Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller

by David Healey

  He also knew that helmet and that face. It was the American sniper who had challenged him in the days following Normandy.

  Von Stenger put the crosshairs on the man's forehead and let his finger put pressure on the trigger.

  Goodbye, Ami.

  • • •

  Cole started to worry that they had outstayed their welcome. These Germans were not going to let a handful of snipers bring the entire column to a halt. If any of the Germans had been paying attention, there was a good chance that someone had figured out where the shots were coming from. There were an awful lot of Germans and an awful lot of firepower they could bring to bear.

  Like a tank. Like several tanks.

  He put the scope back on the King Tiger at the side of the road, just in time to see the massive turret swivel slowly in his direction. Cole took his eye away from the scope and took a chance, popping his head above the wall just long enough to make sure he was seeing this right. Even without the scope he saw the barrel jig up, then back down, as the gunner tried to get the range right.

  Nothing melted your insides quite so much as looking down the barrel of a tank.

  He gave Jolie a shove. "Run!"

  • • •

  Then the air ripped apart around Von Stenger. The panzer had fired.

  Von Stenger's rifle never wavered, but the tank shell struck just short of the wall, erupting in a geyser of frozen mud and snow.

  He moved quickly to reacquire the target, but the sniper was gone. The tank fired again, demolishing the wall.

  Out on the road, the column surged forward. The sniper fire dwindled, and then disappeared. Any snipers that were not dead had slipped away.

  Von Stenger slid down from the sloping trunk of the windfall. Schiffer was waiting for him, stamping his feet to stay warm.

  "Did you get him, Herr Hauptmann?"

  "No, but the tank sent them scurrying like rats. Don't worry, we will have another chance at him."

  They started back through the trees toward the road, Von Stenger leading the way. He was surprised to find himself humming a tune—a chord from the second act of Wagner's Tristan und Isolde, the scene in which the doomed lovers are finally alone together while the cruel king and his knights are hunting wolves in the forest. He had seen it in Berlin in 1933 during a special performance for the Führer. It was an opera so challenging and intricate that over the years it had literally killed one opera singer and two conductors.

  Von Stenger loved such complexity. And he appreciated the idea of things that could be beautiful and challenging and deadly all at once. Thinking about the American sniper, he realized that the road through the Ardennes was going to be more interesting than he had expected.

  "Keep up, Schiffer," he said. "We have much work to do."

  CHAPTER 13

  Nightfall approached as the snipers rendezvoused in the barn. The massive structure, built of stone and thick beams, was missing patches of its roof thatch. The cows and horses had long since been cleared out. Not so much as a footstep disturbed the snow around the barn, which had been abandoned and forgotten like so many war-torn farms.

  Cole was the last to go in. He had already sent Jolie ahead to let the others know he was out here, keeping watch in the last light of day.

  Shrouded in a white poncho, he waited in a hedgerow where he could keep watch on the fields and road leading to the barn. He blended into the scenery so well that a red fox walked within ten feet of him without so much as giving Cole a glance. As dusk fell and he was satisfied that the Germans were pushing forward, not hunting for the American snipers, he slipped quietly from his hiding place and entered the barn.

  "Jesus, Cole. I was starting to worry about you," said Vaccaro. "I wasn't sure if the Germans got you, or maybe a wolf."

  "Are there wild animals around here?" the Kid asked nervously.

  "Just the two-legged kind," Cole said, thinking of Von Stenger—and all the rest of the Germans. He stamped his feet. "Colder than a penguin’s pecker in here."

  "Nah, it's colder than an Eskimo's nose."

  “That’s right cold,” Cole agreed. “But it’s still colder in here than Santa’s ass in a North Pole outhouse.”

  "All right, you two are a regular couple of Bob Hopes,” the lieutenant said. “If that's a hint that somebody wants to build a fire, go ahead. If we keep it small, the Krauts aren’t going to see the flames inside the barn, and now that it's dark they won't see the smoke, either."

  Cole built a fire better and faster than anyone in the squad, hands down. He cleared a place on the stone floor of the barn, then found a weathered pine plank. With a few strokes of his razor-sharp knife, he had long dry shavings that he added to a pile of old straw. He struck a match and the flames licked up to catch a few smaller pieces of wood that Vaccaro had scavenged for him. In a few minutes, they had a small fire going. The flames did not create much warmth inside the cavernous barn on a frigid December night, so they huddled around the flickering glow.

  Cole looked around the fire, relieved to see that the only face missing was Rowe’s. He had seen him go down, killed by a single bullet. He was sure it was not some lucky shot from an SS trooper.

  The other new sniper, McNulty, had a heavy bandage around his upper arm.

  "What happened to you?" Cole asked.

  McNulty shook his head. "Damnedest thing. I thought for sure nobody could see me. I was in a pile of hay, dug in like a tick, but if that bullet had been another couple of inches in the wrong direction, I wouldn't be here right now."

  "Huh," Cole said, mulling it over. Whoever had killed Rowe and wounded McNulty was one hell of a shot, but there had been no sign of him. Like a ghost. He recalled the gold-tipped cigarette and Mosin-Nagant shells from earlier today. His mind spun at the thought that they may have encountered Von Stenger at the ambush. Could it have been Das Gespenst?

  Vaccaro brewed coffee over the fire. He poured a mug for Cole, who barely even glanced at it before giving it to the Kid, who took it gratefully. Vaccaro shook his head. That was Cole for you—he could be the meanest son of a bitch you ever met, meaner than a pissed-off copperhead snake having a bad day, and yet he would give you his left nut if he liked you.

  "I know that huh thing," Vaccaro said. "It means you've got a theory. So, what does your theory have to do with Rowe getting killed and McNulty getting winged?"

  "I reckon it was that sniper. Das Gespenst."

  "The Ghost? But I thought he was dead. You killed him in that flooded field back in Bienville."

  "Maybe, maybe not," Cole said. "Back at the massacre site I found those shell casings with the Russian markings, and one of those fancy gold-tipped cigarettes. Then someone killed Rowe with a one-of-a-kind shot and winged McNulty."

  "Nah, could be anybody," Vaccaro said.

  “How many Germans can shoot like that?”

  Vaccaro fixed his eyes on Cole’s. “Not many.”

  "It's him," Cole said. "It's Das Gespenst."

  "How do you know for sure?"

  "I just got a feelin' is all."

  Nobody questioned Cole further. In the last several months of combat, they had learned that a hunch usually meant something. Especially when it was Cole's.

  Vaccaro poured him more coffee. "If you run into him again, this time make sure he stays dead."

  Jolie took McNulty off to one side to have a look at his bandage, which had been done hastily in the field and needed to be readjusted. Vaccaro and the Kid went to poke around the barn to see what they could find. That left the lieutenant and Cole sitting together near the fire. They both sipped coffee. A tension hung between them, and they both knew what it was—Jolie Molyneaux. Mulholland acted like some kind of Sunday school chaperone around her, but he wasn't fooling anyone—the French girl had caught his eye as far back as the beach in Normandy.

  But it was Cole she had chosen. That fact hurt his pride and left him puzzled. Wasn't he the officer? Wasn't he the one who had been to college? Cole was nothing more th
an a hillbilly who was handy with a rifle. Mulholland was the one who was supposed to get the girl.

  "Listen, Cole," he began. “This thing with you and Miss Molyneaux—"

  "What thing?"

  Cole was rubbing salt in the wound. "You know what I'm talking about," Mulholland snapped. "We're not supposed to be fraternizing with the civilians."

  Even to his own ears, Mulholland thought that had to be one of the lamest excuses he had ever heard. Fraternizing with the civilians? Could he sound any more pompous? He didn't like to admit it to himself because it was a base emotion, but the truth was that he was jealous that Jolie Molyneaux had picked Cole, of all people. Most of the time, Cole was about as friendly as barbed wire. Come to think of it, Jolie was not all that welcoming herself.

  "Whatever you say, sir," Cole said in a tone that made it clear that wasn't what he thought at all, and fixed him with those cut-glass eyes that always seemed to be taking Mulholland’s measure.

  Mulholland tried to meet Cole's gaze, but soon gave up.

  "All right, let's not make a big deal out of this," Mulholland said. Somehow, without actually saying it, they had agreed to disagree about Jolie Molyneaux. "We've got enough problems as it is."

  "I reckon we do," Cole said. "We got hundreds, if not thousands of problems, all of them with swastikas on their helmets."

  "In the morning, we're going after them. We can't do too much damage, and I know that we're certainly not going to stop them, but we can harass the hell out of that German column."

  Cole nodded. "That's just what I was thinking. But there's one thing that's got me worried about that plan."

  "Yeah? What's that?"

  "Das Gespenst."

  "He's just another German."

  "He shot Jolie."

  Again, Mulholland felt that twinge of jealousy. It was like a blister on his heel. Always rubbing. He tried to get past it, but deep down it was hard to change the way he felt. No getting around it.

  "So now you can shoot him."

  Cole smirked. A flicker of uncertainty passed across his face. "He's damn good. I'll give him that."

  Mulholland dug a bottle of schnapps out of his pack, took a swig, and handed it to Cole. It was a small gesture that made him feel better about his earlier feelings of jealousy. Whatever their differences might be over Jolie, they were still just two young men a long way from home. "Didn't you say you had a relative who was in the Civil War?"

  "Sure, my Uncle Lucas. Well, great uncle, I reckon."

  "What did he do?"

  "He was a sharpshooter."

  Mulholland didn't have to ask which side Cole's relative had fought on, considering that a Confederate flag decorated Cole’s helmet. Mulholland had asked about that flag before, and learned that it had been painted by a kid who Cole had gone through boot camp with and then landed at Omaha Beach with in the first wave. The kid had lasted about five minutes. Though obscured now with dirt, scarred and faded, it was clear that the flag meant something to Cole.

  "My grandfather served on General Grant's staff," Mulholland said. There was a family story about how his grandfather had saved the general from a ruthless Confederate assassin—a sniper, as a matter of fact—probably someone who was a lot like Cole. The incident had been hushed up at the time to prevent any kind of panic, but his grandfather had spoken of it long after the war.

  Mulholland took the bottle that Cole handed back, then put the cork in it. He felt the warmth of the schnapps working through him. It would definitely help him sleep. "Listen, Cole. That German doesn't stand a chance against you."

  "I'll take the first watch," Cole said, and headed for the hay loft.

  CHAPTER 14

  Cole was not on watch long before Jolie came up the ladder after him.

  “Il fait chaud,” she said, setting down beside him. She wore a blanket across her shoulders for warmth and tugged it across Cole as well. This close, he could smell her hair, a touch of lavender perfume, and the faint smell of soap on her skin. He knew what he smelled like—campfires, gunpowder, and sweat-soaked wool.

  “Jolie, what in hell are you doing here?”

  “I just thought I would keep you company.”

  “You know that ain’t what I’m talkin’ about. Why are you in this place?”

  “This is where I belong,” she said. “I want to be fighting the Germans. I want to make them pay—not just for me, but for France.”

  “Go home, Jolie. I know how you feel, but this is no place for you. As soon as we can, we’ll get you back to our lines. We’ll send the Kid with you. He’s right shellshocked, even if he’s hangin’ in there for now.”

  “Non, I will not go.”

  “Goddamnit, Jolie. You already did your part. You were in the Resistance long before any Americans set foot in France. What you’re talkin’ about is revenge. Ain’t you had your pound of flesh yet?”

  “You tell me, Cole. When does one have enough revenge? Satisfying one’s revenge is like drinking from a cup with a bullet hole in it. You can never get your fill.”

  It felt like too much to explain to Cole tonight, but she tried. She felt that Cole was one of the few people who could understand her. She told him how the Germans had murdered her lover—another young resistance fighter—early in the war. The winds of war had scattered her family. Once she was released from the hospital, there was no one for her to go back to. These losses left holes in her heart and soul. Hatred had flowed in, filling these fissures in the same way that minerals turn something that was once living into fossil. The thought frightened her.

  “What I was before I can be again if I see this war through to the end,” she said. “Do you understand now?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “Besides, I think we make a good team,” she said.

  Cole grinned. “And I have to say, you are a lot better looking than Vaccaro.”

  They sat for a while just looking out at the darkness through the huge window in the gable end of the loft. This was where the hay was thrown in on summer days that were impossible to imagine now on this winter’s night. There was not much to see—mainly they sat listening for the crunch of feet on the snow or the growl of a diesel engine. So far, all was silent.

  A bit of stray firelight from below reflected in Cole’s clear-cut eyes and cast deep shadows under his high cheek bones—he had told her that there was some Cherokee mixed in with his Scotch-Irish blood. The light and shadow made his face feral and wolf-like. If she had not known him, she would have feared him.

  “I wrote you from the hospital,” she said. “Did you not get my letters?”

  In answer, Cole reached inside his coat and pulled out a half dozen envelopes, tied together with a piece of string. He smoothed the packet with his rough hands. “You have real nice handwriting,” he said. “Prettiest I ever seen.”

  “Why did you never write back?”

  “You know how it is, Jolie. I wanted to write you, but—” Cole’s voice trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Nothin’. Jest nothin’. There’s a war on, is all.”

  Something about the letters clearly made him uncomfortable. She changed the subject, thinking it was enough that he had kept the letters. “Do you think he is still out here? Das Gespent?”

  “Darlin’, I know he is. He killed Rowe. At that range, it wasn’t some lucky shot. And he was at that massacre.” Cole paused. “I can smell him out there.”

  Jolie shuddered. “That German has killed so many. He is a monster. A killer. Cole, do not let him get away this time.”

  She kissed his cheek, then stood, taking the blanket with her. With hardly a sound, she crossed the hay loft and descended the ladder, leaving Cole alone on watch.

  Her scent lingered on the night air, keeping him company. In the privacy of the loft he pulled out the packet of letters again and breathed in their smell, just as he had done many nights before. He was too embarrassed to tell her that he stumbled over the words like a child, trying to puz
zle out their meanings. He never had been to school. His classroom had been the woods and mountains. Cole could read tracks in the woods as clearly as other men read headlines in a newspaper, but he struggled to read a single sentence of her letters. Nobody else in the squad knew.

  He had finally contented himself with imagining her hand moving across each page, leaving behind neat letters, a touch of perfume, and the smell of cigarettes.

  He tucked the letters away. The cold soon crept through him again. He ignored it. Long, hungry hours in the woods as a boy had long since trained him to shut out most things he couldn’t do anything about: cold, fear, hunger.

  But tonight after Jolie went down the ladder he experienced a new sensation that nagged at him. He tried to push it from his mind, but failing that, he attempted to put a finger on this troubling emotion.

  The realization came to him as suddenly as a cork being pulled from a jug. It was like something in his mind went pop.

  He felt lonely.

  It was an emotion he had rarely felt before, and Jolie Molyneaux was to blame.

  • • •

  Cole always had been a loner. It seemed to him that it was the best way to be a survivor, something that he had been doing all his life. On a winter's day in 1936, a fourteen-year-old Micajah Cole had learned a valuable lesson in the difference between life and death, and that lesson had stayed with him on the battlefields of Europe.

  In the days following Christmas that year a cold snap settled over the mountains back home. There was none of this gray and snow, but bright blue skies and wind sharp as a Cherokee flint knife. At night the cold seeped into the ancient rock, freezing the ground iron hard and turning the mountain creeks into ribbons of ice. It was only in the really deep, fast-moving water like Gashey’s Creek that Cole could still set his traps.