by David Healey
The medic left the flap open at the back of the truck. Though it caused him some pain, he climbed down and went in search of the captured sniper. He might not have bothered, except for the fact that Friel had described her as French. Something about that nagged at him. What was a French sniper—and a woman, at that—doing out here in the Ardennes? He took the bottle of wine along. If nothing else, he could offer her a drink.
One of Friel’s men pointed him in the right direction. He found her in the back of another truck. Nobody bothered to guard her, because her hands were tied together. No sooner had Von Stenger levered himself over the tailgate than the truck lurched forward. She was trying without much success to stay upright on a bench in the back.
He sat on the floor of the truck near the tailgate, and lit a cigarette. He was surprised when the woman gasped as the flame from the match illuminated his face. “So, you are a sniper,” he said in French.
“And so are you,” she said. “You are Das Gespenst.”
He was somewhat taken aback. “How do you know me?”
“We met once before. Near a little town called Bienville not long after the Allied invasion.”
Von Stenger flicked on a flashlight to study her face more closely. “Now I recognize you. I believe we shared a meal at that chateau. What I wouldn’t give for that fireplace now, eh?”
“You shot me in that field at Bienville. I was in a rowboat.”
“And yet here you are. My aim must have been off that day.”
“How I hated you,” she said. “I was in that hospital for months.”
“If the bullet had gone an inch in another direction, perhaps I could have spared you that trouble.”
How could he make light of what his bullet had done to her? She lashed out at him with the only thing she had: “The American sniper who was in the field that day is here now, in the Ardennes, and he is looking for you.”
“Yes, I know. I almost got him today.”
“But he got away?” she asked, all too quickly.
“Yes, he did. That’s more than I can say for you,” Von Stenger said. He held up the bottle of wine. “Where are my manners. Would you care for a drink?”
She shook her head and forced a smile. “Not if you don’t have a glass. It is unladylike.”
Von Stenger shrugged and took a swig from the bottle. “The Obersturmbannführer is going to have you shot in the morning. He may interrogate you first. Have you ever been interrogated by the SS? You may find it, how shall we say … unpleasant.”
“I have nothing to tell him that I haven’t already said, and nothing more to say to you.”
“I am sure that you do, but I think I have heard enough.” They sat for a while quietly in the back of the bouncing truck. “Hold out your hands.”
“What?”
“Do it!”
She extended her hands, which were tightly tied together at the wrists with rough cord. Von Stenger took out a folding knife, opened the blade, and sawed through her bindings.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“Tell your friend the hillbilly sniper that I will see him later, and that this time, I will finish him off. I want him to have something to think about until we meet for the last time. Now listen carefully. Get into the woods and let the column go past. There is an American unit following in our rear. Make sure you put your hands up high when they come along so that they don’t shoot you. Now go!”
Without so much as a word of thanks, the woman slipped out of the truck and was gone, far more agilely than he had entered. She reminded him of a wild animal set free.
Von Stenger looked up at the sky. He could see stars for the first time in many nights. The clear sky cheered him, but only briefly. For it meant that the Allied planes could fly. The Luftwaffe itself had disappeared from the skies, so there was no hope for cover.
His leg throbbed, but he chose to ignore it. He hoped to have the opportunity to pay back this hillbilly sniper for the pain he had caused him. If the woman did survive and find the hillbilly sniper, she could give him that message.
He smoked a cigarette, finished the wine, and closed his eyes. The war would go on tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. But for how much longer, it was hard to say, especially if Operation Watch on the Rhine faltered.
The thought of the war ending made Von Stenger wistful. If he survived this end game, what would he do? Manage a factory somewhere? Teach Goethe to university students? There were whispers that some Nazis with the money to do so were leaving for Argentina or smuggling their families there. It was a better alternative than living in a defeated Germany. Something to think about.
He climbed out and returned to the vehicle where the medic had attended to him. Rocked by the lurching truck, Von Stenger slept.
CHAPTER 21
Just as Von Stenger had told her, the Americans came along in the wake of the German column. It was getting close to midnight when she stepped out into the road with her hands up. The American sentries were easier to convince than the German ones had been. Nobody clubbed her over the head. A few minutes later, she was reunited with the snipers.
Cole surprised her by giving her a hug that crushed the breath out of her. “Goddamnit, Jolie. We heard you were captured.”
“I got away,” she said, then looked around. “Where is leetel Hank? Is he all right?”
“I’m right here,” the Kid said. “Those Krauts never saw me. You saved my life.”
Jolie grabbed Mulholland’s elbow. “You have to stop now. The Germans are right in front of us. If these men keep going, they are going to run right into German tanks.”
Mulholland called over the major. When he heard how close they were to the rear of the German column, the American commander called for them to stop for the night in that stretch of desolate forest. The major wanted to press on, but the darkness in the woods was too thick to do more than feel their way along the road. Using headlights was now too much of a risk, and even the noise of the truck engines was dangerous, given that the Germans could be closer than they thought.
Cole returned to the back of the truck in which he had been riding, getting what rest he could, and the other snipers joined him, making their camp in the back. Vaccaro draped some canvas half shelters across the opening in the back to keep out the cold, and he and the Kid camped out there, along with Lieutenant Mulholland. The driver let Jolie have the cab.
"It's not exactly warm, but you'll get a little heat off the engine," he said apologetically, before going off to find shelter elsewhere.
They settled down, looking forward to some much-needed sleep.
• • •
The snipers’ rest did not last long thanks to a corporal named Daryl Muckelroy, who was on his way back from sharing another soldier’s bottle of captured schnapps in a futile effort to stay warm. In fact, he had spotted the bottle and made a beeline for it, then managed to drink much of the schnapps. If it had been Muckelroy’s bottle, he wouldn’t have shared.
He passed by the truck and noticed Jolie sleeping inside. He recognized her right away as the French woman who had taken up with the snipers. He recalled that she had been none too friendly. One glimpse of her civilian clothes filled him with anger. Why should he be the one who had to sleep on the snowy ground tonight? He stopped and pounded on the door of the truck.
"No civilians!" he shouted. "If I'm going to be over here fighting for your lousy country, the least you can do is let me sleep in the cab."
His anger fueled by the schnapps, he pulled open the door and made the mistake of grabbing Jolie by the foot and trying to drag her out, which earned him a kick in the face.
"You little French bitch! Why don't you give me something to stay warm! Foutre, baby, foutre avec moi!"
The scuffle that followed brought Vaccaro, the Kid, and Lieutenant Mulholland crawling out from the back of the truck, where they had already been asleep. Cole climbed down stiffly from the truck, following the rest.
The corp
oral was outnumbered, but he wasn't ready to give up. "She ought to sleep in the goddamned mud and snow if she's not going to be friendly, if you know what I mean."
"Give it a rest, Corporal," Lieutenant Mulholland said wearily. It wasn’t the first time an American GI had gotten angry about the French not being more accommodating.
He saw Cole approaching and made sure he put himself between the soldier and Cole, who was carrying his huge hunting knife. He knew all too well that Cole had a short fuse and violent tendencies. Mulholland confronted the corporal. "She's killed a lot more Germans than you, believe me."
"It's not like I haven't made these French bitches pay up before, whether they wanted to or not. What is she to you, anyway? Just give me ten minutes with her and—"
“What’s your name, soldier?” Mulholland demanded.
The corporal hesitated. “Muckelroy.”
“That’s Muckelroy, sir,” Vaccaro said, standing shoulder to shoulder with the lieutenant.
"Get lost, Corporal Muckelroy, and I'll pretend I didn't hear what you just said," Mulholland said. "That's an order." He held the flashlight so that it lit up his rank, making it clear to this asshole that he was talking to an officer.
Looking around, the corporal seemed to realize that he was outnumbered and outranked. His eyes lingered on the flashing blade in Cole's hand. "Goddamn snipers. Nobody likes you sneaky bastards," he muttered, and strode off.
Vaccaro had also managed to put himself between Cole and the soldier. When the corporal had gone, he turned to Cole. "Jesus Christ, put that knife away. It’s as big as a sword. I was worried you were gonna cut his head off."
"It ain’t his head that I’d cut off," Cole said. "But I’m too tired to kill him right now. I reckon that down the road we might just need us a cull for the herd."
"That must be some kind of hillbilly saying. You're gonna have to translate that to normal American for me."
"It means we got us something to keep the wolf happy when he comes calling."
The others returned to the back of the truck, but Cole turned to Jolie. "Are you going to be all right up here?"
"I am not worried about that GI," she said. "Je m'en fou. But I have to tell you, it is getting cold in this truck."
"Move on over, then."
Cole slid into the truck. From the cold, and having been half asleep, he realized his body was stiffer than wet leather boots left too close to the fire. His muscles ached. Wading into the creek earlier that day—had all that really taken place in just one day?—had left his toes stinging with chilblains—the stage just before frostbite that left deep, painful bruises under the skin, like fruit that had frozen and thawed. His toes felt as if they had burrs between them.
His shoulder ached from the graze wound. It was a bone-deep ache—he had been lucky in that the bullet had struck a glancing blow and had not caused too much damage, but your body did not absorb all those foot-pounds of energy without penalty.
He reminded himself that it could have been much worse. Dead worse.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “When they told me you were captured—well, it didn’t sound good. I told them you would figure something out. How did you manage to get away, anyhow?”
She quickly debated whether or not to tell him, wondering how he would take it. Her mind made up, she said: “Das Gespenst let me go.”
“Jesus, Jolie. You actually saw that son of a bitch?”
“He came to see me, then cut the rope around my wrists.”
“It ain’t that I’m not happy to see you—but why the hell did he let you go?”
“He had a message for you. He said that he will see you again.”
“I just hope I’m the last thing that ol’ Ghost Sniper sees.” Cole paused. “How did he look to you?”
“Like he was in pain.”
Cole grinned. “I have to say, that’s good to hear. I reckon I owe him one, though, for letting you go.”
Jolie shook her head. “He is a cruel man. You can see it in his eyes. He did not let me go out of kindness, but only to taunt you. How many has he killed? Hundreds? No, if you face him again, you must end this for good.”
“I hope I get another chance at him.” Cole shifted, trying to get comfortable on the truck seat.
Jolie seemed to sense his aches and pains. "Come here," she said—as if they could possibly be any closer, huddled together for warmth across the seat of a Chrysler truck. They had a blanket and a canvas shelter half spread over them to keep off the cold. "No more frostbite for you today."
But he was wrong about getting closer. Jolie's hands slid under his shirt, warm and gentle, massaging. She pushed his own hands away when he reciprocated. "Ouch! Too rough. Your skin is like leather. How are your lips?"
He kissed her more roughly than he intended, his lips moving down her throat, to her breasts. Jolie's hands moved down and undid his belt buckle.
Neither of them wanted to shed their clothes. It was too cold, and they were too tired. She tugged down her pants to her thighs, and Cole slid his hands over the soft, perfectly shaped ass. She could just spread her legs wide enough for him to slip inside. There was so much heat coming off her skin that Cole thought he might melt right into her. She clenched him inside her. "You are trapped," she said. "What do you call that? A honey trap?"
Cole thrust deep into her, but gently and slowly, taking his time. He was too worn out for anything else.
Jolie gave a moan, and Cole moved his hand up to her mouth. She bit down on the edge of his hand. Both of them aware that the others were just on the other side of the thin wall of metal and canvas.
When they had finished, Jolie seemed to melt into him.
"Mon dieu," she said, and sighed contentedly. "How is your frostbite now?"
Cole grinned at her in the frozen darkness. He felt his exposed ears and cheeks prickle in the cold, while under the blankets, belly to belly, their skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. "Honey, I hate to tell you this, but it wasn't my pecker that was frostbit."
"Good thing," she said, and reached for him again.
• • •
The American column moved out as soon as it was light enough to see the road. For a change, the snow and rain had stopped. It was still cold, but the low clouds overhead began to lift just after daybreak. They were so used to sleeping on the ground that being in the truck made them uneasy.
It didn't help that the Kid had woken them up, screaming from a nightmare. Considering that he had seen his buddies murdered by the SS, who could blame him? They all slept fitfully after that.
Vaccaro surveyed the gray dawn. "It ain't exactly summer sunshine, but I'll take it," he said.
"The Germans won't like it because it will mean our planes can fly," Lieutenant Mulholland said. "The weather has been in their favor so far for every minute of this attack. It's almost as if God loved Hitler more than us."
"If there is a God, he's a cruel bastard," Cole said. Nobody bothered to argue with that statement. "What's our plan, Lieutenant?"
"To go after the Germans. We'll tag along with these guys. With any luck, we'll catch up to Kampfgruppe Friel today."
"You mean if we're lucky, our fly boys will knock out their panzers before we catch up to them," Vaccaro said.
The snipers rode in the back of the truck. They could deploy when the time came. For now, they could bide their time and save their legs.
The Kid handed Cole the scoped Springfield rifle he carried. “You need this more than I do,” he said.
Cole accepted it gravely. “McNulty’s?”
He nodded.
Corporal Muckelroy trudged past. When he saw the snipers, he stopped. "It's our pleasure to drive you around," he said, then casually leaned over and spat. "Wouldn't want you sniper types to get your boots muddy."
As he walked off, Vaccaro said, "Are we going to let him get away with that? Maybe I can accidentally shoot him."
"If you shoot every dumbass in the Army, there won't be nobod
y left to fight the Germans," Cole said. "He'll get his when the time comes, don't you worry."
The column was soon rolling. Cole spread a blanket on the bed of the truck and used the time to field strip and clean the Springfield rifle. It wasn't long before they could hear sporadic firing in the distance. The Americans were not the only ones on the move.
CHAPTER 22
"Nothing can stop us now." Friel took his eyes off the map and looked at the road leading toward the bridge at Trois Ponts. "Today, we begin to turn the tide of the war."
Von Stenger nodded, wishing he shared in Friel’s enthusiasm. What he said was: "You have done well, Herr Obersturmbannführer."
This morning, Von Stenger was along for the ride as the Kampfgruppe made its final push toward the Meuse River. Food and a few hours of rest had worked to repair his injuries. He put weight on his leg to test it. Pain shot through him, but his leg was functional, if stiff from the stitches.
“Did you hear that our captured sniper escaped?” Friel asked. “I understand that you talked to her last night.”
Von Stenger tensed. Was Friel testing him in some way? Did Friel suspect that he had helped her escape?
He shrugged as he met Friel’s eyes. “All she did was curse at me and spit. She was trussed up like a hog when I left her. Sneaking French bitch,” Von Stenger said.
Friel laughed. “Since I can’t shoot her, I should shoot her guards. But I fear that I will need every man before the day is through.”
Von Stenger followed Friel’s glance toward the sky. The long stretch of overcast weather was beginning to clear. For a change, no snow or rain fell. He would have welcomed the change if it hadn't meant that the sky could soon be raining bombs.
As the clouds lifted, the Allied planes would soon be on the prowl. There would be few Luftwaffe fighters to give them cover. It would be like a shooting gallery.
Since the start of Operation Watch on Rhine, Friel had one objective, and that was to get across the Meuse River at any cost. The Meuse was the unofficial boundary of the Ardennes. Once he was across, the stopper would be out of the bottle. With General Patton and his Third Army still to the south, there would be nothing to stop his Kampfgruppe from rushing headlong back into the plains of Belgium and even into France. If enough Germans managed to break out of the Ardennes, it would cost the Allies dearly and perhaps even change the dynamic of the war.
