Point of View

    Tom peered over the rifle's sights, tracked movement among the trees by the play of light and shadows, lost the target when the scurrying stopped.  He didn't move, barely breathed, focused on a patch of irregular shade that just might be ... .  A long thirty seconds later he whispered to Bill, "got him", as the irregular scrambling started again.  Tracking resumed.

    The target froze once more.  Bill, hovered close, whispered, "easy shot against that light patch".   Tom ignored him, lowered his eyes to the iron sights.  He fixed the target's head at the top of the front post, between the v-notched rear sight.  Held his breath, willed his heart to beat slower.  Sweat beaded, ran down his cheek.  He ignored that too, thought,  stationary, no wind, no lead, see through the heat shimmer. One pressure to take up trigger slack, two pressures ... .  The trigger broke clean.

    Craaack!

    The red squirrel spun out of sight, down in the tall grass.  Tom exhaled, wiped his brow.  His neighbor had a cat to feed and paid a nickle a squirrel.  One more pays for the box of .22s.   

    But not right now. Not this time on Tuesday.

    He rolled out of the rifle's sling, looked up at his friend, "Let's get home, Combat! is on in half an hour.  New episode."

    "Who's he talking to?", asked the lieutenant sent down by Company to untangle the delay at Phase Line Green. He gestured towards a solitary soldier sniping at German engineers concealed in a tree line three hundred yards away.

    Kirby, a BAR man, answered, "Dunno. Nobody.  But that's another head shot. He can't miss", after a pause, adding, "Sir."