The guards came for Klein just before noon. He decided that today was just as good as any to die. It was not in the way he had expected, of course, but at least he was dying for the Fatherland. Clinging to that thought gave him courage.
To his surprise, there were three others being marched out of the makeshift prison. He recognized them as fellow saboteurs who had trained with Skorzeny. None of them met his eyes, however. Each man inhabited a bubble of his private thoughts. Final thoughts, Klein reminded himself.
The gray skies had lifted, finally, and the sky, if not quite blue, was at least clear. The cold, fresh air felt like tonic after being confined to a single room. He took a deep breath, filled his lungs.
Four posts had been set into the ground, each post about ten feet apart. These might have been the beginnings of a fence, but he knew well enough that these posts had a darker purpose. Klein and the others were each brought to a post, and stood against it. Their hands were tied behind them, on the opposite side of the post.
To their credit, his German comrades remained completely silent.
Just fifty feet away from the Germans stood a row of American GIs, all armed with rifles. The Americans appeared very grim. In fact, they looked like they wanted to be there even less than Klein, if that was possible.
The officer in charge read out something official, but Klein wasn’t really listening. He caught the words guilty… spy… shot. No matter. He already had heard the words read to him before inside the building behind him during a kind of puppet trial.
Someone had the idea to pin a white square of paper to his shirt to make a target, as if the Americans might miss at this range.
Another officer moved to put a blindfold on him. Klein shook his head. “I do not need it,” he said, his voice sounding raspy to his ears. The atmosphere suddenly seemed unreal, as if being seen in a dream.
“It’s not for you, son,” the officer said, not unkindly. “These men don’t need to see your eyes.”
The blindfold tightened into place.
He thought of a girl he had made love to while on leave at the start of the war. It was a pleasant memory, but not worthy to be his last, he decided. Instead, Klein thought of his parents, home in Frankfurt. They were proud of him, he knew, and the thought comforted him. He took one last breath and let it fill his lungs, calming his pounding heart.
The last words he heard were those of the officer calling out, “Ready… aim… fire!”
And so the wolf slumped against the post, bringing his reign to an end.
Slowly, spring came to the Ardennes. Winter unlocked its grip on the mountains and forests. Rivers full of snow melt rushed around the skeletal pillars of the ruined bridges. Even in the killing field at Malmedy, a few flowers struggled out of the cold ground.
In the woods around La Gleize, some boys ventured out and found all manner of abandoned gear left by the Germans: helmets, bayonets, canteens. It was a real treasure hunt.
One of the items was a thick, pocket-sized book of Goethe’s verse with what appeared to be a bullet hole through the center. The boy who found it flipped through the pages hoping that there might be some money tucked inside. Finding nothing, he tossed the book to the forest floor and ran on after his companions.
The spring brought more than the end of winter; it also signaled the thawing of Hitler’s grip on Europe. On March 22, the first U.S. Forces crossed the Rhine into Germany. Hitler was dead by April.
Among the first troops to cross that pontoon bridge and walk on German soil were a handful of snipers wearing battered uniforms. Over the last several months Cole, Vaccaro, and Lieutenant Mulholland had walked nearly every step of the way from Omaha Beach to the Rhine, and they looked it. Even the Kid, who was now officially part of the sniper squad, looked weary.
Jolie returned to France a few days after the fight at La Gleize, when an irate Colonel Akers had found out that a French civilian — and a single female at that — was in a combat zone and traveling with a sniper squad. He had shipped her out with the truckloads of wounded from the Ardennes Forest. Jolie did not complain — seeing the young Belgian girl killed at the church outside La Gleize had spilled cold water on her fighting spirit. She still wrote to Cole.
He still saved the letters, even if he couldn’t read them.
The incident involving Jolie had not improved Lieutenant Mulholland’s chances for promotion.
But now here the snipers were, ready to cross the Rhine.
“I can’t believe we’re in Germany,” said Vaccaro, expressing how they all felt. “Germany.”
“It don’t mean the war’s over,” said Cole. That was a fact — there had been plenty of hard fighting through the first few weeks of 1945. They might be on German soil, but Cole knew well enough that a cornered beast could be very dangerous. A few fanatical German troops didn’t seem to have gotten the message that the war was almost over. Most worrisome were the Hitler youth boys holed up with their rifles in church steeples, trees, and tall buildings. The poor dumb kids had been brainwashed all their lives and were ready to die for the Fatherland. A preferred tactic was to let American troops pass by and then shoot them in the back. It was the job of the American snipers to eradicate that threat.
Vaccaro had more to add. “I can’t wait to have some beer and sausages in downtown Berlin. Maybe some weinerwurst, weisswurst, bratwurst, schnitzel—”
“Shut up, Vaccaro,” Cole said, shaking his head. “The Russians will get to Berlin before we do. You’ll be lucky if there’s so much as a pretzel left when they get through. I don’t trust them damn Russians one bit. And don’t forget that there are a lot of Germans between here and there.”
Cole got a strong grip on his rifle and walked on.
Author’s Note
Ardennes Sniper was inspired by events surrounding the Battle of the Bulge that took place in the rugged Ardennes region of Belgium from December 1944 to January 1945. However, in writing this book, I have taken a few liberties with geography and the timeline of events to better suit the storytelling format of a novel.
Many of the events in the novel are based on actual history, particularly the terrible massacre of American troops near Malmedy, Belgium. There remains some controversy even today about how and why the massacre took place. What can’t be disputed is that more than eighty unarmed American POWs were killed there.
Kampfgruppe Friel is a fictitious unit and the commander and other soldiers are invented characters.
All too real is the fact that soldiers on both sides suffered in the bitter cold, and thousands lost their lives in the fighting.
For those who would like to read more about the Battle of the Bulge, there are several fascinating nonfiction histories of the battle and of events at Malmedy. I would also recommend William Peter Grasso’s excellent novels in the Jock Miles WW2 Adventure Series. Fans of World War II fiction will also enjoy the historical novels by David L. Robbins, including War of the Rats.
Finally, I want to thank all those who had a hand in producing or editing this book, especially Aidan, Mary, Joanne, Marianne, and Michael, as well as the many readers of Ghost Sniper who encouraged this follow-up story.
About the author
David Healey lives in Maryland where he worked as a journalist for more than twenty years. He is a member of the International Thriller Writers and a frequent contributor to