1. What does O’Flaherty mean when he writes that the sniper has “the face of a student”
(paragraph 2)?
○ Answer:
2. Why does the sniper shudder when he kills his enemy?
○ Answer:
3. Why does the sniper want to learn the identity of the enemy sniper?
○ Answer:
4. How does the final line change the mood of “The Sniper”?
○ Answer:
written like an 8th grader
The Sniper
By Liam O’Flaherty
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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 rooftop near O’Connell 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 drought. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment,
considering 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 parapet 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, 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 armoured 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
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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. “I’m hit,” he muttered.
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. the arm bent back easily. 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. The armoured car had retired speedily over the
bridge, with the machine gunner’s head hanging lifeless over the turret.
The woman’s 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 upward over the parapet, until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street.
Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the centre of the cap. The sniper
slanted the rifle forward. The cap clipped 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 his feet, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had
succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He
was now standing before a row of chimney pots, 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. He was almost deafened with
the report and his arm shook with the recoil.
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, fell over,
bounded off the pole of a barber’s shop beneath and then clattered on the pavement.
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.
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He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his
wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the sight of
the shattered mass of his dead enemy. 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 a concussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper’s 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 a drought. He felt reckless
under the influence of the spirit. He decided to leave the roof now and look for his company
commander, to report. Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going
through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down
through the skylight to the house underneath.
When the sniper reached the laneway on the street level, 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 did he know 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 around the
corner into O’Connell Street. 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 brother’s face.
1. O'Flaherty means that the sniper has a young and innocent look, like a student who is focused and determined.
2. The sniper shudders when he kills his enemy because he realizes the true consequences of his actions and feels remorse for taking a life.
3. The sniper wants to learn the identity of the enemy sniper out of curiosity, wondering if he knows him personally and also to acknowledge the skill of his opponent.
4. The final line changes the mood of "The Sniper" by showing the sniper's realization of the horrors of war and the impact it has on him emotionally. It shifts from the excitement and adrenaline of battle to a moment of reflection and sorrow.