War of the Damned (Relic Hunters)

by Martin Ferguson

  ‘Go easy on him,’ Matt tells Dave. ‘We are here on assignment.’

  Dave doesn’t reply. He’s lost in thought, just as he has been countless times today. Once he is out of earshot, Matt grabs my ear and whispers, ‘Something’s up with him. See if you can find out what it is and if we can help.’

  ‘Can’t you ask?’ I ask. ‘I’d rather not get beat up.’

  ‘Go on,’ Matt urges. ‘At least he will keep you out of trouble.’

  We head to the lower levels of the hotel where there is a gym almost as big as the museum’s training facility. In the centre, surrounded by the weights, treadmills, exercise bikes, and equipment I cannot even name, is a space reserved for boxing and sparring. Dave is silent as we pad up, despite my attempts to get him to talk. He waits until the moment my gloves and protective headgear are fastened before launching himself at me. My guard barely holds back his hard strikes.

  ‘Did I do something to piss you off?’ I ask, blocking more of his punches.

  I circle round, not letting him get too close before quickly narrowing the distance between us and striking hard. At first, he blocks my attacks with ease, but I keep moving and jabbing before he launches his own assault. He’s clumsy, attacking more through frustration and anger than using his head. I outmanoeuvre him and strike the back of his unprotected head. Dave would never normally allow this to happen and he stumbles away, grunting in annoyance before attacking again.

  ‘Everything okay, Dave?’ I ask him. ‘Your head doesn’t seem in the game.’

  ‘I’m fine, kid,’ he mutters, swinging an arm towards me that crashes into my raised guard.

  ‘Daughter okay?’ I ask, jabbing forward and urging Dave back. He gives no ground and we collide for a moment before he pushes me back.

  ‘Don’t,’ he warns.

  ‘What about your wife?’ I question. ‘Jennifer, wasn’t it?’

  I shouldn’t have said that. Dave utterly snaps and launches himself at me, striking hard again and again. My guard barely holds against his enraged attack until he bursts through and hits me hard across the jaw. Even with the protective headgear, it makes my ears ring and I don’t see his boot rise and kick me hard in the stomach, sending me tumbling to the floor. Dave stands over me, red faced and breathing hard until his rage subsides.

  Then, it’s like a switch goes off in his head and he sees the situation for the first time. ‘I’m sorry, kid,’ he says, offering me a hand. ‘I don’t know what happened.’

  I take his hand and pull myself up. My ears are still ringing and I’m winded but I’ll be okay.

  ‘What’s…going on…with you?’ I ask between gasped breaths.

  Dave doesn’t reply. He pulls off his headgear and throws it across the gym. With one last tired look, he turns and heads for the exit.

  ‘Dave,’ I call after him. ‘If you need to talk, I’m here. We are all here, if you need us.’

  ‘Thanks, kid,’ he replies over his shoulder. ‘But this is something I need to figure out for myself.’

  18

  CORPORAL ANDREW COOPER—Britannia Arms Pub, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, England. 12TH June 1943

  ‘Hip hip hooray! Happy birthday, Myhill!’

  The section and the rest of the pub cheer. Myhill appears more embarrassed than ever, especially when one of the barmaids plants a kiss on his cheek.

  It is good timing. His birthday falls during our return to the regimental barracks to re-arm with new equipment and clothing. The lads make the most of it; Thompson plying the section with liquor before we’d even left the barracks. I don’t know where he got the booze from – most likely one of his black-market contacts, and to be honest, I don’t want to know. People struggle every day with the rationing, making do with what they have, yet Thompson can still manage to get whatever is needed, for a price.

  The section and the company have been driven hard in training and manoeuvres and a single night to relax away from it all is appreciated. Like the others, I could have gone to see family and friends, but as one we decided to properly celebrate Myhill’s birthday. These lads are now family.

  ‘Here you go, Corporal,’ Lathbury says as he passes me a pint.

  ‘Cheers, Bob,’ I say. ‘Goes down better than whatever it was Thompson gave us.’

  ‘You can’t beat a bit of homebrew, though, can you,’ the towering brute replies.

  ‘C’mon, Myhill,’ Smithy says to the birthday boy. ‘Lets you and me go have a chat with these lovely ladies.’

  Smithy gives me and the rest of lads a wink as he leads Myhill away. He has already told us his plan; getting a few drinks into Myhill before chatting up some girls.

  ‘He’s set his sights on those WAAF girls,’ I tell the lads once Myhill has been led away by Smithy.

  ‘WAAF?’ Jenkinson asks.

  ‘Women’s Auxiliary Air Force,’ I reply.

  ‘Pilots?’ asks Woods.

  ‘Anything but, I think,’ I say. ‘Spotters, mechanics, clerks, drivers. All sorts, really.’

  ‘I do like a girl in uniform,’ Lathbury says.

  ‘You’d prefer a girl out of it,’ Wilson teases him.

  ‘Cheers to that,’ Lathbury replies, drinking deep from his pint.

  A chat with a few beautiful ladies isn’t Myhill’s only gift. I’ve managed to convince Lieutenant Long to a rare acquisition request for a single rifle. This one was a new model and variant of our Lee-Enfield Mark Three rifles, modified and fitted with a telescopic scope; the perfect tool for our young sniper. The lieutenant was only too happy to sign the request, proud of having the best marksman in his platoon.

  Lieutenant Darren Long is a decent enough chap, leaving the run of the sections to us corporals but commanding the platoon as well as any other officer. He plays cards and drinks with the boys under his command but isn’t afraid to be hard on the men, too. Like Captain Grayburn, the lieutenant just wants us to be, ‘the best damn soldiers in the army’.

  ‘A round for me and my guys, barkeep!’ a voice calls from the entrance to the pub as a dozen men stumble inside.

  ‘Shut that door!’ the landlord shouts back. ‘No lights, there’s a blackout on!’

  ‘Be sharp about the drinks, would you! We’re real thirsty,’ one of the newcomers says as he slams the door behind him.

  ‘Yanks,’ Lathbury warns.

  I’d already guessed that by the accents and uniforms. From the looks of them, they’re pilots: the insignia of the US Eighth Air Force is on their jackets. The Americans arrived in Britain early last year, not long after joining the war. Some saw them as a nuisance, but I know every ally Britain has will be vital if we ever intend to free Europe of Hitler’s grip.

  ‘Make some room for me and my buddies would you!’ one of them shouts at the top of his voice.

  ‘And keep the beers coming, Limey!’ cries another.

  Looking to the locals, I can see they’ve already had enough of the airmen. Some of them are looking to me and my men, urging us to put the Yanks in their place.

  ‘Excuse me, fellas,’ I call out to the Americans. ‘Any chance you can keep the noise down?’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ one of them shouts back.

  ‘What did you say?’ another yells, marching straight towards me. ‘You got an issue with us?’

  ‘Easy now, Jake,’ one of the other pilots says, stopping his friend and pushing him back towards the rest. ‘Sorry about him. We’ve been for a few drinks already. Name’s Captain Scott Dale.’

  ‘Corporal Andrew Cooper,’ I say, shaking his hand.

  ‘Good to meet you, Andy,’ he replies enthusiastically. ‘The boys and I were at Mildenhall airbase inspecting a German plane one of your pilots shot down. We thought we’d visit a few of the local sites, while we’re here.’

  ‘Local pubs, you mean,’ I reply.

  ‘Hey, tell your boys to stop hogging the ladies,’ one of the other Yanks interrupts as he staggers towards us.

  ‘Wayne, I think you’ve had e
nough…’ Captain Dale tries to say.

  ‘He the one who wanted trouble?’ the drunk man states, pointing at me.

  ‘Wayne, stop this,’ Dale says, but he’s too late. Wayne swings a fist towards me.

  I easily dodge the blow but the man stumbles into Lathbury and falls into the table behind him, knocking over a dozen glasses. Instantly, all hell breaks loose as my lads and the Americans pile in. Punches are thrown, tables and chairs broken, glasses smashed. None of my section back away even though we’re outnumbered two-to-one. Even Myhill and Smithy abandon the ladies they were entertaining and come to our aid.

  With batons raised and whistles blaring, the military police storm into the pub. I’ve crossed them before a few times. The MPs are always eager to arrest any member of the forces causing trouble.

  ‘Out the back!’ I yell to my men, pushing them towards the rear exit behind the bar. The Americans follow us as fast as they can and as I pass the bar, I shout an apology to the landlord.

  ‘Keep going!’ I then urge my men.

  We run as fast as we can out of the pub and out into the cold air. We turn down the next street, only stopping when we’ve rounded the following corner.

  ‘Myhill, keep watch to see if they’re following us,’ I command. The Americans also come to a stop and we all laugh.

  I make a quick count and am relieved to see none of the section has been left behind. Thompson is bleeding heavily from his nose, Woods and Smithy already have black eyes, but apart from that, we’ve emerged pretty unscathed. I can’t say the same for the Americans. Two of them are vomiting in the next alley.

  I tease Captain Dale. ‘Your boys aren’t doing too well, are they?’

  ‘Serves them right for starting a fight with your lads,’ the pilot replies. ‘Cheers for leading us out of that place before the MPs slapped cuffs on us.’

  ‘I think my nose is broken,’ Thompson moans.

  ‘It’s an improvement.’ Wilson chuckles.

  ‘Here, take this for the landlord,’ Captain Dale says, handing me a dozen crumbled notes from his pocket. Payment for the damages.

  ‘I guess you Yanks are overpaid.’ I laugh.

  ‘Overpaid, oversexed, and over here,’ he replies. ‘That’s what people say isn’t it? Look, what happened at the bar, that was on my boys.’

  ‘I’m sure my lads didn’t help,’ I reply.

  ‘You’re all right for a Limey,’ he says, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Likewise, Yank.’

  19

  MATT—Altes Museum, Berlin, Germany

  ‘Why am I the one to have to do this?’ I ask.

  ‘Because it had to be one of us,’ Adam replies via my earpiece, ‘and you lost rock, paper, scissors. You always go with paper. Besides, with your looks, the baseball cap and the backpack, you fit in with all the other nerdy sightseers.’

  ‘Thanks, Adam, but that’s enough chat,’ I tell him.

  ‘Agreed,’ reply Abbey, Emma, and Dave.

  I smile. We all give Adam a hard time, but he gives as well as he takes. Besides, I’m the one playing the most embarrassing part of this whole charade.

  Adam was right; I do fit in with the crowds around me. There are groups of tourists, students, and families all visiting the Old Museum to see its latest archaeological collections from Cyprus and the Roman provinces. On any other day it would have been good to visit and properly study these artefacts, but I know that my clock is already ticking.

  ‘Mr Hunter,’ I hear Karl Lehmannn say from behind me. I try to conceal my smile. I turn and see that he has two large security guards with him. He has a broad grin on his face like he has just won the lottery.

  ‘Mr Lehmann, it is a pleasure to see you again,’ I lie.

  ‘I wish I could say the same,’ he replies. ‘This is the fifth of our five museums in this district you have visited in the last few hours. We have been watching you ever since you set foot inside our district.’

  I know you have.

  ‘Just taking in the sights before I head for home,’ I say.

  ‘Why is it that I do not believe you?’ he replies. ‘I think we had best have a chat in my office. My security will escort you on.’

  Distract and act. While he has his sights on me, he won’t see the others.

  20

  ADAM—Berlin Cathedral, Berlin, Germany

  With the keys in my hand, I hurry from the priest’s chambers and out into the aisles of the main hall of the cathedral. Hundreds of people around me are in prayer, and tour groups are quietly taking in the sights. The elaborate domed roof is impressive, and the interior is crammed with artworks and stained-glass windows. The organ is being played, its seven thousand pipes joining the sound of the choir singing.

  ‘Strange to think this entire place was wrecked during the Second World War,’ Abbey tells me via the headset. ‘Bombs blew out the windows, and in 1944, the domed roof was destroyed. It collapsed into the cathedral and they rebuilt much of it in the 1970s.’

  ‘They did a good job,’ I reply, taking in the grand building as I make my way to the rear of the public area. I meet Emma and Dave at the locked gates, which lead to the stairs to the crypt.

  ‘That was quick,’ Dave says.

  ‘Are those priest’s robes?’ Emma asks with disbelief, thankfully breaking the tension.

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply, pulling the hood tighter over my head.

  ‘You stole from a priest? Emma asks. ‘You know it’s a sin to impersonate a man of God.’

  ‘Hopefully, God will understand,’ I reply. ‘Besides, I only borrowed the robes and keys from the bishop. I left him a sizeable donation.’

  ‘The robes are very attractive,’ Emma teases.

  I unlock the gate and grab Dave’s arm before he can pass. I look him straight in the eyes. ‘Are you good?’ I ask.

  ‘I am,’ he replies with uncertainty. ‘I will be. Let’s see this done, then we can talk.’

  I allow Dave and Emma to pass through the gate and down towards the crypt.

  ‘Now, onwards, my children, for you are blessed,’ I joke.

  ‘Very funny,’ Dave grumbles.

  We file down the stone steps and into the crypt, using our torches to light the way. Concealed are our uniforms and body armour, taking all necessary precautions. Once beyond the next set of steel gates, I toss the priest’s robes aside and then take in the full extent of the crypt around us. In every direction there are stone sarcophaguses; dozens of them in wood, stone and marble, each with a different design.

  ‘The Hohenzollern crypt,’ Abbey explains via my headset. ‘Ninety-four sarcophagi and burial monuments. They range from the end of the sixteenth century all the way to the beginning of the twentieth. There are even a few Prussian Kings down there. According to records, their caskets are cast in gold plate.’

  ‘Standing amongst all these dead dudes in the dark isn’t creepy at all,’ Emma says.

  ‘Where to, Abbey?’ Dave asks, focussed only on the mission.

  ‘Turn left and down to the far side,’ she explains. ‘You should see some grating that fills in an older entrance.’

  We hurry through the crypt, taking care not to disturb any sarcophagus or the dead resting inside. All three of us move without speaking. We want to be out of the space as soon as possible. We reach the grating, which blocks off another entrance.

  ‘Why was this area sealed off?’ I ask Abbey as Dave unshoulders his rucksack and prepares his equipment.

  ‘The crypt was ruined along with the rest of the cathedral during the Second World War,’ she explains. ‘When they rebuilt, it was decided the Death Doorway was no longer needed.’

  ‘Death Doorway?’ Emma asks, taking a step away.

  ‘It’s the route the priests used to bring down the bodies,’ Abbey replies. ‘They’d carry out final rituals as they passed right where you’re standing.’

  ‘As if this place wasn’t creepy enough,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Abbey,’ Emma says. �
�You could have told us that before.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.’ She chuckles. ‘Isn’t that something moving behind you, Adam?’

  ‘Very funny,’ both Emma and I say in unison.

  ‘It’s not the dead you need to worry about, kids,’ Dave says as he readies a set of steel cutters that resemble a blowtorch. ‘It’s the living who cause us all the problems.’

  21

  MATT—Karl Lehmannn’s Office, Altes Museum, Berlin, Germany

  ‘I must ask you again, Mr Hunter,’ the curator says. ‘Why have you been wandering around all of our museums in the district?’

  That makes it ten times that he’s asked the same question. Even I’m getting bored now and want to tell him where to go.

  ‘For the same reason I said the first time you asked,’ I reply, biting my tongue again. ‘I was merely taking in your collections before I leave for home. Now can I be excused your hospitality?’

  I can see his security detail, as heavily armed as Abbey suggested, and they are looking just as annoyed at my answers as the curator.

  ‘You and I both know that is not true, Mr Hunter,’ Karl Lehmann says as he slams a fist onto his desk. ‘Look at the screens around you. We have footage of you entering each of our museums within the last three hours.’

  ‘I don’t look too bad, do I?’ I say, winding him up even more. Adam would be proud of me.

  ‘Will you tell me the truth or will I have to involve the police?’ the curator asks.

  ‘And what will the police do?’ I question with a smirk. ‘Ask me to leave?’

  ‘They’ll do whatever I ask of them,’ the curator threatens. ‘I have many good friends among them who would only too happily put you in jail for the night. I know you seek access to our vaults but that is simply impossible. The German government has given an official order prohibiting access to all items and articles within our vaults.’

  ‘There’s a reason you don’t want anyone going down there, isn’t there?’ I question. ‘The train, the map. They exist, don’t they? What is your Government trying to cover up?’