A story for Sniper

[Ray]

Daily Times

Saturday, September 02, 2006 E-Mail this article to a friend Printer Friendly Version

PURPLE PATCH: The sniper —Liam O’flaherty

The long June twilight faded into night. Dublin lay enveloped in darkness but for the dim light of the moon that shone through fleecy clouds, casting a pale light as of approaching dawn over the streets and the dark waters of the Liffey. Around the beleaguered Four Courts the heavy guns roared. Here and there through the city, machine guns and rifles broke the silence of the night, spasmodically, like dogs barking on lone farms. Republicans and Free Staters were waging civil war.

On a rooftop near O’Connell Bridge, a Republican sniper lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle and over his shoulders was slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student, thin and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of the fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of a man who is used to looking at death.

He was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been too excited to eat. He finished the sandwich, and, taking a flask of whiskey from his pocket, he took a short drought. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. It was dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness, and there were enemies watching. He decided to take the risk.

Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out the light. Almost immediately, a bullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The sniper took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softly and crawled away to the left. Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. There was a flash and a bullet whizzed over his head. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of the street. He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowly drew himself up behind it, until his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen — just the dim outline of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover.

Just then an armored car came across the bridge and advanced slowly up the street. It stopped on the opposite side of the street, fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of the motor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted to fire, but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the gray monster.

Then round the corner of a side street came an old woman, her head covered by a tattered shawl. She began to talk to the man in the turret of the car. She was pointing to the roof where the sniper lay. An informer.

The turret opened. A man’s head and shoulders appeared, looking toward the sniper. The sniper raised his rifle and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The woman darted toward the side street. The sniper fired again. The woman whirled round and fell with a shriek into the gutter.

Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniper dropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof. The sniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stooped to pick the rifle up. He couldn’t lift it. His forearm was dead. “I’m hit,” he muttered.

Dropping flat onto the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain, just a deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off.

Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet, and ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the arm below the wound. The arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.

Then taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound. A paroxysm of pain swept through him. He placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. He tied the ends with his teeth. Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome the pain. In the street beneath all was still. The armored car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the machine gunner’s head hanging lifeless over the turret. The woman’s corpse lay still in the gutter ...

... Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly upward over the parapet, until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. The sniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap clipped down into the street. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him. Crawling quickly to his feet, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head clearly silhouetted against the western sky.

The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards — a hard shot in the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a thousand devils. He took a steady aim. His hand trembled with eagerness. Pressing his lips together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the report and his arm shook with the recoil.

Then when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the parapet in his death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was slowly falling forward as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the parapet, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber’s shop beneath and then clattered on the pavement ...

... He peered around the corner into O’Connell Street. In the upper part of the street there was heavy firing, but around here all was quiet. The sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped. He threw himself face downward beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped.

Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother’s face.

Liam O’Flaherty (1896-1984) was a prominent Irish novelist, short story writer and a major figure in the Irish Renaissance. His works are characterised by realism and powerful drama. Although a native Irish speaker, O’Flaherty wrote mostly in English.

[leib10]

I REMEMBER THAT STORY! It was in my high school English textbook!

[Julie]

Wow....great story. Sniper, have you still quit smoking?

[Anon]

Not a smoke since the day after the superbowl. Not a drag, not an urge, nada. Doesn't even bother me to be around em.

In my estimation, the difficulty rating of the whole process is wildly overhyped.

[Ray]

Julie,

That story is very heart wrenching.

It is so true to actual life in war.

And there are these blokes who witlessly think that war is a great stuff.

It is horrible; more so, when you live through it to tell!

These cyber war hogs puts me off.

[Anon]

One does not typically shoot their own brother during the normal prosecution of war. Though one could surely estimate that were that the actual case, war would be a far less attractive endeavour to all involved.

However, as you know, that is not the case.

BTW, i would not reccomend the ahem...'tactics'....employed by the 'sniper' in that story.

[Ray]

So, tell us what tactics you would have applied?

[Anon]

The ones that don't involve sprinting through MG fire to confirm a kill, for instance...

[Ray]

I agree.

I wonder if anyone goes and confirms a kill when there is fire and brimstone all round!

[sappersgt]

Originally Posted by M21Sniper

The ones that don't involve sprinting through MG fire to confirm a kill, for instance...

I think I'd make the confirmation a "gimme".

[Anon]

To qualify as a confirmed kill US DoD regulations require verification by a 3rd party NCO or officer or a clear video record. I think the rules are actually the same for snipers and pilots.

So even if one observes a rapid cranial excavation at 9 power, unless it is independently verifible, it's 'just' a probable. Except to the party in question, of course, who is quite certain it's a definite...if, that is, he is certain of anything at all.

Which of course, no one knows...

[sappersgt]

Originally Posted by Ray

I agree.

I wonder if anyone goes and confirms a kill when there is fire and brimstone all round!

The time for confirmation is AFTER the shootings over. You always check however. There's always lots of ordnance laying around after a battle and the "dead" have a habit of suddenly coming back to life when your'e not looking.

I remember confirming a sniper we got with mortar fire. Hoping he was dead we all spread out in our approach so he couldn't get all of us if he was playing "possum". I kept that Mosin-Nagant after having the lenses replaced.

[Ray]

I wonder who has the time to go and confirm a kill.

There is so much to be done after an attack including reorganising after the attack, throwing out patrols, Anti tank teams, mine breaching etc. The firing never ends. The enemy artillery will continue so that your reorganisation is not done well since their aim is to launch an immediate counter attack and thereafter a deliberate counter attack. Obviously, they will not sit smug after they have lost their defences which was your objective.

Simultaneously, evacuating casualties, both own and the enemy (as well as taking them as PsW).

Thereafter, checking the dead and removing the bodies.

By that time, who know who killed whom.

In Urban Warfare, one has to clear the buildings one by one and systematically and move on. There is no time to halt. You carry on as far as feasible and then the next team passes through to clear more area.

So, where is the time to check one's kill?

Those dead that turn "live" are taken care of during the mopping up that is done before the reorganisation.

[Anon]

Those reasons you list are why most snipers end up with far more 'probables' than 'confirmed'.

In many cases confirmation is simply not possible.

[667medic]

Originally Posted by leibstandarte10

I REMEMBER THAT STORY! It was in my high school English textbook!

Same for me too . I came from an Indian School, how about you.......