Ghost Sniper

Willi shrugged. “They will expect me there. Anything less would be cowardice. Listen, Kurt, I have a driver, but I think I’m going to leave him behind this morning. It doesn’t make sense for us both to… go. He’s just a boy, really. I wondered if you would take him on?”

The sniper was surprised. “What am I going to do with a driver? I don’t have a car!”

“Surely you need someone to carry your gear.”

“I don’t think I’d be doing him any favors, Willi. I’ll be going into the bocage to fight the Americans.”

“They’ll be putting him into the front lines, then, and somehow I think his chances will be better with you.” Willi seemed to consider, sighed, then poured himself another calvados, filling the glass to the brim, and drank it down. He offered his hand, and the two men shook. “Good luck to you, Kurt. It has been good knowing you.”

Then Willi left the room, a little unsteadily. He was not normally such a big drinker. A few minutes later a car started in the courtyard below, and drove off toward the sound of the bombardment.

Von Stenger listened to it go and thought, Good luck, old friend.

Von Stenger dressed in field gear and then packed quickly and efficiently, putting just a few essentials such as spare socks into a haversack. Normandy was not Russia—and thank God for that—but the nights would be cold and miserable with wet feet.

He packed a small book of Goethe’s verse and, after a moment’s hesitation, a bottle of particularly good French burgundy that he had been saving, perhaps to drink with Willi some night. There was no reason to save it anymore, and he’d be damned if he was going to leave it for some soldier from New Jersey to guzzle. As Goethe would say, “Enjoy when you can, and endure when you must.” Von Stenger decided it would be far easier to endure some future cold, rainy night with a bottle of good red wine. He topped off the haversack with a thick wool blanket, tightly rolled.

He and Willi had not finished the calvados, so he went out and poured what was left off the balcony. No point in leaving it for the American marauders to polish off.

The house felt empty, because the other engineers billeted there were already at the beach, and the mother and daughter of the house had fled to the nearby village. He made his way down to the kitchen, whistling, and was surprised to find Willi’s driver sitting at the table, wolfing down coffee, bread and butter. He was baby-faced and his uniform was a bit too big for him, so that he looked more like a schoolboy than a soldier. He understood why Willi had left him behind—he was just a boy, and the engineer had been driving toward certain death. On the other hand, Von Stenger was not sure the boy would fare much better in the days of fighting to come.

“You are coming with me,” he told the young soldier, who jumped to his feet at Von Stenger’s arrival. “Pack your haversack and meet me back here in five minutes.”

Von Stenger was amused to see that the boy took the time to salute before racing off. Who said that replacement troops had no discipline?

The kitchen was well stocked and Von Stenger collected canned meat, some fresh bread and a jar of jam, even some chocolate. Then he divided the food items into two piles; one went into his haversack and when the boy returned he told him to pack the other half.

The sky was brighter now, and the sounds of fighting coming from the coast were constant. Explosions from the Allied bombardment flickered on the horizon like distant fireworks. The deep boom of the Navy guns rattled the windows. A fine dust filled the kitchen as the ancient walls vibrated.

He noticed that the boy was white faced. Well, only a fool wouldn’t be scared at the thought of thousands of Allied troops trying to come ashore just a short distance away. It would be nice to think that the defenses would hold, but Von Stenger was sure the Americans and British and Canadians would keep coming until they finally captured the beach. In any case, he was certain that the surf would run red before the day was through.

He started off through the fields, with the boy following him. Apart from the distant thump of artillery, they might have been heading into the woods for a camping trip. The boy marched along deferentially a few paces behind and to Von Stenger’s right.

“Sir, are we joining up with another unit?”

“We are a unit. I am a sniper, and you are my scout. What is your name, anyhow?” he asked the soldier.

“Fritz, sir. Matthias Fritz.”