David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

The American sniper was well hidden, because Von Stenger could not see a clear target. He sent a bullet just below where he had seen the vapor of someone’s breath. Even if he missed, it would give the Ami something to think about.

No other targets presented themselves. The field, after all, was vast. Then he saw a head and shoulders showing above a stone wall. He put the sights over the sniper’s heart and fired. The man slumped forward. A machine gun opened up and continued to riddle the body. Then the column continued its advance.

Bullets kept coming at them. Where were the other snipers?

Rowe never expected the bullet that killed him, but felt it bury itself in his chest like a stake being driven into his heart. His body shut down the way a fan stops when the cord is yanked from the socket. His thoughts kept spinning even as his body fell across the stone wall in front of him. At least it doesn’t hurt, he thought. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk. Then everything got far away, like looking through binoculars from the wrong end.

His body had slumped forward over the top of the stone wall. There was a burst of machine gun fire from the King Tiger. The Germans kept pumping bullets into him.

From his own hiding place, Cole watched helplessly.

“Goddamn,” he said. The sight of Rowe’s body jumping and quivering from the impact of the bullets made him angry. They weren’t just killing him. They were mutilating him. He yanked at the bolt action on the Springfield.

Cole was sure a single bullet had killed Rowe, not the burst of machine gun fire. Where had it come from? That was some fine shooting to hit him from the German position.

While he thought about that, Cole noticed a squad of SS soldiers taking cover behind the tank that was chopping up Rowe. Cole picked one off. Worked the bolt. Scanned for the next target.

“Nine o’clock,” Jolie said.

He caught sight of a man crouched low to the snowy ground, just beside the tank tread. There was a jolt of flame from the German’s muzzle. Cole settled the crosshairs just where the rim of the helmet crossed the bridge of the man’s nose. Slowly, he let his breath out, squeezed the trigger, and was almost surprised when the rifle butt kicked his shoulder.

A rifle scope magnified a very focused area, which was useful for shooting, but made it hard to see the big picture of a battlefield. Taking his eye off the sight tended to disorient him. That was why it was useful for a sniper to have a spotter. A spotter could also stay aware of the immediate surroundings, leaving the sniper free to focus on targets.

At this moment, however, Jolie kept the binoculars glued to her eyes. “To your left, there’s a man trying to charge the machine gun on the back of that armored car.”

Cole shot him.

“Good. At two o’clock there is un fou with his head still out of his tank.”

Cole put the crosshairs on the German and squeezed the trigger.

Von Stenger scanned the field for more targets.

“Schiffer?” he called down to the driver.

“Yes, Herr Hauptmann.”

“Take those binoculars I gave you and watch the field. Tell me if you see any movement.”

“Do you want me to shoot at them, Herr Hauptmann?”

“No, it’s just your eyes I need right now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Over to his right, he could hear the distinctive mechanical whine of a panzer turret and gun being aligned for a shot.

The problem with using tanks to fight a handful of pesky snipers was that it was like trying to drive a nail with a boulder, when what you needed was a hammer. He held that hammer in his hands.

“Herr Hauptmann? I think I see something,” the driver said.

“Where?” Von Stenger had to prompt.

“Ten o’clock. Behind that stone wall. I think I saw the cloud from someone’s breath.”

Von Stenger swept the scope over the wall. Nothing. He tried again, and finally noticed where the snow had been disturbed where someone had gone over the wall. But there was no one in the immediate vicinity. Where, where… finally, he spotted the vapor left by warm breath in the freezing air. Two distinct patterns of vapor, which meant two snipers, or a sniper and a spotter.

The sniper’s rifle was buried under snow, creating the perfect camouflage. Clever, clever. The sniper had arranged his rifle in such a way as to present almost no target. Just where his head should have been, Von Stenger found himself staring at a large frozen rock. This Ami was good at hiding himself.

He thought about sending a bullet out anyway, bouncing it off the frozen wall, on the off chance that a splinter of stone might catch the sniper in the face.

“Herr Hauptmann, the panzer is preparing to fire. Trust me, sir, but you will want to cover your ears.”

“Schiffer, maybe after the war you can get a job announcing soccer games on the radio. But for now, please shut up.”

Von Stenger had never taken his eye off the scope. He was amazed when the American sniper lifted his head up from behind the wall. Like Schiffer, he seemed worried about the tank.

He saw the American clearly through the scope. Thin face like a fox, covered in stubble. Young. And on his head was a helmet decorated with what the Americans called a Confederate flag — the “Stars and Bars” of the Old South. Von Stenger knew his American military history better than most Americans.

He also knew that helmet and that face. It was the American sniper who had challenged him in the days following Normandy.

Von Stenger put the crosshairs on the man’s forehead and let his finger put pressure on the trigger.

Goodbye, Ami.

Cole started to worry that they had outstayed their welcome. These Germans were not going to let a handful of snipers bring the entire column to a halt. If any of the Germans had been paying attention, there was a good chance that someone had figured out where the shots were coming from. There were an awful lot of Germans and an awful lot of firepower they could bring to bear.

Like a tank. Like several tanks.

He put the scope back on the King Tiger at the side of the road, just in time to see the massive turret swivel slowly in his direction. Cole took his eye away from the scope and took a chance, popping his head above the wall just long enough to make sure he was seeing this right. Even without the scope he saw the barrel jig up, then back down, as the gunner tried to get the range right.

Nothing melted your insides quite so much as looking down the barrel of a tank.

He gave Jolie a shove. “Run!”

Then the air ripped apart around Von Stenger. The panzer had fired.

Von Stenger’s rifle never wavered, but the tank shell struck just short of the wall, erupting in a geyser of frozen mud and snow.

He moved quickly to reacquire the target, but the sniper was gone. The tank fired again, demolishing the wall.

Out on the road, the column surged forward. The sniper fire dwindled, and then disappeared. Any snipers that were not dead had slipped away.

Von Stenger slid down from the sloping trunk of the windfall. Schiffer was waiting for him, stamping his feet to stay warm.

“Did you get him, Herr Hauptmann?”

“No, but the tank sent them scurrying like rats. Don’t worry, we will have another chance at him.”

They started back through the trees toward the road, Von Stenger leading the way. He was surprised to find himself humming a tune — a chord from the second act of Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, the scene in which the doomed lovers are finally alone together while the cruel king and his knights are hunting wolves in the forest. He had seen it in Berlin in 1933 during a special performance for the Führer. It was an opera so challenging and intricate that over the years it had literally killed one opera singer and two conductors.