Because many of us cannot get out, I thought I would post a serial story. It's set in WWII. It involves Nazis, a Canadian, Cpl Stephen Landers, formerly of the RCR. For those of you who are not familiar with the fine folks of the Royal Canadian Regiment, it was, and still is one of our infantry regiments. Sadly, Cpl Landers was serving with the Brits during the war and his duties always involved some cloak and dagger.

I'll post one part every day for a week. Grab a Corona (ahem...) and start reading.
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Just One Shot – A Sniper and His Nazi
copyright 2005 – Stephen Redgwell

I sat alone by a window on the third floor of an old stone, four storey French chateau. I was tired and bored, but protected from the weather. Not like those poor sods standing on the cobblestone below! Outside, it was cold and raining. Despite the foul day, the shootings continued on unabated. I could only watch the misery in silence.

In the courtyard, where some condemned Russian prisoners were taken to carry out sentencing, the constant noise had damaged the 17th century ornaments that decorated the roof top. Pools of water competed with the red stained cobblestones for space. Nothing seemed to wash away. No one said anything. As the day dragged on, a harsh voice would occasionally cut through the damp air. Ready! Aim! Fire! A volley of shots and then more silence. I thought to myself, what the hell were Russians doing in France?

The SS guards seemed disinterested in the goings on. When they first arrived, some of them shot pigeons perched on the rain gutters. Since the executions started however, no birds bothered to land. A few misplaced shots had shattered some windows on the top floor above me. Most of the building was vacant anyway, but the damage added to the macabre appearance and feel of the place. If only the marquis had received an advanced warning before his estate was taken over by the German army. I wondered where he ended up.

Every hour, the sound of a dozen soldiers’ boots pounded past the door of my darkened room. They didn't know I was there and that was good. Had they stopped to investigate, I'd have been done for. Time dragged on. All the while, they kept shooting Russians.
---

I was dreaming.

A friend who died at Dunkirk and my old Sgt Major were discussing rifles.

Racking a bolt action might be time consuming, but the mechanism is more efficient than an auto loader...” said the Sgt Major. “It's also simpler to fix and is much more reliable. I guess if I had to pick an auto though, a Russian PPS-43 would be an acceptable choice. They’ve started making them in droves you know...

Then, Billy Biggar, my dead friend, started to talk.

“The Russians are smart when it comes to armaments. Mosin Nagants can really be kicked around and run over, yet still function. Really, that's what it's all about.”

I wanted in on this conversation and started mumbling.

“Yeah, that’s right Billy. That’s what it’s all about. Weapons that can keep killing. But that won’t do you any good. Dead at nineteen. A teenager forever. What a [bleep]’ joke...”

My old Sgt Major cut me off.

“Shut up Landers! One of your commando officers keeps talking about accurate, long range rifles. That’s great for you lot – you’re here for sniper training – but they’re no good in the regiment. We’ll be fighting house to house soon. A shotgun would be better.”

I drifted off again, not waking until the sun started to set.
---

As nighttime approached, the temperature dropped below freezing. Looking down, I saw the sergeant of the guard in a doorway below, lighting a cigarette. He was a cruel bastard. The condemned men were huddled together trying to keep warm. They would be made to stand outside until dawn, but the sergeant figured he could torture them some more. It was his idea to keep them outside in the courtyard all night in the cold.

If he lasted until war's end, he'd walk away untouched – a victim of the Fatherland. Tribunals rarely prosecuted the non-commissioned types. Too bad. If I could, I'd introduce him to a garrote.

The faces of the prisoners were dirty and lifeless. I don't know what they’d been through until then, but you can bet it was long, tiring and unpleasant. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but I think that they were zipperheads – tank men. Their insignia looked to be 12th Tank Regiment and they were all short. The Russian army liked to put short people in the tin cans.

What were they thinking? Were they scared? Maybe they were glad it was over. The one thing I could never figure about Stalin's fighters was why they had such a fanatical temper and lust for a scrap. Maybe living in their part of the world bred this into a person. Whenever you looked into their eyes you saw either hatred or nothing. Those lifeless black and white marbles always gave me the creeps.

"Rollenanruf! Alle Gefangenen gegen die Wand!"
(Roll call! All prisoners against the wall!)

A head count? Where on earth could they go? None of them had moved since they were thrown into the courtyard, but the Germans had to make their last hours a living hell.

The sergeant of the guard smiled with his half rotten teeth.

‘Your time's coming too, Fritz.’ I whispered under my breath...

To be continued...

Pro Patria

is there a book version?

Royal Cdn Regiment cap badge

No book at this time. Sorry.

Just One Shot – A Sniper and His Nazi - Part 2
copyright 2005 – Stephen Redgwell

Flashback – Mission Planning

"So, let's see. I suggest that we get Cpl. Landers on the roof of that building, sir. He's an excellent shot. He speaks German and a couple of those other nasty languages. We could do worse..."

Lieutenant Ralph Hughson. A textbook idiot. His daddy is some sort of minor aristocratic type. A lord or an earl. Something like that. Just my luck that this waste of skin is my boss. I've always said that one of our biggest problems when dealing with the British is...well, dealing with the British. The Canadians get sent over to England and we end up being assigned to these fools whose families have manor houses somewhere. And they say that you can't buy a commission anymore.

Then my junior Montgomery explains the job.

"It's quite simple really, Landers. Even you should be able to comprehend. You’re to eliminate a rather nasty fellow, SS Sturmbannfuhrer Ernst von Riesen. You’re to walk onto the grounds during the day when the estate is wide open, but before the SS arrives, then hide. Wait for a few days and pop! Do that bit of nasty business and then home. Quite simple really."

It's always "quite simple really" when someone else is doing it. My memory of that briefing went a bit farther. I remembered saying,

"And so, sir, my simple mind will get me home. But let me be clear. It will get me home, so I can jam this rifle up your pink, aristocratic butt! How old are you? Twenty-one? Want to impress your superiors? Jump off London Bridge, and do it WITHOUT HELP! I shall return and look after you when I'm done. Of that, you can be certain. It will be your choice which end of the rifle enters you first. Don't make me choose for you!"

Fear flashed in his eyes and I left.

Meanwhile, Back at the Chateau

Sitting in a cold, stale smelling room for a week wasn’t one of the high points of my life. Actually, I was a bit relieved. The SS arrived four days ago but hadn’t searched the place. Out of character for them, but a good thing nonetheless. I would have been in trouble had they done their job.

The poor weather delayed the arrival of my target, so I amused myself with the SS and their Teutonic idiosyncrasies. The bonus was seeing one of their drumhead tribunals in action. I didn't get to hear it, but seeing the result wasn't surprising. It was one of those 'let's skip to the end, because we know what happens in the middle' sort of activities that many militaries are good at. Had the SS ever convicted someone and NOT sentenced them to death by firing squad or hanging?

More days passed. My plan would be executed, dependent on the circumstance that presented itself when SS Sturmbannfuhrer von Riesen arrived. If my young Lieutenant was to be believed, it would be quick and easy. Up to now, it had been ‘quick’ going on seven days. Easy? Not likely!

During the day, I continued to daydream and drifted in and out of sleep. It wasn’t easy being the King's arrow. The tribunals had stopped. I think that the Germans ran out of people to shoot. For the last couple of days, the only people I saw were NCOs with nasty tempers. And like any army, the people at the bottom got to feel the wrath of any senior non commissioned type or officer who happened to wander onto their piece of misery.

The nice thing about that SS garrison was the state of dress the men were held to by their superiors. Despite being the enemy, I had to admit that their black uniforms looked good. The only thing I would change would be those death head skulls they wore. Maybe replace them with swords or rifles. Just a thought. The cut and fit was excellent. Even the privates looked better than our staff officers with their red tabbed, custom made togs.

Their boots were highly shone and kept in excellent condition. Everything made of metal glistened. The officers wore these ceremonial daggers and white gloves. The men didn't wear the gloves except, as near as I could tell, for the guards in front of HQ. I'd been paying close attention to that area for obvious reasons. I was glad that they were used to glitter. It would make things easier when von Riesen arrived. An accidental reflection of the sun off of my scope lens wouldn't bother anyone, I hoped. Everyone appeared relaxed, despite the delay in the Sturmbannfuhrer's arrival. What was taking so long? The SOB probably took up with some local Germanic strumpet...

They sure were making a lot of fuss over him. von Riesen was a decorated officer, a Sturmbannfuhrer, equivalent to a major in our army. The only spectacular thing that he'd done to get Britain's attention was the spying he'd been doing. Apparently, he was damn good at it. He also spoke several languages without the trace of an accent. They said that he'd spent most of the war to this point, in London, being bombed by his own people! It was also reported that he actually had several one on one conversations with Churchill!

To quote one of my instructors at Camp X, "They like to shoot spies! Jawohl!!"

My chum, Sgt Cuddles, was a Canadian who loved to work with knives. We called him Cuddles because he cozied up to his targets quietly, without them knowing. He rarely carried a rifle. Even the officers left him alone over that. Cold steel and/or a garrote. I learned the art from him, one on one. I haven't got his record, but the damn Brits were working hard on catching me up!

To be continued...

Just One Shot – A Sniper and His Nazi - Part 3
copyright 2005 – Stephen Redgwell



I snapped back to reality when I heard noise at the end of the hall. It was the guard sergeant screaming at his troops.

"Idioten! Durchsuche alle Räume! Schliessen Sie alle Fenster! Verriegeln Sie die Tür hinter Ihnen! Schnell!"
(Idiots! Search all the rooms! Close all the windows! Lock the door behind you! Quickly!)

What a fool! He was screaming at his people and calling them idiots. They were apparently going to check all the rooms on this floor and lock the doors and windows. If there was anyone up here, they’d know soon. Hey, that could be me!

“Okay Fritz, why not pop your ugly face in here and we'll dance!” I couldn’t take him out though. They would miss a guard. Just give me a second to hide myself and my rifle...

The door began to open and a stream of light from the corridor shot into the room, illuminating the dust. A soldier had it opened halfway when the sergeant's voice boomed down the hallway.

"Straub! Bist du fertig? Ist alles gut hier?"
(Straub! Are you finished? Is everything good?)

A frightened guard answered,

"Jawohl! Ich wollte gerade gehen..."
(Yes! I was just leaving...)

Whew! You can't get any closer than that! An overzealous NCO and a scared underling. I waited for them to leave, and let the building go quiet. The unexpected search reminded me to check a few details of my own.

The first thing was make sure that I had a way out. That meant the door had to be opened, and the way down the corridor checked. Lastly, I had to secure a way out the side window of the corridor.

The trick was to take the shot, leave the building from the other side, and hop the estate fence, while there was still confusion in the compound. The SS weren't easily upset, and I don't think that the non-commissioned types would be upset if they saw one of their officers taken down, comrade or not!

The search meant it had to be close to the time. They didn't check the building before, because there was no reason. von Riesen was on his way...

My answer wasn't long in coming. Less than half an hour later, dust on the road and the appearance of a large black car confirmed the Sturmbannfuhrer's arrival. The gate to the compound swung open, the honour guard was brought to attention and the commanding officer stepped out of his office onto the stone steps of headquarters.

"Achtung! Sturmbannfuhrer von Riesen ist angekommen!"
(Attention! Sturmbannfuhrer von Riesen has arrived!)

The SS Commander made a good sighting point. If all went to plan, this would be quick. My rifle was a Long Branch No 4, made in Canada for our army. It was a T model, which meant that is was specially chosen and worked on for precision shooting. In fact, that particular rifle was put together by an old friend from home, Steve Edwards. I couldn't wait to tell him his rifle was still a champion! It even had a new scope. The old one broke, jumping out of a plane last mission.

I dialed in the distance which I estimated to be 125 yds. Everyone who wasn't rigidly at attention would be staring at the stone steps and away from me. Even the area guards won't be completely focused on their jobs. It wasn't every day that a celebrity dropped by!

The car rolled through the gates, an SS flag on the front fender waved briskly in the breeze. As it rounded the path that led to headquarters, the band started playing. The car slowed. Just another few seconds...

When I was a Boy

I remembered happier times shooting groundhogs on my uncle's farm in Ontario. In the spring, after the snow had melted and the oats began sprouting, the groundhogs would exit their dens and devour everything they saw. Not good for a farmer, but great for a kid with a 22 rifle and a head full of dreams!

I loved those Saturdays, crawling through Uncle Seppy's fields. The spring sun warmed the air and my youthful body seemed immune to the cool ground. I learned how to dope the wind and estimate range. By the time I joined the army, shooting was as natural as breathing and I was good at it. It wasn't long before they sent me for testing and I was posted to Camp X for special training.

Just One Shot – A Sniper and His Nazi - Part 4
copyright 2005 – Stephen Redgwell



All of Which Brought Me to Here

I had the reticle firmly pinned to the SS commander's Iron Cross. The car would roll to a stop directly in front of him, the rear door would open and von Riesen would step out. While they exchanged salutes, I would deliver the shot...

I could hear the car's brakes from here. The Mercedes stopped and the driver got out. The door opened, but instead of a black uniform, a young lady exited and extended her hand to the commander. Where the hell was von Riesen?

The SS couldn't have known about this. There was too much fuss made. Was von Riesen tipped off? I couldn't see it. Only three people knew why I was there, and after my briefing, I left immediately to catch the plane. The flight crew had no idea who I was or where I was going. What to do?

Here were the scenarios. First, they could have discovered my plan and were moving in on me even as I lay there, staring at the scene below. Second, that woman could be von Riesen's wife or daughter, and he was delayed for some reason. The SS commander wouldn't necessarily know why the Sturmbannfuhrer was late, but wouldn't make an issue of it because of his attractive guest. The third possibility was that he cancelled. Bad news, yes, but at least it gave me an easy retreat and another chance down the road. I needed to find out exactly what happened.

I put the rifle aside, headed out the door and down the corridor. No guards, no noise, nothing. I didn't dare move around outside the building. It was still too light for that. But I needed to cross the compound and see if I could get any information. The solution came through the front door and stood six feet away from where I hid in the shadows.The commis chef was sent for potatoes and was talking to himself.

"La merde aux yeux! Qui est cette femme?"
(I’ve got [bleep] in my eyes! - a local expression. Who is this woman?)

Ah, he was in love!

This presented an unexpected opportunity. Whether he agreed or not, I'd borrow his white pants and shirt. Dressed as kitchen staff, I could snoop around for a few minutes without being detected. I began to speak and scared the young man.

"Hé Rene! Laissez moi emprunter votre chemise et je ne dirai pas au chef ce que vous faites! Je serai seulement allé pendant dix minutes..shhh"
(Hey, Rene! Let me borrow your shirt, and I won’t tell your boss what you’re doing. I’ll be gone for 10 minutes…shhh)

I quickly changed into his shirt and pants, and quietly slipped out the door...

What I found in the kitchen shocked me. All the locals, hired by the SS to make their stay pleasant and tasty, were very agitated and refused to work. Strangely, the SS man made no threats. The trouble was not with conditions or the invaders themselves. The calamity lay with the chefs, proud ones, who were insulted that their special guest wasn't there to enjoy the food they worked so hard to prepare!

They explained to a sympathetic young officer how much detail went into the meal and that the dinner would not keep! It was war and such a waste of rationed food was inexcusable! The officer made his apologies to all the staff and instructed them to serve the dinner as scheduled. Don't worry, he said, the Sturmbannfuhrer will be here tomorrow for the same time. He was delayed in Berlin by the Fuhrer himself!

Well, that explained things.

I'd have to wait another day for von Riesen to make an appearance. Would that mean another building search? Would my amourous French cook squeal?

The next twenty-four hours would feel like much more. It was nice to get outside, but it was time to go back into hiding. I returned quickly and entered the abandoned apartments above the old stable. My arrival startled the young, half naked Frenchman.

"Carnavale!"

"Hello Frenchie. Here's your clothes. Ne parlez rien! Say nothing! Bye, bye." It didn't take him long to dress and run out.

After an hour, I began to relax. If he was going to spill his guts to the SS, it would have happened by now. I guess he saw my uniform and kept his mouth shut. Perhaps he thought that the liberation was about to start.

I checked my rifle again and settled in to wait. The daylight was almost gone. Darkness was always interesting, especially for people who are inherently bad. The night seemed to encourage wicked behaviour. Perhaps that's why there are so many break ins and murders after the sun goes down.

In the men's barracks, everyone was drinking. On the other side of the compound, the officer's "socialized", which was a polite way of saying that the officers were drinking too.

Although this activity is particularly attractive to the younger soldiers, anyone can, and does, join in. Sometimes the older soldiers pass on a bit of wisdom. Sometimes they just aim to drink the youngsters under the table. Regardless, it's relatively harmless fun and the duty personnel have a quiet tour. Just then, I heard a German voice.

To be continued...

Just One Shot – A Sniper and His Nazi - Part 5
copyright 2005 – Stephen Redgwell



Two capable Russian snipers
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"Hey cupcake, my underwear is older than you! Who let you in here to play soldier?"

The barrack window was wide open! I could hear everything clearly.

"Shut up, old man. Your dick has withered and fallen off! Be a good grandfather, sit there and shut up..."

Hmmm. Only an idiot would say something that foolish. He'd be lucky to get through the night without having his face kicked in.

"You're right, baby face! But I'll sit where you are... now keep quiet."

A shadow moved, and a leg came up like lightning. The leg contacted a stupid, and now unconscious, young troublemaker. The kid's head slammed against the wall. I heard the sound of an overripe melon dropping on a concrete floor.

"Oh, come on Dieter, leave him alone! He's too stupid to keep his mouth shut. You should just slap them around. You might break something..."

The voice was a witness to the "old man" delivering a lesson.

"[bleep] 'em. How did your father teach you? Did he talk sweet or knock your block off? The boy won't make that mistake again. If he dies, [bleep] him! It just means that his sperm can't pollute the women of the Fuhrer's master race. Pass the bottle!"

This could be a guy I'd like, if we met after the war.

"Hey Paul, just think of the women I saved tonight. If he went into town, the girls would have to listen to his foul mouth and play with his tiny Bavarian dick! That's no entertainment for a lady!"

"You drink too much."

"Hah! Too much? Look at the [bleep] duty we got – executioners for the Fuhrer! Running around the countryside killing off old men and boys. Does it make you happy to shoot a bunch of Russian tank drivers who just happened to be in the wrong place? Their crime? Gettin' lost!"

"Dieter, I'm amazed that your mouth hasn't earned you a bullet yet."

"Don't worry, friend. I won't make it to the end of the war. A bullet will find me, but not tonight..."

I fell asleep listening to the conversation between Paul and Dieter. The sun woke me up very early the next morning. I got lucky! Six hours of dreamless, relaxing shut eye...

I dug through my jacket pockets for something to eat. I should have grabbed some fresh food last night when I was in the SS kitchen. You don't always know when or where your next meal is coming from. Some chewy but unknown Brit rations and a drink of water to keep it down made my stomach grumble a little less. I sure couldn't wait for a real breakfast prepared from real food. But none of those eggs and sausages fried in mutton fat! It amazed me that the English haven't all fallen over dead, eating that crud. I could really go for bacon and eggs, cooked in a cast iron frying pan.

While searching for food, I pulled out the three cartridges that I readied yesterday for von Riesen. They were specially assembled rounds made just for guys like me. Presents from DAC – the Dominion Arsenal of Canada. Well, they were presents for men like von Riesen actually. My job was delivering the gifts – on behalf of Canada, naturally. That got me thinking about the other special purpose rifles I'd seen back home.

I had the chance to examine a Russian scoped Mosin Nagant, a German Mauser and a few Australian No 1s. They were all tight shooters, but if I had to use one of them, I'd take the Mosin Nagant. It had a nice but very simple positive feed from a fixed magazine. The trigger was okay and the optics were simple, but rugged.

The Mausers felt clunky in your hand and I didn't like the bolt throw.

Forget the No 1. The Aussies really messed up with their scope mounting. You have to crane your neck to use the glass. The ones I saw didn't use the cheek piece that was installed on our No 4s to make them easier to use with a tube.

My armourer buddy back in Canada, Steve, said that No 4s have heavier barrels and more metal in the actions. They're not as finicky to get to shoot, as compared to the No 1s they replaced. All I cared about was that they didn't break and held their zero. In my job, reliability was the most important thing.

It's funny, but when we used to have shooting competitions back home in the regiment, we shot paper targets with black circles on them. They graded us using a numeric scoring system. An X for a bull's eye, down to a 6 for a shot that was around the edge. We even got to use expensive adjustable competition peep sights for that.

When I started training with a No 4 T rifle, Steve told us that the iron sighted competition rifles would probably out shoot a guy using a T – a scoped rifle! He said that most soldiers don't know that a competition peep sight is a highly evolved piece of kit, shot in controlled conditions at known ranges. Scoped rifles on the other hand, were not always as accurate because you shot at different sized targets at varying ranges, often after crawling around for days to get into position. The two scenarios were very different he told us. Remember that, he said. Missing a piece of paper on a sunny Saturday afternoon won't get people killed! We all came to appreciate our rifles more as the weeks went by. We also came to appreciate Steve too.

Looking out the window, I saw the afternoon was to start with drill. Some discipline for bad behaviour. The night before, a few of the boys got out of hand and were brought back to the barracks under guard. One of the soldiers in cuffs was the lad who mouthed off and was knocked out. This kid had a large black bruise on the side of his face. Obviously, he didn't learn anything from the experience. The youngster started by talking back to the NCO conducting the drill.

To be continued...

Just One Shot – A Sniper and His Nazi - Part 6
copyright 2005 – Stephen Redgwell



Some SS guards
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"Hey corporal, why do we drill in the heat of the day? What idiot made this decision? Was it you?"

"Shutup Bremer! I don't make those decisions. They come from above. The duty officer, Captain Breitwitz would be the gentleman to thank. And the others can thank you for your contribution to this afternoon's sport. We were to have one hour of drill, but since you think that SS officers are stupid, let's make it two hours! Los!"

Everyone groaned. Two hours of running around with packs and rifles in the hot sun was not fun. I figured that young Bremer would receive some "special attention" from his comrades in the barracks, later that night. Lucky for him that my plans today would save his sorry ass - at least for a day or two. Everyone would be running around, confused. Whistles would be blowing. NCOs would be screaming, and no one was going to get any sleep. Bremer would not get hurt – unless of course, his buddies found him dead after the excitement was over. War is hell...

The sun was beginning to dip, as the afternoon drew to a close. I waited impatiently for some activity on the road. This assignment annoyed me. Too much time was wasted waiting for a target that did not appear. I could be doing other, more productive things. Where was von Riesen?

One of the things that they taught us was the value of patience. I guess I didn’t pay attention though. After the lectures, I was still restless, but hid it better. To the casual observer, it might have appeared that we were lazy or uncaring. Hell, our senior people caught flak on occasion for letting us “sit around”, not doing anything for the war effort. Those in the know ignored any outsider’s opinions. They were of no consequence. If there were any complaints, we'd just smile. It meant that we were doing a great job of hiding what we were up to. That was much more important than what some loudmouth thought of us.

I kept looking down the road. Very soon, there was going to be a car carrying my target. When he arrived, I’d toss him a bullet and go home. Was there an SS person that didn’t deserve it? I did not know this guy. I wouldn't have recognized the man if I saw him on the street. He was an officer through, his first strike. He was SS, the second strike. Finally, he did a job for which few people on the planet could find sympathy. That was enough. Regardless, once an assignment appeared, it was easy to carry out. Our training was excellent.

At sixteen forty- five hours, a dust cloud appeared on the horizon. I hoped that this wasn’t another delivery truck. I’d have to wait for a few minutes before I could be sure, but it felt like the time. I checked my rifle again and laid the scope reticle on the front door of their HQ. Some NCO started yelling in the courtyard. This was it!

Several officers scrambled out of headquarters building. The band entered the courtyard. The poor bastards on the honour guard spruced themselves up. They had been standing in the sun all afternoon.

“Achtung! Sturmbannfuhrer von Riesen kommt! Keine Ausländer im Hof!”
(Attention! Sturmbannfuhrer von Riesen is coming! No foreigners in the yard!)

So there he was! Once again, I watched a car enter the courtyard and move along the narrow lane toward headquarters. Again, I dropped the reticle onto the SS commander’s Iron Cross. Directly behind him stood the shapely, young lady who arrived the day before. Things were looking very good!

The car stopped and the driver exited. He ran quickly around the vehicle and moved to the rear door. His signal to open it would be the music and drill commands from the parade commander.

I took up the first stage slack on the trigger...

“Achtung!” And the music started.

The driver began opening the rear door. I shifted my rifle slightly and fixed the reticle over the shoulder of the driver. I saw the commander’s hand go up in salute as von Riesen stepped out onto the sidewalk.

I got to the end of the second stage of trigger travel, then,

Bang! My rifle barked.

The recoil abated and I looked down at the sidewalk where von Riesen had been standing. There were people shouting and the SS commander was on his knees holding the body of the Sturmbannfuhrer. Jackpot! Time to go!

Have you ever watched a rabbit when it thought something was eyeing it as lunch? When you did this for a living, that feeling of being in danger was there all of the time. Ordinary people take their personal freedoms for granted. Because the war put you in the middle of [bleep] like this constantly, the potential loss of your own life was something that kept you on your toes. Like the rabbit, I ran!

I quickly slung my rifle over my shoulder, moved out of the room and down the corridor. There was no time to pick up anything left in the room that I occupied for the last week.They’d find Brit ration wrappings, matches and assorted other useless stuff scattered around the place. Nothing of value to an investigation however. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out which side pulled the trigger!

The first part of the escape route was pretty easy to make. I ran down the hall and literally jumped out an open window. After the inspection, the guards never returned. They closed the window as they were leaving, the day before. But I made sure that the window was open again after they left.

I slid down the roof, over the eaves, and fell onto a pile of manure below. So far, so good. This side of the estate was stables and an exercise yard for horses. Not the first place they’d look for me, but it wouldn’t take long for them to get around to it. The advantage of moving through this area was that it had its own set of gates, fences and passageways to the outside. Although still inside the walls, the aristocracy of old preferred that the animals and their smells were kept at a discrete distance from the house.

Back in the compound, things progressed pretty much as I figured. Panic and confusion had started, followed by too many commands from too many people. The officers were yelling. The NCOs were yelling. The men were stymied. It would take a few minutes for someone to take charge and determine a plan. Those were the minutes I needed to get as far away from the estate as possible.

Like a fox pursued by hounds, any direction away from the danger was the way to go. Later on, when things cooled down, I would think about getting back to England.

Rule number one when you’re being chased is to stay off any traveled routes. That meant no roadways, riverbanks, cow paths or populated areas. The odd thing about Europe is that almost every bit of land has people living on it. It’s hard for North Americans to understand, but the countries there are small and it’s virtually impossible to go more than a mile without running into human habitation. It’s so different from where I grew up. I had to move slowly but steadily, with one eye on where I was going and the other on where I’d been.

The forest was approximately one hundred yards from the estate walls. If I was going to be discovered, it would be crossing the field from the estate to the trees. The Brits called a small bunch of trees a copse. I called it sanctuary! If I could get there without being shot at or killed, the hard work was over. Too bad that it wasn’t later in the year. If the grass was taller, it would have been easier to hide. As things stood, the vegetation was only a few inches high, so crouching or crawling was a waste of time.

It took about a minute to traverse the field, but felt like much more. With every breath, I was expecting to feel a bullet slam into my back. My heart was pounding so loudly that I doubt that I would have heard anyone yelling. If they had seen me, the SS soldiers would have had no problem getting a good shot. By the time I reached the safety of the trees, my legs were aching and my rifle had bloodied the back of my head where the front sight slapped it. Who cared!

I ran behind a small shrub and looked back at the estate. No one was visible on the wall or anywhere on the field! A few minutes to catch my breath and I’d move on. With luck, I’d be in London in two days and introduce Lieutenant Hughson’s jaw to my fist!

To be continued...

Just One Shot – A Sniper and His Nazi – Part 7
copyright 2005 – Stephen Redgwell

Das Ende


Downtown London, 1943

It's Nice to Be in England in the Springtime

There has to be an end to this story. Despite the pounding he received, Hughson learned nothing, and spent the rest of the war buried away in an office somewhere. Mercifully, he could no longer do any harm to the commando. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The trip back to England was relatively uneventful, despite the trouble at the estate. The SS looked in all the wrong places for me.

I hiked for about fifteen miles and contacted the underground. I was expected. They put in a radio call to England and I was taken out after a couple of nights by a small observation plane. Routine, but everyone used to be curious how things were done. In the movies, there always seemed to be gun fights, cryptic codes and Gestapo raids on railway stations. Real life was less interesting.

As a non commissioned member of the Canadian Army, I was bound by an oath to serve my country, and the King of course. Usually, I had no problems with what they wanted me to do. There were a few times however, when I found myself at odds with that. Lieutenant Hughson was one of those times.

The idea of serving in a special unit of uniquely trained individuals is no longer a curiosity. These days, one reads about special operations troops doing this or that all over the globe. Elite units are a normal part of all militaries now. Sixty years ago, this wasn’t the case.

I cannot speak with any authority about today, but back then, if you served with such a unit, everyone, regardless of rank, completed the same training. Everyone was expected to take assignments as they came. Rank was observed, but only in garrison or in public. It is important to understand this, as there was no such thing as preferential treatment because you held a commission or were a senior NCO.

It is also important to understand what happened to Lieutenant Hughson upon my return. I thought it best to tell you about the mission first, and explain what happened to him at the end.

Was he held accountable for ducking his responsibilities? Yes.

I reported in and requested an interview with my commanding officer. I expressed the view that Hughson was derelict, and I had issues with him removing his name from the duty list. The colonel was unaware that one of his people had passed on an assignment, and that was why I ended up going to France. The intelligence officer usually gave the mission briefings.

Further, I told him that Hughson had put my name forward to go in his place. He kept the IntO (Intelligence Officer) in the dark, and did not follow the chain of command. I wanted to “talk” with Hughson, but did not want anything to go onto anyone’s record.

The CO asked if I had any intention of causing him physical harm. I said I did not, but would defend myself should he take exception to my accusations. This was to be a private meeting, and I suggested that Sgt Anderson (Cuddles) should be present as a witness. The CO agreed, but reminded me that despite what happened, he was still a commissioned officer in His Majesty’s service. I was to conduct myself accordingly.

Yeah, right...

I called for the meeting on the afternoon of my second day home. I requested that we have tea at the Sally Ann (Salvation Army) canteen, a public venue, in order to keep Hughson calm. I had every intention of beating his sorry ass to a pulp, but he had to understand why. It wasn’t enough that he acted like a coward and passed on an assignment. He made things worse by changing the duty list. He needed to be taught a lesson, and I had earned the right to provide the instruction.

Cuddles knew what was coming. He would act as a watchman and make sure that I did not lose control. On the afternoon in question, we arrived at the canteen early, ordered a tea and chatted with the girls. When Hughson got there, I waved him to our table. He was all smiles, but curious as to what the meeting was about.

“Sergeant Anderson. Corporal Landers. I understand that you wanted to talk to me.” Cuddles looked at him dispassionately, and didn’t say a word. I responded.

“Actually sir, I called this meeting. When we last met, you graciously put my name forward, out of turn, with the personnel on the duty list. This was of course, after you pulled your own. I checked. You were not ill. You had no other assignments.

You are a waste of skin. Not only did you demonstrate your cowardice to me, but to the CO and everyone else as well. You are unfit to be part of this unit. Why haven’t you requested to be re-assigned? In light of your actions – specifically, putting my life in danger – I asked the colonel if I might meet with you to “discuss” the situation. I suppose that under normal circumstances, he would have had this chat with you. However, given the uniqueness of our duties, and the fact that you were directly responsible for putting me in harm’s way, I wanted to take care of things myself.”

The colour drained from the lieutenant’s face. I truly believe that he thought no mention would ever be made of him changing the duty list. At that moment however, he realized that he was trapped. He could not bluff his way out by holding up his commission. He could not claim to have been otherwise indisposed. Plain and simple, he was caught red handed and would pay the price.

I continued. “You have no options today. This is what I intend to do. I am going to give you the thrashing of your short and pitiful life. I intend on cheerfully demonstrating the colonial method of physical discipline. If you can defend yourself honourably and take me out, no more will come of this. Try anything underhanded and the sergeant will complete what I started. You do know who he is, do you not?”

Hughson nodded in recognition. I pointed at the door and said, “Let’s get this over with.”

The details of what happened outside are not important. It is enough to say that Sergeant Anderson helped the lieutenant back to the garrison and Hughson was gone within days. Some people have suggested that he should have been congratulated for taking his medicine like a man. I do not subscribe to that view. It should never have been necessary to begin with. Mercifully, I never ran across another like him while serving with the commando.

That brings me back to the present. You're probably thinking that the old bastard spins a good yarn. Maybe you’re just being polite to a pensioner. Hell, all you see is a bent over, old man. But take heed! When you're alone tonight, think hard about what I said. Not about the war or sitting in an attic. I want you to think about personal integrity and honour. Think about responsibility and trust.

They are for all men.

Steve;
Top of the morning to you sir, I hope all is well with you and yours out in the middle section of the land.

Thanks so much for the most excellently spun tale, I very much enjoyed it.

As a semi-old guy, many of the men I grew up around were vets, mostly Canadian, but also some German vets as well.

Some would talk about it with a kid and some would talk to other vets and allow a kid to listen, which was more often.

Thanks once again sir, all the best to you all. Stay well.

Dwayne

I'm glad you liked it Dwayne. Thanks.

I will probably put another multi-part story up tomorrow or Tuesday.

Steve;
Thanks for the reply sir, I'll now have something to look forward to!

While I might have told this story before, I'll tell it now as it's sorta timely and you might appreciate it.

The following conversation would have taken place roughly in the 1968 to 1970 time frame.

My father had me tagging along that day and we were at our Ukrainian neighbor - Jim Sarafynchyn's place. Jim had been in the Canadian Army in WWII and as we were about to learn, had fought in Italy.

The other chap in the conversation was a German farmer whose name absolutely escapes me now, but apparently it was the first time that he and Jim had discussed their service. The German chap named a place in Italy and Jim replied that yes he was there, so the two had a bit of a chuckle that 2 dozen years earlier they were trading bullets.

Then the German chap said the following, which has stuck with me all these years.

More or less it was, "We always made an effort to know who we were coming up against, it was just good to know. We hated to come up against the Canadians and the Australians and New Zealanders the most. The British were more like gentlemen, more reserved. With the Canadians, Australians and New Zealanders, they would throw everything at us, they were ferocious. It seemed like they really didn't want to be there, mostly a bunch of farm boys who wanted to go home and the faster they beat us, the quicker they could go home. It was like that.."

Anyway Steve, I'm often reminded of that conversation when some of the younger set wax eloquent over our national record of being peaceful folks. Maybe we are, but that German vet surely didn't think so.

Funny I knew quite a few German vets and even worked with a few in the early '80's. As you know many emigrated to both Canada and the US after the war.

In the south Okanagan here many of the orchards went from predominantly British decent owners to German after the war. Then their kids didn't want to farm and Portuguese emigrants bought their orchards, many of them veterans of Angola. Then their kids didn't want to farm and they sold to predominantly East Indian emigrants. As I understand it in talking to them, their kids don't want to farm either Steve!

Thanks again for the story and the memories it twigged sir, very much appreciated indeed and for sure again I'm looking forward to the next installments.

Do stay well sir.

Dwayne

Thanks for this story.

Steve,
Well written short story.

Thanks
Bruce

One day I was talking to a Canadian winter visitor. I asked if he were in WW2, and he said he was at the beach (either on D-Day or very shortly thereafter- I don't recall which). He was an assistant Bren gunner and was captured by the Germans. He told me that after interrogating him they gave him the opportunity to fight with them on the eastern front against the Russians.

He declined and said he spent the rest of the war working in a mine in Czechoslovakia.

Good writing. Be Well, Rustyzipper.

I enjoyed the story, the closest that I got to combat was spending a few days very close to my Cf-100 during the Cuban crises. Cheers NC

Interesting read! Thanks for taking the time to write it up!

Enjoying the series.

Thanks for sharing.

DF

tab

Thank you for passing that along. Excellent in all regards!

Nice, I enjoyed it.

good read. Thanks.

My thanks to everyone who dropped by for a read.

I have put up another, based on the JOS (Just One Shot) series. The next is entitled Blood Rage.

Really well done Steve. Good read. Thanks for putting it out there.

Thank you for the very entertaining story. I look forward to more stories in the future!!

i enjoyed that too, steve, good writing.
ron