The Master Sniper

“It’s just a tool, that’s all, a modified rifle,” Repp responded, uneasy at the man’s apparent awe of the equipment. “Now help me with this damned thing.”

He put on the battle harness, with canteen and pouches for the magazines, and over that fitted the instrument rack. Felix and the youngster helped lift the thing into position, and he stepped into it like a coat, pulling the straps tight. He stepped away from them, taking the full weight.

“Christ, that’s a heavy bastard. Will you make it?” asked Felix.

“I’ll make it all right,” said Repp grimly, as he looped the sling on the rifle over his shoulder. One last glance at his watch; it was 2:45 P.M.

“Sir?” The driver. He held something bright out. “For you. For afterward.”

Repp took it: Swiss chocolate, wrapped in green foil.

“Thanks. Breakfast. A good idea.” He dropped it in the pocket of the Tiger coat, then stepped away from the table, taking the full heft of the rifle for the first time. He felt the blood drain from his face with the effort. A hand touched his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Felix asked.

“And if I’m not, you’ll go?” Repp said. “No, I’m fine, just have to get used to the weight. I’ve been living too soft lately.”

“Too many Fräuleins,” said the irritating Felix.

Repp left the barn, into the sunlight, blinking. Already he could sense his body growing used to the weight.

Quickly the trees swallowed Repp. He moved among them in plunging, deliberate strides, a manifesto of purposefulness. But already the straps cut into him. Sweat broke out on his skin. His muscles became warm and fluid in the effort and he knew—from Russia—that if one pushed hard enough, if one had enough resolve, enough need, enough concentration, one reached a stage beyond pain, where great feats of endurance and stamina were possible. Repp knew he needed greatness today; he needed everything he had, and then more, and he was prepared to offer it. He was quite cheerful at this stage, full of confidence, hungry for the test, alert and content.

He forced his way through the underbrush, not looking back at all. He knew that higher, where the air was thi

He forged ahead, fighting the increase in the incline, sidestepping where possible, climbing over where not, the clumps of rocks that began to sprout in his way. As he rose along the mountain the forest began a gradual change; he almost didn’t notice it and could pick no one moment when it had one character and another when it had a different one; or perhaps a cloud, far above, had sealed off the sun. At any rate, it ceased soon to be a jungle; the trees, though more majestic, were farther apart; denseness gave way to longer, gloomier perspectives; that sense of tropical green light, opaque chlorophyll in the sun, vanished in a darker pall. He felt as if he were in a cellar, clammy cool, tubed and catacombed, a jumble of ambiguous shadows, pools of abstract blackness, sheer thrusts of light at unexpected points where a gap in the canopy admitted the sun. The trees grew huge and gnarled. The undergrowth remained but now it fought its way through a carpet of decomposition, matted leaves, vegetable matter returning to the gunk of creation. There was a splendor in this dark vision, but Repp was in no frame of mind to enjoy it. He concentrated on movement, on pace, though once in a while reached with relief a flatter place where the mountain itself seemed to pause in its race upward.

In one such he himself seized a moment for rest. He was alone in the trees. He could hear his own breathing, ragged and forced, in the gloom. He was uncomfortably warm. He still hadn’t reached pines. Nothing seemed familiar; it was like no forest he knew and he knew plenty of forests. He actually wished he’d hear a bird hoot or an animal cry: sign of some animate thing. His eyes sca

Wearily, he began his march again. The rocks had become quite troublesome by now, and he had to pick his way through defiles and up sudden smooth slopes. At one point he came even with a break in the trees and could see out: in the far distance a kind of blue haze. Actually, since he was facing north, and visibility was good, it might actually be Germany he could see. But what difference did it make? He pushed himself on. Ahead, nothing but the steady rise of the mountain, blanketed in trees and dead leaves and scrawny bracken and thistles. No pines yet, not easy travel. He feared he was losing time. He didn’t even want to stop for water, though his throat was parched. His boots occasionally slipped in the treacherous footing and once he went down, badly banging a knee on a stone. It throbbed steadily. He felt also as though he had a fever. He felt u

Where was he going? Did he even know? Yes, he knew. Wir fahren nach Polen um Juden zu verschlen. He was going to Poland to beat up the Jews. He’d seen it chalked on the sides of the troop trains in 1939, next to grotesque profiles of heavy kike faces, beaked nose, primitive jaws, almost fishlike: a horrible image. He was going to Switzerland to beat up the Jews: it was the same thing, the same process, the same war. He was going to beat up Jews.

The pain in his shoulders increased. He ought to slow or even rest, but he knew he couldn’t. He was obsessed with failing light. If he didn’t get there before dark he was lost.

He was going to beat up some Jews.

Jews.

You killed them. Messy, disturbing work. No one liked it, and in Berlin they were wise enough to see that those few who did should not have been on the firing line. It was a responsibility, a trust, a commitment to the future.

Repp had asked for the special duty.

He’d been wounded after Demyansk and though the wound wasn’t serious—a crease across the thigh, healing quickly—his blood count was so low, they had wanted to put him on less rigorous duty. But Repp wanted to be a part of the other business, the other war. It was simple duty: no one forced him, and he did not enjoy it. It was simply part of the job, a bad part, but one had to get through the bad parts too.