David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

Finally, they neared the end of the column. Traffic thinned out. A lieutenant in a jeep was pulled to one side, supervising a crew pushing a truck out of a muddy rut. His eyes fastened on the telescopic sight on Von Stenger’s rifle and he waved his driver toward him.

“Sir, those American snipers back there are chewing us to pieces. It is like a shooting gallery, and we are the targets.”

“How far back?”

“A couple of miles. You will hear them shooting — or should I say, it may be the last thing that you hear.”

As Von Stenger shifted to get his left boot out of a puddle, his coat opened slightly, revealing the Knight’s Cross at his throat. The young lieutenant caught sight of it and his eyes widened.

“Sir, are you Von Stenger? I have seen your photograph. What an honor! Those Americans do not stand a chance.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Von Stenger said, oddly touched. “And thank you for this information. I will shoot a sniper for you.”

They moved on, laboring through the half-frozen mud. The SS sergeant smoked a cigarette but kept his mouth shut with the air of the long-suffering soldier saddled with an idiot for an officer. Finally, Von Stenger saw what he was looking for — a captured United States Army truck with an olive drab canvas top. The truck was moving slowly enough that Von Stenger simply stepped out in front of it and raised a hand in a gesture that indicated “stop,” like a gendarme directing traffic on a Paris street. He walked up to the driver’s open window.

“Sir?” the puzzled driver asked. Another man sat next to him. They both had their helmets off. One man was gray-haired, while the other’s bald head gleamed. Both were deep into middle age. Clearly, even the SS was running low on men at this late hour of the war.

“Turn this truck around,” Von Stenger said. “You are returning to the rear of the column with me and two of my men.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver did not look happy, but he did not argue. “How far back do you want me to go?”

“You will know when to stop.”

Schiffer came up. “Do you want me to drive, Herr Hauptmann?” he asked. “Those two old men look like grandpas.”

“They will serve their purpose. You and Breger will get in back with me.”

Breger suffered a momentary lapse in patience. “In back? With no heat? We should kick them out so we can ride up front!”

“You may thank me later,” Von Stenger said. “Now, get in.”

The truck was empty except for a couple of abandoned crates — whatever supplies it had carried had been stripped by the SS. Von Stenger mused that Friel would have had a conniption at the thought of a truck burning up that precious petrol so that a couple of over-the-hill soldiers wouldn’t have to walk. The truck was a two and a half ton GMC — nicknamed a “Deuce and a half” by the Allies. The countryside had crawled with them all summer and fall as the Red Ball Express worked to keep the Americans supplied with everything from ammo to dry socks. The trucks were made by the thousands in Pontiac, Michigan, in stark contrast to the steadily declining numbers of German trucks. One reason why the Allies were so surprised by Operation Wacht am Rhein was that no one thought it possible that the Germans still had so many vehicles.

The truck had a wooden bed and metal sides that came up about knee high. Metal hoops held the canvas roof taut. The front of the canvas covering rose about two feet above the cab itself. There was a little extra canvas material hanging down, so Von Stenger cut free a long strip of it.

Schiffer started to sit down on one of the wooden benches that ran the length of both sides of the bed. “ Nein,” Von Stenger said. “Stand here behind the cab. You will want as much metal as possible in front of you, believe me. But first, we have some chores to do. Drag those empty crates over here.”

Once Schiffer had done so, Von Stenger stood on one of them. It was hard to keep his balance as the truck churned along the road, back the way it had come. He slung the rifle over one shoulder to keep it handy. Then he drew his sheath knife and cut a six-inch slit in the canvas, beginning just about even with the top of the truck’s cab.

He handed the knife to Schiffer. “Cut a slit eight inches long, parallel to the top of the truck cab.”

“Parallel, sir?”

“Yes, like this.” Von Stenger mimicked the motion of cutting the canvas, then reached into his pack and took out the binoculars. Once Schiffer had made the cut, he traded Schiffer the binoculars for the knife. “Now, you are my spotter. The sniper will fire once or twice — or more if he is not a very good sniper. I want you to see where he is shooting from. Don’t worry, he won’t see you — the last thing he’ll be looking for is a pair of binoculars poking through the canvas. Imagine that you are looking at a clock face. You tell me where on the clock face the sniper is hiding.”

“What am I looking for?”

“No one is invisible,” Von Stenger said. “In this cold, you will likely see his breath. It is dark enough in the trees that you may spot a muzzle flash. The American sniper rifles are usually single shot like our own, so you may see the movement of him working the bolt. Whatever you do, don’t blink, and don’t fall off the crate.”

Von Stenger took the strip of extra canvas he had cut and wrapped it around his rifle barrel. The paint of the truck and the dye of the canvas were very close in color. Once the barrel was wrapped, he put the rifle through the vertical slit. The road far ahead of the truck sprang into view, but only a narrow circle of it. He would have to depend on Schiffer to be his eyes.

Breger spoke up. “Why am I along for the ride?” he asked.

“There is a possibility that the snipers may have a crossfire set up,” Von Stenger said. “So, you have the machine pistol to make them keep their heads down in case there is a sniper behind us. Keep low, behind the tailgate. It is made of steel, so it should give you some protection.”

With the soldiers in position, they waited. Several minutes passed. It seemed to grow colder and colder in the truck. At his post behind the tailgate, Breger cursed as he began to shiver. Von Stenger had trained himself to be inured to cold and physical discomfort — he would not have survived long as a sniper otherwise. However, he wished that he had not had quite so much coffee previously. It had warned him up, but now his bladder practically sloshed around as the truck bounced over the rough road. It was only a minor annoyance and he focused his thoughts elsewhere.

He did not take his eye off the scope. Soon, they began passing the detritus left by the passing column — everything from the empty wrappings of rations to abandoned vehicles that were either broken down or too mired in the muddy road to be moved.

“How far are we going?” Breger wondered. “Back to Berlin? All the fighting is in the other direction, Herr Hauptmann.”

“Keep your eyes open,” Von Stenger replied. “It won’t be long now.”

The driver downshifted to gain traction in the mud, slowing the truck down. Von Stenger began to wonder if his plan was such a good idea, after all. At the rate they were going, it was true that they would soon be halfway back to Germany. They had been moving through wooded areas, but they reached a clearing that could have been a wheat field buried beneath the snow. Footsteps had disturbed the surface of the snow. Most likely these marks had been left by the passing German troops.

Whang. A shot ring out over the grinding of the engine. The truck lurched toward the snowy field, but then swung back into the road.

“Where are you?” hissed Von Stenger, desperately scanning the tree line. “Where are you hiding? Schiffer, do you see him yet?”