War of the Damned (Relic Hunters)

by Martin Ferguson

  ‘Thank you for meeting with us,’ Dave says, shaking the veteran’s hand.

  ‘You served,’ Thomas guesses.

  ‘You can tell?’ Dave replies.

  ‘It’s in the eyes,’ the veteran says, before slowly and carefully rising to his feet. It is clear he is in pain but his determination is all too evident. He stands perfectly straight and a hand lifts up in salute to Dave who returns the gesture. I am amazed at Thomas’s display of bravery and duty despite the pain he is in. His daughter helps him to be seated in the wheelchair again before bringing him another blanket.

  ‘Who did you serve with?’ Thomas asks once he is comfortable.

  ‘Combat medic with the Royal Marines Commandos,’ Dave replies. ‘I was with 40 Commando before being attached to the 22 Special Air Services Regiment.’

  ‘Takes its toll, doesn’t it?’ Thomas asks distantly as he looks to the photos in the study.

  ‘It sure does,’ Dave replies.

  ‘I’ve outlived all of the lads I marched with,’ Thomas explains as he gestures to the photos in the room. ‘We were closer than just friends; they were like brothers. I never had any brothers, growing up with two sisters, but those lads, they were as good as. Most of the fellas we lost over in Europe, but I would not be the man I am today without them. I doubt I would be here at all without them. Now I’m the only one left. Smithy, Thompson, Lathbury…’

  He trails off then, eyes distant and lost in memory.

  ‘They were good lads, all of them,’ he says before turning to me.

  ‘That’s me in your hands there, my dear,’ he says, looking to the framed photograph I still hold. ‘We were in the Britannia Pub. Yep, that’s me in the centre, if you can believe it. Celebrating my birthday we were. That is my favourite photograph out of the whole lot in here.’

  ‘As my colleague Dave said, you all look like a good bunch,’ I reply.

  ‘Scoundrels some of us, but good men at heart,’ he says with a grin. ‘Boy, did we get into a good fight that night. I can still feel the bruises. ’

  He laughs cheerfully, looking longingly at the photo as I place it back upon the desk.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sure you did not come here for the ramblings of an old man,’ he says. ‘What does the British Museum need of me? I don’t know how much help I can be now. I’ll warn you, my memory is not what it once was.’

  ‘It would be helpful if you could tell us about the war,’ I ask. ‘You landed in Normandy on D-Day in 1944.’

  ‘I did,’ he replies with a deep sigh. ‘That was my first day of combat. I never wanted to fight. I only joined up after our boys were evacuated from Dunkirk. I was only a lad, not even finished school, but I wanted to do my part.’

  ‘You lied about your age?’ Dave guesses.

  ‘A lot of us had to, to enlist in the army,’ Thomas says. ‘I didn’t want to be left behind in safety while other good lads died. I was just a scrawny boy when I enlisted, quiet and shy too if you’ll believe it. With that thing in my hand though, I became a soldier,’ he says, pointing up towards the mounted rifle.

  ‘Were you a marksman?’ I guess, seeing the scope on the rifle.

  ‘Back then.’ He nods before holding out his trembling hands. ‘I still have my eyesight but the hands aren’t as steady as they once were. Pride of the regiment I was, at least for a while.’

  ‘Did you ever use it again, after the war?’ I ask. ‘For hunting or sport?’

  ‘No,’ he says with a forced smile. ‘In fact, it took me a while to find her again after…’

  His words and gaze drift, silent and still but for his shaking head.

  ‘Father?’ Theresa asks, taking his hand.

  ‘I am okay, my dear,’ Thomas replies, returning to us. ‘What was it you were asking?’

  ‘About the war,’ I say. ‘You landed at D-Day and fought your way through Normandy and into Holland and Germany.’

  ‘D-Day was an awakening for all of us, even those who had fought before,’ Thomas explains. ‘The days after were even harder, much harder. The Germans did not surrender a single mile willingly. We paid for it in blood and lives. Far too many…’

  A tear rolls free from his eyes and he wipes it away with a trembling hand.

  ‘Most of us were young,’ he continues, ‘too young for the horrors we witnessed. It was only thanks to our officers and corporals that any of us returned home. My corporal, he was a hell of a good man and a good friend. I miss him and the rest of the lads.’

  ‘In April 1945 your unit was involved in the capture of Bremen,’ Dave states.

  ‘It was,’ Thomas says. ‘Jerry wasn’t what they were by that point. Many knew the war was lost, but others, the fanatics, they…’

  He drifts again, unable to find the words and lost in thoughts and memories.

  ‘What happened after Bremen?’ I ask.

  Thomas does not answer at first, before then returning to his thoughts of the war, ignoring my question.

  ‘Jerry were tough bastards,’ he says. ‘The German army, for the majority, were no different to us. They were boys and men fighting for their country and eventually when we pushed them back, their homeland. They had some brave souls among them and terrifying machines. It does not pain me to say that they had some of the best vehicles in the whole war, especially their tanks.’

  He pauses for a moment, eyes growing distant.

  ‘Their tanks were the worst of them,’ he explains, hands trembling. ‘We all feared the Tiger tank, we really did. They made the very earth tremble. We always held our ground, but if you heard a Tiger coming... I still have nightmares of it.’

  He stops, looking to his daughter and giving her a wry smile.

  ‘Me and the men I served with, we faced everything the enemy could throw at us. We faced it together and we survived together.’

  ‘Thomas, what happened to you and your unit after Bremen?’ I try again.

  He does not reply, his head shaking and gaze lowering to the floor at his feet.

  ‘Father?’ his daughter says, as she tries to comfort him.

  ‘No,’ he replies. ‘No, I cannot talk of it. I cannot.’

  ‘What of these?’ I ask, taking from my pocket the identification tags and placing them in his trembling hands. He looks to the ID tags before dropping them to the floor, hands shaking more and repeating the word ‘no’ over and over again.

  ‘I think it is time for you to leave,’ Theresa says as she tries to comfort her father.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I apologise. ‘I did not mean for this.’

  ‘Private Myhill,’ Dave then states in a firm military voice. ‘Private, can you identity this unit?’

  Dave holds out his mobile phone, the image of the German uniforms we saw aboard the U-boat. The image focuses on the uniform’s insignia, the skull and flames.

  ‘We survived all that they could throw at us,’ Thomas says through tears. ‘Bullets, artillery, tanks, planes, all of it, but not what we faced there.’

  ‘Can you identify the insignia, Private?’ Dave repeats.

  ‘Riese…’ Thomas whispers quietly, fearfully. ‘Riese…’

  ‘It’s German for giant,’ Abbey translates for us.

  ‘Thank you both for your time,’ Dave says as we move to leave the property.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I repeat. ‘I hope you are okay, Thomas.’

  ‘No, it is I who should apologise, my dear,’ he replies. ‘I am sorry, but there are certain things I will not speak of. There are memories that I dare not draw on. As I said before, the majority of the German army were no different to us, but there were those, after Bremen, who were truly evil. I am sorry but I simply cannot talk of it.’

  He is really shaken now and I know I will not be able to bring myself to ask him more. We have expected too much of him already.

  ‘I have lived a happy life since those dark, terrible days,’ Thomas says. ‘I have raised a family and I am now a great-grandfather. I have lived in peace for too long now. I a
m sorry I cannot help you, but please, for the sake of everyone, don’t seek it out.’

  He cries again, hands shaking worse than before. He clamps his eyes shut, struggling against whatever painful memories are trying to surface.

  ‘Goodbye, Thomas,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Look after him,’ Dave tells Theresa.

  Once we are out of earshot, I question Dave.

  ‘You were a little hard on him, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve seen veterans like him before,’ he replies. ‘They struggle with memories, unable to bear what they have seen and endured. Sometimes the only way to snap them out of it is to resort to the familiar. For a soldier that is duty and commands from a senior officer. I do hope he’s all right though. Whatever he faced at the end of the war, it’s left a lasting scar on him. I’ve never seen a reaction that bad.’

  We walk on through the house, but just as we reach the door we hear Thomas call out one last word to us, crying it out as if in terror.

  ‘Totenkopf!’ he yells.

  ‘Abbey, what does it mean?’ I ask.

  She replies in a quiet and almost fearful voice, ‘Death’s head.’

  11

  PRIVATE ANDREW COOPER—Gibraltar Barracks, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, England. 5TH August 1940

  ‘Move! Move! Move!’ Lieutenant Wright barks.

  We run three miles and then tackle the assault course, all in full gear with packs and weapons in the baking sun. Sweat streams down our faces within minutes but we do not stop. My headaches are easing, but by the end of each day, my body is left sore from the training. My muscles are slowly rebuilding after all that time recovering in the hospital but I’m disappointed it is taking so long. The training is hard, tougher than what I completed before setting out for France. Perhaps lessons have been learned from the mistakes made by the British Expeditionary Force.

  ‘You are the Suffolk Regiment!’ the lieutenant yells. ‘You will be the best damned regiment in the British Army – even if it kills you!’

  ‘Running in this heat just might kill us,’ one of the recruits, Clive Smith, jokes.

  ‘Shut up, Smithy, before you get us busted by the lieutenant,’ the youngest of the group, Thomas Myhill, replies. Of all of them, he truly looks as if he should still be in school. He’s barely old enough to shave.

  ‘Myhill’s right,’ I tell them. ‘Save your strength for running. You’ll need it.’

  ‘Listen to him,’ Robert Lathbury says. ‘He was in France and Dunkirk.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Simon Thompson says. ‘If he fought in France, how come he’s here with us going through basic training?’

  ‘You seen that scar on his head?’ Lathbury, a big, burly former-construction worker replies. ‘He was only just released from the hospital.’

  ‘Yeah, he has to prove he can still fight before re-joining the regiment,’ Thompson says snidely.

  I try to ignore him but know I have to say something. ‘All of us have to prove we can fight,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Damn right,’ Lathbury says in encouragement.

  ‘Why are we doing this with all the gear?’ Smithy continues to moan. ‘I’m sweating buckets already.’

  ‘You could do with losing some weight,’ Lathbury remarks, causing us all to laugh.

  ‘We carry the gear because we’ll carry it into battle when the day comes,’ I tell them as the voice of experience. ‘They’re prepping you for the real thing.’

  ‘Private Cooper, do you have something to say?’ Lieutenant Wright yells.

  ‘No, Sir!’ I reply loudly. ‘Only of my pride for the regiment, Sir! Up the pace, Suffolk!’

  ‘You heard him lads,’ Lathbury says, taking the lead alongside me.

  17th September 1940

  My Dearest Maggie,

  I hope this letter finds you well. How are you and how is life at the hospital? I bet it is a little quieter without me roaming the halls looking for a beautiful girl with no name. It was worth it, especially for that kiss.

  It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote and I apologise for that. Life at the barracks is certainly keeping me busy with all the drills and training. My head and body are slowly returning to strength but it very much feels like I am a new recruit just enlisted again.

  Training is going well, and the recruits I’ve been thrown in with seem a decent bunch. Most of them are around my age yet they seem so much younger. Maybe my time in France and Belgium has aged me. Maybe it’s just that what I saw over there has given me a new outlook on life. The lads certainly look at me differently; full of questions and each as eager as I was when I first set out. The training is hard but I know it has to be to make us ready.

  I visited my mother yesterday. She could not believe I was still alive. She was certain I had died or been captured in France. We talked through the day and night, and for the first time, I felt like she was treating me as an adult and not a child she needed to protect. She told me I had changed. That I was no longer the boy I was when I left home.

  I should have a weekend pass next month, and hopefully, I can get the train down to London and visit you. Until then, you will remain in my thoughts and I look forward to when I can see your beautiful face again.

  Andy

  P.S. Apologies for my handwriting. This is actually the second time I have tried to write this. My letters and words are just awful.

  12

  ADAM—West Of Wałbrzych, Poland

  We hear Helena Lainson long before we see her.

  ‘What the hell is this? Why do I pay your wages when you can’t do a thing right?’

  ‘Told you she was stern,’ Matt says with a smirk.

  ‘Sounds awfully like our mother,’ I reply. ‘Well, only when she’s speaking to me, not so much the Golden Boy.’

  ‘I do hate it when you call me that,’ Matt says.

  We hear more of Professor Helena Lainson’s anger as Matt and I walk through the camp of the archaeological excavation. We see drilling and mining equipment, all kinds of sensors and scanning tech, and a work crew of over a hundred. There are a dozen mobile cabins acting as the base. Professor Lainson’s voice guides us towards her.

  ‘I don’t care if it’s not an ideal site, we need to get down there,’ we hear her say as we enter the cabin. Screens cover the walls and are showing live feeds of the digs and maps of potential sites. Professor Lainson stands in the centre of the cabin with a group of workmen around her.

  She is a tall, serious-looking woman with brown hair tied back and a fiery gaze in her eyes. The professor wears torn up worker’s overalls marked with dirt and a baseball cap not too dissimilar to Matt’s.

  ‘I do not want excuses, I just want your best efforts,’ the professor tells the workmen.

  ‘We need to speak about our pay rates,’ one man speaks up. ‘We deserve increased rates for a job of this size.’

  ‘You will work to your regular rates or I will find somebody else,’ she replies sternly. ‘I have a dozen drilling teams on my phone that I could call up who wouldn’t give me half the problems.’

  ‘Which grids are we to focus on now?’ a woman amongst the group asks.

  ‘I have been over this a dozen times now.’ Professor Lainson sighs and I can see she is struggling to hold back her anger. ‘Three-zero-one. It was three-zero-one an hour ago and it’s still three-zero-one. Okay, now if there aren’t any more idiotic questions, it would be great if you could all get back to work.’

  The workmen and women leave, all grumbly and muttering obscenities under their breath.

  ‘Idiots,’ the professor says once the work crew is gone.

  ‘Still making friends, Helena?’ Matt asks as we proceed towards the professor.

  ‘I don’t have time for this, Matt,’ she warns, not surprised by our appearance, but very annoyed. ‘I’m guessing the lad with the gormless gaze is your younger brother?’

  ‘Adam, meet the infamous Professor Helena Lainson,’ Matt introduces.

  �
�Pleasure to meet you,’ I joke. She doesn’t see the funny side and I try to move on quickly.

  ‘I hear you and the museum’s Delta Team are the experts on the recovery of artefacts stolen by the Nazis.’

  ‘Carrying on the family tradition,’ she replies without taking her eyes off the map laid out on the table in front of her. ‘I am a legacy of Monuments Men members – my mother and father. Now I continue their work; or at least I’m trying to – but I seem to be getting absolutely nowhere.’

  ‘We won’t take much of your time…’ Matt begins to say.

  ‘Hang on.’ She stops him to pick up the call on her mobile phone. ‘This is Lainson. No, no, no, that is not what I said. I said to move on to grid three-zero-one. A ten-year-old could read a map better than you.’

  She hangs up and slams the phone down onto the table.

  ‘As you can see, I am pretty busy,’ the professor says.

  ‘Where’s the rest of your team?’ Matt asks.

  ‘Trying to coordinate the crew at the dig sites,’ she replies with annoyance.

  ‘How has it been going here?’ I ask, though I realise it is a stupid question.

  ‘Swimmingly.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘This whole venture began because of rumours that the missing Nazi gold trains were buried in these mountains. We found evidence of the train lines but not the blasted trains. We committed hundreds of digital scans of the mountains and the nearby land. The scans showed several objects which suited the size and profile, but when we began to dig, we found nothing, mainly ice formations. We’ve been going for months without even a hint of the trains. It doesn’t help that the crew hired are as useful as a pre-school class.’

  ‘Must be frustrating,’ says Matt, only earning a scathing glance from the professor.

  ‘How is Charles’ recovery going?’ she asks, her demeanour softening.