Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller (16 page)

Instantly, more by instinct than by any conscious formula, Von Stenger worked the calculations in his head. Wind. Distance. He put the bottom post of the sight just a little above and to the left of the sniper's helmet and squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the rifle did not quite cover the hollow noise of the bullet striking home. The sound of a bullet hitting the target always reminded Von Stenger of how a pumpkin had sounded when, as a boy, he had dropped one out of a third story window to the stone-paved courtyard below.
Whump.
Such a satisfying sound.

"You got him!" cried Schiffer.

"Quiet," Von Stenger barely breathed the words. "It is likely that he has a spotter."

The snow seemed to explode upward, and then a white-garbed soldier was up and running like a rabbit. It was definitely the sniper's spotter. A running shot was never easy, and the spotter had the good sense to run and dodge. Von Stenger fired, but he knew the shot was wrong as soon as he touched the trigger.
 

The spotter went down, though. Shot through the legs. He struggled to get his footing in the snow.
 

Von Stenger worked the bolt and let the crosshairs settle on the spotter, who was looking toward the truck, shouting something to someone in the woods, pointing—

There was another sniper in those trees. Von Stenger felt the hairs crawl on the back of his neck just before a bullet punched through the canvas. It missed Von Stenger, but Schiffer wasn’t so lucky. He caught a glimpse of Schiffer’s look of surprise at the fact that he had been shot. He put a hand to his neck, blood flowing between the fingers.

Von Stenger got back on the scope. In the seconds he had looked away, someone had run from the tree line toward the fallen spotter. The second sniper. He put the crosshairs on this target, but was surprised when the sniper dropped to one knee. What was that painted on his helmet? He looked through the scope and saw that the man's rifle was aimed right at him. An instant later, a bullet plucked at the canvas, causing Von Stenger to flinch away.

"Scheiss!"

When he looked through the scope again, the sniper had managed to half drag, half carry the wounded spotter into the cover of the trees. Von Stenger put a bullet into the gray maze of branches where he had seen them disappear. Then Von Stenger kept his head down, below the metal cab. His skin crawled as he recalled how close the bullet had passed by his face.

No one was that good. Perhaps not even him. The man had dropped to one knee and fired a shot with amazing accuracy.

Memory flashed to a sight picture of what he had seen through the rifle scope. It was like seeing a photograph in his mind. The mental image clearly showed a Confederate flag painted on the American sniper's helmet.
You again.
The hillbilly sniper.

"Breger?"

The Scharführer was trying to staunch the flow of blood in the wounded man's neck. Schiffer was bleeding out, his eyes already glassy.

"If I had any bandages—"

"Leave him. I want you to get behind the wheel and drive this truck across the field into the woods. Head toward the tracks where those snipers disappeared."

Breger looked as if Von Stenger had just asked him to drive to Mars. "Herr Hauptmann?"

"Do it! Use that machine pistol to lay down some covering fire, then make a run for the cab."

• • •

Breger did as he was told, sliding out the back of the truck and running in a crouch toward the front of the cab, firing as he went. He dragged the dead man from the cab and slid behind the wheel, keeping low, expecting at any moment that a bullet would find him. Fortunately, as long as he kept his head down, there was a huge block of metal between him and the snipers.

He got his feet under the dash and worked the clutch, then hit the starter button. The engine thrummed to life, and he shifted into gear, heading across the field toward the trees.

He kept going. Driving blind. He risked a peek over the dash to get his bearings, then ducked down again.
 

And then they were at the tree line. He heard Von Stenger shout at him to keep going. Go where? The big tires churned over the snow-covered brush at the edge of the woods and then the truck was in among the trees themselves. The trip ended when the bumper connected with the trunk of a large oak tree. The frustrated motor surged, then stalled out. They had not been going fast, but Breger still found himself thrown hard against the dashboard.
 

Breger tumbled out, dragging the machine pistol with him. The snow was deep among the trees, and he slogged around to the back of the truck, where Von Stenger was taking his time getting out. Nonchalantly, he pulled on a white snow smock that dropped to below his knees. He flipped up the hood and covered his helmet.

Breger could only stare. He had thought this Wehrmacht officer was nothing but a fool and soft as butter. How wrong he had been. If there was something colder than the winter air, it must be the blood in Von Stenger’s veins.

• • •

As he climbed out of the truck, Von Stenger paused to look down at Schiffer. The young SS driver stared up sightlessly at the canvas ceiling. He had only known Schiffer for a short time, but he had seemed like a capable young man. A good soldier.
 

He searched within himself for some emotion and came up empty, other than a passing thought that it was too bad it wasn't Breger laying there dead. Was that the best he could do in terms of emotion?
What is wrong with me?

He got out and found Breger crouched beside the truck, trying to cover the entire woods with the machine pistol. Between the truck and the surrounding trees, they were well protected from any sniper fire.

"Relax," he told Breger. "You can go back now."

"Go back?" Breger sounded puzzled. He looked around at the trees. "Go back where?"

"To your unit, Scharführer Breger. I would recommend against walking through the middle of the field, of course, but you can work your way through the woods back to the road. I think the snipers are gone."

"What about you, sir?" The “sir” was spoken with new respect.

"I am going after the snipers."

Without further explanation, Von Stenger slipped away into the woods. He moved with an almost feline grace, managing to cross the snow without a sound. He ducked under branches and around brambles. With the white camouflage helping him blend into the snowy trees, he seemed to melt into the winter woods like another dollop of milk added to a cup of cafe au lait.
 

Beside the truck, Breger lost sight of him, blinking his eyes in disbelief. Von Stenger had disappeared ... like a ghost. Breger was relieved that he was gone. His own commander cared deeply about his men. This officer was willing to toss lives away.

Breger got a good grip on the submachine gun, then looked around at the snowy woods pressing in around him. Now what?

CHAPTER 17

From several yards away, Cole, Jolie, and the Kid watched the truck driven by the Germans crash into the trees. Cole had no doubt that the German sniper had survived. And not just any sniper—he was sure it must be Das Gespenst in the back of that truck. Who else was such a good shot, or half as clever?

He stared down at the rifle in his hands. The enemy sniper’s bullet had only grazed him, but it had smashed the telescopic sight on the Springfield. The rifle was next to useless.

He turned to Jolie. She was busy wrapping a scarf around the Kid's leg, trying to staunch some of the blood flowing from the wound. The Kid winced. Fortunately for him, it was not a fatal wound, although it would definitely slow him down in this snow.

McNulty hadn’t been so lucky. Cole could see the body sprawled in the snow, half hidden by the dirty white camouflage smock.

“Go!” Cole shouted at Jolie and the Kid. “You need to get out of here. Those Kraut bastards are coming after us.”

“I am not going anywhere,” Jolie said.

“This ain’t the time to argue. The Kid is hurt and you need to get him out of here.”

Jolie muttered something filthy and French under her breath.

"Listen up," Cole said. "See if you can link up with Mulholland and Vaccaro. If you can’t find them, then you’re bound to run into one of our units. We can't be the only Americans in all of the Ardennes Forest. You can get the Kid some help and get yourself the hell away from these goddamn SS bastards."

"That sounds like you are not coming with us," Jolie said. "What are you going to do?"

"Nail that Nazi sniper's hide to the barn door."

"Maybe you killed him just now."

Cole shook his head. "If I did, that would have to be the luckiest shot since Robin Hood split that arrow. No, he's still in that truck. He's going to come looking for us."

"You are wounded," Jolie said with concern, reaching for his bloodstained sleeve.
 

Cole pulled his arm away. “It’s just a scratch.”

The sniper's parting shot had indeed clipped him as he dragged the Kid into the woods, gouging a furrow across his upper arm. It burned like hell, but it was only a flesh wound. Lucky for him, their old friend Das Gespenst must have been having an off day.

Cole was more concerned about the damage to his rifle. The telescopic sight was ruined. The Springfield was not equipped with an iron sight, which meant it was now useless. All he could do was point and shoot. That worked all right with a shotgun, but with the rifle Cole could not hit anything beyond spitting distance with any accuracy.
 

McNulty’s rifle was out in that field, probably clogged with snow, but with the Germans nearby he didn't want to chance going out in the open to retrieve it. Jolie still had the lieutenant’s pistol—and she might be needing it. That left him with a damaged rifle and a hunting knife.

"I'll be all right," he said. "You and the Kid get out of here. It's me he wants. It's me he'll come after."

"Cole—" Jolie started to say more, but then stopped herself.
 

"Go on," he said. “Get out of here.”

"Vous revenez à moi ou je te tue moi,"
she said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It is French for, 'Good luck, you stubborn horse's ass.' "

Cole grinned. "Now git. We ain't got all day."

Jolie and the Kid worked their way through the woods, keeping near the edge of the field but under cover of the trees. Fortunately, the Kid was skinny, and Jolie was able to put his arm over her shoulders to take some of the weight off his wounded leg.
 

Cole heard a door opening in the wrecked truck, but he couldn’t see more through the trees. He waited until he was sure Jolie and the Kid were not being followed by the Germans, then headed deeper into the woods. He was sure he would lead the sniper away from them, as surely as a mouse lures the cat.

• • •

Von Stenger kept to the edge of the woods, looking for where the American snipers' footprints entered the trees. The path of the truck had roughly followed their footsteps, so he did not have to go far.
 

Every sense was tuned to the woods around him. The enemy might be lurking anywhere. As a sniper, he had trained his eyes to seek motion rather than try to distinguish shapes among the puzzle of trees. Something gray flickered across his vision and his rifle was halfway to his shoulder before his brain registered that it was only a bird. Even his nose tried to pick up any smell that did not belong in the forest—men smelled like leather, damp wool, cigarettes, spearmint gum, gunpowder—smells that could carry surprisingly far on the winter air.

The silence of the woods was a little too quiet—someone had passed this way recently—or could still be waiting in ambush. He moved more slowly, rifle at the ready. The last thing he wanted to do was walk right into the sights of the Americans—or surprise them in their hiding place.

He soon found what he was looking for, the place where their tracks came into the trees. Two sets of tracks, none too neat, considering that one man was helping the other.

And blood on the snow.

Against the white snow, the blood stood out clearly as a full moon in the night sky.

There was not enough blood to indicate a fatal wound, but his bullet had found some piece of its target.

He followed the tracks to where they stopped just inside the tree line. To his surprise there was another set of tracks, indicating a third man. A spotter? Or another sniper? Two sets of tracks moved back toward the field. Again, he saw flecks of blood on the snow. One of these men was wounded.

Curiously, a set of tracks moved away, deeper into the woods. Blood also spotted the snow beside these tracks. He could almost see it steaming in the cold.

Von Stenger could read these tracks like a story. The two sets of tracks leading into the field did not concern him much. One man was slightly wounded; the other man was providing a shoulder to lean on.

The lone set of tracks headed deeper into the forest. Away from any help. Why? Because they belonged to a man just like him. The hillbilly sniper. Wounded but still very dangerous, like some cornered predator. Inviting Von Stenger to follow him rather than the two who had fled to help and safety. Deep in the woods, once and for all, they could settle this matter of who was the better man.