David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

The problem, however, was that the American could be hiding anywhere along the stream. He would be waiting for Von Stenger to walk right into his sights.

He stopped to consider his options.

Leap and the net will appear, Goethe said.

He looked across the creek to the hill that rose on the other side. If he could get up on that hill, he would be looking down at the creek to pick up on any movements that the other sniper made.

Von Stenger possessed a cartographer’s mind. He constantly charted every hill and tree and rock he saw, creating a running map of vantage points where a sniper could hide — or where danger might be hidden. It was something he did unconsciously, but he could remember miles and miles of territory that he had crossed. Even indoors, he behaved the same way, always sitting with his back to the wall and memorizing the entrances and exits.

He retraced his steps to the point where he had first come down to the creek, then walked upstream until it went around a bend — no sense giving the American a straight shot at him. He soon came to another log that spanned the entire creek from bank to bank.

He walked across the log, keeping his rifle at the ready. He was not worried about leaving tracks — he was the one following the hillbilly, not the other way around.

He then worked his way up the bank, moving slowly and deliberately in an effort to minimize the noise he made crossing the snow. It would be to his advantage if the American was not aware that Von Stenger was on the hill behind him.

As stealthy as he tried to be, it was almost impossible to move without a sound. His feet betrayed him, sinking down through the snow. A branch cracked under foot, although the sound was muffled by the snow. He swore silently under his breath and moved on.

He found a spot behind a fallen log that gave him a clear view of the creek below.

And then he settled down to wait. With any luck, the American’s next move would be his last.

Cole shivered. He could only ignore the cold to a point, considering that his legs were soaked through. His wet feet had gone numb with cold. Considering that the temperature was below freezing, frostbite was a real danger.

Wading into the creek had been a calculated risk. The truth was that he would rather take a chance on frostbite than a bullet from Von Stenger, whose only challenge would be to follow his tracks to his hiding place.

He waited for Von Stenger to come down the creek bank, looking for where Cole’s tracks came out of the water. He kept the rifle pointed in that direction, expecting at any moment for Von Stenger to appear. At this range, he had a good chance of hitting him, even without the telescopic sight.

Moments passed, then minutes, but there was no sign of the German.

Where had he gone?

As more time passed, Cole knew that he had to move. He was wet, he was wounded — he needed to find shelter before nightfall, which would come early here in the Ardennes.

He was just getting ready to move when he heard a sound on the hillside above him. Had that been a twig snapping?

He swung the rifle in that direction, but there was nothing to see but trees and snow.

As Cole scanned the hillside above him, a chilling realization gripped him even more strongly than the cold. If Von Stenger had somehow managed to get above him, Cole was in real danger. He had to hand it to the Kraut for being a tricky bastard.

If he had not heard that twig snap, he might have gotten up and started walking — which would have gotten him killed. From that hill, the German could see anything that moved.

But Cole had to move — it was either that, or freeze to death. Ain’t much of a choice. The winter day was short, and already the light was fading. Once the sun went down, the temperature would drop fiercely, and navigating the woods in the dark would be nearly impossible.

He kept still for a while and thought it through. Von Stenger didn’t even have to shoot him. The German simply had to wait for the cold and the wound to do their work. His shoulder still bled from the Ghost Sniper’s parting shot. He had lost enough blood to make him lightheaded.

Cole had to get out of these woods. He had to get someplace warm and dry. He needed to have his shoulder tended to. It was a matter of survival. But without a functional rifle, how in the world could he get the upper hand on the German?

He needed to trick him.

By waiting for the cold to do its work, the German was expecting to find a dead man. Why not give him one?

Jolie and the Kid moved through the trees with as much stealth as possible. They had no idea how many Germans might be waiting out there. They stopped from time to time, listening, but heard nothing but some distant machine gun fire. Not so much as a breath of wind stirred the pine boughs.

Cautiously, she approached the truck that the Germans had driven into the trees. She poked the .45 into the cab, but saw a dead body slumped across the seat.

Cole had been right — he was the one that the Germans wanted. She saw another set of tracks following his into the forest. Still more tracks followed the tire ruts back across the field toward the road.

“How is your leg?” she asked the Kid.

“It’s not too bad.” He explained that the bullet had mostly caught the baggy winter camouflage and thermal underwear. The force was enough to knock him down, but he had hardly more than a scratch on his leg.

“Wait here,” she said. “I have an idea.”

Jolie looked out into the field where McNulty’s body lay nearly hidden in the snow. She wanted his sniper rifle.

She took a deep breath and jogged into the field, praying that she was right about the Germans leaving the area. No shots rang out, and she soon had the rifle in her hands. She returned to the Kid.

“Now what?” he asked.

“We do what Cole told us,” she said. “Find the lieutenant and Vaccaro, or find another American unit.”

“What if the Germans find us first?”

Jolie waved the .45. “Then I will shoot as many as I can, and save the last bullet for myself.”

They started for the road, keeping to the cover of the trees. The Germans would be moving west, so their best bet seemed to be to follow the road east, in hopes of stumbling across any American units that had been cut off in the German’s rear.

Though it was still afternoon, a winter gloom had settled over the woods, which explained why they did not see the figure in the trees until almost the last minute.

Jolie pushed the Kid toward the forest. “Hide!” she urged in a harsh whisper. She pressed McNulty’s rifle into his hands. He started to protest, but she put a hand on his shoulder. “I do not know if these are Americans or Germans. If they are Germans, they will shoot you on sight. I am wearing civilian clothes, so I may be able to talk my way out of it.”

A moment later, the soldier spotted her and stepped into the road, aiming a submachine gun at Jolie. One touch of the trigger, and she would be cut in two. He wore a white camouflage smock over his uniform and his helmet was also wrapped in white.

“Hände hoch!” he shouted. Hands up!

Jolie’s heart sank. But she had no intention of surrendering. She curled her fingers tensely around the .45 in her pocket.

“Thank God,” she said in German. “I was worried you were Americans.”

The soldier was not buying it. He kept the weapon pointed right at her. “Get your hands out of your pockets.”

“What do you mean?” Perhaps playing dumb would buy her a few seconds. In her pocket, she pointed the pistol in his direction and started to squeeze the trigger. To her dismay, three more soldiers materialized from the shadows of the trees. How many shots did she have? She had meant what she had said to Hank about saving the last bullet for herself. She would not be captured alive by the Germans. She knew well enough what they did to prisoners.