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Authors: David Healey
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behind did not tell him much, and yet it told him everything. The SS men had massacred the Americans, had a smoke and passed around a bottle, then moved out into the field to finish the job.
A little off to the side, a different cigarette butt caught his eye. It was much fancier than the others, gold tipped, of a kind Cole had learned was called a Sobranie. He had learned about those cigarettes during his first few days in Normandy, when he had encountered the vicious German sniper nicknamed Das Gespenst. The Ghost.
Cole considered himself to be a good sniper. But the German ... well, there was a reason he had that nickname.
Cole looked again at the snowy ground. Two more brass cartridges winked up at him, more elongated than the others. Rifle rounds rather than machine guns rounds. He looked across the field at the two distant bodies of the GIs who had almost escaped. Two shots. Two dead soldiers. He bent down and picked up one of the rifle cartridges. A closer look revealed that the cartridge was stamped with the alien-looking characters and symbols of the Cyrillic alphabet, which meant that these were from a Russian rifle chambered for 7.62 mm rather than the usual 8 mm Mauser rounds.
If it was possible, Cole now felt colder.
There was just one German sniper Cole knew of who smoked gold-tipped cigarettes and used a Russian rifle.
Das Gespenst. It couldn't be. And yet here was the proof, staring back at him.
He was sure the son of a bitch had died in a flooded field outside Bienville after shooting Jolie and very nearly killing Cole. Even Cole had to admit that he’d gotten lucky when an artillery barrage had rolled in, stopping the German sniper from finishing the job. He had reckoned that the shelling had turned the German into hamburger.
Cole clenched his fist around the brass shell casing.
The Ghost Sniper had returned.
CHAPTER 9
Klein felt like a fox that had sneaked into the henhouse. Since killing the lone American on the deserted road, he had avoided any one-on-one encounters. Instead, he mixed in with large groups by saying that he had been separated from his unit, which was easy enough because the Americans were in such disarray. Rumors flew like the snow. Patton was on the way! Hitler himself was leading the attack! None of it made much sense, but the German attack had created a blizzard of confusion.
As a saboteur, he would do what he could to make the situation worse.
Later that day, Klein fell in with a group of muddy, half-frozen American soldiers. Lucky for him, they were all too tired and cold to be curious about where he was from. No one broke the silence. The only sound was that of boots tramping through the slush.
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
A little off to the side, a different cigarette butt caught his eye. It was much fancier than the others, gold tipped, of a kind Cole had learned was called a Sobranie. He had learned about those cigarettes during his first few days in Normandy, when he had encountered the vicious German sniper nicknamed Das Gespenst. The Ghost.
Cole considered himself to be a good sniper. But the German ... well, there was a reason he had that nickname.
Cole looked again at the snowy ground. Two more brass cartridges winked up at him, more elongated than the others. Rifle rounds rather than machine guns rounds. He looked across the field at the two distant bodies of the GIs who had almost escaped. Two shots. Two dead soldiers. He bent down and picked up one of the rifle cartridges. A closer look revealed that the cartridge was stamped with the alien-looking characters and symbols of the Cyrillic alphabet, which meant that these were from a Russian rifle chambered for 7.62 mm rather than the usual 8 mm Mauser rounds.
If it was possible, Cole now felt colder.
There was just one German sniper Cole knew of who smoked gold-tipped cigarettes and used a Russian rifle.
Das Gespenst. It couldn't be. And yet here was the proof, staring back at him.
He was sure the son of a bitch had died in a flooded field outside Bienville after shooting Jolie and very nearly killing Cole. Even Cole had to admit that he’d gotten lucky when an artillery barrage had rolled in, stopping the German sniper from finishing the job. He had reckoned that the shelling had turned the German into hamburger.
Cole clenched his fist around the brass shell casing.
The Ghost Sniper had returned.
CHAPTER 9
Klein felt like a fox that had sneaked into the henhouse. Since killing the lone American on the deserted road, he had avoided any one-on-one encounters. Instead, he mixed in with large groups by saying that he had been separated from his unit, which was easy enough because the Americans were in such disarray. Rumors flew like the snow. Patton was on the way! Hitler himself was leading the attack! None of it made much sense, but the German attack had created a blizzard of confusion.
As a saboteur, he would do what he could to make the situation worse.
Later that day, Klein fell in with a group of muddy, half-frozen American soldiers. Lucky for him, they were all too tired and cold to be curious about where he was from. No one broke the silence. The only sound was that of boots tramping through the slush.
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
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