by David Healey
Some of the villagers came out to wave at the tanks as if the brutal machines were on parade. Although this town was in Belgium, they were close enough to the border that a few Germans had settled here over the years. A middle-aged woman emerged from the tavern with a basket loaded with bottles of beer and sandwiches, handing them out to the passing troops. Clearly, she and a few of the parade spectators were German loyalists. An older man emerged from a house and waved an old German flag, the black, red, and gold tri-color of the Weimar Republic.
Others in the village clearly were not so enthusiastic. They stood with hands at their sides, gazing sullenly at the unwelcome sight of German tanks, or hid in their houses.
"Do you want something to eat, Herr Hauptmann?" his driver asked.
"No, but you go ahead."
"Thank you, sir."
The driver parked the Schwimmwagen and ran to the woman handing out the sandwiches and beer. He returned, grinning.
"Real ham on fresh-baked bread!" he said, holding the sandwich aloft like a prize. "At least some of the people here are loyal Germans!"
"Good thing for us," Von Stenger said. He had kept his rifle at the ready, even now as his driver gulped down the sandwich and guzzled the beer. Old habits died hard, and he half expected some partisan to take a potshot at them from an attic window. But so far, the only thing shot at them by the more unfriendly locals had been caustic glares.
Von Stenger noticed the sergeant with the scar, along with a couple of SS men, saunter toward the woman. One of the men took away her nearly empty basket. What did they want with her?
He did not spend much time wondering about that, because he soon spotted Friel, who had climbed down from his tank to consult with his officers over the map. The sniper could see from the way Friel kept waving his right arm in a chopping motion that he was upset. He walked over to hear what was being said.
"We need to get across the Meuse River before this weather breaks!" Friel said. "If the Allied planes catch us too soon, the whole operation will come to a halt."
Von Stenger caught his eye. "I would not mind a break in the weather," he said. "Nothing but snow, cold, and more snow."
"You won't be saying that when you have an American plane buzzing over your head." He turned to the others. "We must be across the river by morning! There can be no more excuses!"
Friel's voice had the force of an iron bar when he needed it to; his men seemed to bend under it. His eyes shined with intensity and energy. For all his urbane ways, it was no wonder that he was an SS officer. There had been rumors that Friel had suffered a nervous breakdown after returning from Russia, where his unit had earned the nickname The Blowtorch Brigade for its propensity for burning everything Russian in its path. Seeing him now, Von Stenger thought that maybe Friel had indeed suffered a breakdown, but not necessarily from any weakness of character. Just the opposite. Friel must have needed time to recharge. How could someone possibly maintain that level of intensity?
Von Stenger drifted away from the other officers, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and lit a Sobranie in the lee of the tavern. The thick stone walls served as an effective wind block against the icy air and snow. The walls were not thick enough, however, to block out the sound of the woman's scream that came from within.
He looked around with only passing interest. The woman who had been handing out sandwiches and beer was gone. Though she was well past her prime, that apparently had not stopped the soldiers from dragging her inside. He might have tried to stop them—he was an officer, after all—but these SS troops were verrückt. Crazy. He certainly felt like an outsider among them. And that foolish Sergeant Breger had been only too happy to shoot down the Americans. He might not have any qualms about dispatching a meddling Wehrmacht officer, either. Von Stenger had seen it happen in Russia near the end, when discipline began to wan. A bullet in the back, apparently by accident.
Trying not to be too obvious about it, Von Stenger adjusted his collar so that his rank insignia showed more clearly.
It appeared that the sergeant and his two thugs were not the only ones rampaging through the town. Another group of SS soldiers was going from house to house—ostensibly for a security check—but in the process they were carrying off anything of value. They were hardly more than boys, just eighteen or nineteen, from the look of them. Baby faces. But there was nothing childish in their demeanor. One of the boys had stuffed a pair of silver candlesticks into his pockets. Another had a bottle of liquor in one hand. The other hand held a pistol. Friel stood nearby, still obsessing over his map, apparently oblivious to what his troops were doing—or else he didn't much care.
The older man who had been waving the German flag earlier came out of the house that Von Stenger had been sheltering against. With angry eyes, he followed the progress of the marauding young soldiers. And then he started toward them, clearly intending to chastise them.
Von Stenger pushed away from the wall to block his path.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll leave them be, mein guter Mann," he said.
"You are an officer. Are you in charge here?" the old man demanded, speaking German.
"No, I am not," Von Stenger said quietly. "I think the devil himself is in charge. You had better go back inside and don't come out again."
But it was too late. The trio of young SS men approached. "Is this your house, old man? We need to go inside and see your papers."
The old man drew himself up. "I fought for the Kaiser in 1914! I was a good German before any of you were born! This is not how German troops should act."
The young soldier who was holding the liquor bottle slipped it into his pocket and aimed the pistol at the old man's head. His face was a blank mask and already he was turning his face slightly away to avoid the inevitable spattering of blood and bone that was about to take place.
Von Stenger spoke up. "I will look at the old man's papers. There are other houses here to search."
The SS boys looked at Von Stenger as if seeing him for the first time. Their eyes slipped over his rank insignia, but lingered at his throat, where his Knight's Cross was visible. Even if they did not respect a Wehrmacht captain, they would respect that bit of black metal.
Over at the Schwimmwagen, his driver had stopped chewing and was staring.
The boy with the pistol lowered it and shrugged. "Yes, Herr Hauptmann," he said. They moved on.
Von Stenger turned to the old man and gave him a shove—it was more for show, but the old man began to stammer indignantly. He shoved him again and got him inside the tiny house. An old woman and a very young boy, no more than eight or nine, stared at him wide-eyed.
"I must speak to the commanding officer!" the old man said. "I am a German citizen!"
"Listen to me," Von Stenger said. "These are SS troops. They do what they want. They will kill you and your family if you confront them. I will tell them that I saw your papers and that you are a good German. Maybe they will leave you alone—if you keep your mouth shut."
Smoke had started to rise from the tavern across the street.
"They have set fire to the tavern!” the old man shouted in alarm, moving toward the door. “I must go to help Madame Lemerand."
Von Stenger blocked his path. "There is nothing you can do for her. If the SS killed her, then that's that. Is that your grandson? You had better stay here and look after him."
For a moment, it looked as if the old man might try to push past him. And then just as suddenly realization seemed to come over him. His whole body sagged. "This war has gone on too long. I thought it was already lost until I saw these tanks arrive. Now, I wish I'd never seen them. Poor Madame Lemerand!"
"Stay inside if you know what's good for you," Von Stenger said.
The old man nodded. "I can see there are a few good soldiers left. Thank you, Herr Hauptmann."
Von Stenger stepped back out and shut the door firmly behind him, then lingered near the house. Most of the SS troops were leaving, but it wouldn’t hu
rt to hang around for a few minutes. It was silly, but he now felt obliged to protect the old man and his family.
His driver came over. "They were going to shoot him."
"Yes."
"I was not sure they were going to listen to you, Herr Hauptmann."
"But they did. That man is a good German. He fought in the Great War."
"Then you did the right thing, although it hasn't won you any friends."
To Von Stenger's surprise, the confrontation at the house had drawn Friel's attention. The SS commander dodged between the rolling tanks to cross the village street.
"What was that all about?" he asked.
"Just an old man who wanted to join up and help us win the war."
"Ha, ha! That's the spirit." Friel looked at the tavern, from which flames were just beginning to lick the sky, and then at Von Stenger. "I can see you don't approve. But let me tell you something. The last time I was in Germany a month ago, I was there when the Allies bombed Kiel. I saw little schoolgirls reduced to bloody smears on the wall. That is what war has become. So please save your silent judgments for someone else, Herr Hauptmann."
Friel had cold blue eyes. Von Stenger met them. He had dismissed Friel previously as just another believer, a Nazi fanatic. He could see now in those eyes that Friel was not only fiercely intelligent, but that he had the soul of a glacier. Von Stenger knew he had better be careful from now on. "No one needs to tell me what war has become, but that does not mean one has to enjoy this kind of excess. A good soldier does his duty."
"Good.” Friel’s easy smile returned and he clapped Von Stenger on the shoulder. “Then do yours, Kurt. Start killing some Americans with that fancy rifle of yours."
At that, Friel returned to his waiting tank. Somehow, the Nazi officer managed to make even crossing the muddy street look like he was marching on a parade ground.
Von Stenger got back in the Volkswagen. "How was your sandwich?" he asked the driver.
"Good, sir."
"Drive us out to the head of the column," he said. He stopped short of adding, I need a break from these SS bastards.
"Yes, Herr Hauptmann."
They drove out, passing tanks and dodging trucks. For all of Friel's cajoling about keeping to the schedule, the column did not seem to move at much more than a snail's pace. They reached the woods, and trees pressed in close to the edge of the road. In fact, it was almost like passing through a tunnel. Coming up, he could see where the woods ended and the road came out into an open field. Perfect place for an ambush.
"Pull over up here," he told the driver.
The driver did as ordered, and Von Stenger climbed out. He slipped on a white poncho and pulled a white covering over his helmet. Quickly, he wrapped his rifle in a strip of white cloth. He would now blend easily into the winter woods.
"What do you want me to do, sir?" the driver asked.
"Come with me and keep quiet."
They started off into the woods. The head of the column was just entering the copse—the roar of diesel engines and clank of tank treads had shattered the wintry stillness. And yet there was something comforting about being away from the column. As a sniper, he was used to operating by himself and he missed that after being assigned to Friel's Kampfgruppe. Not for the first time, he was glad that although he held the rank of officer—rank did have its privileges, such as being driven around in a Schwimmwagen—he was not in charge of anyone but himself. He did all he could to keep things that way.
He pressed deeper into the woods. The snow had settled on top of a layer of leaves, so that with each step his boots sank several inches. Walking just a few hundred yards was exhausting, and yet that's just what he did now, moving away from the road and toward the tree line where the woods met the field. His driver struggled to keep up. The crunch of leaves and snow underfoot made it almost impossible to be silent, but he was not too concerned about that because the growing noise of the mechanized column would drown out any sound they made.
He would have liked some height in order to get a better view of the field, but there wasn't really time for him to get into a tree. Instead, he found a windfall that had caught in another tree, so that it was a couple of meters above the forest floor. He climbed the sharply angled trunk of the deadfall and was rewarded with a glimpse of the open field beyond. He straddled the deadfall and positioned his rifle between the fork of the tree that the deadfall had lodged in.
The field spread out before him. But he did not just see it as a wintry plain more than a mile across, crisscrossed by stone fences, hedgerows, and a snow-covered road. He saw it the way that a chess master saw a chessboard—as a playing field to be assessed for every strength and weakness, and where one false move could mean defeat. Although the snowy fields appeared empty, Von Stenger was certain that they were not.
He was sure that Kampfgruppe Friel was rolling into an ambush. Von Stenger put his eye to the scope of his rifle. He was just as certain that he could bring that ambush to a quick end.
All he needed was a target. Eye pressed against the scope, he bided his time.
CHAPTER 11
"Look at that smoke," Vaccaro said, nodding to a dark spiral against the gray sky. "The Krauts are up there torching something. I feel sorry for the poor bastards they caught up with."
"They must have slowed down. The way they've been moving, I thought they would be back in Paris by now."
For the past hour, the snipers had been following the tracks left by the German column. The passage of the heavy panzers and trucks had broken through the crust of frozen snow and mud and churned up the road, which was now a muddy swath through the snowy countryside. As much as possible, the snipers kept out of the mud and walked in the fields in hopes of keeping their boots dry, but it wasn't always possible where the road narrowed.
"We don't even need Cole to track these bastards," Vaccaro said. "My grandma could follow this column, and she's half blind and fat as a pickle barrel."
Although they were on foot, there was a chance they might catch the rear of the advancing German column. The slower vehicles, and those that became bogged down in the mud, would be left behind. One thing was clear, however, which was that the Germans were more interested in advancing than in holding any territory. So far, they hadn't left any forces behind.
Aside from the mud, the smoke was the first sign that there were Germans up ahead. There hadn't been so much as the sound of a gunshot since they had left the massacre site, which meant the German column was advancing unopposed.
Lieutenant Mulholland stopped and nodded at the spiral of smoke. The smoke was not straight ahead but slightly to their right, indicating that the road ahead turned sharply. "If we angle across these fields, I'll bet we can come out ahead of these Germans."
"And do what, sir?" Vaccaro asked.
"Ambush them."
"Uh, they've got tanks, sir. All we've got are rifles. These are like BB guns against a King Tiger tank."
"We aren't trying to take out the tanks, Vaccaro, but their operators. It's time we started paying those bastards back for what they did at Malmedy."
"I can't argue with that, sir."
The lieutenant turned to Cole. "What are you thinking?"
Cole appeared to turn it over for a moment, then slowly nodded as he looked across the whitened fields and woods. Unlike the lieutenant, he possessed an internal compass that gave him an uncanny sense of the landscape. "I think it's a good plan, Lieutenant. It's a sight better than trailing along on their ass end. Even if we don't get out ahead of them, we'll come right out beside them. These Nazi bastards are probably thinking they've won the war already. Let's teach them different."
Mulholland looked at Jolie. "Can you keep up, Miss Molyneaux?"
"I would walk to the moon for a chance to stop these Nazis who want to get back into France."
"All right, let's do it. You lead the way, Cole."
They left the road and started across the fields. It was better than trying to pick their w
ay around the muddy ruts left by the Germans, but the footing was challenging in its own way. Beyond the shelter of the trees and hedges that lined the road, the cold wind and blowing snow cut at their exposed faces. The new snow was just a few inches deep, but it lay atop an older layer of snow that had crusted over, so that every few paces they broke through the crust and sank shin deep in snow.
Cole soon found that in the lee of the low stone walls the snow was thin, barely covering the frozen ground. He led the snipers single file, following the stone walls that crossed the fields like the seams of a patchwork quilt. Up ahead, the column of smoke darkened and spread across the sky. Whatever was burning was really rolling now, sending up billowing smoke. It was likely that the Germans would be moving on soon. The snipers needed to hurry if they hoped to get ahead of the enemy.
Cole broke into a trot. It wasn't a full-out run, but a long-legged lope that would have been familiar to a coyote—or a mountain bootlegger. With Cole setting the pace, the others struggled to keep up.
A soldier in the field carried a variety of gear, and the snipers were no different. They were laden with mess kits, cleaning kits for their rifles, spare ammo, and a dozen other items in their haversacks and in their pockets—or hanging off their utility belts. It was a lot of weight to lug, considering they were already weighed down with winter clothing.
What was noticeable was that despite all the gear they carried, the men ran almost silently. A unit of green troops would have clanked and rattled as the things they carried banged together with each step. Men who had been in the field long enough knew that to stay quiet—to stay alive—it was important to tie everything down. And with the Kid and Jolie not really carrying any gear, the only real sound was their breathing and the crunch of old snow under their boots.
Despite the cold, sweat soon ran from their armpits and down the backs of their necks. Later on, they would feel damp and cold as a result. But for now, the objective was to get out ahead of the German column.
