The Snipers兩個狙擊手

〔愛爾蘭〕利亞姆·奧弗萊厄蒂

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 roof top near OConnell 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 draught. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment， consi-dering 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 parapet1 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. 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 mans 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. He stooped to pick the rifle up. He couldnt lift it. His forearm was dead. “Christ，” he muttered， “Im hit.”

Dropping flat onto the roof， he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. 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 breast-work of the parapet， and ripped open the sleeve.

Then taking out the field dressing， he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine2 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 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 armoured car had retired speedily over the bridge， with the machine-gunners head hanging lifelessly over the turret. The womans corpse lay still in the gutter.

The sniper lay still for a long time nursing his wounded arm and planning escape. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof covered his escape. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver to do it. Then he thought of a plan.

Taking off his cap， he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly over the parapet， until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediately there was a report3， and a bullet pierced the centre of the cap. The sniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap slipped 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 the left， he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The other sniper， seeing the cap and rifle fall， thought he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of chimney， 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.

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. Then the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward. The body turned over and over in space and hit the ground with a dull thud. Then it lay still.

The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. The lust of battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. His teeth chattered， he began to gibber to himself， cursing the war， cursing himself， cursing everybody. He looked at the smoking revolver in his hand， and with an oath he hurled it to the roof at his feet. The revolver went off with the concussion and the bullet whizzed past the snipers head. He was frightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. The cloud of fear scattered from his mind and he laughed.

Taking the whiskey flask from his pocket， he emptied it at a draught. He felt reckless under the influence of the spirit. He decided to look for his company commander， to report. He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down through the sky-light to the house underneath. When the sniper reached the laneway on the street， he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had killed. He decided that he was a good shot， whoever he was. He wondered if he knew him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. He peered round. 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 brothers face.

六月漫長的暮光漸漸隱沒于夜色之中，都柏林籠罩在黑暗里，只有從朵朵輕云中透出的淡淡月光映照著一排排街道和利菲河黑黝黝的河面，有如黎明之光。重型大炮在被圍困的四法院周圍轟鳴，機槍聲和步槍聲像空寂農(nóng)場里的狗吠聲似的在城市各處響起，時斷時續(xù)，打破了夜晚的寂靜。共和派和自由邦派正在打內(nèi)戰(zhàn)。

一個共和黨人的狙擊手趴在奧康奈爾橋附近的一個屋頂上觀察著，他的身旁放了一支步槍，肩上挎了一副戰(zhàn)地望遠鏡。他的面龐還是學(xué)生模樣，身體瘦削得像一個苦行僧，可是他的眼睛卻閃著狂熱的寒光，這是一對深沉的、若有所思的雙眼，對死亡已經(jīng)司空見慣。

他在狼吞虎咽地吃三明治，從早晨到現(xiàn)在他還沒吃過東西，他太興奮了。吃完三明治，他從口袋里掏出一扁瓶威士忌喝了一小口，又把酒瓶放回口袋。他頓了頓，考慮著是否應(yīng)該冒險抽口煙。會很危險，黑燈瞎火的，敵人會發(fā)現(xiàn)火光，敵人也在觀察哩。最后，他還是決定冒一次險，他把香煙放在唇間，劃著了火柴，急急忙忙地吸了一口就吹滅了火。幾乎是與此同時，一顆子彈射了過來，打在護墻上被撞扁。狙擊手又吸了一口就掐滅了煙，低低地罵了一句就爬到了左邊。他小心翼翼地從護墻內(nèi)探出身來窺望，一道光閃過，一顆子彈嗖的一聲貼著他的頭皮飛了過去，他立刻縮了回來。他根據(jù)看到的閃光判斷出子彈是從街道對面射過來的。

他滾到后面的煙囪旁邊，在煙囪后面緩緩地立起身來。對面的狙擊手隱在夜幕中看不見，卻見一輛裝甲車駛過橋面，沿這條街緩緩開來。裝甲車停在街對面，離這里50碼遠。他聽得見馬達沉悶的噴氣聲。狙擊手的心怦怦直跳，越來越快。是敵軍的車，他想開槍，可他知道沒用，因為子彈絕對無法穿透那個灰色龐然大物的鋼質(zhì)外殼。

接著，從旁邊小街街角走過來一個頭部裹著破破爛爛披肩的老太太。她開始跟裝甲車炮塔里的機槍手說著什么，邊說邊用手指著這個狙擊手所在的房頂——肯定是在告密。炮塔開了，露出了機槍手的頭和肩，他朝老太太所指的方向瞭望。狙擊手立刻端起槍來開了火，機槍手的頭重重地落到炮塔的側(cè)壁上。老太太向那條小街沖去。狙擊手又開了一槍，老太太尖叫一聲轉(zhuǎn)了個圈，掉進路邊溝里。

突然，對面的屋頂響起槍聲，狙擊手罵了一句，手中的槍咣當(dāng)一聲砸到了屋頂上。狙擊手蹲下拾槍，卻沒有撿起來，他的前臂中彈了。他低聲說道：“主啊，我中彈了?！?/p>

他在屋頂上臥倒，爬回護墻旁。他用左手摸了摸受傷的右胳膊，沒有痛感，只有麻木的感覺，好像胳膊被砍斷了似的。

他迅速從口袋里掏出小刀，抵著護墻把刀打開，用刀把袖子劃開。

他拿出戰(zhàn)地止血包，用刀把袋子挑開，敲碎碘酒瓶頸，把苦藥水滴在傷口上，一陣痙攣似的痛感立刻傳遍了全身。最后，他把藥棉放在傷口上，用紗布裹住，借助牙齒把傷口包扎起來。

他貼著護墻躺著，緊閉雙眼，強忍著疼痛。

下面的街道一片寂靜。裝甲車很快從橋上退了下去，機槍手已經(jīng)死亡，頭還在炮塔上耷拉著，老太太的尸體一動不動地躺在溝里。

狙擊手靜靜地躺了很久，一面養(yǎng)傷，一面盤算著怎么逃走。天一亮，屋頂上的自己就會被發(fā)現(xiàn)，被打死，而對面的狙擊手是自己逃跑的障礙，所以必須殺掉他，可是自己已經(jīng)不能用步槍了，只能用手槍來湊合。他終于心生一計。

他把帽子摘下來，放到步槍的槍口上，然后把步槍慢慢舉過護墻，舉到街對面能夠看到的地方。幾乎與此同時一聲槍響，一顆子彈從帽子中間穿過。狙擊手把步槍向前傾了傾，帽子滑落到了街上，然后他用左手抓住步槍的中間部分，讓手從屋頂上無力地耷拉下來。少頃，他松開手，讓步槍掉到街上。隨后，他撲倒在屋頂上，手也隨著收了回去。

他迅速爬到左邊，窺視著對面屋頂?shù)囊唤?，發(fā)現(xiàn)自己的計策已經(jīng)奏效：對面的狙擊手看到掉落的帽子和步槍，還以為擊斃了敵人，所以此時正站在一排煙囪前朝這邊張望，那個人頭部的輪廓在西方天幕的映襯下清晰可見。

共和黨的狙擊手微微一笑，提起左輪手槍架在護墻沿上。距離大約有50碼，在暗淡的光線下射擊不容易，而且右手還疼得厲害，好像有成千上萬個魔鬼在搗亂。他瞄準(zhǔn)目標(biāo)，由于急迫，他的手在顫抖。他抿了抿嘴，鼻子深深吸了口氣，開了槍。

硝煙散盡之后，他向?qū)γ娓Q望，不禁驚喜地叫出了聲。他的敵人已經(jīng)被擊中，倒在護墻上的身軀正在垂死的痛苦中踉踉蹌蹌地掙扎，他企圖站穩(wěn)腳跟，卻好像在夢中似的向前栽了下去，步槍從手中掉落下來，砸在護墻上。接著，屋頂上的垂死的狙擊手向前倒了下去，身體在空中翻了幾翻，隨著沉悶的砰的一聲，摔到街上，一動不動了。

看到敵人倒了下去，狙擊手打了個寒戰(zhàn)，心中對戰(zhàn)爭的渴望消失得無影無蹤，代之以被懊悔刺痛的心。大顆大顆的汗珠從額頭上冒了出來，牙齒也在打戰(zhàn)，他開始語無倫次地自言自語，詛咒這場戰(zhàn)爭，詛咒自己，詛咒所有的人。他看了看手里還冒著煙的槍，罵了一句就把它扔到了腳邊，手槍由于震動而走了火，一顆子彈嗖的一聲從他的耳旁飛過，他一驚，恢復(fù)了理智，神經(jīng)也穩(wěn)定了，恐懼的陰云從心頭消散，他哈哈大笑起來。

他從口袋里掏出了那瓶威士忌，一口喝了個精光。在酒精的作用下，他膽子又大了起來。他打算找連長報告情況，于是撿起手槍放進口袋，從天窗向下面的房子爬去。臨近街口時，他突然產(chǎn)生一股好奇心，想要看看自己打死的那個狙擊手是誰，因為不論對方是誰，他都認為對方也是個出色的狙擊手。他想看看是不是認識對方，也許在軍隊沒有分裂以前，他們在同一個連隊呢。他決定冒險去看一眼，他環(huán)顧四周，發(fā)現(xiàn)街的那頭戰(zhàn)火很猛，而這頭卻是一片寂靜。

他沖過街道，一挺機槍射出一串冰雹似的子彈，周圍的泥土被紛紛掀起，但是沒有打中他。他一下子趴倒在那個狙擊手的尸體旁，機槍停止了射擊。

他把死尸翻了過來，看到的是自己哥哥的臉。