At the best of times, the American military operated in a way that resembled orderly chaos. The German advance had thrown it into disarray, mixing men from different units together like a big khaki-colored omelet. Nobody was too worried about one more straggler. He was just another guy separated from his unit.
Klein just hoped they weren’t marching right into German lines. He wasn’t so sure he would be able to explain that he was a German playing at being an American. No, it would be far easier for the SS to shoot him.
After an hour of slogging through the snow, they came to a crossroads headquarters. A few tents had been thrown up to shelter the most frostbitten soldiers. Soup was being heated in buckets over an open fire.
Klein wouldn’t mind something to eat, but it was the sight of stockpiled barrels of gasoline that brought joy to his heart. Clearly, the gasoline had been salvaged to fuel Sherman tanks, trucks, and Jeeps so that the American forces could stay mobile. It was just the target Klein sought.
He accepted a tin mug of soup with a grateful smile and a nod, then moved closer to the fire to warm his bones. While he ate, he studied the fuel depot.
A few guards kept watch on the perimeter of the camp, but no eyes were on the fuel depot. The Americans were obviously more concerned about the entire base being overrun at any moment by a panzer group than about saboteurs slipping in.
He debated how to set the fuel ablaze, then settled on a very direct approach. He also wanted to survive the resulting explosion, which seemed unlikely until he noticed a stalled Sherman tank about forty or fifty meters from the depot.
He could run that distance in five or six seconds over level ground. But with boots over rutted mud and slush? Maybe.
Klein bided his time until dusk, which thickened the already gray afternoon. He needed enough light to see by, but not so much that he would be seen.
He got up and lit a cigarette, then wandered toward the stacked barrels. The air smelled strongly of gasoline — smoking in proximity to so much fuel was unwise. No one was around to warn him away.
He was about to do far worse than light a cigarette.
Klein reached into the pocket of his American-issue winter coat and felt the cold lump of a hand grenade. An Mk 2 fragmentation or “pineapple” grenade, to be exact. He reached in his other hand and pulled the pin.
When he was sure no one was looking, he pulled out the grenade and tossed it toward the drums of fuel.
His aim was less than perfect.
The grenade bounced off and rolled a few feet away from the barrels — a fact that registered from the corner of his eye because Klein was already running flat out toward the abandoned tank. He just had time to put the tank between himself and the fuel depot when the grenade detonated and lit up the gasoline. An orange fireball filled the sky. He felt a wave of heat and hot wind stir his hair.
Fortunately for Klein and the American soldiers, the fuel depot exploded in a series of fireballs rather than a single, cataclysmic blast. He heard shouts and screams. In the confusion that followed, Klein ran for the woods.
An hour after discovering the massacre site, the snipers were ready to move out. The kid who had somehow survived the massacre was warmed up and steady enough. It was also clear that he had no choice but to accompany them.
“You’re coming with us,” the lieutenant told him. “And we’re giving you a nickname. We’re calling you the Kid, since you barely look old enough to shave.”
“There you go, Kid,” Vaccaro said, clapping him on the back. “Welcome to the squad.”
"We don't know the situation right now," the lieutenant continued. "We could have Germans all around us. If we start back down the road toward where our lines used to be, we could walk right into the Krauts."
"So we're basically surrounded, cut off, short on supplies and freezing cold," Vaccaro said. "I’m glad that’s cleared up. So, now what, sir?"
"We're going after them," Mulholland said. "We don't know what's behind us, but we sure as hell know what's in front of us. Germans. And lots of them. The same ones who murdered these poor bastards here."
"They have tanks, sir."
"No, we don’t have tanks. But we are scout-snipers. We can at least track their movements and harass their rear. It’s better than running off with our tails between our legs." The lieutenant knew he sounded grim, so he was surprised to find Vaccaro grinning at him. “If you have something to say, Vaccaro, say it.”
"It’s just that it sounds like we have a tank-less job ahead of us," Vaccaro said.
Lieutenant Mulholland shook his head. "Vaccaro, half the time I don't know whether to have you shot for insubordination or for telling bad jokes."
Cole chimed in. "Don't worry, sir. With any luck the Germans will shoot him first and save you the trouble."
"Ha, ha. You guys are more laughs than a barrel of monkeys.” Vaccaro turned to the newest member of the squad. “See, Kid, you don't know what you're getting yourself into. Not that you have any choice right now but to tag along with us. We don't know where the rear is, or even if there is a rear anymore."
"I don't even have a weapon," the Kid said.
Cole unsnapped his utility belt and handed Hank his .45 in a holster. "That's better than nothing until we find you a rifle. Just make sure the Germans get nice and close. How far can you throw an ashtray and hit what you're throwing at?"
"Uh, not that far, I guess. Twenty feet?"
"That's about the range of this here pistol. Of course, the slug is about as big as an ashtray. Like I said, just make sure you get close."
"Yeah, don't shoot till you see the whites of their eyes," Vaccaro said.
"That's the British, Vaccaro. We haven't shot at them since the War of 1812. With the Germans, you don't shoot till you smell the bratwurst on their breath."
"Hillbilly, you're always full of good advice. If I were you, Kid, I'd listen to him."
They started down the road. "This is the road to St. Vith," Lieutenant Mulholland said. "From there, the Germans will probably try to get across the Meuse River and then make a dash for Antwerp or maybe even goddamn Paris. Crazy Kraut bastards. Who would have thought they still had it in them? I thought the fight was all out of the Third Reich at this point and we were just mopping up."
"At least they're easy to follow." The road ahead had been churned up by the passage of tanks and trucks. "What I want to know is, where the hell are our planes?"
The lieutenant shook his head. "They can't fly. Look at this sky. It's right on top of us, right down to the ground. Nothing but clouds and snow. Lousy weather — unless you're the Germans trying to advance without being attacked from the air, in which case it's beautiful weather."
"Lieutenant, do you even have a map?"
"We don't need one, Vaccaro. All we need to do is follow these tracks. Best of all, the Germans are going to be in such a hurry covering ground that they won't even worry about us coming up behind them."
"Don't be so sure about that," Cole said. "I have a feeling this German unit is going to have eyes in the back of its head."
"What are you talking about?"
He nodded toward the field, where the bodies of the massacred Americans lay slowly freezing into twisted poses. "Something I found other there." He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the spent rifle cartridges he had found and held it out to the lieutenant. "Does that look familiar?"
"It's got those Russian markings on it." The lieutenant’s eyes lit up. He knew all about Das Gespenst. "I’ll be damned. You don't think it's the same guy?"
"Reckon I do," Cole said. "The Ghost Sniper. He's one of their best snipers, and now he's a goddamn murderer, too. And he's out there somewhere up ahead. Best not let him get the drop on us."