Winter Sniper: A World War II Novel

Chapter 26

“I will be gone in the morning,” Hess said, the sound of his voice startling in the cold stillness of the barn.

“I was almost asleep,” Zumwald muttered in German.

“Speak English,” Hess whispered harshly. “You never know who is listening.”

“What, that old farmer? He’s probably half deaf anyway.” Zumwald paused. It was no secret that Hess hadn’t come all this way to be a farm hand. And then there was the rifle, oiled and glistening, wrapped in a blanket and hidden away on a rafter. Yet Zumwald had hoped this moment might not come. “Where are you going?”

“Never mind that,” Hess said. “What matters is that it will not be safe for you to stay here. Maybe for a day or two. After that, it is hard to say.”

Zumwald heard a metallic click and their sleeping quarters lit up with the flame from Hess’s lighter as he lit a cigarette. “Give me one of those.” Hess handed him the cigarette he had just lit and put another one in his mouth. The lighter flared again. “The old man would have a fit if he found us smoking.” In fact, the farmer had expressly forbidden it. Surrounded by dry hay and old wood, a careless cigarette might send the barn up like a torch. They lay on their cots, the only light coming from the glow of their cigarettes.

Hess exhaled. “You have been a good comrade, Zumwald. I hope you get home someday.”

“What about you?”

Hess didn’t answer right away. “I did not come all this way to spend the rest of the war milking cows,” he said in German.

“Good luck, my friend. You’re going to need it.”

The lighter flared again as Hess lit another cigarette. Zumwald watched the shadows flicker across the wooden walls and dance across the rafters, then rolled over and closed his eyes. He worked so damn hard all day that he fell asleep almost instantly. When he woke up, the first pale light of dawn was already visible through the lone window in the bunkroom. He gazed with bleary eyes at the cot nearby.

The sniper was gone.

Hess was hunting again.

He sought out the place he had scouted during his nighttime trip into the woods surrounding the resort. The moon had been so bright last night that now, by daylight, he had little trouble finding landmarks to guide him. In some cases he could pick out individual trees or outcroppings of rock, like signposts in the forest. Hess was somewhat troubled that he could also pick out his own tracks — but luck was on his side. Snow was beginning to fall. The old farmer had told them he could feel in his bones that they were in for a big storm. The heavy flakes fell almost straight down because there was no wind. A fresh layer of snow would cover his tracks and bury him in the woods.

Hess had planned for the snow. His entire rifle was wrapped in strips of white sacking, except for the muzzle and the optics. The magazine of the Mosin-Nagant was loaded with the last of his ammunition and he had the Luger tucked into his belt within easy reach. He felt like a soldier again, not a fugitive.

He hefted the rifle. He still thought of it as the Russian rifle, an entity of its own. He wondered sometimes if the factory workers who had made it ever considered that the rifle would end up in America for such a purpose. If they had any imagination at all, they must have pictured it being used to shoot Germans. It had none of the craftsmanship or precision of German weapons. It looked and felt more like a club than a rifle. For some reason, that made it feel more capable to Hess’s hands.

Not only was the rifle wrapped in white strips, but Hess had on overalls he had soaked in bleach until they were almost blinding as new snow. Now, deep in the trees, he took a white sheet from his pack and slipped it over his head through the hole he had cut in the center, leaving enough material to fashion a kind of hood with safety pins. The hooded sheet made an ideal camouflage poncho. Next, he wrapped the tops of his boots in strips he had cut from the sheet. From a distance, he would blend perfectly against a backdrop of snow.

Not only would the camouflage disguise him as he waited for the general, but it would help him escape. The woods were deep enough that he could disappear into the hills after he shot Eisenhower. Any pursuers would have to chase him on foot. With luck and a good head start, Hess doubted anyone could catch him. Beyond that, he did not have much of a plan for escape. He would be a lone soldier on his own in enemy territory — and most likely the target of a huge manhunt as well. He pushed the thought from his mind to focus on the task at hand.

He found the deadfall he had picked out last night and crawled under it. The shallow depression left by the torn roots made a kind of cave that would hold in his body heat. The pack also held food, a bottle of water and another flask of whiskey. He might not be warm exactly, but he would not freeze. His mind and body had been conditioned to ignore physical discomfort.

He settled the rifle into position and looked through the scope. The grounds around the resort sprang closer, blurred somewhat by the falling snow. Hess realized he was almost happy, never mind the cold. He was doing what he was meant to do, what he had been trained to do. They might call him a marksman and pin medals on him, but Hess knew the plain truth was that he was a killer, an assassin. This time, he would not fail. General Eisenhower was as good as dead.

Ty wanted snow — the next morning he got his wish. Before tumbling into bed late and more than a little woozy from a boozy night at the hotel bar — so much for doctor’s orders — he had looked out his window to notice that the nearly full moon had a halo around it. He knew that was a sign the old-timers used to predict a storm, but he was skeptical because an arctic front had pushed down from Canada. Too cold to snow, even in the forecast was calling for a big one. He woke up to a gray dawn, thinking a little wistfully of sun-kissed Italy — their last posting before establishing SHAEF headquarters in London.

The staff at the resort was busier than usual, getting ready for the storm. There was wood to be brought in and last-minute deliveries to receive. Here in the Blue Ridge Mountains, Ty saw that they took their snowstorms seriously.

“We might get socked in here if we stay,” Ike grumbled over coffee during an impromptu morning staff meeting. He dragged on a cigarette — already his fifth or sixth of the day.

Joe Durham got up pushed aside the curtain, letting in a view of the wooded foothills. Already, a few flakes slanted past in the growing wind. It looked like the start of something serious. “We’re better off here than stuck on the road somewhere or on a train,” Durham observed.

“All right, we’ll stay put,” Ike said. “Mamie will like that better, anyway. She’ll have me all to herself. But then it’s back to Washington. We’ve got a war to fight, gentlemen, though it’s peaceful enough here.”

Ty looked outside again at the slate-gray clouds of the gathering storm, wondering if the sniper was out there somewhere. He would have a rough time if he was, Ty thought with satisfaction.

The meeting broke up. Ty was heading back to his room when one of the staff members stopped him.

“Captain Walker? The concierge sent me to find you, sir. He thinks there’s someone you ought to see.”

Curious, Ty headed to the lobby. The staff member directed him to an office behind the front desk, where the concierge waited with a man who looked out of place in the Greenbrier’s elegant surroundings. He had the appearance of a local farmer, dressed in stained dungarees and worn Carhart coat, holding a billed cap in leathery, big-knuckled hands. His battered boots dripped slush into the spotless floor.

“This is Mr. Langdon,” the concierge said, after a somewhat pained glance at the floor. “He has a farm just down the road.”

Ty put out his hand and the farmer stared at it a moment before he seemed to realize he was supposed to shake it. The farmer’s hand was hard as a plank and rough as sandpaper.

“You’re the man I should see?” Langdon asked.

Ty glanced at the concierge, looking for some clue, but the man’s face was unreadable. “I’m Captain Walker. How can I help you, Mr. Langdon?”

“Well, Captain Walker, do you know anything about milkin’ cows?”

“I beg your pardon?” Ty cast another glance at the concierge, wondering if this was some local crazy they were pawning off on him.

“Didn’t think so,” Langdon said, looking satisfied with himself. “You see, it’s hard to find any help, which is why I wasn’t real particular when two fellers showed up at my place a few days ago. Can’t blame me for that. I hired them to milk. It ain’t so hard to milk once you get the hang of it.”

“You have a dairy farm,” Ty said, catching on.

“Just up the road,” Langdon replied. “You know, I was a soldier myself, back during the first time we had to whip the Krauts. Reckon we should of done a better job. Anyway, these two young fellers talked funny, said they was Pennsylvania Dutch. Can’t be too particular these days trying to get help around the farm.”

“I’m sure.” Ty wasn’t sure of anything, but he noticed the farmer was kneading his hat, working his way up to something.

“Yesterday I went into town to the feed mill, and when I come back I heard shooting. What’s all that shooting about? Didn’t think about it much at the time, deer hunters maybe, but then this morning I noticed the tracks leading to the back field and I followed them. Somebody was shooting at pumpkins and such back there. The tracks led back down to my barn, where these two hands of mine are staying.”

Now Ty was getting interested. He took a step closer to the farmer. “Target practice,” Ty said. “For deer hunting.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” the farmer said. He reached into a coat pocket. “Found this in the snow up there. Does this look to you like it come from a deer rifle?”

The farmer dumped a brass shell casing into Ty’s hand. If he hadn’t already seen one in Washington, he might not have known what it was. Sergeant Yancey had identified it as a spent round from a Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle.

“Mr. Langdon,” Ty said, trying to keep his voice calm, “are these two hands still out at your farm?”

“They were when I left.”

That was all Ty needed to hear. He got directions from the farmer, who also agreed to ride along. Mr. Langdon was nervous about the weather — he wanted to get back before the snow was too deep on the roads. He had his cows to look after.

Ty left the farmer with the concierge and rushed out to find Yancey and Kit Henderson. If they hurried, they just might make it out to the farm before the storm got bad.

He nearly ran into the lobby, then stopped cold. A woman stood near the front desk, the shoulders of her fur coat shimmering with snow. A young girl in a second-hand coat was struggling with a suitcase that clearly belonged to the woman at the front desk.

In profile, he almost didn’t recognize her. A stunning face wreathed in the snow-dusted fur, wisps of platinum blond hair breaking loose from beneath her hat, rose-colored lips. Beside him, the concierge had emerged from his office and stood transfixed. Then the woman looked at Ty and he found himself eye to eye with Eva Von Stahl, who broke out into a dazzling smile at seeing him.

“Eva, what on earth are you doing here?”

“How nice to see you, too.” There was a touch of indignation in Eva’s voice.

Ty stammered a reply. “What I mean is… I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Darling, if you looked any more surprised we would have to scoop you up with a shovel.”

Eva had not been sure of the welcome she would receive, arriving unannounced at White Sulphur Springs. But there was something to be said for the element of surprise. She was sure he would have told her not to come if she had asked permission first.

Now, standing here in the lobby of the Greenbrier Hotel, Ty’s face told her everything she needed to know. He looked like a boy who had just received a very wonderful present. She had come unexpectedly, but she was not unwelcome. Eva held out her hands, Ty took them, and she planted a kiss on his cheek.

The concierge stepped forward. It was clear that he recognized Eva, but he had the good manners not to point that out. Instead, he asked if she would be staying as a guest.

“Do you have a suite, something suitable for me and my servant?” Eva nodded almost imperceptibly at Petra, who hung back, a bag dangling from each hand, looking around wide-eyed at the Greenbrier’s elegant lobby.

The concierge looked flustered and the poor man stood wringing his hands together. Eva did not recall ever seeing a man doing that, except on a movie set. “I’m afraid that all our suites are occupied, Miss Von Stahl.” So he did know her, Eva thought. “However, we have some very nice rooms on the third floor. We have some more appropriate rooming arrangements for servants in the basement, if that’s acceptable.”

“Quite,” Eva said. She was beginning to like this man. It had been too long since she had been treated like a movie star.

The concierge nodded at a porter, who hurried over to take Eva’s luggage. Petra stood back as he put the suitcases onto a cart.

When he reached for the suitcase she was carrying, Eva moved her hand away. “I can manage,” she said.

A door behind the counter opened and two men stepped out. One looked like a desk clerk while the other was someone who clearly did not belong in the lobby of the Greenbrier. He wore a canvas coat and blue jeans with boots. Ty looked over his shoulder, and then at Eva.

“You really did catch me by surprise,” he said. “I was right in the middle of something.”

“Go ahead, darling.” Then she added with a purring voice that made Ty Walker the envy of every man within earshot, “I will see you tonight.”