He inhaled deeply. His motions, steady. His mind, clear.
He steadied his weapon, finger poised on the trigger. The gun felt light in his hands as he already let the adrenaline flow through him, giving himself to the high.
The time was not yet right, and he exhaled. Lowering his weapon, he sat, back against the dirty, ruined wall of the farmhouse. He could hear the rats crawling through the drywall; smell the musk of soggy wood. The aroma was intoxicating, and he reveled in the tranquility of the moment. Slowly, ever so slowly, he closed his eyes. One lid at a time, slowing his heartbeat to a minute, dampened thump. The room was so quiet, he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. This is what he had trained for.
He slowly opened his eyes, fiddling with the insignia on his shoulder. The black reminder of who he was, and what he had done, forever tattooed under his armpit. The letters SS, so feared by the peoples of Europe, gave him hope, and new life. Finally he belonged to something, finally he had a family. The lives he had taken, the people he had murdered, all the women, and the children… They meant nothing to him. Hitler had promised him that he would return as heroes, not as the villains the others think he is. Yes he was killed people, and yes he has done monstrous things, but it is all for the greater good.
As he mused, wrapping his mind around this mottled fantasy, the enemy drew ever nearer. Finally, the sounds of Sherman tanks began to rattle the cracked picture frames hanging around him. The Americans had finally arrived. Unnerved by his mammoth undertaking, he slowly lifted his rifle. With the same care a mother would show to her child, he lowered his weapon onto the windowsill.
Inhale… Exhale… Inhale… Exhale…
Completely calm. Completely focused. He zeroed in on a small patch of land farther up the dirt pathway. 200 meters, a simple shot to make. From this distance, he would not need to take into effect the wind, temperature, or the fear and unlikelihood of an animal flying into the path of the bullet. He could hear their voices now, and the sound of heavy boots on worn and tired feet trudging up the path.
Inhale… Exhale… Inhale… Exhale…
Again, he allowed the adrenaline to flow through him. Again he attained that high that can only be reached in combat. Bloodlust flowed behind his eyes and his breathing nearly stopped completely. Slowly, the company he had been tracking for many days drew near. Easy was their nick name. And how painstakingly easy it will be to pick them off, one by one. He could see them now. Many of the men were smiling, unaware of the German company laying in wait, unseen by prying eyes.
He looked through his sight. Last minute adjustments were always needed, no matter how far away the target was. Wait for the shot. Do not hesitate. He inhaled for the final time, closed one eye, and mid-breath, pulled the trigger.
"Hey buddy!" called an unseen American. His target turned his head slightly, and then the bullet hit.
"SNIPER!" screamed soldiers as they ran for cover.
He permitted himself a small chuckle. Satisfied with his pre-emptive strike, he fell back to another position. Distance was needed now for him to be more useful. One soldier down and the day had only started. He silently ran down the stairs and traversed the open ground to his second position. From here, he would rain hell upon the unsuspecting enemy.
Thus is the life of a sniper.