MATT HELM: The War Years (13 page)

That's speaking of a big revolver carried by a hunter or trapper.  When it comes to small, flat, inconspicuous automatics packed by competent-looking gentlemen with exaggerated British accents, you're speaking of a different matter entirely.  I looked at him grimly.  I knew him now.  I knew what it was I'd smelled or sensed about him.  It was the smell of smoke, of gunsmoke.  It never quite blows away.  He was a soldier of fortune, one of the armpit-gun boys.

He stood looking at me for a long moment, his face expressionless; and it happened the way it sometimes does regardless of the shade of the skin or the color of the hair or the language spoken by the ancestors.  I don't say that we became friends in that instant; but there's a relationship between fighting men that the nonviolent ladies and gentlemen of the world can never understand, which may be why they fear us and pretend to despise us as old-fashioned and obsolete and dreadfully immoral.

Fortunately, the hill on which we were poised was not part of the large estate surrounding the house and was badly overgrown with lots of trees and thick underbrush.  We both had some rips and tears in our clothing, not to mention our exposed skin.  I couldn't have asked for better cover.  We had arrived at dawn and Ryland had led me to the vantage point he had been using to observe Sir Robert's movements.  I couldn't see anything wrong with it and told him so.  The only thing that concerned me was that the courtyard he pointed out was a lot further away than I'd been led to believe.

I looked at him.  "I was told the range would be approximately four hundred yards.  About three hundred seventy of your meters.  You grow some damn long meters in this country, Ryland."

After making sure I had a clear shot with no obstructions, we backed down out of sight and I reached for the oiled canvas bag containing the rifle.  I pulled the long zipper and started pulling out packing material, hoping the heavy bastard hadn't been jarred too much when I landed.  We had used an oversized 'chute to minimize the impact and I was able to land on my feet, having missed any trees in the process.

I suppose it was a solemn moment, kind of like finally consummating the marriage after a long courtship.  Well, the real consummation was still to come, but I'd spent three full days preparing this equipment and bringing it here; just taking it out should have been celebrated with a little ceremony, say a toast or a prayer.  However, it was no time to be drinking, and I've kind of got out of the habit of praying.  I just reached in and took the big rifle out of the case, leaving the rest of the packing inside.

It was a heavy match barrel on the long Mauser action, shooting a hand-loaded version of the .300
Holland and Holland Magnum cartridge that I'd cooked up myself.  I slipped off the rubber bands and removed the corrugated cardboard that gave additional protection to the scope, a twenty-power Herrlitz.  We'd used European components so if we were killed or caught, there wouldn't be too much Yankee debris left lying around.  I was carrying my death pill, never mind where, so I couldn't be forced to identify myself as an American.  We didn't want anybody wondering why an American citizen was on French soil, murdering an important British officer.

The stock was a plain, straight-grained hunk of walnut without much sex appeal, but it was fitted to the barrel with artistry.  A regular G.I. leather sling completed the outfit.

It was quiet there just below the peak of the hill as I got ready, except for an occasional muffled shout from the grounds of the mansion.

I saw Ryland pick up the case I'd dropped, fingering it gently.

"It is an impressive firearm," he said.

"Let us hope the man we came to impress finds it so," I replied.

He glanced at me sharply and started to speak, but checked himself and was silent, watching while I rigged the rifle sling for shooting and dug the box of cartridges out of the bag he held.  They were big, fat shells.  They looked as if an ordinary service round had had a clandestine affair with some anti-aircraft ammo.  I could only get four of them into the gun: three in the magazine and one in the chamber.  I stuck the box in my pocket, put the rest of the packing back inside the bag and zipped it up, leaving him to carry it.

With the big rifle in hand, we crawled back to the top of the hill.  "Let's see what we've actually got here."

I took the bag from him and folded it for a rest, laying the rifle across it.  I had to hunt a bit to pick up my target - those big target scopes have a narrow field - then the soldier standing just below the courtyard was clear and sharp in the glass, but he still wasn't exactly at arm's length.  It was going to be one hell of a shot, if I made it.

I lay there telling myself hopefully that at least the wind wasn't blowing.  "Five hundred and fifty yards," I said.  "Approximately. That, Ryland, is over five hundred of your meters.  Your estimate was damn near forty percent off."

"You can read the distance?"  He sounded more interested than apologetic.

"There is a scale inside the telescope," I said.  "You take a man like that one, approximately six feet tall - at least I hope he wasn't a pygmy or a giant - and you place the lowest division of the scale at his feet and read the range opposite the top of his head, making allowances for the helmet.  Then you take this figure and enter the table I have attached to the stock of the rifle, here.  You learn that to hit a target five hundred and fifty yards away, the way this particular rifle is sighted at this particular time, you must hold over eighteen inches.  In other words, I will have to shoot for the top of the head to hit the chest."

Actually, of course, I hadn't ever believed the story of four hundred yards.  I'd sighted the rifle in at four hundred and fifty yards, and run my compensation table from three hundred to six hundred, just in case.  There has seldom been a spy yet, or a hunting guide for that matter, who wouldn't underestimate a range badly.  You always hope the day will come when somebody will hand you the straight dope, but a forty percent error wasn't much more than par for the course.

"That's what I call progress," Ryland said.  I couldn't tell whether he was being ironic or not.

"Sure," I said.  "It assumes that I can find a man the right size to take the range from, and that he's standing up straight, and that I'm not looking at him from too great an angle up or down.  It assumes the gun it shooting where it was when I made up the table, a few hundred miles away in a different climate.  And at five hundred meters, it takes this bullet the better part of a second to reach its target.  A walking man can cover six feet in a second, so we'd better hope he stands still for us.  What's his routine?"

He grinned at my sarcasm.  "You must be very good with that rifle, Eric; otherwise you wouldn't be so pessimistic."

I grinned back.  It's nice dealing with professionals.  He was right.  Only an amateur brags about how good he is with a gun - or any other weapon for that matter.

"Sir Robert is led out by two guards, always," he explained.  "They usually stand by the door while he walks around a little.  Sooner or later, he will sit down on one of those stools around the table in the middle and have a cigarette or two.  Is that still enough for you?"

"Good enough.  How long before he comes out?"

"Probably another two or three hours, if he comes out this morning.  If not, he'll be out just after noon."

"Okay, you're the spotter," I told him.  I'd given him the pair of binoculars I'd brought with me.  I want you to be watching through those glasses when I fire.  If I miss, you tell me where it goes so I can correct the next shot properly."

"There won't be time for many shots," Ryland said.                His expression didn't change, but it was clear nevertheless that he didn't like my talking about misses.

I said, "If there's time for one, there's generally time for two.  If I miss, look for the sparks and pieces of concrete where it hits and give me the distance I'm off.  In meters or fractions of a meter if you like.  Give me the direction by the clock.  Twelve o'clock, three o'clock, six o'clock, nine o'clock, or points in between.  You understand?"

"Yes.  I've shot at the targets, if without much success, at least at this distance."

"Good.  Once he's down, try to spot a few extra targets for me until we run out of time.  When you say go, we go, okay?"

"Righto, old chap," he replied, grinning.  I could find myself liking the guy, if I didn't watch it.

"From what you said, we'll have plenty of warning, so if you don't mind watching by yourself, I'm going to get some sleep.  It's been a long three days and an even longer night.  Wake me when he first comes out."  I slid back down a little, taking the rifle case with me for a pillow.  I actually did go to sleep, which I think impressed him more than anything.

About three hours later, he woke me up with a whispered, "Eric!"  He knew enough not to touch me.  When you wake a professional up by touching him, you risk some fairly unpredictable responses, depending on the circumstances.  I yawned and stretched and pulled myself together, splashing some water on my face from the canteen he'd brought with us.  I took a swallow and then went behind a tree to take care of some urgent business, no bladder distractions, thank you.  I wondered idly how many important shots, and great opportunities, had been missed because somebody had to go at the wrong time.

Picking up the bag, I crawled up beside him and got the rifle into place.  I settled myself comfortably behind it and shoved off the safety, double-checking, by looking, that it was really all the way off.  That's another mistake that's been made by people who should have known better, including me.  Then I remembered the box of cartridges, still in my pocket.  Well, nobody's perfect.  Now I knew why my thigh was a little sore.  I must have rolled over on the box in my sleep.  I opened it and set it where I could reach it easily.  I didn't know if I'd have time to reload, but Mac had suggested - and I'd explained to Ryland - that it wouldn't hurt to have more than one dead body down there, just to confuse the issue a little - with Sir Robert just one of several victims, a case could be made for him being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  We didn't particularly care what the Germans thought, but if rumors of a firefight at the mansion leaked out, the more casualties the better.  We should have a fair amount of time, due to the high wall surrounding the grounds, with no opening anywhere near the base of our hill.

Ryland was right.  The two guards stood right there by the door, perfect secondary targets, as Sir Robert walked around and back and forth across the courtyard.  Then it was just a matter of waiting.  I'm not an iron man; I had the usual quota of palpitation and perspiration.  I resisted the temptation to look around, perhaps selecting other targets.  I also resisted the impulse to try for him during his momentary stops; if he started moving again, the bullet would strike behind him.  I just lay there forcing my body to relax along the ground.  I was just an eye at the ocular, a finger on the trigger.

After almost ten minutes that seemed like two hours, my mind was beginning to whisper the thoughts you try to keep suppressed:
You could have got him that time, you idiot.  Maybe he's given up smoking and never sits down.  Look at him standing there looking over the wall, a perfect target.
  It comes with the territory.  All you can do is grit your teeth and try to think of something else.  Fortunately, Ryland knew enough to keep silent, although I could hear the rustling sounds as he stirred from time to time - no doubt he had his own demons.

Finally, Sir Robert sat down in one of the stools and lit a cigarette.  He had chosen the one closest to our position, putting his back to us, a nice broad, tempting target.  Instead, I settled the crosshairs on the cowlick on the top of his head.  I heard Ryland stir impatiently beside me, still silent.  I wasn't aware of adding the last fraction of an ounce to the pressure already on the trigger, but the big rifle fired.

It made a hell of a noise in the quiet valley; it was like setting off a cannon-cracker in church.  It slammed back against my shoulder and cheek.  It's not a fun gun to shoot.

"Call it," I said, working the bolt fast and trying to pick up my target again in that lousy scope.  "Call it, damn you!"

"He's hit," Ryland said calmly.  "He is falling off the stool."

Then I had my man back in the field.  He had slumped across the table and slid off to the deck.  I gave it the same rough eighteen inches of Kentucky elevation and fired again.  There was the same volcanic eruption and the same piledriver blow against my face and shoulder.