I look around the kitchen, making a head count for the hundredth time today. There’s one missing. Myhill is sitting alone in what was the dining room of the house. He’s looking into distance, pale and unaware. I am about to say something when I see Wilson walk over to the lad and offer him a mug of hot tea. Thompson follows and Woods and McClair join them. I didn’t need to say a word.
‘They’re good lads,’ Lathbury says.
‘That they are,’ I agree proudly.
‘A little bird tells me we caught Jerry completely by surprise,’ Thompson says. ‘That’s why they didn’t put up much of a fight at the Morris guns.’
‘This the same little bird who told you we were headed for Africa?’ McClair teases.
‘Swear on my life,’ Thompson remarks. ‘Berlin by Christmas I reckon.’
‘Don’t be too confident,’ Wilson says. ‘We haven’t faced their armour yet and we’ve all heard stories of what those damned Tiger tanks can do.’
‘Tigers? Myhill asks.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Woods replies. ‘I saw a newsreel about them in operation in Italy. Sixty ton war machines; the best the German army has. Thick steel armour and a massive eighty-eight millimetre gun. Nothing our boys have is even close to it.’
‘Trust me, fellas, when one of those is heading towards you, you want to get clear out of the way,’ McClair adds.
‘You might want to get some shut eye soon, lads,’ I tell my section, trying to change the subject. ‘God knows when we’ll have a decent roof over our heads again.’
‘I don’t think any of us will be getting much sleep tonight,’ Lathbury says as he hands me a canteen full of tea, typically British.
‘I don’t blame them, Bob,’ I reply. Just this morning, most of them had never seen the enemy, or fired their weapons in anger. Now, they’ve taken lives. They don’t look the same anymore. They’re not lads, but men; soldiers.
‘Any word on Jenkinson?’ Lathbury asks.
‘A few nasty wounds, but he’ll be all right,’ I say. ‘Doc Baird has patched him up and he might re-join us in a day or two.’
As the night draws on, the lads eat and drink, but very few of them are speaking. Most likely, they are thinking of what they have seen in the last twenty-four hours.
‘Captain Grayburn approaching,’ Smithy calls out, keeping watch from an upstairs window.
‘Evening, gentlemen,’ the captain says as he steps inside.
‘Tea, Sir?’ Thompson offers.
‘Best offer I’ve had all day,’ the captain replies.
‘Any news, Sir?’ I ask.
‘Lieutenant Colonel Goodwin has been badly injured,’ he replies gravely. ‘He was scouting the terrain south of here for tomorrow’s advance when an eighty-eight millimetre gun hit his carrier. Lieutenant Keville and Lance Corporal Stevens were killed but they managed to get Goodwin out of the wreck. They don’t know if he’ll make it.’
‘Who’s taken command of the regiment?’
‘Major Gough, for now. Even if Lieutenant Colonel Goodwin recovers, it will be a long time until he returns. Luckily, Doc Baird was able to get to him quickly. I swear Baird is a miracle worker. He stayed with the lieutenant colonel for four hours before they were able to transport him back to the surgeons at the beaches.’
‘How are things shaping up elsewhere, Sir?’ I ask.
‘Hit and miss,’ he replies. ‘Only a couple of bunkers at Hillman are still occupied but the Sherman tanks will soon see them right. There were eighteen bunkers and pillboxes in total in that fortress, not to mention the underground levels below. It’s been tough. The rest of the regiment is taking positions south and west of here. We’re to join them at dawn.’
‘Losses?’
‘We had seven men dead and twenty-four wounded.’
‘And the rest of the invasion?’ I dare to ask.
‘Too early to tell,’ he replies quietly so the rest of the men can’t hear. ‘The original plan was to take Caen on the first day but already German panzer tank divisions are moving in from the east.’
‘Tiger tanks?’ Myhill asks, his hearing as good as his aim.
‘Maybe,’ Captain Grayburn says. ‘Regardless, we’ve got a hell of a fight coming our way.’
33
ADAM—Somewhere in Germany
‘Was there any sign of Emma or Matt?’ Dave asks.
‘None,’ I reply, still soaked through and shivering. I haven’t spoken since Cecylia and I were blindfolded and forced onto the helicopter alongside Dave. I still cannot believe Emma and my brother are gone.
How am I possibly going to tell Kat? She loved Matt and is carrying my brother’s child. Now the child will never know their father. My mother will never forgive me, nor will Charles. Emma was the only family he had. I failed them all.
‘Don’t give up hope,’ Dave whispers. ‘They’re a tough pair.’
‘You didn’t see it.’
The helicopter landed at some abandoned airfield for fuel. Two guards stay with us. Follia and the others have been gone for over an hour.
‘She’s a real piece of work your wife,’ I tell Dave.
‘We met when she was assigned to my combat unit,’ he replies with disdain. ‘Even all those years ago, she was wild.’
‘Knowing you, that was part of the appeal,’ I say.
I shift in my seat, trying to twist and loosen the bonds on my wrists but they hold firm. All my equipment, my father’s jacket and even my pen-knife were in my backpack on the train. Only the museum’s glasses headset is still with me, lying useless in my pocket where I can’t reach them.
Follia’s men scanned me and disabled my tracker. For now, we’re stuck with our kidnappers.
‘Right, ladies and gentlemen,’ Follia says as she clambers back on board the helicopter. ‘I have received word that our advance teams have arrived at the location. They have already found several possible sites. Fortunately for you, they found disused train tracks dating back to the nineteen-forties. They’re already clearing and scouting a few tunnels in advance of our arrival.’
I feel her take a seat beside me.
‘It turns out our young Mr Hunter was honest with me all along,’ she says. ‘I must say, I’m taking a liking to you.’
‘It’s not mutual,’ I reply.
‘Now, before we leave, does anybody need a toilet break?’
‘I will pass,’ Cecylia says defiantly, ‘and to whoever was smoking earlier,’ she says, undeterred, ‘smoking accounts for thirty percent of all cancer deaths and eighty percent of lung cancer deaths.’
‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ Leon replies ahead of us.
‘Not that that matters,’ Cecylia continues, ‘as helicopters crash thirty-five percent more often than an average aircraft, almost always killing all on-board. That’s the most worrying of them all to me right now.’
‘And not the gun pointed at your head?’ Bishop leers.
‘Well, since I cannot see the gun with this blindfold over my eyes I cannot judge that as an immediate threat,’ she replies, making Dave and me laugh in support of her bravery.
‘Please tell me I can shut her up,’ Bishop says.
‘Hell, no. I think she’s hilarious,’ Follia says with a chuckle. ‘Good memory and can’t read a room or understand threats. I’m guessing you’re autistic, aren’t you? C’mon, tell me I’m right.’
Cecylia doesn’t answer.
‘Leave her alone,’ I warn, though I can’t do anything to back up my threat whilst chained up and blind.
‘Oh, believe me, I don’t judge,’ Follia says. ‘I think it’s great. How did an autistic Polish girl end up on that train with the hunters of the British Museum, I wonder?’
‘Seeking the truth,’ Cecylia replies.
‘That’s the best answer you could have given,’ Follia replies as the helicopter’s engines and rotors begin to come to life. ‘Not long to go now, my friends. Onwards to truth and untold riches.’
34
&n
bsp; CORPORAL ANDREW COOPER—South of La Londe, Normandy, France. 27TH June 1944
The rain is pouring down on us worse than the shelling; German artillery and mortars have targeted us every day since we landed in France. I never thought I would find a place with weather as miserable as home. At least there we don’t have to hide in slit-trenches every night, fearful the next shell will be the one with our name on it.
Following the capture of Hillman, we advanced and drove back the German defenders mile by mile without a day’s respite. The majority of the British army’s strength is tied up in the city of Caen where there is bitter street fighting. The Suffolk Regiment has advanced to an area south of the village of La Londe, two miles north of Caen, and from here, we can hear the fierce fighting in the distance.
Most of F Company take shelter in an abandoned barn, glad to be out of the rain. The men light fires to get warm and dry out their soaked clothes. The smell of food being cooked turns my stomach. The roads have become slick with mud from the unending rain and bog down all the trucks carrying rations, ammunition and equipment from the ships at the beaches. Those who can get through are bombed to hell by Jerry. We get basic rations and supplement it with what we can find or trade with the locals.
It is our responsibility as corporals to keep order among our men, and an eye on the fires to ensure they don’t set the whole barn alight. My section finds some comfort sitting on broken furniture beneath the one small area of roof that is not leaking.
‘My guess is that we’ll circle around Caen and attack Jerry from the rear,’ Wilson says.
‘Do you have any idea how much armour they’ll have waiting for us?’ McClair argues. ‘It’d be insane.’
‘I reckon McClair’s right,’ Lathbury interrupts. ‘We’d have to break through the German lines and advance far beyond support. All it’d take is one unit to hit resistance or for Jerry to launch a counter-attack and…’
‘We’d be surrounded,’ Jenkinson says glumly.
He returned to us a few days ago, sporting new scars from D-Day.
‘Command wouldn’t risk that,’ Lathbury finishes.
‘Rubbish,’ Wilson jeers as he pours our evening meal of oats, vegetables, and some kind of meat into each man’s waiting canteen. ‘Command do whatever they want, regardless of us.’
‘They’ll throw us right into the heart of it,’ Smithy says.
‘Caen?’ Myhill guesses.
‘Caen,’ Smithy agrees.
‘What did you say the meat is in this?’ Jenkinson asks, swirling the contents of his canteen about.
‘Chicken,’ Wilson says, barely able to keep a straight face.
‘Sure it is,’ Jenkinson replies with a chuckle from most of the lads.
‘My little bird tells me we’re headed elsewhere come morning,’ Thompson says. ‘I hear an assault went wrong up ahead and we’re needed to go clear the way.’
‘What do you think, Corporal?’ Woods asks. ‘You think we’re bound for Caen?’
I hear artillery in the distance; shells landing to the south. It is not the first time there has been concentrated shelling in that direction.
‘I reckon our next move has something to do with that,’ I reply, before taking out a slip of paper from a pocket. ‘Regardless, the war will have to wait a while yet. I’ve received direct orders from command to inform you, McClair…?’ I say, pausing dramatically,
‘Yes, Corporal?’ he replies, confused.
‘…you’ve received a promotion!’ I say, unable to contain my growing grin. ‘You’re no longer just a husband to poor suffering Alice back home, but you’re now also the father to Christine, a beautiful daughter born three days ago.’
I’ve been holding this in my pocket for hours, wanting to find as good a time as possible under the circumstances.
The men cheer and shake the hand of McClair, who is still reeling from the surprise.
‘Thanks, Corporal,’ he says to me once the noise has quietened. ‘Any word of how they’re getting on?’
‘Both are doing fine,’ I say, handing him the message. ‘Congratulations, John.’
Lathbury calls over to me from the doorway of the barn. ‘Corporal, you seen this?’
I walk over to him and immediately see what has caught his attention. A long column of men and machines are slowly heading north, away from the front line. Their uniforms carry the emblem of the South Lancashire Regiment. The men look like they’ve walked out of the jaws of hell. They are dozens of wounded among them. I have seen the look in their eyes before in shell-shocked veterans of the Great War. Even the Churchill tanks smoke with damage.
‘Jeez,’ Myhill utters as our section joins us and look out at the retreating soldiers.
‘Get Doc Baird and his boys to see what they can do,’ I command Lathbury. ‘Get our lads to distribute some hot tea to them, too.’
‘Where are you going?’ Lathbury asks.
‘To find out what happened,’ I reply, walking out into the rain and towards the battered South Lancashire Regiment. My bet is, this has to do with where the First Suffolk march next.
The first man I approach ignores me, walking straight past. The next tells me where to go. None of them want to speak. Lathbury, Myhill, Woods, and Thompson join me, but they have about as much luck as I do.
‘Hey,’ I call out to the next man, a private with a bandaged arm. ‘Hey, pal, wait a second. What happened?’
He doesn’t respond at first, only noticing me when I grab his uninjured arm.
‘Jerry were waiting for us,’ he says with a voice distant and his morale broken. ‘They hit us with artillery and mortars. My whole section was torn apart around me.’
‘Where were you advancing?’ I ask.
‘A chateau south of here,’ he says. ‘I forget the name. They had MGs and anti-tank guns waiting for us. Then the Tiger hit us.’
‘Tiger tanks?’
‘One Tiger,’ he repeats. ‘That’s all they needed. It took on a squadron of our Churchill tanks. Our shells didn’t even leave a scratch; bounced straight off the Tiger’s armour. Then they hit us with artillery. One of our companies is still trapped there. We couldn’t reach them! We couldn’t do anything for them! We can’t save them.’ Tears fall from his eyes.
I let him past me and step back from the column.
‘You hear that,’ Woods says. ‘One Tiger drove back a whole squadron of our tanks.’
‘My brother Christopher has faced those monsters in Italy,’ Lathbury says. ‘That’s the best Jerry has. Thick armour and a gun that can knock out any of our tanks with a single shell. Those steel monsters dwarf our machines.’
‘So if we see one, run in the opposite direction,’ Myhill says with nervous laughter.
‘You don’t need to tell me twice,’ Wilson agrees.
We see another of the damaged Churchill tanks slowly crawl past us, its hull and turret torn open, the steel twisted and broken to reveal the crew inside. How they survived is a miracle, but the damage wrought on the tank is horrific. The engine makes an awful racket, barely able to keep the tank moving.
‘C’mon,’ I say to my lads as I walk back towards the barn. ‘Let’s get out of this damned rain.’
I head towards our section’s fire and McClair offers me a mug of tea to warm up.
‘Smokes anyone?’ Thompson offers.
‘Thought you were out?’ Jenkinson says as he accepts one eagerly.
‘There’s always a supply if you know where to look,’ our scrounger replies.
‘You reckon that’s where they’ll send us next?’ Woods asks. ‘Up against Jerry in that chateau?’
‘Maybe,’ I reply.
‘It’s all right. Corporal Cooper will get us through it,’ Wilson says.
‘Corporal got us off the beaches and into that Hillman fortress without a scratch,’ Thompson says.
‘Speak for yourself,’ mutters Jenkinson.
‘That was your own stupid fault,’ Woods teases him.
After hearing the Lancashire survivor’s account outside, I remain silent, as do Lathbury and Myhill.
‘F COMPANY!’ Captain Grayburn calls out, summoning us all to the far side of the barn. We all fall quiet then, both eager and fearful of our next orders.
‘The Suffolk Regiment, along with the East Yorkshire Regiment, is to advance on an area south of us called Chateau de la Londe.’
As if on cue, we hear the whistle of incoming artillery.
35
ADAM—Thirty-eight miles farther. North west of Hamburg, Germany
The hood is pulled from my head and a set of headphones is roughly pulled on.
‘Thought you should all see this,’ Follia’s voices crackles over the headphones.
Dave and Cecylia are both looking as bewildered as me. Cecylia is visibly shivering and I know how cold she must be because we’re both still in the wet clothing from our plunge into the lake. Beyond the windows of the helicopter is a small range of mountains, and beyond them is water; the North Sea, I presume.
‘It’s all fenced off by the German military,’ Follia says. ‘We should be receiving instructions by their air force to leave.’
‘It’d be such a shame if you were shot down,’ Dave mutters.
The helicopter begins to descend, heading directly for the heart of the mountain range. We pass abandoned military roadblocks and I sense they’re empty thanks to Follia and her team.
At the base of the two largest mountains are small structures, tents, and command posts. Dozens of men and women are working. There is drilling machinery, and by the sounds of it, explosives, too. Clouds of dust rise amongst rocks.
War of the Damned (Relic Hunters) Page 18
