David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

Von Stenger shook his head. How long ago had the hillbilly slipped away? Probably when he had thrown the rock. Von Stenger had spent precious time maneuvering down the hillside, creeping up on the scarecrow.

With a sigh, Von Stenger reached for the coat.

A blur of movement registered and he started to duck and turn, but not before the sapling whipped at him and the three sharp stakes bit into his leg.

Von Stenger screamed.

Struggling up the hillside, Cole heard the scream and grinned. That would give the German something to chew on. Hopefully, it would also buy him some time. Once again, he was at a disadvantage because all that the German had to do was follow his tracks. As hunting went, it was not much of a challenge.

He could have stayed and tried to get the jump on Das Gespenst, but he had a more immediate problem — keeping from freezing to death. The temperature was in the low teens, and it was starting to snow again. The falling snow wrapped the woods in a hushed shroud and dark shadows filled the gaps between the trees.

Cole was not a big believer in ghosts and spirits, but he had to admit that this woods felt spooky.

He forced himself to move faster. He was so cold and exhausted that each step through the deep snow required Herculean effort. Running was impossible, but he managed to propel himself up the hill at a good pace. He got to the top, then half ran, half slid down toward the ravine below, and started up the hill on the other side.

The damaged rifle was only slowing him down, so he tossed it away.

If Von Stenger didn’t get him, the cold sure as hell would. Wet and without a coat, he needed shelter and warmth. The sun would be going down soon, and he didn’t like his chances of making it through the dark forest where every root and rock waited to trip him.

At the top of the next hill, his luck changed. The woods ended, opening to a field that sloped sharply toward the road. An old barn stood just beyond the trees.

Cole ran for it.

Von Stenger was angry. It took a lot for him to lose his temper. He prided himself on self control. An angry sniper was a dead sniper. Looking down at the stakes jutting from his leg, he realized he felt more anger than pain.

The American had set a trap, and he had walked right into it. He continued to underestimate this hillbilly sniper.

Gritting his teeth, he reached down and ripped the bloody spikes from his thigh. Fortunately, he wore heavy canvas trousers and thermal underwear, which had cushioned the blow. Still, the wooden stakes had done damage. One sharp stick had sunk at least two inches into the meat of his leg. It came out reluctantly, with a nauseating sucking sound. He took time to cut a strip from his snow camouflage smock and then wrapped it around his leg.

Gingerly, he tested his weight on the leg. It seemed to support him — not that he had any choice but to keep going.

He did not cross the creek immediately but worked his way back to the fallen log where he had crossed initially, then walked up the far bank, looking for tracks. He wasn’t so worried now about the American, who seemed more interested in fleeing than fighting. That alone was puzzling. What was the American’s motive?

His mind was a bit dazed from the pain, so at first he could not determine where the hillbilly had climbed out of the stream. Then it dawned on him that it was probably that the other sniper had simply stepped back into his old tracks, retracing his steps through the snow.

Von Stenger followed the footprints back up the hill and down the other side. It seemed unlikely that the American had simply lost his nerve and fled. Was he more badly wounded than Von Stenger had supposed? He was wet and cold — certainly that was a factor. But a man like this hillbilly—

That’s when he saw the rifle, tossed away beside the tracks. At first he thought it might be another trap, but looking more closely, he saw the damaged telescopic sight.

The American no longer had a functional weapon.

Smiling to himself, Von Stenger picked up his pace, wincing in pain with each step.

He struggled to reach the crest of the hill and saw the barn in the clearing ahead.

Is this where you have gone to ground, Ami? I am coming for you.

Most of the farm country in these parts had been abandoned, and the barn was as empty as the countryside. Cole slipped inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, knife at the ready. It was the only weapon he still had.

Somewhere in the rafters, some pigeons cooed. He took that as a sign that no one else was in the barn.

Quickly, he looked around the barn. Anything of value had been picked clean. He had been hoping to find an old horse blanket or a piece of canvas — anything that he could use for a coat. The only item he could find was a dry-rotted grain sack that crumbled to shreds in his hands. Though the barn offered some shelter, it was hardly warm.

He kept looking. The barn smelled strongly of horses and cows, but there was no recent evidence of livestock. The farmer had long since cleared them out.

His eyes fell on a broken rake and a wooden shovel, hanging from a post. Just the thing if he wanted to plant a garden, but not much use now. He looked a little higher and noticed another wooden object hanging from the rafters. Intrigued, he took a closer look. It was a homemade toboggan, about six feet long, built of slats fitted together and then curved at one end. There was a fine layer of wax on the slats to help the wood slide over the snow. Some kids had used this toboggan not that long ago — even the war couldn’t stop some things, like kids going sled riding. The long, sloping hill below the barn would be perfect.

He left the toboggan and continued prowling through the barn. Nothing useful, unless you had a need for moldy straw and horse turds.

He was still figuring out what to do when a bullet zipped through the open door and punched a hole in the barn wall, inches from his head. The shot had come from the forest.

Von Stenger had found him.

At that same moment, out the window, he caught sight of movement on the road below. The dusty windows were hard to see through, so he rubbed a corner clean with his finger. He saw the deuce and a half trucks with the big white star on the door and figured it was a German unit driving the captured trucks. His heart sank.

Then he spotted GIs trailing the trucks. Unlike the Germans, most Americans hadn’t been issued white camo. For the first time that afternoon, his spirits lifted. He saw a Wolverine tank destroyer mounting a 3-inch gun, and two or three Jeeps, along with a couple of dozen men on foot. Not a large unit, but one that had, so far, managed to elude the larger German force.

They would have food, and they would be able to patch up his wound. He just had to get down there.

The problem was that crossing the open field would leave him exposed to the woods — where Das Gespenst was now waiting, bent on revenge. Also, he didn’t like his chances walking down to the road toward a bunch of trigger happy GIs.

But if he was going to catch up with the GIs, he had to do it soon. Otherwise, he would miss his opportunity to link up with his own troops.

He could stay and get shot at by the German sniper, or take his chances with the GIs. It was six of one, half dozen of another.

Another bullet punched through the barn.

Now or never.

He glanced up again at the toboggan. His mind made up, he lifted it down.

Had he hit something?

Von Stenger glimpsed a figure silhouetted inside.

He worked the bolt and walked closer, then fired again toward where he had seen the American’s shadow.