Sniper's Honor(88)

“You cannot hang this man on piano wire in a desecrated Ukraine church,” said Wili. “It is a sacrilege. It is against all that the German military stands for. It mocks the sacrifices of millions of men who gave their lives here in the East.”

“The Reich considers him a traitor, and I have very explicit orders.”

“Sergeant Bober,” the general said, “I am ordering you as commanding general of the Fourteenth Panzergrenadier Division to cease and desist. You do no one any good this way, and you rob me of what little dignity I have left. Please leave at once and return to your duty post. This is a direct order, and I expect it to be obeyed.”

Wili had a mind to draw his P38, shoot Salid, then turn and shoot Von Bink between the eyes. Better that than strangulation at the end of a piano wire loop lifting him six inches off the ground for the pornographic pleasure of Berlin perverts watching the film a week later. If the Serbs shot Wili, so what? He wasn’t going to survive the war anyhow, what difference did it make? Best die for something he believed in instead of holding open a pass so that SS motherfuckers like the Arab pimp here and his crew of Serb Jew-killers could make their getaway.

“Wili,” whispered Deneker, “think of the mess. You’ll get Karl and the fellows all fucked up, the politics will be a nightmare, they’ll go off to Dachau. After all the shit we’ve been through, they’ll end up hanging on piano wire.”

“Listen to your friend, Bober,” said the general. “He speaks wisely.”

Wili turned. He snapped to attention. He saluted the general with his right hand snapped sharply to his brow in the classic old style.

“Herr Generalleutnant Von Bink, my compliments and compliments of Second Parachute Infantry, Regiment Twenty-one, Battlegroup Von Drehle. You, sir, are a hero, an inspiration, and a gentleman. We were lucky to serve under you, and we will never forget you.”

He turned and stomped out.





CHAPTER 41


The Carpathians


Heading South


THE PRESENT


You sound like you’re running,” said Jimmy, two thousand miles away, presumably sitting on a sofa before a fire, sipping fine whiskey from a decanter.

“The same long story. Do you have anything?”

“Actually, yes.”

“You talk, I’ll walk. Pardon the heavy breathing.”

“We had very good chaps in radio intelligence and coding,” said Jimmy from his sofa, “and it seems we were aware that by 1944, Stalin was cutting off partisan units he didn’t trust in their pro-Soviet enthusiasm. He knew he’d won this war; he was trying to win the next one. So our people saw our own opportunity for some mischief-making. SOE sent a ‘black’ Halifax bomber to Alexandria. The SOE used its genius for code-breaking and was able to talk to a number of partisan groups. We offered the supply on which Stalin was reneging. This bomber went forth every night and flew from Alex into the underbelly of Europe and Russia, dropping C-containers of arms and ammunition to designated groups. I’m sure some were Russian ruses, but I’m also certain many were legit. The C-container load was exactly what one would need to run a guerrilla war, a revolution, a coup d’arms: one No. 4 T for sniper and assassination duty, five Stens, two thousand rounds of 9mm, fifty of .303, twenty-five Mills bombs, and five Webley revolvers. According to the records, the Bak Brigade of the Ukraine People’s Front received their loads—three C’s—on February 9, 1944. So to answer the question, that is exactly how a No. 4 T could be and in fact should have been available to your sniper in July 1944.”

“One last question. Any info or insight on how the T was zeroed?”

“Ah, nothing there, but the normal kit sent to infantry units was a T in a pine chest, some tools and gizmos for maintenance, a guidebook, as it were, and the rifle combat zeroed to a hundred yards. Of course, the individual sniper would alter that to his needs.”

“So if she had to make a hit at a thousand, she’d have to zero it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Got it,” he said. “You’re the best, old man.”

“See you in October, then?”

“Yep,” Swagger said, but his mind was elsewhere, racing through certain possibilities.

“Good news?” asked Reilly.

“Yep,” said Swagger. “Mili got her gun.” He explained briefly.

“Ah,” Reilly said, “well, I suppose that’s—”

“You’re missing it, Reilly,” said Swagger, oddly still and concentrated. “Don’t you get it yet?”

“Get what?” she asked.

“If she had that rifle, and it sure looks like she did, the thousand-yard cold-bore shot wasn’t impossible. If she could find a way to zero it at a thousand yards, it was makeable.”