The Master Sniper

they saw him, two big American fighter-bombers, out hunting this spring morning. Their white stars flashed as they roared overhead and not long afterward he heard them pounce, some miles off to the east. Presently a lazy stain of smoke rose to mark their success.

But Repp moved on, uncurious, and did not see another human form until late that afternoon. He came suddenly to a concrete road that headed south. He paused for a moment, wishing he had a map. There were no road signs. The landscape was flat and empty. He vacillated, fearing he hadn’t made enough distance on his slog through the mud. Either way, the road looked deserted. Finally, he decided to risk it for a few miles, ready to drop off and disappear at the first sign of danger.

This damned job is making a coward of me, he thought.

The freedom of the road filled him with a kind of liberation: after the mud that sucked at his boots, clotting heavily, this firm-packed surface seemed a paradise. He plunged on at a furious pace.

He heard the Kubelwagen before he saw it; turning, he was astonished at how close the small dun-colored car was.

Now where did that bastard come from? he wondered.

The damned thing was too close for him to hide from; they’d seen him but the first thing he noticed as the car drew closer was that it was jammed with a pack of sorry-looking regulars, as gray in the face as in their greatcoats.

The car didn’t even slow up for him. It barreled by, its sullen cargo uninterested in one more fleeing soldier. Repp, emboldened, hurried on. Several more vehicles passed, some even with officers, but all jammed with men. There wasn’t room for him if they’d tried — and they were all regulars too, no SS men.

One of them slowed.

“Better get a move on, brother. Americans aren’t too far behind.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Repp said.

“Sure. You’ve got surrender written all over you. Well, good luck, all’s lost anyway.”

The car sped up and soon was gone.

Just at sunset Repp came upon some old friends. Sergeant Gerngoss and the whiner Lenz and the others of the engineer platoon waited by the road.

They hung neatly from branches in a copse of trees. Gerngoss looked especially apoplectic, outraged, his immense form bowing the limb almost to the snapping point. His face was purple and white spittle ringed his lips. Eyes open, booming out of the fat face. The sign on him read: “THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO SCUM.” Lenz, nearby, was merely melancholy.

The spectacle had drawn a small crowd of other stragglers. They stood in awe of the bodies.

“The SS did it to ’em,” somebody explained. “The fat one there really put up a fight. The SS boys said they’d shot some of their pals up near Haigerloch.”

“The SS shits only knew it was an engineer platoon, and here was an engineer platoon.”

Repp slipped away; he was working on the next problem: the bridge. The Danube here was young, formed not fifty kilometers to the west at Donaueschingen, from two converging Schwarzwald streams, the Breg and Brigach, but still it moved with considerable force through a picturesque but enclosed defile of steep cliffs. He could not swim it this time of year, for it was swollen with winter meltings; he didn’t think he had time to hunt up a boat. He walked on down the road and went around the few houses — an unnamed hamlet — that stood on this side of the Danube from Tuttlingen. Cutting through backyards and over stone walls, he came soon to a road and beyond it a stand of trees. He penetrated this growth and found himself staring shortly into yawning space. He was at cliff’s edge. He wished he had binoculars.

Still, below, he could make out the ribbon of water, smooth and flat and dark, bisected neatly by a six-arched stone bridge. A road led down the cliff to it and, looking carefully in the falling darkness, he was able to detect two Mark IV Panthers dug in next to the bridge. Dappled Kubelwagens and a few motorcycles were ranged along it. He thought he could see men laboring just beyond the bridge to dig defensive positions. And wasn’t that a raft of some sort moored to one of the center arches, and two soldiers struggling to plant explosives? Repp realized the mess in a flash. Of course. The engineers who’d been sent south to blow the thing had been executed.

He knew that if he headed down there with his vague story and obsolete papers, he’d either be shot out of hand as a deserter or thrown into the perimeter. These boys were sure to make a fight of it when the Americans arrived, have some fun with their antitank gear, and then fall back across the bridge and blow it to pebbles in the Ami faces. He envied the fellow whose job it was — a real war to fight, not these games — and briefly wondered about him; an old hand, probably, from the cleverness of the arrangement, not one to panic in the face of fire. He wished him luck, but it wasn’t his business. His job was merely to get beyond, to keep moving south.

But how to get beyond?

He felt the press of time. How soon would the Americans arrive? Damn, he had to get across before they showed. He didn’t want to give them another crack at him: one had been enough. Yet to head farther east along this bank was no solution; if anything the river became more of an obstacle. There were certain to be other bridges and other battles.

Repp pondered, crouched at the edge of the cliff.

“Enjoying the scenery, soldier?” a harsh voice demanded.

Repp turned; the man had approached quietly. He knew what he was doing. In the fading light, Repp recognized tough features and unsympathetic eyes: an SS sergeant in camouflage tunic, cradling an STG, stood before him. Over the sergeant’s shoulder back through the trees, Repp could see a half-track out on the road, its cargo a crowd of soldiers.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Repp replied. His hand had edged cautiously inside his tunic.

“You’re another wanderer, I suppose. Separated, but still trying to join up, eh?” Rich amusement showed in his eyes.

“I have papers,” Repp explained.

“Well, damn your papers. Wipe your ass with them! I don’t care if you’ve got a note from the Fuhrer himself, excusing you from heavy duty. We’re preparing a little festival for the Americans down at the bridge and I’m sure you’ll be happy to join us. Everybody’s invited. You’ll fight one more battle and fight it as an SS man, or you’ll taste this,” the STG.

Repp stood. Should he shoot the man? If he did, the only way out was down, fifty meters, the face of the cliff.

“Yes, sir,” he said reluctantly.

Goddamn! he thought. What now?

He bent to pick up the rifle.

“Leave that, my friend,” the sergeant said sweetly, as if he were delivering a death sentence. “It’s no good against tanks and tanks are on the menu tonight. Or had you thought I’d turn my back and you’d let me have it?”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Major Buchner said round up bodies, and by God I’ve done it. Sorry, stinking cowardly bodies, but bodies just the same. Now move your butt,” and he grabbed Repp and threw him forward contemptuously.

Repp landed in the dirt, scraping his elbow; as he rose, the sergeant kicked him in the buttocks, driving him ahead oafishly, a clown. Repp stood, rubbing his pain — some of the men in the half-track laughed — and ran forward like a fool, the sergeant chasing and hooting.

“Run, skinny, run, the Americans are coming.”

Repp scurried to the half-track. Hands drew him in and he found himself in a miserable group of disarmed Wehrmacht soldiers, perhaps ten in all, over whom sat like lords two SS corporals with machine pistols.

“Another volunteer,” said the sergeant, climbing into the cab of the vehicle. “Now let’s get moving.”

That Repp had been taken again and was about to fight in what must certainly be counted a suicidal engagement was one of his great concerns; but another, more immediate one was this Major Buchner, who, if his first name was Wilhelm, had served with Repp at Kursk.

“Okay, boys,” the sergeant yelled when the half-track, after a descent, halted, “time to work for your suppers. Sir,” he called, “ten more, shirkers the lot, but charmed to join us just the same.”