Read Online Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller by David Healey - Free Book Online
Authors: David Healey
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seen. The kid was shivering badly, probably from a combination of shock and cold. To their surprise, it was Jolie who sat him down on the stone wall, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and hugged him tight. Vaccaro handed her a flask. "Here, give him some of this calvados. That ought to warm him up."
Gradually, the shivering eased enough that the lieutenant walked over to ask the GI a few questions. Cole, Vaccaro and Rowe were still combing the field for any survivors.
"You want to tell me your name, soldier?"
"Hank Walsh, Battery B, 285th Field Artillery Observation Battalion—the whole unit is wiped out, sir."
"What happened?"
Private Walsh recounted how his unit had just passed through Five Points on its way to St. Vith when the Germans opened fire. "They had panzers, sir. King Tigers. They knocked out the first and last vehicles in the convoy and we were stuck on the road. Some of the men wanted to fight, but the others told them to surrender. What were we going to do against Tiger Tanks? So we got out of the ditches and the Germans rounded us up."
"Wehrmacht?"
"No, sir. These were SS."
The lieutenant and Jolie exchanged a look. "Hard cases."
"The Germans took most of our vehicles because they had a lot of men on foot. Most of their column moved off, and they left just a few guys guarding us in the field. Then one of them just up and shot one of our guys. Then all the Germans started shooting. It was over in a few minutes." He fought back a sob. "I'd be dead right now if it hadn't been for my buddy, Ralph. He tackled me and the bullets hit him instead."
"It looks like those bastards made sure they did the job right."
The kid shuddered. "They walked through the field, and anybody who was still alive, they shot him or caved in his head with a rifle butt."
"Jesus."
"Ralph was wounded so bad he was out of his head, just mumbling nonsense, and they shot him. I tried to tell him to keep quiet—” The kid choked back a sob.
“It’s all right,” Mulholland said. “You did what you could.”
“I held my breath, hoping they would think I was dead."
"Well, you made it." The lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it almost knocked the skinny young GI off the wall.
The others came back, looking grim. "There’s nobody else alive, sir."
Mulholland muttered, "Son of a bitch."
The kid finally broke down and sobbed.
• • •
After the lone survivor of the massacre had told his story, Cole had to spend a few minutes alone. He was well aware that most people thought he was a hard case, and maybe he was. Lord knows he had seen his share of bad things in this war, and done a few of them himself. Nobody could call him a saint. But something about the massacre scene affected him deeply. It was the idea of shooting American boys like hogs in a pen.
The bodies in the field told the story plain enough. The Americans had been gunned down where they stood.
He noticed that two of the bodies were much farther away than the others. The poor bastards had almost made it over the fence and escaped.
It was a long way to hit someone with a submachine gun—especially if you were occupied shooting lots of targets close up. Certainly it was too far for a pistol shot. Which meant a rifle.
He knew from experience that a moving target at that range was not easy. Hitting two running targets was damn near impossible. He doubted it was the work of your typical infantryman, SS or not.
Curious now, Cole moved closer to the road. It was easy to tell where the killers had stood because their footprints were surrounded by spent shell casings.
Cole scanned the ground, looking for some other clue—for what, he was not sure. Cole was good at reading tracks, but mostly what he saw were a lot of German boot prints, of which he had seen his share over the last few months. Empty brass cartridges, of course. A few cigarette butts. An empty wine bottle. What had been left
Gradually, the shivering eased enough that the lieutenant walked over to ask the GI a few questions. Cole, Vaccaro and Rowe were still combing the field for any survivors.
"You want to tell me your name, soldier?"
"Hank Walsh, Battery B, 285th Field Artillery Observation Battalion—the whole unit is wiped out, sir."
"What happened?"
Private Walsh recounted how his unit had just passed through Five Points on its way to St. Vith when the Germans opened fire. "They had panzers, sir. King Tigers. They knocked out the first and last vehicles in the convoy and we were stuck on the road. Some of the men wanted to fight, but the others told them to surrender. What were we going to do against Tiger Tanks? So we got out of the ditches and the Germans rounded us up."
"Wehrmacht?"
"No, sir. These were SS."
The lieutenant and Jolie exchanged a look. "Hard cases."
"The Germans took most of our vehicles because they had a lot of men on foot. Most of their column moved off, and they left just a few guys guarding us in the field. Then one of them just up and shot one of our guys. Then all the Germans started shooting. It was over in a few minutes." He fought back a sob. "I'd be dead right now if it hadn't been for my buddy, Ralph. He tackled me and the bullets hit him instead."
"It looks like those bastards made sure they did the job right."
The kid shuddered. "They walked through the field, and anybody who was still alive, they shot him or caved in his head with a rifle butt."
"Jesus."
"Ralph was wounded so bad he was out of his head, just mumbling nonsense, and they shot him. I tried to tell him to keep quiet—” The kid choked back a sob.
“It’s all right,” Mulholland said. “You did what you could.”
“I held my breath, hoping they would think I was dead."
"Well, you made it." The lieutenant clapped him on the shoulder in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it almost knocked the skinny young GI off the wall.
The others came back, looking grim. "There’s nobody else alive, sir."
Mulholland muttered, "Son of a bitch."
The kid finally broke down and sobbed.
• • •
After the lone survivor of the massacre had told his story, Cole had to spend a few minutes alone. He was well aware that most people thought he was a hard case, and maybe he was. Lord knows he had seen his share of bad things in this war, and done a few of them himself. Nobody could call him a saint. But something about the massacre scene affected him deeply. It was the idea of shooting American boys like hogs in a pen.
The bodies in the field told the story plain enough. The Americans had been gunned down where they stood.
He noticed that two of the bodies were much farther away than the others. The poor bastards had almost made it over the fence and escaped.
It was a long way to hit someone with a submachine gun—especially if you were occupied shooting lots of targets close up. Certainly it was too far for a pistol shot. Which meant a rifle.
He knew from experience that a moving target at that range was not easy. Hitting two running targets was damn near impossible. He doubted it was the work of your typical infantryman, SS or not.
Curious now, Cole moved closer to the road. It was easy to tell where the killers had stood because their footprints were surrounded by spent shell casings.
Cole scanned the ground, looking for some other clue—for what, he was not sure. Cole was good at reading tracks, but mostly what he saw were a lot of German boot prints, of which he had seen his share over the last few months. Empty brass cartridges, of course. A few cigarette butts. An empty wine bottle. What had been left
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