The Front: Red Devils Page 4

  It was uncomfortably quiet here. Unexpectedly so. No fighting. Nothing. A dead zone. Wilkins almost began to wish for an enemy encounter to prove he was still alive. Whether it was as a result of the bitter cold, the after-effects of being left hanging from a tree, the hideous creatures he’d seen since landing in the forest, or a combination of all three, he was beginning to doubt his sanity. Am I the one who has died? he asked himself. It made marginally more sense to believe that the grotesque, borderline surreal things he’d seen were as a result of serious trauma to his brain. He’d witnessed more than his fair share of unspeakable horrors in numerous places since the beginning of the war, but this was different. This didn’t feel right.

  He’d been keeping a watch for signs of any of the other Brits, and his heart leapt when he spied parachute material entangled among the lower branches of an oak tree tall enough to be hundreds of years old. He ran towards it at speed, only to find one of his countrymen hanging from a bough and quite dead. It was Graeme O’Neill, a good sort he’d known for some years. Poor bugger. O’Neill had a protruding chin and a distinctive mop of tightly curled and well-oiled hair, so there was no question it was him. From the waist up, he appeared relatively unhurt, but the lower half of his body had been unspeakably defiled.

  O’Neill’s legs had been stripped of all flesh. Little more than blood-stained bones remained, as if the muscles, nerves and sinews had all been eaten away. Directly beneath the dead Brit, the snow had disappeared from a wide circle of ground approaching two yards in diameter, perhaps even larger. Blood and other unspeakable discharge had soaked the forest floor, and there were countless slushy footprints moving to and from O’Neill’s body in numerous directions. O’Neill himself bobbed up and down gently as the branches of the mighty oak rustled in the spiteful winter wind.

  All’s fair in love and war, Wilkins remarked to himself, but there was nothing remotely fair or decent about what had happened here. O’Neill had, apparently, been tortured without mercy. A degree of hatred and inhumanity towards one’s enemy was perhaps to be expected in conflict, but this was something else entirely. This desecration of a fellow soldier’s body was senseless. Barbaric in the extreme.

  It occurred to Wilkins that whoever was responsible for this most heinous act might still be loitering nearby. However, he owed it to his fallen comrade and his family not to leave him hanging there unceremoniously. He was swinging like an executed man who’d been left on the gallows, chin on his chest and his head hanging heavy on his shoulders. Wilkins looked around and checked that all was clear, then tried to steady the corpse. ‘I’m sorry, old boy,’ Wilkins said. ‘I wish that I could—’

  Wilkins jumped back with surprise when O’Neill looked up and fixed him with a gaze from cold and lifeless eyes. Somehow O’Neill’s flailing arms caught hold of him and the dead man attempted to take a bite out of Wilkins’ hand. Wilkins snatched his hand away and staggered back. By now O’Neill was twitching and bouncing tirelessly on the parachute cords which bound him, spinning around furiously to reach for Wilkins again, but succeeding only in tying himself up in knots. The flesh-free bones of his useless legs clattered together like some bizarre kind of voodoo totem or wind-chime designed to keep evil spirits at bay.

  Wilkins didn’t believe in evil spirits. Part of him wished he did. Somehow the idea that what was happening here in Belgium could be attributed to the whim of some displeased demi-god was preferable to what he already knew to be the truth. The foul aberrations he’d so far encountered were the result of despicable Nazi experiments. He wanted to run and put maximum distance between himself and this place, but that wasn’t an option. Thousands of lives depended on him and the other men who’d baled out over the region during the early hours of this morning. By all accounts, it was no exaggeration to believe that, perhaps, the lives of every last man, woman and child in Europe, if not the entire world were at risk here.

  Before he did anything, though, Wilkins knew he had to deal with what was left of O’Neill first. He couldn’t leave a fellow soldier hanging up there in such a pitiful state. He took his standard issue clasp knife and, with one hand around O’Neill’s throat to keep him steady and keep his snapping jaws at bay, he plunged the blade deep into the dead man’s heart.

  It had no effect. Absolutely no effect.

  If stabbing the heart doesn’t do the trick, he thought, then I have only one other option.

  Wilkins twisted O’Neill’s squirming head to the left and stabbed his exposed temple. Almost immediately the dead soldier stopped thrashing and hung from the tree like an abandoned marionette.

  Wilkins wiped his knife clean then dug in against the wind and the cold and the pain and the fear in his gut and pushed on towards Bastogne.

  5

  AT THE FRONT

  NEAR NAMUR

  A hole had been punched in the German attack around Bastogne, but the gains made by the allies were bittersweet. The recapture of the town and the end of the siege there had been cause for much celebration, however the hard-fought victory had emphasised the scale of what was left to achieve. The audacious Nazi advance continued west across Belgium and France.

  In two days and nights, more than a hundred thousand troops travelled over a hundred miles east under the command of General Patton. They’d known the ensuing battle was going to be hell, but despite all the rumours and reports they’d heard, no one was fully prepared for what awaited them.

  The British 6th Airborne and 53rd Infantry Division began to move against the western tip of the German advance, taking up position on the defensive line between Dinant and Namur. As the men fought to force back the Nazis, the terrifying depravity of what was happening elsewhere became clear through radioed reports.

  Upon arriving in the area around Christmas the men had, for the briefest time, felt surprisingly festive. It was bitterly cold, and more than six inches of snow had fallen, giving the battlefield a disarmingly calm and peaceful appearance, almost like a greetings card. Securing the town of Bure was the company’s first objective, and in no time the illusion of calm had been shattered.

  Sergeant Daniel Phillips sprinted down the snow-covered track in pursuit of a group of Nazis who’d so far evaded capture. He was going to get those bastards if it was the last thing he did. He’d left Jack Hewson – his lucky charm who’d been with him every step of the way in this damn war so far – bleeding out having taken a bullet to the chest from one of them. He owed it to Hewson to hunt the bastards down. Never mind that, he wanted to do it.

  He stopped and took cover against a towering spruce, steeling himself as the tree took several rounds intended for him, feeling the shock travel through the hundred-year-old wood. He crouched down and looked out through the splinters and smoke, then drew his head back in fast when another hail of bullets came his way. Jerry was looking for cover around the back of a grubby cottage on the outskirts of Bure. There were three of them hiding there, maybe even four, but numbers were academic. Phillips was poised to make his move – one last hurrah in memory of Jack – but a well-aimed round from one of the Fife and Forfar Yeomanry’s Sherman tanks put paid to any German resistance. The mortar hit the corner of the cottage and brought the whole thing crashing down on top of them.

  The area (what was left of it) was secure, and Phillips made his way back deeper into the town. Corporal Charlie Lowell hollered to get his attention and ushered him into a dilapidated house where several other men had gathered to catch their breath. This had been someone’s home once, Phillips thought as he looked around the miserable place. It was a cold and empty ruin now, filled with dust and debris and broken glass, little trace of the former occupants visible. ‘All right, chaps?’ he asked through chattering teeth. It was clear the other men were far from all right. Given their dire circumstances, there could have been any reason for their low mood and dejected nature, but Phillips sensed this was something of the upmost seriousness. Warrant Officer Brian Stewart passed the sergeant a lukewarm drink. Phillips took it b
ut didn’t drink. Instead he looked around from man to man, waiting to hear what horrific twist the war had now taken.

  Stewart had a wide cockney accent which made him sound chirpy even when he clearly wasn’t. ‘You ain’t heard, Sarge?’

  Phillips’ blank expression was as good an answer as Stewart needed. ‘Heard what?’

  Stewart called to another man sitting spread-eagled on the floor in the corner. ‘Tell him, Wilson.’

  Private Harry Wilson cleared his throat and wiped his face. Phillips had fought alongside him these last few days, and had grown to know him as an effervescent, larger-than-life Yorkshireman. All the verve and vigour had been knocked out of him today, though. ‘I overheard it on the radio just a half hour ago, Sarge,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘Overheard what exactly?’

  ‘News from the front, down to the south. The yanks are taking a hammering.’

  ‘The Germans are gaining an advantage? Dammit, I’d heard our boys were fighting them back. General Patton’s relieved Bastogne, hasn’t he? I know it’s been fraught, but the tide’s turning, isn’t it?’

  ‘It seems the Germans aren’t our only problem, these days.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Phillips didn’t like the sound of this.

  ‘Have you not heard the rumours about the krauts that don’t feel no pain?’

  ‘Rumours, yes... but for goodness sake, the battlefield is a strange place. It can play havoc with a man’s sanity. And the human body is capable of all kinds of extraordinary stunts when one’s put under extreme pressure. I saw a fellow who’d had his legs clean taken off by a blast managing to run on the stumps. I think it’s just a case of...’

  The men were staring at him. Phillips stopped talking. Wilson cleared his throat again. ‘No, Sarge, that’s not what I’m talking about. There’s things happening on the battlefield that are evil and unnatural.’

  ‘Go on...’

  ‘I have it on good authority that the Nazis have developed some kind of treatment they’re giving their men what’s turned them into monsters.’

  ‘Monsters?’

  ‘Aye, sir, monsters. Like I said, I was there listening when the reports was coming in. I know you’ll not believe me, but I’ll tell you just the same. They’re saying these men are already dead, but that this treatment, this serum they’ve been given, is keeping them mobile and keeping them fighting.’

  ‘That’s preposterous.’

  ‘It’s true!’ Wilson said, and he stood up and moved towards Phillips, decorum and rank temporarily forgotten. ‘It’s true,’ he said again, voice lower, back in control.

  Whether or not Wilson and the others had heard the things they were purporting to have heard, it was clear to Phillips that the news had affected each of them deeply. ‘Go on,’ he pushed.

  ‘These creatures... these dead Germans... they’re fighting and fighting and fighting and there’s nothing that’ll bring them down save for a bullet to the head. Look, sir, I know how mad this must sound, but you should have heard them... you should have heard the panic in our boy’s voices.’

  ‘Wilson here reckons that whatever it is that fires these dead blokes up, gets passed on to anyone they kill.’ Stewart said. ‘Bites, cuts, scratches... Infected blood was what I heard.’

  ‘Wait a minute... let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re saying Hitler has created himself a self-perpetuating army of monsters?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge, and they’re heading our way,’ Stewart said ominously.

  Phillips stood in the middle of the ice-cold cottage and tried to comprehend what he’d just been told. The building was deathly silent save for the whistling of the winter wind and the rumbling of a tank battle in the near distance.

  6

  IN THE RUINS OF BASTOGNE

  Most of the population of Bastogne had fled when the siege had ended and the allies had opened a corridor of relative safety between the town and Assenois. Most of the population. Some had been unable to get away, others too scared to move until their hand was forced. Henri Mercel, who had, up until a couple of weeks ago, been a well-respected and oft-frequented tailor, ran through the rubble-strewn streets as if his life depended on it.

  Because it did.

  It had been such a foolish and unnecessary mistake to make, and now he cursed himself for having been so vain. Even after all the horror, brutality and bloodshed he’d witnessed here recently, he’d learnt nothing and had continued to give undue importance to his business and its associated frippery. And now it seemed his misguided approach was going to cost him everything.

  When the dead army had begun to surge through the town, Marcel had initially run as fast as anyone, despite his rotund belly and short legs. But it had occurred to him that he’d left a good amount of money and numerous trinkets unguarded in his shop, including a valuable broach bequeathed to him by his recently deceased mother, and the thought of them falling into someone else’s hands – British, American, German or other – was intolerable. Against his better judgement he’d cut through an alleyway and doubled-back. He’d simply collect his belongings then disappear again. What was the worst that could happen?

  Take the worst that could happen, and multiply it by a factor of several hundred.

  Being caught in the cross-fire between the Nazis and the US soldiers defending Bastogne had been bad enough, but what had followed had been immeasurably worse.

  The dead.

  Hundreds of them, possibly even thousands. Foul, obnoxious, ill-mannered things, their numbers ever growing. Mercel had made it back to his tailor’s shop, but only by the slimmest of margins before the ungodly army had filled the street outside. The mass of dead flesh had clogged every escape route. He’d sunk to the ground behind the counter and covered his ears and screwed his eyes shut as the unnatural encroachment had continued. Their numbers had been such that they had blocked out almost all the light, leaving him more frightened than ever. Mother had always been there before to keep him company and help him cope with his irrational fear of the dark, but Mercel was completely alone now. And despite being in his late forties, he was resolutely terrified.

  He’d remained curled up on the floor in a ball for hours. It might even have been longer than a day. It was only when an unavoidable call of nature forced him to get up and visit another part of the shop did he see that the street outside had all but emptied. Once his ablutions were complete he filled his pockets with the money and trinkets he’d risked his life for, took a deep breath, then left the shop and ran (as best he could).

  It was cold outside, and the snow was falling heavily. The covering of white combined with the absolute ruination in parts of Bastogne to disorientate Mercel to such an extent that he headed in completely the opposite direction to that which he’d originally intended. His choice of direction was further limited by the great crowds of blood-stained and battle-worn Nazis which seemed to be on the periphery whichever way he turned.

  At one point he found himself face-to-face with a fellow countryman who appeared to have been completely traumatised by the bloody chaos which had consumed the town. The man had been severely injured (his dust-covered trousers glistened with blood which continued to seep from a vicious-looking wound on his belly) and his shock was such that he couldn’t speak, could barely even focus his eyes on Mercel. ‘We must leave here, Monsieur,’ Mercel had said. ‘Can you help me get to Assenois? I can pay you...’

  He’d shown the man a pocket full of francs, and the desperate fellow had made a sudden and unexpected lunge for Mercel’s cash. He’d gripped his arms with a dogged persistence which belied his moribund state, and Mercel had struggled to free himself. In the melee he’d slipped on ice then tripped over rubble and had been on his back with the wounded man bearing down on him before he’d known what was happening.

  A priest came to his aid.

  Father Jacques had elected to remain with his church despite the rest of the town being evacuated, and seeing the overweig
ht tailor struggling in the snow with his assailant was proof positive that staying behind to care for the last few sheep of his flock had been absolutely the right thing to do. His vestments keeping him warm and a pair of hobnail boots keeping him safe, he strode out from the church with a heart full of God and the very best of intentions. When the man attacking Mercel had failed to respond to his requests to desist, Father Jacques put a hand under each of his shoulders and dragged him away.

  The good Samaritan paid the ultimate price for his selfless act. The wounded man turned on the priest with predatory speed, reversing their position and slamming Jacques against the outside wall of his church before biting into his throat and crunching through his oesophagus, silencing his screams before they’d even begun.

  Mercel was up and on his feet and running again before the priest was dead. He stumbled into a street so heavily bombed that he struggled to place it at all. A street name lying on the ground helped him fix his location, but the familiar view he associated with that name had been all but obliterated. There were gaps where there used to be buildings, like a mouthful of rotten teeth, and those homes and shops which still remained standing seemed to be doing so by the grace of God alone. Mercel fancied that if he was to lean too heavily against any one of them, the whole town might come crashing down around him.

  There were mountainous, snow-capped piles of rubble everywhere, and deep puddles where impact craters had become filled with dust and ash and melted snow to leave a claggy, paste-like mud which coated everything. He looked down at his shoes and the bottom of his trousers with real disappointment. He would never normally have allowed himself to be seen out in public in such a bedraggled state.

  It was while Mercel was staring at his shoes that he realised the area was splattered with blood and body parts. The remains of people mixed freely with the remains of the buildings they’d previously inhabited, and it was a gruesome sight which caused his stomach to flip. He’d not eaten this morning (not as much as a normal morning, anyway), and it took all the self-control he could muster not to vomit and further ruin his already grubby shoes. But when he caught sight of a hand and part of a forearm, flesh clearly having been chewed and bones snapped just above the wrist, his limited self-control was lost. Mercel emptied the contents of his stomach onto the pavement with a semi-solid splatter, the noise and taste of which did little more than make him heave again. He’d never had the strongest of constitutions, and Mother had always been there to hold the bowl whenever he’d been ill. The fear and isolation caused him to wail for help like a little girl.