Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller

by David Healey

  His mind was a bit dazed from the pain, so at first he could not determine where the hillbilly had climbed out of the stream. Then it dawned on him that it was probably that the other sniper had simply stepped back into his old tracks, retracing his steps through the snow.

  Von Stenger followed the footprints back up the hill and down the other side. It seemed unlikely that the American had simply lost his nerve and fled. Was he more badly wounded than Von Stenger had supposed? He was wet and cold—certainly that was a factor. But a man like this hillbilly—

  That’s when he saw the rifle, tossed away beside the tracks. At first he thought it might be another trap, but looking more closely, he saw the damaged telescopic sight.

  The American no longer had a functional weapon.

  Smiling to himself, Von Stenger picked up his pace, wincing in pain with each step.

  He struggled to reach the crest of the hill and saw the barn in the clearing ahead.

  Is this where you have gone to ground, Ami? I am coming for you.

  • • •

  Most of the farm country in these parts had been abandoned, and the barn was as empty as the countryside. Cole slipped inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, knife at the ready. It was the only weapon he still had.

  Somewhere in the rafters, some pigeons cooed. He took that as a sign that no one else was in the barn.

  Quickly, he looked around the barn. Anything of value had been picked clean. He had been hoping to find an old horse blanket or a piece of canvas—anything that he could use for a coat. The only item he could find was a dry-rotted grain sack that crumbled to shreds in his hands. Though the barn offered some shelter, it was hardly warm.

  He kept looking. The barn smelled strongly of horses and cows, but there was no recent evidence of livestock. The farmer had long since cleared them out.

  His eyes fell on a broken rake and a wooden shovel, hanging from a post. Just the thing if he wanted to plant a garden, but not much use now. He looked a little higher and noticed another wooden object hanging from the rafters. Intrigued, he took a closer look. It was a homemade toboggan, about six feet long, built of slats fitted together and then curved at one end. There was a fine layer of wax on the slats to help the wood slide over the snow. Some kids had used this toboggan not that long ago—even the war couldn't stop some things, like kids going sled riding. The long, sloping hill below the barn would be perfect.

  He left the toboggan and continued prowling through the barn. Nothing useful, unless you had a need for moldy straw and horse turds.

  He was still figuring out what to do when a bullet zipped through the open door and punched a hole in the barn wall, inches from his head. The shot had come from the forest.

  Von Stenger had found him.

  At that same moment, out the window, he caught sight of movement on the road below. The dusty windows were hard to see through, so he rubbed a corner clean with his finger. He saw the deuce and a half trucks with the big white star on the door and figured it was a German unit driving the captured trucks. His heart sank.

  Then he spotted GIs trailing the trucks. Unlike the Germans, most Americans hadn’t been issued white camo. For the first time that afternoon, his spirits lifted. He saw a Wolverine tank destroyer mounting a 3-inch gun, and two or three Jeeps, along with a couple of dozen men on foot. Not a large unit, but one that had, so far, managed to elude the larger German force.

  They would have food, and they would be able to patch up his wound. He just had to get down there.

  The problem was that crossing the open field would leave him exposed to the woods—where Das Gespenst was now waiting, bent on revenge. Also, he didn't like his chances walking down to the road toward a bunch of trigger happy GIs.

  But if he was going to catch up with the GIs, he had to do it soon. Otherwise, he would miss his opportunity to link up with his own troops.

  He could stay and get shot at by the German sniper, or take his chances with the GIs. It was six of one, half dozen of another.

  Another bullet punched through the barn.

  Now or never.

  He glanced up again at the toboggan. His mind made up, he lifted it down.

  • • •

  Had he hit something?

  Von Stenger glimpsed a figure silhouetted inside.

  He worked the bolt and walked closer, then fired again toward where he had seen the American’s shadow.

  He dropped to one knee and took aim.

  When the other man did not return fire, Von Stenger aimed again, taking his time.

  • • •

  His heart hammering in his chest, Cole ran for the back of the barn, dragging the toboggan along. The rear foundation of the bank barn was several feet above the ground. He tossed down the toboggan, which landed on the snow and immediately began to slide downhill.

  Another bullet whipped through the barn, bounced off a rafter, and ricocheted with a whine that made his spine crawl.

  The toboggan picked up speed.

  Cole jumped and just managed to catch the tail end of the toboggan. He got his knees under him and squatted down. Though it was snowing again, the snow beneath was mostly glazed with ice. With his added weight on the toboggan, it began to pick up speed.

  Another shot plucked at the snow inches from where Cole's hands gripped the front curve of the toboggan.

  The toboggan moved fasted on the ice-crusted slow. He was sliding fast toward the road. He leaned one way, then the other, to make the toboggan weave. Another bullet cracked past his ear.

  By now, the troops on the road had noticed him. Someone pointed, and a burst of machine gun fire churned up the snow ahead, like a shot across the bow.

  “Don’t shoot!” he shouted, but his words whipped back at him.

  He gained speed, sliding directly into the guns below.

  • • •

  Lieutenant Mulholland looked up at the burst of machine gun fire, reaching instinctively for his rifle at the same time. He expected to see a tank bearing down on them, but blinked in disbelief at the sight of a soldier on a toboggan.

  The soldiers around him were slow to react. They were cobbled together out of stray units, including a few refugees from the Malmedy massacre.

  "We could use you with us," the major in charge had said to Mulholland. "Everything is a goddamn SNAFU, though. Up is down, front is back—nobody knows exactly where the Nazis are or how many there are."

  "What's your plan?" Mulholland asked.

  "To go after the Krauts," the major said. He wasn't much older than Mulholland, and etched in his face had the same worry lines that seemed unique to officers. They worried about keeping not just their own socks dry, but everyone else's, too.

  "Sounds like as good a plan as any," Mulholland agreed.

  Now, staring up at the slope above the road, Mulholland thought he had seen everything. But he had never seen a toboggan attack.

  "What the hell?" he wondered out loud. He heard another shot, this one from the hill at the top of the field. Snow kicked up beside the toboggan.

  Beside him, Vaccaro gasped. "That’s Cole!" he cried. "Tell these dumbasses not to shoot him."

  "Cole?" He squinted.

  Without waiting for him, Vaccaro ran toward the Jeep on which was mounted a .50 caliber machine gun. Something had jammed in the feed, but they had just cleared it and were about to shoot again.

  "Stop!" he cried. "He’s one of ours!”

  Vaccaro pointed at Mulholland, who nodded to confirm what Vaccaro had just said. "Hold your fire! He's one of ours!" the lieutenant shouted.

  Seconds later, the toboggan slid into the road and the rider rolled off, continuing to slide along the frozen road until he crashed into the tires on a stopped truck. The toboggan sailed on into the trees.

  The figure got unsteadily to his feet. It was indeed Cole. He was pointing up the hill.

  "There's a Kraut sniper in the barn!"

  "You heard the man," Mulholland shouted. "Light up that ba
rn!"

  The machine gun crew had warmed up on the toboggan. The barn was a much easier target. Splinters flew off the sides of the old barn. Incredibly, one of the machine gunners slumped and fell of the Jeep. The German sniper was still at work.

  Not for long. The major in charge saw what was happening and shouted orders, waving frantically. The massive barrel of the tank killer swiveled around and took aim at the barn.

  • • •

  Von Stenger rushed the barn in time to see a toboggan sliding away down the steep hillside toward the road. It almost made him laugh to see the American sniper crouched on it, digging into the crusted snow like a paddler in a canoe, desperate for speed. A toboggan ride was for children.

  He fired—and missed. The angle from the barn to the sliding toboggan was steep, and he tended to overshoot downhill targets. He chided himself for making such an amateur mistake. To his surprise, he realized that his heart was hammering inside his chest—he had, after all, expected to have to confront the hillbilly in the barn and there was a lot of adrenalin coursing through him.

  As he took aim again, this time aiming much lower to compensate for the incline of the hill, he noticed the American troops on the road below. Someone fired a machine gun, churning up the snow around the toboggan, which had picked up speed and flew now across the snow. He surmised that the machine gunner had missed for the same reason he himself had—shooting uphill also required aiming lower. Of course, the machine gunner had the advantage of seeing exactly where his burst was hitting.

  Von Stenger fired again, but the toboggan remained a surprisingly hard target to hit as it flew away, weaving this way and that, and shooting downhill was challenging.

  Then the toboggan reached the road. He had an opportunity for one more shot. He rested the rifle more carefully against the frame of the door, took a deep breath—

  Machine gun fire burst through the barn, leaving the old planks with daylight showing through like a colander. Keeping low, he put the crosshairs on the man behind the machine gun, and fired.

  Von Stenger worked the bolt, preparing for another shot, when he noticed that the big muzzle of a tank destroyer was moving in his direction. Seeking him like a large, dark, angry eye.

  The barn was about to be turned into kindling by a 15-pound shell traveling at nearly three thousand feet per second.

  He got to his feet, ignoring the pain in his leg, and ran like hell.

  CHAPTER 20

  Cole rolled off the toboggan. He had grown up sliding down his share of snowy hillsides on winter days, but that was for fun. Nobody had been shooting at him. This was just about the wildest sled ride he had ever taken. Mulholland and Vaccaro helped him get unsteadily to his feet. He looked around for other familiar faces. The only one he saw was the Kid’s.

  “McNulty? Any chance he made it, after all?”

  Mulholland shook his head. “McNulty is dead.”

  “I knew it didn’t look good for him, but Christ on a cross, I thought maybe he had a chance.” Cole sighed. “Where’s Jolie at?”

  Mulholland hesitated. “She’s been captured by the Germans.”

  “What?”

  “She and the Kid were coming along the road, hoping to link up with us, and they ran into some Germans instead.”

  Cole nodded at the Kid. “They let him go?”

  “No, she told him to hide just before the Krauts saw them. She figured her own chances would be better. Once the Germans were gone, the Kid here kept going and found us with this unit—” Mulholland lowered his voice “—which is mostly made up of cooks, clerks and cripples, by the way.”

  The Kid walked up, looking like he was about to cry. “It’s all my fault she got captured.”

  Cole gave him a long, hard stare, but then looked away and shook his head. “It ain’t your fault, Kid. They would have shot you on sight like those poor bastards at Malmedy. You know these Krauts aren’t taking any soldiers as prisoners. At least they didn’t shoot her on the spot.”

  “I’m so sorry, Cole,” Mulholland said.

  “Jolie will think of something,” he said. “I reckon she always does. And if she don’t, we’ll just have to go get her.”

  • • •

  Having left the barn and the American unit behind, Von Stenger spent the long winter twilight making his way back to Kampfgruppe Friel. He paused to bind the gash in his leg tightly, and then started along the road. He would have preferred keeping to the woods and fields, but the deep snow would have slowed him too much. Fortunately, the dusk provided good cover.

  Here in no-man's land, it could just as easily be Americans coming along the road as Germans, so he kept ready to dodge into the trees at any moment.

  The wound did not slow him down much. From outward appearances, Von Stenger was an aristocrat used to the finer things in life. Somehow, he always managed to keep his uniform clean—it was as if mud and dirt would not stick to him. Those who judged him to be a soft man were soon proven wrong. Von Stenger came from the upper class, it was true, but deep in his veins ran the much older blood of the Germanic barbarians who had swarmed across the frozen Rhine to strike fear in the hearts of the Roman Legions, the Gauls, and anyone else who stood in their way.

  His leg hurt, but he managed to ignore it. If anything, it served as a reminder that come what may, he would pay back this American hillbilly sniper. Von Stenger felt that his honor was at stake. How could he let a man like that escape him? No, Von Stenger would hunt him down and shoot him to prove who was the better sniper.

  He soon heard the whine of an oncoming engine struggling through the snow and half-frozen mud. He slipped between the white-coated tree trunks and disappeared. Only when he saw that it was a German half track did he step back out on the road. It turned out to be a scout patrol that had been spying on the American column just behind them. They gave him a ride back to the Kampfgruppe.

  "Kurt," Friel said with obvious delight upon seeing him. "I thought we had lost you."

  "Come now," Von Stenger said, unable to hide a smile. "You give those American snipers too much credit."

  "That is good to hear," Friel said. The Obersturmbannführer looked exhausted—clearly he had not slept in days as he exhorted his men forward. In some men, the lack of sleep would have made them look older, but exhaustion had the opposite effect on Friel. He wasn't even thirty yet, and at the moment he looked very boyish. "I can do without them picking us off. Now, how are you at shooting down planes? If this weather clears, we will have a lot more to worry about than a few pesky snipers."

  "I am afraid a rifle is not much use against an airplane. Might I suggest using the Wirbelwind anti-aircraft guns? The planes will come in low."

  "That is what I like about you, Kurt. You have a sense of humor." He waved in the direction of a truck directly behind them. "Get something to eat and drink. There is a good bordeaux, I believe. And have someone look at that leg. It appears the Amis gave you more trouble than you let on. Oh, and something else. We captured one of their snipers."

  Von Stenger looked up with interest. “Yes?”

  “Not a soldier. A woman. French, by the way. The defiant sort of bitch you might expect. She made no secret of the fact that she was fighting with the American snipers. I am going to question her again in the morning and then have her shot, if I can remember it, ha, ha.”

  “Do you mind if I ask her a few questions?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  At that, Friel roared off to manage one of the countless tasks facing a commander. He seemed to be everywhere at once, telling a limping soldier to get off his feet for a while and change his socks, even pausing to help push a stuck vehicle out of the mud. His men loved him for it. Some in the Kampfgruppe had been with him since Russia, and they would follow him to hell and back if it came to it.

  • • •

  Gratefully, Von Stenger climbed into the truck. Darkness would not be bringing the German advance to a halt. Friel was determined to cross the Meuse River and ma
ke a race along the better roads that led to the strategically important city of Antwerp, no matter what. The column crept onward through the cold, frozen night.

  A medic sent by Friel cleaned and bandaged his wound. By then, Von Stenger had opened the bordeaux and was a little drunk. He ate some cheese and bread with the wine. For some reason, it made him think of Goethe: "If you've never eaten while crying you don't know what life tastes like."

  The medic interrupted his thoughts by asking, "How far did you say you walked on this?"

  "As far as I had to."

  The medic shook his head in disbelief. "I will need to stitch these wounds.”

  “Do your worst.”

  First, the medic washed out the wounds, making them bleed anew. Von Stenger drank more wine. The medic worked deftly, pulling the edges of each gash together, then stitching them closed. He finished with a liberal dose of sulfa powder.

  “You must keep off your feet for a while."

  "Thank you for that advice, Herr Doktor. Perhaps you can write the enemy a note to that effect so that they go easy on me. Would you like some wine?"

  "I am not a doctor, Herr Hauptmann. Just a medic."

  "And I am not a sommelier, but I can pour you a glass."

  The medic had to settle for a tin cup. He gulped it down and smacked his lips. "Thank you, Herr Hauptmann. I must go. Believe it or not, there are men with much worse wounds."

  Von Stenger sighed. "I am sure there are. Take some of this bread with you. I cannot eat it all."