The Sniper

(Source)

It was a beautiful spring day, not a cloud in the sky. As he looked around, Cpt. Stephen Hernandez could almost be forgiven for entertaining the thought that the war was almost over. Being the man that he was though, he was still on high alert. There had been reports of shots being fired at military convoys passing along the autobahn to points further south.

Disgruntled civilians? Bypassed enemy troops? One rumor even had a band of deserters in the area dealing in stolen military supplies. The most far-fetched rumor had that band of deserters being comprised of multiple nationalities, including Germans!

Hernandez had pickets out along the column of Charlie Company's parked vehicles, men whose job it was to keep an eye on the surrounding terrain, to spot trouble before it happened. This had been yet another stop on the company's long trip from the Harz Mountains down to the Czech border. While it wasn't a leisurely journey by any means, it had given the men time to unwind and recover from the stresses of their recent experiences.

Pfc. Gilbert Herman was checking the status of the company's lunch. Nothing fancy,  just sandwiches and, miracle of miracles, hot soup. The men hadn't had a hot meal in some time, but Cap'n Hernandez had told S/Sgt Santos to fire up the gas ranges as this stop would be a long one, at least six hours.

As Herman checked the kitchen equipment he heard an odd ping. As if someone had hit one of the big metal pots lined up behind the truck with a rock. Turning to investigate he heard the distinctive sound of a distant rifle report.

"SNIPER!!"

T/4 Roman Scott was checking the soup, chicken with what the Army claimed were lentils, when he heard Pfc. Herman yelling about something. He couldn't quite make it out over the hissing of the three gas ranges inside the truck. When he saw Herman take cover, he dove off the back of the truck.

T/5 Phil Sharpe saw Scott dive off the back of the truck and into the drainage ditch running alongside the autobahn, he noticed that his buddy Gil was there too. He began to run in that direction when something hit him low on the left side, just above the hip. That side of his body from the waist down went numb almost immediately.

Hernandez was trying to get things sorted out, so far all he knew was that the column was taking sniper fire from the northeast. His Weapons Platoon commander, 1st Lt. Herman Jacobsen, already had his machine gun crews laying down suppressive fire in the suspected direction of the incoming fire. In addition, 1st Lt. Nathaniel Gonzales had 1st Platoon heading in that direction.

For the moment Hernandez really couldn't do more than report what was going on to battalion and wait as the situation developed. His platoon leaders seemed to have things well in hand, sometimes you had to know when to let your subordinates do their jobs.

Scott and Herman had managed to drag Sharpe into the drainage ditch with them. They had the impression that they weren't being shot at anymore, but no one was going to poke their heads up to test that theory.

Sharpe's wound was messy, so both Scott and Herman were yelling for a medic. Pvt. Dwayne Hood of 1st Platoon was closest and he was there within minutes.

"You're gonna be okay buddy." Hood reassured Sharpe as he treated the man's wound. A bullet had gone completely through the muscle just above Sharpe's left hip, painful but not life threatening. "Million dollar wound buddy, you're going home."

Sharpe smiled through the pain when he heard that.

Sgt. Rudy Taylor's squad was close by when they heard a rifle shot close by, not aimed at them thankfully.

"I see him Sarge." hissed Pfc. Lorenzo Copeland, the squad's grenadier. He had his rifle up and the other men in the squad also aimed in that general direction, but only one other man, Pvt. Don Sheppard, could actually see the German sniper who was up in a tall pine.

Copeland and Sheppard fired nearly simultaneously. As did most of the men in the squad.

Sgt. Taylor had his men fan out and check for other Germans in the area as he and Copeland stared up at the German who was now hanging from the improvised rope harness he had used to secure himself to the tree.

"I ain't thrilled about climbing up there Sarge, but..." Copeland began.

Pfc. Nick Richards slung his rifle and said, "I got this Sarge," then proceeded to climb the tree, "I'll cut the sumbitch down."

"Damn, Nick climbs like a monkey." Copeland said as he watched the young soldier scramble up the tree as if born to it.

Richards reached the dangling German who, surprisingly, was still alive. He'd been hit at least three times as far as Richards could tell but the man was still breathing and was groaning in pain.

"Hey Sarge, the f**ker is still alive!" 

"You're shittin' me..."

"Nope, he's still breathing, looks like he's hit pretty bad. What do you want me to do?"

Taylor thought for a minute, then yelled back up, "SS or Army?"

"Looks like Army to me Sarge."

"Damn, hold on."

Richards was looking at the German, as he did so, he muttered, "Gee buddy, you're all f**ked up." When the German spoke, Richards nearly fell out of the tree.

"Yes, I'm really f**ked up..." the German tried to shift his position, one of the ropes was cutting into his shoulder.

"Hang on." Richards reached out and moved the man's arm slightly, easing the pressure from the rope.

"Thanks pal." The German had a coughing fit.

"How is it you speak English?" Richards asked.

"I was born in Milwaukee lived there until I was ten. Then my parents moved us back to Germany in '33, where they had emigrated from before I was born."

"Why?"

"Papa couldn't find a job in Wisconsin, my uncle had a company, promised Papa..." the German passed out.

"Sarge! What are we gonna do?" Richards yelled down.

"Leave him, we gotta get back. Cap'n wants everybody to get some hot chow before we hit the road again." Sgt. Taylor yelled up. "Come on down. There ain't nuthin' we can do for him."

"But he's still alive!"

"What are you a Kraut-lover now?" Copeland asked.

The German woke up, coughed and said, "You should go, I'm dying anyway."

"What's your name buddy?"

"Erich, Erich Wisner. Thanks for givin' a shit." The German's eyes fluttered, he was fighting to stay awake.

"I'm Nick, Nick Richards. You want some water or something?"

"Water would be nice, bleeding makes you thirsty I guess."

Richards opened his canteen and offered it to the German, who shook his head, "Can't feel my arms or legs anymore, could you?" he asked, nodding at the canteen.

Richards lifted the canteen, Wisner took a drink. Smiled, whispered, "Thanks Nick..."

"Erich, Erich..."

Richards sat there for a moment, when he looked down, most of the squad was headed back, only Pvt. Shannon Townsend was waiting for him. He reached out and patted the German on the shoulder, muttered, "Rest in peace Erich," then climbed back down the tree.

"What was that all about?" Townsend asked once Richards was back on the ground.

"Guy was from Milwaukee, parents were from Germany, they moved back here in '33 when he was ten. Man, guy spoke American English and everything."

"But he's a Kraut, well, was a Kraut."

"Yeah, I get it."

As the two men began the hike back to the road, Richards turned back and looked at the dead German one last time. Wondering if the guy's father had found a job in the States, maybe they would have known each other or something.

"The world is a f**ked up place sometimes, ya know that Shannon?"

"I guess so, but better him than us."

"Yeah, I suppose so."

Link to a interesting article on U.S. Army kitchen trucks in WWII.

Link to all of the Chant's fiction.