Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller

CHAPTER 18

Von Stenger thought that following the hillbilly sniper’s tracks was deceptively easy, like tracking a rabbit to its burrow.

All that was left to do was club it on the head.

At the same time, he was well aware that Cole was no rabbit. He was something with teeth and claws and fangs. He also carried a high-powered rifle, and he was a very good shot.

Von Stenger could be walking right into a trap.

Cautiously, with his Russian rifle at the ready, Von Stenger began to follow the American’s tracks through the snow. Moving quietly was almost impossible. Every step crunched. A branch cracked underfoot. He paused to listen. Heard nothing. Either Cole had managed to levitate himself and float across the snow, or he was too far ahead for Von Stenger to be able to hear him.

He focused on the trees ahead, but it was hard to see anything except a puzzle of gray and white. Again, he kept his eyes attuned to movement, any flicker that might give his target away.

Truth be told, Von Stenger did not particularly enjoy the woods and fields. While he had spent his share of time hunting — and then fighting — in forests and mountains, he supposed that he preferred pavement. Even the fighting in Stalingrad, as horrible as it had been, had been more to his liking because it had taken place across streets, shattered buildings, and rubble, not snow and trees and rocks. No, he did not love the woods, but he understood the tactics of fighting here well enough.

And this was no nature hike, after all. This hike would end when someone died — hopefully, it would not be him.

He tracked the American to the top of one hill and saw that the tracks ran down the other side of a hill toward a ravine. He carefully scoped the ravine at the bottom — it would have made a good sniper's nest. Then he saw the tracks leading up the next hill. The other sniper was not laying in ambush down in the ravine, after all. He followed the tracks.

The hill was steep, and he was winded by the time he reached the top. He could only imagine what an effort it must have been for the American — the blood stains beside the American’s tracks were clearly evident. Each drop was big enough to leave a coin-sized spot of crimson, the heat of the blood melting down into the snow. The American must be in pain. The loss of blood would weaken him.

The amount of blood in the snow did not increase, however, and it certainly had not slowed him down. The American must have legs like iron.

If Von Stenger had only gotten his shot off faster, there would be no need to track the other man at all. The American would be dead back in that field, shot through the heart.

Next time.

Von Stenger paused at the top of the hill to catch his breath. He scoped the slope of the hill along the path of the sniper’s tracks. No sign of the American, other than the footprints and the blood.

He listened. What was that? Not footsteps in the snow, to be sure, but something that sounded like a splash. He was becoming a bit deaf in his right ear — firing too many rounds from a high velocity rifle tended to have that effect. It was an occupational hazard… much less serious than the other occupational hazard, which was what one might euphemistically call lead poisoning. He cupped his hand around his left ear and listened. No more splashing, but he could hear the sound of running water.

Von Stenger descended the hill as quickly as he dared. At the bottom was a shallow, fast-moving creek.

The American’s footsteps ended at the edge of the creek. That would explain the splashing he heard. He scanned the other side for some sign of where the American had come out, but no tracks disturbed the snow.

Clever, clever. The American was trying to throw him off the trail.

The water looked invitingly cold and clear. Pure. The other sniper was not in sight, so he bent down and scooped a handful of water toward his mouth. It was quite refreshing after his hike, although the water was so cold it made his teeth ache.

Still crouched down, rifle at the ready, he thought about what to do next. The obvious course of action was to follow the stream down and look for where the American sniper’s tracks emerged. He had no doubt that the other man must have moved downstream simply because wading against the icy current would have been quite challenging.

Von Stenger was not about to get in the water. With wet feet, he would not last long in this cold. The hillbilly had taken an awful gamble by wading down the stream. He had thrown Von Stenger off his trail, but at what cost? Frostbite?

Carefully, making each step as quiet as possible, he moved down the bank. His hearing might not be as sharp as it once was, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes. He scanned the creek banks for any sign that the hillbilly had climbed out, but the snow remained undisturbed.

He followed a pattern: step, scan, step…

Slowly, he worked his way down the bank.

Then he saw it — a log sloping down into the creek at an angle that would be just right to walk up. There was just a dusting of snow on the log — not enough to display tracks. If Cole was looking to get out of the water without leaving a trace, the log was the perfect spot.

Von Stenger was sure that if he kept going down the bank, and the American was already out of the water waiting for him, then he would just be walking into a bullet.

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.

She was so intent on the man in front of her that she did not see the other soldier step out of the woods behind her.

He clubbed her with his rifle, and everything went black.

The jostling of the truck awoke Jolie. Disoriented, it took her a moment to remember what had happened: the Germans stepping out of the trees, her hand around the pistol, then being clubbed on the back of her head. In the dark and cold, she wondered at first if she was already dead.

Non, she thought, shaking her aching head. Spit had drooled from her mouth and she swiped at it. When she moved, she winced when the painful knot on her head came in contact with the floor of the truck. Not dead. Only in living was there so much misery.

She tried to sit up and found that her hands were tied. So tightly, in fact, that the rough cords cut into her wrists. Her hands felt numb from lack of circulation and cold. A blanket that smelled foully of diesel fuel fell away as she sat up.

The Germans had dumped her in the back of this truck, then apparently tossed a blanket over her in a half-hearted effort to keep her from freezing to death. It was as if it didn’t really matter if she lived or died. They had not even bothered to post a guard.

Where would she run, after all, with her hands tied, in the middle of the Ardennes Forest, in the dead of winter, with an invasion taking place?

Jolie was rather surprised that the Germans had not killed her outright. She had made no secret of fighting with the American snipers. What was the point? The Germans had found the gun in her pocket.

But there was no relief in being alive, even temporarily. This only meant that when she came to, someone would drop by to interrogate her.

As a Machi or French Resistance fighter, she had seen the aftermath of a German interrogation more than once. It was not a pretty sight. Some of those interrogations had not even been conducted by the SS. Only the Gestapo was worse.

The truck moved in fits and starts, with a frequent grinding of gears. Apparently the Germans were not making easy progress.

She heard voices and footsteps. Jolie slumped down again and tugged the blanket over her. If they thought she was still unconscious, they might leave her alone. Someone leaned into the back of the truck and shouted, “Hey! You awake?” When she did not answer, the soldiers went away.

Jolie put her wrists to her lips so that she could get her teeth at the rope. Whoever had tied her up knew his business. The knots were tight as rocks. Giving up, she tried her teeth on the rope itself. It was the sort of rough, bristly rope that lacerated her lips and gums. She could chew her way through — if she had a few days to do it.

She might only have hours — or minutes. It would help if she had more light to see what she was doing.

Jolie threw off the blanket and sat on the wooden bench that sufficed as seating for the troops who would normally ride back here. She attacked the rope anew, first trying to saw it along the edge of the wooden bench. When that did not work, she tried her teeth again.

The truck came to yet another stop, bouncing her wildly on the seat. Her teeth slid off the rope and cracked together painfully. She might as well be trying to chew her way through steel cables.

It looked as if she wasn’t going anywhere.

Cole had grown up setting traps, catching animals for their skins or meat, so a trap for the German sniper came to mind immediately.

Using his hunting knife, he cut a branch about the thickness of a finger into six-inch sections, and then slashed each one to the sharpness of a rattlesnake fang.

Several saplings grew along the creek bank near his hiding place. He selected a green sapling that was big around as a broom handle, and went to work cutting it down with a few quick strokes of his heavy knife.

Next, he drove the point of the knife near one end of the sapling, neatly splitting that end. He inserted the sharpened sticks, then bound them tightly together with the tough grape vines. The result he had hoped for would have looked something like a three-pronged fork, but this was even better — the prongs stuck out at different angles like a knot of barb wire.

Staying low, and trying to keep his movements to a minimum, he wedged the other end of the sapling horizontally between two small trees at about thigh height. He tied more string to the end with the sharp sticks, then ran the string under a smooth-skinned branch to serve as a fulcrum.

The trigger was simple to make. He used the stump of the sapling he had cut down — it was embedded as firmly into the ground as a stake — and cut a groove near the end. He cut a groove in another six-inch length of wood, and tied the other end of the string to that. Then he pulled the sapling taut. It took some adjustment, but when he was done he basically had the rigging for a snare. The sapling stump and the other piece of wood were the trigger device — all the tension of the curved sapling was held in place by that floating piece of wood.

Normally, a bit of meat would bait the trap. When an animal took the bait, it released the trigger and sprang the snare. But with the trap Cole had set, there would be no snare, just the sharpened spikes whipping through the air at the end of the sapling.

He eased out of his coat, hoping he would not regret leaving it behind. A piece of string ran from the coat to the trigger, out of sight. He would use his coat as bait.

Cole sat for a while, waiting for it to get darker. The cold seeped deeper into his muscles and bones. Cole was mostly bone and sinew so there wasn't much insulation from the cold. He put some snow in his mouth and let it dissolve. It had the double advantage of satisfying his thirst and disguising his position by preventing his breath from rising up as warm vapor.

When he was ready, he began to move ever so slowly out of his hiding place, hoping that the brush along the creek would screen him from view of the hillside above. So far, he had been lucky.

He worked backward until he reached the creek again, then eased into the water. The icy water was like an electric shock that didn't end, but he forced himself to wade against the current, keeping close to the bank nearest the slope. He continued back to where his original footprints came down into the creek. His plan was to backtrack along the path he had used to get into the forest. He eased out of the water, praying he wasn’t in the Ghost Sniper’s sights.

He had one last thing to do. He reached down into the crystal clear water and found a smooth rock the size of a baseball. Then he pitched it toward where he had hung his coat in a tree, and set his trap.

Cole started up the hillside, shivering despite the fact that he was nearly running.