Ghost Sniper: A World War II Thriller

by David Healey

  Von Stenger was smiling to himself, secretly pleased. That's when the other bullet came in and killed Wulf.

  He heard the corporal grunt in pain and then saw him go limp. Wulf had tied himself into the tree, but his rifle fell free and clattered to the forest floor.

  Scheisse!

  Even now, Von Stenger might be in the enemy rifleman's sights. He felt his insides freeze. Checkmate. Game over.

  CHAPTER 16

  Von Stenger held his breath, expecting the fatal shot at any moment. The seconds ticked by, and Von Stenger was surprised still to be alive. The cold dagger in his belly thawed.

  The American sniper had not seen him, after all. But the shot that killed Wulf had come from someplace close. Directly in front of their position. From this side of the river.

  Where was the American sniper? The field leading down to the river was empty. He used the scope to scan the river bank. There was little brush along the bank because cattle had grazed right to the edge of the river. No good cover there. He would have seen someone crouched along the bank with a rifle. Then his gaze settled upon the dilapidated mill house. Had someone swum the river and gotten in there? Impossible.

  But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The thick stone walls of the mill would be like a fortress. He had considered it for their own sniper's den, and just as quickly dismissed it, because the view of the countryside was limited. These trees on the hill gave a much more commanding view.

  Where would a sniper be? The only position was the slit window facing the field. Von Stenger saw no one there, but one of the Americans could have set up in there a few feet back from the window, where he couldn't be seen. It's what he himself would have done. Clever, clever.

  He considered his options. His sniper position, so carefully chosen, was now compromised. If he fired again, the sniper in the mill was close enough to spot his muzzle flash. The dummy rifle ruse had been played.

  He could possibly send Fritz into the tree to reload the rifle, but it was better not to use the same trick twice.

  Besides, a better use for the boy suddenly came to him.

  Slowly, slowly, he unwound himself from his position. Any sudden movement might attract the eye of the American sniper in the mill. Von Stenger had chosen well, however, because he was deep enough into the woods that no one in the mill could see his movements as he climbed down.

  Once on the ground, he realized he had been holding his breath.

  "Fritz, I want you to do two things. The first one is to go and retrieve Corporal Wulf's rifle and bring it to me. The second is to fetch the medical kit.” He added, “And keep your head down."

  The boy was soon back with the rifle. Fortunately, the Mauser had not been damaged in the fall. Von Stenger checked to make certain that the barrel was not obstructed and that the action was clear. Wulf had fired several shots, so he reloaded the rifle.

  He walked over to check on Wulf, who was clearly dead. A little blood trickled down and spattered on the forest floor. Out of professional interest, he observed that Wulf appeared to have been struck in the head. Good shooting. Whoever was down in that mill knew his business.

  Now that he had escaped immediate death, Von Stenger felt a frisson of excitement. A challenge was always welcome.

  The sniper had known Wulf just three days and thought that the corporal had been competent. Too bad he was dead. So many dead, Von Stenger thought. Several faces flashed in his memory, comrades claimed by the war, and he pushed the image aside. Now was not the time to dwell on that.

  He was on his own again, but that was all right. He had always worked better on his own.

  He turned to the boy, who had returned with the medical kit. "Come here. Take hold of the rifle like this." The sniper showed him how to grip the weapon in a shooting position, butt against the boy's shoulder, finger on the trigger, left hand cradling the forestock. He worked the bolt and put a round in the chamber. "Now, stay still."

  Working quickly but methodically, he used the medical tape from the kit to secure the boy's hands to the rifle.

  "Sir, what are you doing?"

  "I am making you into a soldier! Now be quiet, or I will tape your mouth shut as well."

  "Yes, sir."

  When Von Stenger was finished, it looked as if the boy held the rifle ready to fire. It would be convincing from a distance. The Mauser was not semi-automatic, so the bolt had to be worked to reload the rifle. The tape prevented Fritz from doing that. This meant the boy would get one shot.

  "Here is what I want you to do," Von Stenger said. "You will walk out of the woods and across the field toward the mill. Straight at it, mind you. There is one round in the chamber. When you are very close, so close you cannot miss, you are to fire through that window. In your case, I would say a distance of ten meters would be about right."

  "Herr Hauptmann, there is an American sniper in that mill. He shot Corporal Wulf. Did you not know that?"

  "Exactly. I need you to distract him. Walk straight toward him. Do not run. Give him some time to notice you."

  “Notice me?” Fritz’s eyes grew wide. “But sir—"

  "I will be here in the woods with my rifle, covering you. If you do not do exactly as I have explained, I will shoot you myself. And I never miss."

  The boy had gone pale. Von Stenger had wondered if he had as much between the ears as a rabbit, but it was clear he knew that he had just been given orders for a suicide mission. If the American sniper did not shoot him, Von Stenger would.

  Von Stenger positioned himself behind a good-sized log on the forest floor, using the log to steady the rifle. "Now go."

  The boy stepped out of the woods. Von Stenger trained the crosshairs on the black slit of the mill window, waiting for the American sniper to reveal himself.

  • • •

  What the hell?

  Cole watched in disbelief as a German sniper walked out of the woods. A slew of possibilities ran through his mind. Cole wondered if the German was challenging him to a duel. Maybe the German planned to surrender? But the Jerries he had seen so far in Normandy weren't the surrendering type. Besides, this one had a firm grip on his rifle, holding it as if he expected to use it as soon as he found a target.

  Didn't the Jerry know he was a dead man walking, out in the open like that?

  Cole kept his eye pressed tightly against the rifle scope. He didn't know for sure what was going on, but he didn't like it one bit. Not so long ago he had been shivering, but now sweat ran down his sides from his armpits, making the rough material of the grain sacks itch. He didn't dare scratch for fear the movement would give him away.

  One thing for damn sure, if there was still a sniper in those woods, his crosshairs were on the mill window.

  Cole’s sweat ran faster.

  • • •

  The Airborne troops taking shelter on the road couldn’t really see what was happening in the field, but up in the woods on the American-held side of the river, Vaccaro did have a clear view. He was also mad as hell that Meacham was dead, and feeling vengeful. It wasn't that he had known Meacham all that well, but he was one of their own, goddamnit.

  When he saw the German heading down the hill toward the mill, it was like a gift. Vaccaro wasn’t the best shot in the world, but with the crosshairs settled on the German he thought it would be hard to miss.

  Vaccaro tightened his finger on the trigger.

  He fired before the German sniper had taken five steps out of the woods. But Vaccaro hadn't been able to hit three empty liquor bottles from 100 feet back on the beach. His skills fell short of hitting a real live walking German from more than 600 feet. The bullet kicked up dirt five yards from the soldier's feet. The soldier seemed to stumble, and he looked back at the woods, but then he kept coming straight at the mill. Walking, not running.

  That Jerry has either got some brass balls or he’s the biggest idiot to ever cross the Rhine, Vaccaro thought.

  He put his eye to the scope again. This time,
he aimed a little higher.

  • • •

  Down in the mill, Cole held his fire.

  It made no sense to him that the Jerry kept coming. Up on the hill, Vaccaro or Meacham fired again. The shot smacked off a tree trunk somewhere behind the Jerry. Had to be Vaccaro. Hell, that city boy really couldn't shoot for shit. What about Meacham? Had one of the German snipers gotten lucky and taken him out?

  The next shot from the hill answered his question. It went wide, kicking up dirt and grass.

  Definitely the city boy.

  The German sniper was halfway across the field, walking faster now that the bullets were zipping in, but not quite running.

  Cole put his crosshairs on the German's chest. The soldier’s face sprang up close. The face in the optics belonged to a fresh-faced boy, who looked scared as hell.

  This wasn't some Nazi fanatic or battle-hardened soldier. There was a lot of baby fat in that face—evidence of yet another boy who had been caught up in war and didn't belong there, only this one was German. Cole couldn’t help but think of Jimmy. Another lamb to the slaughter.

  Looking closer, that's when Cole saw the tape on the German's hands. Was the boy wounded? Hell no, somebody had taped his hands to the rifle.

  Cole couldn't figure that one, but the young sniper was getting within can't miss range of the mill. Forty feet. Thirty feet. The Jerry pointed the rifle at the mill window.

  With the crosshairs still on the German, his finger began to squeeze the trigger. If the Jerry came two steps closer—

  The chatter of machine gun fire interrupted his concentration. Off to his right was another slit window and through it he had a view of the bridge. The Brit, Neville, was charging across, submachine gun spraying bullets toward the woods. He stopped at the wounded man, grabbed him by the back of the collar, and started dragging him to safety.

  All of a sudden, the bridge filled with men as the Airborne troops swarmed across, peppering the woods with fire. Someone lobbed a rifle grenade into the trees, and it detonated with a wood-splitting crack as a small tree or branch splintered. No return fire came from the woods.

  Then soldiers ran past the mill, charging toward the woods. Jolie tagged along at their rear. One of the soldiers swung toward the mill and leveled his weapon at the German. The fact that the boy was pointing his rifle at the ground kept the soldier from shooting him instantly.

  "Drop it, Jerry! Goddamnit, I said drop it! Dropenzie!"

  The German did not drop the rifle, but he was shaking his head wildly and saying, “Nein! Nein!”

  “Dropenzie!”

  Cole came out of the mill and stepped between the soldier and the German. "He can't dropenzie. His goddamn hands are taped to the rifle."

  "What the hell?"

  The soldier went up and grabbed for the rifle, but only managed to pull the boy off his feet. He went down on his knees. Cole took out a knife. The German kid gasped and shut his eyes. Cole cut the rifle free. "I bet the damn thing ain’t even loaded."

  "Of course it's frickin’ loaded!” the paratrooper said. “He's a goddamn German sniper! There's only one way to deal with a sniper. No prisoners."

  The soldier aimed his rifle at the boy's head. The young soldier looked up, his voice choked with fear, and said, "No, please!"

  “Christ, he speaks English! Sneaky bastard.”

  "Don't shoot him," Cole said.

  "What do you mean, don't shoot him? You saw what he did to our boys on the bridge. Shot them and left them to die!"

  "He ain't the sniper that done it."

  "How do you know?"

  "Look at him," Cole said. "Does he look like much of a stone-cold Nazi killer to you?"

  The soldier looked like he might still shoot the boy. Jolie stepped forward and said, "Cole is right. There are many real soldiers to kill, but this boy is not one of them."

  Jolie's presence seemed to cool the soldier off. "Aw, hell, he's your problem now," he said, and ran off to join the men who were searching the woods. Someone yelled something about there being a dead sniper in a tree.

  Jolie said something to the boy in German.

  "What are you jabbering on about?” Cole demanded. “I didn't know you spoke Kraut."

  "It is a useful skill to speak the enemy's language," she said. "I told him to stay down on his knees with his hands on his head, and that if he tried to run you would shoot him."

  "Huh. Is that right? You got yourself a rifle. You can shoot him."

  "You are the soldier."

  "Yeah, but I ain't an executioner."

  “You shot those prisoners on the beach.”

  “My blood was up,” Cole said. “Those sons of bitches killed a lot of good men on the beach. This kid didn’t have nothin’ to do with that.”

  Jolie spoke to the boy again in German, then turned to Cole. "There."

  "What?"

  "I told him you want to shoot him, but I talked you out of it. What do you Americans call it? Good cop, bad cop?"

  "You're pretty clever for a French girl," Cole said. "But why do I have to be the bad one?"

  "That is simple," Jolie said. "You look mean and crazy, especially because you are wearing a grain sack."

  "Huh. I don't suppose you brought my clothes along?"

  Jolie smiled and handed him a haversack. "Right here."

  He shucked off the grain sack and stood there in his wet boxer shorts, tugging his uniform back on. Being in the Army a few months made you the opposite of shy.

  "Come on," he said once he was dressed. "I want to have a look at this dead sniper. Tell this kid here to come along and to keep his hands up. If he runs, I really will shoot him."

  CHAPTER 17

  They moved across the field and into the woods, joining the soldiers who were already there. In the wake of the attack across the bridge, there was maybe a quart of adrenalin still pumping through their veins, making the soldiers hyper and jumpy.

  Most of the men were gathered around a tree, staring up at the dead German sniper. It appeared he had roped himself into the tree to prevent himself from falling if he was merely wounded. The dead German's mouth hung open and his eyes stared wide like some grotesque Cheshire cat.

  Now that the tension of the attack was over, some of the airborne troops lowered their weapons and lit cigarettes, studying the corpse in the tree with professional interest.

  "I guess Nazi snipers really do grow on trees,” one paratrooper said.

  "You wouldn't be going out on a limb if you said he was dead," quipped another.

  The jokes were bad and tasteless, but it was a way for the men to blow off steam.

  "Who wants to climb up there and cut him down?" Lieutenant Mulholland asked.

  Cole liked the lieutenant, but he had noticed that the officer had a bad habit or phrasing an order as a question when he wasn't sure of himself. And sometimes he just plain had some bad ideas.

  "To hell with that, Lieutenant," Cole said.

  "It's the decent thing to do, Cole. We're soldiers, not barbarians."

  Cole spat into the pine needles. "You saw how that Jerry gut shot those boys on the bridge and let them suffer. I reckon he can stay up there and rot. They got buzzards here, same as home.”

  There was a tense silence as Mulholland looked from the tree to the hardened faces around him, and then back at the tree again. After a while he just shook his head and walked away.

  Corporal Neville came over and one of the Americans gave him a cigarette. "You are one crazy Tommy," the American said. "The way you rushed that bridge—well, you're damn lucky you're not dead."

  "I couldn't stand leaving those wounded men out there another minute." Neville nodded up at the tree. "This lot here were using them for bait to draw us out. Besides, I'm not half as crazy as this hillbilly here. He swam the river and took out the snipers for us."

  One of the paratroopers looked at Cole. "That must feel good, huh, knowing you got one."

  Cole looked up into the tree and shrugged. He
had shot this man, killed him with a single bullet, and he looked inside himself for some feeling about that, but he felt nothing—neither good nor bad about it. It was pretty much the way he felt about killing a fox—it was simply something that needed killing.

  The paratrooper had more to say: "If you ask me, we ought to grease that little Nazi right over there. He's a sniper too, which I don't count as a regular prisoner."

  Cole flicked his cigarette away so he could get both hands on his rifle. He settled his ice chip eyes on the paratrooper. "I captured him, so I reckon that makes him my prisoner, and I ain't goin' to let you shoot him."

  "Easy there, Reb," the paratrooper said, taking a step back from Cole. "I'm just saying, is all. If you want him, then hell, you can have him. He's your prisoner."

  Cole looked over at the German kid—who dutifully kept his hands on his head—and noticed that the German kept looking around the woods as if searching for someone.

  "Jolie, jabber at that boy and ask him who he's looking for," Cole said to their guide.

  Jolie did just that, asking a few questions in German. The boy answered at length and with some excitement, gesturing wildly, and talking to the point that Jolie finally had to cut him off.

  "What's he goin' on about?"

  "He says there was another sniper, but the boy doesn't see him, so he must have gotten away. Fritz here says that one's name is Captain Von Stenger, and he is some kind of super sniper. His nickname is The Ghost. He taught at the sniper training school and he fought against the Russians on the Eastern Front. The boy says this sniper is the one who shot Chief—and one of our snipers up on the hill."

  Cole walked over to where the boy had been pointing. He looked up and had a start when he saw what he thought was someone in a tree overhead. But as he swung his rifle up he saw that it was only a dummy made out of a German uniform stuffed with pine needles. Up close it wasn't very convincing, but seen at a distance through a rifle scope it would have fooled him. Cole’s position in the mill had kept him from seeing anything but the two rifle flashes, but the dummy would have tricked Vaccaro and Meacham, who had a clearer view up on the hill. Cole had gotten lucky in shooting the real sniper.