Sunday School teacher bring beer along, too?” Vaccaro wondered. “That’s my kind of religion.”

They sat in the grass and ate the sandwiches and drank the beer, soaking up sunshine. It was the best that Cole had felt in a long time, but he realized it wasn't because they were playing hooky from the Army. It was because he had finally gotten a chance to do some shooting.

The beer made them both lazy in the warm afternoon. They shared the knapsack as a pillow, both of them stretched out in opposite directions. They had done this by necessity in the war; now it just felt companionable. Cole was starting to drift off when he heard the whine of an approaching Jeep. He sat up.

"Aw, hell. We done made somebody nervous."

The Jeep was being driven by a couple of MPs, distinguishable by their white armbands and the white bands on their helmets.

Cole and Vaccaro weren't making any particular effort to hide, but the road was far from the edge of the field. One of the MPs stood up in the Jeep and waved at them.

"If we run, they're not gonna catch us," Vaccaro said.

"Shut up, Vaccaro. You ever try to outrun a Jeep?"

Instead, they packed up and headed toward the Jeep, fully expecting to be get in hot water for disturbing the peace.

The MP was a big, thick-necked fellow.

"Are you Cole?"

"Well, I reckon I am."

"You are wanted at HQ, sir. You're late for a meeting. We've been looking for you since this morning. One of your buddies said you might be out here testing a rifle. We heard the shooting and figured it might be you."

"A couple of regular detectives," Vaccaro said.

"Who are you?" the MP asked.

"My name's Vaccaro."

"Nobody said anything about you, Vaccaro. But we'll give you a ride back, if you want."

They got in the back of the Jeep.

"What's this about?"

"Nobody told me, sir."

Cole was getting confused about this "sir" business from the MPs. "Listen, I'm only a corporal."

"That's not what I was told. I was ordered to find Sergeant Cole. Apparently, you’ve been promoted."

"That's news to me. How can I get promoted and be late for a meeting I didn't know about in the first place?"

The MP grinned. “That's the Army for you. You're always the last to know."