CHAPTER 28
Von Stenger blinked in surprise. It had all happened so fast. When the American sniper’s helmet appeared, Von Stenger had simply reacted, putting his crosshairs on the target and pulling the trigger.
This was no helmet on a stick trick. He was sure that had been a real head. He had seen a body fall. Who else would be wearing that helmet but the hillbilly sniper?
After so much preparation, victory felt too easy — more like buying a cheap whore than seducing a beauty.
Perhaps the hillbilly got careless. Or perhaps it was hubris. Deadly pride punished by a bullet. Such things happened. He was sure Goethe had some comment about the downfall of the proud, but he was not about to page through the small book of Goethe’s verses that he kept buttoned in the pocket of his tunic. After all, he doubted that Goethe had ever been called upon to put a bullet through someone’s head.
He watched through the scope for a long time, but there was nothing more to see. Gradually, he became aware of the fighting raging all around La Gleize. Several floors below, the machine gun spat forth angry streams of lead. Shells flew into town — he had been almost unaware of them, but now it began to dawn on him how close they were. His own form of hubris, perhaps, so caught up in his own sniper's duel that he had lost sight of the larger battle.
He packed up his gear and made his way to Friel's headquarters. The winter days were short, and already it was starting to get dark.
Von Stenger was surprised to find Friel and the other officers of the Kampfgruppe gathered in their makeshift headquarters, taking stock of the situation.
The Kampfgruppe was surrounded. Friel had his back against a river he could not cross — and what would be the point, because any advance now would only be into the guns of Allied forces. Now that the Germans had long since lost the element of surprise, and without any supply lines, that could only mean disaster.
The Americans had learned the hard way that Kampfgruppe Friel was still a viable fighting force. Today, they had given as good as they got. But they were low on food, ammunition, and medical supplies. Friel knew they could hold out for another day at most. And then what?
Leaving La Gleize by one of the roads radiating from the town was no longer a possibility, either. The Allies had cut off their escape route to Germany.
Slowly, an outrageous plan had begun to form in Friel’s mind. Their best hope was to abandon their equipment and slip through the woods, at night, unseen by Allied planes.
Friel preferred to think of it as a tactical withdrawal, rather than a retreat. Earlier in the day he had radioed a request to do just that — and been denied.
Friel did not give up easily, but it was time to face reality. Germany's hopes of turning the tide of war had been dashed.
Surrender was not an option. He knew that he and his men would be treated as criminals after the massacre at Malmedy. Perhaps his men would receive the same treatment — for all their talk of high ideals, the Americans could be vengeful.
His men were loyal to him, but he was just as loyal to them. He owed them a fighting chance of survival.
"I am going to contact headquarters again," he told his staff.
"That did not go so well last time," Von Stenger said. He knew that Friel had radioed earlier, requesting permission to withdraw. He also knew that the request had been denied.
"Perhaps the situation has changed," Friel said, and picked up the hand-held radio transmitter.
The conversation was short, and much like the one earlier in the day.
"You must advance at all costs," he was told. Crackling with static, the words bounced around the room like a death sentence. "You must cross the Meuse and make for Antwerp. Heil Hitler!"
He tossed the transmitter on the table and stared at the radio.
One of his officers stepped forward. "Herr Obersturmbannführer, you have done your best. We will make our last stand—"
The officer never finished the sentence. Without warning, Friel unholstered his pistol and shot the radio three times in rapid succession. Sparks flew, and the room filled with the smell of gunpowder and burning electronics.
The officer looked at him in shock, his mouth hanging open.
Friel holstered his pistol. "We are walking out of here just before dawn.” He looked at a hauptmann. “Baumann, at that time, you take a handful of men and set our panzers on fire. Another small detachment will man the machine guns to provide cover while you do this and distract the enemy. Then you must all catch up to us. No one gets left behind."
"But Herr Obersturmbannführer, your orders—"
"From headquarters, the situation is not always as clear as it is in the field. It is twelve miles through the woods to Germany. The trees will give us some cover from the Allied planes. It is true that we will have to destroy our tanks, but we will return with eight hundred SS troops. Not old men and boys, but eight hundred good SS soldiers to defend the Fatherland from the Allies. That fool at headquarters will be glad to see us. Mark my words, he will forget that he gave any order otherwise. In any case, I accept full responsibility. If there are repercussions, you were simply following my orders."
Von Stenger thought it took courage to use common sense. There was so little of that here in the waning days of the war. With more officers like Friel, he thought, Germany might have won the war.
The tank officer who had questioned Friel's decision saluted. And then he smiled. "Herr Obersturmbannführer, we shall do as you command!"
Friel dismissed the officers, but Von Stenger seemed to be the only one who didn’t need to rush off somewhere.
A bottle of wine and some glasses stood on a table. Von Stenger poured himself a glass and cut a slice of bread from the stale hunk that someone had found. He added a slice or two from a sausage. It tasted delicious — he had not eaten all day.
One of Friel's staff was already busy burning papers in the fireplace in preparation for the retreat — various orders and maps, from the looks of it.
Suddenly, a feeling of relief washed over him. He had killed the hillbilly sniper. Who cared if they were about to retreat! He lifted the glass. Cheers to me, he thought. He wondered what hillbillies drank. Beer? Moonshine? He took a big drink of wine. The wine tasted a bit flat. Upon reflection, he decided that it was not the wine, but him — deep down in the dregs of his soul, he felt disappointed. As if he had been cheated somehow. Killing the American had just been too easy.
Friel came in and Von Stenger poured him a glass as well.
Friel raised the glass. "Just think of it, Kurt. By tomorrow at this time we shall be back in Germany — or in hell."
They drank to that.
CHAPTER 29
As darkness fell, Cole thought about his next move. In many ways, that depended on what the Germans were going to do. He wasn't a general who had to think about how to position an entire division, or worry about how to capture a German column to keep Ike happy. He only had himself to order around, and he was focused on just one German: Von Stenger.
The thought of the Ghost Sniper gnawed at him. Even if Von Stenger believed that Cole was dead, it didn’t mean that Cole was through with the German. This was like some blood feud between mountain families. It ended when the last drop of the other man’s blood was spilled.
So what were Das Gespenst and the Germans planning? They had their backs to the river and the roads out of La Gleize were blocked by American artillery. They would not be able to fight their way out. It didn't take a brilliant military strategist to know that the Germans couldn't hold out much longer. They had to be low on food, fuel, medical supplies, and maybe even ammunition. For Kampfgruppe Friel, it was only a matter of time.