Sniper's Justice (Caje Cole Book 9) by David Healey (best classic books txt) 📗

of the Third Reich seemed all but certain. Now, it was only a matter of time. Their world was falling apart, but many weren’t prepared to give in quite yet.

“Hurry, hurry!” shouted a German officer, riding past in a Kübelwagen. The agile vehicle threaded its way along the slick road. “Hop, hop, hop! If the Allied planes catch us in the open, there will be hell to pay!”

With the other soldiers, Hauer glanced at the sky, but he was not particularly worried. “Let them come,” he said. “So what?”

“Maybe you will shoot them down for us with that fancy rifle of yours, eh, Hauer?” a nearby soldier asked.

“Maybe I will.”

“I hope you do!” the soldier said cheerfully.

Not all of the others were as friendly toward Hauer. Some viewed snipers with something like disdain, thinking that they were like thieves of souls, shooting from concealment. Even if they tolerated snipers, some of them just didn’t like Hauer. Others, like young Krauss, who had somehow survived the battle and was following along two steps behind him, seemed to regard him with something like awe.

What did he care, either way?

Hauer shook his head. He was cold; he could barely feel his feet. His left leg dragged, stiff from the wound he had suffered in the church steeple. In this case, he was glad of the temperature because it numbed the pain. He was sure that if he stopped moving, he would be captured, or simply die of the cold.

For many hours his stomach had rumbled, but then the sensation of hunger had gone away. Some of the younger soldiers ate snow to keep their bellies full, but he knew that only burned more energy than the temporary relief was worth. What he would give for a hot, sizzling sausage right now! The very idea of it made his mouth water. But for now, there was nothing to eat—no telling for how long.

He thought back to the fight in the village, satisfied that he had killed that meddling nun. He had been wounded while hidden in the church steeple, hit by an impossible shot that had come in through one of the small gaps in the brick wall that he had hidden behind. He was sure that it had been the American sniper whom he had encountered before. In fact, he had seen that sniper chasing him through the village.

Why hadn’t he made a last stand against him? Hauer shrugged to himself. Sometimes, even The Butcher had done enough. He would live to fight another day. He had to hand it to that American sniper, though. He was an excellent shot. If they ever crossed paths again, Hauer would be sure to return the favor.

The cheerful soldier beside him started singing in a low voice. All around him, other soldiers began to pick up the tune. The song was Panzierlied, the “Tank Song” so popular with all the troops:

Was gilt denn unser Leben

Für unsres Reiches Heer?

Für Deutschland zu sterben

Ist uns höchste Ehr.

What do our lives matter

In serving the nation?

To die for Germany

Is our highest honor.

The snowy forest rang with deep German voices, soldiers marching to make their final stand for the Fatherland.

Part III

Chapter Nineteen

Autumn 1991, Munich

Standing in the middle of the WWII museum, surrounded by the opening night crowd, Cole stared in disbelief at the German sniper that he had last seen that January day in 1945.

“I was hoping that I killed you,” Cole said.

The Butcher shook his head and smiled. “Apparently not. Why, are you not glad to see me, Hillbilly?”

“No. And where do you get off calling me Hillbilly?”

“That is your nickname, is it not? This is what the exhibit here says. The famed Hillbilly sniper.”

Cole was embarrassed about it, but he had to admit this was just what the exhibit stated. “I reckon it does say that, but it wasn’t my idea.”

“Come now, Hillbilly. After all these years, surely we can put our differences aside?”

“Sorry, but it’s hard to forget some things,” Cole said.

Hans was looking from man to man, a worried expression on his face. “You two know each other?” he asked.

The Butcher held out a hand and introduced himself to Hans. “I am Karl Hauer. You are German, but you speak English with hardly any accent.”

“Hans Neumann. As for my English, well, I was a POW during the war and was sent to America,” Hans explained. “After the war, I stayed.”

Hauer nodded, smiling as if pleased with his fellow German’s answer. For all the American exceptionalism being celebrated here tonight, this was a club that the Americans could never be part of—two Germans who had fought for their country, rightly or wrongly.

“I will leave it up to your friend here to explain how we know one another,” Hauer said.

“We ran into each other during the war,” Cole explained. “We set our sights on each other, you might say. Why don’t you go ahead and tell him, old buddy. Tell him all about how you got the nickname, Das Schlachter.”

“Of course,” the Butcher said. He seemed pleased by the use of his nickname. “We first encountered one another at Ville sur Moselle. Then again at the second half of what the Americans called The Battle of the Bulge.”

“You left out the part where you murdered those villagers at Ville sur Moselle,” Cole said.

“Murder is a strong word. They had armed themselves. I am sure that they would have done the same to me, given the chance.”

Cole snorted. “Villagers with some old shotguns and rusty hunting rifles? Not likely. What about those kids you killed? Had they armed themselves?”

The Butcher shook his head. “Sometimes, I cannot sleep at night thinking of what I have done. I remind myself that unfortunately, there is always needless killing in any war.”

Cole stared at him in disbelief. The words had been delivered almost by rote, as if Hauer had been practicing them. He sounded so damn phony.

“Hauer, I don’t believe you meant a word of what you just said about