by David Healey
To be shot.
Clearly the general did not think it prudent to criticize Hitler in the presence of an SS officer, even one who, like them, might already be condemned. This seemed unlikely, however, considering that Friel was known as one of Hitler's favorite young officers.
"May I have a cigarette?" Friel asked.
"Of course." Von Stenger offered him the pack. "So, do you know where we are going?"
"We are going to see a man who makes sense of the world, my friend."
"Ah."
The flame as Friel lit the cigarette illuminated the twin silver lightning bolts on the collar of his tailored uniform. Beside the lightning bolts were four silver squares known as pips that indicated his rank. The flicker of flame revealed Friel’s craggy, blonde good looks. He could have played an SS officer in a movie. He was not yet thirty. Certainly, he was young to be an Obersturmbannführer.
He and Von Stenger came from similar backgrounds and had traveled in the same social circles in the heady early days of the war, though Von Stenger was a few years older. Both men became soldiers. But that was where the similarity ended. Friel was a capable commander while Von Stenger preferred being a lone wolf. But the most important distinction of all was that Friel was a disciple of the Nazi cause.
Now here Von Stenger was, taking a car ride with a frightened general and an SS Obersturmbannführer in the middle of the night. What had he gotten mixed up in?
• • •
After they had eaten, the sniper team started moving again. They had not gone far when Lieutenant Mulholland stopped. "What the hell?" he muttered.
A lump lay in the middle of the road. All the soldiers had seen enough carnage to know it was a dead body. Somehow, a body always looked smaller than an actual person. The snow had not quite covered the dead soldier. He wore an American uniform, of course, because they were far from the German lines or any fighting.
"Poor bastard probably froze to death," Vaccaro muttered from between blue lips.
"Maybe he did, but what's he doing out here in the middle of nowhere?" the lieutenant wondered aloud. "Huh. There's a crossroads village down that way. Maybe he got drunk and was hit by a truck."
"Yeah, but where are the tire tracks?"
Three of the snipers stood over the body. Cole slowly circled them, prowling the edges of the road. He stopped in a place where the snow had only dusted the frozen mud.
The lieutenant bent down and took the corpse by the shoulder, rolling him over. The body wasn't quite frozen. Moving the body revealed a puddle of blood beneath it.
"Jesus, what happened to him?"
The lieutenant had seen plenty of gunshot wounds, but this wasn't one of them. "It looks like he's been stabbed."
"There's no m-m-muggers in the middle of the goddamn woods," Vaccaro stammered. "M-m-must be Germans."
Cole spoke up. His voice had a Southern, hillbilly twang to it. "It weren't no German," he said. "These here are fresh boot prints. Bigger than what he's got on. But the boots belonged to an American."
"How can you tell?"
"Vaccaro, I been starin' at your footsteps for the last six months. I reckon I know what a boot print looks like."
"Huh," Vaccaro said.
The lieutenant gave orders to move the body to the side of the road. "No sense letting the poor bastard get run over. Once we get to HQ we'll send somebody back to pick him up."
Then the snipers moved down the road. Dusk was coming on, and the snowy woods that moments ago had seemed peaceful as a scene on a Christmas card now looked dark and sinister.
CHAPTER 3
The car carrying Von Stenger plunged on through the forest. No one said much. After he finished his cigarette, Obersturmbannführer Friel managed to fall asleep again. The general emitted several deep sighs of resignation. Von Stenger cracked the window, lit another cigarette, and spent some time thinking about the long years that had led up to this moment.
Von Stenger had seen more than his share of action, starting in Spain back in 1938 when Hitler had sent military "observers" to help the cause of dictator Ferdinand Franco. Von Stenger was already an accomplished marksman, and his role was to perfect the art of sniper warfare. He proved quite adept—gifted, in fact. He was not only a good shot from years of boyhood hunting trips, but also quite clever in his tactics.
After Spain, he had seen action in Poland and Russia. God, what a mess the Eastern Front had been. Only the fact that he had been wounded in a sniper duel at Stalingrad and then evacuated to Berlin had saved his life—not so much from the bullet wound as from the onslaught of Russians.
It was in Stalingrad that Von Stenger had earned his nickname, Das Gespent—The Ghost—for his ability to slip unseen among the city ruins and reap Russian after Russian. The effort had earned him the Knight's Cross he wore at his throat, making him Germany's most decorated sniper. Although he had been made an officer almost out of hand because of his family and connections, Von Stenger had resisted being in charge of anything or anyone other than himself.
However, it was only natural that while recovering from his wound that he had served as an instructor at the Wehrmacht's sniper school. He found that he enjoyed teaching snipers. He was good at it. He was older than the trainees, many of whom were hardly more than teenagers, and his reputation preceded him so that his trainees respected him.
While teaching, he thought of ways to be even better as a sniper. He read everything he could on sniper warfare and survival techniques. It was interesting that the British had compiled the most information about sniper tactics, going back to the Napoleonic wars. The German military, too, had a rich tradition of employing Jäger—lone hunters and military scouts equipped with rifles for long-range shooting. He passed the best of what he learned on to his students.
Von Stenger saw teaching as a way station, however. He never doubted that he would return to the field when the time came, and put his knowledge into practice.
It was training and superior equipment that gave the German snipers an advantage—the Americans had no such special training for snipers other than the basic marksmanship taught to all soldiers.
In Russia, more than a few Germans and Russians had been forged into expert snipers. Between the cold and the constant fighting, the Eastern Front had been hell. Now the Russians were pressing at the borders like the Barbarians at the Gates of Rome. Von Stenger shuddered to think of what might happen if Germany's last defenses fell. The Reich that had been destined to last a thousand years now had its back against the wall.
The Allies had swarmed ashore at Normandy on the sixth of June. Since then, Von Stenger had been fighting the Americans, Canadians, English, and the odd Frenchman. It was now December, and the end of the war looked near. Short of a miracle, defeat was almost certain. Germany was running low on petrol, troops, food, and airplanes. Allied planes pounded German cities, slaughtering German civilians by the thousands with incendiary bombs. No, it wouldn't be long now.
Von Stenger kept such thoughts to himself, however. And like any good German, he would fight until the bitter end.
If the SS didn't shoot him first.
After driving through the woods for an hour, the car slowed. The general beside him tensed. Friel slept on. The line of cars passed through an enormous iron gate that swung on stone pillars. Could it be? With a quickening of his heart, Von Stenger realized that they must have reached Hitler's fabled secret headquarters. Alderhorst. Like many secrets surrounding Der Führer, Von Stenger had assumed such a place was only a rumor.
Beside him, Friel woke up and peered out the window. "Ah, Alderhorst," he said. "We made good time."
"You have been here before?"
"Haven't you?"
"The Reichspost must have fallen down on the job. Either that, or Der Führer skimped on the postage."
The SS officer smiled and lowered his voice. "Kurt, I appreciate your sense of humor and the fact that you are a man who thinks for himself. But in this place ... my friend, it
may be wise to choose your words carefully. Or better yet, keep your mouth shut."
Feeling chastised, Von Stenger nodded. Friel was right, of course. The German High Command was not known for its appreciation of witty banter. They were a literal bunch. If you criticized the postal service, then it implied you were criticizing the entire Nazi regime.
"What on earth are we doing here, Aldric?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Kurt. We are about to find out."
The cars emptied out in the courtyard, spilling their contents of high-ranking officers. Von Stenger was shocked to spot SS General Sepp Dietrich and Wehrmacht General Hasso von Manteuffel in the crowd. He himself was a mere hauptmann. Who had invited him along?
"But I don't understand. What am I doing here? Everyone in those other cars is a general or at least a colonel. I'm just a sniper!"
Friel grinned again. "No, you are not just a sniper. You are the best sniper in the Reich! You are here because I requested you, of course."
Von Stenger stared. "So you know what all this is about?"
"Not exactly, but I knew it wasn't to be shot, ha, ha!" Friel lowered his voice. "Did you see old Rothenbach in the car coming up with us? He thought his number was up."
With the exception of Friel, most of the other officers did not seem to know whether to be relieved or in despair at having arrived at the Führer's headquarters.
They filed through the thick oak doors into a massive assembly hall. Guards armed with submachine guns loomed everywhere. Some held Rottweilers on chain leashes. These sights did nothing to put anyone at ease. No coffee or food was served.
In the old days, the grand hall was where barons and knights would have feasted on roast boar in front of a roaring fire. But tonight there was no heat except for whatever came from the electric bulbs overhead. Those were a 20th century addition, of course. At the front of the room hung a large map, flanked by two flags. Von Stenger recognized the map as depicting the Ardennes—-but that made no sense. The terrain was so rugged that there was hardly any fighting there, or any real need to defend it. Only a handful of troops faced each other, more as a symbolic presence than for any strategic purpose. Nobody was coming through the Ardennes Forest in great numbers.
An officer stood at the front of the room and called the officers to attention. The generals and colonels got to their feet and sucked in their bellies.
Then Reichsführer Adolf Hitler entered the great hall. He appeared stooped, as if worn down or exhausted. Von Stenger was shocked. The man he had seen many times early in the war had appeared to have boundless energy. Yet even now, Von Stenger could sense something coiled within the Führer, reserves of power, much like a cornered bear or bull waits for the right moment. There was no weakness.
All around him, the officers seemed to be holding their breath.
The change in the Führer’s appearance was surprising. Von Stenger had seen him in person many times during the early days after he came to power. He was such a charismatic man then, so full of energy. Germany, lost and belittled after the defeat in the Great War, had been eager to follow a man of such vision. The years of war, however, showed clearly in the lines etched across Hitler's face and in his stooped shoulders, as if he carried a great weight that no one else could see.
As the officers took their seats again and waited in tense silence, Hitler revealed his plan quietly and slowly at first. It was something he called Operation Watch on the Rhine.
"My generals, the time has come for us to change the tide of war," he said matter of factly. "We must crush the Allied forces and drive them back into the sea."
In many ways the plan that Hitler laid out was Germany's version of D-Day—only this massive invasion would take place through the Ardennes Forest and across the Meuse River, which was the natural boundary between the rugged Ardennes region and the more open country of Belgium—and France beyond.
Hitler explained that the operation had been planned in utmost secrecy. Most of the generals in the room had no idea that all through the late summer and fall, panzer corps had been massing along the German border for the push into Belgium. Great caches of ammunition and petrol were dispersed in the Ardennes to resupply German forces. What remained of the Luftwaffe had been gathered at secret air fields in order to support the attack.
Von Stenger wondered where so many men and so many tanks had come from. The forces along the Eastern Front, the final defenses against the Red Tide, must be nothing but straw men and cardboard tanks. No, Hitler was making one last great gamble here. It was clear that it was win or lose—if the attack failed, there would be no way to replace what had been lost.
Hitler's voice built to an excited crescendo. He became animated as he had in the old days, exhorting the troops to victory at Nuremberg. Now his hand chopped at the air. Spittle flew from his lips. "Nothing short of victory! There is no turning back!"
Abruptly, the Führer ended his speech. He stood there before them, no longer a stooped old man but their charismatic leader once more. For the moment, he had cast his familiar spell on the officer corps.
"Heil Hitler!" echoed through the room as men sprang to their feet. He had given them a plan. He had given them hope.
Von Stenger glanced over at Friel's face. It glowed in admiration.
CHAPTER 4
The tanks rolled before dawn. When it came, the morning was a poor excuse for daylight, being dull and gray. Snow fell and wind blew. But that had been part of the timing of Hitler's surprise attack—the bad weather would keep the Allies' planes grounded.
Even Von Stenger had to admit the plan was almost crazy enough to succeed. As Goethe had said, "Daring ideas are like chessmen moved forward. They may be beaten, but they may start a winning game."
Swirling with the gray dawn mist were thick diesel fumes and, almost improbably, the smell of coffee and frying sausages. Von Stenger’s belly growled hungrily. He lit a cigarette. One had to shout to be heard over the sound of clanking tank treads and churning engines. It was as if some great, rumbling beast had awakened and was now on the prowl through the Ardennes.
Kampfgruppe Friel was comprised of more than twelve hundred SS troops—not baby-faced recruits, but mostly battle-hardened veterans. The battle group was equipped with six hundred Tiger II tanks, mobile anti-aircraft guns called Wirbelwind, and scores of combat vehicles. It was more than a formidable fighting force. It was a conquering army.
At the head of the column, Friel rode in a Tiger II tank. It was not just big—it was a monster. The tank weighed seventy-seven tons and was armed with a cannon and machine gun. Powered by a 700 horsepower Maybach engine, the tank could reach speeds of twenty-four miles per hour on good roads or through open country. The more lightly armored Sherman tanks used by the Allies did not stand a chance against a Tiger II tank. It would be akin to a medieval knight on a war horse attacking a peasant armed with a stick. All across the countryside from Normandy to the Ardennes, the blackened wreckage of Sherman tanks testified to that fact. It wasn't without good reason that the Sherman tanks had been nicknamed "Tommy Cookers."
Von Stenger had declined riding on the tank and had opted instead to climb aboard a Volkswagen Schwimmwagen, an amphibious vehicle based on the VW Beetle. In many ways it was the German equivalent of the Allies' popular Jeep. The clattering tank was too loud—he couldn't hear himself think—and he did not like the idea of being closed up inside the steel walls of a tank. Von Stenger was not particularly claustrophobic, but he preferred to be in the open, where he could keep an eye on the passing countryside.
He was a sniper, after all. What could he shoot inside a tank?
Beside him, the Schwimmwagen driver gave a hearty laugh. "You see, Herr Hauptmann, we are already most of the way to Paris. Where are the Allies? On the run, I tell you!"
"We shall see," Von Stenger said.
"I will be sorry if we don't see some action." He nodded at the rifle in Von Stenger's hands. "You may not even get to use that, sir."
; "I am sure none of us will be disappointed," Von Stenger said, giving the driver a sidelong look. He could see him better now that it was getting light. He realized the driver could not be more than eighteen. Did he even need to shave? His uniform had a crisp new look. And of course, he was enlisted SS—which in Von Stenger's experience meant that the boy must have been dropped on his head as a child or had grown up pulling the wings off flies.
The SS were the last of the true believers, real fanatics for Hitler and the Fatherland, when it was clear to any reasonable German that the war was nearly lost. "Sie sind ein junger Idiot," he muttered under his breath.
"What did you say, sir?"
"I said, 'The Allies are going to get quite a Christmas present.’ "
"Ha, ha! Frohe Weihnachten, Amerikaner."
Merry Christmas. It would not be the sort of holiday the Americans were expecting.
Von Stenger knew very well that the Americans he had encountered in the last few months were not likely to be on the run. They were not professional soldiers like so many of the Germans, but they had learned quickly and showed fierce determination.
They did not have the brutality of the Russians—there was already speculation among Wehrmacht soldiers of how it would be better to surrender to the Americans when the time came. SS troops like these did not speak of surrender, of course.
While Von Stenger hated the Russians, he had no grudge against the Americans, English and Canadians. He had even encountered one American sniper in the days after the Normandy invasion who had very nearly proven his match. He had heard rumors that this sniper was still alive and had taken quite a toll, but so far the tides of war had kept them apart. Von Stenger would not have minded a rematch, which would have a different outcome this time for the American sniper.
As they slowed for a disruption in the column ahead, a Scharführer came running over. He had the look of a hardened veteran, and in the dim predawn light a nasty scar on his right cheek seemed to match the twin SS lightning bolts on the collar of his tunic.