Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller Page 5

  Beetle Smith got up and spoke to the MP guarding the door. And then he shut the double wooden doors into Ike’s office. He walked over to the windows and drew the blinds. “These stay closed from now on, sir. And we’re going to triple the guard.”

  “What the devil are you taking about? It’s no secret that we’re fighting a war. You think we’re being spied on?”

  “It’s not to protect information, sir. It’s to protect you. Those reports about Otto Skorzeny’s assassins and saboteurs—

  “Hogwash.”

  “Well, we didn’t think the Germans could launch a counteroffensive, either.”

  “All right, let’s get Bradley and Patton in here pronto,” Ike said, stubbing out one cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and immediately lighting another. “One thing for sure—Hitler has a lousy idea of a Christmas present.”

  “Not if you’re German, sir.”

  • • •

  In the heart of the Ardennes, the American snipers didn’t need intelligence reports to know that the Germans were up to something. The sound of gunfire in the distance made them uneasy. Something was up. Something big, from the sounds of it.

  "Keep your eyes open," Lieutenant Mulholland said to his squad, though the warning was hardly necessary.

  "What's going on, Lieutenant?" asked Billy Rowe, scanning the woods nervously.

  "To hell if I know, but it's not good," Mulholland responded. "Like I said, keep your eyes open."

  Rowe was new to the squad, but so far he had proved to be adept at the job, mostly because he had managed to stay alive, which was harder than it looked when you were hunting German snipers.

  Since D plus 1 the snipers had been assigned within the 29th Division as a counter-sniper unit. They had done their job well—perhaps a little too well, because someone at headquarters had gotten the bright idea that the squad needed to be larger. And so they had sent Rowe and two other soldiers to fill out the ranks. Both men were good shots—Mulholland had given them an impromptu marksmanship test when they were assigned to the unit.

  But it took more than being a marksman to be a good sniper. One of the replacements had died that first day in the field when he made the mistake of peeking over a log to see if he had hit anything. The German sniper on the other side of the field had picked him off. It was the kind of dumb mistake that always got the new guys killed.

  Cole had hunted down and shot the German during the course of a long, tense afternoon. You could count on Cole to get even. He was from that southern hill country where people still held grudges and fought feuds. Cole was serious about that eye for an eye thing. Dead serious.

  That was how sniper warfare went. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. It felt personal, even when death was delivered at long distance by a nameless German with a Mauser.

  Sometimes, Mulholland felt like it was all similar to an endless chess game in which you lost a pawn here or there to expose the enemy's rook. Both sides had won and lost an awful lot of pieces, and checkmate didn’t seem any closer.

  They trudged along the frozen, snowy road until they came to a crossroads. The signs were like something out of a storybook—simple white with the names Malmedy and St. Vith painted on them in black, pointing in the direction to take. Say what you wanted about the German occupation, but they had been sticklers for maintaining the roads.

  "Which way, Lieutenant?" Vaccaro asked. He nodded at the road toward St. Vith. The snow was nearly pristine and untrammeled. "Looks quiet down that road. There's probably a nice little tavern at the end and some warm calvados."

  "We'll head toward where we heard that gunfire," Mulholland said. "That's where they'll need us."

  "I was afraid you would say that, sir."

  It soon turned out that they were not the only travelers on the road. In the distance, they heard the whine of a vehicle approaching at high speed over the wintry roads.

  "Sounds like a Jeep," Mulholland said. "But I'm not taking any chances. Everybody off the road. Now!"

  Cole had already taken a position down in the ditch, his telescopic sight trained on the road they had just come down. The others hurried to join him. "Looks like one of ours, but you just can't tell for sure."

  "Is it one of our Jeeps or not?" Vaccaro wanted to know.

  "It's one of ours, but maybe it's a German driving."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You saw that dead man in the road back there," Cole said. "He damn sure didn't die of frostbite. Maybe the Germans sent some guys behind the lines to soften us up. That could be them now, coming to link up with their Kraut buddies."

  "Cole, you have got one devious mind, but I like how you think." Vaccaro worked the bolt action of his Springfield. "Shoot first and ask questions later, I aways say."

  The Jeep came closer, headed toward the hidden snipers. If there were Germans at the wheel, they were driving straight into an ambush. Then the Jeep began to slow as the crossroads came up.

  Cole had been watching the approaching Jeep intently through his telescopic sight, but he suddenly lifted his head away and blinked. "Cover me," he said, and stepped out into the road.

  "Cole," the lieutenant said. "Get back here!"

  But the sniper was already standing in the middle of the road, rifle lowered, waiting for the Jeep to come closer. It rolled to a stop just a few feet from him.

  The passenger got out, threw a pair of arms bundled in a great coat and mittens around Cole's neck, and kissed him.

  Still watching from the ditch, the other snipers had to pick their jaws up out of the snow.

  It was Lieutenant Mulholland who recovered first. He stood, brushed the snow and frozen mud from his knees and elbows, then approached the Jeep. The others followed.

  The passenger was Jolie Molyneaux, a French resistance fighter who had been assigned as the sniper unit's guide in the days following D-Day. Jolie was as pretty as a girl straight from a pin-up calendar, an asset that had served her well in dealing with the Germans during the occupation. Most of the time, a smile and a flip of her hair were all she needed to get out of a tight situation.

  But that was not the real Jolie at all. She was tough as a boot and sharp as the blade of a knife. Jolie was initially just as skeptical about the American liberators as she was bitter toward the Nazi occupiers. However, she had quickly become a vital part of the unit and had struck up an unlikely romance with Cole, who by most appearances was about as friendly as a copperhead. A bullet from the German known as the Ghost Sniper had nearly killed her outside Bienville. The last time Cole had seen her was when he loaded Jolie into an ambulance nearly six months before.

  "What a bunch of assholes," Jolie said in heavily accented English. “I never got one letter.”

  "Uh, you picked one heck of a time to show up for a visit, Mademoiselle Molyneux," said the lieutenant. Like a compass needle spinning in the presence of a magnet, the look on his face bounced between delight at seeing her and outright annoyance. It was no secret that he once had romantic intentions toward the French fighter, but those had been dashed by her interest in Cole.

  “But there is not supposed to be fighting,” she said. “Everyone knows this is a quiet zone.”

  "In case you haven't noticed, we are in the middle of a German offensive.” Mulholland’s tone indicated that his internal needle had moved closer to the annoyed category. “All hell has broken loose. You need to get back in that Jeep and return to HQ."

  The driver spoke up. "Whoa, whoa, sir. I can’t just turn around. There are Krauts back that way and we barely got past them. I have a message for the company that came this way."

  "Well, you'll have to take her with you."

  "That's impossible, sir. She made such a pest of herself at HQ that I was told to leave her with your squad, just to get her out of there. I took her this far, and that's as far as she can go."

  "Now look here, Corporal—"

  Jolie spoke up. "I am where I should be," she said. "I am back with all of you. I w
ant to be fighting Germans again."

  "This is ridiculous," the lieutenant said. “You’re a civilian.”

  "It is my country they are trying to invade again. It is my fight. Do not tell me what is ridiculous." She reached to get her bag, but Cole beat her to it, lifting a battered rucksack from the back of the Jeep.

  "She can't come with me," the driver repeated, then eased his foot off the clutch so that the tires started to catch on the frozen surface, kicking out slush. "Orders are orders."

  "Then get the hell out of here, if you're in such a goddamn hurry."

  "No need to get sore, sir." Then the Jeep driver hit the gas. The wheels spun momentarily on the slick icy surface of the road, but the chains soon dug in and the Jeep shot away toward St. Vith.

  As the noise of the engine faded, the winter stillness seemed to envelope them as they stood in the middle of the empty road, staring at one other.

  "Well," Cole finally said, in an uncharacteristic display of conversation to break the silence. "Ain’t it just a Merry Christmas."

  CHAPTER 8

  The snipers headed up the road, following the tire tracks of the Jeep that had dropped off Jolie. The Jeep had been heading to catch up with the artillery support unit in the direction of St. Vith.

  Cole had his share of questions for Jolie, but he decided that now was not the time to ask them. It was enough that she was alive. He was glad to see her, even if the circumstances were not ideal. The same could not be said of Lieutenant Mulholland, whose disapproval radiated from him like the heat from a wood stove. Having a Resistance fighter guide them in Normandy was one thing, but having a French national accompany them now was highly against regulations. It wasn’t just the rules that Mulholland was worried about. There was the very real risk of running into German armor.

  Unlike Lieutenant Mulholland, Cole was not all that concerned about Jolie putting herself in danger. She could take care of herself. Like Cole, Jolie never had been much for small talk, and trudged along in silence just to his right. She and Cole had that much in common.

  "I reckon we need to see about getting you a weapon," he said.

  Jolie shrugged through her heavy coat. She had come prepared for the weather, at least. "When the time comes, I am sure I can find a rifle."

  They moved on toward St. Vith, their senses on hyper alert. Except for a short burst of machine gun fire somewhere ahead, there had been no more sounds of firing from the direction of the town, but that did not mean the Germans were not on the move.

  As the scattered houses of a French village came into sight, they saw the first signs of trouble. The Jeep that had dropped off Jolie was halfway in a ditch, the driver slumped over the wheel. This was no traffic accident. The Jeep and the driver's body were riddled with bullets.

  "Poor bastard," Vaccaro said. "The Krauts would have heard him coming from a long ways off. They used him for target practice."

  "He had orders to deliver messages to those guys from the 285th," the lieutenant said. "The question is, what happened to them?"

  Vaccaro nodded at the road beyond the crossroads village. The countryside surrounding the crossroads was so flat that they could see for a long distance across the frozen fields. Several roads converged at the town, and on one of the roads beyond they could see a scattering of military vehicles. But the vehicles weren't moving, and there was no one in sight.

  "Huh," Vaccaro said, putting his scope on the abandoned vehicles. "Those belong to our guys. What's up with that? Nobody around."

  "Let's talk about it once we get off this road and in among those houses," Cole muttered. "We're like sittin' ducks out here. Lieutenant?"

  "Yeah, good idea."

  Like many other towns they had passed through during the past few months that had been touched by war, the houses and streets appeared deserted. Just because they were Americans did not mean the residents were eager to show themselves. Men with guns were much the same when you were an unarmed civilian. For all anyone knew, the Germans could return at any moment and the shooting would start all over again. People here would be hiding in their cellars, or they would have fled for the forest with their food, valuables, and daughters—just as they had since medieval times whenever an army passed through.

  The silence built around them. The only noise other than the crunch of snow came from a bunch of crows circling one of the fields—the cold had not stopped them from scavenging. For some reason, the quiet made it feel colder. They entered the village cautiously, using the buildings for cover, moving from house to house as they covered one another. With them, it had become a well-practiced routine. It was true that a sniper would have opened fire before they reached the crossroads, but there was still the possibility that the Germans had left behind some kind of rear guard that might be holed up with a machine gun and a grudge.

  "Nice and quiet, just the way we like it," Vaccaro said, then nodded in the direction of the gathering crows. "What I want to know is what all those birds are up to."

  "I have an idea," Cole said.

  It did not take long to pass through the village, which seemed unscathed by any fighting. The same could not be said of the abandoned American vehicles on the road beyond. Somebody had chewed them up, and good. The snowy fields surrounding the road were churned up by tank treads and tires. Clearly, a large number of vehicles had passed through.

  The crows circled an area not far off the road. It was surrounded by low hedgerows and fences. Vaccaro started toward the field. "Why is it I have this feeling I'm not going to like what I see?"

  Slowly, they advanced into the roadside field. Bodies lay scattered across the field among the withered stalks of last year's corn. Pools of blood stained the snow. All the bodies belonged to GIs, and there were a lot of them.

  "Jesus, this wasn't a fight. They were mowed down. Look at that."

  Cole prodded a body with his boot. "Wasn't that long ago," he remarked. "A couple of hours, maybe."

  "Anybody see a weapon? I sure don't. These guys were unarmed. Those German bastards murdered them."

  "Do you think anyone survived?"

  "Let's find out."

  They spread out and walked through the killing field. The bodies were twisted in the curious poses that sudden death brings. Already, the cold was seeping into the dead, freezing them into grotesque positions, death and the cold working hand in hand. Even more chilling was the fact that many of the bodies showed signs that they had been shot in the head—or even clubbed to death. Mulholland’s squad had seen its share of death these last few months, but this was different. The thought of executions on this scale was sickening.

  Rowe bent over and retched. "Shit," he said. "This is awful."

  "Yeah."

  "Hey, anybody need help?" the lieutenant called out. His only answer was the wind sighing across the field. He tried again. "Can anybody hear me?"

  "I dunno, Lieutenant. I think they all bought the farm."

  Then, ever so faintly, a voice cried out, "Over here."

  • • •

  They rushed to the spot. All that they could see was a jumble of bodies. Vaccaro said, "Buddy, we don't know which one is you. You have to wave your arm or something."

  One of the bodies raised an arm and they hurried over. He was just a kid, half hidden by a corpse on top of him, spattered with blood. No wonder the Germans had missed him.

  They pulled him out and got him to his feet, then half carried, half dragged him away from the carnage. It seemed amazing that he had come through the massacre without a physical scratch. But some wounds couldn’t be seen. The kid was shivering badly, probably from a combination of shock and cold. To their surprise, it was Jolie who sat him down on the stone wall, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and hugged him tight. Vaccaro handed her a flask. "Here, give him some of this calvados. That ought to warm him up."

  Gradually, the shivering eased enough that the lieutenant walked over to ask the GI a few questions. Cole, Vaccaro and Rowe were still combing the fi
eld for any survivors.

  "You want to tell me your name, soldier?"

  "Hank Walsh, Battery B, 285th Field Artillery Observation Battalion—the whole unit is wiped out, sir."

  "What happened?"

  Private Walsh recounted how his unit had just passed through Five Points on its way to St. Vith when the Germans opened fire. "They had panzers, sir. King Tigers. They knocked out the first and last vehicles in the convoy and we were stuck on the road. Some of the men wanted to fight, but the others told them to surrender. What were we going to do against Tiger Tanks? So we got out of the ditches and the Germans rounded us up."

  "Wehrmacht?"

  "No, sir. These were SS."

  The lieutenant and Jolie exchanged a look. "Hard cases."

  "The Germans took most of our vehicles because they had a lot of men on foot. Most of their column moved off, and they left just a few guys guarding us in the field. Then one of them just up and shot one of our guys. Then all the Germans started shooting. It was over in a few minutes." He fought back a sob. "I'd be dead right now if it hadn't been for my buddy, Ralph. He tackled me and the bullets hit him instead."

  "It looks like those bastards made sure they did the job right."

  The kid shuddered. "They walked through the field, and anybody who was still alive, they shot him or caved in his head with a rifle butt."

  "Jesus."

  "Ralph was wounded so bad he was out of his head, just mumbling nonsense, and they shot him. I tried to tell him to keep quiet—” The kid choked back a sob.

  “It’s all right,” Mulholland said. “You did what you could.”

  “I held my breath, hoping they would think I was dead."

  "Well, you made it." The lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it almost knocked the skinny young GI off the wall.

  The others came back, looking grim. "There’s nobody else alive, sir."