Righteous Sniper

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Wanting to get a start before darkness fell, Brock led the others down the road leading out of Bastogne.

The soldiers’ boots squished through the slush and mud with a sense of purpose and urgency. The clink and rattle of their equipment was the only other sound they made, mingling with the distant noise of combat that included the rattle of small-arms fire and the thump of artillery.

Somewhere in the distance, they could hear a woman wailing. Having heard similar sounds in dozens of towns since landing at Normandy months ago, they ignored it. Tears were simply part of the background noise of war. Their attention remained on the present. When they spoke, their voices were hushed, their words clipped.

“You got ammo?” Brock asked.

“Enough,” Corporal McCann replied.

“Everybody got dry socks?”

“Yeah.”

Bullets and dry socks. That was all a GI needed. Well, maybe that and a C ration or two.

In the confusion of the ongoing battle for the town, nobody questioned them about where they were going. Considering that their uniforms and gear appeared worn out and battle-scarred, showing the marks of countless past missions and endless muddy miles, they had the look of battle-hardened troops who knew what they were doing.

Because they sure as hell did.

They were on the road to revenge.

Brock knew that the actual road they followed was the same one taken by the group escorting the captured German officer to HQ.

Brock was determined that the German would never make it that far.

In fact, he had watched the German and his escorts leave the city, keeping to the shadows cast by a shattered building. His eyes had narrowed, watching them go, and it gave him a feeling of power to know that the little group of Boy Scouts led by that righteous hillbilly had no idea what was coming for them.

He thrilled at the feeling, similar to the sense of power he’d always gotten from being a bully.

Spying on them from a distance, Brock had seen the hillbilly soldier who seemed so intent on doing his duty. The soldier carried a sniper rifle and looked as if he knew how to use it. He had to admit, that sniper worried him a little.

The hillbilly reminded him of a quiet boy who lived on a farm at the end of a long dirt road back home. In school, Brock had habitually teased the boy about his dusty, worn boots. The boy had ignored him until one day Brock had made the mistake of calling the boy’s little sister a name.

Though smaller than Brock, that farm boy had been tough as barbed wire and had ended up nearly kicking in Brock’s ribs with those dusty boots. On that day, the high school bully had learned the hard way that there were some people in this world that you didn’t mess with. He had steered clear of the farm boy and his sister after that.

This hillbilly sniper had that same look in his eyes.

Something to think about.

Brock also hadn’t missed the fact that the German was the tallest of the bunch, his back held ramrod straight like he was on dress parade rather than marching off to a prison camp. Thinking about that German, Brock clenched and unclenched his fist.

Next to him, Vern noticed and said, “Relax, Brock. That Kraut will get what’s coming to him before too long.”

“That Kraut bastard ought to be begging for mercy, not walking with his head held high,” Brock muttered.

“That’s for sure,” Vern agreed. “We’ll sure as hell make him pay for what they did to those guys.”

“Yeah,” Brock agreed. “That Kraut thinks he’s got nothin’ to worry about, but he’s wrong.”

“Let’s see how smug he is when he’s behind barbed wire,” one of the other soldiers said.

Brock rounded on the man, his voice almost a snarl. “Hey, numbnuts, I guess you haven’t been listening. A POW camp is too good for that Kraut. He’s not going to see any barbed wire unless I wrap it around his neck.”

“Whatever you say, Brock.”

“Damn right. Whatever I say.”

Among the men in the squad, Vern and Boot were the ones Brock was closest to. They hadn’t known any of the guys who had been gunned down by the Germans outside Bastogne, but like Brock, they felt a healthy sense of indignation about it.

Those two would do whatever he said and would back him up when push came to shove or if the others balked. The rest of the squad would fall in line if they knew what was good for them. In the end, he had opted to take just Vern and Boot with him.

His plan was to let the escort get a mile or two out of Bastogne, beyond any prying eyes, then overtake them. Maybe they would have the good sense not to put up a fight. If they did, well, that was too bad for them. Maybe that hillbilly wasn’t as tough as he looked.

“C’mon,” he said to the others, pushing off the wall. He tossed away the stub of his cigarette. “Keep your eyes open once we get out of Bastogne. There are still plenty of Krauts out there.”

“What are we gonna do when we catch up to those guys?” Vern wanted to know.

“We’re gonna ask them real nice to turn that Kraut bastard over to us, that’s what. They should have done that in the first place.”

“OK, but what if they don’t want to?” Vern pressed. “Then what?”

“Then we either take the Kraut from them or shoot him right there.”

“I dunno, Brock. That hillbilly guy looked like he meant business. You really think he’ll go along with that?”

“If he doesn’t, then too bad for him,” Brock said.

Boot lowered his voice. “I don’t want to shoot our own guys to get even with that German. What sense would that make?”

“Look, nobody is gonna get shot, except that Kraut. Anyhow, don’t be a granny about it,” Brock said, quickening his pace. “Now hurry it up. I want to catch up to those guys before it gets dark.”

To Brock’s satisfaction, Vern finally shut up. Boot didn’t seem worried about asking any questions and seemed content to do whatever Brock told him to. Neither said another word, but just went along. It was what followers always did.

Away from town, it was quickly apparent that they were on their own. They passed a couple of outpost positions, but otherwise they were soon in a kind of no-man’s-land.

The wind swept across the barren snow-covered fields and chilled them, tugging at the scarves and scraps of cloth that they had wrapped around their necks and faces. The wind always found a way in, often carrying crystals of ice or wet snow with it.

This winter weather had been relentless. Everyone said it favored the Germans because it was keeping the American planes grounded, but Brock wasn’t so sure. The Krauts had to be just as cold and miserable as everyone else in this mess.

Then again, Brock didn’t mind the cold. He scarcely noticed it. The thought of revenge warmed him. However, the empty landscape made him feel jumpy, especially as the shadows in the distant wooded hills grew longer.

“Hurry it up,” he said to the others. “The sooner we get this over with and get back to Bastogne, the better.”

As it turned out, it wasn’t going to be that easy. Up ahead, he could hear the sound of firing — not just small arms but also heavier stuff. If he didn’t know better, it sounded as if they were headed right toward a battle.

“You hear that?” Vern asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “This is the way that Kraut and his babysitters went, so it’s where we’re going too.”

“Sounds like tanks.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get off the road if we hear anything heavy coming our way,” Brock said.

Unknown to Brock and his squad, they weren’t the only ones on the trail of the German and his escort detail. After the skirmish with the American soldiers at the farmhouse, Hauptmann Messner and the Kübelwagen with the two other Germans had continued down the road.

“Keep your eyes open,” Messner warned, shouting to be heard over the roar of the straining motor and the wind in their ears.

His words weren’t really necessary. Gettinger kept his eyes squarely on the road ahead, dodging any obstacles, while keeping his foot planted as firmly on the gas as he dared.

As for Dietzel, his gaze roamed the roadside on both sides, his grip tight on his sniper rifle. If there was any more trouble ahead, he would be sure to be the first to see it.

Messner had his pistol along with an MP 40 submachine gun — dubbed a Schmeisser by American troops — that he had picked up from the unit armorer before leaving on their quest. Officers didn’t normally carry combat weapons, but Messner had decided that the more firepower they had, the better, considering that there were just three of them.

The shadows across the woods and fields were growing longer. Messner did not relish the thought of trying to navigate the road in the dark. The sooner that they caught up with their quarry, the better.

Suddenly Dietzel called out a warning. “Tank!” he shouted, making the distinction that it was not one of their own.

Messner squinted down the shadowy road but couldn’t see a thing. He decided that the Jaeger must have the eyes of an eagle and the ears of a wolfhound.

No matter — if an American tank spotted them, the Kübelwagen might be reduced to a hunk of burning metal in an instant, and all three of them along with it.

He tapped Gettinger on the shoulder to get his attention, then pointed at a copse of trees at a bend in the road. “Quick, get into those woods!”

Gettinger did as he was told, steering the Kübelwagen off the road. There was just enough space between the trunks to get the vehicle between the trees. He started to come to a stop, but Messner swatted his shoulder and pointed deeper into the woods. “Hop, hop, hop!”

The side of the sturdy car was badly scraped and battered as Gettinger pushed deeper into the trees. Finally, the trees grew thicker and they could go no farther.

“Turn off the engine,” Messner ordered. “Get out and find some cover. If the Ami tank does see the Kübelwagen and opens fire, we will have a better chance on foot.”

Dietzel had already been getting out before the Kübelwagen even came to a complete stop. He hurried several yards away and got behind a fallen log, his rifle pointed toward the road. Messner and Gettinger got behind trees nearby.

Now they could hear the tank coming, its engine a steady roar, the tank treads clanking up the snowy road. A whiff of exhaust drifted their way. Gettinger raised his own submachine gun, but Messner pushed it back down.

“Hold your fire,” he said. “Let them go past us.”

Through the trees, they caught a glimpse of the tank moving along the road. Several logs had been lashed across the front and sides of the Sherman to thicken its armor. It almost looked as if the forest had come alive and was on the move. Some of the tree trunks were newly scarred and shattered, as if the tank had recently been in a fight for its life.

They all held their breath, not so much for fear that the tank crew could hear them, but to keep telltale clouds of their frozen breath from hanging in the air and giving them away.

Messner could see the tank commander standing in the hatch. Dietzel kept his rifle trained on the man but didn’t fire. If the tank commander had paid any attention at all to the tire tracks veering into the forest, he must have dismissed them as nothing more than a vehicle skidding off the snowy road. Besides, there was already a confusion of tire tracks and ruts. The tank did not slow down to investigate.

The main gun pointed up the road, but Messner knew well enough that the Sherman tank was also equipped with deadly machine guns. How much protection would the trees offer if those machine guns opened fire?

More worrisome for the Germans was the fact that the tank was being followed by a squad of infantry. They carried rifles, machine guns, and a couple of bazookas. Some of the men wore bloody bandages as if they had been wounded in a recent fight. Looking more closely, Messner spotted a GI with a heavily bandaged leg riding on the Sherman tank itself.

If any of the Ami soldiers had looked into the woods, they might have seen the Kübelwagen. That might have aroused their curiosity. But they plodded on, heads down, clearly exhausted, happy to let the tank lead the way.

“Keep going,” Messner urged under his breath.

Slowly, the sound of the tank engine faded. There had been no warning shouts from the infantry squad. They were in the clear.

At least for now.

However, they had lost precious daylight. Even in the last several minutes, the woods around them seemed to have grown darker.

Messner nodded at the two men. Gettinger wore a look of relief plain on his face, while Dietzel appeared disappointed that he hadn’t been able to shoot anyone.

Then Messner looked at the Kübelwagen. Gettinger had driven it until it was nearly wedged between the tree trunks. To the man’s credit, it was quite a feat of driving that he had navigated this far into the woods. However, there was no hope of turning it around. Messner was reluctant to give up their means of transportation, so they would have to back out.

“Dietzel, keep an eye on the road,” Messner ordered. “Gettinger, follow my directions. I will help you reverse the Kübelwagen.”

Painstakingly, that was just what they did. Once again, tree trunks scraped patches of paint off the Kübelwagen. By the time they reached the road again, they had lost even more daylight. The temperature had also dropped, which wasn’t such a bad thing, because the slushy spots in the road had begun to freeze over, giving them a more solid surface for driving.

“Get in,” he said to Dietzel.

The sniper shouldered his rifle and climbed into the back seat next to the Hauptmann. Soon they were on their way again.