David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

“Jolie will think of something,” he said. “I reckon she always does. And if she don’t, we’ll just have to go get her.”

Having left the barn and the American unit behind, Von Stenger spent the long winter twilight making his way back to Kampfgruppe Friel. He paused to bind the gash in his leg tightly, and then started along the road. He would have preferred keeping to the woods and fields, but the deep snow would have slowed him too much. Fortunately, the dusk provided good cover.

Here in no-man’s land, it could just as easily be Americans coming along the road as Germans, so he kept ready to dodge into the trees at any moment.

The wound did not slow him down much. From outward appearances, Von Stenger was an aristocrat used to the finer things in life. Somehow, he always managed to keep his uniform clean — it was as if mud and dirt would not stick to him. Those who judged him to be a soft man were soon proven wrong. Von Stenger came from the upper class, it was true, but deep in his veins ran the much older blood of the Germanic barbarians who had swarmed across the frozen Rhine to strike fear in the hearts of the Roman Legions, the Gauls, and anyone else who stood in their way.

His leg hurt, but he managed to ignore it. If anything, it served as a reminder that come what may, he would pay back this American hillbilly sniper. Von Stenger felt that his honor was at stake. How could he let a man like that escape him? No, Von Stenger would hunt him down and shoot him to prove who was the better sniper.

He soon heard the whine of an oncoming engine struggling through the snow and half-frozen mud. He slipped between the white-coated tree trunks and disappeared. Only when he saw that it was a German half track did he step back out on the road. It turned out to be a scout patrol that had been spying on the American column just behind them. They gave him a ride back to the Kampfgruppe.

“Kurt,” Friel said with obvious delight upon seeing him. “I thought we had lost you.”

“Come now,” Von Stenger said, unable to hide a smile. “You give those American snipers too much credit.”

“That is good to hear,” Friel said. The Obersturmbannführer looked exhausted — clearly he had not slept in days as he exhorted his men forward. In some men, the lack of sleep would have made them look older, but exhaustion had the opposite effect on Friel. He wasn’t even thirty yet, and at the moment he looked very boyish. “I can do without them picking us off. Now, how are you at shooting down planes? If this weather clears, we will have a lot more to worry about than a few pesky snipers.”

“I am afraid a rifle is not much use against an airplane. Might I suggest using the Wirbelwind anti-aircraft guns? The planes will come in low.”

“That is what I like about you, Kurt. You have a sense of humor.” He waved in the direction of a truck directly behind them. “Get something to eat and drink. There is a good bordeaux, I believe. And have someone look at that leg. It appears the Amis gave you more trouble than you let on. Oh, and something else. We captured one of their snipers.”

Von Stenger looked up with interest. “Yes?”

“Not a soldier. A woman. French, by the way. The defiant sort of bitch you might expect. She made no secret of the fact that she was fighting with the American snipers. I am going to question her again in the morning and then have her shot, if I can remember it, ha, ha.”

“Do you mind if I ask her a few questions?”

“Go right ahead.”

At that, Friel roared off to manage one of the countless tasks facing a commander. He seemed to be everywhere at once, telling a limping soldier to get off his feet for a while and change his socks, even pausing to help push a stuck vehicle out of the mud. His men loved him for it. Some in the Kampfgruppe had been with him since Russia, and they would follow him to hell and back if it came to it.

Gratefully, Von Stenger climbed into the truck. Darkness would not be bringing the German advance to a halt. Friel was determined to cross the Meuse River and make a race along the better roads that led to the strategically important city of Antwerp, no matter what. The column crept onward through the cold, frozen night.

A medic sent by Friel cleaned and bandaged his wound. By then, Von Stenger had opened the bordeaux and was a little drunk. He ate some cheese and bread with the wine. For some reason, it made him think of Goethe: “If you’ve never eaten while crying you don’t know what life tastes like.”

The medic interrupted his thoughts by asking, “How far did you say you walked on this?”

“As far as I had to.”

The medic shook his head in disbelief. “I will need to stitch these wounds.”

“Do your worst.”

First, the medic washed out the wounds, making them bleed anew. Von Stenger drank more wine. The medic worked deftly, pulling the edges of each gash together, then stitching them closed. He finished with a liberal dose of sulfa powder.

“You must keep off your feet for a while.”

“Thank you for that advice, Herr Doktor. Perhaps you can write the enemy a note to that effect so that they go easy on me. Would you like some wine?”

“I am not a doctor, Herr Hauptmann. Just a medic.”

“And I am not a sommelier, but I can pour you a glass.”

The medic had to settle for a tin cup. He gulped it down and smacked his lips. “Thank you, Herr Hauptmann. I must go. Believe it or not, there are men with much worse wounds.”

Von Stenger sighed. “I am sure there are. Take some of this bread with you. I cannot eat it all.”

The medic left the flap open at the back of the truck. Though it caused him some pain, he climbed down and went in search of the captured sniper. He might not have bothered, except for the fact that Friel had described her as French. Something about that nagged at him. What was a French sniper — and a woman, at that — doing out here in the Ardennes? He took the bottle of wine along. If nothing else, he could offer her a drink.

One of Friel’s men pointed him in the right direction. He found her in the back of another truck. Nobody bothered to guard her, because her hands were tied together. No sooner had Von Stenger levered himself over the tailgate than the truck lurched forward. She was trying without much success to stay upright on a bench in the back.

He sat on the floor of the truck near the tailgate, and lit a cigarette. He was surprised when the woman gasped as the flame from the match illuminated his face. “So, you are a sniper,” he said in French.

“And so are you,” she said. “You are Das Gespenst.”

He was somewhat taken aback. “How do you know me?”

“We met once before. Near a little town called Bienville not long after the Allied invasion.”

Von Stenger flicked on a flashlight to study her face more closely. “Now I recognize you. I believe we shared a meal at that chateau. What I wouldn’t give for that fireplace now, eh?”

“You shot me in that field at Bienville. I was in a rowboat.”

“And yet here you are. My aim must have been off that day.”

“How I hated you,” she said. “I was in that hospital for months.”

“If the bullet had gone an inch in another direction, perhaps I could have spared you that trouble.”

How could he make light of what his bullet had done to her? She lashed out at him with the only thing she had: “The American sniper who was in the field that day is here now, in the Ardennes, and he is looking for you.”

“Yes, I know. I almost got him today.”

“But he got away?” she asked, all too quickly.

“Yes, he did. That’s more than I can say for you,” Von Stenger said. He held up the bottle of wine. “Where are my manners. Would you care for a drink?”