Chapter 8 - The Sparrow Returns
Eli lay behind a broken stone trough with the German rifle resting across a folded coat.
The scope was not his.
The trigger was heavier than the Springfield’s.
The stock felt wrong against his cheek.
Nothing about the weapon was familiar except what mattered.
Wind.
Distance.
Breathing.
Target.
Jack crouched beside the wall.
“What do you see?”
“Machine gun. Farmhouse, second window from left.”
“How far?”
“Four hundred eighty, maybe five.”
Jack stared at him. “Maybe?”
Eli ignored him.
He watched the window.
The gunner fired in controlled bursts.
Not alone.
A loader appeared for half a second.
Eli tracked him, then stopped.
Wrong target.
“Why aren’t you shooting?” Tommy whispered.
“Because the machine gun isn’t the biggest problem.”
“What is?”
Eli shifted the scope toward the church tower.
A tiny reflection.
The sniper.
He waited.
The German rifleman had discipline. He did not lean out after firing. He changed his angle.
Eli recognized the pattern.
This man knew his work.
The scope moved a fraction.
A dark shape appeared behind a shattered bell opening.
Eli exhaled.
The rifle cracked.
Across the village, the shape vanished.
Nobody in the ruin spoke.
Jack looked at the church.
“Did you—”
“Don’t know.”
Eli worked the bolt.
The sound carried him backward through time.
Samuel whispering range.
A hot Sicilian wall against his elbows.
Eli forced the memory away.
“Frank, watch the farmhouse.”
Frank stared. “Me?”
“You see muzzle flash, tell me which window.”
Frank crawled into position.
Tommy whispered, “What do I do?”
“Count shots.”
“What?”
“The machine gun. Count bursts. Tell me when he reloads.”
Tommy swallowed.
“All right.”
Eli turned to Jack.
“Get Turner ready to move.”
“Move where?”
“There’s a drainage ditch behind the orchard. If we reach it, it runs west.”
Jack looked through a crack.
“We’d have to cross sixty yards.”
“Yes.”
“That gun will cut us apart.”
“Then we make it stop.”
Jack stared at Eli.
No joke.
No insult.
“All right.”
The machine gun fired.
Tommy counted.
“One. Two. Three.”
Another burst.
“Four.”
Frank called, “Left window!”
Eli watched.
The loader appeared.
He fired.
The loader dropped from view.
The machine gun stopped for three seconds, then resumed.
“Different man took it,” Frank said.
“I know.”
A mortar shell struck behind the ruin.
The wall shook.
Dust filled the room.
Hale groaned.
Eli looked toward the distant orchard beyond the farmhouse.
Somewhere behind it, the mortar team was receiving corrections.
If the sniper in the tower was down, somebody else was spotting.
He scanned.
Wall.
Tree.
Roof.
Then he noticed a man near a hay wagon raising binoculars.
Eli fired.
The binoculars fell.
The next mortar round landed far to their right.
Jack understood.
“You blinded them.”
“For a minute.”
Hale opened his eyes.
“Carter.”
Eli crawled over.
Hale’s skin looked gray.
“You get them out.”
“We all go.”
“That’s an order.”
“No.”
Hale almost laughed.
“Private refusing a sergeant?”
“I’m developing bad habits.”
Hale gripped his sleeve.
“Listen to me. If I slow them—”
“You taught me nobody plays hero.”
“That was before.”
“No. Same rule.”
Jack knelt beside them.
“I can carry him.”
Hale snapped, “You’ll carry Turner.”
“I can carry both if I have to.”
Eli looked at Jack.
The big man meant it.
For the first time, Eli saw what Jack might have been without cruelty.
“Tommy,” Eli said. “How many magazines for the BAR?”
Tommy checked.
“Four.”
“Give them to Frank.”
Frank’s eyes widened. “Why me?”
“Because you’re going to make that farmhouse think we have twenty men.”
Frank looked down at the Browning Automatic Rifle taken from Collins.
“I’ve barely fired one.”
“Today’s educational.”
Despite everything, Tommy laughed.
It was one breath of humanity in a room full of fear.
Eli explained the plan.
Frank would fire from the north window.
Then move.
Fire from another.
Tommy would throw smoke across the road.
Jack and Beck would carry Turner and Hale.
The others would move in pairs.
Eli would stay behind.
Jack immediately said, “No.”
Eli looked at him.
“You don’t get a vote.”
“If you stay, they’ll surround you.”
“I’ll move last.”
“That what you told your spotter?”
The words landed like a punch.
Jack regretted them instantly.
Eli’s face went blank.
“Don’t.”
Jack lowered his voice.
“I’m sorry.”
It was the first apology Eli had ever heard from him.
There was no time to answer.
The machine gun opened again.
Eli crawled back to the rifle.
“Get ready.”
Frank fired the BAR.
The heavy weapon hammered inside the ruin.
Tommy threw smoke.
White clouds spread across the field.
Eli searched the farmhouse.
The machine gun barrel shifted toward Frank’s muzzle flash.
There.
Gunner.
Eli fired.
The machine gun went silent.
“GO!”
Jack lifted Turner across his shoulders.
Beck helped Hale.
Men ran into smoke.
German rifles cracked.
Eli fired at movement in the hedges.
Not every shot was a kill.
Some struck walls.
Some forced men down.
That was enough.
“Second pair!” he shouted.
Tommy ran.
Frank fired another burst.
More smoke.
Eli saw the machine-gun crew trying to replace their gunner.
He fired at the window frame.
They disappeared.
Another pair crossed.
Then another.
Soon only Frank, Eli, and Jack remained.
Eli turned.
“What are you doing here?”
Jack held his M1.
“Waiting.”
“I told you to go.”
“No.”
“You want to get both of us killed?”
Jack looked at him.
“You stayed.”
Eli’s anger rose.
“This isn’t repayment.”
“I know.”
“Then move!”
A bullet struck the wall between them.
Jack crouched.
“Make me.”
Under any other circumstances Eli might have hated him for it.
Instead he almost laughed.
Frank shouted from the rear doorway.
“Both of you idiots! Now!”
Eli fired one last shot toward the farmhouse.
Then the three ran.
They crossed through thinning smoke.
Bullets snapped past.
Jack stumbled.
Eli grabbed his sleeve.
They reached the ditch.
Men pulled them down.
Tommy was laughing and crying at the same time.
“You made it.”
Jack looked at Eli.
“He made it.”
Eli checked the group.
Hale.
Turner.
Frank.
Tommy.
Beck.
Seven others.
Ten living men.
One dead behind them.
Collins.
Eli’s relief vanished.
They had survived.
But survival always came with names.
He looked back toward the smoke.
“Collins,” he whispered.
May you like
Jack heard.
For the first time, he understood why Eli never celebrated after shooting.
