David Healey - Ardennes Sniper

Then he quietly retraced his steps.

The Kid was waiting for him.

“That took you long enough. I was worried. How did it go?”

“I said I was goin’ to set a trap for him, and that’s what I done. You be here at first light, Kid.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“This is your score to settle. I reckon I’ve got one of my own.”

Breger was disappointed when the order came to withdraw, but he would do his duty. Friel had told him to fire a few rounds at the Americans at first light, just to keep them convinced that the Germans were still in position. Then it would be up to him to join up with the others who had been left behind to destroy the tanks and trucks. Once that was done, they could link up with the others, slipping into the safety of the trees.

He would be happy to fire more than a few rounds. The so-called “bone saw” was a joy to fire. The machine gun had no trouble reaching the American lines outside La Gleize, the heavy slugs pounding into the makeshift fortifications. He had gotten lucky yesterday and shot a few civilians in front of the church… or was that a hospital? No matter. They were on the American side, which made them targets, civilians or not.

He picked his way toward the nest, following the path through the trampled snow, not all that worried about keeping under cover. There wasn’t enough light yet for the Americans to see him.

Breger stepped down off a stone ledge and instantly felt something spring up and grab his foot. He thought at first that some animal had attacked him — maybe a badger. But he looked down and in disbelief saw that his foot was now firmly clamped inside the steel jaws of a trap. Breger had never seen one before, but he knew right away what it was. Then the pain came, and his curiosity vanished.

The jaws of the trap had teeth that had bitten right into his ankle. Now that the initial shock had worn off, every movement was agony.

He hated to think of how rusty the trap must be. He had seen how rusty metal could cause wounds to fester.

He tried to move, but the trap was staked firmly to the ground. His ankle hurt like hellfire. Who had done such a thing?

Once he got tired of trying to pull the chain out of the frozen ground, he took out his combat knife and tried to pry the jaws open. The knife slipped and he ended up sinking the point into his leg. He grunted in pain. The steel jaws did not budge. He tried stepping on the spring with his good foot, but the weight was not enough to release the jaws.

Someone didn’t want him going anywhere. He was literally staked out here in the open, fully exposed.

“Help!” he called in a hush voice. The pain in his foot grew worse. His next call for help was louder.

No one came to his rescue. Most of La Gleize was now deserted, except for the handful of rear guard troops like Breger. They were not about to leave their posts.

The sky grew lighter. Dawn was coming. He glanced toward the American lines. He had the feeling that once the sky became light enough, he was going to be in someone’s crosshairs. Meanwhile, he was staked out here like a goat.

Breger started to shiver, and not entirely from the cold.

As the long winter’s night faded, the Kid kept his eyes glued on the German lines. He was out here alone with a Springfield rifle equipped with a telescopic sight. It was bitterly cold; the temperature had dropped a great deal during the night, turning the mud and slush rock hard.

Anyone with sense would be asleep if he wasn’t on watch, but Cole had told him to be out here early.

“That German is going to get in position while it’s still dark.” Cole smiled that cold grin of his. He did not know Cole all that well, having known him just a few days, but he knew enough that he would prefer to stay on the hillbilly’s good side. “Don’t worry — you’ll hear him before you see him.”

He hadn’t been sure of what Cole meant by that until he heard the snap of the trap, audible in the cold, clear dawn. He heard something clanking, then cursing. That would be the German tugging at the chain.

The SS sergeant was trapped.

He heard footsteps approaching behind him, and was surprised when Lieutenant Mulholland appeared, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. He handed one of the mugs to the Kid and settled down next to him.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I thought you might want some company. Besides, another pair of eyes helps. You spend enough time staring out into the snow and you start seeing things.”

They didn’t have to wait long. The Kid had just finished the coffee, feeling the warmth go all the way down to his toes, when the gloom dissipated enough for him to make out a figure standing on the other side of the field. He had heard the jaws snap shut. Sure enough, there was the German. But was it his German?

The lieutenant had his binoculars out. “You said this German sergeant had scars on his face?”

“Yeah.”

“That must be him, all right.”

The Kid peered at him through the scope. It was not quite as powerful as the binoculars. The light increased rapidly — he wondered if the sun might even come out this morning. If it did show itself, it would be the first time in days.

Even in the gray light, the man’s features were unmistakeable. It was the same SS sergeant who had cut down so many Americans at Malmedy.

The Kid settled the crosshairs on the German’s chest.

His finger took up tension on the trigger, but too fast. The first shot went wild, kicking up snow at the German’s feet. The man tugged at the chain, his face grimacing with pain, but the German wasn’t going anywhere.

Just as Breger had feared, the Americans were shooting at him now that it was light enough to see.

A bullet zipped past his head. If it hadn’t been the dead of winter, he might have thought it was a fat, angry bumblebee.

Frantically, he tugged at the chain with new urgency. The effort seemed to set his foot on fire. What had been a dull throbbing now roared with agony each time he moved.

Zip.

Another bullet flicked past.

Sweat dripped from Breger’s brow, even though the temperature was well below freezing.

He had not brought a rifle, but he did have a pistol in a holster. He unsnapped the holster and drew the pistol, then pointed it toward the American lines and squeezed off a shot. At this distance, it was impossible to hit anything, but it was better than nothing.

He raised the pistol and fired another shot. Again and again.

Then he tugged again at the chain in frustration, crying out at the pain that the struggle with the leg trap cost him.

When no one shot back, he thought that maybe he had gotten lucky and by some miracle had struck the sniper. But then he began to itch all over. He could almost feel the American’s crosshairs upon him.

Shoot the chain, he thought. He blasted at the chain but the links held firm. No wonder. They were almost as thick as his little finger.

The pistol clicked on an empty chamber. Angrily, he threw it as far as he could into the snow.

Then he faced the American lines, hands at his sides.

Hurry up and get this over with, he thought.

He stood there, waiting for a bullet.

The Kid wasn’t a very good shot, not like the actual snipers, but this was like target practice. He worked the bolt action and slid another brass-jacketed round into the chamber.

The lieutenant watched through the binoculars. “The crosshairs should be sighted dead on at this range,” he said. “Take a breath, let it out, squeeze the trigger. Easy peasy.”

Some part of the Kid’s mind registered that this was revenge, pure and simple. Could he really shoot someone in cold blood?