David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

Leave it to Patton to put it crudely. Eisenhower didn’t care for Patton’s choice of words, but silently he agreed it was about as good a source as any, at least where Hitler was concerned. No one had thought the Germans capable of this kind of surge. They were supposed to be on the ropes. Broken. Yet they had somehow staged this counterattack in complete secrecy, much as the Allies had done in planning the D-Day invasion. Now, it was their turn to be surprised, and Eisenhower didn’t like it one bit. Being Supreme Allied Commander meant being under constant scrutiny, and the surprise attack made him seem unprepared.

He took a gulp of coffee, then a drag on his cigarette.

At first, no one had wanted to believe the scope and scale of the attack, hoping that it was only a feint. The reports coming back from the Ardennes region soon crushed that hope. The Germans were attacking in force. The question was, how to stop them? That was the job of the men in the room.

There was Omar Bradley, a calm and even-keeled presence — at least as far as battlefield generals went. General Jacob Devers was there, and so was British General Sir Arthur Tedder, who served as Eisenhower’s deputy.

And Patton was there, of course. He was the best-dressed officer in the room, with a polished steel helmet and ivory-handled pistols. Somehow, he managed to wear more general’s stars than all the other generals in the room put together.

Patton came from old money and felt quite at home on the world stage. He also knew tactics, having learned them first-hand as a boy from none other than John Singleton Mosby, the Gray Ghost of the Confederacy, who had been a friend of Patton’s grandfather. The old soldiers used to take the boy riding with them, and some of Mosby’s boldness had worn off on the impressionable boy. But where Mosby had been sly like a fox, Patton was more like a charging bull.

He was also Ike’s most problematic general. In fact, Ike had almost been forced to sack him when Patton started slapping shell-shocked soldiers and berating them as cowards. Eisenhower had tried to sweep the incidents under the rug, but the press had caught wind of it. Anyone who had been in combat in this war knew well enough that those soldiers were not cowards. They had simply had all that they could take.

Back home, Americans did not take kindly to the news. These suffering boys could be their sons and brothers Patton was slapping around. Who did he think he was, anyhow?

Ike had managed to save Patton’s job by having him make public apologies to the soldiers he had slapped, along with apologies to the hospital staff who had witnessed these incidents. Patton hadn’t liked eating crow, but he liked being a general, so he had done as Ike told him.

Now, here was a chance to redeem his reputation.

“I’ve got a plan,” Patton announced to the room. “We can kick these Nazi sons of bitches all the way back to Berlin.”

The others looked at him with interest. It was true that Patton was full of himself, but he did not make idle boasts.

“We’re spread too thin,” another officer pointed out. “We’ll never get troops there in time to reinforce our lines. The Germans are going to push right through.”

“I’ll have the Third Army there in hours,” Patton said confidently.

“George, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Eisenhower said. He lit another cigarette. The air in the room was hazy with tobacco smoke.

“My boys will be there. You can bet on it.”

After Patton had outlined his plan, the generals looked at the battlefield map. They hated to admit it, but they had few options. Eisenhower gave his approval.

As the meeting broke up, there were a few subdued exchanges of “Merry Christmas.” Nobody felt all that merry.

Except for Patton. He hummed Jingle Bells as he left the room.

Unbeknownst to Eisenhower or anyone else in the room, his boys were already on their way to relieve the embattled forces in the Ardennes region. He had given the orders even before the meeting, taking a gamble that Eisenhower would approve.

Already, hundreds of tanks and thousands of men were on the move to the Ardennes. Once they got there, it would be another nail in the coffin of Operation Watch on Rhine.

Until then, the American forces would just have to hang on and stop the German juggernaut as best they could.

“Obersturmbannführer Friel has orders for you,” said Breger, the scar-faced sergeant. Von Stenger recognized him immediately. Having watched him shoot down the American POWs, Von Stenger was not going to forget Breger anytime soon.

Von Stenger looked around for Friel, but he was nowhere in sight. By now, the column was stretched like a rubber band — the front part raced toward Friel’s objective of crossing the Meuse River and advancing into France, while the slower end dragged along behind. Somehow, Friel still had time to worry about the placement of a single sniper.

“And what are the Obersturmbannführer’s orders?”

“You are needed at the rear of the column,” Breger said. The barely suppressed grin on the Scharführer’s face suggested that he liked giving orders as a proxy. “We are being harassed by snipers. In fact, I believe the Obersturmbannführer’s exact words were, ‘I don’t want those GIs coming up the road after us and fucking me in the ass.’”

That sounded about right. For all his polished ways, Friel had a soldier’s foul mouth. “How many snipers?”

“Who knows? Who cares? But you are the expert, so the Obersturmbannführer was sure you would take care of it.”

Von Stenger raised an eyebrow. He was sure that last bit was the sergeant’s own invention. It was clear by now that Breger was one of those noncommissioned officers who despised officers. Perhaps all of them did, come to think of it — but most were better at hiding it.

“I will see what I can do to protect the Obersturmbannführer’s ass,” he said. He started to turn away, irritated by the sergeant, but then turned back to Breger, raising one finger as he did so, as if he had just had an idea. Which, in fact, he had. “I could use another man. However, it is dangerous work, Breger, so you would not want to undertake it yourself. You are too valuable, of course. You may have someone in your unit you can spare. Preferably a man who fears nothing.”

As expected, the Scharführer was insulted. “You call shooting a few snipers dangerous work? Sir, I can tell you—”

“When you find a man for the job, send him to me,” Von Stenger said curtly, and turned away.

“I will go myself,” Breger said. “There is no need for another.”

“Very well,” Von Stenger said. “Be ready in ten minutes. And Breger — see if you can find a machine pistol.”

Breger stood there for a moment after the sniper walked away, realization coming over him that Von Stenger had tricked him into something. He gazed after the sniper, eyes smoldering, then stomped away to get his gear.

Von Stenger walked over to the Schwimmwagen, where his SS driver waited.

“Leave the vehicle,” Von Stenger said. “Put on your warmest clothes — in fact, put on all your clothes — and bring your weapon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Minutes later, the Scharführer joined them, carrying an MP 40 submachine gun, and the trio set off for the rear of the column. They faced an oncoming stream of vehicles and men.

“Are we going to walk the whole way?” griped the sergeant, in a tone that made it clear that he thought the sniper must be an idiot. “It could be miles in this mess!”

Von Stenger did not answer. It was indeed hard going, like swimming against the tide. The passage of so many vehicles had churned the road into a soup of slush, mud, and spilled diesel fuel and motor oil. Tanks, trucks, and military vehicles of almost every description formed the oncoming current. The faces of the troops they passed looked grim, many of them pale with cold and fatigue. But they held their heads high. They were on the offensive. They were gaining ground, bringing the fight to the Americans. No one had felt this way in months. It was almost possible to ignore the cold, gray air around them.