Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller

by David Healey

  He doubted the Germans would surrender. Killing the Americans at Malmedy meant that they were all war criminals, so surrendering was the same as putting their necks in a noose. At the same time, fighting to the last man sounded good in the movies, but it wasn't really how battles ended.

  No, Cole wasn’t a general, but he saw the possibility exactly because of that—the Germans were planning to escape.

  Observing them through the scope of his rifle, he had a closer view of La Gleize than most of the other Americans. He could see that they were up to something.

  While most of the Germans were engaged in hurling shells at the American lines, as dusk fell a handful were rounding up Jerry cans of gasoline. The clincher was when he saw them knocking together several sets of travois. You didn't do that unless you planned on hauling wounded or possibly supplies on foot—sure as hell not with a tank.

  It dawned on Cole that the Germans were planning to abandon La Gleize.

  But how did they plan to escape?

  At first glance, the Germans seemed to be corralled. But the Americans had focused on blocking the roads out of La Gleize. To the northwest of town the forest marched down out of the Ardennes toward La Gleize. The Americans hadn't bothered to guard the forest because the trees were too thick for tanks and trucks to pass through. It was like a fence. So why bother protecting it when the American forces were already spread so thin?

  On foot, at night, the Germans could pass among the trees and right through the American lines.

  Acting on his hunch, Cole slipped into the woods to explore them. He took with him a map borrowed from Lieutenant Mulholland. He did not have to go far before he found a forgotten sunken road, more of a cart track really, worn down below the surface of the forest floor from centuries of use. The sunken road was too insignificant to appear on the map. Not so much as a footprint showed in the thin snow covering the road bed. It was much too narrow for tanks, but the road would take the Germans right through the woods to what the map showed was a clearing on the other side.

  Leaving the woods, Cole debated about whether or not to share his hunch with anyone. Who would believe him, anyway? But if the Germans did slip away, after what they had done to those poor bastards at Malmedy, it just wouldn’t be right.

  He went to tell Lieutenant Mulholland.

  • • •

  Half an hour later, Cole and Mulholland were waiting to see Colonel Akers, who was commanding the assault on La Gleize.

  “Cole, I hope you’re sure about this,” Mulholland said.

  “Sure I am,” Cole said. “If we get some troops on the other side of those woods, we can bag the Germans neat as a rabbit in a sack.”

  Mulholland gave him a look. “When we get to see the colonel, you better let me do the talking.”

  They watched other officers and couriers hurrying in and out of the house that the colonel had taken over on a hillside overlooking La Gleize. Within a stone’s throw was the main road into town. Within sight at one end of the road was the town itself. To the west was Germany. The road was the obvious route of retreat through the rugged Ardennes territory. It was not heavily defended by Sherman tanks, Wolverine tank destroyers, and machine gun emplacements.

  Cole and Mulholland had not even been invited inside the house. They stood outside in the cold, shivering.

  “You reckon he forgot we were out here?” Cole asked.

  “Maybe.”

  Finally, an officer came out and beckoned impatiently to them. “You still here? The colonel will see you now.”

  They found Colonel Akers pacing in front of a stone fireplace, chewing on an unlit cigar, with a mug of coffee in hand. Well over six feet tall, in his late forties, he looked like a tough son of a bitch—and exactly the kind of officer who was sure of his opinions.

  He didn’t mince words. He also didn’t seem to remember Mulholland from the briefing before the initial attack on La Gleize. Looking at Mulholland, all he said was: “What?”

  “Sir, we think the Germans are going to retreat through the woods just west of town.” Quickly, Mulholland explained Cole’s theory.

  The colonel listened impatiently, taking long pulls from his mug of coffee, then throwing the dregs into the fire. The wood sizzled and steamed. He held up a hand, interrupting Mulholland.

  “Lieutenant, I’ve heard enough. The Germans are going to try to fight their way out. They will try to come down this road and skedaddle back to Germany. If they went through the woods, they would have to walk out, and that’s not going to happen. An SS panzer group is not going to abandon its armor.”

  “But sir, Cole here—”

  “Lieutenant, what’s your name?”

  “Mulholland, sir.”

  “Mulholland, I hope to hell that you are not in charge of anything important. What unit are you with?”

  “We’re snipers, sir.”

  The colonel narrowed his eyes at Mulholland. “Right, now I remember you from the briefing. Snipers, huh? Sneaky bastards. Well, go shoot a few Krauts in the back, and leave the strategy to me. Meanwhile, I am putting every gun I can on the roads out of town for when these Krauts bastards do try to break out.”

  Another officer came in, and the colonel turned his attention away from them. Mulholland put his helmet back on and stamped out of the house, with Cole following him. After the warmth of the house, the cold hit them like a hammer.

  “We tried, Cole,” the lieutenant said. “If what you say is true, the Germans are going to walk out of La Gleize by the back door while we’re guarding the front door.”

  “At least one of them Germans won’t get very far, if I can help it,” Cole said. “Thank you for going to the colonel with this, sir. With any luck, he won’t hold it against you when he wakes up tomorrow and the Germans are gone.”

  “It’s all right, Cole. Who said I ever wanted to make captain?”

  • • •

  "You’re comin’ with me, Kid. I need some help," Cole said.

  "Why me? You know I can't shoot worth a darn."

  "This isn't about shooting. I need me an assistant."

  "An assistant what?"

  Cole thought about that. "Assistant ass kicker. How does that sound?"

  Cole had already scouted the buildings in and around the hamlet. In an old barn, Cole had spotted just what he needed. Hung up on a nail high up on an old beam. Steel traps. The massive jaws measured nearly a foot across when opened. Cole had done his share of trapping, but he had never used traps so big. Mostly likely because he had never gone after wolves or bears. He guessed that the traps were very old. Antiques even. After all, when was the last time a beast of that size had prowled the Ardennes Forest?

  Cole took them down and inspected the traps. Rusted shut. Getting one to function would require some work, which is why he had brought along the Kid.

  "Got to be some oil around here. See what you can find."

  The Kid returned with an old-fashioned oil can that might be used for a bicycle chain. Cole knocked off most of the loose rust. He soaked the trap in oil.

  "All right, now I want you to stand on the springs. Whatever you do, don't take your weight off. I want to keep all my fingers."

  The trap itself was a simple mechanism. The "jaws" of the traps were shaped like the curved portion of a capital letter D. Powerful springs were shaped like “greater than” and “less than” signs < > slid along the curved part of the D. When the Kid stepped on the springs, compressing them, the jaws of the D opened, revealing rusty serrated teeth.

  Cole applied more oil and worked at the trap with a wire brush. By fitting a metal latch into a notch at the base of a flat metal pan, the jaws stayed open. He was careful to work from beneath the jaws—if they accidentally snapped shut, he did not want to lose a hand.

  Once the trap was set on the barn floor, he handed the Kid a spare ax handle he had found.

  "Go ahead and see if that thing works."

  The Kid touched the pan with the ax handle and the trap
sprang shut with an audible snap, steel teeth digging deep into the wood. The Kid stepped back in surprise, as if the trap might bite him next.

  "That thing is like a land mine!"

  Cole nodded, then stepped on the springs to release the ax handle. "That ax handle is about as thick as a leg bone, only bones act more like green wood. But it gives you an idea."

  In the dim light of the barn, Cole's grin made the Kid step back, just as the trap snapping shut had done. His teeth gleamed.

  "What are you gonna do with that trap?"

  "Not just me, Kid. You know that Nazi with the scar who shot up your buddies in that field? He shot up that church today, too, and killed that girl. We're goin' to make sure he gets what he deserves."

  • • •

  Cole wrapped the trap carefully in cloth so that it would not make any noise. The last thing he needed was for the trap to be clanking and rattling around to give him away. He would be crawling into the German lines to set this trap. He left his rifle with the Kid, but carried a Browning 1911 in case any of the Germans turned out to have sharp ears. Slung across his shoulders by loops of string, he also carried a large hot water bottle that he had found in a ruined house.

  "Cover me," he said to the Kid, who was now equipped with Vaccaro's scoped Springfield.

  Wearing his makeshift white winter camouflage, Cole seemed to disappear into the vast snowy field within a few steps.

  Long years of hunting enabled him to move silently through the field. His feet did not so much as crunch on the snow. Cole could have been floating, so silently did he move.

  The Germans had sentries, but they were watching for tanks, not a lone soldier. No matter—they neither heard nor saw Cole approach. He located the machine gun nest where the Kid had spotted the SS sergeant with the scarred face that afternoon. Just as he expected, nobody was manning the gun—the Germans had called it quits once darkness fell because the Americans were unlikely to make a nighttime attack. The gun could be ready in seconds if they needed it.

  The machine gun was still there—even if the Germans planned on abandoning La Gleize, they would need someone to cover their retreat. Cole was betting that job would fall to this particular machine gunner, who seemed so good at his job.

  Cole found the path where the soldiers had waded through the snow to the machine gun nest. He was now within the town limits. One wrong move and the Germans would find him. This was maybe the craziest thing he had done yet in this war. His heart pounded.

  A couple of Germans went past, carrying boxes of supplies, rifles slung over their shoulders. They talked quietly to each other in their guttural language, which reminded Cole of rocks grinding together. He kept the Browning ready. They passed so close that he could have touched them with the barrel. Once they had walked on, Cole let his breath out. For the moment, he was alone again. He had better hurry.

  Because the machine gun was well hidden, the only time that the machine gunner was exposed was when he crossed to the nest, or returned. Cole planned to trap him out in the open.

  He could see where the German had to step down from a stone ledge as he made his way to the machine gun—his feet had sunk deeper here into the snow. It was just the place to set the trap.

  He opened the jaws carefully. Even with a new coat of oil, it was like prying open the jaws of a lion. His own weight was barely enough to depress the springs, and the cold made his fingers less than nimble when setting the pan trigger. Then he took a water bottle and poured the steaming water slowly into the ground near the trap, melting the frozen earth. When he was satisfied that the hot water had done its work, he worked a long metal stake deep into the earth, securing the trap's chain. By morning the ground would be frozen again, hard as concrete. He kicked snow over everything to hide it.

  Then he quietly retraced his steps.

  The Kid was waiting for him.

  "That took you long enough. I was worried. How did it go?"

  "I said I was goin’ to set a trap for him, and that’s what I done. You be here at first light, Kid."

  "Where are you going to be?"

  "This is your score to settle. I reckon I've got one of my own."

  • • •

  Breger was disappointed when the order came to withdraw, but he would do his duty. Friel had told him to fire a few rounds at the Americans at first light, just to keep them convinced that the Germans were still in position. Then it would be up to him to join up with the others who had been left behind to destroy the tanks and trucks. Once that was done, they could link up with the others, slipping into the safety of the trees.

  He would be happy to fire more than a few rounds. The so-called “bone saw” was a joy to fire. The machine gun had no trouble reaching the American lines outside La Gleize, the heavy slugs pounding into the makeshift fortifications. He had gotten lucky yesterday and shot a few civilians in front of the church ... or was that a hospital? No matter. They were on the American side, which made them targets, civilians or not.

  He picked his way toward the nest, following the path through the trampled snow, not all that worried about keeping under cover. There wasn't enough light yet for the Americans to see him.

  Breger stepped down off a stone ledge and instantly felt something spring up and grab his foot. He thought at first that some animal had attacked him—maybe a badger. But he looked down and in disbelief saw that his foot was now firmly clamped inside the steel jaws of a trap. Breger had never seen one before, but he knew right away what it was. Then the pain came, and his curiosity vanished.

  The jaws of the trap had teeth that had bitten right into his ankle. Now that the initial shock had worn off, every movement was agony.

  He hated to think of how rusty the trap must be. He had seen how rusty metal could cause wounds to fester.

  He tried to move, but the trap was staked firmly to the ground. His ankle hurt like hellfire. Who had done such a thing?

  Once he got tired of trying to pull the chain out of the frozen ground, he took out his combat knife and tried to pry the jaws open. The knife slipped and he ended up sinking the point into his leg. He grunted in pain. The steel jaws did not budge. He tried stepping on the spring with his good foot, but the weight was not enough to release the jaws.

  Someone didn't want him going anywhere. He was literally staked out here in the open, fully exposed.

  “Help!” he called in a hush voice. The pain in his foot grew worse. His next call for help was louder.

  No one came to his rescue. Most of La Gleize was now deserted, except for the handful of rear guard troops like Breger. They were not about to leave their posts.

  The sky grew lighter. Dawn was coming. He glanced toward the American lines. He had the feeling that once the sky became light enough, he was going to be in someone's crosshairs. Meanwhile, he was staked out here like a goat.

  Breger started to shiver, and not entirely from the cold.

  CHAPTER 30

  As the long winter’s night faded, the Kid kept his eyes glued on the German lines. He was out here alone with a Springfield rifle equipped with a telescopic sight. It was bitterly cold; the temperature had dropped a great deal during the night, turning the mud and slush rock hard.

  Anyone with sense would be asleep if he wasn’t on watch, but Cole had told him to be out here early.

  "That German is going to get in position while it's still dark." Cole smiled that cold grin of his. He did not know Cole all that well, having known him just a few days, but he knew enough that he would prefer to stay on the hillbilly’s good side. "Don't worry—you'll hear him before you see him."

  He hadn't been sure of what Cole meant by that until he heard the snap of the trap, audible in the cold, clear dawn. He heard something clanking, then cursing. That would be the German tugging at the chain.

  The SS sergeant was trapped.

  He heard footsteps approaching behind him, and was surprised when Lieutenant Mulholland appeared, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. He handed o
ne of the mugs to the Kid and settled down next to him.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "I thought you might want some company. Besides, another pair of eyes helps. You spend enough time staring out into the snow and you start seeing things."

  They didn't have to wait long. The Kid had just finished the coffee, feeling the warmth go all the way down to his toes, when the gloom dissipated enough for him to make out a figure standing on the other side of the field. He had heard the jaws snap shut. Sure enough, there was the German. But was it his German?

  The lieutenant had his binoculars out. "You said this German sergeant had scars on his face?"

  "Yeah."

  "That must be him, all right."

  The Kid peered at him through the scope. It was not quite as powerful as the binoculars. The light increased rapidly—he wondered if the sun might even come out this morning. If it did show itself, it would be the first time in days.

  Even in the gray light, the man’s features were unmistakeable. It was the same SS sergeant who had cut down so many Americans at Malmedy.

  The Kid settled the crosshairs on the German’s chest.

  His finger took up tension on the trigger, but too fast. The first shot went wild, kicking up snow at the German's feet. The man tugged at the chain, his face grimacing with pain, but the German wasn't going anywhere.

  • • •

  Just as Breger had feared, the Americans were shooting at him now that it was light enough to see.

  A bullet zipped past his head. If it hadn’t been the dead of winter, he might have thought it was a fat, angry bumblebee.

  Frantically, he tugged at the chain with new urgency. The effort seemed to set his foot on fire. What had been a dull throbbing now roared with agony each time he moved.