Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller (8 page)

"Jesus."

"Ralph was wounded so bad he was out of his head, just mumbling nonsense, and they shot him. I tried to tell him to keep quiet—” The kid choked back a sob.

“It’s all right,” Mulholland said. “You did what you could.”

“I held my breath, hoping they would think I was dead."

"Well, you made it." The lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it almost knocked the skinny young GI off the wall.

The others came back, looking grim. "There’s nobody else alive, sir."

Mulholland muttered, "Son of a bitch."

The kid finally broke down and sobbed.

• • •

After the lone survivor of the massacre had told his story, Cole had to spend a few minutes alone. He was well aware that most people thought he was a hard case, and maybe he was. Lord knows he had seen his share of bad things in this war, and done a few of them himself. Nobody could call him a saint. But something about the massacre scene affected him deeply. It was the idea of shooting American boys like hogs in a pen.
 

The bodies in the field told the story plain enough. The Americans had been gunned down where they stood.

He noticed that two of the bodies were much farther away than the others. The poor bastards had almost made it over the fence and escaped.

It was a long way to hit someone with a submachine gun—especially if you were occupied shooting lots of targets close up. Certainly it was too far for a pistol shot. Which meant a rifle.

He knew from experience that a moving target at that range was not easy. Hitting
two
running targets was damn near impossible. He doubted it was the work of your typical infantryman, SS or not.
 

Curious now, Cole moved closer to the road. It was easy to tell where the killers had stood because their footprints were surrounded by spent shell casings.
 

Cole scanned the ground, looking for some other clue—for what, he was not sure. Cole was good at reading tracks, but mostly what he saw were a lot of German boot prints, of which he had seen his share over the last few months. Empty brass cartridges, of course. A few cigarette butts. An empty wine bottle. What had been left behind did not tell him much, and yet it told him everything. The SS men had massacred the Americans, had a smoke and passed around a bottle, then moved out into the field to finish the job.

A little off to the side, a different cigarette butt caught his eye. It was much fancier than the others, gold tipped, of a kind Cole had learned was called a Sobranie. He had learned about those cigarettes during his first few days in Normandy, when he had encountered the vicious German sniper nicknamed Das Gespenst. The Ghost.
 

Cole considered himself to be a good sniper. But the German ... well, there was a reason he had that nickname.

Cole looked again at the snowy ground. Two more brass cartridges winked up at him, more elongated than the others. Rifle rounds rather than machine guns rounds. He looked across the field at the two distant bodies of the GIs who had almost escaped. Two shots. Two dead soldiers. He bent down and picked up one of the rifle cartridges. A closer look revealed that the cartridge was stamped with the alien-looking characters and symbols of the Cyrillic alphabet, which meant that these were from a Russian rifle chambered for 7.62 mm rather than the usual 8 mm Mauser rounds.

If it was possible, Cole now felt colder.

There was just one German sniper Cole knew of who smoked gold-tipped cigarettes and used a Russian rifle.
 

Das Gespenst.
It couldn't be. And yet here was the proof, staring back at him.

He was sure the son of a bitch had died in a flooded field outside Bienville after shooting Jolie and very nearly killing Cole. Even Cole had to admit that he’d gotten lucky when an artillery barrage had rolled in, stopping the German sniper from finishing the job. He had reckoned that the shelling had turned the German into hamburger.

Cole clenched his fist around the brass shell casing.

The Ghost Sniper had returned.

CHAPTER 9

Klein felt like a fox that had sneaked into the henhouse. Since killing the lone American on the deserted road, he had avoided any one-on-one encounters. Instead, he mixed in with large groups by saying that he had been separated from his unit, which was easy enough because the Americans were in such disarray. Rumors flew like the snow. Patton was on the way! Hitler himself was leading the attack! None of it made much sense, but the German attack had created a blizzard of confusion.

As a saboteur, he would do what he could to make the situation worse.
 

Later that day, Klein fell in with a group of muddy, half-frozen American soldiers. Lucky for him, they were all too tired and cold to be curious about where he was from. No one broke the silence. The only sound was that of boots tramping through the slush.

At the best of times, the American military operated in a way that resembled orderly chaos. The German advance had thrown it into disarray, mixing men from different units together like a big khaki-colored omelet. Nobody was too worried about one more straggler. He was just another guy separated from his unit.

Klein just hoped they weren’t marching right into German lines. He wasn’t so sure he would be able to explain that he was a German playing at being an American. No, it would be far easier for the SS to shoot him.

After an hour of slogging through the snow, they came to a crossroads headquarters. A few tents had been thrown up to shelter the most frostbitten soldiers. Soup was being heated in buckets over an open fire.
 

Klein wouldn’t mind something to eat, but it was the sight of stockpiled barrels of gasoline that brought joy to his heart. Clearly, the gasoline had been salvaged to fuel Sherman tanks, trucks, and Jeeps so that the American forces could stay mobile. It was just the target Klein sought.

He accepted a tin mug of soup with a grateful smile and a nod, then moved closer to the fire to warm his bones. While he ate, he studied the fuel depot.
 

A few guards kept watch on the perimeter of the camp, but no eyes were on the fuel depot. The Americans were obviously more concerned about the entire base being overrun at any moment by a panzer group than about saboteurs slipping in.

He debated how to set the fuel ablaze, then settled on a very direct approach. He also wanted to survive the resulting explosion, which seemed unlikely until he noticed a stalled Sherman tank about forty or fifty meters from the depot.
 

He could run that distance in five or six seconds over level ground. But with boots over rutted mud and slush? Maybe.

Klein bided his time until dusk, which thickened the already gray afternoon. He needed enough light to see by, but not so much that he would be seen.

He got up and lit a cigarette, then wandered toward the stacked barrels. The air smelled strongly of gasoline—smoking in proximity to so much fuel was unwise. No one was around to warn him away.

He was about to do far worse than light a cigarette.

Klein reached into the pocket of his American-issue winter coat and felt the cold lump of a hand grenade. An Mk 2 fragmentation or “pineapple” grenade, to be exact. He reached in his other hand and pulled the pin.
 

When he was sure no one was looking, he pulled out the grenade and tossed it toward the drums of fuel.

His aim was less than perfect.

The grenade bounced off and rolled a few feet away from the barrels—a fact that registered from the corner of his eye because Klein was already running flat out toward the abandoned tank. He just had time to put the tank between himself and the fuel depot when the grenade detonated and lit up the gasoline. An orange fireball filled the sky. He felt a wave of heat and hot wind stir his hair.

Fortunately for Klein and the American soldiers, the fuel depot exploded in a series of fireballs rather than a single, cataclysmic blast. He heard shouts and screams. In the confusion that followed, Klein ran for the woods.

• • •

An hour after discovering the massacre site, the snipers were ready to move out. The kid who had somehow survived the massacre was warmed up and steady enough. It was also clear that he had no choice but to accompany them.

“You’re coming with us,” the lieutenant told him. “And we’re giving you a nickname. We’re calling you the Kid, since you barely look old enough to shave.”

“There you go, Kid,” Vaccaro said, clapping him on the back. “Welcome to the squad.”

"We don't know the situation right now," the lieutenant continued. "We could have Germans all around us. If we start back down the road toward where our lines used to be, we could walk right into the Krauts."

"So we're basically surrounded, cut off, short on supplies and freezing cold," Vaccaro said. "I’m glad that’s cleared up. So, now what, sir?"

"We're going after them," Mulholland said. "We don't know what's behind us, but we sure as hell know what's in front of us. Germans. And lots of them. The same ones who murdered these poor bastards here."
 

"They have tanks, sir."

"No, we don’t have tanks. But we are scout-snipers. We can at least track their movements and harass their rear. It’s better than running off with our tails between our legs." The lieutenant knew he sounded grim, so he was surprised to find Vaccaro grinning at him. “If you have something to say, Vaccaro, say it.”

"It’s just that it sounds like we have a tank-less job ahead of us," Vaccaro said.

Lieutenant Mulholland shook his head. "Vaccaro, half the time I don't know whether to have you shot for insubordination or for telling bad jokes."

Cole chimed in. "Don't worry, sir. With any luck the Germans will shoot him first and save you the trouble."

"Ha, ha. You guys are more laughs than a barrel of monkeys.” Vaccaro turned to the newest member of the squad. “See, Kid, you don't know what you're getting yourself into. Not that you have any choice right now but to tag along with us. We don't know where the rear is, or even if there is a rear anymore."

"I don't even have a weapon," the Kid said.

Cole unsnapped his utility belt and handed Hank his .45 in a holster. "That's better than nothing until we find you a rifle. Just make sure the Germans get nice and close. How far can you throw an ashtray and hit what you're throwing at?"

"Uh, not that far, I guess. Twenty feet?"

"That's about the range of this here pistol. Of course, the slug is about as big as an ashtray. Like I said, just make sure you get close."

"Yeah, don't shoot till you see the whites of their eyes," Vaccaro said.

"That's the British, Vaccaro. We haven't shot at them since the War of 1812. With the Germans, you don't shoot till you smell the bratwurst on their breath."

"Hillbilly, you're always full of good advice. If I were you, Kid, I'd listen to him."

They started down the road. "This is the road to St. Vith," Lieutenant Mulholland said. "From there, the Germans will probably try to get across the Meuse River and then make a dash for Antwerp or maybe even goddamn Paris. Crazy Kraut bastards. Who would have thought they still had it in them? I thought the fight was all out of the Third Reich at this point and we were just mopping up."

"At least they're easy to follow." The road ahead had been churned up by the passage of tanks and trucks. "What I want to know is, where the hell are our planes?"

The lieutenant shook his head. "They can't fly. Look at this sky. It's right on top of us, right down to the ground. Nothing but clouds and snow. Lousy weather—unless you're the Germans trying to advance without being attacked from the air, in which case it's beautiful weather."

"Lieutenant, do you even have a map?"

"We don't need one, Vaccaro. All we need to do is follow these tracks. Best of all, the Germans are going to be in such a hurry covering ground that they won't even worry about us coming up behind them."

"Don't be so sure about that," Cole said. "I have a feeling this German unit is going to have eyes in the back of its head."

"What are you talking about?"

He nodded toward the field, where the bodies of the massacred Americans lay slowly freezing into twisted poses. "Something I found other there." He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the spent rifle cartridges he had found and held it out to the lieutenant. "Does that look familiar?"

"It's got those Russian markings on it." The lieutenant’s eyes lit up. He knew all about Das Gespenst. "I’ll be damned. You don't think it's the same guy?"

"Reckon I do," Cole said. "The Ghost Sniper. He's one of their best snipers, and now he's a goddamn murderer, too. And he's out there somewhere up ahead. Best not let him get the drop on us."

The lieutenant hefted his rifle. "You heard Cole. Keep your eyes open, everybody. It sounds as if the Germans will be doing the same."

• • •

Once the squad was on the move, Cole fell into step alongside Jolie. They had some catching up to do.

"So, where you been all this time?" he asked Jolie. "I thought—hell, I don't know what I thought."