War of the Damned (Relic Hunters)

by Martin Ferguson

  Please take care of yourself, Andy. At times the thought of you and that kiss is all that keeps me going.

  Maggie

  14

  PRIVATE ANDREW COOPER—London, England. 14TH October 1940

  I haven’t stopped since I got off the train into London. I hurry along the street, marching in full uniform. I’ve had to walk most of the way because much of the underground system is out of commission from bomb damage and fear of tonight’s raids. The war has hit the city hard. There are levelled buildings on every street I pass.

  Our flyboys won the battle over the airfields but now the enemy bombers are dropping their payloads on the cities at night.

  ‘Are you a soldier, mate?’ a young lad no older than ten says as he quickly walks beside me, two steps for each of mine.

  ‘That I am,’ I tell him.

  ‘What regiment?’ he asks with a strong cockney accent.

  ‘The Suffolks,’ I reply.

  ‘Never heard of ‘em,’ he says, wiping a runny nose on his sleeve. ‘You fight in France? You at Dunkirk?’

  ‘I was,’ I say, chuckling at the boy’s constant questioning.

  ‘No you weren’t. You’re not old enough.’

  ‘True.’ I laugh. ‘But I was there all the same. Shouldn’t you be at home? It’s already dark and your parents will be worried.’

  ‘I only head home when the sirens start up,’ he replies proudly. ‘Anyways, if my parents were worried they’d ‘av sent me to the country with all the other children. Anyways, I hear all of our soldiers are going over to Africa to fight Jerry. That true?’

  ‘No idea,’ I reply. ‘I just march where they tell me to.’

  ‘It’s hot in Africa,’ the boy says.

  ‘That it is.’

  ‘Where you going in such a hurry, soldier man?’

  ‘To see a girl at the King’s College Hospital.’

  ‘She goin’ to be your wife?’ he asks cheekily.

  ‘You sure ask a lot of questions,’ I say, getting a little irritated. Thankfully, in the distance I hear the drone of the air raid sirens.

  ‘Time you were home, fella,’ I tell him. ‘Get to a shelter sharpish.’

  ‘See you later, soldier man,’ he replies, giving me a funny salute before running back the way we came.

  ‘Bye,’ I reply, saluting back.

  Turning the corner onto Denmark Hill I see the King’s College Hospital. There are nurses and doctors outside, the wards inside likely filled with patients of the recent air raids. I hurry across to the hospital, one eye on the dark sky above as the sirens continue to sound out from every direction.

  ‘Nurse Parks?’ I ask as I near the gathered staff and patients of the hospital. ‘Margaret Parks? Has anyone seen Nurse Margaret Parks?’

  ‘She isn’t here,’ the matron informs me.

  ‘Do you know where she is, please?’ I ask the imposing woman.

  ‘Not here,’ she mutters back. ‘We are busy enough without some lovesick soldier boy making demands and causing a distraction.’

  ‘Please, I came down from my regiment to see her,’ I plead. ‘I only have three days leave before I have to return…’

  ‘We don’t have time for this,’ she interrupts.

  Seeing the look on my face, she relents. ‘Fine, she went with an ambulance crew down to Balham Tube Station a few hours ago. The area was hit hard by raids last night and a number of wounded were moved there.’

  ‘Which direction?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ a driver says as he climbs into one of the ambulances. ‘I’m on my way back there anyway. We could do with his help in clearing some of the rubble.’

  The matron does not argue and I clamber into the back of the ambulance with a few other volunteers. We drive on, the vehicle struggling with the craters in the roads and having to take detours around blocked streets. Though I cannot see them, there are planes overhead and bomb blasts echo in the distance.

  The driver introduces himself briefly as Mick Hennessey and he drives like a madman. ‘Hang on, lads,’ he calls out to us in the back as he slams the brakes. ‘The road ahead is bloody blocked by barriers. There’s a warden coming.’

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ the air raid warden says. He removes his helmet emblazoned with a white W, wiping away ash and sweat from his face.

  ‘The Tube Station…’ he gasps. ‘Balham... it’s flooded... bodies everywhere.’

  ‘Maggie,’ I utter under my breath. She was down there.

  ‘What do you mean flooded?’ Mick demands. ‘One of our crews was in that tube station!’

  ‘Water main must’ve been hit,’ the warden says as he shakes his head. ‘There must be more than a hundred people down there! I was trying to find help!’

  ‘Clear the bloody way and let us through!’ I say from the back of the ambulance.

  ‘The gas mains might’ve been hit as well,’ the warden says. ‘We’ve been ordered to close off the roads to all vehicles.’

  ‘How the hell are we supposed to get through then!’ Mick yells.

  Mick drives on, barely missing the warden and knocking aside the wooden barriers. The ambulance hurtles down the street until he brings the vehicle to a screeching halt as close as he can to the station. I hurry out of the back of the ambulance with the others and am stunned. The entrance of the tube station is filled with people, all soaked through. Many of them are wounded and even more are laid out in the street, unmoving. Jackets, blankets, and anything else at hand has been used to cover the dead.

  Mick leads the volunteers into the tube station, carrying people out and directing those who can walk to find shelter. The screams of the wounded and terrified drown out the sirens and falling bombs. Looking at the bodies, the innocents who have died, I think this isn’t war. It isn’t soldiers fighting on a battlefield – it is murder.

  I search for Maggie, helping Mick and the other volunteers as I search for her. I think I see her a dozen times, anyone with blonde hair sending hope or dread through me.

  ‘Andy!’ I hear Mick call out. ‘Andy, we got her!’

  I rush down the steps into the tube station until I meet Mick and another volunteer, carrying a body on a stretcher. It’s Maggie. Her hair and clothes are soaked through.

  ‘No, no, no.’ The words erupt as I hurry to her. ‘C’mon, Maggie. Wake up!’ I take her hand in mine and another at her neck to feel for a heartbeat. She doesn’t move and I can’t feel any signs of life.

  ‘C’mon, girl. C’mon,’ I say, panicking. I hurry alongside them as they carry Maggie out of the station. I call her name but still she doesn’t move. ‘C’mon, girl, wake up!’ I yell as her stretcher is lowered to the ground. ‘Maggie, please!’

  In my desperation, I draw upon my basic first aid training and begin compressions on her chest. Again and again I push down with the heel of my hands at the centre of her chest, watching for any sign of life.

  ‘I’m not letting you go!’ I repeat with each compression. ‘I’m not letting you go!’

  Suddenly, she coughs and a stream of water projects from her mouth. She rolls onto her side, still coughing horribly as Mick and the volunteer lower her to the ground. I kneel down beside her, patting her back until she turns and recognises me.

  ‘Andy!’ she cries, as I throw my arms around her, hugging tight. ‘The water, it was everywhere. We couldn’t get out. I couldn’t breathe…I couldn’t…’

  ‘You’re all right, Maggie,’ I say, hugging her even tighter. ‘You’re safe now.’

  ‘You found me,’ she cries, eyes running with tears. Her body shakes against me and I try to pull a blanket around her but Maggie won’t let go of me.

  ‘You’re safe now,’ I simply tell her.

  15

  ADAM—Altes Museum, Museum Island, Berlin, Germany

  ‘Absolutely not!’ the curator roars. ‘Even if I did know about the artefact you claim we have here, I would never let you have access to such a national treasure!’

&nbs
p; Karl Lehmann is a large, balding chap who has no time for us and our requests, judging by his puce face. Professor Lainson’s description of him as being stubborn was definitely an understatement.

  We stand in the main entrance of the Altes Museum. The curator knew we were coming and he greeted us at the door, or rather, took a defensive position at the door, keen to stop us entering his museum.

  ‘National treasure?’ I question. ‘That’s a funny way to describe a Nazi gold train.’

  ‘So you’re not denying the train’s existence?’ Matt asks. ‘If we could just take a look…’

  ‘No,’ the curator interrupts.

  ‘We would only need a few minutes to record the…’

  ‘I said no,’ he repeats.

  ‘You could keep an escort with us to …’

  ‘Gentlemen, we have a long history of working jointly and successfully with the British Museum,’ Karl begins to explain, ‘but after the events in Rome, Egypt, and the disasters that struck three cities, the British Museum’s reputation is not what it once was. I will not jeopardise this collection for one of your wild treasure hunts. You’re nothing but thieves and scavengers!’

  ‘Excuse me, the British Museum has a long history of preserving the world’s ancient treasures, of educating the world about the past so we might learn for the future,’ I say.

  ‘Listen you,’ my brother says, taking a more physical approach and grabbing the curator by the collar of his shirt. ‘We have tried the nice way, but it seems you have an agenda. Why? What are you hiding down there?’

  ‘Our government have strictly prohibited access to all items in our vaults,’ the curator states, unafraid of Matt’s threats. ‘You will not set foot in any area of this building that is not a public gallery. That goes for all other museums in this district. This is for your own safety. Believe me. Let this go. Pursuing this will do no one any good. Now, is this discussion over, or do I need to summon security?’

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ I say, taking Matt’s arm and guiding him away.

  ‘This isn’t over!’ my brother declares as he struggles to keep his temper in check.

  ‘It certainly isn’t,’ I mutter, already looking over our surroundings and making plans

  ‘The rest of the team are already on their way,’ Abbey says via the headset that has been scanning the museum’s layout since we arrived.

  16

  PRIVATE ANDREW COOPER— Weymouth, England. 5TH January 1941

  ‘Attention!’ commands a voice that I instantly recognise.

  I haven’t seen Captain Grayburn since I was in the hospital but am glad to see him in uniform and back with the regiment. He looks healthy, returned to fitness, except for his missing left arm.

  We stand in ranks with full kit and weapons shouldered, ready for inspection. We weren’t told our destination, but we travelled in trucks through the day. There are fifty of us newly trained recruits, and we are greeted by Captain Grayburn as we disembark at Weymouth. I am heartened to discover we are all to join the 1st Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment, my original battalion, rather than the 2nd Battalion in India.

  ‘You men have been trained and readied to join the Suffolk Regiment,’ Captain Grayburn declares. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to tell you of the proud honour and tradition we hold. We have fought in every major conflict since the days of Wellington and Napoleon. We have fought the Germans before and claimed victory over them in the Great War. I am certain that none of you will disgrace the regiment or the men you march into combat with.’

  Captain Grayburn walks along the ranks of men, looking to each of us in turn.

  ‘The men you will be joining have been to hell and back,’ the captain says, gesturing at his missing arm. ‘I am sure you have heard of what we faced in France and at Dunkirk from Private Cooper here,’ he says, pointing at me. ‘Listen to him, because without his help, I may not be here today.’

  I can feel the eyes of the others on me but I fix my gaze ahead like any good soldier.

  ‘You men have been assigned to F Company, which is my company,’ the captain explains with a hardened gaze. ‘We lost a lot of good men in Belgium and France, but this war is not over. The next fight will come and we need to be ready. We need you ready.’

  The captain pauses, looking down to his missing arm. ‘Enough chat for now. You will be notified of the platoon and section to report to in due time but for now, head to the mess hall and get a decent meal. Your basic training has got you so far, but we’ve a lot of hard work ahead of us. Dismissed.’

  ‘You never said you saved the captain’s life,’ Lathbury says to me as all the new arrivals file towards the mess hall.

  ‘You never asked,’ I reply.

  ‘Private Cooper,’ Captain Grayburn calls out to me.

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ I reply, stopping and standing at attention again.

  ‘Stand at ease,’ he instructs. ‘It is good to see you again Cooper, and certainly under better circumstances.’

  ‘It wasn’t all bad in that hospital, Sir,’ I reply.

  ‘Not with that pretty nurse you had your eyes on,’ he says with a grin. ‘You ever get her name?’

  I nod and blush, thinking I got a lot more than her name.

  He laughs as if he can read my thoughts. ‘I am sorry you had to go through basic training again. I also had to prove I was capable of combat despite losing my arm.’

  ‘At least you have a spare one, Sir,’ I say with the dark humour only fellow survivors share.

  ‘True enough,’ the captain says, ‘though I wish the regiment saw it like that. It wasn’t easy convincing them I was fit to serve, especially as I will never fire a rifle again. They didn’t think a man with my disability would be effective in combat.’

  ‘You can still lead the men better than most of the officers in the army, Sir,’ I tell him.

  ‘Thank you, Cooper,’ he says. ‘Luckily, there’s a shortage of officers who have actually seen combat, and so here I am. Besides, I can still shoot a revolver.’

  ‘That you can, Sir,’ I reply.

  ‘Anyway, enough about me,’ the captain says, changing the subject. ‘I’m returning you to your old section. The only replacements they received were a new Bren team so they’ll be glad to see you back.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ I say. I had been hoping to re-join my section.

  ‘Lieutenant Darren Long is commanding Second Platoon and I am recommending that you be promoted to corporal of your section.’

  ‘Sir?’ I reply in confusion.

  ‘I’m promoting you, Cooper,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘From what I saw in France, and from the reports I’ve had from the officers at the training barracks, you certainly seem capable of leading.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ I reply in shock.

  ‘You will have your pick of the new recruits to fill out the rest of your section,’ he explains.

  ‘I have a few ideas, Sir,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ he replies. ‘You’ll need to name a lance corporal as well to act as your second in command. But first, you need to report to Lieutenant Long.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,’ I state, standing at attention and saluting.

  ‘I guess I’m lucky I didn’t lose my good arm,’ he replies, saluting back. ‘Carry on, Corporal Cooper.’

  ‘Well, look what the cat dragged in,’ a voice calls to me once Captain Grayburn follows the rest of the new arrivals heading towards the mess hall.

  ‘Thought we’d finally got rid of you,’ George Wilson says as he and Peter Jenkinson, the friends I served with in France, hurry over with beaming smiles.

  ‘Obviously the army needs good men,’ I reply, shaking both their hands. ‘Keeping out of trouble?’

  ‘We wish,’ Jenkinson says. ‘You come in with the new replacements?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve been going through basic training again after this bump to the head,’ I explain, pointing to my scar.

  ‘Bet repeating basic was fun,’ W
ilson teases.

  ‘Captain Grayburn tells us our new corporal was with your lot,’ Jenkinson says. ‘Any idea who it is?’

  ‘Just found out myself actually,’ I tell them as I feel nerves begin to rise. ‘You fellas think you can follow Corporal Andrew Cooper into battle?’

  ‘Rather you than some other fool,’ Wilson says, shaking my hand again.

  ‘Good on you, Andy,’ Jenkinson says, clapping a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘You mean Corporal Cooper,’ Wilson says.

  ‘Yes, Sir, Corporal Sir,’ Jenkinson says with a mock salute.

  ‘You guys aren’t going to make this easy, are you?’ I mutter, walking towards the mess hall with the pair of them following.

  ‘Not a chance,’ Wilson says. ‘Let’s go meet these boys you brought with you from basic.’

  ‘So, I helped you carry Captain Grayburn out of the fighting in France and I dragged you out of the Channel to save your life at Dunkirk,’ Wilson moans. ‘Yet you’re the one who gets promoted?’

  ‘Are you still moaning about that?’ I reply.

  ‘You’d have to run him over with a tank to shut him up,’ Thompson jeers.

  ‘I’m tempted to give that a try,’ I reply. ‘When are you going to let it go, Wilson?’

  ‘When you finally admit that a terrible mistake has been made,’ he jokes.

  ‘Like you’d even want to be a corporal,’ Jenkinson replies. ‘You’d hate it.’

  ‘Yeah, but it doesn’t mean I can’t keep complaining.’ Wilson laughs back.

  ‘See why I didn’t want to come back to this section,’ I say to the new recruits. ‘Anybody want another pint?’

  The entire section replies unanimously and I head to the bar. When Captain Grayburn said I had my pick of who would join the section I knew instantly who I would choose. Bob Lathbury, Smithy, Thompson, and Myhill were the obvious picks. We join Wilson and Jenkinson and the new Bren gun crew of John McClair and Stanley Woods. They are a decent bunch of lads if a little rough around the edges. Tonight, they can relax after a tough day of training. The intensity rises every day and the physical fitness of the lads is better than ever before.