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. 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. 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. Then he hangs his left hand limply over the roof. A moment later, he drops the rifle to the street and slumps to the roof, dragging his hand back over the parapet. After crawling to a new position, he peeks out and sees his enemy standing up and looking across, apparently believing he killed the IRA man.
The latter brings his revolver into position, holds his breath, and fires. The enemy reels on the roof, drops his rifle to the street, and falls to the pavement.
His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody. In disgust, he throws the smoking revolver to the roof. It discharges, sending a bullet past his head. The shock of the near miss sobers him, steadies his nerves. Then he laughs, swigs whiskey, and gets off the roof via a skylight and a house beneath.
On the quiet street, he is curious about the other sniper, who was a very good shot. Who was he? Could he have been a member of his own company before the army split into rival factions. He decides to have a look at the man. When he dashes across, a machine gun opens fire but misses him. He drops to the pavement next to the body as the gunfire ceases.
When he turns over the body, he sees the face of his brother. Author's Background Novelist and short-story writer Liam O'Flaherty was born on August 28, , in a poverty-stricken village on Inishmore Island in County Galway on the western coast of Ireland. He was the ninth of ten children of Michael and Margaret O'Flaherty. A good student, he studied for a time for the Roman Catholic priesthood.
However, he later renounced his religion. In , he enlisted in the British Army during the First World War and suffered a serious injury two years later in a bomb explosion at Langemarck, Belgium.
After he recovered, the army discharged him because he had developed severe depression. When he returned to Ireland, he embraced communism, became an atheist, and joined the Irish Republican Army in its campaign to liberate Ireland from British rule.
But because the document made the new Irish state part of the British Commonwealth of Nations rather than a fully independent entity, O'Flaherty and his IRA compatriots broke with fellow Irishmen who supported the treaty. Several of O'Flaherty's novels center on the effects of war, revolution, and social upheaval in Ireland in the early twentieth century and in the nineteenth century. O'Flaherty died on Sept. Themes War reduces human beings to mere objects.
They have no names, no faces. They are targets, nothing more, to be shot at from a distance. The IRA sniper is a young man, and the informer is an old woman.
A Republican sniper is sitting on a rooftop, eating a sandwich and drinking a bottle of whiskey. Despite knowing it is dangerous, he decides to smoke a cigarette and instantly a bullet hits the roof. An armored car of the Irish Free State forces arrives, and an old woman steps out of the darkness and points out the sniper's position to the soldier in the car. The sniper shoots both the woman and the man in the car. Immediately he is hit by the enemy sniper in the right arm.
The sniper applies a dressing, though in great pain, and prone in position for some time. He decides he has to escape from the roof before morning.If he tries to get off the roof, he will be an easy target for the sniper across from the sight of the shattered sniper of his dead enemy. Almost immediately there was a report, and the bullet pierced the center of the cap from him. The cap full text into the street. Weakened by his wound and the long text day of fasting and watching on the roof, he full the dire situations Hindustan aeronautics limited annual report 2019 need public intervention.
When an armored car pulls up fifty yards ahead, he does not shoot at it, realizing that bullets will not pierce heavy armor. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof. It is widely read today in secondary schools of many English -speaking countries, owing to its being easy to read, its short length, and its having a notable surprise ending. 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.
Then he returned the flask to his pocket. His forearm was dead. The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the parapet. No doubt, the IRA sniper wonders about the identities of the turret gunner, the old woman, and the person manning the machine gun.
They have no names, no faces. 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. The enemy on the opposite roof coverd his escape. He decides to have a look at the man. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. Themes War reduces human beings to mere objects.
Then when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. 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 has only his revolver to defend himself. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped. The armored car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the machine gunner's head hanging lifeless over the turret. The woman whirled round and fell with a shriek into the gutter. He lets the cap fall into the street, drops his rifle and lets his left hand hang over the edge of the roof, giving the impression that he has been shot dead.
He bent the arm below the wound. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead.
He decided that he was a good shot, whoever he was. Then he places cotton on the wound, bandages it, and thinks about his predicament. Then he hangs his left hand limply over the roof. His enemy had been hit. The woman darted toward the side street.
He had only a revolver to do it. His hand trembled with eagerness. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly.
Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. By Michael J. The bullet had lodged in the bone. The sniper fired again. He paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. The machine gun stopped.
The sniper tilts the weapon so that the hat falls onto the street. He has only his revolver to defend himself. He decided that he was a good shot, whoever he was.
He was the ninth of ten children of Michael and Margaret O'Flaherty.