David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

The passenger got out, threw a pair of arms bundled in a great coat and mittens around Cole’s neck, and kissed him.

Still watching from the ditch, the other snipers had to pick their jaws up out of the snow.

It was Lieutenant Mulholland who recovered first. He stood, brushed the snow and frozen mud from his knees and elbows, then approached the Jeep. The others followed.

The passenger was Jolie Molyneaux, a French resistance fighter who had been assigned as the sniper unit’s guide in the days following D-Day. Jolie was as pretty as a girl straight from a pin-up calendar, an asset that had served her well in dealing with the Germans during the occupation. Most of the time, a smile and a flip of her hair were all she needed to get out of a tight situation.

But that was not the real Jolie at all. She was tough as a boot and sharp as the blade of a knife. Jolie was initially just as skeptical about the American liberators as she was bitter toward the Nazi occupiers. However, she had quickly become a vital part of the unit and had struck up an unlikely romance with Cole, who by most appearances was about as friendly as a copperhead. A bullet from the German known as the Ghost Sniper had nearly killed her outside Bienville. The last time Cole had seen her was when he loaded Jolie into an ambulance nearly six months before.

“What a bunch of assholes,” Jolie said in heavily accented English. “I never got one letter.”

“Uh, you picked one heck of a time to show up for a visit, Mademoiselle Molyneux,” said the lieutenant. Like a compass needle spinning in the presence of a magnet, the look on his face bounced between delight at seeing her and outright annoyance. It was no secret that he once had romantic intentions toward the French fighter, but those had been dashed by her interest in Cole.

“But there is not supposed to be fighting,” she said. “Everyone knows this is a quiet zone.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we are in the middle of a German offensive.” Mulholland’s tone indicated that his internal needle had moved closer to the annoyed category. “All hell has broken loose. You need to get back in that Jeep and return to HQ.”

The driver spoke up. “Whoa, whoa, sir. I can’t just turn around. There are Krauts back that way and we barely got past them. I have a message for the company that came this way.”

“Well, you’ll have to take her with you.”

“That’s impossible, sir. She made such a pest of herself at HQ that I was told to leave her with your squad, just to get her out of there. I took her this far, and that’s as far as she can go.”

“Now look here, Corporal—”

Jolie spoke up. “I am where I should be,” she said. “I am back with all of you. I want to be fighting Germans again.”

“This is ridiculous,” the lieutenant said. “You’re a civilian.”

“It is my country they are trying to invade again. It is my fight. Do not tell me what is ridiculous.” She reached to get her bag, but Cole beat her to it, lifting a battered rucksack from the back of the Jeep.

“She can’t come with me,” the driver repeated, then eased his foot off the clutch so that the tires started to catch on the frozen surface, kicking out slush. “Orders are orders.”

“Then get the hell out of here, if you’re in such a goddamn hurry.”

“No need to get sore, sir.” Then the Jeep driver hit the gas. The wheels spun momentarily on the slick icy surface of the road, but the chains soon dug in and the Jeep shot away toward St. Vith.

As the noise of the engine faded, the winter stillness seemed to envelope them as they stood in the middle of the empty road, staring at one other.

“Well,” Cole finally said, in an uncharacteristic display of conversation to break the silence. “Ain’t it just a Merry Christmas.”

The snipers headed up the road, following the tire tracks of the Jeep that had dropped off Jolie. The Jeep had been heading to catch up with the artillery support unit in the direction of St. Vith.

Cole had his share of questions for Jolie, but he decided that now was not the time to ask them. It was enough that she was alive. He was glad to see her, even if the circumstances were not ideal. The same could not be said of Lieutenant Mulholland, whose disapproval radiated from him like the heat from a wood stove. Having a Resistance fighter guide them in Normandy was one thing, but having a French national accompany them now was highly against regulations. It wasn’t just the rules that Mulholland was worried about. There was the very real risk of running into German armor.

Unlike Lieutenant Mulholland, Cole was not all that concerned about Jolie putting herself in danger. She could take care of herself. Like Cole, Jolie never had been much for small talk, and trudged along in silence just to his right. She and Cole had that much in common.

“I reckon we need to see about getting you a weapon,” he said.

Jolie shrugged through her heavy coat. She had come prepared for the weather, at least. “When the time comes, I am sure I can find a rifle.”

They moved on toward St. Vith, their senses on hyper alert. Except for a short burst of machine gun fire somewhere ahead, there had been no more sounds of firing from the direction of the town, but that did not mean the Germans were not on the move.

As the scattered houses of a French village came into sight, they saw the first signs of trouble. The Jeep that had dropped off Jolie was halfway in a ditch, the driver slumped over the wheel. This was no traffic accident. The Jeep and the driver’s body were riddled with bullets.

“Poor bastard,” Vaccaro said. “The Krauts would have heard him coming from a long ways off. They used him for target practice.”

“He had orders to deliver messages to those guys from the 285th,” the lieutenant said. “The question is, what happened to them?”

Vaccaro nodded at the road beyond the crossroads village. The countryside surrounding the crossroads was so flat that they could see for a long distance across the frozen fields. Several roads converged at the town, and on one of the roads beyond they could see a scattering of military vehicles. But the vehicles weren’t moving, and there was no one in sight.

“Huh,” Vaccaro said, putting his scope on the abandoned vehicles. “Those belong to our guys. What’s up with that? Nobody around.”

“Let’s talk about it once we get off this road and in among those houses,” Cole muttered. “We’re like sittin’ ducks out here. Lieutenant?”

“Yeah, good idea.”

Like many other towns they had passed through during the past few months that had been touched by war, the houses and streets appeared deserted. Just because they were Americans did not mean the residents were eager to show themselves. Men with guns were much the same when you were an unarmed civilian. For all anyone knew, the Germans could return at any moment and the shooting would start all over again. People here would be hiding in their cellars, or they would have fled for the forest with their food, valuables, and daughters — just as they had since medieval times whenever an army passed through.

The silence built around them. The only noise other than the crunch of snow came from a bunch of crows circling one of the fields — the cold had not stopped them from scavenging. For some reason, the quiet made it feel colder. They entered the village cautiously, using the buildings for cover, moving from house to house as they covered one another. With them, it had become a well-practiced routine. It was true that a sniper would have opened fire before they reached the crossroads, but there was still the possibility that the Germans had left behind some kind of rear guard that might be holed up with a machine gun and a grudge.