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Winter winds howled through the small German village.  Dark clouds covered the sky, sending snow in thick sheets to the ground.  Lieutenant Dan Callon shivered again as he cautiously peered out the window of the abandoned home.  The frigid breeze took the snow and twisted it, thus appearing as haunted specters moving up and down the empty village streets.  His team just arrived at the town shortly after noon.  His orders were simple, secure the church, eliminate all hostiles, and take no prisoners.  Moreover, most importantly, bring back any item of uniqueness or value, no questions asked.

Dan was not the one to question orders either.  His squad of ten was hand picked, each a marksmen, seven armed M1903A4 sniper rifles, 45 caliber hand guns, M3 “Grease Gun”, and three held only the Browning Assault Rifle (BAR to the typical soldier), M3s,  and 45 caliber pistols.  An odd team it was, but they told him that his enemies would be difficult.  Headshots were critical.  Callon assumed some new type of German armor.  The German scientists were constantly coming up with new war toys to throw at the Allied Forces.

He pulled out his pocket watch; 4:49 PM was the time.  The skies did not look promising; it was going to be a cold night.  The town was small; the largest feature was the Gothic Cathedral at the west end.  The approach was tricky; a large park lay before the church, and swept around to the north and south.  It was a good hundred foot of clearing, no obstacles.  The western approach held the town’s cemetery; the grave markers would allow a somewhat concealed advance to the rear.  A small forest copse wrapped its way around the graveyard and bordered the park on the north and south sides of the house of worship.  This allowed access to the back all the easier.

Maps of course assessed all this; Dan had yet to see his objective.  They had snuck in at the north central part of town, along the main roadway.  He expected some resistance to this point, but something was wrong, there was no one.  Not that there was a lack of soldiers, there was a lack of citizens.  The town held no population, or none that Dan had seen as of yet.  Being it was a small village; Dan was assuming that the Nazi soldiers were holding the villagers at the Cathedral for some reason.

The street being clear, he opened the front door to the empty home, the entered from the rear, off an alley.  He peered east, briefly, only to spy more snowy ghosts dance in the coming darkness.  He then looked west.  He could see the church’s steeple from here.  He could see a sandbag bunker in front of the church, along with the tip of the MG42 machine gun.  He also could ascertain movement, but could not make out the detail.  However, it was indeed a Nazi helmet.   He scanned his binoculars upward, following the steeple.  There too sat an identical MG42, it appeared to be two of them, one pointed west, the other east.

“What do we have, L.T.?” Conrad Sommers asked.

“From here,” Dan answered, “we’ve got three machine gun stations, one at the door, two in the bell tower.”

“Original,” Sergeant Sommers added.  “Any others?”

“Can’t tell,” the Lieutenant said as he came back into the home.  “Simms, I want you to take position at the hotel.  The third floor balcony faces the church door.  When we’re ready, take out the gunners.”

Simms nodded.

“Church,” odd name for a fellow on this mission Dan thought, “Take Owens and Fitz and cover the front.  When the back is hit, charge in.”

James Church slung the BAR over his shoulder, “Done L.T.”

“Sommers, take Harrison and Sutherland and get to the southern corner of the cemetery, I’ll take Erikson and Crowley here and come in from the northern corner.  When you see me advance, begin your run in.  Take it slow and quiet.  We don’t want the Nazi’s killin’ any of the civs, so get as close as we can.  Simms, when you see my light flash, that’s the go signal.”

“Gotcha covered L.T.” Simms responded.

An hour later, the sun was gone.  It bitterly cold as Simms knelt behind a shuttered window next to the balcony.  He held the rifle firmly as he looked through the scope.  His right eye focused on the crosshairs, placed gently in the middle of the chest of the German Gunner.  He needed to drop this one first; he did not have a clean headshot - the son of a bitch was standing - and then take out the gunner facing west.  His left eye kept a close watch on the north corner of the cemetery, waiting for that go-ahead flash.

This was going to be tricky, even for some one as good as Larry Simms was.  He was firing at mere silhouettes.  There was no light, he could not understand how the guards expected to see anyone, and the snow, was only adding to the difficulty.  Nevertheless, Simms was the best, or so he told himself.  Erikson, Sutherland, Callon, Harrison, Owens, and Fitz were good, but he was the best.  This would be one for the history books.  Two targets, two shots, clouded moon, and snowing.  He was not a mathematician so he did not know the odds, but who cared, it was a sure bet with him.

A pale yellow light blinked in his left eye, the L.T. was ready.  His finger was freezing, his body was shivering, but he took two deep breaths and stilled himself.  He blinked his right eye once to focus through the scope.  He held the reticule dead center, what should be the heart of the ghostly figure, and waited.  In a few moments the clouds parted, a sliver of moonlight illuminated the steeple and Simms fired.

Before the clouds concealed his vision once more, Larry Simms saw the bullet penetrate the soldier, but the man did not fall.  He placed his hands on the trigger of the gun and knelt.  As he loaded another round, Simms saw two glowing red eyes glare over at him, cutting through the darkness.

“What the fuck,” he said, the machine gun began to roar, bullets slamming into the wall beside him.  Some one from Church’s grouped fired; he ignored it, fixing his sites on the steeple.  Simms fired again, the shot trailing a straight line, separating the two beady red glows.  They grew faint as the gun fell forward.  Shaking his head, a shot from below rang out; Simms grabbed another round and started placing it in the chamber.  Bullets peppered the wall below him as the gunner at the door opened fire on him.

How the fuck could they see him, he thought, but that was last.  The bullets tore through the shutters, tearing off his hand as he loaded the rifle and boring holes through his flesh in his upper shoulder and throat.  For a moment, a brief wonderful moment, he was warm.

With Owens and Fitz in the second story windows of the home behind him, James Church leaned against a cold stone wall that was about four feet high and more than likely over a hundred years old.  Corporal Church often felt terrible about the history that this war was destroying, buildings, walls, fortresses, castles, and cathedrals like the one he was watching down the barrel of his Browning.  Fortunately, tonight was like a raid, kill the troopers, free the citizens, and scarf up the secrets, leaving the church intact.  Well, mostly any way, for it was bound to sustain some damage in the assault.

Crack.

The sniper rifle shot echoed down the empty streets.  Here we go, James thought, ready as he could ever be.  However, something was wrong, the steeple gunner fired back, so either Simms missed, which was not likely, or the other gunner took over.  He waited; Simms was taking an eternity, why was he not shooting?

At that time, either Owens or Fitz fired, he watched the ground gunner at the door drop, but another soldier stood next to him taking up the machine gun.  Finally, Simms returned with his second shot, this one taking the steeple gunner out, his weapon fell to the ground below.  A second M1903A4 shot rang off from above him, to soon to be the same shooter, thus it was the other.  Yet the Nazi gunner still held the weapon as he continued to fire volleys into the hotel.