Righteous Sniper

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Contrary to what the Americans may have wanted to believe, not all the residents of Bastogne were sympathetic to the Allies. A few had ties to Germany, either having been born there or having family there. Others favored the Nazi cause, having believed Hitler’s poison. There were even a handful who, as in all wars, didn’t take any side other than their own.

One such person was Benoit Dauvin, who had worked on the Belgian railroad before the war shut it down. Bastogne had once been a somewhat important rail hub until the railroad had been destroyed in WWI. The rails had been rebuilt, only to be destroyed once more in this more recent war.

Consequently, Dauvin had worked at nothing more than odd jobs since then. He had also served in the Great War. Between the wars, he had worked with many Germans in his railroad career and found them professional and efficient. He was not all that surprised by Germany’s initial military successes.

Though he was past fifty, Dauvin had a young family to feed, due to having remarried later in life after his first wife died of a fever. He did not have enough money to buy food at the inflated wartime prices, but he did have information to trade. It helped that he leaned toward being a German sympathizer. When he spotted the German officer being escorted from the hospital, he had trailed along in hopes that this might be useful information.

Obviously, this was a prisoner of some importance. Dauvin had pieced together the story from townspeople he knew who helped at the hospital. He also spoke a little English and had managed to pick up a few things here and there from eavesdropping on the Americans, who tended to ignore a fiftysomething resident of the city they were defending. In their eyes, he was nearly invisible.

From scraps of fabric, one could sew a quilt, and that was exactly what Dauvin did with the scraps of information that he gathered. A few townspeople running errands for the Americans liked to gossip and inflate their own importance. Even a soldier on guard duty let slip a bit too much when trading a bottle of the local juniper-flavored Jenever liquor for packs of cigarettes. Dauvin would trade the cigarettes later for something to eat.

Through his wheeling and dealing, he soon had the name of the German officer and the reason the Americans took such an interest in him. He also learned of the plan to spirit the German out of Bastogne.

That night he made his way through the no-man’s-land between Bastogne and the German lines. It was dangerous, to be sure, but hunger and the need to feed one’s family was a great motivator.

The German that the spy reported to in this case was Hauptmann Messner. What Dauvin did not know was that since most of Messner’s unit had been lost in the devastating fight in the clearing, he had been put to use as a kind of factotum, and this included interviewing the occasional German sympathizers who wandered in to exchange tips for food.

Messner found that he liked the independence and even the small amount of power that his new role provided. The information that he gathered gave him the ear of higher-ranking officers.

Soon enough, he would be back in the fight. Every German soldier in the Ardennes Forest would need to fight, if they hoped to win. Until he was reassigned to a combat role, Messner got a new perspective on the war.

He was surprised that a few old men and boys had even volunteered to fight alongside the Germans, but he had sent them away. Still, he had admired their spirit. As for men like this informant, he found them barely tolerable, like dogs hoping for a few table scraps.

Messner’s eyes had widened at the news of the German officer being held prisoner by the Americans, especially when he heard the prisoner’s name.

“That traitor?” Messner muttered upon hearing Bauer identified. “I thought he was dead!”

“No, sir. He is being moved.” The informant quickly summed up the plan.

The informant was rewarded with a loaf of stale bread, some Landjäger, or dried sausages, and a few tins of rations. He put them all into a cloth sack and began his return journey to Bastogne. If he made it through no-man’s-land once again, his family would eat for a few more days.

He’d been lucky to leave in one piece. With his back turned, he had not seen the German officer’s hand go to the snap on the holster of his pistol. In Messner’s mind, a rat was a rat, even one that had provided him with information. For all he knew, this rat would be turning around and providing the Americans with information about the Germans. A rat could not be trusted.

One less rat would be doing the world a favor. After all, what was the life of a rat even worth?

But he let his hand fall, thinking that the man might yet prove useful.

Messner debated what to do with the information. He had disliked Obersturmbannführer Bauer, whom he considered to be an officer who had lost his nerve to the point that he was actively undermining the German advance — at least the portion of the advance that he commanded.

The memory of how he had been in constant conflict with Bauer brought a fresh wave of bitterness to his mind. In Messner’s imagination, Bauer had seemed to go out of his way to thwart Messner whenever he could, seeming to think that the younger officer was too bold. The shooting of the prisoners outside Bastogne had been one occasion when Messner had been a step ahead of the Obersturmbannführer.

Recalling the look of shock on Bauer’s face at the sight of the dead prisoners, Messner smiled.

To hear that Bauer was still alive and being held by the Americans was quite surprising. He’d been sure that the Obersturmbannführer had died in the confusing last moments of the battle as he attempted to surrender. Then again, wasn’t it enough that Bauer was now a prisoner of the Americans?

Perhaps not, Messner thought. Maybe it was what Bauer had wanted all along. He had seemed ready and willing to surrender the entire unit. It was nothing short of betrayal.

Messner might simply have passed along this intelligence about Bauer now being a prisoner, but he was sure that it would scarcely be noticed. What his superiors really wanted to know was how many US troops were in Bastogne, their readiness to fight, how many tanks had reached the city, how many more were expected — the rat had provided no useful information about that.

At most, the information that Bauer had been captured might be included in an official report. With American reinforcements beginning to reach Bastogne, there were bigger concerns than a single captured German officer. The fight was widening, and the German advance was in peril.

For all that anyone would care, Bauer might as well have been dead.

Who was to say that couldn’t still happen?

A plan began to hatch in Messner’s mind. He smiled again at the thought.

In the end he decided that he would go after Bauer himself. With any luck, this could be accomplished in a few hours. Messner wouldn’t even be missed.

There was more than one way this could go. It remained possible that Bauer could be taken from the Americans and returned to Germany for proper treatment at the hands of the SS or Gestapo. In Messner’s mind, there was no doubt that Bauer was nothing but a traitor.

But recapturing Bauer might prove difficult, and he might be able to talk his way out of any accusations that he had given up the fight too soon.

Better yet, Bauer would never make it anywhere but would simply become another body by the roadside.

Either way, Bauer would be quite surprised to see him again. It would be the last thing he would expect. Messner smiled coldly at the thought.

He could have lied to himself and called his plan one of military importance, an effort to prevent strategic information from falling into Allied hands. But if he was being honest with himself, the simple truth of the matter was that Messner wanted revenge.

Looking around, he spotted Obergefreiter Dietzel and Gettinger, and waved them over. Both men were never far away. After explaining what he wanted to do, he was pleased to see that both men seemed game. In fact, Dietzel wore a slight smile that suggested he was also imagining the look on Bauer’s face when they caught up to him. If their Hauptmann believed that Bauer was a traitor, then they believed it too.

It was likely that Bauer and his escort would take the road toward where the Germans knew the Allied command to be located. This road was not far from Messner’s current position. With any luck, Messner and his men would find them on that road and return within a few hours.

If his informant was correct, the Americans were being quite foolhardy. Much of the city remained surrounded. The patrol escorting Bauer would likely have to fight its way out.

The Americans must be desperate to spirit Bauer away, taking a huge chance in doing so.

Timing was everything, but if they could only get in position ahead of Bauer and his escorts, their odds would improve.

In fact, Messner planned to bring those odds closer to zero. To do so, they would need to hurry if they hoped to intercept Bauer and his escort.

Hauptmann Messner wasted no time commandeering a Kübelwagen for their use. “We need to get into position right away,” he said, getting in the back with Dietzel, who kept his sniper rifle propped between his knees, the butt resting on the toe of his right boot to cushion it from the bumps in the road.

Gettinger took the wheel. The scent of gasoline lingered in the air as the Kübelwagen’s engine roared to life, contrasting sharply with the fresh winter air. Along with the gasoline smell was the sharp, metallic scent of weapons and other gear, ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

Messner clapped Gettinger on the shoulder and urged, “Schnell, schnell.”

The tires of the Kübelwagen spun in the frozen slush, showering some nearby Soldaten with icy mud and evoking a few curses. But then the sturdy vehicle gained traction and shot down the road, carrying the soldiers on their mission of revenge.

Messner had chosen two of his most loyal and dependable men to accompany him. There were others he could have taken, but this might be the kind of mission that could not be talked about later. These two knew to keep their mouths shut.

He was glad to have Obergefreiter Gerhard Dietzel with him in particular. The man was a highly capable sniper, the unit’s designated Jaeger — a word that translated as hunter. In Dietzel’s case, it was a very apt description.

He had seen Dietzel at work — the way that he had managed to pick off the escaping POW before he got into the trees was just an example of his skill with a rifle. Messner had seen the man drop targets at distances that did not seem possible. One thing for certain, he was glad he had never been in the Jaeger’s rifle sights.

Not for the first time, Messner could feel Dietzel’s gaze on him, evaluating his every move, his every decision. That was Dietzel for you, always watching, always the observer. He had been trained well by the Wehrmacht’s sniper school. Those skills had been put to use more times than Messner could count.

The sniper’s reputation was well known among the soldiers, to the point that he had become something of a legend among the men, and his presence gave Messner confidence that their mission would be successful.

Dietzel never asked for much, but Messner thought it wise to throw his dog a bone now and then. He turned to Dietzel and said, “Obergefreiter, your precision and accuracy are unparalleled. You are a force to be reckoned with.”

“I am only doing my duty, sir,” Dietzel replied.

“With your help, we will make short work of this traitor and the Americans escorting him.”

“You can count on me, Herr Hauptmann.”

The man spoke with such simple certainty that it did not sound like bragging or boasting.

Messner glanced ahead at the driver’s seat, where Gettinger had a tense grip on the wheel, his knuckles white. Driving in these conditions was far from easy. The road itself was bad enough, of course, without the added threat of attack at any moment. For all they knew, the woods ahead might be filled with Americans waiting to ambush them.

Gettinger’s apparent driving skills aside, Messner was even more reassured about the man’s overall abilities. Where Dietzel was like a surgical instrument, sharp and precise, Gettinger was more like something blunt, perhaps a hammer or a wooden club. But Messner had no complaints. Time and again, Gettinger had shown himself to be a man who carried out his orders without question — as long as those orders could be easily understood.

To reach the necessary road, they had needed to come at it from the southwest, passing down a number of farm lanes, working their way around Bastogne. Of course, it would have been faster and easier to drive right through the center of town, but that was impossible with the Americans stubbornly holding Bastogne. Messner’s routing problems were simply a microcosm of what was faced by the entire German advance. At one point they even cut across a couple of fields where the ground was frozen enough not to get bogged down. The Kübelwagen barely made it. A heavy panzer wouldn’t have had a prayer.

Progress was frustrating and slow, but Gettinger seemed up to the task with Messner navigating. They were all relieved to arrive at the actual road — without an enemy soldier in sight.

The Kübelwagen then raced down the icy road, the frigid air whistling past their ears. Messner shivered but reminded himself that riding in the open vehicle was superior to walking. Besides, they were well on their way to gaining some measure of revenge.

There was no time to waste. Based on what the informer had told him, it was likely that Bauer and his escorts had a head start. Messner would not allow the hated Obersturmbannführer to slip through his fingers.

As they continued down the road in the direction that the traitor and his American escorts were supposed to have taken, Messner could see that it was surrounded by dense woods. Again, the thought crossed his mind that the conditions were perfect for an ambush.

The stretch of road had been empty, but now a modest farmhouse loomed ahead. No smoke rose from the chimney, despite the cold, so it was apparent the house was empty. This came as no surprise; many of the civilians had fled the fighting. As they came closer, it was clear that the farmhouse had seen better days. One of the shutters hung askew and dangled in the breeze, threatening to come crashing down. Part of the whitewashed stucco facing had cracked off, perhaps the result of nearby shelling or a mortar blast. The field stone wall beneath gaped like an open wound. The rubble made a small pile near the front door, which stood wide open.

Messner might have written the house off as abandoned if it had not been for a furtive movement in the vicinity of the front door.

“Herr Hauptmann,” Dietzel said quietly, his voice full of warning.

“Yes, I saw it too.”

He tapped the driver’s shoulder, signaling for Gettinger to slow down and then stop a couple hundred meters from the farmhouse. They needed to approach cautiously if the house was occupied, possibly by enemy soldiers.

With any luck, that might even be Bauer and his escort inside.

As soon as the Kübelwagen stopped, Dietzel slid out of the back seat with his sniper rifle in hand and disappeared into the trees for cover. Messner followed suit, his own weapon at the ready. Gettinger stayed behind with the Kübelwagen, his own rifle balanced across the hood, ready to provide covering fire if needed.

Snow crunched under their boots as they made their way through the woods toward their target. The cold air burned in Messner’s lungs as he carefully stepped around twigs and branches, trying not to make any noise.

He was not very successful, as proved by the fact that the sniper glanced back at him once or twice, unable to hide his exasperation. Somehow Dietzel managed to move through the trees like smoke.

They reached a fallen log that provided good cover, a spot where they could keep an eye on the farmhouse up ahead. It looked quiet and peaceful enough, but Messner knew that looks could be deceiving. There was definitely someone inside. He pulled out his binoculars and glassed the house, but still didn’t see anything useful.

The noise of the Kübelwagen approaching had certainly given them away and warned whoever was in the house. They would either be busy hiding or escaping out the back — or preparing to open fire. Which would it be?

Messner got his answer when an American GI appeared in the doorway, his rifle leveled, ready for business. He squeezed off a couple of shots in the direction of the Kübelwagen.

In one swift motion, Dietzel aimed and fired, the sound of the shot echoing through the woods. The GI fell onto the snowy ground in front of the farmhouse.

But there was at least one more soldier in there. There was a muzzle flash from one of the windows, then another. Bullets whistled uncomfortably close, telling them that the soldier inside must have spotted Dietzel’s own muzzle flash from the gloom of the winter woods.

From the Kübelwagen, Gettinger shot back. The GI inside traded a few shots with him, then fired again at the woods, seemingly not sure where to focus his attention. Not for the first time, Messner was impressed by the rapid firing of the semiautomatic M1 rifle that the Americans used.

He was armed with an MP 40 submachine gun, which was not very effective at this range. Nonetheless, he emptied his magazine in the direction of the farmhouse. Silently, he urged Dietzel to shoot, but the sharpshooter would not be hurried. From behind the cover offered by the Kübelwagen, Gettinger also kept shooting.

Then Dietzel fired again, his bullet going in through the window and silencing the American soldier. It was an impressive shot, considering that the target hadn’t been visible, hidden within the shadows of the farmhouse. But Dietzel’s bullet had found him all the same.

Cautiously, they approached the house, weapons at the ready. Could these have been Bauer’s escorts? The traitor might still be alive inside the farmhouse, considering that the Americans would not have armed him.

Dietzel nudged the fallen GI with the toe of his boot, and the man groaned. Though badly wounded, he was still alive.

Not for long. Messner approached and shot the man in the head with his pistol. The pool of blood widened and stained the snow.

They moved inside and found the second soldier, but it was clear that Dietzel’s bullet had killed him outright.

Quickly, they searched the house. The place was small and the search didn’t take long. There was no sign of Bauer and no tracks leading out the back door.

“Let’s go,” Messner said, disappointed that capturing Bauer hadn’t been as easy as this. But he remained confident that their quarry was close. “They can’t be too far ahead of us.”

Gettinger got behind the wheel of the Kübelwagen again, Messner and Dietzel climbed into the back, and they roared off down the road once more.