Winter Sniper: A World War II Novel

Chapter 31

General Dwight D. Eisenhower was no fool. He had paid his dues as a field officer and could sense when someone was trying to hide something. He knew Sergeant Crandall instantly but it took him a moment to place the woman before he realized it was Eva Von Stahl, Ty Walker’s girl. Although girl was not the way to describe her, he thought. By gumbo, but she was a looker. She had the kind of figure that not even a leather bomber jacket could hide. He remembered something about her having been a movie star before the war. A German one at that. She looked a little wobbly on the skis now that they were standing still and Crandall offered her his arm.

What Ike did notice was that Crandall and Miss Von Stahl looked guilty as hell. Scared even, which wasn’t something Ike had ever seen before in his driver’s face. The question was, what had they been up to? Maybe something behind Ty’s back?

“Crandall, I never took you for a skier,” Ike said. He nodded back at the snow mobile. “What you ought to do is take one of these for a spin. I’d say that’s more your style.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then it dawned on Ike. The camel’s hair coat that was clearly his or else damned similar. The campaign hat that left Crandall’s jug ears exposed. The general was well aware that there had always been a rough resemblance between them, but for once, Crandall actually seemed to be trying to look like Ike.

“Sergeant, what the hell is going on?”

“We’re out here on Captain Walker’s orders, sir. We’re trying to lure out the German sniper, you see. We have one of our own marksmen covering us.”

“Captain Walker warned me about this particular threat, but I don’t put much stock in it. I’m convinced that what happened in Washington was an isolated incident.”

“That would be a good thing, sir, considering that if there is a sniper, he’s probably in the woods out there.” Crandall nodded toward the snowy trees. “And if he’s out there, he’s probably got us in his rifle sights right about now.”

Mamie Eisenhower, who had sat quietly in the snowmobile until now, called out to her husband. “What’s that about a sniper?”

“Nothing to worry about, dear.” But Ike cast a nervous eye toward the wintry woods that was a tapestry of snow-covered limbs and deep shadows. Half to himself he added, “That’s a long way to shoot a rifle.”

Crandall overheard. “Then let’s hope he’s not a good shot, sir.”

Hess stared in disbelief at the two generals in the circle of the telescopic sight. They could not both be General Eisenhower. But he could not tell them apart. Perhaps up close the difference would have been apparent, but from across the open field the two men looked almost exactly alike. The one might have been the mirror reflection of the other.

The sniper felt that he had been let in on some secret. Had the Americans found a double for the general that allowed him to be in two places at once? There were always rumors that Stalin did this, and even Hitler. Hess would have liked a deutschmark for every time Stalin had been seen on the front lines at Stalingrad. A trick of the cold and fatigue, or simply Russian propaganda? He would not have thought the Americans would stoop to such tricks, but the scene in front of him dispelled that notion.

Hess let the rifle sight waver from one man to the other, his finger all the while taking up tension on the trigger. He would have time for only one shot. Hess decided he would have an even chance of killing the right man. The same odds one had tossing a coin into the air. He would simply have to choose one. The trouble was that Eva stood to one side of the man on skis, blocking Hess’s line of fire.

Then Eva stepped forward and took the newcomer by the arm. Hess took this as a signal.

He put the post sight on Eisenhower’s temple and fired.

When he heard the gunshot, Ty was just coming out of the hotel. The sound shattered the wintry stillness of the valley. The corner of the hotel blocked his view of the open field, so he slogged through the snow. Drifts had piled up on this side of the building and he struggled through them. It was like trying to run through the water at the beach — or like trying to run in a nightmare when your feet won’t move. He heard another shot. And another. Then a deeper crack that he recognized as another rifle. Yancey. He only hoped their own sniper lived up to all his swagger.

Ty rounded the corner of the building and gasped at the scene in front of him. The glare off the snow hurt his eyes, but he couldn’t stop staring. Far out in the middle of the field, he saw three figures crouching by a snowmobile. In spite of everything that had happened, he felt a surge of relief when he glimpsed Eva’s blond hair. A fourth figure lay crumpled in the snow. Ty prayed to God that it wasn’t Ike.

Several other men were crossing the field, being waved toward the woods by Kit Henderson, who had run out of the hotel just ahead of Ty. Some men lacked coats and hats — or even any weapons that Ty could see — but they surged steadily through the snow toward where the sniper was hidden. He counted three more bodies scattered around, which would explain the additional rifle shots he had heard. The German sniper hadn’t given up easily. He saw another figure, dressed in white to blend in with the snow, picking his way along the tree line. That would be Yancey. He seemed happy to let the others charge across the field while he approached more cautiously.

Ty forced his legs to work harder. His lungs felt like they were on fire and he regretted every cigarette and scotch he’d had in the last two years. He vowed that he would cut back if only some divine power would let him run faster. Even his head began to throb again, probably set off by the snow glare. The sudden pain made it feel as if the sniper’s rifle was crashing into his skull all over again.

As he ran closer to the fallen figure, he could make out a brown coat. Then a balding head. Was it Crandall or Ike? When he finally reached the dead man, Ty put his hands on his knees, gulping in great lungfuls of cold air. His heart hammered in his chest. Only when he had caught his breath did he dare to take a closer look.

The face was turned partially into the snow, but Ty could still make out one blue eye, staring at nothing. A crushed cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. He still wasn’t sure.

“It’s Crandall.”

Ty recognized Ike’s voice. He looked up into the general’s lined face, the blue eyes distinctly unhappy. Ike was not one to lose his temper, but Ty could see that he was struggling not to fly into a rage. What seemed to be holding him back was the fact that Mamie slumped against him, sobbing hysterically. Eva stood a little apart from them. He met her eyes, expecting her to be just as upset as the general’s wife. She was glaring at him with a look of pure hatred. Any doubts he’d had about her being a German spy vanished. Small flecks of blood dotted her features and more blood was splashed across the leather bomber jacket. Ty didn’t bother to ask if she was hurt.

Ty looked back at Eisenhower. “Sergeant Crandall is dead,” he said stupidly.

“Captain, this has to be one of the most idiotic stunts I’ve ever seen pulled off,” Ike said. Pure fury played across his face. “You put all of us in danger.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m taking Mrs. Eisenhower and Miss Von Stahl inside,” the general said. “Meanwhile, you straighten out this mess. Goddamnit.”

Considering that Ike rarely cursed, let alone took the Lord’s name in vain, that final utterance was like a thunderbolt. Ty nearly jumped. He managed to mumble something affirmative and then turned away from Ike’s angry gaze. He looked down at Crandall. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he had one eye open, it almost looked as if Crandall was taking a nap in the snow. The only visible wound was an ugly, purple hole in Crandall’s temple, just above the ear. Ty crouched down and took hold of the sergeant’s shoulder, rolling him to one side.

Now Ty could see that the bullet had come out the other side of Crandall’s head, leaving an exit wound the size of a silver dollar. White flecks of skull were visible and the snow under his body was pooled with dark blood. Ty’s stomach lurched. He stood up and managed to take a few steps away before vomiting his breakfast. Get hold of yourself, soldier. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then started toward the woods.

As Hess watched the body crumple, he thought he could hear a woman scream from four hundred yards away. He was fairly certain it was not Eva but the woman on the snowmobile. He worked the bolt, ejected the spent cartridge, slid a fresh round into the chamber. The second man had reacted too quickly for Hess to get off another shot. He grabbed Eva and pulled her down under him, flattening them both into the snow and shrubs that lined the walking path. At the same time he shouted something to the woman on the snowmobile, who rolled off and put the machine between herself and the woods.

Hess played the scope across the snow but could only make out a brownish lump — not much of a target. He would just be wasting a bullet and giving away his position. Besides, he could not take a second shot without the chance that he might hit Eva. Hess just hoped that he had killed the right man, thanks to Eva’s signal. Surely, she had stepped away to give him a clear field of fire.

Time to go. Soldiers swarmed out of the hotel and nearby buildings. Someone got them organized and a line of men came toward the woods. They were lightly armed with rifles and pistols. One man — a cook, judging by the white apron he wore — had rushed into the snow with nothing more than a rolling pin for a weapon. Hess took one last look through the scope — still no target — and started to crawl out from his sniper’s nest beneath the log. He had hoped to have more time to escape. His only chance was to get deep into the forests and mountains where the Americans would have a hard time tracking him.

But to do that, he would have to buy himself some time. The ragged line of men was advancing quickly toward the woods. It was foolhardy, crossing an open field toward a sniper’s position. Hess got clear of the log and put the rifle to his shoulder. The advancing soldiers sprang closer in the scope. He was aware that he was breaking all the rules of sniper warfare — shooting from a relatively exposed position and firing twice from the same location. But this was not Stalingrad. He had to do something to slow down the advancing soldiers. He put the sight on the officer who had organized the advance and brought him down.

Some of the men, realizing what was happening, threw themselves down in the snow. A couple of the soldiers opened fire, shooting uselessly into the woods. The ones with the pistols were so far away that they might as well have been throwing snowballs. Dressed in white, with even his rifle camouflaged, Hess did not present much of a target. He worked the bolt, put the post sight on one of the men who was shooting blindly into the woods, and fired. The 9 mm took off the crown of the man’s head, leaving a crimson spray across the snow. That stopped the advance toward the woods.

Hess was just turning to go when a bullet ripped through his shoulder. There was no pain at first, but only an impact like being hit with a club.

He dropped his rifle, then sagged to his knees. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. He stared in disbelief at the blood running down his arm into the snow. The little scarlet pool steamed as it cooled. Hess felt the world begin to spin and forced himself to focus. He reached for his rifle, hoping the snow had not clogged the barrel. As long as he had his rifle he had a chance of staying alive.

He realized it was a good thing he had turned at just that moment. Otherwise the bullet would have hit him full in the lungs and he would have drowned in his own blood. Then again, if the other sniper had been trying for a head shot, Hess’s brains would already be scattered across the snow. Hess had seen enough wounds to know this one wouldn’t be fatal — the bullet had passed right through — but he must stop the bleeding. He got his back to the log and started ripping off sections of sheeting, then stuffed them up under his coat, into the wound. It wasn’t much of a field dressing, but it would have to do for now.

Grudgingly, he had to admire the man who had shot him. He had no doubt it was another sniper. Hess had broken the rules and paid the price. He had not seen the other man or even guessed that he was there. Stupid to let himself get shot like that.

He peered above the log and saw that the soldiers were advancing again. Even more people had come out onto the snowy field and now there were knots of men around the dead general as well as the two soldiers Hess had shot. He also saw a man dressed completely in white, just as Hess was, carrying a rifle with a telescopic sight and leading a group of soldiers toward the spot where Hess lay. This was the other sniper.

He thought about making a run for it, but knew that he would not be able to move fast enough before the Americans caught him. Not only that, but he would be leaving a blood trail to follow, like a wounded animal. His only choice was to fight.

Hess struggled with his own rifle, trying to get it into shooting position. With his wounded shoulder, he could barely lift the weapon, much less aim it. He felt dizzy from blood loss. The Americans had reached the woods and he could hear them thrashing through the brush toward him.

Hess slumped back against the log and propped the rifle butt against the frozen ground. There was a round in the chamber — if someone came close enough he might be able to get off one shot, but he would not be able to work the bolt to reload.

There was a movement in the undergrowth a few feet away and a very young, very frightened American face stared at him from behind a mountain laurel bush. “Over here!” the boy called in a voice that cracked with fear. Then he aimed his rifle at Hess. The muzzle danced wildly.

Hess saved his bullet. He did not have to wait long. Other soldiers crashed through the brush, followed by the American sniper in winter camouflage. He wore a big grin and didn’t even bother to train his rifle on Hess, as if he wasn’t worth the effort.

“Looks like I bagged me a genuine German sniper,” the American said. “You speak English?”

Hess didn’t answer. He willed the American to come closer so that he could point the rifle at him. One shot left. His field of vision seemed to be shrinking.

“Hey, this goddamn Kraut just shot three people,” one of the soldiers said. “We ought to kill him right now.”

“Hold your horses,” the other sniper said, taking another two steps toward Hess and studying the blood-stained poncho with professional curiosity. “I was trying for a neck shot. Usually get the spine that way, or maybe nick the carotid so you bleed out. You had to go and move, though.”

Closer, Hess thought.

He never heard the soldier who reached from behind the log and snatched the rifle out of his grasp.

“Not so tough now, are you?” The other sniper laughed and crossed the remaining few feet between them. “Don’t you want to say anything?”

“Go to hell.”

“So you do speak English. That makes it easier. Because now I know you’ll understand when I tell you that you didn’t shoot General Eisenhower.”

Then the American sniper raised his rifle and smashed the butt against Hess’s temple, making the world go dark.