Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller

by David Healey

  "How many did you get so far?" he asked Cole.

  "One, maybe. Hard to say for sure."

  "Are you kidding me? I'll bet I've shot six of these Kraut bastards so far. They're so worried about the tanks up on the hill and the planes hitting them again that they aren't paying attention to me picking them off." Vaccaro looked at him. "One? I can guess which one it was. He's like your Moby Dick."

  "He's the only one that matters right now."

  "Then you won't mind if I go back to helping us win the war?"

  "You go right ahead." Cole slumped behind the wall next to Vaccaro, who went back to scanning La Gleize for targets. Despite what he had said, it wasn't so easy to pick off the enemy. The SS troops did not readily expose themselves to sniper fire.

  Vaccaro made a satisfied noise. "You're like a lucky rabbit's foot, Cole. I just saw a muzzle flash in the top floor of that big building in the square. There's even a window open up there. That dumb Kraut sniper should have just hung up a sign. Come to papa."

  Cole thought about that. Was it just some fool up there with a rifle, or was it a trap?

  He reached out to grab Vaccaro's leg just as he fired.

  Vaccaro bent toward him. "What?" He sounded annoyed. “You made me miss.”

  Leaning over is probably what saved him. The incoming bullet struck the stone where Vaccaro's head had been and grazed his neck instead.

  He flopped down next to Cole. "Son of a bitch, I'm hit!"

  "Let me see."

  "Goddamn, Cole. Is it bad? It hurts like it’s bad." The two of them worked through the layers of clothing to get a look at the damage. Cole saw that the wound in Vaccaro’s neck was a bloody mess.

  "We best get you to a medic."

  "I won't argue."

  "That sniper hung out a sign all right. It said, ‘Vaccaro, you are a goddamn idiot.’ "

  "Thank you for your sympathy," he said. "Don't you worry about me. I'm just sitting here bleeding to death."

  "Let me help you over to the field hospital."

  For all his bravado, Vaccaro was losing some blood and was going into shock. Cole tugged Vaccaro's arm across his own shoulders, and together they made their way to the old stone church.

  Vaccaro sagged, his legs suddenly like stone. He was surprised that Cole didn't seem to notice the extra weight. The guy was skinny, but he must have had oak where his muscles should have been.

  The pretty local girl appeared at the door of the hospital, once again wearing her blood-spattered apron. She saw them approach, and reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair back under the cap she had donned.

  "I have to say that I might not mind being wounded," Vaccaro said through clenched teeth. "Did you see her fix her hair when she saw me coming?"

  "Hell, she was just getting the hair out of her eyes to see if you really are that ugly."

  "Cole, you’re such a jealous peckerwood," Vaccaro said. "What I'm worried about is that you're not gonna be able to kick that German's ass without me."

  "Oh, I reckon I'll get me that German yet. He’s just wily, is all."

  "If you say so," Vaccaro said. “You—”

  Vaccaro’s word were drowned out by a burst of machine gun fire that raked overhead. The telltale sound of high-speed rounds came from a MG-42 machine gun—what the German's called a "bone saw" for the fact that it could fire twelve hundred rounds per minute and hit targets half a mile away.

  The bone saw's target was the front of the makeshift hospital—never mind the sheet with the big red cross that hung from the church. The warning shout that Cole was about to yell froze in his throat. The burst from the bone saw struck the girl and she fell limp as a rag doll.

  When the firing stopped, he and Vaccaro covered the rest of the distance to the hospital entrance, with him doing his best to support Vaccaro's weight. The girl lay sprawled in the snow-flecked rubble. Her face was angelic and untouched, but two large, gory holes marked the front of her apron where the rounds from the MG-42 had shredded the girl’s abdomen. Blood pooled around her. The girl's cornflower blue eyes stared up at the sky. Two middle-aged women came running out of the hospital, saw the girl, and started wailing.

  Cole got Vaccaro inside. The dark interior of the church was filled with wounded and smelled of blood. He helped Vaccaro into a vacant pew, and waved over a medic. Jolie saw them and moved their way, her lips pursed in concern.

  To Cole’s surprise, tears ran down Vaccaro’s face, carving rivulets in the grime. A sob escape him, and he swiped at the tears with the back of a bloody hand.

  Cole was taken aback. He and Vaccaro had been through a lot. But he had never seen Vaccaro cry.

  "Jesus Christ, they just gunned her down,” he explained, his voice husky. “A sweet girl like that. What is wrong with those people? Shit fucking Nazis!" He swiped angrily at his eyes again, then reached to grab Cole's elbow and drag him in close. Vaccaro looked exhausted. His faced appeared to have aged ten years in the last ten minutes. "You get those bastards, Cole. You teach them a lesson. If anyone here can do that, it's you."

  The medic came and gave Vaccaro a shot of morphine, and Cole left him. He knew Jolie would look out for him.

  The older women had dragged the girl's body out of the way and covered it with a blanket. Her feet stuck out from beneath, at odd angles. The feet of the dead. Cole had seen that often enough. He tried not to think about the dead girl’s eyes, which had been such a lovely shade of blue, like a field of bluebonnets in bloom.

  He made his way back to where the remaining snipers were positioned.

  "How is Vaccaro?" the lieutenant asked, looking worried.

  "He'll be all right," Cole said.

  The Kid came up to them, shaking. Cole thought at first the Kid was cold, but then realized that the young soldier was shaking with anger. He clutched a pair of binoculars. "I saw him," he said. "That son of a bitch who shot that girl at the church with the machine gun. He's got a scar on his face. It's the same Kraut who was at the massacre. I wanted to shoot him, but I knew I couldn’t hit him from that distance. You’ve got to shoot him, Cole."

  "Keep our head down, Kid," Cole said. "Gettin’ mad won't keep you from gettin' killed. We’ll get him when the time comes. Somebody give this kid a drink, and I'm not talkin' about water."

  Someone passed the kid a bottle, and he choked down a couple of swallows. The lull in the fighting continued. They smoked cigarettes and waited. Mulholland left to check on Vaccaro. A courier came along, and they realized it was the same corporal who had given them a hard time on the road.

  Cole searched for a name. Muckelroy.

  "Go ahead and take it easy," Corporal Muckelroy said. "The rest of us can fight the war."

  The Kid started to get up, propelled by anger, but Cole’s hand shot out and pulled him back down. He froze the Kid with a look, then turned back to Muckelroy. "You got a message for us?"

  "Your lieutenant, if he's around."

  "He went up to the hospital. You can find him there."

  "I must have just missed him. I just came by there. I saw how that girl got shot. What a waste of fine poontang, if you know what I'm saying. I would have liked to tap that."

  The Kid looked like he was about to be sick.

  Cole put a hand on the Kid’s knee, then looked at the corporal and said good naturedly. "I done shot six Nazis already today. It's like a turkey shoot. They don’t even shoot back. You want to try?"

  The corporal looked at Cole, then at the scoped rifle in his hand.

  "You serious?"

  "Dead serious," Cole said, offering the rifle. "Go ahead. Shoot one. You'll have a story to tell your grand kids."

  The corporal took the rifle eagerly. "What do I do?"

  "Go on over to that wall and take a peek through the scope. When you see a Nazi, you just put the crosshairs on him and pull the trigger. Just like shooting rats at the dump."

  "I'll give it a try."

  Muckelroy started toward the wall. The others watched, curiou
s, wondering what Cole was up to. Cole called the man back.

  "Hold on, let me trade helmets with you. This here's a special sniper helmet, shaped so it won't get in the way of the scope."

  When the Kid heard that, he raised an eyebrow in surprise. Even he knew that Cole’s helmet was the same shape as anyone else’s. The only thing different was the faded Confederate flag painted on it. Corporal Muckelroy trotted back and put on Cole's helmet—the Confederate flag facing forward.

  "There's no such thing as a special sniper helmet," the Kid said to Cole. "Is there?"

  "Sure there is, Kid. This one,” Cole muttered. He looked over at Muckelroy, who was in position behind the wall. "Put your head up over the wall and take a look. Get the lay of the land."

  "I don't see anything."

  "You need to be patient. But maybe you can't see? Move your head up a little."

  The corporal popped his head over the wall, like a gopher peeking out of a hole.

  “Oh no,” the Kid said, hardly realizing he had said it out loud.

  The rifle crack was instantaneous, as if the shooter had been waiting since the beginning of time for that helmet to appear.

  The corporal's body collapsed in a heap. A neat round hole was visible in the very center of the Confederate flag.

  Christ on a cross, Cole thought. What was that, eight hundred feet? That German can shoot.

  "You murdered him, Cole. Dear God." The Kid stared at the body, his face pale.

  "Ain't my fault that he stuck his head up too high," Cole said. "Besides, that was the most useful thing that son of a bitch ever did in his life. Now slide over there, will you, and fetch my rifle and helmet back. And keep your fool head down, you hear?"

  The Kid just sat there for a while, but then finally did as Cole asked. The helmet was not so much of a bloody mess as might be expected. Cole looked with interest at the dead corporal. Aside from the neat bullet hole in the top of his forehead, the only other indication of violent death was the fact that his staring eyes bulged from their sockets due to the pressure of the bullet's impact. There was no exit wound. He kicked the body to roll it over so they wouldn't have to look at the face.

  Cole stuck a finger through the hole in the helmet. "Dang, that there really is fine shootin'."

  Cole used snow and a rag to clean the helmet, then stowed it in his pack, keeping the corporal's helmet on his head. "With any luck, the Ghost Sniper will think he got me. Who is the ghost now, do you reckon? One thing for sure, I'm goin' to haunt that Kraut sniper."

  CHAPTER 28

  Von Stenger blinked in surprise. It had all happened so fast. When the American sniper’s helmet appeared, Von Stenger had simply reacted, putting his crosshairs on the target and pulling the trigger.

  This was no helmet on a stick trick. He was sure that had been a real head. He had seen a body fall. Who else would be wearing that helmet but the hillbilly sniper?

  After so much preparation, victory felt too easy—more like buying a cheap whore than seducing a beauty.

  Perhaps the hillbilly got careless. Or perhaps it was hubris. Deadly pride punished by a bullet. Such things happened. He was sure Goethe had some comment about the downfall of the proud, but he was not about to page through the small book of Goethe’s verses that he kept buttoned in the pocket of his tunic. After all, he doubted that Goethe had ever been called upon to put a bullet through someone’s head.

  He watched through the scope for a long time, but there was nothing more to see. Gradually, he became aware of the fighting raging all around La Gleize. Several floors below, the machine gun spat forth angry streams of lead. Shells flew into town—he had been almost unaware of them, but now it began to dawn on him how close they were. His own form of hubris, perhaps, so caught up in his own sniper's duel that he had lost sight of the larger battle.

  He packed up his gear and made his way to Friel's headquarters. The winter days were short, and already it was starting to get dark.

  Von Stenger was surprised to find Friel and the other officers of the Kampfgruppe gathered in their makeshift headquarters, taking stock of the situation.

  The Kampfgruppe was surrounded. Friel had his back against a river he could not cross—and what would be the point, because any advance now would only be into the guns of Allied forces. Now that the Germans had long since lost the element of surprise, and without any supply lines, that could only mean disaster.

  The Americans had learned the hard way that Kampfgruppe Friel was still a viable fighting force. Today, they had given as good as they got. But they were low on food, ammunition, and medical supplies. Friel knew they could hold out for another day at most. And then what?

  Leaving La Gleize by one of the roads radiating from the town was no longer a possibility, either. The Allies had cut off their escape route to Germany.

  Slowly, an outrageous plan had begun to form in Friel’s mind. Their best hope was to abandon their equipment and slip through the woods, at night, unseen by Allied planes.

  Friel preferred to think of it as a tactical withdrawal, rather than a retreat. Earlier in the day he had radioed a request to do just that—and been denied.

  Friel did not give up easily, but it was time to face reality. Germany's hopes of turning the tide of war had been dashed.

  Surrender was not an option. He knew that he and his men would be treated as criminals after the massacre at Malmedy. Perhaps his men would receive the same treatment—for all their talk of high ideals, the Americans could be vengeful.

  His men were loyal to him, but he was just as loyal to them. He owed them a fighting chance of survival.

  "I am going to contact headquarters again," he told his staff.

  "That did not go so well last time," Von Stenger said. He knew that Friel had radioed earlier, requesting permission to withdraw. He also knew that the request had been denied.

  "Perhaps the situation has changed," Friel said, and picked up the hand-held radio transmitter.

  The conversation was short, and much like the one earlier in the day.

  "You must advance at all costs," he was told. Crackling with static, the words bounced around the room like a death sentence. "You must cross the Meuse and make for Antwerp. Heil Hitler!"

  He tossed the transmitter on the table and stared at the radio.

  One of his officers stepped forward. "Herr Obersturmbannführer, you have done your best. We will make our last stand—"

  The officer never finished the sentence. Without warning, Friel unholstered his pistol and shot the radio three times in rapid succession. Sparks flew, and the room filled with the smell of gunpowder and burning electronics.

  The officer looked at him in shock, his mouth hanging open.

  Friel holstered his pistol. "We are walking out of here just before dawn.” He looked at a hauptmann. “Baumann, at that time, you take a handful of men and set our panzers on fire. Another small detachment will man the machine guns to provide cover while you do this and distract the enemy. Then you must all catch up to us. No one gets left behind."

  "But Herr Obersturmbannführer, your orders—"

  "From headquarters, the situation is not always as clear as it is in the field. It is twelve miles through the woods to Germany. The trees will give us some cover from the Allied planes. It is true that we will have to destroy our tanks, but we will return with eight hundred SS troops. Not old men and boys, but eight hundred good SS soldiers to defend the Fatherland from the Allies. That fool at headquarters will be glad to see us. Mark my words, he will forget that he gave any order otherwise. In any case, I accept full responsibility. If there are repercussions, you were simply following my orders."

  Von Stenger thought it took courage to use common sense. There was so little of that here in the waning days of the war. With more officers like Friel, he thought, Germany might have won the war.

  The tank officer who had questioned Friel's decision saluted. And then he smiled. "Herr Obersturmbannführer, we shall do as you command
!"

  Friel dismissed the officers, but Von Stenger seemed to be the only one who didn’t need to rush off somewhere.

  A bottle of wine and some glasses stood on a table. Von Stenger poured himself a glass and cut a slice of bread from the stale hunk that someone had found. He added a slice or two from a sausage. It tasted delicious—he had not eaten all day.

  One of Friel's staff was already busy burning papers in the fireplace in preparation for the retreat—various orders and maps, from the looks of it.

  Suddenly, a feeling of relief washed over him. He had killed the hillbilly sniper. Who cared if they were about to retreat! He lifted the glass. Cheers to me, he thought. He wondered what hillbillies drank. Beer? Moonshine? He took a big drink of wine. The wine tasted a bit flat. Upon reflection, he decided that it was not the wine, but him—deep down in the dregs of his soul, he felt disappointed. As if he had been cheated somehow. Killing the American had just been too easy.

  Friel came in and Von Stenger poured him a glass as well.

  Friel raised the glass. "Just think of it, Kurt. By tomorrow at this time we shall be back in Germany—or in hell."

  They drank to that.

  CHAPTER 29

  As darkness fell, Cole thought about his next move. In many ways, that depended on what the Germans were going to do. He wasn't a general who had to think about how to position an entire division, or worry about how to capture a German column to keep Ike happy. He only had himself to order around, and he was focused on just one German: Von Stenger.

  The thought of the Ghost Sniper gnawed at him. Even if Von Stenger believed that Cole was dead, it didn’t mean that Cole was through with the German. This was like some blood feud between mountain families. It ended when the last drop of the other man’s blood was spilled.

  So what were Das Gespenst and the Germans planning? They had their backs to the river and the roads out of La Gleize were blocked by American artillery. They would not be able to fight their way out. It didn't take a brilliant military strategist to know that the Germans couldn't hold out much longer. They had to be low on food, fuel, medical supplies, and maybe even ammunition. For Kampfgruppe Friel, it was only a matter of time.