Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller

CHAPTER 22

"Nothing can stop us now." Friel took his eyes off the map and looked at the road leading toward the bridge at Trois Ponts. "Today, we begin to turn the tide of the war."

Von Stenger nodded, wishing he shared in Friel’s enthusiasm. What he said was: "You have done well, Herr Obersturmbannführer."

This morning, Von Stenger was along for the ride as the Kampfgruppe made its final push toward the Meuse River. Food and a few hours of rest had worked to repair his injuries. He put weight on his leg to test it. Pain shot through him, but his leg was functional, if stiff from the stitches.

“Did you hear that our captured sniper escaped?” Friel asked. “I understand that you talked to her last night.”

Von Stenger tensed. Was Friel testing him in some way? Did Friel suspect that he had helped her escape?

He shrugged as he met Friel’s eyes. “All she did was curse at me and spit. She was trussed up like a hog when I left her. Sneaking French bitch,” Von Stenger said.

Friel laughed. “Since I can’t shoot her, I should shoot her guards. But I fear that I will need every man before the day is through.”

Von Stenger followed Friel’s glance toward the sky. The long stretch of overcast weather was beginning to clear. For a change, no snow or rain fell. He would have welcomed the change if it hadn't meant that the sky could soon be raining bombs.

As the clouds lifted, the Allied planes would soon be on the prowl. There would be few Luftwaffe fighters to give them cover. It would be like a shooting gallery.

Since the start of Operation Watch on Rhine, Friel had one objective, and that was to get across the Meuse River at any cost. The Meuse was the unofficial boundary of the Ardennes. Once he was across, the stopper would be out of the bottle. With General Patton and his Third Army still to the south, there would be nothing to stop his Kampfgruppe from rushing headlong back into the plains of Belgium and even into France. If enough Germans managed to break out of the Ardennes, it would cost the Allies dearly and perhaps even change the dynamic of the war.

Hitler had chosen the Ardennes as his breakout point through the encircling Allied forces because the region seemed an unlikely choice. The rugged hills and terrain made it difficult country for moving troops. As a result, the Americans had barely defended it. Many of the troops stationed in the Ardennes were veteran units due a good rest, or green units who needed time in the field.

While in many ways the choice of the Ardennes was brilliant, the rugged nature of the region also worked against the Germans. Massive tanks had to follow each other single file down the narrow country lanes, forcing the Kampfgruppe to spread out over many miles. Given enough time, the Germans could still break out. However, the clearing sky meant the clock was ticking.

Over coffee that morning, Friel had explained to Von Stenger that the Ardennes was not like Russia, where the flat plains had enabled his armored column to move swiftly as it captured village after village, leaving flames and ashes in their wake. That was why they had nicknamed themselves The Blowtorch Brigade, much to Hitler's delight.

"A more apt name for us now might be The Turtle Brigade," he mused.

Friel ordered his driver to get him to the front of the column. With as much speed as possible, the driver maneuvered between trucks and massive tanks, all of them creeping along the muddy road.

The car bounced wildly over the ruts, doing Von Stenger's head no favors. He had enjoyed a bit too much wine last night, but Friel had roused him early to ride along with him. The jarring motion made his headache throb. Thick diesel fumes permeated the air itself, making his stomach churn. But the car ride beat walking. His injured leg was stiff as a result of the hillbilly sniper's trap.

They soon ground to a halt behind a stalled panzer. Friel cursed in frustration.

"Faster!" he shouted at his harried driver.

He took out his map and attempted to read it. The town at the crossing was called Trois Ponts. The river loomed ahead like a finish line. They had to get across.

"Do you want me to keep going, sir?" the driver asked as they passed the lead tank.

"Go, and do not stop until we are back in France."

Friel stood, wind slapping at his reddened face, and waved at the lead tank to keep up. The panzer had been lagging behind, trying not to outpace the rest of the column, but what Friel needed now was speed.

"Almost thirty kilometers per hour, sir," the driver said.

"Good, good." Friel said. "You are doing a fine job, Paulsen."

"Thank you, sir."

It was true that Friel's men would follow him anywhere because he led by example. Looking up at him now, standing in the vehicle like a captain at the prow of a ship, Von Stenger thought that Friel certainly looked the part of conquering hero.

Around a bend in the road, the village came into view. There was a bridge in town that would get them across the river. Having this goal in view was a sensation like a starving man getting sight of a plate of sausages. They had done it!

"Ha, ha! You see, Kurt, that is our key to victory. And not an American anywhere. We have caught them napping again."

Von Stenger had to smile back. Friel's enthusiasm was infectious. "I must say that this village is a beautiful sight."

Friel waved the tanks forward.

Not so much as a cat or dog moved in the streets — the villagers had long since fled at the sound of the approaching tanks.

"Go! Go!" Friel urged his driver, and the car raced into the deserted streets. Von Stenger kept his rifle ready, just in case any partisans decided that a German officer made a good target. They turned a corner, almost on two wheels, and raced down the road toward the river.

Von Stenger saw the rubble before he saw the water. Two stone piers rose up out of the river.

The bridge was gone, along with their chances of crossing at this place.

It was hard to know who had destroyed the bridge. It could have been American engineers, Allied planes, or possibly French resistance fighters — the vicious Maquis. In the end, it did not matter how the stone bridge across the river had been destroyed, but only that it was gone.

Friel stared at the ruins for a full minute. Von Stenger attempted to read some emotion on the Obersturmbannführer’s face, but the young tank commander seemed lost in thought.

“Breger!” Friel finally called. “Pass the orders to burn the village. We will show them what happens when they oppose German troops. When the cowards return, there will be nothing left.”

Under Breger’s direction, men soon filled the streets, splashing gasoline and setting the village on fire. Von Stenger watched with a sickened feeling. The smell of the greasy flames did not sit well on his queasy stomach.

Something exploded and blew skyward to form a mushroom-shaped cloud.

Satisfied, Friel turned back to his map.

So close a moment ago, the road to Antwerp and victory now seemed as far away at the surface of the moon.

"What are you going to do?"

"There is still a chance that the bridge near Habiemont may be intact." Friel waved his map. He still clung to his precious rollbahn. "It is only a few miles away. With luck, we can cross there.”

That’s when they heard an angry whine in the clouds. Fighter planes, coming fast.

Please let them be Luftwaffe, Von Stenger thought.

But as the planes broke from the cloud cover, coming in low, they opened fire on the German column below.