Ghost Sniper: A World War II Thriller Read online

  "Like you, Herr Hauptmann?"

  "Yes, Wulf, like me."

  Fritz appeared in the doorway again. "How many men have you killed, Herr Hauptmann?"

  Both the boy and Corporal Wulf waited keenly for his answer, but Von Stenger took so long to respond that they thought it was possible he had not heard the question. Finally, he spoke. "When I began my career, in Spain where we supported General Franco’s troops, I used to keep count. It was a matter of pride. And the Spanish were very tough to kill, so that was something."

  "How many?"

  "Eighty in Spain. Then came Poland. I ran out of bullets because there were so many to shoot."

  "You were in Russia," Wulf said. Every German soldier knew that to have fought and survived as a sniper on the Eastern Front was the ultimate test. “That’s where you earned your Knight’s Cross.”

  Von Stenger touched the medal, then shrugged. "Well, I gave up counting back in Poland. One begins to realize that a sniper does not kill so many as a few well-placed bombs, but do you think our Luftwaffe bombers worry about their tally? So I stopped counting. There are many ways to determine one's success in war. For example, having done my duty for the Fatherland, I came home from Russia with my life, and with this rifle."

  "A Russian sniper rifle."

  "Yes," Von Stenger said.

  When Von Stenger did not elaborate, the boy said, "I must finish your boots, sir."

  "Good, and after you have shined my boots I want you to find the following four items and bring them to me. A burlap sack, forty feet of rope, a uniform tunic and a helmet."

  The boy suddenly looked near panic. "Where am I going to get a uniform and a helmet, sir?"

  "From someone who isn't wearing them," he said. "Be resourceful."

  Once the boy had left to complete his assignment, Wulf asked, "Sir? What's all that business about with the tunic and helmet?"

  "We are going hunting tomorrow for our own kind, and we must have a trap for them."

  While the old house was short on warmth, there appeared to be no shortage of wine from the cellars. The boy returned with a bottle as well as the items Von Stenger had requested. They shared the wine by the fire, and then both Wulf and Fritz went to their blankets. The boy curled up and went to sleep instantly, reminding Von Stenger of a dog, legs kicking, mouth hanging open. Only the young could sleep so deeply and artlessly. Wulf was soon snoring in his corner.

  Von Stenger hardly thought of himself as old, but in some ways he already had a lifetime of memories, and not all of them were pleasant. Wulf and the boy had asked how many he had killed in his career as a sniper. While he had shot a great number of men—and even women—he could easily recall many of the individual deaths. These memories clung to him and weighed down his mind, fending off sleep like armor.

  Restless, he poured more wine, sitting by the fire and smoking, making plans for the morning. It was better to think ahead than dwell on the past. There was no doubt the Americans would attack, and when they did, there would be a trap waiting for them at one of the river crossings.

  • • •

  "Let's move out," Lieutenant Mulholland said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, but his voice sounded croaky and tired nonetheless.

  The Americans woke up cold and groggy, with any hopes for a hot cup of coffee dashed by the chatter of machine gun fire nearby. The German defenders were hard at work in the early morning light, if they had even slept.

  A colonel was making the rounds, handing out orders, the stub of an unlit, well-chewed cigar hanging from his mouth. Mulholland had reported to him last night, making him aware of the sniper squad's presence. "Lieutenant Mulholland, I need you and your men on a counter sniper operation."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We have us a situation at the La Fiere Bridge," the colonel said. He produced a map, which was damp and badly wrinkled. Taking the cigar out of his mouth, he used it to jab at the map, leaving wet, ashen smudges. "Our boys are trying to get across the Merderet River there, only the Jerries won't let them. We keep throwing more men at it, and they keep throwing more men at it, and meanwhile it's a big goddamn Mexican standoff."

  "I understand, sir."

  "Do you? Then hell, you are way ahead of me. That bridge should have been taken by oh six hundred on D-Day, and here we are on D plus three still messing around with the Jerries. But you're not going to the goddamn La Fiere Bridge." The colonel stabbed at the map again. "This is a tributary of the Merderet and it's got a much smaller bridge. It’s near a village called Caponnet. The bridge is too small for armor because the damn thing would probably collapse under the weight, but we can move some men across and maybe come in behind the Jerries at La Fiere."

  "Yes, sir."

  "It's the same story there, though, in that the Jerries don't want us to cross the goddamn bridge. I’ve got reports coming in this morning that the Jerries have it covered with snipers, thick as ticks as a hound dog that's been coon huntin' all night. I need you and your boys to dig ‘em out."

  Mulholland tried not to reflect on the fact that his experience as a sniper spanned roughly three days. "We'll sweep it clean, sir."

  "You've got a can-do attitude, son, and I like that. Just keep your head down and give those Jerry snipers hell."

  Lieutenant Mulholland started to salute, then stopped himself, remembering that it was bad policy. At any rate, the colonel had already moved on. Dawn was breaking, daylight was sweeping over the wood and fields of Normandy's bocage country, and there was much to be done. It looked as if the sun was actually going to show itself today, which would be something, after a string of gloomy, overcast days. Instead of the sound of birdsong, he could hear the distant chatter of small arms fire, growing louder.

  Mulholland thought that it was a hell of a thing to watch the sun come up and yet know that you had a good chance of being killed before it set. He tried not to think about that too much.

  He looked around for the French girl. She was standing beside Private Cole, sharing a cigarette with him. They both looked up as he approached. For the first time, he noticed that she had flat, black eyes like wet stones. There was certainly nothing soft or feminine in her glance. Cole's eyes couldn't have been more different—clear as cut glass or river water on a cold morning. They were just as empty of emotion. It was hard to tell what Cole was thinking, but there was a kind of primal intelligence and cunning in those eyes that unsettled the lieutenant. It was like looking a wolf in the eye.

  "Mademoiselle? I need you to take us to the Caponnet bridge."

  "Oui." She exhaled smoke. "I know the way."

  A couple of the men moved off into the brush to relieve themselves, and then they started down the road toward the bridge.

  Chief was dead, killed by the sniper in the church steeple. That left the lieutenant, Cole, Jolie, Meacham and the wisecracking Vaccaro. The British airborne trooper had asked to tag along.

  "I'll be damned if I'll ever find my bloody unit," he said. "I've yet to see another Brit. It's Americans everywhere I look. Maybe I could join up with your squad, sir."

  "Suit yourself, Neville. But we're supposed to be snipers. Are you any good with a rifle?"

  Neville hefted his submachine gun. "You worry about the long shots, sir, and I'll take care of the close work. I'm also prepared to grenade Jerries, knife them, garrote them, beat them at poker or drink them under the table as the need arises."

  Mulholland had to smile. "All right, Neville. We can use a man of your talents."

  "I'm sticking close to this one," Neville said, nodding at Cole. "He looks mean."

  Vaccaro spoke up: "What about me? I'm goddamn deadly with this rifle."

  "That's what I'm afraid of," Neville said. "Do me a favor, mate, and walk in front of me. I'm a little worried that you might accidentally shoot someone."

  "You limeys ought to be glad we're here. Otherwise you'd all be speaking German this time next year."

  "Bollocks to that." Neville patted his submachine g
un. "We were doing just fine on our own."

  Vaccaro snorted. "You live on an island. It's not even like a real country."

  "Keep it up, Yank, and I'll save the Jerries the trouble."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Knock it off, you two," Mulholland said. "Neville, I didn't make you part of this squad to pick fights with my men."

  "Sorry, sir," Neville grumbled.

  They moved out. Jolie kept them off the main roads that brought the greatest chance of running into German troops or tanks, leading them down sunken roads between the hedges or dirt lanes that were little more than paths through the countryside. It was clear she knew the territory well, because she never paused to consult a map or compass. The only map she appeared to need was the one in her head.

  They soon heard the sound of running water and came out into a field bordering the tributary of the Merderet River. This smaller river was swollen with spring rains and running swiftly, threatening to overflow its banks and flood the low fields beyond. Though not particularly wide, the river was too swift and deep to wade across. No wonder the bridges were proving so essential, and why the Germans were either blowing them up or fighting tooth and nail to keep them in the hands of their own troops.

  They came to another road that curved away from the river, and Jolie led them down it. Before long, they encountered a unit of American airborne troops, hunkered at the base of a towering hedge at a bend in the road. Mulholland found the captain in charge, who looked weary, his face covered in stubble, and asked him what was happening.

  "German snipers have us pinned down," he said. He jerked his chin at two bodies that lay fifty feet further along. Another man was in the middle of the narrow bridge, crying out for a medic. "My men went to help him, and it turns out the snipers were using him for bait. We're in their blind spot right now, but when we move toward that bridge we're right in their line of fire. Those poor bastards never had a chance, never knew what hit them. We could rush the bridge, but they would get a hell of a lot of us by the time we got across."

  "How many snipers?" Mulholland asked.

  "There's one up ahead, and another one in the woods on that hill to the right. I hate these goddamn snipers. Nothing but sneaky bastards." For the first time, the airborne captain seemed to notice the scoped rifle Mulholland was carrying. "Present company excepted. You're on our side, after all. We've captured two Jerry snipers so far, and let's just say they died of lead poisoning before they made it back to the POW processing point."

  "We'll have a go at them," Mulholland said.

  "Be my guest," the captain said. He shook a Marlboro out of a red and white pack, then raised his voice to address his men. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em, boys. We're gonna let someone else have all the fun for a change."

  CHAPTER 14

  While Lieutenant Mulholland was talking with the squad leader, Cole took a good look at the countryside. The woods and fields of the bocage were green with spring, and yet the morning gloom managed to make the landscape appear dismal and foreboding. The road meandered toward the bridge, reminding him of one of the winding roads back home, which folks liked to say followed whichever way the cows had wandered back in the old days when livestock and deer made most of the trails.

  On the far side of the river was an abandoned mill with a rotting, moss-covered mill wheel that still turned in the current. Beyond the river and mill was an open field that sloped up toward the woods that hid the snipers. Behind the Americans, and before the curve in the road that hid them from the snipers, was a similar hill.

  He turned to Jolie. "Is there another bridge across that river?"

  "Non," Jolie said. "Not for miles. This is the only way across."

  "I was afraid you might say that."

  “Bien sur it is the only bridge, which is why the Germans are guarding it.”

  They were in the bottom of a kind of bowl, with the river running through like a crack. If someone could get up on the high ground, into a tree, they might have a good shot at the enemy snipers. But it was at least 600 feet from the German position—someone would have to be a damn good shot, assuming he even had a target. It was likely that the Germans would be camouflaged and hard to spot.

  There were now six in the sniper team, including the Brit and Jolie. It was hard to know how many German snipers they were going up against, but from the sounds of it there were at least two, and the Jerries had the upper hand. They needed a plan. The wounded soldier on the bridge was sobbing in pain.

  The sound brought Cole’s blood to a slow boil. The wounded man had been left out there as bait. These Jerry snipers were real sons of bitches.

  Lieutenant Mulholland came back to them, looking worried. "These men need to cross this bridge to reach their objective. If we don't neutralize these snipers for them, a lot of them are going to die."

  "We can't shoot the Jerries if we can't see 'em, sir," Vaccaro pointed out.

  "I know that," Mulholland snapped.

  "Sir, I have an idea," Cole said. "Put Meacham and Vaccaro up in those woods behind us. It's good high ground to shoot from and the trees will provide cover. That will give the Jerries something to think about."

  "Yeah, and what are you going to do, Cole?" Vaccaro wanted to know. "I'll bet while Meacham and I are getting our asses shot at, you'll be down here playing Tiddlywinks with our French Girl Scout."

  "You got nothin' to worry about, Vaccaro," Cole said. "That woods is so far away the Germans won't be able to hit anything—if you're lucky, that is. Of course, you won't be able to hit a damn thing either, but they won't know that."

  "Like I said, easy for you to say and me to do."

  "Well, once you're up in the trees givin' them Nazis something to think about, what I'm goin' to do is swim that river and get into that old mill on the other side. It's good cover and when you draw the Jerries' fire I'll see where they're hiding at."

  "Swim that river?" They all looked at the roiling current. The water ran fast here and looked deep. Vaccaro sounded incredulous. "You're crazy, Reb."

  "All right," Mulholland said. "Cole has a good plan. Let's do it."

  Meacham and Vaccaro shed their gear, taking only their rifles, and moved off into the fields, following the hedges to keep out of sight of the German snipers until they worked their way into the trees. Vaccaro was still grumbling as he moved off.

  "You're really going to swim that river, mate?" Neville asked.

  "I reckon."

  "Then you are bloody crazy." Neville smiled. "I like that in a man."

  Cole worked his way across the field toward the water, keeping out of sight of the enemy snipers. Jolie came along with him. She was adept at moving silently through the fields, like a cat after a mouse. They moved upstream, to a point where Cole judged he would land near the mill once he factored in the current. The river wasn’t very wide—you could pitch a stone across. But the current was racing.

  The truth was, Cole mistrusted water. He had been around cold, swift creeks a lot as a boy, trapping muskrats and even beaver, and he knew how dangerous water could be. More than one trapper had been drowned by the weight of his winter clothes and the shock of the cold water when he lost his footing and went under. It was Cole’s worst nightmare.

  For Cole, the beach landing had been terrifying. He had feared the Nazi machine guns much less than the thought of being pulled under the surf and not coming back up, gasping for breath. As it turned out, it had been a near thing. He stared doubtfully at the swift brown water, and then began to take off his boots.

  "I hope you ain't shy," he said to Jolie. He handed Jolie his rifle. "Hold this, will you?"

  Boots and socks off, he stripped off his jacket and trousers. All he had on were the khaki military-issue boxer shorts. Thinking about the tug of the current in the river, he might have stripped off the underwear if Jolie hadn't been there. He strapped his utility belt with the ammunition and a sheath knife around his waist.

  They had found a board to float th
e rifle across on. Cole would pull it over with a string. He wished he had plastic or something to wrap the rifle in, like they had done with their M1s during that beach landing, but that couldn't be helped. He shivered; he tried to tell himself it was just from the morning cold.

  "I will take your clothes back to the road," Jolie said. She looked him over, noticing how lean and pale he was, but well-muscled with tough, corded muscles across his shoulders and a flat belly. "Good luck."

  They waited under cover without saying anything more. Cole started to shiver more intensely, and after a while Jolie spread his jacket across his shoulders to keep off the chill while he waited. Where the hell were Meacham and Vaccaro? They ought to be in position by now. He needed them to start shooting in order to distract the Germans.

  Finally, some shots came from the hill at Cole's back. He doubted that Meacham or Vaccaro had much of a target, but what mattered was that they had the attention of the German snipers. One shot, then another, came from the woods that hid the Germans. Two snipers, then.

  Cole slipped out from behind cover and slid down the river bank. He had pictured himself easing into the river without so much as a splash, but the bank was so steep that at the last minute he slipped on the mud and went under.

  The shock of the cold water forced the air out of his lungs, but he stayed under, fighting the urge to come up for breath. This close to the German snipers, if they had spotted him, he was a dead man if his head popped above the surface of the river.

  He struck out for the middle of the river, trailing the string behind him. His eyes were open but he couldn't see a thing in the brown, churning water. Finally, his lungs burning and feeling himself close to panic, he came up for air, bobbing gratefully above the river's surface. He grabbed a lungful of air and forced himself to go under again and swim for the far shore.

  The weight of his utility belt combined with the current kept threatening to tug him down, but he kicked upwards. It was too murky to see much but at least he knew that the bubbles would lead him to the surface. He broke through again, gulped more air, and ducked under. Swim, he told himself. Just fix your mind on it and swim.