War of the Damned (Relic Hunters)

by Martin Ferguson

  ‘Their men aren’t better though,’ I say, trying to lighten our mood in any way I can.

  ‘Aye, you’re right there, lad,’ Corporal Brooke says as he joins us from the dunes. ‘And yes, I’d agree with you boys. Just look around us. It’s a sorry state to be in.’

  I look, as I have many times since we reached the beaches of Dunkirk. On the sands are hundreds of men, thousands, British, French, Belgian; the remnants of three nations’ armies. There are civilians, too, huddling together and hoping for a rescue that will likely not come. The roads were full of people leaving their homes behind and fleeing the German army.

  Wooden crosses mark the graves of many on the beach; soldiers and civilians. Some bodies have been left where they fell and are draped in simple blankets that threaten to fly free with the breeze. As the tide draws in, the waters bring more lifeless soldiers back to us, washed up like debris.

  Some men drink and others fight with their comrades, morale and order lost among some units. A chaplain leads a choir of men, their songs haunting us as we wait in eerie silence. All vehicles and equipment that could be captured and used by the enemy are burnt and destroyed. Even the horses are put down by a bullet to the brain.

  Beyond the beach is the ruined town of Dunkirk. Smoke rises constantly from the still-burning and devastated houses as a dozen companies fight in a shrinking ring to hold off the advancing Germans. We can hear the shelling and constant rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire in the distance, fearing that when it stops, our last defence will have fallen or surrendered. It’s only a matter of time.

  Offshore, a ship burns, attacked a dozen times by the German dive-bombers of the Luftwaffe. They come every hour, strafing the beaches with their machine guns and bombs and attacking any ships that are bound towards the beach.

  As soon as ships are seen on the horizon, the officers order us out in long winding columns from the beach and out onto the concrete and wooden pier-like moles. If the moles are filled with men then we wade into the water. That was where we were a couple of hours ago, standing up to our waists in the sea, waiting as the German planes attacked again and again. Small boats came for us; lifeboats, fishing craft, holiday yachts of all size and shape to carry us to a larger naval ship. Most of their crews are civilians; brave fellas who are all volunteers and have no business being here. They’re innocents in all this, but that doesn’t matter to Jerry. Seeing those lads get targeted and shot to pieces by enemy planes riles us up more than anything else. Despite their best efforts, none of the boats reached our group and so we returned, cold and wet, to the beach again.

  ‘What I want to know is, where’s our air support?’ Wilson moans. ‘We get attacked again and again by their planes, but where’s ours? Where’s the blinking RAF?’

  ‘I spoke to a downed pilot this morning,’ Jenkinson, another member of our platoon says. Jenkinson is young like me, joining up for the same stupid reasons I did. I thought he’d been sleeping but apparently, none of us are getting any rest.

  ‘This pilot,’ Jenkinson continues, ‘he said that most of our squadrons have been ordered back to England.’

  ‘Turned and ran,’ Wilson mocks.

  ‘Orders from up high, so this pilot said,’ replies Jenkinson.

  ‘Preparing to defend home?’ I guess.

  ‘That’s what I reckon,’ Campbell agrees. ‘That’ll be our next objective, mark my words. England will be Jerry’s next target once they’re done here.’

  ‘Home,’ Jenkinson says forlornly as he looks out across the waves.

  Home. It’s been nine months since I left home and enlisted in the army. The next day after enlisting I set out for the Gibraltar Barracks in Bury St Edmunds, leaving a letter for my mother as I knew she would be furious. Entry requirements were clear that I had to be eighteen years old. Even now, I’m still a couple months short of my seventeenth birthday. I couldn’t stay behind whilst so many of my friends set out and did their part. My father fought in the Great War. I couldn’t just stay behind.

  Eight weeks of basic training followed my arrival at the barracks, then another eight weeks of training as a rifleman. Sixteen weeks was what it took to turn me into a soldier. Over the past few days in France, I’ve learnt my training at the barracks prepared me for nothing. It certainly didn’t prepare me for this place.

  ‘This was a beautiful seaside town once,’ a man with a French accent tells us as he stares out towards the water. His head is heavily bandaged, as is his chest. The ruins of a French army uniform hang over a shoulder. ‘I came here with my family when I was a boy. We had such fun. Look at it now. Like the rest of my homeland, it lies in ruin.’

  ‘Should’ve fought harder for it then,’ a voice heckles from nearby.

  ‘Shut it,’ I say before speaking to the Frenchman. ‘No one blames your lot, mate. You hear the artillery and gunfire in the distance. That’s your lot still fighting. It’s thanks to them, Jerry haven’t already overrun us.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the Frenchman replies, ‘but it will be all for nothing when the Germans break through.’

  ‘Not if our ships can get us home,’ I reply. I regret my words instantly, realising I speak of returning to my country whilst he is standing in the ruins of his.

  Out at sea, an explosion erupts from the still burning ship, its fires quickly extinguishing as the hull slips from sight beneath the waves.

  ‘We’re not getting out of here, are we?’ Jenkinson asks.

  I do not have the heart to answer him.

  ‘You seen these leaflets Jerry planes dropped yesterday?’ I ask, holding the paper up for the others to see. It’s a single page with a map showing our forces surrounded. It calls for us to stop fighting and lay down our arms, written in French and English.

  ‘Bloody nonsense,’ Corporal Brooke says, snatching the leaflet from my hand and tearing it up.

  ‘Seems to sum up our situation pretty well,’ Wilson comments.

  ‘Don’t listen to a word of it, lads,’ the corporal says before a messenger arrives. Captain Grayburn summons him. The captain, despite his wounds, is still trying his hardest with the other company commanders to get us off this beach.

  ‘Hey, lads,’ Wilson says, rummaging through his pack before producing a half-empty bottle of brandy. ‘Share this around whilst the corporal’s busy. Only a mouthful each, mind.’

  ‘Where’d you get that from?’ Jenkinson asks.

  ‘Found it lying around,’ he replies innocently.

  ‘Stolen from a nearby house more like,’ I guess. Wilson is a scoundrel, a self-confessed thief before joining up, but a decent enough guy.

  Wilson was a thief, Jenkinson a trainee mechanic, Campbell a farmer, and me, I was just a school-boy. Corporal Brooke was the only one with any previous history in the army among our section of the platoon. Maybe that’s why he drives us hard, always knowing what it truly is to fight in a war.

  ‘Brandy won’t help the hunger,’ Campbell warns. We’ve been on half rations for days.

  ‘Only a farmer would say that,’ chuckles Wilson.

  ‘Can’t hurt can it,’ I say, drinking my share of the bottle and quickly hiding it as the corporal runs back to us.

  ‘On your feet, lads,’ he orders. ‘Quickly now, the rest of the company are moving for the Eastern Mole.’

  ‘Are ships approaching?’ I ask.

  ‘Possibly,’ the corporal replies before speaking to us quietly. ‘Between us, I reckon this is the last chance we’ll have. The perimeter around the town is on the brink of falling.’

  ‘Better hurry then,’ Campbell replies, forcing a smile from the rest of the lads.

  Though exhausted from lack of food and sleep, we run across the sand, tripping and falling in our haste to join up with the rest of our company and the others from the Suffolk Regiment heading for the East Mole. It seems Jerry have guessed our intentions, as overhead, we hear the droning of engines.

  ‘Keep going!’ the corporal yells at us.

  We run with
all we have and only dive for cover as the planes open fire, strafing the beaches. I see men screaming in terror and others covering their ears to block out the terrible droning from above. Dozens of rifles fire back in reply, a few hitting their target but doing nothing to prevent the bombs and bullets reaching our men on the beach. I see soldiers, wounded, doctors, chaplains, and civilians hit without mercy.

  ‘Where the hell are our planes?’ Wilson yells.

  ‘Up!’ the corporal orders once the enemy bombers have passed. ‘Up and keep going!’

  We push on, stopping only as more waves of enemy planes attack, until we reach the remains of our regiment, the Suffolks. The officers keep order, just about. Captain Grayburn is urging us on. His wounded left arm is heavily bandaged in a sling, but even from a distance, I can see he is pale and sickly, leaning heavily on the shoulder of another man for support. His voice remains strong and encouraging, guiding us on.

  Beyond the sand of the beach, we reach the mole, a stone and wooden jetty five men wide that reaches out into the sea. Every few yards, we see damage from the dive-bombers, planks torn apart by bullets, and great chasms threatening to send any man down to the waves below. Already the mole is filling with our regiment and we shuffle along with the others, all of us praying that the naval ships and the smaller boats return soon. We stand and wait, many of us already wounded. We wait for hours.

  ‘They ain’t coming,’ Wilson mutters under his breath.

  ‘They are,’ I state, forcing my confidence despite my own doubts. ‘They’ll come. They have to.’

  A murmur ripples through the men further ahead, and quick enough, we see what has them riled. On the horizon are a dozen ships, our ships, coming to take us away from this God-forsaken place.

  ‘Told you,’ I say, punching Wilson in the arm.

  ‘C’mon, c’mon,’ Campbell says repeatedly, as eager as the rest of us.

  ‘We’re not the only ones to notice the navy,’ Jenkinson says, pointing west where squadrons of bombers approach.

  ‘Bloody Stukas again,’ Campbell mutters.

  In the distance, we see them attack our ships, diving repeatedly with guns and bombs but still the navy pushes on towards us. Our ships are not alone though and we cheer as we see our own planes, Hawker Hurricanes soar through the air to engage the bombers. Under the cover of the RAF the ships come closer to us, a few smoking from damage taken but all still afloat. Among them are the small boats, dozens of them heading towards us as fast as their engines can take them. That’s when the Stukas aim for us.

  The droning sirens are as terrifying now as the first time I heard them. With no shelter out on the Eastern Mole there is nothing to do but duck down and pray to God. With each wave, dozens of defenceless men are killed and there is nothing we can do; the mole tremors with each impact. The naval guns and the RAF fighters do what they can, but they cannot stop the onslaught of German planes.

  Upon reaching the mole, the small civilian boats begin ferrying men to the bigger ships. A number of them are targeted by the German planes and torn apart, but those still afloat do not stop. Slowly we begin to creep forward, groups of ten and twenty ferried away at a time.

  ‘Almost there,’ Jenkinson says optimistically, smiling for the first time in days.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ I tell him, urging him and the others on.

  ‘Here they come again,’ Campbell warns, the enemy planes circling overhead.

  ‘Everyone down!’ Corporal Brooke orders. Everyone ducks as low as they can, the screaming siren driving panic in many.

  ‘We’re gonna die! We’re gonna die!’ one man screams before he is silenced by the fist of another.

  I dare to look up, seeing two Stuka dive-bombers soaring down towards us. They open fire, tearing through the regiment and my helmet is torn from my head. Somehow, I am unhurt, a damned miracle, the helmet only marked by the scorch of a bullet.

  ‘Lucky bastard.’ Wilson laughs.

  ‘The corporal’s been hit!’ Campbell shouts.

  He has fallen to the stone of the mole, chest ripped open with three blooded holes. I kneel down beside him, applying pressure on the wounds and crying out for a medic.

  ‘Get them home, Cooper,’ Corporal Brooke says weakly. ‘Get them away from this God-damned beach.’

  ‘Hold on, we’ll get help,’ I tell him, but with a single bloody cough, his eyes glaze over and stare straight past me.

  ‘Keep moving!’ I hear Captain Grayburn call out. ‘Don’t stop!’

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ Campbell says, pulling me to my feet. ‘We’ve no choice but to leave him. He’s beyond help now. He wouldn’t want us to die here, too.’

  I am dragged on by the others, still in shock at the loss of the corporal, my hands stained with his blood. I look back for him but his body is lost in the press of men.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Jenkinson says. ‘Nearly home.’

  ‘Nearly home,’ I repeat under my breath as we get closer and closer to the boats. ‘Nearly home.’

  ‘C’mon, you beauties!’ Wilson cheers as we near the end of the mole and see the small boats returning.

  ‘Stukas!’ a voice screams behind us as the mole is rocked by bombs.

  ‘Get down! Get down!’ others cry.

  The nearest boat to us explodes in flames and the surviving crew dive overboard but still the planes attack.

  ‘Look out!’ Campbell warns, but it is too late and he is engulfed in a blast. My world becomes fire, smoke, and then water as I am thrown clear and hit the cold sea below. Darkness threatens as my head spins and I sink deeper until hands grab me, pulling me towards the surface.

  ‘You’re okay lad,’ someone tells me as I am pulled out of the water, gasping for breath. My vision blurs as the world around me keeps spinning and warmth spreads across my face, the taste of blood on my lips.

  ‘We’ve got you,’ another voice says to me as the engine of a boat thunders into life. ‘You’re going home, lad. You’re going home.’

  7

  ADAM—The sands near the burning U-boat, Scotland

  Police arrived twenty minutes after the U-boat exploded, promptly ordering us to lower our weapons and then arrested us. It took Abbey another thirty minutes to prove who we were and our reason for being on the beach. As the emergency services arrived and tended to the wounded of the dredging crew, all we could do was watch the burning U-boat.

  Firefighters are still trying to bring the blaze under control, but it’s difficult with God knows how much explosive ammunition and fuel aboard.

  ‘Gabriel’s going to be okay,’ Dave says as he re-joins us on the beach.

  ‘What’s the diagnosis?’ Matt asks.

  ‘The shrapnel broke through two ribs and punctured a lung,’ the former-combat medic says. ‘He’s lucky it wasn’t worse.’

  ‘He’s lucky you were there,’ Emma says.

  I completely agree. Not only was Gabriel losing a lot of blood, but he was also struggling to breathe, now explained by the punctured lung. Thankfully, Dave raced up the beach when he saw the explosion and saw to Gabriel immediately.

  ‘The paramedics are taking him to the hospital for treatment and some scans, but he should be okay,’ Dave explains. ‘Despite the pain, blood-loss, and difficulty breathing, he still wouldn’t shut up.’

  ‘He can’t be that bad then,’ I say, forcing cheer.

  ‘So, what’s the situation?’ Dave asks.

  ‘We’re waiting for Abbey to get back to us,’ Matt says. ‘It’s going to be quite some time before the fire crew and the bomb-disposal teams declare the wreckage safe for us to enter again.’

  ‘Not that there’s much to see,’ I reply, looking at the burning ruins.

  ‘Any ideas who this was?’ Dave asks. ‘From the kit, it doesn’t look like Winterbourne to me.’

  Winterbourne are a division we’ve had run-ins with before. Highly trained, skilled and armed and well-funded, they are a rival to us in the pursuit of historical relics. The
y use any means necessary to secure their prizes, no matter the lives they take or ruin. This doesn’t look like them though and Follia certainly didn’t seem their type either.

  ‘There was no identification on any of them,’ Matt says, ‘and those who are wounded or arrested are speaking a wide range of languages.’

  ‘Hired thugs,’ Emma suggests. ‘Could still be Winterbourne?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Matt replies as he looks to the burning U-boat. ‘Such a waste.’

  ‘Anybody get eyes on who led them?’ Dave asks.

  ‘Sure did,’ I reply. ‘Up close and personal as she beat the crap out of us.’

  ‘She beat all three of you?’ Dave questions with a chuckle.

  ‘She did catch us with a flashbang,’ Emma says defensively.

  ‘Excuses,’ Dave says.

  ‘I’m afraid I have no leads on your mystery woman, Follia,’ Abbey interrupts via our headsets and earpieces.

  ‘Follia?’ Dave asks, looking puzzled and confused for a moment.

  ‘Interesting name, huh?’ Abbey replies. ‘It’s Italian for…’

  ‘Madness,’ Dave finishes for her.

  ‘Exactly,’ Abbey says with surprise in her voice.

  ‘You okay, Dave?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says, before shaking away his confused look.

  ‘What else did you uncover, Abbey?’ Matt asks.

  ‘Well, thanks to your efforts I have two leads,’ she says proudly. ‘The first is the ID tags belonging to our mystery British soldier. It was lucky you grabbed them, Adam. Even though they’re pretty badly damaged and most of the information has been lost they’re still interesting. I was able to glean the soldier’s regiment and unit. First Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment, Second Platoon of F Company.’

  ‘And why would a British soldier from the Suffolk Regiment be on board a U-boat?’ Matt asks.

  ‘Spy?’ Emma suggests. ‘Prisoner?’

  ‘Shame we can’t identify the exact soldier,’ Abbey says. ‘At least not until the fires have died down and we can do some DNA testing on the body.’