by David Healey
• • •
As he climbed out of the truck, Von Stenger paused to look down at Schiffer. The young SS driver stared up sightlessly at the canvas ceiling. He had only known Schiffer for a short time, but he had seemed like a capable young man. A good soldier.
He searched within himself for some emotion and came up empty, other than a passing thought that it was too bad it wasn't Breger laying there dead. Was that the best he could do in terms of emotion? What is wrong with me?
He got out and found Breger crouched beside the truck, trying to cover the entire woods with the machine pistol. Between the truck and the surrounding trees, they were well protected from any sniper fire.
"Relax," he told Breger. "You can go back now."
"Go back?" Breger sounded puzzled. He looked around at the trees. "Go back where?"
"To your unit, Scharführer Breger. I would recommend against walking through the middle of the field, of course, but you can work your way through the woods back to the road. I think the snipers are gone."
"What about you, sir?" The “sir” was spoken with new respect.
"I am going after the snipers."
Without further explanation, Von Stenger slipped away into the woods. He moved with an almost feline grace, managing to cross the snow without a sound. He ducked under branches and around brambles. With the white camouflage helping him blend into the snowy trees, he seemed to melt into the winter woods like another dollop of milk added to a cup of cafe au lait.
Beside the truck, Breger lost sight of him, blinking his eyes in disbelief. Von Stenger had disappeared ... like a ghost. Breger was relieved that he was gone. His own commander cared deeply about his men. This officer was willing to toss lives away.
Breger got a good grip on the submachine gun, then looked around at the snowy woods pressing in around him. Now what?
CHAPTER 17
From several yards away, Cole, Jolie, and the Kid watched the truck driven by the Germans crash into the trees. Cole had no doubt that the German sniper had survived. And not just any sniper—he was sure it must be Das Gespenst in the back of that truck. Who else was such a good shot, or half as clever?
He stared down at the rifle in his hands. The enemy sniper’s bullet had only grazed him, but it had smashed the telescopic sight on the Springfield. The rifle was next to useless.
He turned to Jolie. She was busy wrapping a scarf around the Kid's leg, trying to staunch some of the blood flowing from the wound. The Kid winced. Fortunately for him, it was not a fatal wound, although it would definitely slow him down in this snow.
McNulty hadn’t been so lucky. Cole could see the body sprawled in the snow, half hidden by the dirty white camouflage smock.
“Go!” Cole shouted at Jolie and the Kid. “You need to get out of here. Those Kraut bastards are coming after us.”
“I am not going anywhere,” Jolie said.
“This ain’t the time to argue. The Kid is hurt and you need to get him out of here.”
Jolie muttered something filthy and French under her breath.
"Listen up," Cole said. "See if you can link up with Mulholland and Vaccaro. If you can’t find them, then you’re bound to run into one of our units. We can't be the only Americans in all of the Ardennes Forest. You can get the Kid some help and get yourself the hell away from these goddamn SS bastards."
"That sounds like you are not coming with us," Jolie said. "What are you going to do?"
"Nail that Nazi sniper's hide to the barn door."
"Maybe you killed him just now."
Cole shook his head. "If I did, that would have to be the luckiest shot since Robin Hood split that arrow. No, he's still in that truck. He's going to come looking for us."
"You are wounded," Jolie said with concern, reaching for his bloodstained sleeve.
Cole pulled his arm away. “It’s just a scratch.”
The sniper's parting shot had indeed clipped him as he dragged the Kid into the woods, gouging a furrow across his upper arm. It burned like hell, but it was only a flesh wound. Lucky for him, their old friend Das Gespenst must have been having an off day.
Cole was more concerned about the damage to his rifle. The telescopic sight was ruined. The Springfield was not equipped with an iron sight, which meant it was now useless. All he could do was point and shoot. That worked all right with a shotgun, but with the rifle Cole could not hit anything beyond spitting distance with any accuracy.
McNulty’s rifle was out in that field, probably clogged with snow, but with the Germans nearby he didn't want to chance going out in the open to retrieve it. Jolie still had the lieutenant’s pistol—and she might be needing it. That left him with a damaged rifle and a hunting knife.
"I'll be all right," he said. "You and the Kid get out of here. It's me he wants. It's me he'll come after."
"Cole—" Jolie started to say more, but then stopped herself.
"Go on," he said. “Get out of here.”
"Vous revenez à moi ou je te tue moi," she said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It is French for, 'Good luck, you stubborn horse's ass.' "
Cole grinned. "Now git. We ain't got all day."
Jolie and the Kid worked their way through the woods, keeping near the edge of the field but under cover of the trees. Fortunately, the Kid was skinny, and Jolie was able to put his arm over her shoulders to take some of the weight off his wounded leg.
Cole heard a door opening in the wrecked truck, but he couldn’t see more through the trees. He waited until he was sure Jolie and the Kid were not being followed by the Germans, then headed deeper into the woods. He was sure he would lead the sniper away from them, as surely as a mouse lures the cat.
• • •
Von Stenger kept to the edge of the woods, looking for where the American snipers' footprints entered the trees. The path of the truck had roughly followed their footsteps, so he did not have to go far.
Every sense was tuned to the woods around him. The enemy might be lurking anywhere. As a sniper, he had trained his eyes to seek motion rather than try to distinguish shapes among the puzzle of trees. Something gray flickered across his vision and his rifle was halfway to his shoulder before his brain registered that it was only a bird. Even his nose tried to pick up any smell that did not belong in the forest—men smelled like leather, damp wool, cigarettes, spearmint gum, gunpowder—smells that could carry surprisingly far on the winter air.
The silence of the woods was a little too quiet—someone had passed this way recently—or could still be waiting in ambush. He moved more slowly, rifle at the ready. The last thing he wanted to do was walk right into the sights of the Americans—or surprise them in their hiding place.
He soon found what he was looking for, the place where their tracks came into the trees. Two sets of tracks, none too neat, considering that one man was helping the other.
And blood on the snow.
Against the white snow, the blood stood out clearly as a full moon in the night sky.
There was not enough blood to indicate a fatal wound, but his bullet had found some piece of its target.
He followed the tracks to where they stopped just inside the tree line. To his surprise there was another set of tracks, indicating a third man. A spotter? Or another sniper? Two sets of tracks moved back toward the field. Again, he saw flecks of blood on the snow. One of these men was wounded.
Curiously, a set of tracks moved away, deeper into the woods. Blood also spotted the snow beside these tracks. He could almost see it steaming in the cold.
Von Stenger could read these tracks like a story. The two sets of tracks leading into the field did not concern him much. One man was slightly wounded; the other man was providing a shoulder to lean on.
The lone set of tracks headed deeper into the forest. Away from any help. Why? Because they belonged to a man just like him. The hillbilly sniper. Wounded but still very dangerous, like some cornered predator. Inviting Von Stenger to
follow him rather than the two who had fled to help and safety. Deep in the woods, once and for all, they could settle this matter of who was the better man.
Von Stenger accepted the challenge.
• • •
The forest soon closed in around Cole. The snow-covered ground and frosted branches absorbed any sound. The wound alternately ached and burned, but it did not impede him.
Here in the woods, he was in his element. It did not matter if these were the hills of the Ardennes, or the mountains back home. He might not know the lay of the land here, but he understood the rules of survival.
It would just be the two of them now. Cole and the Ghost Sniper. He would have liked his chances better if he’d had a working rifle.
The first thing he had to do was to turn the tables. The German sniper would be coming after him, and Cole's trail was far too clear. He was leaving tracks in the snow, as well as blood.
The situation was like being in an aerial dogfight—you were at a disadvantage if you were the plane out front. The pilot behind you could just settle in and pick you off. To win the dogfight, you had to turn the tables and get behind your opponent.
All Cole had were his own two feet, but that was enough. He moved downhill, rather than seeking the higher ground. Normally, being up high would be to his advantage. But he needed to outfox Das Gespenst, so he moved downhill as quickly as he could, hoping that he had enough of a head start on the German. The trees would hopefully screen his movements—but all the man had to do was follow Cole's tracks. The German would know the general direction Cole had taken, but Cole would not really know where the German was coming from.
His ears strained for some sound, some clue that he was being followed. Except for the occasional creak of branches overhead, the forest was silent. Not so much as a bird broke the quiet.
At the bottom of the forested hill, he was disappointed to find nothing more than an ice-locked ravine. Damn it all. It wasn't what he had hoped for. The German would be coming, and Cole felt very exposed.
He started up the next hill, panting with the effort, and less careful about any noise he made. He needed speed and distance right now, not quiet. Once he got to the top, he heard just what he was hoping to hear. The sound of running water.
In the distance, he heard a branch snap.
He half ran, half slid down the other side of the hill toward the sound of the creek. At the bottom of the hill was a creek maybe twenty feet wide and a couple of feet deep. The water moved fast enough that it had kept ice from forming.
Without a moment's hesitation, Cole plunged into the stream, instantly getting soaked up to his knees. Even if the water wasn't frozen, it definitely felt like ice. Already, his lower legs grew numb.
He waded with the current, trying not to make too much noise. He slung his damaged rifle and used his arms to keep his balance on the slippery stones under his boots. It was bad enough to get his legs and feet wet. If he fell in, the cold would get him before the German did. He noticed that his shoulder wasn't bleeding so much—the blood had started to coagulate in the chill air.
Cole churned down the stream for about one hundred feet, until he spotted a log, bare of snow, that slanted down into the water. On an impulse, he moved past it until he came to a place maybe fifty yards down where a spring bubbled down into the main creek. The area was free of snow, yet was frozen solid enough that his boots would not leave tracks. He waded out of the creek and followed the frozen spring bed back into the woods. The frozen path did not go far, but it was enough. He looked back, just to make sure that he had left no tracks—or any blood.
Not a trace.
Satisfied, he worked his way back into a tangle of wild grapevines where he would be well hidden, but had a view of the creek. He rested his rifle over a fallen branch and settled down to wait. Von Stenger would have to be very close for Cole to shoot with any accuracy. He might just have to shove the rifle barrel up the Kraut's ass in order not to miss. But with any luck, he had just gone from hunted to hunter.
CHAPTER 18
Von Stenger thought that following the hillbilly sniper’s tracks was deceptively easy, like tracking a rabbit to its burrow.
All that was left to do was club it on the head.
At the same time, he was well aware that Cole was no rabbit. He was something with teeth and claws and fangs. He also carried a high-powered rifle, and he was a very good shot.
Von Stenger could be walking right into a trap.
Cautiously, with his Russian rifle at the ready, Von Stenger began to follow the American’s tracks through the snow. Moving quietly was almost impossible. Every step crunched. A branch cracked underfoot. He paused to listen. Heard nothing. Either Cole had managed to levitate himself and float across the snow, or he was too far ahead for Von Stenger to be able to hear him.
He focused on the trees ahead, but it was hard to see anything except a puzzle of gray and white. Again, he kept his eyes attuned to movement, any flicker that might give his target away.
Truth be told, Von Stenger did not particularly enjoy the woods and fields. While he had spent his share of time hunting—and then fighting—in forests and mountains, he supposed that he preferred pavement. Even the fighting in Stalingrad, as horrible as it had been, had been more to his liking because it had taken place across streets, shattered buildings, and rubble, not snow and trees and rocks. No, he did not love the woods, but he understood the tactics of fighting here well enough.
And this was no nature hike, after all. This hike would end when someone died—hopefully, it would not be him.
He tracked the American to the top of one hill and saw that the tracks ran down the other side of a hill toward a ravine. He carefully scoped the ravine at the bottom—it would have made a good sniper's nest. Then he saw the tracks leading up the next hill. The other sniper was not laying in ambush down in the ravine, after all. He followed the tracks.
The hill was steep, and he was winded by the time he reached the top. He could only imagine what an effort it must have been for the American—the blood stains beside the American’s tracks were clearly evident. Each drop was big enough to leave a coin-sized spot of crimson, the heat of the blood melting down into the snow. The American must be in pain. The loss of blood would weaken him.
The amount of blood in the snow did not increase, however, and it certainly had not slowed him down. The American must have legs like iron.
If Von Stenger had only gotten his shot off faster, there would be no need to track the other man at all. The American would be dead back in that field, shot through the heart.
Next time.
Von Stenger paused at the top of the hill to catch his breath. He scoped the slope of the hill along the path of the sniper’s tracks. No sign of the American, other than the footprints and the blood.
He listened. What was that? Not footsteps in the snow, to be sure, but something that sounded like a splash. He was becoming a bit deaf in his right ear—firing too many rounds from a high velocity rifle tended to have that effect. It was an occupational hazard ... much less serious than the other occupational hazard, which was what one might euphemistically call lead poisoning. He cupped his hand around his left ear and listened. No more splashing, but he could hear the sound of running water.
Von Stenger descended the hill as quickly as he dared. At the bottom was a shallow, fast-moving creek.
The American’s footsteps ended at the edge of the creek. That would explain the splashing he heard. He scanned the other side for some sign of where the American had come out, but no tracks disturbed the snow.
Clever, clever. The American was trying to throw him off the trail.
The water looked invitingly cold and clear. Pure. The other sniper was not in sight, so he bent down and scooped a handful of water toward his mouth. It was quite refreshing after his hike, although the water was so cold it made his teeth ache.
Still crouched down, rifle at the ready, he thought about what to do next. The ob
vious course of action was to follow the stream down and look for where the American sniper’s tracks emerged. He had no doubt that the other man must have moved downstream simply because wading against the icy current would have been quite challenging.
Von Stenger was not about to get in the water. With wet feet, he would not last long in this cold. The hillbilly had taken an awful gamble by wading down the stream. He had thrown Von Stenger off his trail, but at what cost? Frostbite?
Carefully, making each step as quiet as possible, he moved down the bank. His hearing might not be as sharp as it once was, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes. He scanned the creek banks for any sign that the hillbilly had climbed out, but the snow remained undisturbed.
He followed a pattern: step, scan, step ...
Slowly, he worked his way down the bank.
Then he saw it—a log sloping down into the creek at an angle that would be just right to walk up. There was just a dusting of snow on the log—not enough to display tracks. If Cole was looking to get out of the water without leaving a trace, the log was the perfect spot.
Von Stenger was sure that if he kept going down the bank, and the American was already out of the water waiting for him, then he would just be walking into a bullet.
The problem, however, was that the American could be hiding anywhere along the stream. He would be waiting for Von Stenger to walk right into his sights.
He stopped to consider his options.
Leap and the net will appear, Goethe said.
He looked across the creek to the hill that rose on the other side. If he could get up on that hill, he would be looking down at the creek to pick up on any movements that the other sniper made.
Von Stenger possessed a cartographer's mind. He constantly charted every hill and tree and rock he saw, creating a running map of vantage points where a sniper could hide—or where danger might be hidden. It was something he did unconsciously, but he could remember miles and miles of territory that he had crossed. Even indoors, he behaved the same way, always sitting with his back to the wall and memorizing the entrances and exits.
