Read Online Ardennes Sniper: A World War II Thriller by David Healey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Healey
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Americans were obviously more concerned about the entire base being overrun at any moment by a panzer group than about saboteurs slipping in.
He debated how to set the fuel ablaze, then settled on a very direct approach. He also wanted to survive the resulting explosion, which seemed unlikely until he noticed a stalled Sherman tank about forty or fifty meters from the depot.
He could run that distance in five or six seconds over level ground. But with boots over rutted mud and slush? Maybe.
Klein bided his time until dusk, which thickened the already gray afternoon. He needed enough light to see by, but not so much that he would be seen.
He got up and lit a cigarette, then wandered toward the stacked barrels. The air smelled strongly of gasoline—smoking in proximity to so much fuel was unwise. No one was around to warn him away.
He was about to do far worse than light a cigarette.
Klein reached into the pocket of his American-issue winter coat and felt the cold lump of a hand grenade. An Mk 2 fragmentation or “pineapple” grenade, to be exact. He reached in his other hand and pulled the pin.
When he was sure no one was looking, he pulled out the grenade and tossed it toward the drums of fuel.
His aim was less than perfect.
The grenade bounced off and rolled a few feet away from the barrels—a fact that registered from the corner of his eye because Klein was already running flat out toward the abandoned tank. He just had time to put the tank between himself and the fuel depot when the grenade detonated and lit up the gasoline. An orange fireball filled the sky. He felt a wave of heat and hot wind stir his hair.
Fortunately for Klein and the American soldiers, the fuel depot exploded in a series of fireballs rather than a single, cataclysmic blast. He heard shouts and screams. In the confusion that followed, Klein ran for the woods.
• • •
An hour after discovering the massacre site, the snipers were ready to move out. The kid who had somehow survived the massacre was warmed up and steady enough. It was also clear that he had no choice but to accompany them.
“You’re coming with us,” the lieutenant told him. “And we’re giving you a nickname. We’re calling you the Kid, since you barely look old enough to shave.”
“There you go, Kid,” Vaccaro said, clapping him on the back. “Welcome to the squad.”
"We don't know the situation right now," the lieutenant continued. "We could have Germans all around us. If we start back down the road toward where our lines used to be, we could walk right into the Krauts."
"So we're basically surrounded, cut off, short on supplies and freezing cold," Vaccaro said. "I’m glad that’s cleared up. So, now what, sir?"
"We're going after them," Mulholland said. "We don't know what's behind us, but we sure as hell know what's in front of us. Germans. And lots of them. The same ones who murdered these poor bastards here."
"They have tanks, sir."
"No, we don’t have tanks. But we are scout-snipers. We can at least track their movements and harass their rear. It’s better than running off with our tails between our legs." The lieutenant knew he sounded grim, so he was surprised to find Vaccaro grinning at him. “If you have something to say, Vaccaro, say it.”
"It’s just that it sounds like we have a tank-less job ahead of us," Vaccaro said.
Lieutenant Mulholland shook his head. "Vaccaro, half the time I don't know whether to have you shot for insubordination or for telling bad jokes."
Cole chimed in. "Don't worry, sir. With any luck the Germans will shoot him first and save you the trouble."
"Ha, ha. You guys are more laughs than a barrel of monkeys.” Vaccaro turned to the newest member of the squad. “See, Kid, you don't know what you're getting yourself into. Not that you have any choice right now but to tag along with us. We don't know where the rear is, or even if there is a rear anymore."
"I don't even have a weapon," the Kid
He debated how to set the fuel ablaze, then settled on a very direct approach. He also wanted to survive the resulting explosion, which seemed unlikely until he noticed a stalled Sherman tank about forty or fifty meters from the depot.
He could run that distance in five or six seconds over level ground. But with boots over rutted mud and slush? Maybe.
Klein bided his time until dusk, which thickened the already gray afternoon. He needed enough light to see by, but not so much that he would be seen.
He got up and lit a cigarette, then wandered toward the stacked barrels. The air smelled strongly of gasoline—smoking in proximity to so much fuel was unwise. No one was around to warn him away.
He was about to do far worse than light a cigarette.
Klein reached into the pocket of his American-issue winter coat and felt the cold lump of a hand grenade. An Mk 2 fragmentation or “pineapple” grenade, to be exact. He reached in his other hand and pulled the pin.
When he was sure no one was looking, he pulled out the grenade and tossed it toward the drums of fuel.
His aim was less than perfect.
The grenade bounced off and rolled a few feet away from the barrels—a fact that registered from the corner of his eye because Klein was already running flat out toward the abandoned tank. He just had time to put the tank between himself and the fuel depot when the grenade detonated and lit up the gasoline. An orange fireball filled the sky. He felt a wave of heat and hot wind stir his hair.
Fortunately for Klein and the American soldiers, the fuel depot exploded in a series of fireballs rather than a single, cataclysmic blast. He heard shouts and screams. In the confusion that followed, Klein ran for the woods.
• • •
An hour after discovering the massacre site, the snipers were ready to move out. The kid who had somehow survived the massacre was warmed up and steady enough. It was also clear that he had no choice but to accompany them.
“You’re coming with us,” the lieutenant told him. “And we’re giving you a nickname. We’re calling you the Kid, since you barely look old enough to shave.”
“There you go, Kid,” Vaccaro said, clapping him on the back. “Welcome to the squad.”
"We don't know the situation right now," the lieutenant continued. "We could have Germans all around us. If we start back down the road toward where our lines used to be, we could walk right into the Krauts."
"So we're basically surrounded, cut off, short on supplies and freezing cold," Vaccaro said. "I’m glad that’s cleared up. So, now what, sir?"
"We're going after them," Mulholland said. "We don't know what's behind us, but we sure as hell know what's in front of us. Germans. And lots of them. The same ones who murdered these poor bastards here."
"They have tanks, sir."
"No, we don’t have tanks. But we are scout-snipers. We can at least track their movements and harass their rear. It’s better than running off with our tails between our legs." The lieutenant knew he sounded grim, so he was surprised to find Vaccaro grinning at him. “If you have something to say, Vaccaro, say it.”
"It’s just that it sounds like we have a tank-less job ahead of us," Vaccaro said.
Lieutenant Mulholland shook his head. "Vaccaro, half the time I don't know whether to have you shot for insubordination or for telling bad jokes."
Cole chimed in. "Don't worry, sir. With any luck the Germans will shoot him first and save you the trouble."
"Ha, ha. You guys are more laughs than a barrel of monkeys.” Vaccaro turned to the newest member of the squad. “See, Kid, you don't know what you're getting yourself into. Not that you have any choice right now but to tag along with us. We don't know where the rear is, or even if there is a rear anymore."
"I don't even have a weapon," the Kid
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