Kanuro5: 12/18/22 - Epic sigh. I can't believe I had another near year long hiatus. Especially mad since I released the past two chapters in a near year long span. That's what happens when work, school, writer's block, and unhealthy procrastination leads to. But I am glad that I was FINALLY able to finish this chapter, don't know why this one gave me such a hard time. Enjoy!
The Sniper
"You can see the true heart of a man when you're out in the woods with a weapon."
The memory starts as it always did, when he was five years old. Now, there are only a few things you remember clear as day when you were five. To Jeremy Troy, this was one of them.
It was late at night, and he was in his bedroom, and he knew he saw a dark, malicious figure lurking over his bed. He cried and called for his parents.
He remembered his dad was shirtless as he came bustling in, it was pretty humid on those Roanoke nights. His mother was beside him on the bed, wrapping her arm around him and rubbing his shoulder.
"What did you see, sweetie?" his mom asked, kissing his hair.
He remembered the dark eyes of the monster that night, he recalled the name his father gave the shadowy creature, "The Boogeyman…" he sniffled.
His dad looked around and turned on the light switch. Jeremy remembered where he saw the Boogeyman over his bed, and in that spot, was nothing but the wall. His sniffles were starting to clear.
"Well, looks like the Boogeyman ain't here," his dad shrugged with a smirk.
"Hank, you think Jeremy needs a candle?" his mother replied.
"Nah, he needs to deal with this now so it don't bother him later," his father said.
"What do you mean?" the young Jeremy asked.
His parents looked at each other before his father answered, "Everybody got a Boogeyman inside of them, Jeremy. A monster that preys on the bad things you do. You see, God created Man in his image, and when Adam and Eve sinned, the Devil allowed the evilness to enter into Man. That evilness is the Boogeyman, it spreads fear and violence in a man's heart, and it makes you see and do evil things. When you are afraid of the dark, that's the Boogeyman talkin', Jeremy."
Jeremy rubbed his eyes before speaking, "So, how do we keep the Boogeyman away?"
He remembered his father shaking his head, "Like sin, we can't get rid of the Boogeyman. He's with us all the time. The only way to keep him away is to be strong, resolute, to temper yourself like the lid of a kettle. You need to repress the sin in you, repress the evils in your heart, you are never to sin, Jeremy. For that is where the Boogeyman gets his strength. Never let the Boogeyman in, Jeremy. Never."
August 10, D-Day + 65
"Happy birthday, to youuuu,
Happy birthday, to youuuu,
Happy birthday, Doc Conrad,
Happy birthday, to youuuu.
How ooold are youuuu?
How ooold are youuuu?
How ooooooold are youuuu?
How ooooooold are youuuu?"
Walter Conrad smiled at the singing men that numbered near thirty who surrounded him.
He tried to sing like he belonged in Hollywood with a baritone drop in his voice.
"I am 21 years old,
I am 21 years old,
I am 21 years oooold,
I am 21 years old."
"May Goooood bless youuuu,
May mademoiselles kiss youuuu,
May the frauleins suck youuuu,
Maaaay the Germans miss youuuuuuu!"
The men around the medic cheered mightily and clapped with enthusiasm. Jeremy Troy was right behind Conrad and patted him on the back with exuberant laughter. There was no way to get a cake out there for an infantryman, so Santiago procured the next best thing to celebrate; especially to someone turning 21. Alcohol.
Santiago had a bottle of poached brandy and presented it to the medic. "To the man who never neglects us, who runs to us come hell or high water, to the Birthday Boy! To Doc!" he cheered.
"To Doc!" the men around the medic echoed.
Of course, this wasn't Conrad's first-time drinking alcohol. But he could legally drink it now, and that itself bought an unusual feeling of satisfaction.
Santiago expertly opened up the bottle in swift fashion and handed it over to Conrad. The medic smiled from ear-to-ear, "I'm 21 now, down the hatch!"
He put the bottle to his lips and allowed the liquor to pour down his throat. The men around him chanted either, "Chug!" or were counting off the seconds he was drinking.
His throat could handle no more after the tenth second and he pulled the bottle away and began coughing. The soldiers laughed and patted the coughing medic's back. That was a lot of liquor he ingested in a short time, and his chest felt like a furnace, but his pride soared skywards as the men's cheer filled his ears. They patted his back and shook him vigorously and proudly.
"The Doc's a man now!" Corporal Wallace acclaimed.
Conrad whistled loudly as he tried to recover, "Bullshit! I've always been a man! A boy don't run to danger and to save the lives of others! That's what a man does!"
"Damn straight, Doc!" Sergeant Hernandez laughed proudly.
The men cheered in acknowledgment.
Troy offered him a cigarette, "Got you a birthday treat."
"What, no cake?" the medic smirked.
"Hey, blame McHale, he dropped the ball on that. And that's his only job."
"Yeah, more like you had no idea my birthday was today."
"How dare you insinuate that I didn't know—yeah, all right, I didn't know, I thought your birthday was in October."
Conrad laughed, "Hey, buddy, it's fine. Really. To be fair, I don't know when your birthday is."
"Well, that makes me feel better, and it's March 10th, by the way."
"Gotcha. I'm not going to forget! And thanks for the birthday smoke."
"Don't worry, I'll find you a better present later today," Troy winked with a smile.
Birthdays were hardly celebrated on the frontline. The most that one would get is an acknowledgement by comrades and a pat on the back and maybe an extra cigarette as a birthday present. The threat of immediate death and maiming took priority over celebrating another year of life. But off the line, birthdays were different. Men had time to breathe and soak in the fact that they were away from danger, that they could see another day and recall times that were once peaceful.
Coming up from behind, Staff Sergeant Fischer had a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, "What we got over here?"
"My birthday, Sarge," Conrad gleamed.
"Oh yeah, happy birthday, Conrad. Wish you can celebrate it more here, but y'all going to have to take the celebration on the road."
The men groaned as one.
"Where we heading, Fischer?" someone asked.
"To catch up to Jerry, Private. They're on the run and we need to be hot on their heels."
"Sounds good, Sarge, just let me put on my walking shoes first," Corporal Wallace remarked.
"Even better, Command got us trucks to hitch a ride in."
The men murmured contently. One soldier spoke, "About time they remember us and give us back some transportation."
"Yeah? Well don't get used to it, bub. I betcha once we get to the line, we ain't going to see another truck to ride in 'til Thanksgiving."
The men started chuckling amongst themselves. Sergeant Duhaney noted Crane walking their way, and a man was behind him. He pointed to the kid, "Who's that? Oh, got us a replacement, huh?"
"Yeah, this is Higgins. I'm giving him to you, feel free to do with him what you will."
Duhaney placed his hands on hips, "Oh boy… Lloyd, you're giving me a new guy right when we're moving out?"
Crane gave a sympathetic smirk. Duhaney was the only man who probably received that from Crane. "Welcome—"
" '—to the Army', yeah, I know, I know…" Duhaney sighed with a shake of the head.
Crane walked back, barking orders for everyone to mobilize. The new replacement, Higgins, looked around flummoxed, "We leavun? But I just dun got here."
Duhaney scoffed with a smirk, "War don't wait for you, kid. Gotta get that straight."
"Yes, Sergeant." He then stood to attention, "Private Wilbur Higgins, from Hawk Point, Missouri."
The veterans snickered loudly; Duhaney rolled his eyes slightly. He cleared his throat to Higgins, "Yeah, we don't need to be doing all that, Higgins. I'm your platoon sergeant, the name's Duhaney. Lieutenant Ekland is your platoon leader; you'll see him soon. Picked a hell of a time to arrive, Higgins. Get situated here, don't annoy the guys, they bite."
"Wait, what does th—"
Duhaney was already moving away, "C'mon, boys! Police your stuff, we're heading out!"
The men of 3rd Platoon moved to gather their things; Troy was watching Conrad trying to fit the bottle into his personal knapsack.
"Y'know, maybe you should find a smaller bottle?" Troy suggested with a chuckle.
"Great idea, do you have one?"
"Nope."
Conrad smiled with a flush, "Then ssshut up," he slurred politely, "I got this."
"Oh, it's hitting you already?"
"I told you to ssshut up, it's been a wwhile."
Troy's chuckling morphed into a higher-pitched giggle, "Whoever heard of a drunk doctor?"
"Yeah? Whoeverrrr heard of a mouthy sssniper?"
"Oooh, touched a nerve?"
Conrad forcefully and finally jammed the bottle into his sack. He stood up and gave Troy a wink, "As if."
He shrugged, "I'm just saying, Walt, pour the rest of that brandy into your—"
"Y'all a sniper?!"
Both men turned to the sudden outburst to be greeted by the puppy-eyed fascination of Wilbur Higgins, who was standing three feet away from Troy and eyeing Troy's Springfield rifle.
"Golly God, that there's a scope on y'all rifle! You done got a bolt-action too? Goddamn, that brings me back, to the pines of Hawk Point, scored me some 'coons with a .22, whoo! Now where can I gone git me one of 'em scopes? I'm a helluva shot myself. Done got none of Maggie's Drawers back at Basic, that's how good I am!"
Higgins held a goofy open mouth smile; the veterans stared at him silently.
"Cat got y'all tongue? I asked where y'all done get them scopes?"
The two continued their stares, until the medic broke the silence.
"Wh-Who are you?"
"Wha-What? I-I-I I'm Higgins! Duhaney done introduce me to y'all not mo' than five minutes ago."
"Oh yeah, what do you need, Higgins?"
"Aww, Doc, ya hurtin' me, Doc. I done asked for three times now, I wanna get a scope to be a sniper like this one here. I'm sorry, friend, what's y'all name?"
"Uh, I'm Troy."
"No way!"
That startled the veteran, who flinched back, "Jesus! What? What is it?"
"There's a town back in my county of Lincoln that's call Troy! Golly God, don't that beat all! Small world, now!"
Troy and Conrad shared an uncomfortable look before Troy turned back to the replacement, "Yeah, and we rode in Higgins boats to get to France. Yeah, coincidences don't happen at all…"
"Where y'all boys from?"
"Roanoke, Virginia," Troy answered.
"Y'all used to hunt, didn't ya, Troy?"
"Yeah, I did."
"Yeah, I could tell! What game?"
"Whatever was around: whitetails, squirrels, duck, hares, groundhogs, gobblers, elk if we could find any, and grouses."
"Goddamn!" Higgins whooped with a toothy smile, "I done shoot the same critters! Oh, Troy, me and you are gonna git along like stink on shit!"
Conrad snorted audibly, patting the inert sniper on the back, "Congratsss on finding a new bessst friend, Jeremy!"
"Yes, lucky me…"
"Why ya do that, man? Being friendlllly to the new guysss?"
"Hey, someone has to show them left from right out here."
"—So, there he was! This beautiful bastard, black and white face, scurryin through the grass. Ya know what that's like, Troy?"
"No, I haven't ever seen a badger before, Higgins."
"Think a 'coon, but no tail, and it has claws sharp 'nough to give ya a shave. Anyway, he was scurryin' through the grass, 'bout a good ol' hunned yards or so. I led that lil' bastard good and fired, got him right at the nape of the neck, he went down and started shakin'! I tell ya he was shakin' good!"
Troy was nodding slowly, "That's a fine shot, Higgins."
"Ain't it, though? Finest shot I ever done take?"
"How many of them badgers did you get that day?"
"I tell ya three. Three of 'em. But that hunned yarder was the best one of the day, the rest were closer."
"Good shooting, Higgins."
"Aw, gee, I tell ya what, Troy. It's nice that I got someone to talk 'bout varmints to, and I can't wait to show them Krauts how we treat varmints," the replacement smiled.
The speeding trucks that the men were in ran over a pothole, causing some to jump in their seats. But many of them were grinning at the sight of Troy speaking to this prattling replacement.
Conrad was snickering, "Oh, Jeremy, what would Lucille say about this? Won't she be mighty jealous that you got a new sweetheart?"
The other veterans tittered.
Troy annoyingly groaned. Higgins was looking side-to-side.
"What? What's so funny? Who's Lucille?"
Conrad leaned forward to be heard, "Lucille's his wife."
"Really?"
Ruby chimed in, "This guy is the only married man in the company."
"Oh, wow, congratulations, Troy! I can't see myself marryin' til I'm a bit older. She must be a lucky woman."
Troy gave him a smile that seemed to have been formed out of politeness, "Thanks, Higgins."
"So how long have you two been married?"
"Oh, about… uh… wait, it was f—, uh…" his smile had melted away, as did the other veterans around him. "Oh my God… I c-can't remember…"
Higgins was beginning to chuckle, "Wait, seriously? Ain't she ya wife? How do ya not remember something important like—"
Conrad leaned over and slapped him upside the head.
Higgins opened his mouth to speak, but the glare of the veterans around him visually told him to shut up, and he did.
Troy looked away from the men, his eyes lost in the lush, green forests of the countryside out of the trucks.
The last good memory he had of being together with Lucille was when they were hunting, the day before he was to ship to basic training. He was hunting with her family. Their game was whitetails. Lucille dragged him away from her brothers and they both went out into a secluded spot. They both hunkered down in the dirt underneath a thick low tree. Lucille's medium-length hair was wrapped up in her hat, tucked securely. Her lips were pressed tightly together, but that couldn't quite hide her overbite, something that added to her charm.
They both had lever action rifles. They waited for ten minutes in virtual silence. Then a buck came by, at least a good 150 - 175 lbs.
"You got him, or do I?" he remembered whispering to her, his eyes lined up down the sight.
He remembered how quiet she was.
"Lu? You got him, or do I?" he asked her again.
"How long you think it'll last, Jer'?"
"Wh-What? The buck? Or something—"
"The war. The last one lasted five years, and this one is going into it's fourth."
"Uh…" he wanted to look at her, but he was keeping his eyes on the grazing buck. "I don't know, can't be too long. The last war, we entered, when? March? April? May? And it was over in November. So, the last war lasted months for us."
"We weren't fighting Japan on the opposite side of the world, and Germany didn't own half the continent…"
Out of his peripheral, he could see that she placed her rifle in the dirt, away from her immediate grasp. That alarmed him enough to peel away from the buck. Her eyes were staring at the grazing whitetail, but held emptiness that rivaled the sky on a starless night. Her lips were a near pout and her skin seemed to have lost its color.
"Lu? What's wrong, Lu?"
She continued to stare at the buck.
"Lucille, what's wrong?"
"This war will last forever. You're going to forget me over there."
"I'm not."
"You're leaving tomorrow, and I won't see you for years. You'll forget me."
"I ain't going to."
"Uh-huh."
"Calling me a liar?"
"I ain't calling you anything, Jeremy. Ma told me when a man gets defensive, he starts talking out the side of his neck."
"How am I getting defensive?"
"You forget a lot of things, Jer'. And you're the one talking about liars."
"Did she say that about your Pa? Talking out the side of his neck."
"Especially about him."
He was lying on his stomach but felt the palm of a hand squirm under his stomach, then slowly moving to his crotch. He felt the palm begin to gently squeeze.
His voice rang with dry annoyance as he said slowly, "What the hell are you doing?"
She kept petting him down there, "What does it feel like?"
"I know what it feels like. Feels like we're going to let a buck get away."
"You rather be focused on a buck right now?"
"You never acted like this before, Lu."
"I'm full of surprises, I guess." A grin emerged on her face.
He sighed, placing down the rifle. "Yeah, you are."
That was the last day he had had sex. They missed the buck, but they made love right under that tree.
Afterwards, she rested her head on his chest, both of them were on their backs, the leaves and dirt in their hair, their clothes were halfway on.
"I'm not sending you a picture of me," she told him.
"Good, because I don't want other men looking at you."
"You don't want to show me off?"
"Not necessarily, you want to be shown off to lusted-up soldiers?"
"Not necessarily. I haven't worked on my poses yet."
Jeremy laughed, then Lucille. He leaned over and kissed her sweaty cheek. It was nice hearing her laughing, unwinding from that unnerving talk earlier.
"And Lucille, if I get back and I find out you're hustling me—"
"I know, I know, you'd kill me and him. Well get in line."
"What?"
She was smirking as she stretched, "My Pa told me that he'd whip me if I ever disgraced the family with 'adultering'."
"Well, he's not wrong for doing so."
"Wow, so you're convinced I'm going to do it?"
"No, I know you won't. But in case you feel tempted to, just remember what'll happen…"
"Mhmm," she replied with pursed lips and a raised eyebrow. "And if you think of touching another woman overseas—"
"I know, I know. You'd geld me like a horse."
"I'll chop that ring finger off you first and make you swallow it before I do."
"Oh, really? Huh, you're going to have me swallow something, that'll be a change."
She punched him in the arm, Jeremy laughed, as did Lucille, "You really irk me sometimes, Jer', ya know that?"
"Favorite pastime."
He left for Basic the next day.
That was how she said that she loved him. How she would miss him. How the joys of hunting were meaningless if he wasn't by her side.
Leaving her, her family, and his family was the most bitter thing he had to endure. Well, until D-Day, that is. That moment in his life was perhaps the only timehe truly forgot about his wife and his family, and only worried about himself.
With each passing day, he massaged his ring finger. Their wedding ring was always in his breast pocket. He never really took it out unless he had time to wash his jacket in a nearby stream or have it cleaned by a grateful French villager. Every day he was over here, he was losing a memory back in the world. He had already forgotten what Lucille's favorite dessert was, along with her favorite song, and even how long they were married… Acts that would have been blasphemous back in the world.
He hoped he never would forget that memory in the woods.
The trucks began slowing down suddenly. The men instantly took note. The veterans were looking around furiously at first, thinking the column was under fire. But no one could hear the bursts of bullets or artillery.
"Why've we stopped?" Conrad asked, looking out of the truck.
Troy looked around the grassy plains; he couldn't see anything. "I don't know."
"Krauts?" Higgins asked, who was staying in his seat.
"No, it's something else."
Out of the lead truck, the men spotted Lieutenant Conti hustling to the side of the convoy, shouting for all platoon leaders and platoon sergeants to meet with him, immediately. The men in Troy's truck helped Sergeant Duhaney down, and they witnessed Lieutenant Ekland jump out of the truck behind them, and jostle towards Conti along with the other called men.
Corporal Wallace sputtered his lips before saying, "Oh boy."
"Here we go…" Duffy rolled his eyes with a groan.
"What? What's going on?" asked Higgins.
"Damn it, replacement. We're getting dropped in the bullshit," Badmouth remarked.
"What? What bullshit?" Higgins' voice suddenly grew hoarse.
"Combat, dummy, combat," Duffy told him.
"It couldn't mean anything else. It ain't ever good news when our trucks are stopped and the officers and platoon sergeants get out to talk," Ruby mentioned.
The trucks were running idle for about two minutes until the leaders of Able Company broke and went back to their respective trucks. The men in Troy's truck helped Duhaney in, who promptly sat down with an exhale.
"So, what's the damage?" Conrad asked the sergeant.
"We're being diverted. We're getting dropped into it," Duhaney told them. The veterans in the truck groaned. "I know, I know, now stow it. The Daring Dogs were securing a village to tie-in the flank with Brutal Baker's advance. They met mild resistance at first and nearly pushed the Krauts out, until the Krauts were reinforced by another company. They think they can handle it, but Battalion ordered us in just to make sure."
"Hey, if Captun Bishop thinks they dun got it unduh control, then why ah we goin' in?" Duffy asked.
"Cause Colonel Lincoln is cautious, Bishop isn't," Duhaney replied, lighting a smoke. "Remember Monteburg when they got themselves encircled and we had to bail them out? This battalion is already down a company; we don't need to be down another one."
"So, what's the plan, Rhett?" Wallace inquired.
"3rd Platoon's going in first." The veterans groaned again. "Can it. As I was saying, 3rd Platoon's going in first. Conti is hoping that Bishop learned from his mistake, so one platoon may suffice. We go in, assist Dog if needed. Everybody get squared away, we'll be there in ten minutes."
The veterans in the truck were fixing themselves to battle-mode, they were fastening their grenades to their chests and were putting on their helmets. Higgins looked composed on the outside, but Troy and Conrad could tell otherwise.
"Hey, breathe, Higgins. Can't afford you to pass out on me," Conrad joked.
"I'm fine, I'm good."
"Yeah, right, just breathe, Higgins."
Troy leaned forward, "Hey, you wanted to fight, right? Well, here's your chance."
The trucks careened to a stop. Sporadic American rifle fire echoed in the distance from the outskirts of the French town. The men of Able Company suspiciously eyed the village. Troy listened closer to the American fire; there were more American rifle cracks than German, always a good sign.
The men in Troy's truck hopped out and hustled down to the side of the road, crouching and blending into the grass. More sounds of German activity began to pop up. It sounded like two to three MG42s blending together, followed by the sounds of German mortars exploding against buildings.
Lieutenant Ekland was up front of the platoon; he was speaking into a radio, most likely to a soldier from Dog. The veterans were silent, their narrow eyes scanning the outskirts. Troy's eyes flickered to the location of every crack he heard from a Mauser rifle, trying to judge the distance, or maybe determine if the firing was from outside the village, or did it echo off the buildings.
He noticed how Higgins' lips were glued together; his right arm was trembling a bit.
"Hey, you okay, Higgins?" the veteran asked.
"Ye-Yeah, I'm good! I'm good! I-I-I…"
"Breathe, man. Breathe. In, and out."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah…" Higgins took a good inhale, followed by an exhale.
"You say you're a marksman? Every marksman worth their salt remembers to breathe, even when not in combat."
"Thanks, but… I'm good, really."
"Uh-huh."
Meanwhile, Conrad, who was right next to him, was swaying his head from side-to-side.
"Are you sure you're good, Walt?"
Conrad nodded, "Yeah, man, I'm fine. Just… fine. Good thing I stopped when Fischer came."
"I'll say."
Lieutenant Ekland got off the radio and turned to his men, "It seems that most of the Germans are out of the town. We advance in a tight column, 2nd Squad leads, 1st Squad brings up the tail. On me!"
Like a caterpillar, the men of 3rd Platoon trotted down the side of the road into the town. The pops and cracks of the weapons were growing louder. Troy's heart was accelerating, his hands clutched his Springfield tighter. Moving past the outskirts, the dead German defenders littered the street. The first corpse was missing his jaw, his tongue was now brown, and it dangled in the dirt. Troy could hear Higgins retch behind him.
A burning halftrack was strewn across the road, with the body of a German burning outside the vehicle. A pool of blood stained the ground around three German bodies that were killed right next to each other. Several homes were on fire, and debris covered the street. The Daring Dogs really came in, guns blazing.
The first man from Dog Company that the platoon spotted was a first sergeant who was reading a map and speaking on the radio. The senior NCO waved for the platoon to come to him.
"Able Company, sir?" the sergeant questioned Lieutenant Ekland.
"That's right, 3rd Platoon, sergeant."
Duhaney smiled at the First Sergeant. "How you doing, Timber?"
The senior sergeant smiled back, "Ain't too bad myself, Duhaney. Good thing you guys are here to help pull security."
"What do you mean?" Ekland asked.
"Well, sir, we hit the Krauts and they had a solid line of defense, but then they just started falling back, melting away. Then they were reinforced by another company from the south, but we had dug in and held them back. They just about eased up their assault a few minutes ago. We have control of most of the town now and are about to push them out."
"That easily?" Duhaney questioned; his brow furrowed.
"I know. We saw at least half of a platoon suddenly run and they ain't turn up, we're pushing forward, but you guys may be security in the rear. Here, let me take you to Captain Bishop, he's up at the front."
"All right, lead the way. 1st and 2nd Squad on me! 3rd Squad, you stay here in the center and get ready for anything."
The platoon split, leaving 3rd Squad, Troy, and Conrad behind.
A staff sergeant from Dog Company was jostling by. Conrad extended his hand, "Hey, Sarge, how bad were your casualties?"
"Last I checked, we had about ten wounded, and maybe five dead."
"Do you know where the wounded are?"
"Yeah, Doc, I can show you, come with me."
Troy gave the medic a look, "You're going to be all right?"
"Yeah, I am. You better stay safe, Jeremy."
"Yeah, I ain't staying."
"What's that now?"
"I got a feeling in my gut. I'm going to be looking for trouble."
"Oh God," Conrad sighed.
"Yeah, but I'll be good. You know me."
"Didn't you almost get blown up by a tank?"
"After trying to save your ass."
A smirk emerged on his face, "See ya, Jeremy."
"See ya, Walt."
The rhythm of battle was growing in intensity at the edge of the town, but Troy was moving out of it. He was lost in his thoughts, but he had the feeling in his bones when something didn't seem right. The Germans were falling back easily, were reinforced, and even some of those reinforcements were falling back. He just had a feeling, that the Germans were planning something, maybe a pincer move against the town.
Captain Bishop was always so aggressive that he would just push and push which would end up neglecting his flank. Though Troy couldn't prove that this was what the Germans would do, he still had a feeling. He had to move to the southwest portion of the outskirts of town, just to observe.
He went at it alone as he always did. As the company sniper, Captain MacKay had granted him a lot of autonomy, more so than a regular company marksman. He should really have been attached to a platoon and been a company scout, but MacKay trusted him that he'd make the right decisions in the field.
MacKay… with all the foresight and instinct that Troy possessed, he wondered how he failed to notice that Tiger that killed the captain…
"Hey, uh, where are we going?"
Troy looked behind himself, "Wait, what the hell are you doing with me?"
Higgins was clutching his rifle tightly, "I thought I should be following you."
"Wait, have you been behind me this whole time?"
"Uh, yeah."
And Troy thought he himself was quiet. Or maybe he was so deep in his own mind. Whatever the case, he was slipping.
Troy turned himself fully around, "You should be back with the platoon. You need to know what to do, that is vital."
"Ah, I-I don't know where they went."
"Oh Jesus…" Troy sucked his teeth. This is what he gets for being chummy with a replacement, a man attached to his hip…
"Fine, keep quiet and low and follow me, I may need your help."
"Really?!" the private beamed.
"That's not quiet, now come on."
The two marksmen walked up an incline that was on the outskirts of the town and came upon a large hedgerow, five feet high and a yard thick. Troy walked along the hedge to see a low empty patch that he could crawl through without being pricked to death. He found one and went through it like a snake, while Higgins blubbered through like a landed fish.
Passed the hedgerow was open country. About five solid acres of farmland splintered in half by a low stone wall in the middle. The town was on the left-side of the field and the battle was raging in earnest near the southern portion of the town, hidden by the buildings.
"C'mon, Troy, what are we doing out here?" Higgins huffed, flicking branches and leaves out of his clothes.
"They said that the Germans were attacking from the south with another company…"
"Yeah, and?"
"The Germans counterattack where they were pushed back, and they often try to flank. Bishop attacks head on and commits his company to direct attacks, that's how they got encircled before…"
"So, what are you saying?"
This seemed like the perfect place for the Germans to come through if they decided to counterattack. Two squads to a platoon-sized counterattack will just flank the outskirts and splinter Dog Company.
He was underneath the edge of a hedgerow; he draped his poncho over his top half so the branches and thorns wouldn't stick. He removed his helmet and covered his hair with the edge of the poncho. He had to ensure that no sound would echo in the metallic helmet. His position was on a twenty-foot incline, and he had a clear sightline on the open country in case anyone came.
"Higgins, go fetch the mortar section."
"What?"
"Specifically, get Sergeant Jelenic from the Mortars. Tell him to bring one or two mortars. I have a feeling we may get some company. Tell him that I sent you."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you talking about?"
"Get the mortars, get Jelenic, now."
"Should I get anyone else?"
"If you find them, yes. Get a squad or a platoon, if you must, but I need the mortars here."
"Wait, are the Krauts coming? How do you know the Krauts are coming here?"
"Just a feeling. Now go, Higgins."
"But what about—"
Troy gave him a glare, the new man turned white. He hustled away without saying a word.
Two minutes had passed.
He peered through his scope.
Nothing.
The only thing that happened was the burping rip of an MG-42, followed by an American .30 cal.
He waited; he knew someone would arrive. He felt it inside of him.
No. He wanted them to arrive.
He took out more ammunition and placed it to his side. His .45 pistol was to his right in front of him. Since he was on his belly, he didn't want anything obtrusive to hinder his movements, no matter how slight they may be.
He was ready. He wanted them to come.
Come on, I know, he thought to himself. I know you want to come over here, do it. Do it. Do it.
He saw movement.
Three hundred yards away, someone was moving forward above the incline. It was a German, no way an American would be across that distance and moving forward like this. Then another figure emerged, followed by three more, then four more.
Troy took a quick count, "Fifteen, eh…"
They were moving at a moderate speed, like they were jogging with caution.
His hands moved quickly. He unscrewed the scope off of his rifle and placed it back in his tube. He took out the bigger scope that he kept on his back for further targets, the Ureti scope with eight times the standard magnification. He screwed it on and then peered through the sight. His targets were larger within the scope, he smirked, he was now in business.
Which one of these men would be his first target?
The man who was leading this flank maneuver was up front and he had the look of an officer, his uniform was slightly different from the others. He was standing taller than the others as well. But beside the officer, was clearly an NCO. That man was moving at a low crouch and his uniform was filthy and fastened tightly.
Two prime targets, in his line of sight. But who to get first?
Officers are always first… but… NCOs are the backbone. So… the brain or the backbone…?
The flanking contingent of Germans was moving closer.
What if that officer is a replacement? Or what if he's a veteran?
The flanking contingent had entered the 250-yard range.
I need to get the officer first… officers are always first… but then I'll have the Sarge to contend with… shit… which one, Jeremy? Hurry…
The flanking contingent had just entered the 200-yard range.
He suddenly relaxed himself. He felt his heart at ease.
Now or never. A fragile whisper exited his lips, "C'mon, Boogeyman, give me strength…"
The Boogeyman licked his lips. The Boogeyman inhaled through his nostrils and exhaled through his mouth. He held out the breath in a two second pause.
CRACK!
The scope jerked upward slightly, but not too much; he had a good grip on it. He looked through the scope, the body of the sergeant was descending as the scope was. He got him square in the chest.
The body hit the ground, then the rest of the Germans fell to their stomachs in the grass. Troy rechambered the second round. His eyes were glued to his scope. The sergeant he shot was square on his back, slowly squirming in what was most likely a soft death throe. The other fourteen men were in the grass, hiding from his gaze, but they couldn't. He was on an incline, and the grass patch they were in was barely higher than a foot. There was no wind at this hour. He could see the outlines of their bodies if they were crawling through the grass, their grey helmets and uniforms clashing with the emerald, green grass around them.
Troy could still see them, even as they tried to hide. But his sole sight was where the officer was lying, or more like where the officer was moving. The German officer went to examine the sergeant Troy had shot. The officer got to the sergeant and raised his own body up and was attempting to stabilize the mortally wounded man.
Troy could see the officer's helmet, face, arms, and torso. Troy could see him trying to save his second-in-command.
A good man… Troy's finger was squeezing back slowly on the trigger. But a stupid man…
CRACK!
The officer's head snapped to the side violently, his body went limp. In what appeared to be a millisecond, Troy witnessed a small pink mist exiting the helmet of the officer. That officer fell on top of his sergeant and did not move.
Troy rechambered his third round. His lips had parted, he did it. He got him in the head.
"Beautiful…" fragilely exited his lips.
His father told him as a boy to never sin; he might as well have told him to never breathe. He loved his father, but never sinning was something his father was totally wrong in. He sinned, like every other mortal. He lied, he cheated, he stole, and he even fornicated with Lucille before they officially went steady. But all that sin was never malicious or ruined another's life.
Until he killed a man.
There was an evil in every man, that much was true, but the ultimate evil was apparently taking another man's life. His father was a God-fearing man, and "Thou shall not kill", was echoed to him, even when going to war. Yet his father wasn't naïve, he knew Jeremy may be in a situation where he would have to kill, but he feared that his son may grow to relish or be haunted by the killings. He would say, even on Jeremy's last day, "Thou shall not kill." When Jeremy went to become a Ranger with the 29th, they had their own reply to that commandment, "To Hell with That." They taught him techniques to kill a man with a knife or your bare hands that Basic Training never taught him, ways to bury your blade inside flesh to ensure the person doesn't make a sound, ways of killing that Jeremy never could imagine.
And he liked it.
Having that knowledge, that ability, that few others have or could utilize effectively, he loved owning this skillset, and he was eager to test this out in battle. That Boogeyman that was inside every man, that lived inside of him, that great evil that would destroy you and thrives on your fear? That creature that lived inside of you?
He made a deal with such a creature. Before he went into battle, Jeremy Troy was going to collect its rent.
Jeremy had a skill that others around him seem to lack. Compartmentalization. The ability to store parts of your knowledge, memories, and even parts of yourself. If he was to meet his father again and look him in the eye and show that he didn't relish killing like he did, then he had to find a way to switch his thoughts and his actions.
Killing never really bothered him. He's a soldier, it's business, never personal. He mocked the Germans like everyone else, but he never hated them. Even when they killed his friends and superiors, he still never hated them.
He could switch that attitude of a cold-blooded soldier with that of the genial Jeremy Troy at will. This is cold-blooded side to him, it was something that was always lurking in his soul, it was just the Boogeyman that would draw that out of him.
And now, the Boogeyman was looking through the same scope he was. To be in a position where you can look at a man from far away, to see their faces as you shoot them, to see their anguish clear as day, you need to have some cold in your soul.
He eyed the still officer. And he smiled, "The Boogeyman got you."
He spotted movement about ten yards back from where the sergeant was first shot. An inquisitive German was ground-hogging his head up above the grass, most likely trying to find out where the shots were coming from.
"C'mon, raise your head up a bit more, and you'll find out," he said softly.
He needed to see the white of his face to best increase his chances. That German was moving his mouth, most likely speaking to the other men who were hiding.
Come on, come on, give it to me…
That German craned his head upwards.
CRACK!
Shit… He was aiming for his face, but the bullet looked as if it got him in the throat. That German rolled on his back, one of his arms in the air as he did so and was convulsing on the ground.
He chambered the fourth round and could see a swath of grass parting as a grey body slithered through. He followed the movement; he could spot the arms crawling and aimed at the torso.
CRACK!
That German flailed awkwardly on the ground. This time, he could hear the screaming from where he was.
He moved his eye away from the scope to chamber the final round in his Springfield, when the eleven remaining Germans who hid in the grass suddenly shot to their feet and were rushing for cover behind the low stone wall that separated the open field.
Troy gasped at the sight. He quickly figured that the Germans realized that he could pick them off, even as they hid in the grass, so why bother waiting to be picked off one-by-one? From his scope, Troy could witness the Germans rushing to cover almost if they're being chased by savage hounds. Out of the eleven remaining men, one of them was slower than the others.
Moving targets were always a bit tricky, but you had to lead them good. Hunting people was like hunting animals, just predict where they'll go once startled, lead the sight a little bit ahead of them, and do not panic.
This German was slower than the others, and the Boogeyman led him good.
CRACK!
The German collapsed in the dirt, dropping his rifle. His hands reached for his sides as he yelled. When the bullet hit him, it looked as if it got him in the waist, judging by where the puff of smoke and blood originated. That bullet must have shattered that man's hip. Good luck standing up from that.
The remaining ten Germans had successfully gotten into cover. The fifth man he had shot was halfway there.
Troy inhaled and caught his breath, he funneled each round into his Springfield, and the Boogeyman was back in business.
The agonized groans echoed out to Troy, but when the man was talking to his comrades who were in cover, Troy couldn't hear a sound. From the scope, the wounded German clearly looked as if he was communicating to someone behind the wall.
Giving him assurances, eh? "Hang tight" and "Hold on", right? Five down, ten to go…
The rest of the world was lost to Troy. His goal was to see all ten of those Germans that had escaped him, lying still within his scope.
Come on, come on, somebody try to rescue him… come on…
The man's pained groans were the only answer he could hear. No German came out of cover. A minute had passed since then. And that wounded man looked as if he was still speaking with someone.
They're still there… they have to be… I know I killed two of them, the sergeant and the officer, there's still three wounded and bleeding men they left… come on, get out of that cover… come on…
The wounded man tries to stand. One hand is on his bloody hip; the other hand is on the ground pushing himself up. One leg is on the ground, the other is trying to balance itself up, its foot planted firmly in the dirt. Even from this far away, Troy could see the strenuous amount of effort it took on the German's grimacing face.
No. No one gets away from the Boogeyman.
CRACK!
Spurts of blood shot from the German's leg opposite of the bleeding hip, the man collapsed with a wail. Troy rechambered the next round.
"Helfen! Mir Helfen!"
That's right, just keep calling for help.
"Helfen!" the soldier blubbered loudly for a solid minute.
Troy peered over the cover the rest of them were hiding behind. He could make something out, a twinge of grey metal, most likely a helmet, was partly jutting out from cover, almost anxious to run out to help.
Let me add some incentive.
He gently eased the scope on the squirming soldier. The German had his hand in the air, trying to reach his comrades in cover. The reticle of the scope was aimed a few notches above the palm of the German to account for the bullet drop.
CRACK!
A pink mist appeared where the German's hand was. Troy could hear the cripple's scream over the rechambering of his rifle.
Out of the corner of the low stone wall, a submachinegun popped out and began firing randomly.
Guess you had enough of your buddy get shot… it's working…
The gunner exhausted the entire clip before falling back into cover.
Troy took that moment to reload all the rounds into the chamber.
Over the wall, several of the Germans suddenly popped up and started firing from cover. It was random and desperate, their bullets snapped into the hedgerow, but 50 yards down to the right of where he was. Those armed with machine-pistols were the ones who were "firing" at him. He spotted the grey helmets slowly rise above the stone walls, with their rifle barrels scanning the hedgerow, looking for him.
He could see the faces beneath the helmets. Five of them were looking in a different spot from where Troy was, yet only one was looking right where he was hiding. That one had to go first. But he saw something that stole his attention.
A German charged out of cover and ran towards the wounded man who was fifteen yards behind the stone wall. The rescuer scooped up the man in a fireman's carry in a quick motion. The reticle of Troy's scope followed the German's back at the apex of the fireman's carry. He allowed the reticle to drop down to the man's back. Too high may be fatal, if it's lower, then it gets the stomach, liver, or kidneys. That would make him suffer more.
CRACK!
The German collapsed with the wounded man falling right on top of him. The man didn't even make it halfway to cover. The Germans were still providing covering fire as the wounded men fell. Troy rechambered another round. He peered down the scope at the rifleman who was looking in his general direction.
Good eyes… But he made two mistakes. He failed to tell his comrades Troy's location, and he failed to get back into cover as he reloaded.
CRACK!
The helmeted face fell back behind the stone wall, blood had stained the rocks, his rifle slumped over the edge of the wall. The covering fire subsided and the Germans slinked back down behind the low wall. The only thing that was audible were the moans of the wounded men away from the wall.
The sniper's heart suddenly jumped, there was rapid stamping of dirt from behind, several meters back behind the hedgerow. It sounded like multiple people had gotten around him.
He grabbed his .45 and turned to the sound. His finger was on the trigger, and the barrel was pointed at the face of Private Higgins.
"Jesus, man!" the replacement fell back on his ass in surprise.
"Christ!" he sneered lowly. His heart was thumping in his own chest, "Get down!"
Behind the replacement, moving at a low and slower crouch, was Sergeant Jelenic. He held out his fist in the air, Troy noticed he brought the entire mortar section with him. The section fell to their knees.
"So, this is where all the commotion was coming from, eh, Troy?" Jelenic asked.
"Yeah, I was keeping Jerry occupied. I got about eight of them pinned down. Come on!"
Jelenic crawled right beside Troy underneath the hedgerow and took out his binoculars.
"Do you see the low wall about 150 to 180 yards out?"
"Yeah?"
"See the blood staining the top of the wall with the rifle on the other side?"
"That's where they are?"
"Defilade. Spread out about fifteen yards, give or take."
"I can work with that." Jelenic turned around to his men behind them. "Paddie, get all three mortars set up, tubes facing south."
Higgins squirmed his way on the opposite side of Troy, "Wait a minute, y'all gonna fire over the hedgerow? How ya gonna do that?"
Jelenic shifted his binoculars vertically, and covered one eye, "Wash your head out, new guy. The big boys are up." He took out his compass and peered through it and received the azimuth.
Troy chuckled. "What?" Higgins asked.
"You had to open your mouth with Jelenic…"
Jelenic quickly gave his three mortar teams the azimuth and range and ordered them to place high explosives in the tubes. He told them to make it rain with a barrage. He told them to let it rip.
The three mortar teams began funneling rounds after rounds through the tubes. Audible bloops were heard on repeat from the mortars.
"Higgins, you see where that rifle and blood stain are on the low wall?" Troy asked him.
"Uh… yeah, I do…"
"Hmm, just watch."
After a five second period, an explosion blew a piece of the wall apart, followed by another, then another, and then another. The explosions were veering to the left and to the right, but they primarily stayed right along the low stone wall. Some rounds were shorter than others, and some were farther than others, but not even a mouse that was hiding among that patch of a stone wall, would have survived.
The mortar barrage continued for about thirty seconds. And then all was quiet. A thick cloud of dust and smoke had risen from the aftermath.
Higgins was stunned.
"I think we got 'em," Jelenic smiled through his binoculars.
"Oh yeah, I think so too," Troy grinned.
Jeremy exhaled; he lessened the grip on his rifle. He was still smiling, as he pulled the Boogeyman back into the shadows.
The town was declared secured fifteen minutes later. The Germans began a full withdrawal, once Lieutenant Ekland radioed in Able Company for reinforcements. As the men began examining the battle-torn town, Ekland took a moment to walk the outskirts, where he saw the sniper and veterans of the mortar team scavenging through the corpses of the men by the blasted stonewall. The new replacement was silently watching the veterans at work.
"What the hell happened here?" Ekland asked out loud, more to himself than anyone else.
Troy ceased in his scavenging and stood up, "Oh, hello, sir. You want to know what happened?"
Ekland's boot landed on a dismembered forearm; the smell of death was pungent. "Yes, please, Troy."
"Right, well, when you and most of 3rd Platoon went off to help Dog, I ventured out to the incline over yonder and took position by the hedgerow. I told Private Higgins, our new guy, to go get the mortars and a rifle squad. I had a feeling that some of the Germans may try to either flank here or fall back out of the town. There were fifteen Germans here and they were trying to flank around. I shot seven of them and had them pinned behind the wall, Higgins came back with Jelenic and his team blasted them to pieces, sir."
Ekland gulped softly, his eyes lowered back on the lone forearm beneath his feet, "Yeah, in more ways than one… all behind that low wall?"
"Yes, sir."
"Goddamn, you held off two squads of Krauts by yourself?"
"Well, it helped that they didn't see me, sir."
Ekland turned to Sergeant Jelenic. The NCO nodded surely, "I came after, sir. But I trust Troy, I could see the stiffs he made through my field glasses, sir. He caused this."
Ekland patted Troy on the back, "Glad you're on our side, then."
The lieutenant walked off, and the sniper went back to scavenging.
He came across the man who's hand he shot through and patted him down. Troy's eyes widened, "Oh, look at that, this one has lollipops. Wonder where he got them from? Haven't had one since England."
He opened up the wrapped candy deftly. Higgins was trying to say something, but Troy placed the candy in his mouth, but quickly spat it out to the ground.
"Blech, oh great, this one is butterscotch… hey, you want one?"
Higgin's mouth creaked open, "Uh, I'm good, Troy."
"Suit yourself. Let's see, one, two, three… six! Oh perfect, hope not all of them are butterscotch. Oh wait, oh shit! A damn chocolate bar, yes!"
Higgins was examining the corpse Troy was on top of, "This guy has about three holes in him…"
"Yeah, he does."
"None of them are fatal…"
"Nope, they weren't."
Higgins had an expression that one would have if they awoke with a dead rat in their mouth, "Did you… I mean, you had a bolt-action, so… did you…"
Troy broke off a piece of the chocolate bar and tossed it in his mouth.
"I-I-I… what you did—"
"What did I do, Higgins?"
"One shot, right? Ya supposed to done bring down varmints in one shot… but here…"
He continued to stammer, Troy was still eating the chocolate, right on top of the man he killed.
"I mean… you practically dissected them like frogs in science class… I always aimed to kill the critters I see with a single shot… but here… don't you, I mean, they were Krauts, but… d-don't you feel bad doing that?"
Troy shrugged, "No."
He stuck the candy bar back in his mouth and walked away.
Doc Conrad was applying a tourniquet to the arm of a wounded Dog soldier. He brought the soldier to his feet and motioned him to the Aid Station.
Troy came behind him, with a knowing smirk, "Hope he couldn't smell that sauce on your breath."
"Eh, I've been sober for a while. Even if I weren't, I think I did a damn good job."
"Anything bad?"
"Worse I saw was shell fragments to the groin."
"Jesus…"
"Two inches above his pecker. Lucky bastard."
"Ain't he though?"
"How about you?"
"I'm fine. Ran into some Krauts."
Conrad's smile faded, "And how did that turn out?"
"Well, no one on our side got hit."
"And for Jerry?"
"Not well."
"Good news all around, eh?"
"Oh yeah."
"Wha'cha chewing on?"
"Chocolate. Oh yeah, that's right. Walter, I got you a birthday present. Here ya go."
"Lollipops?"
"Yeah, though some of them are butterscotch."
"Thanks, Jeremy, I actually like butterscotch."
"No problem."
"Where did you get them from?"
"Dead Krauts."
"Oh, Jesus, man!"
"Oh no-no-no, freshly dead, I killed them myself."
"...Like that makes it better?"
"Yeah, I mean they weren't rotting, and the blood didn't seep into the wrapper. Look, do you see any blood on the candy?"
The medic examined it closely, "Uh, no."
"See? So, what's the problem? We all used to shoot and kill critters in the woods then eat them."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. So, how many Krauts today?"
"Seven."
"Damn, you were busy."
"Yep, and now you should get busy enjoying those treats."
"Thanks, Jeremy."
"Happy Birthday, Walter."