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    The Sniper
    The Sniper
    The Sniper
    Ebook77 pages1 hour

    The Sniper

    By Campbell Hart

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    About this ebook

    Read WW1 ghost story ‘The Sniper’ for free. This tale is the first part of The Cold, Black Sea: Ghost Stories anthology (Rated 9/10 in Daily Record Book Club).

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCampbell Hart
    Release dateDec 3, 2016
    ISBN9781370679034
    The Sniper
    Author

    Campbell Hart

    Originally from Ayrshire, Campbell Hart lives in Glasgow with his wife, Lisa, and their two boys.A qualified broadcast journalist he’s been a professional writer for more than twenty years in commercial radio, BBC Scotland, and for various public and private sector organisations.Books by the author include the best selling crime fiction trilogy featuring DI John Arbogast (Wilderness, The Nationalist,and Referendum), as well as ghost story anthology The Cold Black Sea.Fresh crime fiction is currently in the pipeline.For more details visit: www.campbellhart.co.uk

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      Book preview

      The Sniper - Campbell Hart

      Table of contents

      The Sniper

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      Also by this author – a sneak peek at The Cold, Black Sea

      About the author

      Acknowledgements

      In no-man’s land, the only way to live is to accept that you’re already dead.

      1

      July 1st, 1916

      The bullets buzzed like bees, the barrage turned the sky black, with men reduced to a puff of crimson in the blink of an eye. I watched, powerless, as the second wave advanced. The relentless strafing from the enemy trenches ripped apart the steady advance of our assault. The neat lines of Haig’s offensive quickly broke down when the slow ordered walk-through was staggered by the crump holes left by our own heavy artillery. But for those approaching the first objective, it only got worse, and I found it difficult to stay focused when the men came in sight of the German front line. The machine guns showed no pity and the typewriters rapped out 100 shells a second, decimating our ranks in a mechanical heartbeat, depleting our numbers by hundreds every single minute.

      I suppose I should have thought myself lucky. I, Jim West, had been approached to join the new Scouting, Observation and Sniping School. I’d worked as a ghillie for a time before the war, and I knew how to shoot. The top brass were looking to redress the balance. They said we needed to find a way to stop the chippy German snipers in their tracks; they had been picking us off with alarming monotony since the war began. At first we thought the deadly head shots were just flukes, but we didn’t know they had telescopic sights. Looking out over the Somme it seemed there was a lot we didn’t know.

      Stationed in a forward position I was waiting for a counter attack that never came. The Boche stood firm and defended well. It was too much for some, and the faint-hearted, overwhelmed by the situation, tried to turn and run. But the whippers-in had their measure and they snapped away at their backs, using pistols to enforce their orders. Those who dared to dissent didn’t last long and I’m sad to say that I saw a few men shot down by our own officers that day. Poor sods. But there was a certain karma about that battle, and the last line of defence provided no special protection for the officers either. I watched one Captain try to harry a Private back into the fray. He was a big man, muscular and fast, but hot lead knows no fear and moments later he was gone too. I had been screaming out for them to take cover, but of course they couldn’t hear me. There was nothing else for it so I continued to fire, picking off anyone in range, with my expertise in high demand. But after the heat of battle, there was nothing I could do but wait.

      I’d been in position since the night before. Dug-in deep and heavily camouflaged, I was tasked with taking out my opposite number in the trenches over no-man’s land. It had seemed a simple enough task on paper, but in practice was easier said than done. Our main problem was that our rifles weren’t up to the job, we were years behind the Germans. When our snipers first began to ply their trade the officers demanded high standards, and the dress code called for full military dress. Men were sent out into battle in their oversized service caps, with the broad peaked brim marking them out as easy targets; most didn’t last the day.

      You see, the Germans have a system. They dig in, using sandbagged walls with angled firing slots. Some of them are so bold you wouldn’t believe it; they lie out in the battlefield using shell holes and metal plates for cover. If you saw the flash of the shot, nine times out of ten you’d be dead already.

      But there were no German snipers today and it was now the turn of enemy shells to respond to our week-long barrage of their defences.

      The low velocity shells were the worst. First came the whistle in the distance and if you were dim enough to hang around, you could watch as they sought you out. God help you if you got caught in the blast.

      The noise was deafening and constant, the roar of battle eventually tapered away to a high pitched tone as the world passed by in a blur; hour after hour of non-stop destruction. The screams of the dying pierced the cacophony of death, as shells rained down. The lucky ones died straight away or vanished completely, but the shrapnel left a wave of carnage that would leave some of us screaming for days.

      It hadn’t always been like that.

      April 1916

      When we first arrived on the Somme it had been a beautiful day, and a far cry from the horror that followed. The low, rolling hills still looked like farmland; the lush green pastures intoxicated our city lungs with sweet summer smells, while the burning sun made it feel like paradise.

      Our battalion was relieving the French who it seemed, on first inspection, had been playing it quiet. They had it all worked out nice and cushy alright. It was less of a war to them and more of a gentleman’s agreement. I could hardly believe it when they

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