Righteous Sniper

CHAPTER NINETEEN

At the wheel of the Kübelwagen, Gettinger steered carefully, picking his path through the rutted road, which seemed to alternate between frozen ridges that jolted them down to their bones and slushy mud puddles that threatened to bog them down. He rarely shifted out of second gear, although on a few straightaways the engine revved high enough that he shifted into third gear. It wasn’t long before he downshifted again. At any rate, the Kübelwagen wasn’t exactly a vehicle built for speed.

“Can’t you drive any faster?” Messner complained. The shadows in the woods grew deeper by the minute. Messner had hoped that they might have come across their quarry by now.

“The road is a mess, Herr Hauptmann,” Gettinger responded.

“Here, trade places with me. I will show you how it is done.”

Messner took the wheel, but after a few satisfying bursts of speed, he realized that Gettinger was correct. From the passenger seat, the slippery nature of the slush and mud had been less obvious. In places, Messner swore as he fought to keep control of the Kübelwagen. The ruts threatened to wrench the wheel out of his grip. Some of the puddles were so deep that they would be hard to drive out of again.

He took his eyes off the road long enough to glance over at Gettinger, but the man remained stone-faced. He knew better than to gloat over the fact that the Hauptmann wasn’t doing any better driving the vehicle.

As for Dietzel, all his attention was reserved for the shadowy woods on either side of the road. He kept his rifle at the ready.

Messner drove them around a bend in the road and came to a spot where there had clearly been a skirmish. The still-smoldering remains of an American tank partially blocked the road. A little farther on were the smashed remains of a Kübelwagen. A handful of dead bodies — some American, some German — were scattered alongside the road.

Messner couldn’t know for certain, but he suspected that this was where the American squad they had hidden from had likely fought. There was no sign of where the German forces had gone. They had either struck out cross-country to unite with the forces encircling Bastogne, or they had turned around and gone in the other direction.

He pulled the Kübelwagen to the side of the road and killed the engine.

“We must check the bodies and make certain that Bauer was not killed here,” he said. “We know that he is traveling this road.”

He and Gettinger did that while Dietzel kept watching, walking along the skirmish site in the process. A wooded hill came down sharply toward the road on one side, and on the other, an open space created a wide place in the road. A low stone wall that was little more than a long pile of snow-covered rocks bordered the open space and the woods. Dietzel seemed to be studying the space intently, then began crossing it, moving toward the woods on the other side.

Messner checked the dead Germans, two of them just teenagers, while the other dead man looked to be in his sixties. They wore the insignia of the Volksgrenadier. He knew that Germany was scraping the bottom of the barrel for manpower, but boys and old men? He shook his head, because these Volksgrenadier would be no match for battle-hardened American forces.

Another German body had been smashed to jelly by a passing tank. Even now, having seen his share of war, Messner hadn’t gotten used to such a sight. What should have been on the inside of the soldier was now on the outside, his body smashed into a patty like so much raw sausage. He looked away, hoping that the man had already been dead when the tank rolled over him. He knew for sure that it wasn’t Bauer, because the dead man wasn’t wearing an officer’s uniform.

“He is not here, Herr Hauptmann,” Gettinger reported. He had checked the dead Americans, but they did not seem to have been part of Bauer’s escort.

Messner grunted. On the one hand, it would have been easier for them if Bauer had been among the dead. On the other, Messner would have felt shortchanged if he hadn’t been the one to kill the Obersturmbannführer.

“Herr Hauptmann!” Dietzel shouted from the edge of the clearing. He was standing over something in the snow that Messner could not identify.

“What is it?”

“You had better have a look.”

Messner started across the snowy clearing, Gettinger on his heels. Once he had moved closer, he could see that Dietzel had indeed found something interesting in the snow.

It was a German officer’s hat, emblazoned with the insignia that was sometimes derided by enlisted men as “cabbage leaves” for its resemblance to that humble vegetable. In this case, it was the insignia of an Obersturmbannführer.

Bauer’s rank.

Dietzel slung the rifle over his shoulder, then picked up the hat and studied it. “It belongs to Bauer,” he announced, pointing out a name tag sewn into the liner.

“If he lost his hat, perhaps he is dead,” Messner said.

“No blood,” Dietzel said. “The tracks go off into the woods. Three Americans and one set of German boots. I see a few cartridges on the ground, but I suspect that they were trying to escape the fighting on the road.”

Messner nodded, feeling some of his excitement return. Not only were they on the right track, but their quarry must be that much closer. “Gettinger, go fetch the Kübelwagen. The trees in this direction are just far enough apart for us to drive through.”

Gettinger scratched his head and studied the woods doubtfully. “Herr Hauptmann⁠—”

“What are you waiting for? Hop, hop, hop!”

“Yes, sir.” He ran back through the snowy open space toward the Kübelwagen.

Dietzel tossed the hat back into the snow, almost as if in disgust at having handled the officer’s hat. “We do not have much daylight left.”

“Then we had better hurry,” Messner said.

“Heading into the woods at this hour⁠—”

“I don’t care about that,” Messner insisted. “We are going after him.”

Gettinger pulled up long enough for them to get in, then started driving through the trees, trying to pick a route through the woods, keeping the tracks in sight the whole time. Who knew where they were going? There didn’t seem to be anything out here but more trees. Perhaps Dietzel was correct and their quarry had only been fleeing the fighting with no real destination in mind.

Their chances of catching up to the men were much better with a vehicle, especially if they ever got clear of the trees. However, it was slow going, and the Kübelwagen picked up a few more dents as it careened off first one tree trunk, and then another.

Despite the cold, beads of sweat appeared on Gettinger’s face as he wrestled with the wheel, throwing it first one way and then another to avoid the trunks that blocked their path. The tires rolled up and over rocks and fallen logs. Bouncing along in the Kübelwagen, the other two men held on for dear life. The journey down the frozen road now seemed like traveling on the Autobahn in comparison.

But the effort was worth it. A few minutes later, they emerged on a snow-covered lane. The lack of tire tracks or tank treads indicated that no vehicles had passed down the lane, but even in the fading light, they could clearly see four sets of footprints in the snow. It seemed likely that their quarry had come this way.

“Now we have him,” Messner said with satisfaction.

“Those are German boots,” Dietzel noted, nodding at one set of tracks in the snow. “The others look like they are American, or maybe British.”

Messner squinted at the footprints, but they all looked roughly the same to him. “How did you get to be such a tracker, Dietzel?” he asked. He had seen the man’s skill before, but it had never occurred to him to ask about it.

“I grew up hunting, sir. There is nothing on this earth that I cannot follow. Of course, the snow makes it easy, like reading words on a page.”

“Then let us follow them. This is taking longer than I thought. The sooner that we catch up to the traitor, the sooner that we can get back.”

But even with the relative speed offered by the Kübelwagen, it became evident that their quarry had more of a head start than they had realized.

It was full dark by the time they reached the end of the lane and the stone pillars leading to the château. The footprints clearly led to the grand old house. The temperature had dropped considerably, causing the snow to crunch under their tires.

“They must have taken shelter for the night in that house,” Messner said.

“Better stop the engine,” Dietzel said. “The noise will give us away.”

Messner studied the château but could see no lights or any sign that it was occupied. “Maybe they kept going,” he said.

Dietzel slipped away to see what he could find out from the tracks. In the quiet of the woods, the only sound was the ticking from the cooling engine. The Jaeger returned a few minutes later, arriving as quietly as he had gone.

“Their tracks lead right to the side door,” Dietzel reported back from his scouting. “I think they are inside, but they are being careful to stay hidden. I don’t see any lights.”

Messner was losing some of his confidence that they now had their quarry trapped, realizing that the solid walls of the château made the old stone house into a sturdy fortress. “Should we rush it?” he wondered.

“I think we should wait for daylight,” Dietzel said. His doubtful expression made it clear that he must have been thinking the same thing as the Hauptmann. “They could be a tough nut to crack if we rush them in the dark. However, they don’t know we are here. We can take them by surprise and shoot them when they come out in the morning.”

“It will be a cold night for us.”

“Not as cold as the grave, Herr Hauptmann,” Dietzel pointed out.

Hauptmann Messner could not argue with that. They would wait until morning to catch their quarry unawares as they left the château.

Slogging along the slush-and-snow-covered road, Brock worried that their journey was starting to feel like a wild-goose chase because they hadn’t yet caught up to the German prisoner or his escorts. Brock was surprised that they hadn’t made better progress.

So far they had lucked out and not run into any other Krauts. They hadn’t run into any Americans either. The general lack of anyone else around was starting to feel spooky.

But not for long. They soon encountered the tank and infantry squad coming from the other direction. This was the same lone Sherman tank that Messner and the Germans had hidden from in the woods, the lone survivor of the fight that had sent Cole and his group running for cover.

Again, the hits that the Sherman tank had taken were evident in its log-covered sides that showed the scarred fresh wood. Thick steel armor was preferred, but the makeshift armor provided by the logs had probably saved the tank on more than one occasion by deflecting the full force of a German shell.

“Let’s ask these guys if they’ve seen that escort party,” Brock said. “At least then we’ll know that we’re still headed in the right direction.”

“You think they’ll stop for us?” Boot asked. “They look like they’re hell-bent on getting to Bastogne.”

Boot needn’t have worried about the tank not stopping for them. When the tank commander spotted them, he steered the Sherman closer to the middle of the road to block their path. The tank stopped short of pointing its gun at them, but the Sherman’s machine gun was now trained on them.

Behind the tank, the infantry squad fanned out, keeping their weapons trained on Brock and his companions.

The engine turned off, leaving an ominous silence in the winter woods. Brock felt his insides give a little flip. He didn’t like the looks of this at all.

“What gives?” he shouted, his voice sounding too loud in the sudden silence. “You fellas are pointing those guns at the wrong guys.”

“Oh yeah, how can we be so sure of that?” the lieutenant in the tank hatch replied. “We hear there are German commandos dressed as our guys all over the place. They speak English. Three men headed the wrong way from Bastogne doesn’t seem right to me.”

Normally, as a battle-hardened enlisted man, Brock felt dismissive toward lieutenants, especially ones who rode around in tanks. However, this lieutenant seemed no-nonsense, like maybe he had been promoted up through the ranks. It didn’t help that not only was Corporal Brock outranked, but he was seriously outgunned.

“We’re supposed to link up with a squad escorting a German POW,” Brock said, deciding that he would tell only half the story. “You haven’t seen anybody like that, have you?”

“Mostly, the only Germans we’ve seen that haven’t been dead have been shooting at us,” the lieutenant said. “But we did see some of our guys apparently escorting a German officer back where we had a skirmish with the Krauts. They were in the distance, and they ran off instead of helping us fight, which makes the fact that you’re looking for them even more suspicious. Like I said, how do we know you’re not Germans?”

“C’mon, Lieutenant⁠—”

“Better start talking before we start shooting.”

“So ask us a few questions,” Brock replied.

“That sounds like just the sort of thing a German agent would say.” The lieutenant seemed to think it over. “OK, sing us some of ‘Mairzy Doats.’”

Brock stared at him incredulously, wondering whether he had heard the lieutenant right. The song filled with seemingly nonsensical words had been a big hit when released in 1943. He knew the name of the song, all right, but couldn’t remember any of the words.

“You mean that kids’ song?”

“You heard me right. Start singing, if you know what’s good for you.”

Brock stared at Vern, who shrugged. Neither of them had a clue.

One or two of the soldiers in the infantry squad cocked their weapons.

It was Boot who saved them. Breaking the tense silence, he belted out a few lines of the song, tunelessly. It was a convincing performance, if painful on the ears. Boot was no singer.

Brock couldn’t have known it, but similar scenes were being played out all over the sprawling battlefield, with even colonels and generals being quizzed by doubtful sentries. The mere rumor of German saboteurs had wreaked far more havoc than the saboteurs themselves.

“How’s that, Lieutenant?” Brock wondered. “You maybe want us to dance too?”

“Naw, that’s good enough for me,” the lieutenant finally said. The song might have been childish, but the lieutenant’s threat had been real enough. However, he seemed more than satisfied by the rendition that Boot had offered. “Like I said, that squad you were looking for ran off into the woods. You can link up with us if you want to. We’re headed to Bastogne.”

“Thank you, sir. But I think we’d better keep looking.”

“Suit yourself.”

The tank engine roared back to life, and the Sherman started moving forward with a clank of treads. Still, the troops moving with the tank eyed Brock and his squad warily. Brock didn’t relax until they were out of sight.

“You think that lieutenant was serious about shooting us?” Vern asked.

“He looked damn serious to me. How did he look to you?”

“Serious as a heart attack,” Vern agreed.

“Staring into that tank’s machine gun sure as hell almost gave me a heart attack,” Brock admitted. “Boot, how the hell did you know that song?”

“Aw, my niece sang it nonstop the last time I was home on leave,” he said. “She used to make me sing it with her.”

Brock just shook his head. “Ain’t it a wonder, boys. We’ve got all the ammo we need, but it was a damn kids’ song that kept us from ending up as worm food.”

It wasn’t long after that when they reached the wreckage of the skirmish that the lieutenant and his tank had survived. They could see the smoking remains of another Sherman that hadn’t been so lucky. Several bodies lay in the slush and snow, most of them German.

He looked over the bodies — at least the ones where the faces were still recognizable. He didn’t see their German among them — or the hillbilly sniper either. He wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed. To be honest, part of him was ready to give up the chase and turn around, promises be damned. It would be night soon, and he didn’t relish the notion of sleeping out here in the woods, where there might be a German hiding behind every tree.

Brock recalled what the lieutenant had said about seeing some Americans accompanied by a German officer. Surely, those had to be the same men that he was looking for — they would be on this road. Apparently they had tried to avoid the skirmish that had taken place here. But where had they gone?

“Hey, Brock!” Vern called. “I found something.”

Brock hurried over to where Vern stood by a low stone wall at the opposite end of a wide place in the road.

“What is it?”

“Looks like a Kraut officer’s hat to me,” he replied, kicking at the hat in question.

“It’s got to be our Kraut,” Brock said.

Vern nodded toward the trees, where four sets of tracks disappeared into the growing darkness of the woods. Curiously, there was also a set of tire tracks headed in that direction. “It looks like they went this way.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”