The Master Sniper (25 page)

He turned to his fellows, who lounged around the informal barricade of vehicles at the bridge. “I promise you some fun before sunrise, boys, party favors and all.” A chorus of laughter rose from around him but someone close to Repp muttered, “Christ, another crazy hero.”

“Here, friend,” someone said without troubling to veil his hostility to Repp, “your weapon for the evening.” It was a shovel.

“Now come on, ladies, let’s get moving. You’re SS men now and the SS always stays busy.” Repp and the other new arrivals were directed to the approach where
others were already digging under the machine pistols of patrolling SS troopers.

“I’d dig if I were you. When the Americans come in their big green tanks, you’ll want a place to stay.”

Repp saw the implication of the arrangement in a fraction of a second. The SS men would be clustered around the dug-in vehicles at the barricade with the heavier weapons—he’d seen a 75-millimeter gun as well as the two tanks, and several MG-42’s; the rest of them, the new recruits rounded up at gunpoint, would be out here in the open in holes. At the last moment they’d be armed with something—
Panzerfausts
, Repp supposed, but their main job was merely to die—to attract some fire, knock out a tank or two, confuse the invaders, impede their progress for just a moment while the Panthers and the gun took their bearings to fire. Then the SS boys would fall back across the bridge on the time bought by the conscriptees, and blow it, and wait out the end of the war in Tuttlingen; for the Wehrmacht there’d be no retreat, only another Stalingrad.

“Herr Sergeant,” a man next to Repp protested, “this is a mistake. I’ve got leave papers. Here. I was in the hospital—Field Number Nine, up near Stuttgart—and they let me out, just before the Americans came. I’m no good anymore. Blown up twice in Russia and once in—”

“Shut up,” said the SS man. “I don’t give a shit what your papers say. Here you are and by God here you stay. I hope you can work a
Panzerfaust
as well as you do that tongue of yours.” He stalked away from the fellow.

“It’s no fair,” said the man bitterly, hunkering down next to Repp to dig. “I’ve got the papers. I’m out of it. I did my part. Pain in my head, bad, all the damn time.
Headaches just won’t stop. Shake so bad sometimes I can hardly piss.”

“Best dig for now,” Repp cautioned. “That doesn’t count a bit with these shits. They’d just as soon shoot you as the Americans. They hanged a bunch of engineers back a way.”

“It’s just no fair. I’m out of it, out of the whole thing. I never thought I’d get out of Russia but somehow—”

“Keep down,” Repp whispered, “that sergeant just looked over here.” He threw himself into the shoveling.

“You know what this is about, don’t you?” the man said.

“I don’t know anything except a man with a gun says dig, so I dig.”

“Well, it’s nothing to do with the war. The war’s over. What I hear is the big shots are escaping with the Jews’ gold. That’s right, all the gold they stole from the Jews. But the Americans want it. They’re going for the Jews’ gold too. Everybody wants it, now the Jews are finished. And we’re caught right in the middle. That’s what it’s—”

“To hell with fancy talk, Professor,” Repp said. “You can’t argue with a man with an automatic.”

They dug together in silence for a while, Repp working hard, finding a release in the effort. He squared his part of the pit off, packing the dirt into a rampart on the lip, sculpting a firing notch. Around him he could hear the clink of shovels going into earth and men quietly groaning, resigned. SS troopers prowled among them. Meanwhile, back among the vehicles on the bridge, other SS men moved about, arranging sandbags, tinkering
with their weapons, uncrating ammunition. Now and then a single detonation sounded in the distance, and once a long sputter of automatic weapon fire clattered out.

“We ought to build a grenade trap,” said Repp, sweating profusely in his labor, his skin warm in the cool night air. He was half worried about blisters that might throw off his shooting, but he couldn’t take the possibility too seriously. If he didn’t get through tonight somehow, there’d be no shooting.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said the professor. “In case the bastards get in close.”

They bent to the bottom of the pit to scour out an angled hole into which to kick grenades to contain their blast, and suddenly the professor whispered into Repp’s ear, “I think we ought to make a break for it. Not now, but later, when the holes are all dug and the SS bastards are back by their tanks. We can move on down the river, get away from the fighting. When the Americans wipe out this bunch, we can—”

“Never make it,” Repp said. “Man on the turret has a machine gun. He’d have us cold unless we could fly like one of those fancy jets. I checked it out, first thing.”

“Damn! Come on, friend. It’s death here for sure. That’s what they got us here for—to die. They don’t care a shit for us; in fact they never did. They just want to take a few more Ameri—”

But Repp was listening to the officer—Buchner? perhaps—as he said to the sergeant, “Get me a driver and a machine gunner. I’m going to take a
Kübel
up the hill and see what’s keeping our visitors.”

“Sir, I could get some of the fellows—”

“I’ll do it myself,” said Buchner, typically. Yes, it
was
Buchner. In the East he’d quickly picked up a reputation for exposing himself unnecessarily to fire.

“I’ll blink my lights when I’m coming in. Got it?”

“Yes, Herr Major.”

He was gone then, and Repp waited with the professor in the trench.

“We can’t wait until the fight begins. We’ll never get out then. We’ll just get the Amis good and mad and they’ll blow our brains out,” the professor said. “They smell that gold.”

Heavy firing broke out ahead. The American column must have run into some resistance in the hamlet. Repp could hear machine guns and tank cannon. Whoever was left up there was putting up quite a fight.

“We’re right in the zone of that gun,” Repp replied. “He’d just chop us down. He’d make sausage of us. There’s no point to it. Relax for now. Do you have a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke. I was hit in the throat and lost my taste for it.”

“Okay, you men,” the sergeant called out. “Be alert. Any minute the show begins.”

“I can’t see a goddamned thing,” said the professor. “They must really want that gold. They usually don’t like to advance in the dark.”

“Now don’t get excited, fellows,” crooned the sergeant from back at the vehicles, low and gentle, “just take it easy.”

“We don’t have any guns, you bastards,” someone yelled from nearby.

“Oh, we haven’t forgotten the Wehrmacht.”

Repp could hear MP-40 bolts snapping. A report almost made him flinch—one of the Panthers kicking into life so there’d be power for its turret. The other joined and the smell of exhaust floated down, and over the engine purr came a deeper moan as the turrets tracked, aligning their long 75-millimeter barrels down the approach.

A man suddenly leaned over the edge of their hole.

“Here,” he said, his breath billowing foggily in the cool, “ever use one of these rocket things? Line up the target through the rear sight against the pin on the warhead. Trigger’s up top, the lever, crank it back to arm it, jam forward to fire. She’ll go like hell and blow anything the Amis make to smithereens.”

“Jesus Christ,” moaned the professor, “that’s all you’re giving us,
Panzerfausts?”

“Sorry, brother. I do what I’m told. Go for the tanks first, then the half-tracks. But watch them too, they’re more than just troop carriers. Some of them mount four half-inch machine guns on a kind of wire frame. Devilish things. And remember, no firing till the major gives the word.”

He was gone into another hole.

“We’re cooked,” said the professor. “This is suicide.” He held up the
Panzerfaust
, a thirty-two-inch tube with a swollen five-inch bulb at one end. “One shot and it’s all over.”

The firing up ahead picked up in pitch. Light flashed through the night.

“Goddamn. I didn’t want to end up in a goddamn hole with American tanks in front and SS tanks in back. Goddamn, not after what I’ve been through.” He began
very softly to pry, and put his head against his arm at the edge of the trench.

The firing stopped.

“All right,” Repp said quietly. “Here they come. Get ready, old friend.”

The professor leaned back in the trench. Repp could see the wet track of tears running down his face, but he’d come to some arrangement with himself and looked at least resigned.

“We should have at least tried,” he said. “Just to die like this, for nothing, that’s what’s so shitty about all this.”

“I think I see them,” said Repp, peering ahead. He cranked back the arm on the trigger lever to arm his
Panzerfaust
, and put it over his shoulder. It was slightly front-heavy but he braced it through the notch in the rampart he’d built. The sight was a primitive thing, a metal ring that lined up with a pin up at the warhead.

“Here they come,” he said flatly.

“Jesus Christ, that’s the major. He just blinked.”

“Easy, men, the major’s coming in,” the sergeant yelled.

“Here they come,” said Repp. He was really concentrating. His two right fingers tightened on the trigger lever.

“Are you crazy?” the professor whispered harshly. “That’s the major.”

“Here they come,” said Repp. He could see the
Kübelwagen
clearly now, its pale-yellow-and-sand camouflage scheme lighter against the blackness, as it ripped along the road at them, trailing dust. Its lights
blinked once again. Willi Buchner stood like a yachtsman in the cockpit of his craft, hands set on the windscreen frame, hair blowing against the breeze, a bored look on his face.

Repp fired.

The
Kübelwagen
ruptured into a flash, concussion instantaneous and enormous. The vehicle veered to rest on its side, flames tumbling out its gas tank.

“Jesus,” said the professor in the moment of silence that followed, “those poor—”

“Who the fuck fired, goddamn I’ll kill you!”
bellowed the sergeant. But then everybody opened up. Two or three more
Panzerfausts
flashed out and detonated, a machine gun back on the barricade began to howl, rifles barked up and down the line, and in exclamation point the Panther 75 boomed, a long gout of flame flaring out from its barrel.

Repp grabbed the professor savagely and pulled him close.

“Come on! Now’s the time. Stay close and you might live.”

He flung him back and slithered over the edge of the trench and began to crawl toward the bridge. The shooting mounted and he could hear the sergeant arguing with it, yelling, “Goddamn, you fools, cease firing!”

In the confusion Repp made it to the barricade, feeling the professor scuttling along behind him. He stood boldly and stepped between a
Kübel
and a cycle out onto the bridge itself.

The firing died.

“Who fired?
Who fired?
Oh, Christ, that was Major
Buchner,” yelled the sergeant up front. “Goddamn, I’ll kill all of you pigs if you don’t tell me!”

Repp gestured “Come on” with his head and strode forward, bold as the
Reichsführer
himself.

A trooper materialized out of the dark, rifle leveled at Repp’s middle.

“Where are you going, friend?” he asked.

Repp hit him with the shaft of his
Panzerfaust
, a murderous blow against the side of the head, just under the helmet. The jolt sent vibrations through his arm, and the trooper fell heavily to one side, his equipment jangling on the bridge.

“Run,”
Repp whispered, grabbing the professor and half hurling him down the bridge. “Hurry!”

The professor took off in lumbering panic and seemed to gain distance.

“There he is! There he is!” Repp shouted.

By that time several others had seen him and the firing started almost immediately.

As the blizzard of lead seemed to tear apart the world through which the professor fled, Repp eased down the incline under the bridge and made it to river’s edge.

He found the raft the demolitions detail had left tied to one of the piles, and threw in the pack and helmet, and then slipped into the icy water and began to drift through the blackness, clinging to the raft. He was almost across when the Americans arrived and the battle began, and by the time he got out of the water, shivering and exhausted, the Ami tanks had gotten the range and began to blow apart the barricade in earnest.

Repp crawled up the bank. Behind him, multiple
small suns descended in a pinkish haze and tracers flicked across the water. But he knew he was out of range.

And that he was still on schedule.

“W
hat are you doing here?” was all he could think to say.

“I work here. I’m with the field hospital.”

“Oh, God, Susan. Then you’ve seen it, seen it all.”

“You forget: I knew it all.”

“We never believed.”

“Now of course it’s too late.”

“I suppose. How did you end up
here?”

“A punishment. I made waves. I made real waves. I got publicly identified with the Zionists. Then Fischelson died and the Center died and the British made a stink, and they sent me to a field unit in a DP camp. British influence. It was said I didn’t appreciate London. And when I heard about Belsen, I tried to get there. But it was in the British zone and they wouldn’t have me. Then came Dachau, American. And my doc at the DP camp did think highly of me, and he knew how important it was to me. So he got me the orders. See? Easy, if you have the right connections.”

“It’s very bad, isn’t it.”

“Bad
. That’s not a terribly eloquent word. But, yes, it is
bad
. And Dachau is nothing compared to Belsen. And Belsen is nothing compared to Sobibór. And Sobibór is
nothing compared to Treblinka. And Treblinka is nothing compared to Auschwitz.”

They were strange names to Leets.

“Haven’t heard of them. Haven’t been reading the papers, I guess.”

“I guess not.”