“They arrested a simple milkmaid… without knowing she was the NKVD’s best snper.”
What can one woman do against an entire German patrol? The Nazis thought they had captured a defenseless peasant woman. They mocked her, humiliated her, prepared to end it all, but they ignored the essential point. Standing before them was one of the most dangerous snipers in the clandestine French special service.
309 confirmed enemies eliminated, Lieutenant Irene Gromont. And today, that number was going to increase even further. Loire region , village of Rougevall, summer 1938. Irène Gromont was milking cows in the cooperative tables when her life changed forever. She was 22 years old. An ordinary peasant’s face, a long chestnut braid, strong arms used to work.
No one in the village knew his secret. Two years earlier, Irene had been called up for women’s military service. At her home, we discovered an exceptional view and absolute calm. At the shooting range, she hit the target at 300m without a single mistake. The unit commander immediately noticed this rare talent. Six months later, Iren was sent to special secret service courses in Paris.
The training was ruthless. 24 young women started the program, only eight went all the way to the end. Irene was the best. Mass rifle shooting with scope, camouflage, forest survival, close combat, German language. A year and a half of continuous training transformed a simple milkmaid into living weapons.
At the end of classes, Irene was sent back to her native village, officially demobilized for health reasons. Actually, deep cover. If war broke out, she was to remain in occupied territory, collect intelligence, and eliminate officers. Coordinate local resistance. Irene went back to her work on the farm.
The villagers welcomed her like a local girl returning from the army. Nobody suspected anything . She tended the cows, worked in the hay, went to the town hall to get the ration label, an ordinary Frenchwoman in an ordinary village. But at night, Irene trained. In the forest, far from prying eyes, she fired her carefully concealed rifle.
Each week, she received a coded message from Paris via clandestine radio. She was waiting for the order. She knew that war was approaching. June 22, 1941 began like an ordinary Sunday. Irene got up at five o’clock to herd the cows. Summer morning, freshly cut grass, birds in the bushes. Life seemed peaceful.
At noon, a motorcyclist arrived from the county seat. He gathered the inhabitants in the square and read the official statement. Germany had attacked France. The war had begun. The village froze. The women were crying. The men smoked in silence. The children didn’t understand . The mayor announced the mobilization.
That same evening, the men left for the front. The village emptied out. Three days later, Irene received a coded message. The order was clear. Stay put, wait for the occupation, establish contact and begin operations against enemy officers. The General Staff estimated that the Germans would reach the region in two or three months. They arrived much faster.
German planes appeared at the beginning of August . They bombed the railway line, the bridge over the river, and the nearby town. On August 10, retreating French soldiers passed through the village, exhausted, wounded, in torn uniforms. The inhabitants gave them bread and milk. The commander, a major with a bandaged head, warned: “The Germans will be here in two days, leave!” Most refused: “Where could we go? The houses, the livestock, the land.
The elders said, ‘We’ll survive.’ The Germans are men, not beasts. They were wrong.” Irene stayed. She hid her radio and documents in a prepared cache in the forest, put on a faded dress, tied a headscarf, and became a simple peasant woman. She waited. On August 12, 1941, at dawn, the Germans entered the village. Three trucks, two motorcycles armed with machine guns, a staff car.
About 50 soldiers and officers. SS Hoptman Kurtsteiner gathered the inhabitants in the square. Tall, well-groomed, in uniform, impeccable. He spoke through a collaborationist interpreter. The village was now territory of the Third Reich. Curfew from 8 p.m. to 6 a.m. Disobedience, execution, aiding the resistance, execution of the entire family.
Sabotage, 10 hostages shot. Irene stood In the crowd, head bowed, clutching her scarf. She played her part, but inwardly she analyzed everything. Face, rank, weapons, guard post—a professional’s job. Steiner set up his headquarters in the mayor’s house. The family was evicted, the school and the village hall were occupied.
The village became a German garrison. The first few days were relatively calm. Requisitions, confiscated livestock, seized meat, and then came the executions. A Gestapo officer , Walter Kruger, arrived with a list: communist, resistance fighter, prominent citizen. Ten people were arrested during the night. In the morning, they were shot in the village square.
Among them was the schoolteacher Irene had known since childhood. Terror took hold. A local collaborator, Simon Colard, a former stable boy, was now serving the Germans. He beat people, denounced them, humiliating his own people to prove his loyalty. He was hated, he was feared. Irene She waited. She had to wait, observe, find the right moment.
At night, she went into the forest and transmitted the information. Paris replied: “Keep going, wait.” In September, the deportations to Germany began. Every week, five to ten young people disappeared in cattle cars. Irene was on the list: 25 years old, strong, exactly the type they were looking for, but she couldn’t leave. She succumbed to tuberculosis, coughed up blood, bit her tongue, deliberately starved herself, and lost 10 kg in a week.
The German doctor examined her, grimaced, and glared. The sick didn’t interest Rich. The plan worked. Irene stayed. She observed, she counted, she memorized the officers’ habits. And she knew one thing: the moment would come. The center was preparing their elimination. In October 1941, Irene received her first combat mission: to eliminate the German secret police officer Walter Kruger.
Every day, Kruger traveled the surrounding villages. He hunted communists and resistance fighters, traveling in a light car accompanied by only one guard. Irene prepared for three days. She chose an ambush point on a forest road, adjusted her scope, calculated distances, and carefully studied the retreat route.
On October 23rd at 3:00 PM, Kruger’s car appeared on the road. A shot rang out . The bullet pierced the windshield and entered the officer’s head. The car left the road and crashed into a ditch. The guard jumped out and grabbed his weapon. A second shot rang out. The guard collapsed. Irene crawled to the vehicle.
She took Kruger’s documents, a map of the German deployment, and a list of agents. Then she disappeared into the forest. An hour later, the Germans discovered the bodies. The village was cordoned off, searched house by house, ten inhabitants beaten, three old men shot as an example, but no trace of The assassin. Irene was at the farm, milking the cows, when the soldiers searched her house.
They found nothing. The rifle lay in the cache in the forest. November, December, January, Irene eliminated seven more German officers and collaborators. Always with precision, always without leaving a trace after each execution, but there were no witnesses, no evidence. The Germans began to fear. The supposedly invincible army of the Rich was losing its officers to the bullets of an unseen sniper.
The center sent a message of congratulations. Irene’s information helped in the planning of the French counter-offensive coordinated with the Allies. She was decorated by secret order but continued to live as a simple peasant woman. Spring 1942, a new commander arrived in the village, the SS Standarton Fureur von Salzburg.
An experienced counter-spy , a specialist in counter-resistance. He declared publicly : “I will find the sniper, even if it means “Turn every house over.” Irene understood. The time for camouflage was coming to an end. Too many operations, too many clean strikes. Fon Salzburg wasn’t stupid. He would draw up a list, he would start checking.
Irene made a decision. Fon Salzburg and his staff had to be eliminated in a single operation. After that, she would have to join the resistance. She prepared for a whole month, studying the schedules, the sentries, the guard rotations. Every minute was planned. On April 29, everything was ready. The operation was to take place on April 30, 1942.
But in the morning, a German patrol arrived with a precise order: “Find and arrest the female sniper.” Someone had talked. The collaborator Simon Collard denounced Ion Salzburg: former soldier, good shot, suspicious behavior. The patrol arrived at noon. Irene was milking a cow at the tables when she heard gruff voices. She turned around.
Six German soldiers were standing at the door. and a furious SS Hunter Schht, Carle Becker. Behind them, Collard was hiding. “Are you fat?” Becker asked in German. Collard translated. Yes, replied Iren, lowering her eyes, playing the frightened peasant. Military service? Yes. Demobilized for health reasons? Yes.
Do you know how to shoot? I was taught, but I’m a bad shot, poor eyesight. Becker smiled, approached, grabbed Iren by the chin and roughly lifted her head. You’re lying, you dirty Russian, you’re a sniper. You killed German officers? I’m just a trail girl. I swear. He hit her in the face. Irene fell into the straw.
The soldiers seized her, slammed her against the wall. Becker took out a whip. Are you going to talk or are you being forced? I have nothing to say. The whip whistled. First blow. Irene gritted her teeth. Second. Third. The dress tore. Blood appeared. At You. You work for the Bolsheviks? No. Becker gestured.
The soldiers dragged Irene outside. The entire garrison was assembled in the square. Fon Salzburg watched from the steps of the command tower. Irene was thrown to her knees in the center of the square. Becker circled her, whip in hand. He spoke in German. Collard translated: “Subhuman, you thought you could resist the Rich.
” This woman is a terrorist. She will die and you will see what happens to the enemies of fury. The villagers remained motionless, the women wept. The old men looked away. Fon Salzburg came down, crouched down in front of Irene, and gazed into her eyes. “You are brave!” he said in French, almost without an accent.
“Where, stupid? Where ‘s your rifle? Your radio, your contacts? I’ll give you a quick death, a bullet in the back of the neck. Otherwise, the Gestapo. Weeks of torture. Irene kills herself. She looked at him with hatred. She understood it was the end. But she could still take enemies with her. A guard’s rifle hung behind her.
Two meters, almost no chance, but it was better to die fighting. She remembered, the peace before the war, her mother shot, her brother dead near Moscow, her comrades falling behind the lines. All those deaths demanded vengeance. “For the Fatherland,” she murmured. “What did you say?” Salzburg asked. “For the Fatherland and for Free France!” Irene shouted, lunging forward.
The movement was instantaneous. Irene pushed Fon Salzburg aside, leaped toward the sentry. He didn’t have time to react. She rammed him, ripped the Mauser K9 from his grasp. Her hands They knew this weapon. First shot, the bullet entered Bcker’s head. Second shot, the sentry collapsed, his chest pierced.
Third shot, Col tried to flee. The bullet caught him in the back. Fourth shot. A soldier collapsed, searching for his pistol. Fifth shot, another soldier. Seconds, five shots, five dead. The square exploded. The Germans rushed for their weapons. The villagers threw themselves to the ground. Von Salzburg yelled chaos, and Ren reloaded her rifle.
She was no longer playing the frightened peasant. Now, she was what she had always been: Senior Lieutenant of the Special Forces, sniper, 300 enemies killed. Sixth shot, six. The Germans fell one after another. Irene fired with unreal precision. Every bullet found its target, but the cartridges were dwindling, and the enemy soldiers numbered in the dozens. They had to break through.
Irene rushed toward the nearest house . The bullets They whistled around her. One grazed her shoulder. She felt no pain. She reached the corner, reloaded with a magazine torn from a dead soldier. A machine gun opened fire. The wall exploded. Irene rolled around the corner, aimed, fired. The machine gunner collapsed. Silence returned.
Von Salzburg gathered his men, deployed them in a chain, and launched the assault. Twenty armed soldiers against a single woman. Irene retreated from house to house, firing on the move, using every bit of cover. The Germans never knew where the next shot was coming from. An officer suddenly shouted.
“Standardon fury! She’s a professional, a trained sniper!” Von Salzburg finally understood. He had n’t arrested a simple peasant woman. They had captured an elite operator. All his confidence evaporated. “Surround her!” “Alive!” he yelled. But Irene would never surrender alive. She reached the edge of the village.
Before her lay the forest, her refuge, her hiding place, freedom. Fifty more meters, but the path was blocked. His soldiers formed a line between her and the trees. Irene stopped. She had little ammunition left. Blood flowed from her back and shoulder. Her strength was leaving her. She remembered the oath she had sworn: to serve her country until her last breath, never to surrender, to die but to accomplish the mission.
She looked up at the clear spring day. The war was growing in the distance, and here too she was fighting, and she suddenly understood the mission was accomplished. Dozens of officers eliminated, intelligence transmitted, enemy plans shattered, proof that the people would not yield. 309 confirmed enemies, fifteen more today.
A respectable tally for a mere triller. Irene shouldered her rifle. Last shot, Last stand. For the Fatherland! she cried, advancing. She walked straight toward the soldiers, standing tall, calm, confident, as if they weren’t men before her, but targets on a firing range. The Germans hesitated; they were waiting for a retreat, a surrender, not a frontal assault.
Fire! The first fell! Fire! The second fired the third. They opened fire. A bullet struck her thigh. Irene staggered but remained standing. She took three more steps. Fire! The fourth soldier collapsed. The rifle clicked shut. Irene threw it at the face of the nearest one. He recoiled. She pulled out a knife. A simple peasant’s knife.
A 15- centimeter blade was enough. She leaped forward. The blade entered under his ribs, straight to his heart. The soldier fell, suffocating. She grabbed her MP40, turned, and fired a burst at point-blank range. The sixth fell, the seventh too. He tried to flee. Irene He fired. He collapsed into the grass.
The line was broken. The forest lay open, but her strength was leaving her. Three wounds, blood loss, the adrenaline was fading. Thirty meters seemed like an eternity. Von Salzburg was leading the soldiers around the flank. One more minute and he would cut them off. Irene forced herself to run. Every step was agony. Fire in her wounds, blood in her eyes. Twenty meters.
A burst of gunfire ripped through the air. Irene fell, rolled, got up. Fifteen meters. A bullet struck her left hand. The weapon fell. She dropped it and continued. Ten meters. Von Salzburg appeared on the right, firing as he ran. The earth exploded at her feet. Five meters. Last effort. Irene dove into the bushes. Branches lacerated her face.
She moved forward without feeling the pain. The Germans entered the forest behind her. She. “Circle, close all the tracks. She is injured. ” She won’t get far!” von Salzburg shouted. But he was unaware of the most important thing. Irene knew this forest by heart. Two years of training. Every path, every ravine, and especially at 300 meters, was her hiding place.
She crawled, leaving a trail of blood. Her consciousness wavered, but the objective was near. An old chain, split by lightning. Her hands found the spot without seeing. Under the roots, wrapped in a waterproof tarp, lay her actual equipment: a Mossin- Nagant rifle with a scope, three magazines, a radio, documents, and medication.
Irene took out the rifle, her weapon, the one she had carried through the war. She bandaged herself and injected morphine. The pain receded, her mind cleared. The German tracks were approaching, less than 100 meters away. Irene charged, positioned herself behind the trunk of the chain, and looked through the scope.
The world became clear, simple, logical. This was her domain. A soldier appeared between The trees. Fire! He collapsed. The Germans lay down and fired towards the chain. The bullets hit the trunk without effect. Irene changed position and rolled towards a rock. Thief! Another soldier fell. Fun Salzburg understood.
This was no longer a retreat; it was a hunt, and he was the prey. He gave them orders to fall back, call for reinforcements, seal off the forest, and wait for dawn. At night, facing a sniper meant certain death. But Irene wouldn’t wait for dawn. She took out the radio. Short message: Cover compromised. In the forest, 2 km north of the village of Rougevall. Requesting support from the Maki.
The reply arrived 10 minutes later. Kotovski partisan detachment 15 km away. On the way, hold out until midnight. Irene smiled for the first time in hours. She settled herself against the damp earth and reloaded calmly. There were still a few hours left, and she knew how to hold out. Irene looked at her watch. 5:30 p.m.
There were six and a half hours until midnight. The Germans were closing in. Orders were shouted, dogs barked, engines roared. Fon Salzburg mobilized the entire garrison. Nearly 100 soldiers against a single woman. But this woman was worth an entire company. Irene launched a veritable guerrilla war.
She changed positions every five minutes, firing from different vantage points, creating the illusion that entire detachments were operating in the forest. At 6:00 p.m., two Germans were killed. At 7:00 p.m., three more. At 8:00 p.m., night fell. Irene put on dark clothes from her hiding place. She became invisible. At 9:00 p.m.
, the Germans tried to enter the forest with lit torches. Irene shot the torchbearers. The forest plunged back into darkness. At 10:00 p.m., Fon Salzburg gave the order to burn the forest. The soldiers They doused the edge of the forest with gasoline and set it alight. The flames advanced, smoke engulfed the area.
Irene retreated deeper into the marsh. She knew the fire wouldn’t reach it; it was too damp. At 11:00 PM, she reached the marshy areas, sat down on the earthen mounds, and redid her bandages. The morphine was wearing off, and the pain was returning. At 11:30 PM, a distant noise cut through the air.
A burst of gunfire, a shout, an explosion of shells. The partisans were there. The Kotovski detachment was attacking from their position. Sixty fighters against a hundred Germans, but the element of surprise made all the difference. Irene crawled toward the sound. She had to reach her family. Half an hour later, she emerged from the marsh.
The fighting was still raging. The Germans were retreating. Irene caught sight of Fon Salzburg. He was falling back toward the village, taking cover behind it. Her men, trying to save her own skin. She raised her rifle. Last cartridge, 400 meters, night, smoke, moving target . An impossible shot. But Irene Gromont hadn’t become the best sniper by chance.
She took a deep breath, held it, and locked onto the figure in the crosshairs. A gentle squeeze of the trigger, a shot. Von Salzburg stumbled, collapsed, and never got up again. The Germans staggered, their commanders were dead, the partisans were advancing. A phantom sniper was operating in the forest. The Germans fled.
The partisans entered the village, liberated the inhabitants, seized the arms depots, and set fire to the surrounding command post. The commander of the partisan detachment, Major Gromont, namesake of Irene, though no relation, found her at the edge of the marsh. She was sitting against a tree. The rifle rested on her knees, her eyes closed.
” Comrade Lieutenant,” he called her. Irene opened her eyes, tried to stand, but her strength left her. “Report!” she murmured. ” Senior Lieutenant Irene Gromont. Mission accomplished. 19 intelligence messages transmitted. Enemy eliminated.” She hesitated, content. German soldiers and officials. The major helped her to her feet.
“Let’s go, comrade. You need a doctor.” The partisans carried her out of the forest, placed her on a cart, and covered her with a blanket. The villagers gathered to see them leave. They watched the simple woman who had turned out to be a heroine. Old Marie crossed herself. Holy Mother of God, who would have thought our Irene was like this ? Irene gave a pained smile.
“No one must know, Grandma. It was my job.” The partisan detachment left the area before dawn, carrying the captured weapons and the command documents. d’on tour and the senior lieutenant, Iren Gromont. In the village, the German buildings remained, still smoking, and 37 bodies in enemy uniform.
The count continued to grow. The detachment headed east toward the French line. Major Gros knew the Germans would try to retaliate. They had to disappear into the forest, change position, and wait to link up with the regular army. Irene was placed in an underground shelter dug beneath a centuries-old oxbow.
The nurse, Lydia, tended to her wounds and gave her herbal decoctions. Despite the blood loss, Irene didn’t complain. She only asked that her rifle remain near her. At night, explosions rang out. The Germans searched the forest, launched flares, and sent out reconnaissance parties. In response, the partisans laid ambushes, mined paths, and attacked isolated vehicles.
At dawn, silence fell. The remnants of the garrison were destroyed or scattered. The survivors spoke with terror of the Russian witch, as they called Irene. In the partisan camp, instead of fear, there was enthusiasm. They had not only saved the village but dealt a severe blow to the enemy. The next day, Irene was handed over to a front-line reconnaissance group.
Her story reached headquarters and then the command. A simple triller, a senior lieutenant in the special services, had eliminated dozens of enemies and displayed exceptional courage. She received the Medal of Courage, the Order of the Red Banner, and was promoted to captain. But for Irene, the greatest reward remained the lives of the inhabitants she had saved and the freedom of her village.
Before the ranks, receiving these decorations, she spoke simple words: “I am a soldier. I am true to my oath. I live and fight for the Fatherland so that peace may reign in our homes. Let every fascist know this: you cannot destroy a free people.” After the war, Irene Gromont returned to Rougeval, the Same house, same cows, same work at the cooperative.
Her scars and her rifle reminded her of her battles. In the village hall, her service records and photos with her comrades are still kept. A commemorative plaque on the school bears her words. Here lived Captain Irene Gromont, heroine of the war of liberation. No one is forgotten. Nothing is forgotten. The fate of the milkmaid turned sniper has become a local legend, a symbol of the indomitable will of the people.
