David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

“No, sir.”

A second shot. This time the truck rolled into the field, but ever so slowly. It became clear that the first shot from the American sniper had killed the driver. The other man in the cab must have snatched the wheel, but now he, too, was dead. Without anyone to give it gas or downshift, the truck lurched a few times, then made a hopping motion like an overgrown steel rabbit. Then the engine shuddered and died, leaving them stranded in the field.

“There,” Schiffer whispered, excitement tinging his voice. “Ten o’clock. Just at the edge of the field.”

Von Stenger moved the rifle in that direction. Through the scope, he saw it, too. A puff of vapor caused by the sniper exhaling the breath he had held while making the second shot. Beneath it, Von Stenger could just see the outline of a helmet, even though an attempt had been made to camouflage it in white. The sniper had buried himself in the snow. Clever, clever.

Instantly, more by instinct than by any conscious formula, Von Stenger worked the calculations in his head. Wind. Distance. He put the bottom post of the sight just a little above and to the left of the sniper’s helmet and squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the rifle did not quite cover the hollow noise of the bullet striking home. The sound of a bullet hitting the target always reminded Von Stenger of how a pumpkin had sounded when, as a boy, he had dropped one out of a third story window to the stone-paved courtyard below. Whump. Such a satisfying sound.

“You got him!” cried Schiffer.

“Quiet,” Von Stenger barely breathed the words. “It is likely that he has a spotter.”

The snow seemed to explode upward, and then a white-garbed soldier was up and running like a rabbit. It was definitely the sniper’s spotter. A running shot was never easy, and the spotter had the good sense to run and dodge. Von Stenger fired, but he knew the shot was wrong as soon as he touched the trigger.

The spotter went down, though. Shot through the legs. He struggled to get his footing in the snow.

Von Stenger worked the bolt and let the crosshairs settle on the spotter, who was looking toward the truck, shouting something to someone in the woods, pointing—

There was another sniper in those trees. Von Stenger felt the hairs crawl on the back of his neck just before a bullet punched through the canvas. It missed Von Stenger, but Schiffer wasn’t so lucky. He caught a glimpse of Schiffer’s look of surprise at the fact that he had been shot. He put a hand to his neck, blood flowing between the fingers.

Von Stenger got back on the scope. In the seconds he had looked away, someone had run from the tree line toward the fallen spotter. The second sniper. He put the crosshairs on this target, but was surprised when the sniper dropped to one knee. What was that painted on his helmet? He looked through the scope and saw that the man’s rifle was aimed right at him. An instant later, a bullet plucked at the canvas, causing Von Stenger to flinch away.

“Scheiss!”

When he looked through the scope again, the sniper had managed to half drag, half carry the wounded spotter into the cover of the trees. Von Stenger put a bullet into the gray maze of branches where he had seen them disappear. Then Von Stenger kept his head down, below the metal cab. His skin crawled as he recalled how close the bullet had passed by his face.

No one was that good. Perhaps not even him. The man had dropped to one knee and fired a shot with amazing accuracy.

Memory flashed to a sight picture of what he had seen through the rifle scope. It was like seeing a photograph in his mind. The mental image clearly showed a Confederate flag painted on the American sniper’s helmet. You again. The hillbilly sniper.

“Breger?”

The Scharführer was trying to staunch the flow of blood in the wounded man’s neck. Schiffer was bleeding out, his eyes already glassy.

“If I had any bandages—”

“Leave him. I want you to get behind the wheel and drive this truck across the field into the woods. Head toward the tracks where those snipers disappeared.”

Breger looked as if Von Stenger had just asked him to drive to Mars. “Herr Hauptmann?”

“Do it! Use that machine pistol to lay down some covering fire, then make a run for the cab.”

Breger did as he was told, sliding out the back of the truck and running in a crouch toward the front of the cab, firing as he went. He dragged the dead man from the cab and slid behind the wheel, keeping low, expecting at any moment that a bullet would find him. Fortunately, as long as he kept his head down, there was a huge block of metal between him and the snipers.

He got his feet under the dash and worked the clutch, then hit the starter button. The engine thrummed to life, and he shifted into gear, heading across the field toward the trees.

He kept going. Driving blind. He risked a peek over the dash to get his bearings, then ducked down again.

And then they were at the tree line. He heard Von Stenger shout at him to keep going. Go where? The big tires churned over the snow-covered brush at the edge of the woods and then the truck was in among the trees themselves. The trip ended when the bumper connected with the trunk of a large oak tree. The frustrated motor surged, then stalled out. They had not been going fast, but Breger still found himself thrown hard against the dashboard.

Breger tumbled out, dragging the machine pistol with him. The snow was deep among the trees, and he slogged around to the back of the truck, where Von Stenger was taking his time getting out. Nonchalantly, he pulled on a white snow smock that dropped to below his knees. He flipped up the hood and covered his helmet.

Breger could only stare. He had thought this Wehrmacht officer was nothing but a fool and soft as butter. How wrong he had been. If there was something colder than the winter air, it must be the blood in Von Stenger’s veins.

As he climbed out of the truck, Von Stenger paused to look down at Schiffer. The young SS driver stared up sightlessly at the canvas ceiling. He had only known Schiffer for a short time, but he had seemed like a capable young man. A good soldier.

He searched within himself for some emotion and came up empty, other than a passing thought that it was too bad it wasn’t Breger laying there dead. Was that the best he could do in terms of emotion? What is wrong with me?

He got out and found Breger crouched beside the truck, trying to cover the entire woods with the machine pistol. Between the truck and the surrounding trees, they were well protected from any sniper fire.

“Relax,” he told Breger. “You can go back now.”

“Go back?” Breger sounded puzzled. He looked around at the trees. “Go back where?”

“To your unit, Scharführer Breger. I would recommend against walking through the middle of the field, of course, but you can work your way through the woods back to the road. I think the snipers are gone.”

“What about you, sir?” The “sir” was spoken with new respect.

“I am going after the snipers.”

Without further explanation, Von Stenger slipped away into the woods. He moved with an almost feline grace, managing to cross the snow without a sound. He ducked under branches and around brambles. With the white camouflage helping him blend into the snowy trees, he seemed to melt into the winter woods like another dollop of milk added to a cup of cafe au lait.

Beside the truck, Breger lost sight of him, blinking his eyes in disbelief. Von Stenger had disappeared… like a ghost. Breger was relieved that he was gone. His own commander cared deeply about his men. This officer was willing to toss lives away.