Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller

by David Healey

  “I’ll have the Third Army there in hours,” Patton said confidently.

  “George, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Eisenhower said. He lit another cigarette. The air in the room was hazy with tobacco smoke.

  “My boys will be there. You can bet on it.”

  After Patton had outlined his plan, the generals looked at the battlefield map. They hated to admit it, but they had few options. Eisenhower gave his approval.

  As the meeting broke up, there were a few subdued exchanges of “Merry Christmas.” Nobody felt all that merry.

  Except for Patton. He hummed Jingle Bells as he left the room.

  Unbeknownst to Eisenhower or anyone else in the room, his boys were already on their way to relieve the embattled forces in the Ardennes region. He had given the orders even before the meeting, taking a gamble that Eisenhower would approve.

  Already, hundreds of tanks and thousands of men were on the move to the Ardennes. Once they got there, it would be another nail in the coffin of Operation Watch on Rhine.

  Until then, the American forces would just have to hang on and stop the German juggernaut as best they could.

  CHAPTER 16

  "Obersturmbannführer Friel has orders for you," said Breger, the scar-faced sergeant. Von Stenger recognized him immediately. Having watched him shoot down the American POWs, Von Stenger was not going to forget Breger anytime soon.

  Von Stenger looked around for Friel, but he was nowhere in sight. By now, the column was stretched like a rubber band—the front part raced toward Friel's objective of crossing the Meuse River and advancing into France, while the slower end dragged along behind. Somehow, Friel still had time to worry about the placement of a single sniper.

  "And what are the Obersturmbannführer's orders?"

  "You are needed at the rear of the column," Breger said. The barely suppressed grin on the Scharführer’s face suggested that he liked giving orders as a proxy. "We are being harassed by snipers. In fact, I believe the Obersturmbannführer's exact words were, 'I don't want those GIs coming up the road after us and fucking me in the ass.' "

  That sounded about right. For all his polished ways, Friel had a soldier’s foul mouth. "How many snipers?"

  "Who knows? Who cares? But you are the expert, so the Obersturmbannführer was sure you would take care of it."

  Von Stenger raised an eyebrow. He was sure that last bit was the sergeant's own invention. It was clear by now that Breger was one of those noncommissioned officers who despised officers. Perhaps all of them did, come to think of it—but most were better at hiding it.

  "I will see what I can do to protect the Obersturmbannführer’s ass," he said. He started to turn away, irritated by the sergeant, but then turned back to Breger, raising one finger as he did so, as if he had just had an idea. Which, in fact, he had. "I could use another man. However, it is dangerous work, Breger, so you would not want to undertake it yourself. You are too valuable, of course. You may have someone in your unit you can spare. Preferably a man who fears nothing."

  As expected, the Scharführer was insulted. "You call shooting a few snipers dangerous work? Sir, I can tell you—"

  "When you find a man for the job, send him to me," Von Stenger said curtly, and turned away.

  "I will go myself," Breger said. "There is no need for another."

  "Very well," Von Stenger said. "Be ready in ten minutes. And Breger—see if you can find a machine pistol."

  Breger stood there for a moment after the sniper walked away, realization coming over him that Von Stenger had tricked him into something. He gazed after the sniper, eyes smoldering, then stomped away to get his gear.

  Von Stenger walked over to the Schwimmwagen, where his SS driver waited.

  "Leave the vehicle," Von Stenger said. "Put on your warmest clothes—in fact, put on all your clothes—and bring your weapon."

  "Yes, sir."

  Minutes later, the Scharführer joined them, carrying an MP 40 submachine gun, and the trio set off for the rear of the column. They faced an oncoming stream of vehicles and men.

  "Are we going to walk the whole way?" griped the sergeant, in a tone that made it clear that he thought the sniper must be an idiot. "It could be miles in this mess!"

  Von Stenger did not answer. It was indeed hard going, like swimming against the tide. The passage of so many vehicles had churned the road into a soup of slush, mud, and spilled diesel fuel and motor oil. Tanks, trucks, and military vehicles of almost every description formed the oncoming current. The faces of the troops they passed looked grim, many of them pale with cold and fatigue. But they held their heads high. They were on the offensive. They were gaining ground, bringing the fight to the Americans. No one had felt this way in months. It was almost possible to ignore the cold, gray air around them.

  Finally, they neared the end of the column. Traffic thinned out. A lieutenant in a jeep was pulled to one side, supervising a crew pushing a truck out of a muddy rut. His eyes fastened on the telescopic sight on Von Stenger's rifle and he waved his driver toward him.

  "Sir, those American snipers back there are chewing us to pieces. It is like a shooting gallery, and we are the targets."

  "How far back?"

  "A couple of miles. You will hear them shooting—or should I say, it may be the last thing that you hear."

  As Von Stenger shifted to get his left boot out of a puddle, his coat opened slightly, revealing the Knight's Cross at his throat. The young lieutenant caught sight of it and his eyes widened.

  "Sir, are you Von Stenger? I have seen your photograph. What an honor! Those Americans do not stand a chance."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant," Von Stenger said, oddly touched. "And thank you for this information. I will shoot a sniper for you."

  They moved on, laboring through the half-frozen mud. The SS sergeant smoked a cigarette but kept his mouth shut with the air of the long-suffering soldier saddled with an idiot for an officer. Finally, Von Stenger saw what he was looking for—a captured United States Army truck with an olive drab canvas top. The truck was moving slowly enough that Von Stenger simply stepped out in front of it and raised a hand in a gesture that indicated "stop," like a gendarme directing traffic on a Paris street. He walked up to the driver's open window.

  "Sir?" the puzzled driver asked. Another man sat next to him. They both had their helmets off. One man was gray-haired, while the other’s bald head gleamed. Both were deep into middle age. Clearly, even the SS was running low on men at this late hour of the war.

  "Turn this truck around," Von Stenger said. "You are returning to the rear of the column with me and two of my men."

  "Yes, sir." The driver did not look happy, but he did not argue. "How far back do you want me to go?"

  "You will know when to stop."

  Schiffer came up. "Do you want me to drive, Herr Hauptmann?" he asked. “Those two old men look like grandpas.”

  "They will serve their purpose. You and Breger will get in back with me."

  Breger suffered a momentary lapse in patience. "In back? With no heat? We should kick them out so we can ride up front!"

  "You may thank me later," Von Stenger said. "Now, get in."

  The truck was empty except for a couple of abandoned crates—whatever supplies it had carried had been stripped by the SS. Von Stenger mused that Friel would have had a conniption at the thought of a truck burning up that precious petrol so that a couple of over-the-hill soldiers wouldn't have to walk. The truck was a two and a half ton GMC—nicknamed a "Deuce and a half" by the Allies. The countryside had crawled with them all summer and fall as the Red Ball Express worked to keep the Americans supplied with everything from ammo to dry socks. The trucks were made by the thousands in Pontiac, Michigan, in stark contrast to the steadily declining numbers of German trucks. One reason why the Allies were so surprised by Operation Wacht am Rhein was that no one thought it possible that the Germans still had so many vehicles.

  The truck had a wooden bed and metal s
ides that came up about knee high. Metal hoops held the canvas roof taut. The front of the canvas covering rose about two feet above the cab itself. There was a little extra canvas material hanging down, so Von Stenger cut free a long strip of it.

  Schiffer started to sit down on one of the wooden benches that ran the length of both sides of the bed. "Nein," Von Stenger said. "Stand here behind the cab. You will want as much metal as possible in front of you, believe me. But first, we have some chores to do. Drag those empty crates over here."

  Once Schiffer had done so, Von Stenger stood on one of them. It was hard to keep his balance as the truck churned along the road, back the way it had come. He slung the rifle over one shoulder to keep it handy. Then he drew his sheath knife and cut a six-inch slit in the canvas, beginning just about even with the top of the truck's cab.

  He handed the knife to Schiffer. "Cut a slit eight inches long, parallel to the top of the truck cab."

  "Parallel, sir?"

  "Yes, like this." Von Stenger mimicked the motion of cutting the canvas, then reached into his pack and took out the binoculars. Once Schiffer had made the cut, he traded Schiffer the binoculars for the knife. "Now, you are my spotter. The sniper will fire once or twice—or more if he is not a very good sniper. I want you to see where he is shooting from. Don't worry, he won't see you—the last thing he'll be looking for is a pair of binoculars poking through the canvas. Imagine that you are looking at a clock face. You tell me where on the clock face the sniper is hiding."

  "What am I looking for?"

  "No one is invisible," Von Stenger said. "In this cold, you will likely see his breath. It is dark enough in the trees that you may spot a muzzle flash. The American sniper rifles are usually single shot like our own, so you may see the movement of him working the bolt. Whatever you do, don't blink, and don't fall off the crate."

  Von Stenger took the strip of extra canvas he had cut and wrapped it around his rifle barrel. The paint of the truck and the dye of the canvas were very close in color. Once the barrel was wrapped, he put the rifle through the vertical slit. The road far ahead of the truck sprang into view, but only a narrow circle of it. He would have to depend on Schiffer to be his eyes.

  Breger spoke up. "Why am I along for the ride?" he asked.

  "There is a possibility that the snipers may have a crossfire set up," Von Stenger said. "So, you have the machine pistol to make them keep their heads down in case there is a sniper behind us. Keep low, behind the tailgate. It is made of steel, so it should give you some protection."

  With the soldiers in position, they waited. Several minutes passed. It seemed to grow colder and colder in the truck. At his post behind the tailgate, Breger cursed as he began to shiver. Von Stenger had trained himself to be inured to cold and physical discomfort—he would not have survived long as a sniper otherwise. However, he wished that he had not had quite so much coffee previously. It had warned him up, but now his bladder practically sloshed around as the truck bounced over the rough road. It was only a minor annoyance and he focused his thoughts elsewhere.

  He did not take his eye off the scope. Soon, they began passing the detritus left by the passing column—everything from the empty wrappings of rations to abandoned vehicles that were either broken down or too mired in the muddy road to be moved.

  "How far are we going?" Breger wondered. “Back to Berlin? All the fighting is in the other direction, Herr Hauptmann.”

  "Keep your eyes open," Von Stenger replied. “It won’t be long now.”

  The driver downshifted to gain traction in the mud, slowing the truck down. Von Stenger began to wonder if his plan was such a good idea, after all. At the rate they were going, it was true that they would soon be halfway back to Germany. They had been moving through wooded areas, but they reached a clearing that could have been a wheat field buried beneath the snow. Footsteps had disturbed the surface of the snow. Most likely these marks had been left by the passing German troops.

  Whang. A shot ring out over the grinding of the engine. The truck lurched toward the snowy field, but then swung back into the road.

  "Where are you?" hissed Von Stenger, desperately scanning the tree line. "Where are you hiding? Schiffer, do you see him yet?"

  “No, sir.”

  A second shot. This time the truck rolled into the field, but ever so slowly. It became clear that the first shot from the American sniper had killed the driver. The other man in the cab must have snatched the wheel, but now he, too, was dead. Without anyone to give it gas or downshift, the truck lurched a few times, then made a hopping motion like an overgrown steel rabbit. Then the engine shuddered and died, leaving them stranded in the field.

  "There," Schiffer whispered, excitement tinging his voice. "Ten o'clock. Just at the edge of the field."

  Von Stenger moved the rifle in that direction. Through the scope, he saw it, too. A puff of vapor caused by the sniper exhaling the breath he had held while making the second shot. Beneath it, Von Stenger could just see the outline of a helmet, even though an attempt had been made to camouflage it in white. The sniper had buried himself in the snow. Clever, clever.

  Instantly, more by instinct than by any conscious formula, Von Stenger worked the calculations in his head. Wind. Distance. He put the bottom post of the sight just a little above and to the left of the sniper's helmet and squeezed the trigger.

  The crack of the rifle did not quite cover the hollow noise of the bullet striking home. The sound of a bullet hitting the target always reminded Von Stenger of how a pumpkin had sounded when, as a boy, he had dropped one out of a third story window to the stone-paved courtyard below. Whump. Such a satisfying sound.

  "You got him!" cried Schiffer.

  "Quiet," Von Stenger barely breathed the words. "It is likely that he has a spotter."

  The snow seemed to explode upward, and then a white-garbed soldier was up and running like a rabbit. It was definitely the sniper's spotter. A running shot was never easy, and the spotter had the good sense to run and dodge. Von Stenger fired, but he knew the shot was wrong as soon as he touched the trigger.

  The spotter went down, though. Shot through the legs. He struggled to get his footing in the snow.

  Von Stenger worked the bolt and let the crosshairs settle on the spotter, who was looking toward the truck, shouting something to someone in the woods, pointing—

  There was another sniper in those trees. Von Stenger felt the hairs crawl on the back of his neck just before a bullet punched through the canvas. It missed Von Stenger, but Schiffer wasn’t so lucky. He caught a glimpse of Schiffer’s look of surprise at the fact that he had been shot. He put a hand to his neck, blood flowing between the fingers.

  Von Stenger got back on the scope. In the seconds he had looked away, someone had run from the tree line toward the fallen spotter. The second sniper. He put the crosshairs on this target, but was surprised when the sniper dropped to one knee. What was that painted on his helmet? He looked through the scope and saw that the man's rifle was aimed right at him. An instant later, a bullet plucked at the canvas, causing Von Stenger to flinch away.

  "Scheiss!"

  When he looked through the scope again, the sniper had managed to half drag, half carry the wounded spotter into the cover of the trees. Von Stenger put a bullet into the gray maze of branches where he had seen them disappear. Then Von Stenger kept his head down, below the metal cab. His skin crawled as he recalled how close the bullet had passed by his face.

  No one was that good. Perhaps not even him. The man had dropped to one knee and fired a shot with amazing accuracy.

  Memory flashed to a sight picture of what he had seen through the rifle scope. It was like seeing a photograph in his mind. The mental image clearly showed a Confederate flag painted on the American sniper's helmet. You again. The hillbilly sniper.

  "Breger?"

  The Scharführer was trying to staunch the flow of blood in the wounded man's neck. Schiffer was bleeding out, his eyes already glassy.
r />   "If I had any bandages—"

  "Leave him. I want you to get behind the wheel and drive this truck across the field into the woods. Head toward the tracks where those snipers disappeared."

  Breger looked as if Von Stenger had just asked him to drive to Mars. "Herr Hauptmann?"

  "Do it! Use that machine pistol to lay down some covering fire, then make a run for the cab."

  • • •

  Breger did as he was told, sliding out the back of the truck and running in a crouch toward the front of the cab, firing as he went. He dragged the dead man from the cab and slid behind the wheel, keeping low, expecting at any moment that a bullet would find him. Fortunately, as long as he kept his head down, there was a huge block of metal between him and the snipers.

  He got his feet under the dash and worked the clutch, then hit the starter button. The engine thrummed to life, and he shifted into gear, heading across the field toward the trees.

  He kept going. Driving blind. He risked a peek over the dash to get his bearings, then ducked down again.

  And then they were at the tree line. He heard Von Stenger shout at him to keep going. Go where? The big tires churned over the snow-covered brush at the edge of the woods and then the truck was in among the trees themselves. The trip ended when the bumper connected with the trunk of a large oak tree. The frustrated motor surged, then stalled out. They had not been going fast, but Breger still found himself thrown hard against the dashboard.

  Breger tumbled out, dragging the machine pistol with him. The snow was deep among the trees, and he slogged around to the back of the truck, where Von Stenger was taking his time getting out. Nonchalantly, he pulled on a white snow smock that dropped to below his knees. He flipped up the hood and covered his helmet.

  Breger could only stare. He had thought this Wehrmacht officer was nothing but a fool and soft as butter. How wrong he had been. If there was something colder than the winter air, it must be the blood in Von Stenger’s veins.