The long June twilight faded into night. An old American town, now mostly abandoned, lay enveloped in darkness but for the light of the moon that shone through clouds, casting a pale purple light of the quickly approaching dawn over the streets. Around the empty blocks the sound of heavy guns roared. Here and there through the city, machine guns and rifles broke the silence of the night, spastically, like dogs barking. The east and west were raging war.
On a rooftop near an old rickety bridge, Alfred F. Jones – a sniper - lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle and over his shoulders was slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a young man, round and sensual, but his cerulean eyes had the cold set of a wise man. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of a boy who is used to looking at death and bloodshed.
Alfred was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been too anxious to eat. The American finished the sandwich, and, taking a flask of water from his pocket, he took a short drink. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a cigarette. It was dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness, and there were enemies watching. After a few minutes of contemplation, he decided to take the risk.
Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out the match. Almost immediately, a bullet whizzed past his head from where he sat on the roof. Alfred took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softly and crawled away to the left to hide behind a short metal pillar.
Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the pillar. There was a flash and another bullet sailed over his head. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of the street.
He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowly drew himself up behind it, until his eyes were level with the top of the pillar. There was nothing to be seen-just the dim outline of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover.
"Damn." Alfred hisses, scanning the rooftop.
Just then an armored car came across the bridge and drove slowly up the street. It stopped on the opposite side of the street, fifty yards ahead. The American could hear the low rumbling of the motor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted to fire, but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the gray vehicle.
Then round the corner of a side street came an young woman, with chocolate brown hair pulled into pigtails by two red ribbons. She began to talk to the man in the turret of the car. She was pointing to the roof where Alfred lay. An informer.
The turret opened. A man with spiky blonde hair and a small hat perched on his head appeared, looking towards the hiding sniper. Alfred raised his rifle, aimed, and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The girl turned and darted toward the side street. The sniper fired again. The young woman staggered and fell with a loud cry into the gutter.
Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the blonde dropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof, and he thought the noise would wake the dead. He stooped to pick the rifle up. He couldn't lift it. His forearm was dead. "Fuck. I was hit," he muttered.
Dropping flat onto the roof, he crawled back to the pillar. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his bomber jacket. There was no pain-just a deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off. "Shit, shit, shit." He continued to mumble.
Quickly, Alfred drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the cool metal of the pillar, and ripped open the sleeve. There was a little hole in the skin where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole, so the bullet must've lodged in the bone. The bullet fractured it. He bent the arm below the wound, the arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth tightly to overcome the wave pain and nausea.
Taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the bleeding wound. A spasm of pain swept through him while placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. The American sniper tied the ends with his teeth.
Then, he lay still against the pillar, closing his eyes; he made an effort of will to overcome the pain. In the street below, everything was still. The armored car had speedily drove over the bridge, with the spiky-haired machine gunner's head hanging lifeless over the turret. The young woman's corpse lay still in the gutter.
Alfred Jones lay still for a long time nursing his wounded arm and planning escape. Morning could not have him still on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof covered his escape, though. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver to do it. Then, with that, he thought of a plan.
Taking off his San Diego ball-cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly upward over the pillar, until the hat was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediately the enemy sniper reacted, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. Alfred slanted the rifle forward, and the cap slipped down into the street. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him.
Crawling quickly to his feet, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His trick had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across the street, with his head clearly silhouetted against the western sky.
The American sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the pillar. The distance was about fifty yards-a hard shot in the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a million tiny needles. He took a steady aim, his hand trembling with eagerness. Pressing his lips together, and narrowing his eyes behind his glasses, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the repercussion and his arm shook with the recoil.
Then when the smoke cleared, Alfred peered across and uttered a cry of joy. "Hell yeah," His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the railing of the opposite roof in his death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was slowly falling forward as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the railing, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber's shop beneath and then clattered on the pavement. Then, the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward. The body twisted in air and hit the ground with a dull thud. Then it lay still.
The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. The lust of battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the sight of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered, he began to mumble swiftly to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody. "Why, dammit.. Why.." He hissed, clutching at his head.
Jones looked at the smoking revolver in his hand, and aimed it at his temple. His index finger rested on the trigger, ready to shoot. As his finger was ready to tap the trigger, he stopped, and thought. Thought of his blonde haired, green-eyed lover at home, awaiting him. He would not be selfish and take his life like that. Alfred stopped as his nerves steeled and he dropped the revolver at his feet. He laughed, as the cloud of fear scattered from his mind.
Taking the water canteen from his pocket, he poured the clear liquid out. He felt reckless under the influence of the spirit. He decided to leave the roof now and look for his company commander, to report duty. Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down through the skylight to the house underneath.
When Alfred reached the sidewalk on the street level, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had killed. He decided that he was a good shot, whoever he was. He wondered did he know him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. He peered around the corner into the next street. In the upper part of the street there was heavy firing, but around him all was quiet.
The American sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped. He threw himself face down beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped.
Then Alfred turned over the dead body, letting out a cry of shock as he peered into the face of his brother, Matthew.
~*~*~*~
Hello, hello, hello~! Tay here, with my first story up on FF! Um, well, okay, this does NOT show my like, completely true writing skills, I mean, I basically got this idea from a short story. Soooo, I'll do a disclaimer, 'kay? ^^
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia – Himaruya does!
I do not own the original story either.. It is called 'The Sniper' by Liam O'Flaherty – you can probably find it by Googling it!
Um, so yes, basically what I mostly will be writing is re-writes of short stories['cause it's fun] and crack/parodies. I'm unoriginal, I know.
OH! Special cyber cookie to whoever can guess who the informer and machine gunner are!