David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

Breger got a good grip on the submachine gun, then looked around at the snowy woods pressing in around him. Now what?

From several yards away, Cole, Jolie, and the Kid watched the truck driven by the Germans crash into the trees. Cole had no doubt that the German sniper had survived. And not just any sniper — he was sure it must be Das Gespenst in the back of that truck. Who else was such a good shot, or half as clever?

He stared down at the rifle in his hands. The enemy sniper’s bullet had only grazed him, but it had smashed the telescopic sight on the Springfield. The rifle was next to useless.

He turned to Jolie. She was busy wrapping a scarf around the Kid’s leg, trying to staunch some of the blood flowing from the wound. The Kid winced. Fortunately for him, it was not a fatal wound, although it would definitely slow him down in this snow.

McNulty hadn’t been so lucky. Cole could see the body sprawled in the snow, half hidden by the dirty white camouflage smock.

“Go!” Cole shouted at Jolie and the Kid. “You need to get out of here. Those Kraut bastards are coming after us.”

“I am not going anywhere,” Jolie said.

“This ain’t the time to argue. The Kid is hurt and you need to get him out of here.”

Jolie muttered something filthy and French under her breath.

“Listen up,” Cole said. “See if you can link up with Mulholland and Vaccaro. If you can’t find them, then you’re bound to run into one of our units. We can’t be the only Americans in all of the Ardennes Forest. You can get the Kid some help and get yourself the hell away from these goddamn SS bastards.”

“That sounds like you are not coming with us,” Jolie said. “What are you going to do?”

“Nail that Nazi sniper’s hide to the barn door.”

“Maybe you killed him just now.”

Cole shook his head. “If I did, that would have to be the luckiest shot since Robin Hood split that arrow. No, he’s still in that truck. He’s going to come looking for us.”

“You are wounded,” Jolie said with concern, reaching for his bloodstained sleeve.

Cole pulled his arm away. “It’s just a scratch.”

The sniper’s parting shot had indeed clipped him as he dragged the Kid into the woods, gouging a furrow across his upper arm. It burned like hell, but it was only a flesh wound. Lucky for him, their old friend Das Gespenst must have been having an off day.

Cole was more concerned about the damage to his rifle. The telescopic sight was ruined. The Springfield was not equipped with an iron sight, which meant it was now useless. All he could do was point and shoot. That worked all right with a shotgun, but with the rifle Cole could not hit anything beyond spitting distance with any accuracy.

McNulty’s rifle was out in that field, probably clogged with snow, but with the Germans nearby he didn’t want to chance going out in the open to retrieve it. Jolie still had the lieutenant’s pistol — and she might be needing it. That left him with a damaged rifle and a hunting knife.

“I’ll be all right,” he said. “You and the Kid get out of here. It’s me he wants. It’s me he’ll come after.”

“Cole—” Jolie started to say more, but then stopped herself.

“Go on,” he said. “Get out of here.”

“Vous revenez à moi ou je te tue moi,” she said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It is French for, ‘Good luck, you stubborn horse’s ass.’”

Cole grinned. “Now git. We ain’t got all day.”

Jolie and the Kid worked their way through the woods, keeping near the edge of the field but under cover of the trees. Fortunately, the Kid was skinny, and Jolie was able to put his arm over her shoulders to take some of the weight off his wounded leg.

Cole heard a door opening in the wrecked truck, but he couldn’t see more through the trees. He waited until he was sure Jolie and the Kid were not being followed by the Germans, then headed deeper into the woods. He was sure he would lead the sniper away from them, as surely as a mouse lures the cat.

Von Stenger kept to the edge of the woods, looking for where the American snipers’ footprints entered the trees. The path of the truck had roughly followed their footsteps, so he did not have to go far.

Every sense was tuned to the woods around him. The enemy might be lurking anywhere. As a sniper, he had trained his eyes to seek motion rather than try to distinguish shapes among the puzzle of trees. Something gray flickered across his vision and his rifle was halfway to his shoulder before his brain registered that it was only a bird. Even his nose tried to pick up any smell that did not belong in the forest — men smelled like leather, damp wool, cigarettes, spearmint gum, gunpowder — smells that could carry surprisingly far on the winter air.

The silence of the woods was a little too quiet — someone had passed this way recently — or could still be waiting in ambush. He moved more slowly, rifle at the ready. The last thing he wanted to do was walk right into the sights of the Americans — or surprise them in their hiding place.

He soon found what he was looking for, the place where their tracks came into the trees. Two sets of tracks, none too neat, considering that one man was helping the other.

And blood on the snow.

Against the white snow, the blood stood out clearly as a full moon in the night sky.

There was not enough blood to indicate a fatal wound, but his bullet had found some piece of its target.

He followed the tracks to where they stopped just inside the tree line. To his surprise there was another set of tracks, indicating a third man. A spotter? Or another sniper? Two sets of tracks moved back toward the field. Again, he saw flecks of blood on the snow. One of these men was wounded.

Curiously, a set of tracks moved away, deeper into the woods. Blood also spotted the snow beside these tracks. He could almost see it steaming in the cold.

Von Stenger could read these tracks like a story. The two sets of tracks leading into the field did not concern him much. One man was slightly wounded; the other man was providing a shoulder to lean on.

The lone set of tracks headed deeper into the forest. Away from any help. Why? Because they belonged to a man just like him. The hillbilly sniper. Wounded but still very dangerous, like some cornered predator. Inviting Von Stenger to follow him rather than the two who had fled to help and safety. Deep in the woods, once and for all, they could settle this matter of who was the better man.

Von Stenger accepted the challenge.

The forest soon closed in around Cole. The snow-covered ground and frosted branches absorbed any sound. The wound alternately ached and burned, but it did not impede him.

Here in the woods, he was in his element. It did not matter if these were the hills of the Ardennes, or the mountains back home. He might not know the lay of the land here, but he understood the rules of survival.

It would just be the two of them now. Cole and the Ghost Sniper. He would have liked his chances better if he’d had a working rifle.

The first thing he had to do was to turn the tables. The German sniper would be coming after him, and Cole’s trail was far too clear. He was leaving tracks in the snow, as well as blood.

The situation was like being in an aerial dogfight — you were at a disadvantage if you were the plane out front. The pilot behind you could just settle in and pick you off. To win the dogfight, you had to turn the tables and get behind your opponent.

All Cole had were his own two feet, but that was enough. He moved downhill, rather than seeking the higher ground. Normally, being up high would be to his advantage. But he needed to outfox Das Gespenst, so he moved downhill as quickly as he could, hoping that he had enough of a head start on the German. The trees would hopefully screen his movements — but all the man had to do was follow Cole’s tracks. The German would know the general direction Cole had taken, but Cole would not really know where the German was coming from.