"They will serve their purpose. You and Breger will get in back with me."
Breger suffered a momentary lapse in patience. "In back? With no heat? We should kick them out so we can ride up front!"
"You may thank me later," Von Stenger said. "Now, get in."
The truck was empty except for a couple of abandoned crates — whatever supplies it had carried had been stripped by the SS. Von Stenger mused that Friel would have had a conniption at the thought of a truck burning up that precious petrol so that a couple of over-the-hill soldiers wouldn't have to walk. The truck was a two and a half ton GMC — nicknamed a "Deuce and a half" by the Allies. The countryside had crawled with them all summer and fall as the Red Ball Express worked to keep the Americans supplied with everything from ammo to dry socks. The trucks were made by the thousands in Pontiac, Michigan, in stark contrast to the steadily declining numbers of German trucks. One reason why the Allies were so surprised by Operation Wacht am Rhein was that no one thought it possible that the Germans still had so many vehicles.
The truck had a wooden bed and metal sides that came up about knee high. Metal hoops held the canvas roof taut. The front of the canvas covering rose about two feet above the cab itself. There was a little extra canvas material hanging down, so Von Stenger cut free a long strip of it.
Schiffer started to sit down on one of the wooden benches that ran the length of both sides of the bed. "Nein," Von Stenger said. "Stand here behind the cab. You will want as much metal as possible in front of you, believe me. But first, we have some chores to do. Drag those empty crates over here."
Once Schiffer had done so, Von Stenger stood on one of them. It was hard to keep his balance as the truck churned along the road, back the way it had come. He slung the rifle over one shoulder to keep it handy. Then he drew his sheath knife and cut a six-inch slit in the canvas, beginning just about even with the top of the truck's cab.
He handed the knife to Schiffer. "Cut a slit eight inches long, parallel to the top of the truck cab."
"Parallel, sir?"
"Yes, like this." Von Stenger mimicked the motion of cutting the canvas, then reached into his pack and took out the binoculars. Once Schiffer had made the cut, he traded Schiffer the binoculars for the knife. "Now, you are my spotter. The sniper will fire once or twice — or more if he is not a very good sniper. I want you to see where he is shooting from. Don't worry, he won't see you — the last thing he'll be looking for is a pair of binoculars poking through the canvas. Imagine that you are looking at a clock face. You tell me where on the clock face the sniper is hiding."
"What am I looking for?"
"No one is invisible," Von Stenger said. "In this cold, you will likely see his breath. It is dark enough in the trees that you may spot a muzzle flash. The American sniper rifles are usually single shot like our own, so you may see the movement of him working the bolt. Whatever you do, don't blink, and don't fall off the crate."
Von Stenger took the strip of extra canvas he had cut and wrapped it around his rifle barrel. The paint of the truck and the dye of the canvas were very close in color. Once the barrel was wrapped, he put the rifle through the vertical slit. The road far ahead of the truck sprang into view, but only a narrow circle of it. He would have to depend on Schiffer to be his eyes.
Breger spoke up. "Why am I along for the ride?" he asked.
"There is a possibility that the snipers may have a crossfire set up," Von Stenger said. "So, you have the machine pistol to make them keep their heads down in case there is a sniper behind us. Keep low, behind the tailgate. It is made of steel, so it should give you some protection."
With the soldiers in position, they waited. Several minutes passed. It seemed to grow colder and colder in the truck. At his post behind the tailgate, Breger cursed as he began to shiver. Von Stenger had trained himself to be inured to cold and physical discomfort — he would not have survived long as a sniper otherwise. However, he wished that he had not had quite so much coffee previously. It had warned him up, but now his bladder practically sloshed around as the truck bounced over the rough road. It was only a minor annoyance and he focused his thoughts elsewhere.
He did not take his eye off the scope. Soon, they began passing the detritus left by the passing column — everything from the empty wrappings of rations to abandoned vehicles that were either broken down or too mired in the muddy road to be moved.
"How far are we going?" Breger wondered. “Back to Berlin? All the fighting is in the other direction, Herr Hauptmann.”
"Keep your eyes open," Von Stenger replied. “It won’t be long now.”
The driver downshifted to gain traction in the mud, slowing the truck down. Von Stenger began to wonder if his plan was such a good idea, after all. At the rate they were going, it was true that they would soon be halfway back to Germany. They had been moving through wooded areas, but they reached a clearing that could have been a wheat field buried beneath the snow. Footsteps had disturbed the surface of the snow. Most likely these marks had been left by the passing German troops.
Whang. A shot ring out over the grinding of the engine. The truck lurched toward the snowy field, but then swung back into the road.
"Where are you?" hissed Von Stenger, desperately scanning the tree line. "Where are you hiding? Schiffer, do you see him yet?"
“No, sir.”
A second shot. This time the truck rolled into the field, but ever so slowly. It became clear that the first shot from the American sniper had killed the driver. The other man in the cab must have snatched the wheel, but now he, too, was dead. Without anyone to give it gas or downshift, the truck lurched a few times, then made a hopping motion like an overgrown steel rabbit. Then the engine shuddered and died, leaving them stranded in the field.
"There," Schiffer whispered, excitement tinging his voice. "Ten o'clock. Just at the edge of the field."
Von Stenger moved the rifle in that direction. Through the scope, he saw it, too. A puff of vapor caused by the sniper exhaling the breath he had held while making the second shot. Beneath it, Von Stenger could just see the outline of a helmet, even though an attempt had been made to camouflage it in white. The sniper had buried himself in the snow. Clever, clever.
Instantly, more by instinct than by any conscious formula, Von Stenger worked the calculations in his head. Wind. Distance. He put the bottom post of the sight just a little above and to the left of the sniper's helmet and squeezed the trigger.
The crack of the rifle did not quite cover the hollow noise of the bullet striking home. The sound of a bullet hitting the target always reminded Von Stenger of how a pumpkin had sounded when, as a boy, he had dropped one out of a third story window to the stone-paved courtyard below. Whump. Such a satisfying sound.
"You got him!" cried Schiffer.
"Quiet," Von Stenger barely breathed the words. "It is likely that he has a spotter."
The snow seemed to explode upward, and then a white-garbed soldier was up and running like a rabbit. It was definitely the sniper's spotter. A running shot was never easy, and the spotter had the good sense to run and dodge. Von Stenger fired, but he knew the shot was wrong as soon as he touched the trigger.
The spotter went down, though. Shot through the legs. He struggled to get his footing in the snow.
Von Stenger worked the bolt and let the crosshairs settle on the spotter, who was looking toward the truck, shouting something to someone in the woods, pointing—
There was another sniper in those trees. Von Stenger felt the hairs crawl on the back of his neck just before a bullet punched through the canvas. It missed Von Stenger, but Schiffer wasn’t so lucky. He caught a glimpse of Schiffer’s look of surprise at the fact that he had been shot. He put a hand to his neck, blood flowing between the fingers.