Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller

by David Healey

  Back at the clearing, he retrieved his bundle of pickets and moved out into the open. He had already lashed the pickets together in pairs, so he now twisted the boards with the names on them to create a series of grave markers, which he thrust into the snow. He wasn't worried about footprints—in fact, he made an effort to make a confusion of them so that it would look as if a number of men had passed among the graves.

  The last thing he did was to take off his helmet, tuck the folded note Vaccaro had written inside, and then put the helmet on top of the cross that read "Cole."

  Anyone emerging from the trees on the sunken road couldn't miss it.

  Then he returned to the forest and found a likely looking pine tree that overlooked the clearing. He climbed up, rested his rifle across a bough, and settled down to wait.

  • • •

  And just like that, the Germans abandoned La Gleize. They moved across the open field to the northwest of the town and entered the forest. The trees here were old and shadowed the forest floor so that little underbrush grew to impede their way. They moved more easily than they had across the field because the boughs of the fir trees caught much of the snow, leaving just a few inches of snow that filtered to the forest floor. A sunken road through the woods made the way easier for a few of the walking wounded who had managed to escape with them.

  They were taking a huge risk because it would not take a genius to see that this corridor of trees was the only escape route from La Gleize. Escape was the last thing the Allies expected to be on Friel’s mind. Through his binoculars, he had seen that the main road leading out of La Gleize remained heavily fortified, as if the Amis expected a breakout attempt at any moment. Still, there was such danger—to be caught here in the forest could mean being cut to pieces.

  His orders demanded strict silence. When a man stumbled over a tree root, he did not so much as swear. If a man had to cough, he put his arm across his mouth to muffle the sound. No lights were allowed.

  Eight hundred men moved through the woods in almost total quiet. Shadows and silence—that was all that remained now of Kampfgruppe Friel.

  Behind them, they could hear the sounds of their remaining panzers being destroyed by the team left behind. A few machine guns chattered to distract the Allied forces into thinking that La Gleize was still being defended.

  If the thought of leaving the wounded had brought tears to Friel's eyes, the destruction of the tanks was just as emotional for the tank commanders. There was nothing that made a man feel so much like a god on a battlefield as commanding a King Tiger tank. Now they were setting their machines on fire, and they were mortal again. In the cold, tears froze on the cheeks of a handful of even the toughest tank commanders. The distant explosions as the panzers were destroyed sounded like the death cries of old friends.

  Soon, the licking flames danced with a devilish light across the ancient stone streets and buildings. Ammunition within the tanks began to explode, muffled within. A few machine guns peppered the dawn, continuing to keep the eyes of the Americans on the town itself, even as they wondered what was going on.

  Then the rear guard and demolition team slipped away in what remained of the darkness and ran across the open field, headed for the woods that had swallowed the rest of Kampfgruppe Friel.

  Scharführer Breger was not among them.

  • • •

  Several hundred feet ahead of the main column, Von Stenger moved like a shadow. Dressed in winter white camouflage, he was nearly invisible. The woods and the creatures within it couldn't be fooled, even if the soldiers behind him moved quietly. They knew something else was in the woods, and hunkered down.

  Von Stenger was cautious, but his confidence grew with the dawn. He did not see any signs that someone had gotten there ahead of them. No American force seemed to be waiting in ambush.

  But he did not let his guard down, moving silently forward.

  Dimly, his mind registered that it was Christmas Eve morning.

  The forest stretched on for more than two miles, cloaking the Germans perfectly. The terrain grew more rugged and rocky, so they followed an old sunken road bed through the woods. It must have been used by the local people, going into the forest to cut wood, but it clearly had not been traveled in some time. Then Von Stenger saw a clearing ahead where the sunken road emerged from the trees. This was where the danger began. By the time they reached the clearing, what remained of Kampfgruppe Friel would be funneled into one area. Out in the open, they would be vulnerable to attack.

  He moved carefully into the clearing. Once again, all was quiet. The sun promised to come out that day for the first time in weeks. Already, dawn light played over the snowy trees, tinging them in brilliant green and white. The snow on the ground looked like purity itself. Von Stenger knew a beautiful day when he saw one, but while he admired his surroundings, he was more interested in what they might be hiding.

  Nothing.

  Birds flitted here and there. A squirrel chattered high up in the trees.

  There was supposed to be a scout, but there was no telling where the man had gotten to. Maybe he had fallen asleep. Maybe he had given up and gone on to Germany alone.

  In addition to the fact that they were now in the open, this clearing was a danger zone because they would be passing very close to the American lines. The only sign that anyone had been there recently was a cluster of graves, marked with wooden crosses. He barely gave them more than a glance. Such graves were scattered everywhere throughout the Ardennes, signs of a deadly skirmish. No one wanted to carry a body through miles of rough terrain, so the bodies were buried in graves hacked from the frozen earth, then marked with crude crosses. In this case, the Americans must have been using this quiet spot as a burying ground for their dead from the battle for La Gleize. The footprints in the snow looked fresh.

  Von Stenger felt terribly exposed in the clearing, so he moved into the makeshift graveyard. At least it offered some kind of cover. The remnants of Kampfgruppe Friel would not emerge from the woods for several minutes. No sign of the enemy appeared. In the winter quiet, he began to relax.

  He glanced at the names of the dead around him. Someone had taken the trouble to paint or scratch names on the crude crosses. These were American graves with names like McNulty and Turner. Many of the names could easily be German, such as the one on the cross for a soldier named Rowe. The sight of the last cross made him pause.

  On top of the crude cross was a helmet. One with a Confederate flag painted on it. And a bullet hole in the middle of the flag. A hole made by his bullet.

  The name on the cross was Cole. So that was his name. This was the grave of the American sniper.

  The American really was dead. He felt a sense of relief, but also of regret. The American had been a worthy adversary, but ultimately he had let his guard down and died in a careless moment.

  Von Stenger reflected that he had been there waiting when the moment came. He had won their deadly game.

  He slung his rifle and reached for the helmet. He was not above keeping trophies. It was how he had obtained his first Russian rifle, after all.

  Hmm. Heavier than the German helmets. But not as deep, which left more of the head exposed.

  He flipped the helmet over and looked inside. Much to his surprise, he saw a piece of paper tucked into the webbing there.

  He took it out and unfolded the note. It was written in English, but he had no trouble understanding it.

  Pine tree. Twelve o'clock. See you in hell, you Nazi son of a bitch.

  He read the note in disbelief. Then he felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, knowing he was in the American’s sights. He sighed. What else could he do? The American had been playing chess, after all, and this was checkmate. He took a deep breath, enjoying how the cold air filled his lungs. Let it out.

  Then Von Stenger looked up.

  EPILOGUE

  A day and a half after slipping out of La Gleize, Kampfgruppe Friel arrived back in Germany.


  Or what was left of Kampfgruppe Friel. On foot, Friel’s remaining eight hundred troops had avoided American forces as much as possible but still had been involved in a running battle or two. Yet they counted themselves lucky to live and fight another day.

  Operation Watch on the Rhine had begun with so much hope, not to mention around two hundred thousand men and nearly two thousand tanks. In the days of fighting between December 15 and the official end of the offensive on January 25, the casualties were astounding on both sides. Only half of the Germans troops managed to return. Hitler had gambled everything on one last battle—and lost at tremendous cost. In the East, the Russian army approached.

  American forces were also severe, with nearly ninety thousand casualties and missing—including nineteen thousand dead. It would go down in history as the biggest and bloodiest battle ever fought by the United States Army. It was the only major defensive battle fought by U.S. troops in Europe.

  Among those who would never be coming home were the eighty-three Americans murdered by Friel’s men at Malmedy. In retaliation, angry Americans machine gunned sixty German prisoners of war on New Year’s Day at the town of Chenogne. Most of those lined up in rows and shot were eighteen or nineteen years old.

  The fact that Friel had essentially disobeyed orders in abandoning La Gleize was overlooked. Germany needed soldiers and capable officers for the final defense of the Fatherland. After the years of war since 1939, so few remained.

  Instead of a court martial, he received a hero’s welcome. Hitler personally ordered that Friel receive the addition of a sword to the Knight’s Cross he had won in Russia.

  “Obersturmbannführer Friel, what are your orders?” one of his officer had asked, once they had rested and eaten on the German side of the Rhine. It was the day after Christmas. They had crossed more than twenty kilometers of frozen woods and snowy fields, dodging American forces most of the way.

  Friel gazed in the direction of the distant hills of the Ardennes. Before long, the Americans would be following them. There would be planes, tanks, men—

  “We will make camp here, then resupply and regroup,” Friel said. “The war is not over yet.”

  When the end did come the next spring, Friel was a wanted war criminal for the massacre at Malmedy. Using false papers, he fled to Argentina, evading the Allies one last time, just as he had done at La Gleize.

  • • •

  The guards came for Klein just before noon. He decided that today was just as good as any to die. It was not in the way he had expected, of course, but at least he was dying for the Fatherland. Clinging to that thought gave him courage.

  To his surprise, there were three others being marched out of the makeshift prison. He recognized them as fellow saboteurs who had trained with Skorzeny. None of them met his eyes, however. Each man inhabited a bubble of his private thoughts. Final thoughts, Klein reminded himself.

  The gray skies had lifted, finally, and the sky, if not quite blue, was at least clear. The cold, fresh air felt like tonic after being confined to a single room. He took a deep breath, filled his lungs.

  Four posts had been set into the ground, each post about ten feet apart. These might have been the beginnings of a fence, but he knew well enough that these posts had a darker purpose. Klein and the others were each brought to a post, and stood against it. Their hands were tied behind them, on the opposite side of the post.

  To their credit, his German comrades remained completely silent.

  Just fifty feet away from the Germans stood a row of American GIs, all armed with rifles. The Americans appeared very grim. In fact, they looked like they wanted to be there even less than Klein, if that was possible.

  The officer in charge read out something official, but Klein wasn’t really listening. He caught the words guilty… spy … shot. No matter. He already had heard the words read to him before inside the building behind him during a kind of puppet trial.

  Someone had the idea to pin a white square of paper to his shirt to make a target, as if the Americans might miss at this range.

  Another officer moved to put a blindfold on him. Klein shook his head. “I do not need it,” he said, his voice sounding raspy to his ears. The atmosphere suddenly seemed unreal, as if being seen in a dream.

  “It’s not for you, son,” the officer said, not unkindly. “These men don’t need to see your eyes.”

  The blindfold tightened into place.

  He thought of a girl he had made love to while on leave at the start of the war. It was a pleasant memory, but not worthy to be his last, he decided. Instead, Klein thought of his parents, home in Frankfurt. They were proud of him, he knew, and the thought comforted him. He took one last breath and let it fill his lungs, calming his pounding heart.

  The last words he heard were those of the officer calling out, “Ready … aim … fire!”

  And so the wolf slumped against the post, bringing his reign to an end.

  • • •

  Slowly, spring came to the Ardennes. Winter unlocked its grip on the mountains and forests. Rivers full of snow melt rushed around the skeletal pillars of the ruined bridges. Even in the killing field at Malmedy, a few flowers struggled out of the cold ground.

  In the woods around La Gleize, some boys ventured out and found all manner of abandoned gear left by the Germans: helmets, bayonets, canteens. It was a real treasure hunt.

  One of the items was a thick, pocket-sized book of Goethe’s verse with what appeared to be a bullet hole through the center. The boy who found it flipped through the pages hoping that there might be some money tucked inside. Finding nothing, he tossed the book to the forest floor and ran on after his companions.

  The spring brought more than the end of winter; it also signaled the thawing of Hitler’s grip on Europe. On March 22, the first U.S. Forces crossed the Rhine into Germany. Hitler was dead by April.

  Among the first troops to cross that pontoon bridge and walk on German soil were a handful of snipers wearing battered uniforms. Over the last several months Cole, Vaccaro, and Lieutenant Mulholland had walked nearly every step of the way from Omaha Beach to the Rhine, and they looked it. Even the Kid, who was now officially part of the sniper squad, looked weary.

  Jolie returned to France a few days after the fight at La Gleize, when an irate Colonel Akers had found out that a French civilian—and a single female at that—was in a combat zone and traveling with a sniper squad. He had shipped her out with the truckloads of wounded from the Ardennes Forest. Jolie did not complain—seeing the young Belgian girl killed at the church outside La Gleize had spilled cold water on her fighting spirit. She still wrote to Cole.

  He still saved the letters, even if he couldn’t read them.

  The incident involving Jolie had not improved Lieutenant Mulholland’s chances for promotion.

  But now here the snipers were, ready to cross the Rhine.

  “I can’t believe we’re in Germany,” said Vaccaro, expressing how they all felt. “Germany.”

  “It don’t mean the war’s over,” said Cole. That was a fact—there had been plenty of hard fighting through the first few weeks of 1945. They might be on German soil, but Cole knew well enough that a cornered beast could be very dangerous. A few fanatical German troops didn’t seem to have gotten the message that the war was almost over. Most worrisome were the Hitler youth boys holed up with their rifles in church steeples, trees, and tall buildings. The poor dumb kids had been brainwashed all their lives and were ready to die for the Fatherland. A preferred tactic was to let American troops pass by and then shoot them in the back. It was the job of the American snipers to eradicate that threat.

  Vaccaro had more to add. “I can’t wait to have some beer and sausages in downtown Berlin. Maybe some weinerwurst, weisswurst, bratwurst, schnitzel—”

  “Shut up, Vaccaro,” Cole said, shaking his head. “The Russians will get to Berlin before we do. You’ll be lucky if there’s so much as a pretzel left when they get through. I don’t trus
t them damn Russians one bit. And don’t forget that there are a lot of Germans between here and there.”

  Cole got a strong grip on his rifle and walked on.

  ~The End~

  Author’s Note

  Ardennes Sniper was inspired by events surrounding the Battle of the Bulge that took place in the rugged Ardennes region of Belgium from December 1944 to January 1945. However, in writing this book, I have taken a few liberties with geography and the timeline of events to better suit the storytelling format of a novel.

  Many of the events in the novel are based on actual history, particularly the terrible massacre of American troops near Malmedy, Belgium. There remains some controversy even today about how and why the massacre took place. What can’t be disputed is that more than eighty unarmed American POWs were killed there.

  Kampfgruppe Friel is a fictitious unit and the commander and other soldiers are invented characters.

  All too real is the fact that soldiers on both sides suffered in the bitter cold, and thousands lost their lives in the fighting.

  For those who would like to read more about the Battle of the Bulge, there are several fascinating nonfiction histories of the battle and of events at Malmedy. I would also recommend William Peter Grasso’s excellent novels in the Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series. Fans of World War II fiction will also enjoy the historical novels by David L. Robbins, including War of the Rats.