Winter Sniper: A World War II Novel

Chapter 23

Hess stayed awake until after midnight, then bundled himself in a work coat, knit cap and gloves. He left his rifle hidden overhead on the barn beam but slipped the Luger into his coat pocket. Zumwald snored nearby and the lights in the farmhouse had long since winked out. The farm dogs had grown friendly toward them in the last couple of days and one of them — a big brindled beast — lifted its head and wagged as Hess stepped around him.

The night was bitterly cold — it rasped at his throat and burned his lungs. So cold and dry it reminded him of Russia. Good weather for hunting. The moon was nearly full so that its glow obscured the stars. So bright it almost hurt his eyes reflecting off the snow. There was a hazy ring around the moon — the old farmers back home would have said that meant there would be more snow soon. The stuff that was already on the ground had thawed in the sun yesterday and then refrozen so that his boots crunched through an icy crust wherever there was unbroken snow. He moved as quietly as possible, keeping an eye on the farmhouse. The farmer had been unusually tight-lipped — not that he was ever talkative — when he brought them their supper that night and had come into their corner of the barn and wandered around, almost as if he was looking for something.

Hess walked down the farm lane to the main road. It would have been faster to cut across country, but he wanted to avoid leaving any footprints. Using the road meant taking a chance that he might be seen, but he was counting on the fact that there would be little if any traffic at this hour.

The Greenbrier Resort was not far. He knew there would be sentries at the drive, so he swung off the road and into the trees, picking his way easily in the moonlight, moving roughly parallel to the resort driveway. He came across a trail for cross county skiers and walked along it — the going was much easier than crunching through the snow, plus the trail hid his own tracks. After about half a mile the ski trail veered close to the main resort building and Hess took to the woods again.

Through the trees, he could see a few lights burning in the windows of the resort building. If it had been earlier, he was close enough that he might have heard music or even the sound of laughter drift out. But all was quiet in the midnight hour, although he did see someone come out of the grand main entrance and then the brief flare of a match as the man lit a cigarette. Perhaps a clerk from the lobby braving the cold or maybe a guest who couldn’t sleep.

Hess moved closer, working his way through the woods until he had a clear view of that main entrance. It would only be a matter of time before General Eisenhower himself came through those doors. He knew the general had been an athlete in his youth and still liked to be active — Eisenhower would emerge to take a walk or else venture out on one of the ski trails. And when he did come out, Hess would be waiting for him.

Hess looked around, the glow from the moon on the snow making the woods around him appear otherworldly. Despite the brightness, he was not much worried about being seen. He was too far from the resort, and even if someone were scanning the woods with high-power binoculars they would have been hard pressed to see him among the trees.

The woods made the perfect sniper’s cover. He felt at home in these trees rather than the buildings and rubble of Stalingrad. He considered climbing into a tree to take his shot — height always worked to a sniper’s advantage — but he would be too exposed in the barren branches. Instead, he walked until he found a huge log that had succumbed to some forgotten storm. Resting on its broken limbs, the log did not quite touch the frozen ground. He crawled into the space beneath the log and found he still had a clear view of the resort. He almost regretted not bringing his rifle along, but he had not known what to expect and was not yet prepared to make another attempt. That was all right. He had found his sniper’s nest. He would return with his rifle tomorrow. He worried about his tracks in the snow, but that could not be helped.

Hess crawled back out and leaned his back against a tree. Satisfied with his scouting effort, he took out a flask of whiskey. He would have preferred vodka or even schnapps, but that was not what the Americans sold. Still, the amber liquid warmed him going down. He thought he could have lingered here all night, enjoying the stillness and the moonlight.

Hess would be the first to admit that he was not much of a thinker. Leave that to the professors, was his attitude. He knew that it was much easier to adopt the simple philosophy of duty. It gave one a clear way to follow, like a torch carried at the head of a parade. Hess rarely let himself dwell upon the work he had done with his rifle or how many men he had killed. Like a good German soldier, he did not believe in God or in the concept of sin. He accepted that there was only duty — the Fatherland was his church and Hitler was his God. He tilted up the flask and drained the rest of the whiskey.

Somewhere in the darkness a twig snapped and Hess heard something big crunching through the snow. The sound stopped, and then started again. Whatever it was, it was trying to be stealthy. He slipped off his glove, put his hand to his boot, and drew his knife. If he had to kill, he was determined to do it quietly. Whatever was moving through the woods came closer.

He crouched, knife at the ready, half expecting to see a man emerge from the moonlit shadows. But this creature had four legs and antlers. Hess held himself very still, in awe of the enormous stag. The deer did not see him, but seemed to sense his presence, pausing to sniff the air. And then it disappeared again into the woods.

Hess relaxed and lowered the knife. The farmer had warned him that there were bears in the woods and he had been half-amused at the thought of being stalked by one of them. Besides the knife, he was also armed with the Luger, so he really wasn’t worried about bears. But the stag had been a good omen, he thought. He retraced his steps more quietly than the deer, without so much as the snap of a twig in his wake. Tomorrow, it would be time to hunt.

Ty had no sooner gotten Yancey settled in than he found himself invited to dinner with the general and Mrs. Eisenhower. He received the invitation with mixed feelings — Ike worked, ate and slept with Ty and his other staff members round the clock in England. The reason they had fled Washington for a few days was to give the general some time alone with Mamie and his son, John, who was a cadet at West Point. Ty would have gone to visit his own family if there had been any hope of getting to Orange County and back in such a short time. The roads were a mess because of the snow.

The mixed feelings came from the fact that Ike’s sojourn with Mamie was not going well and having a few staffers on hand for dinner was obviously intended to serve as a kind of buffer zone between the general and his wife. The rumors that Ike was having an affair with his WAC driver — Kay Summersby — had preceded the general’s visit. A man would have to be blind not to see that there was something between Ike and Kay. But even Ty, close as he was to Ike, wasn’t sure if he was witnessing a romantic affair or a kind of avuncular relationship between the middle-aged general and Kay. What he did know was that it must have been painful for Mamie to hear rumors of an affair between her famous husband and another woman while she was stuck on the wrong side of the Atlantic.

On the train coming down from Washington Ike had called his wife “Kay” — a slip that had sent Mamie into a spell of door slamming and angry glares. It was humbling to see Ike try to patch things up by smothering Mamie in kindness and compliments.

Kit Henderson thought it was amusing. “Ike could get on the phone right now and order fifty thousand men to invade France or send hundreds of bombers over Germany,” he commented. “He could have any woman in England short of the queen — hell, we could have any woman short of the queen just by being on his staff. But I bet old Ike is sleeping on the couch tonight.”

It was a little funny — and a little sad. Ty believed Ike was a straight shooter who would never hurt his wife on purpose, but he wouldn’t be the first soldier to give in to temptation when he was far from home and lonely.

The dinner was held in a cozy dining room deep inside the hotel. Ty had been all over the cavernous resort in the last few days, even exploring the basement and prowling the kitchen until he made the cooks nervous, but he had somehow overlooked this dining room with its walls paneled in rich walnut and a massive stone fireplace where a roaring blaze crackled. The fire reminded him of the last time he had seen Eva on the night Ike had almost been assassinated. Eva. For all he knew, that might be the last time he saw her until after the war.

An elegant Kentucky rifle hung above the mantel, its burled maple stock reflecting the candlelight. It felt as if the clock had been turned back at least a hundred years, and Ty could almost imagine wolves howling and Indians lurking beyond the walls.

“That rifle belonged to Daniel Boone,” Ike announced, pausing to admire the antique weapon. He had a glass of scotch in one hand. “John, come look at this. I’ll bet he shot a bear or two with that rifle.”

Obediently, the young man in the gray uniform of a West Point cadet approached the fireplace. He was not drinking, but Ty thought he could have used one. It couldn’t have been easy having Dwight D. Eisenhower as a father. Ty knew a little something about how living in your old man’s shadow. You might long to step out of it, but even when you did, the sun wouldn’t always shine for you.

Side by side, there was a great deal of resemblance between the general and his son. Same height and build, but the younger man had a full head of hair — even though it was cut high and tight as a boot camp recruit. Ike was very nearly bald, except for a few wispy strands that hung around like stragglers at a party. Ike’s enthusiasm seemed forced, the way it never did when he was working with his staff. He glanced at his wife, with whom Kit made polite conversation as he buttered a roll. Mamie smiled at the two men in her life.

The food arrived, carried in on silver platters by two old black men wearing waiter’s jackets. They served Cornish game hens, the skins nicely crisped and draped with slices of salty country bacon. There were potatoes mashed with real butter and stuffing made with sage sausage. Green beans with more butter. Ty hadn’t thought he was hungry, but the sudden smell of the hot food made his stomach rumble. He wasn’t the only one; there was almost a rush to the table.

The waiter poured wine and the mood turned festive, almost like a holiday dinner.

“Bet they’re not eating like this in Berlin,” someone said.

“Or in London,” Kit added under his breath, topping off his glass of wine after immediately gulping half of it down.

“I want to do some cross country skiing tomorrow,” Ike said. “John, you remember the last time we did that?”

“You mean that time you got so tired I had to tow you back?” His son had some of his father’s trademark grin.

Ike laughed at that. He turned to Mamie. “How about you, Kay? We could find you some skis —”

At the mention of Kay’s name, a chill swept through the room as if someone had opened a window to the winter wind. Conversation stumbled to a halt. Ike realized his mistake at once and was busy staring into his mashed potatoes.

“Would you rather have her here?” Mamie said quietly.

“Mamie, I —

The general’s wife bundled her napkin next to her plate and quietly excused herself. Ike pushed away from the table and went after her.

The polite thing to do seemed to be to focus on the meal. For several minutes, the only sound was the clatter of cutlery and the crackle of the fire. John Eisenhower picked sullenly at his food — it would have been impossible for him not to have heard the gossip about his father and his attractive driver. Then Ty asked him a question about West Point and started a conversation that was better than the silence, if a bit stilted. John asked them about the war and they answered as best they could.

“Hell, war is nothing,” Kit muttered to Ty once they had polished off a second bottle of wine. “Being married is what’s really dangerous.”

After dinner, Ty retreated with Kit to the hotel bar, which served as a de facto Officer’s Club. They had asked John Eisenhower along, but he had begged off, seeming embarrassed about the scene between his parents. Ty couldn’t blame him — what was supposed to be a happy family reunion had gotten seriously off track.

The bar was packed with convalescing officers who seemed to appreciate the medicinal purposes of bourbon. Having seen something of the local countryside, Ty was pretty sure the hotel bar was the busiest place for twenty miles around. Ty overheard some of the men talking about there being a heavy snow in the forecast. He wouldn’t mind seeing a foot of snow, but they were supposed to leave the resort soon to get back to Washington. A heavy snow would interfere with the general’s travel plans.

It wasn’t generally known that Eisenhower was staying at the Greenbrier, but word had gone around the hotel staff that the young officers were something of VIPs, which was enough to get them their own table in the crowded bar and a complimentary bottle of Hennessy VSOP — rare stuff these days. Ty rolled the cognac on his tongue, enjoying its mingled bite and sweetness. He lit another cigarette.

“What do you think of Little Ike?” Ty asked as he exhaled.

“He’ll do all right,” Kit replied. “It wasn’t so long ago that we were just as green behind the ears.”

“He and his old man are thick as thieves,” Ty said, with what he realized was just a touch of envy in his voice. “Even if Ike is a bit critical of him.”

“Can’t be easy having a four-star general for a father.” Kit took a sip of the cognac and a long drag on his cigarette. “By the way, I saw that sniper you brought in. Tough old bird. Looks like he won’t have any trouble taking care of business. Hell, maybe we should send him to shoot Stalin or Hitler or Churchill or whoever is behind all this.”

“It wouldn’t stop the war.”

“Neither will shooting Ike,” Kit agreed. “But it might lose it for us. I don’t think there’s anyone else who could pull off Overlord without making a balls-up of it.”

“Balls-up? Christ, you’re starting to sound like a Brit.”

“Cheerio.” Kit tipped back his glass. “The thing is, we can’t let that Russian sniper shoot Ike.”

Ty was a little annoyed. “I wasn’t planning on letting him.”

“Maybe you should post a few more guards.”

“Ike won’t like it.”

“Which is why you might have to go to a higher authority.”

“Who? Roosevelt?”

“Actually, I was talking about Mamie.”

“That might work.” Ty nodded, thinking about it. “That is, if she doesn’t shoot him herself.”

Kit chuckled, then turned serious again. “Meanwhile, have you thought about setting a trap for this sniper? Something to lure him out?”

“Like what?”

“Why don’t you ask your new friend. Sergeant Yancey. I’ll bet he knows a trick or two.”