David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

His ears strained for some sound, some clue that he was being followed. Except for the occasional creak of branches overhead, the forest was silent. Not so much as a bird broke the quiet.

At the bottom of the forested hill, he was disappointed to find nothing more than an ice-locked ravine. Damn it all. It wasn’t what he had hoped for. The German would be coming, and Cole felt very exposed.

He started up the next hill, panting with the effort, and less careful about any noise he made. He needed speed and distance right now, not quiet. Once he got to the top, he heard just what he was hoping to hear. The sound of running water.

In the distance, he heard a branch snap.

He half ran, half slid down the other side of the hill toward the sound of the creek. At the bottom of the hill was a creek maybe twenty feet wide and a couple of feet deep. The water moved fast enough that it had kept ice from forming.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Cole plunged into the stream, instantly getting soaked up to his knees. Even if the water wasn’t frozen, it definitely felt like ice. Already, his lower legs grew numb.

He waded with the current, trying not to make too much noise. He slung his damaged rifle and used his arms to keep his balance on the slippery stones under his boots. It was bad enough to get his legs and feet wet. If he fell in, the cold would get him before the German did. He noticed that his shoulder wasn’t bleeding so much — the blood had started to coagulate in the chill air.

Cole churned down the stream for about one hundred feet, until he spotted a log, bare of snow, that slanted down into the water. On an impulse, he moved past it until he came to a place maybe fifty yards down where a spring bubbled down into the main creek. The area was free of snow, yet was frozen solid enough that his boots would not leave tracks. He waded out of the creek and followed the frozen spring bed back into the woods. The frozen path did not go far, but it was enough. He looked back, just to make sure that he had left no tracks — or any blood.

Not a trace.

Satisfied, he worked his way back into a tangle of wild grapevines where he would be well hidden, but had a view of the creek. He rested his rifle over a fallen branch and settled down to wait. Von Stenger would have to be very close for Cole to shoot with any accuracy. He might just have to shove the rifle barrel up the Kraut’s ass in order not to miss. But with any luck, he had just gone from hunted to hunter.

Von Stenger thought that following the hillbilly sniper’s tracks was deceptively easy, like tracking a rabbit to its burrow.

All that was left to do was club it on the head.

At the same time, he was well aware that Cole was no rabbit. He was something with teeth and claws and fangs. He also carried a high-powered rifle, and he was a very good shot.

Von Stenger could be walking right into a trap.

Cautiously, with his Russian rifle at the ready, Von Stenger began to follow the American’s tracks through the snow. Moving quietly was almost impossible. Every step crunched. A branch cracked underfoot. He paused to listen. Heard nothing. Either Cole had managed to levitate himself and float across the snow, or he was too far ahead for Von Stenger to be able to hear him.

He focused on the trees ahead, but it was hard to see anything except a puzzle of gray and white. Again, he kept his eyes attuned to movement, any flicker that might give his target away.

Truth be told, Von Stenger did not particularly enjoy the woods and fields. While he had spent his share of time hunting — and then fighting — in forests and mountains, he supposed that he preferred pavement. Even the fighting in Stalingrad, as horrible as it had been, had been more to his liking because it had taken place across streets, shattered buildings, and rubble, not snow and trees and rocks. No, he did not love the woods, but he understood the tactics of fighting here well enough.

And this was no nature hike, after all. This hike would end when someone died — hopefully, it would not be him.

He tracked the American to the top of one hill and saw that the tracks ran down the other side of a hill toward a ravine. He carefully scoped the ravine at the bottom — it would have made a good sniper’s nest. Then he saw the tracks leading up the next hill. The other sniper was not laying in ambush down in the ravine, after all. He followed the tracks.

The hill was steep, and he was winded by the time he reached the top. He could only imagine what an effort it must have been for the American — the blood stains beside the American’s tracks were clearly evident. Each drop was big enough to leave a coin-sized spot of crimson, the heat of the blood melting down into the snow. The American must be in pain. The loss of blood would weaken him.

The amount of blood in the snow did not increase, however, and it certainly had not slowed him down. The American must have legs like iron.

If Von Stenger had only gotten his shot off faster, there would be no need to track the other man at all. The American would be dead back in that field, shot through the heart.

Next time.

Von Stenger paused at the top of the hill to catch his breath. He scoped the slope of the hill along the path of the sniper’s tracks. No sign of the American, other than the footprints and the blood.

He listened. What was that? Not footsteps in the snow, to be sure, but something that sounded like a splash. He was becoming a bit deaf in his right ear — firing too many rounds from a high velocity rifle tended to have that effect. It was an occupational hazard… much less serious than the other occupational hazard, which was what one might euphemistically call lead poisoning. He cupped his hand around his left ear and listened. No more splashing, but he could hear the sound of running water.

Von Stenger descended the hill as quickly as he dared. At the bottom was a shallow, fast-moving creek.

The American’s footsteps ended at the edge of the creek. That would explain the splashing he heard. He scanned the other side for some sign of where the American had come out, but no tracks disturbed the snow.

Clever, clever. The American was trying to throw him off the trail.

The water looked invitingly cold and clear. Pure. The other sniper was not in sight, so he bent down and scooped a handful of water toward his mouth. It was quite refreshing after his hike, although the water was so cold it made his teeth ache.

Still crouched down, rifle at the ready, he thought about what to do next. The obvious course of action was to follow the stream down and look for where the American sniper’s tracks emerged. He had no doubt that the other man must have moved downstream simply because wading against the icy current would have been quite challenging.

Von Stenger was not about to get in the water. With wet feet, he would not last long in this cold. The hillbilly had taken an awful gamble by wading down the stream. He had thrown Von Stenger off his trail, but at what cost? Frostbite?

Carefully, making each step as quiet as possible, he moved down the bank. His hearing might not be as sharp as it once was, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes. He scanned the creek banks for any sign that the hillbilly had climbed out, but the snow remained undisturbed.

He followed a pattern: step, scan, step…

Slowly, he worked his way down the bank.

Then he saw it — a log sloping down into the creek at an angle that would be just right to walk up. There was just a dusting of snow on the log — not enough to display tracks. If Cole was looking to get out of the water without leaving a trace, the log was the perfect spot.

Von Stenger was sure that if he kept going down the bank, and the American was already out of the water waiting for him, then he would just be walking into a bullet.