Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller (9 page)

"I was mostly in the hospital. The bullet did a great deal of damage. I wrote you."

 
Cole didn’t have an answer for that. They walked a bit in silence, glad to be moving again, because that helped them to stay warm. "Jolie, maybe you ought not to be out here with us. Mulholland is a goddamn Boy Scout most of the time, but he’s got a point. For one thing, it's cold as hell, in case you ain’t noticed."

"Where else would I go now?” Jolie asked, sounding exasperated, then sweeping her arms wide to indicate the barren white landscape. “If I get too cold, maybe you can keep me warm."

"I take it then that the bullet didn't damage anything important?"

Jolie did not answer right away. "I get pains now, just thinking about what happened. My body aches all the time."

"For what it's worth, Jolie, I didn't expect to see you again, but here you are, and I'm damn glad to see you."

"The lieutenant, he is not so happy."

"To hell with him. But you know, he is worried about you. You showed up just in time to be in the middle of a big goddamned fight. Why are you here, Jolie?"

 
She took her time answering. “There is nothing for me at home, Cole. Most of my family and friends are gone, thanks to the Germans. I want to see this war through to the end. If I can, I will go all the way to Berlin. I will dance on Hitler’s grave.”

“Something tells me that you just might.”

She walked along in a silence for a moment. "Are you sure he is still out there? The Ghost Sniper?"

"I don't know who else shoots a Russian rifle and smokes them fancy cigarettes, so it's a good bet it's our old friend."

"He is no friend of mine. This time, you need to shoot him."

"I reckon I will, if I get half a chance. That is, if he don't shoot me first. This Ghost Sniper is a tough customer."

"So are you, Micajah Cole. A real hillbilly, no? This time, you show him who is the better shot."

"If I get the chance, I'll only have to show him once."

• • •

Fifty feet ahead, Vaccaro was filling in the Kid about the sniper squad. "Let me give you the lay of the land, so to speak. The unit you were with—what did you and those poor bastards do?"

"We were artillery support mostly—finding positions, moving munitions, observing fire."

"So you didn't actually shoot at anything yourself?"

"No, that wasn't my job."

"Well, your job description just changed, at least temporarily. You're in a sniper squad now. Hang on to that gun Cole gave you. Like he said, we'll find you a rifle when we can."

"I used to hunt a lot. Squirrels and rabbits mostly. I was a good shot with a twenty-two."

"There you go, Kid."

"Tell me about Cole. It was nice of him to give me his pistol, but he seems like a real cracker."

Vaccaro laughed. "You don't know the half of it. And if I was you, which fortunately I ain't, I would not go around calling him a cracker. You do not want to screw with Cole. Just be glad he's on our side. I can joke around with him because he's used to me by now, but your best bet is to keep your mouth shut around him and just do what he says. If it wasn’t for Cole, we’d of been dead a long time ago."

"What about the lieutenant?"

"Mulholland? He's all right for an officer, but half the time it's really Cole who calls the shots. The problem with the lieutenant is that he's got a little too much Sunday school teacher in him. He likes to play by the rules."

"And you don't?"

"Hey, I'm just a guy from Brooklyn who wants to survive the war. My only rule is, ‘Don't get killed.’ "

"The others?"

"Rowe and McNulty have only been with us for a few weeks. They ain't bad, but they ain't stone-cold killers like Cole."

The Kid glanced back at Jolie and Cole. "What's with the French girl? She and Cole seem awfully close."

"Yeah, so you better steer clear of her if you don't want Cole's boot up your ass. Jolie is a tough one herself. She's one of those French Resistance fighters. You know, a
Machi.
She absolutely hates Germans."

"She seems all right. She tried to keep me from freezing to death back there."

"Hell, Kid, you looked like a lost puppy. What did you expect? I was ready to wrap you in a blanket myself."

"Sorry." The Kid looked down at the snow, his shoulders slumped.

"Hey, there's nothing to be sorry about. You survived a massacre. It's those Krauts I've got a problem with. Now, let's go get even."

"I don't know. Those SS guys—"

"Don't worry about them. Just stick with us and keep your head down, Kid. That, and keep your socks dry. You get wet feet in this cold and it's as good as taking a bullet.”

CHAPTER 10

The German column rolled into the next village beyond Baugnez. The place was little more than a scattering of buildings around a wide place in the road, but the hamlet was large enough to have a handful of residences, a boulangerie, a post office, a school house, and a tavern. In the snow, the modest stone buildings had a Christmas village look about them, like a scene from a whimsical
Weihnachtskarte
. The arrival of the tanks, with their treads churning the road to slush and their engines filling the air with exhaust, soon shattered that peaceful illusion.

This was the first village beyond the Baugnez crossroads and Malmedy, where the massacre had taken place. Most of the German troops were not even aware of the killings. Those who had taken part were still filled with a kind of blood lust, like dogs that had gotten a taste of raw meat.
 

Some of the villagers came out to wave at the tanks as if the brutal machines were on parade. Although this town was in Belgium, they were close enough to the border that a few Germans had settled here over the years. A middle-aged woman emerged from the tavern with a basket loaded with bottles of beer and sandwiches, handing them out to the passing troops. Clearly, she and a few of the parade spectators were German loyalists. An older man emerged from a house and waved an old German flag, the black, red, and gold tri-color of the Weimar Republic.

Others in the village clearly were not so enthusiastic. They stood with hands at their sides, gazing sullenly at the unwelcome sight of German tanks, or hid in their houses.

"Do you want something to eat, Herr Hauptmann?" his driver asked.

"No, but you go ahead."

"Thank you, sir."

The driver parked the Schwimmwagen and ran to the woman handing out the sandwiches and beer. He returned, grinning.

"Real ham on fresh-baked bread!" he said, holding the sandwich aloft like a prize. "At least some of the people here are loyal Germans!"

"Good thing for us," Von Stenger said. He had kept his rifle at the ready, even now as his driver gulped down the sandwich and guzzled the beer. Old habits died hard, and he half expected some partisan to take a potshot at them from an attic window. But so far, the only thing shot at them by the more unfriendly locals had been caustic glares.

Von Stenger noticed the sergeant with the scar, along with a couple of SS men, saunter toward the woman. One of the men took away her nearly empty basket. What did they want with her?

He did not spend much time wondering about that, because he soon spotted Friel, who had climbed down from his tank to consult with his officers over the map. The sniper could see from the way Friel kept waving his right arm in a chopping motion that he was upset. He walked over to hear what was being said.

"We need to get across the Meuse River before this weather breaks!" Friel said. "If the Allied planes catch us too soon, the whole operation will come to a halt."

Von Stenger caught his eye. "I would not mind a break in the weather," he said. "Nothing but snow, cold, and more snow."

"You won't be saying that when you have an American plane buzzing over your head." He turned to the others. "We must be across the river by morning! There can be no more excuses!"

Friel's voice had the force of an iron bar when he needed it to; his men seemed to bend under it. His eyes shined with intensity and energy. For all his urbane ways, it was no wonder that he was an SS officer. There had been rumors that Friel had suffered a nervous breakdown after returning from Russia, where his unit had earned the nickname The Blowtorch Brigade for its propensity for burning everything Russian in its path. Seeing him now, Von Stenger thought that maybe Friel had indeed suffered a breakdown, but not necessarily from any weakness of character. Just the opposite. Friel must have needed time to recharge. How could someone possibly maintain that level of intensity?

Von Stenger drifted away from the other officers, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and lit a Sobranie in the lee of the tavern. The thick stone walls served as an effective wind block against the icy air and snow. The walls were not thick enough, however, to block out the sound of the woman's scream that came from within.

He looked around with only passing interest. The woman who had been handing out sandwiches and beer was gone. Though she was well past her prime, that apparently had not stopped the soldiers from dragging her inside. He might have tried to stop them—he was an officer, after all—but these SS troops were
verrückt
. Crazy. He certainly felt like an outsider among them. And that foolish Sergeant Breger had been only too happy to shoot down the Americans. He might not have any qualms about dispatching a meddling Wehrmacht officer, either. Von Stenger had seen it happen in Russia near the end, when discipline began to wan. A bullet in the back, apparently by accident.

Trying not to be too obvious about it, Von Stenger adjusted his collar so that his rank insignia showed more clearly.
 

It appeared that the sergeant and his two thugs were not the only ones rampaging through the town. Another group of SS soldiers was going from house to house—ostensibly for a security check—but in the process they were carrying off anything of value. They were hardly more than boys, just eighteen or nineteen, from the look of them. Baby faces. But there was nothing childish in their demeanor. One of the boys had stuffed a pair of silver candlesticks into his pockets. Another had a bottle of liquor in one hand. The other hand held a pistol. Friel stood nearby, still obsessing over his map, apparently oblivious to what his troops were doing—or else he didn't much care.

The older man who had been waving the German flag earlier came out of the house that Von Stenger had been sheltering against. With angry eyes, he followed the progress of the marauding young soldiers. And then he started toward them, clearly intending to chastise them.

Von Stenger pushed away from the wall to block his path.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll leave them be,
mein guter Mann,
" he said.

"You are an officer. Are you in charge here?" the old man demanded, speaking German.

"No, I am not," Von Stenger said quietly. "I think the devil himself is in charge. You had better go back inside and don't come out again."

But it was too late. The trio of young SS men approached. "Is this your house, old man? We need to go inside and see your papers."

The old man drew himself up. "I fought for the Kaiser in 1914! I was a good German before any of you were born! This is not how German troops should act."

The young soldier who was holding the liquor bottle slipped it into his pocket and aimed the pistol at the old man's head. His face was a blank mask and already he was turning his face slightly away to avoid the inevitable spattering of blood and bone that was about to take place.

Von Stenger spoke up. "I will look at the old man's papers. There are other houses here to search."

The SS boys looked at Von Stenger as if seeing him for the first time. Their eyes slipped over his rank insignia, but lingered at his throat, where his Knight's Cross was visible. Even if they did not respect a Wehrmacht captain, they would respect that bit of black metal.

Over at the Schwimmwagen, his driver had stopped chewing and was staring.

The boy with the pistol lowered it and shrugged. "Yes, Herr Hauptmann," he said. They moved on.

Von Stenger turned to the old man and gave him a shove—it was more for show, but the old man began to stammer indignantly. He shoved him again and got him inside the tiny house. An old woman and a very young boy, no more than eight or nine, stared at him wide-eyed.

"I must speak to the commanding officer!" the old man said. "I am a German citizen!"

"Listen to me," Von Stenger said. "These are SS troops. They do what they want. They will kill you and your family if you confront them. I will tell them that I saw your papers and that you are a good German. Maybe they will leave you alone—if you keep your mouth shut."

Smoke had started to rise from the tavern across the street.
 

"They have set fire to the tavern!” the old man shouted in alarm, moving toward the door. “I must go to help Madame Lemerand."
 

Von Stenger blocked his path. "There is nothing you can do for her. If the SS killed her, then that's that. Is that your grandson? You had better stay here and look after him."