Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller

CHAPTER 8

The snipers headed up the road, following the tire tracks of the Jeep that had dropped off Jolie. The Jeep had been heading to catch up with the artillery support unit in the direction of St. Vith.

Cole had his share of questions for Jolie, but he decided that now was not the time to ask them. It was enough that she was alive. He was glad to see her, even if the circumstances were not ideal. The same could not be said of Lieutenant Mulholland, whose disapproval radiated from him like the heat from a wood stove. Having a Resistance fighter guide them in Normandy was one thing, but having a French national accompany them now was highly against regulations. It wasn’t just the rules that Mulholland was worried about. There was the very real risk of running into German armor.

Unlike Lieutenant Mulholland, Cole was not all that concerned about Jolie putting herself in danger. She could take care of herself. Like Cole, Jolie never had been much for small talk, and trudged along in silence just to his right. She and Cole had that much in common.

"I reckon we need to see about getting you a weapon," he said.

Jolie shrugged through her heavy coat. She had come prepared for the weather, at least. "When the time comes, I am sure I can find a rifle."

They moved on toward St. Vith, their senses on hyper alert. Except for a short burst of machine gun fire somewhere ahead, there had been no more sounds of firing from the direction of the town, but that did not mean the Germans were not on the move.

As the scattered houses of a French village came into sight, they saw the first signs of trouble. The Jeep that had dropped off Jolie was halfway in a ditch, the driver slumped over the wheel. This was no traffic accident. The Jeep and the driver's body were riddled with bullets.

"Poor bastard," Vaccaro said. "The Krauts would have heard him coming from a long ways off. They used him for target practice."

"He had orders to deliver messages to those guys from the 285th," the lieutenant said. "The question is, what happened to them?"

Vaccaro nodded at the road beyond the crossroads village. The countryside surrounding the crossroads was so flat that they could see for a long distance across the frozen fields. Several roads converged at the town, and on one of the roads beyond they could see a scattering of military vehicles. But the vehicles weren't moving, and there was no one in sight.

"Huh," Vaccaro said, putting his scope on the abandoned vehicles. "Those belong to our guys. What's up with that? Nobody around."

"Let's talk about it once we get off this road and in among those houses," Cole muttered. "We're like sittin' ducks out here. Lieutenant?"

"Yeah, good idea."

Like many other towns they had passed through during the past few months that had been touched by war, the houses and streets appeared deserted. Just because they were Americans did not mean the residents were eager to show themselves. Men with guns were much the same when you were an unarmed civilian. For all anyone knew, the Germans could return at any moment and the shooting would start all over again. People here would be hiding in their cellars, or they would have fled for the forest with their food, valuables, and daughters — just as they had since medieval times whenever an army passed through.

The silence built around them. The only noise other than the crunch of snow came from a bunch of crows circling one of the fields — the cold had not stopped them from scavenging. For some reason, the quiet made it feel colder. They entered the village cautiously, using the buildings for cover, moving from house to house as they covered one another. With them, it had become a well-practiced routine. It was true that a sniper would have opened fire before they reached the crossroads, but there was still the possibility that the Germans had left behind some kind of rear guard that might be holed up with a machine gun and a grudge.

"Nice and quiet, just the way we like it," Vaccaro said, then nodded in the direction of the gathering crows. "What I want to know is what all those birds are up to."

"I have an idea," Cole said.

It did not take long to pass through the village, which seemed unscathed by any fighting. The same could not be said of the abandoned American vehicles on the road beyond. Somebody had chewed them up, and good. The snowy fields surrounding the road were churned up by tank treads and tires. Clearly, a large number of vehicles had passed through.

The crows circled an area not far off the road. It was surrounded by low hedgerows and fences. Vaccaro started toward the field. "Why is it I have this feeling I'm not going to like what I see?"

Slowly, they advanced into the roadside field. Bodies lay scattered across the field among the withered stalks of last year's corn. Pools of blood stained the snow. All the bodies belonged to GIs, and there were a lot of them.

"Jesus, this wasn't a fight. They were mowed down. Look at that."

Cole prodded a body with his boot. "Wasn't that long ago," he remarked. "A couple of hours, maybe."

"Anybody see a weapon? I sure don't. These guys were unarmed. Those German bastards murdered them."

"Do you think anyone survived?"

"Let's find out."

They spread out and walked through the killing field. The bodies were twisted in the curious poses that sudden death brings. Already, the cold was seeping into the dead, freezing them into grotesque positions, death and the cold working hand in hand. Even more chilling was the fact that many of the bodies showed signs that they had been shot in the head — or even clubbed to death. Mulholland’s squad had seen its share of death these last few months, but this was different. The thought of executions on this scale was sickening.

Rowe bent over and retched. "Shit," he said. "This is awful."

"Yeah."

"Hey, anybody need help?" the lieutenant called out. His only answer was the wind sighing across the field. He tried again. "Can anybody hear me?"

"I dunno, Lieutenant. I think they all bought the farm."

Then, ever so faintly, a voice cried out, "Over here."

They rushed to the spot. All that they could see was a jumble of bodies. Vaccaro said, "Buddy, we don't know which one is you. You have to wave your arm or something."

One of the bodies raised an arm and they hurried over. He was just a kid, half hidden by a corpse on top of him, spattered with blood. No wonder the Germans had missed him.

They pulled him out and got him to his feet, then half carried, half dragged him away from the carnage. It seemed amazing that he had come through the massacre without a physical scratch. But some wounds couldn’t be seen. The kid was shivering badly, probably from a combination of shock and cold. To their surprise, it was Jolie who sat him down on the stone wall, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and hugged him tight. Vaccaro handed her a flask. "Here, give him some of this calvados. That ought to warm him up."

Gradually, the shivering eased enough that the lieutenant walked over to ask the GI a few questions. Cole, Vaccaro and Rowe were still combing the field for any survivors.

"You want to tell me your name, soldier?"

"Hank Walsh, Battery B, 285th Field Artillery Observation Battalion — the whole unit is wiped out, sir."

"What happened?"

Private Walsh recounted how his unit had just passed through Five Points on its way to St. Vith when the Germans opened fire. "They had panzers, sir. King Tigers. They knocked out the first and last vehicles in the convoy and we were stuck on the road. Some of the men wanted to fight, but the others told them to surrender. What were we going to do against Tiger Tanks? So we got out of the ditches and the Germans rounded us up."

"Wehrmacht?"

"No, sir. These were SS."

The lieutenant and Jolie exchanged a look. "Hard cases."

"The Germans took most of our vehicles because they had a lot of men on foot. Most of their column moved off, and they left just a few guys guarding us in the field. Then one of them just up and shot one of our guys. Then all the Germans started shooting. It was over in a few minutes." He fought back a sob. "I'd be dead right now if it hadn't been for my buddy, Ralph. He tackled me and the bullets hit him instead."

"It looks like those bastards made sure they did the job right."

The kid shuddered. "They walked through the field, and anybody who was still alive, they shot him or caved in his head with a rifle butt."

"Jesus."

"Ralph was wounded so bad he was out of his head, just mumbling nonsense, and they shot him. I tried to tell him to keep quiet—” The kid choked back a sob.

“It’s all right,” Mulholland said. “You did what you could.”

“I held my breath, hoping they would think I was dead."

"Well, you made it." The lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it almost knocked the skinny young GI off the wall.

The others came back, looking grim. "There’s nobody else alive, sir."

Mulholland muttered, "Son of a bitch."

The kid finally broke down and sobbed.

After the lone survivor of the massacre had told his story, Cole had to spend a few minutes alone. He was well aware that most people thought he was a hard case, and maybe he was. Lord knows he had seen his share of bad things in this war, and done a few of them himself. Nobody could call him a saint. But something about the massacre scene affected him deeply. It was the idea of shooting American boys like hogs in a pen.

The bodies in the field told the story plain enough. The Americans had been gunned down where they stood.

He noticed that two of the bodies were much farther away than the others. The poor bastards had almost made it over the fence and escaped.

It was a long way to hit someone with a submachine gun — especially if you were occupied shooting lots of targets close up. Certainly it was too far for a pistol shot. Which meant a rifle.

He knew from experience that a moving target at that range was not easy. Hitting two running targets was damn near impossible. He doubted it was the work of your typical infantryman, SS or not.

Curious now, Cole moved closer to the road. It was easy to tell where the killers had stood because their footprints were surrounded by spent shell casings.

Cole scanned the ground, looking for some other clue — for what, he was not sure. Cole was good at reading tracks, but mostly what he saw were a lot of German boot prints, of which he had seen his share over the last few months. Empty brass cartridges, of course. A few cigarette butts. An empty wine bottle. What had been left behind did not tell him much, and yet it told him everything. The SS men had massacred the Americans, had a smoke and passed around a bottle, then moved out into the field to finish the job.

A little off to the side, a different cigarette butt caught his eye. It was much fancier than the others, gold tipped, of a kind Cole had learned was called a Sobranie. He had learned about those cigarettes during his first few days in Normandy, when he had encountered the vicious German sniper nicknamed Das Gespenst. The Ghost.

Cole considered himself to be a good sniper. But the German… well, there was a reason he had that nickname.

Cole looked again at the snowy ground. Two more brass cartridges winked up at him, more elongated than the others. Rifle rounds rather than machine guns rounds. He looked across the field at the two distant bodies of the GIs who had almost escaped. Two shots. Two dead soldiers. He bent down and picked up one of the rifle cartridges. A closer look revealed that the cartridge was stamped with the alien-looking characters and symbols of the Cyrillic alphabet, which meant that these were from a Russian rifle chambered for 7.62 mm rather than the usual 8 mm Mauser rounds.

If it was possible, Cole now felt colder.

There was just one German sniper Cole knew of who smoked gold-tipped cigarettes and used a Russian rifle.

Das Gespenst. It couldn't be. And yet here was the proof, staring back at him.

He was sure the son of a bitch had died in a flooded field outside Bienville after shooting Jolie and very nearly killing Cole. Even Cole had to admit that he’d gotten lucky when an artillery barrage had rolled in, stopping the German sniper from finishing the job. He had reckoned that the shelling had turned the German into hamburger.

Cole clenched his fist around the brass shell casing.

The Ghost Sniper had returned.