Darkness surrounded me. I was in a position that had become all too familiar to me. The solitary missions I had conducted before and during World War II had all run together and I no longer kept count. The missions were similar; all that differed for me were the faces of the enemies I hunted. I completed each assigned mission without hesitation. The Nazi I hunted that night, Warren Weltzin, had maintained a vast number of Jewish concentration camps. He had delivered Zyklon B to the hundreds of concentration camps in Germany and surrounding countries. He had somehow eluded capture by the American and Russian forces when they converged on Berlin in May 1945.
I glanced at my watch; it was 11:17 p.m. I peered through my rifle’s scope in the darkness, aided by the street lights that lined the road in front of me. I was tucked between two large rocks, approximately two hundred yards from the street, in an elevated position I had taken earlier that evening under cover of darkness. Removing my eye from the rifle’s scope, I watched a black, two-door Nash pull up and park about thirty yards down the street. The car cut its engine and the street became eerily quiet.
A man exited the car, his face hidden by his hat. He appeared to be about 5’9”, Weltzin’s reported height. I felt a wave of frustration come over me. I had not moved from my position in almost three hours. Finally, the man walked under a street light located a few feet from his car. He removed his hat, pulled a handkerchief from his right front pants pocket, and wiped his forehead. The street light illuminated his face and I saw it clearly. He then replaced his handkerchief, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, and lit a cigarette. At that point, there was no doubt in my mind that he was Warren Weltzin. He was a long way from home and squarely in my sights. After he took his third puff of his cigarette, I pulled the trigger on my 1903 Springfield. The resulting blast echoed down the quiet street. Warren’s head snapped back as the back of it exploded and splattered against the outside wall of the bar. He dropped right where he stood.
I quickly got up and disassembled my rifle. After returning the weapon to my duffle bag, I made my way down from my perch above the street. It took me over an hour to reach the safety of Joaquin’s house.