War of the Damned (Relic Hunters)

by Martin Ferguson

  ‘You set all this up in a few hours?’ I say. I hate that I sound slightly impressed.

  ‘Our employer doesn’t wait around,’ Leon replies.

  ‘And they have better funding than your pathetic museum,’ Bishop sneers.

  The outfit would be genuinely impressive if they were not the enemy.

  ‘Here we go,’ Follia announces as the helicopter circles in and descends, landing in a clearing near the campsite.

  Armed ‘soldiers’ quickly approach us from the camp and with dread in the pit of my stomach, I recognise the black body armour and gear.

  ‘It’s Winterbourne,’ I murmur.

  ‘Correct,’ says Follia as she drags me out of the helicopter. Cecylia and Dave are behind me.

  ‘You hired mercenaries in Scotland to mask your activities?’ I ask.

  Follia urges me on with the pommel of her Katana blade. ‘You are a smart one.’

  ‘Why work for them?’ Dave asks. ‘I didn’t have you down as a sell-out.’

  ‘They give me freedom and a world to play in,’ she replies sternly. ‘I’m not what you wanted me to be. I couldn’t be a good little housewife for you. You would never understand.’

  ‘Enough,’ Bishop interrupts. ‘The professor will want to speak with them.’

  ‘That he will,’ Follia agrees. ‘Let’s not keep the boss waiting.’

  We’re escorted into the Winterbourne base camp under armed guard. Cecylia seems to be taking particular note of their drilling machinery.

  ‘Brand new and barely been run before,’ she remarks. ‘I could only dream...’

  ‘Is that a request to join up?’ Follia smirks.

  Cecylia falls silent. Inside the make-shift base is a series of computers, screens with maps and analysis readings, and more equipment than I can name. It reminds me of the British Museum’s own operations rooms and it finally dawns on me that Winterbourne is far more than a mercenary group. They are organised, well-funded, and must have a leadership beyond what we have seen.

  A short man with narrowed eyes and greying hair looks up as we enter and I recognise him immediately. It is Professor Veitnar. Quiet rage surges in me.

  ‘It is good to see you again, Mr Hunter.’

  Despite my hands still being tied behind my back, I go to charge him, but Leon and Bishop restrain me.

  ‘It seems you’re already acquainted with Mr Hunter, Professor,’ Follia says with glee.

  ‘I had the displeasure of Mr Hunter’s company in Egypt,’ Veitnar replies, looking me over with foul fascination. ‘You appear in good health. Been for a swim, though, have we?’

  ‘You should burn in hell for what you did to me in Egypt,’ I yell. ‘You experimented on me! You tried to kill me!’

  ‘It was all in the pursuit of discovery,’ he says. ‘But you are a survivor, and so here you are. Yet again, our paths converge. It is fated, I think.’

  ‘Is that bastard Hawke pulling your strings?’ I demand.

  ‘Commander Hawke is on a different assignment,’ he replies.

  ‘So it was you who had our train attacked?’ I say. ‘It was you who killed Emma and Matt.’

  ‘To remove the competition, Mr Hunter,’ he states. ‘I am surprised you and your friends are still with us.’

  ‘Security,’ Follia interjects, as she casts a brief glance at Dave. ‘In case the dig site proves worthless.’

  ‘I hope it does,’ I reply, still raging. ‘I hope you find nothing here.’

  ‘Calm down, Adam,’ Dave warns me as Leon raises a gun to my head. ‘This won’t help any of us.’

  ‘I’d listen to him,’ Follia says. ‘He speaks truth.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ I say, easing up and slowing my breathing.

  ‘Good boy,’ Follia says, patting me on the head. ‘What’s the status so far, Prof?’

  ‘We conducted preliminary scans on arrival,’ Professor Veitnar explains as images and maps appear on the screens around us. ‘There are tunnels that run deep in these mountains.’

  ‘They were copper mines,’ another familiar voice says, ‘just like those Hitler used to hide many of his stolen treasures.’ From the entrance behind us walks in Doctor Natalia Zajak, who I last saw in Poland. Now, she wears similar body armour to the rest of the Winterbourne team.

  ‘You?’ Cecylia utters in shock.

  ‘I see you have already met my apprentice,’ Veitnar states.

  ‘It is good to see you again, Cecylia and Adam,’ she greets.

  ‘You’re not a member of the Polish Historical Society, are you?’ I ask.

  ‘I infiltrated Professor Lainson’s dig in Wałbrzych in case she stumbled upon the Nazi gold trains,’ Doctor Zajak says. ‘If she was successful, I was to sabotage their efforts until my Winterbourne colleagues arrived.’

  ‘By killing Lainson and her work crew?’ Dave asks.

  ‘Not unless necessary,’ she replies. ‘And their laughable failure meant I didn’t need to take further action. All they found was rock and ice. Besides, it was only thanks to your message to Professor Lainson that we arrived among these mountains so quickly. I believe our friend Cecylia here intercepted the same message.’

  ‘You didn’t hurt Professor Lainson, did you?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing she won’t recover from.’

  ‘Enough,’ Veitnar interjects with annoyance. ‘Let’s focus on the task at hand.’

  ‘Yes, Professor,’ she says, bowing her head slightly. ‘As I was saying, many of the tunnels in these mountains were formerly copper mines. Our biggest clue as to where to direct our focus was the discovery of train lines. The train line that leads into the heart of one particular mountain.’

  ‘That means nothing,’ Cecylia says. ‘Those train lines could have been there for shipping the copper from the mountains years before the Second World War.’

  ‘I would agree with you, my compatriot,’ Zajak replies, ‘if it was not for these.’

  Doctor Zajak throws printed copies of photos onto the table before us. They are all close-up images of the train lines themselves and they all display the flaming skull of the SS Totenkopf Division. Smiles spread across the lips of Follia and Bishop, Leon letting out a cheer of victory.

  ‘The gold trains have to be in those tunnels,’ Leon says with a whoop. ‘Gold, jewels, more wealth than we know how to spend.’

  ‘Those items belong to their rightful owners,’ Cecylia says. ‘They belong to the families that lost everything in the Nazi occupation.’

  ‘They aren’t here though, are they?’ Leon replies with distaste.

  ‘It’s not just the contents of the trains that holds value,’ Doctor Zajak says.

  ‘Not this again,’ Professor Veitnar scoffs.

  ‘What else are you looking for?’ Follia asks.

  ‘I believe Project Riese was more than just a series of train lines,’ Doctor Zajak says. ‘In my research, I found reports on the work of the Death’s Head, the SS Totenkopf Division. Their science units were years ahead of their time, developing serums to counter a wide range of illness and injuries. They believed that they could enhance their master race. They believed they could improve speed, strength, invulnerability, and even keep death at bay.’

  ‘You’re talking about super-soldiers,’ Dave says with mocking laughter.

  ‘That is exactly what I am talking about,’ Zajak replies. ‘There were legends among the men regarding the giants.’

  ‘Project Riese,’ Cecylia says. ‘Project Giant.’

  ‘You have nothing to substantiate these claims,’ Veitnar warns, his patience growing thin. ‘There is no proof. It’s supernatural nonsense.’

  ‘People have been disappearing from the nearby villages,’ Zajak says. ‘Vanishing without trace for years now, ever since the end of the Second World War. I believe something is still here.’

  ‘You think they’ve been taken into the mountain?’ I question. ‘By what?’

  ‘There are rumours of animals or beasts in these mo
untains,’ Zajak says. ‘The villagers believe this is why the area is cordoned off and appears on no mainstream maps, only on military maps.’

  ‘This is all childish stories, nothing more,’ Veitnar yells. ‘We need to focus on the true research.’

  ‘Yes, Professor,’ Zajak replies, looking away in embarrassment like a scolded child.

  ‘Sounds like you two have some issues.’ Follia smirks.

  ‘She’ll learn her place in time,’ the professor says without apology.

  ‘I don’t know about the rest of it, but the trains are real, right?’ Bishop asks, earning a nod from Veitnar and Zajak.

  ‘Then how do we find those trains and their precious cargo?’ Follia asks with maddened excitement.

  ‘We sent in our recon team as soon as the route into the tunnel was accessible,’ Veitnar says. ‘Ten men went inside but within thirty minutes their radio transmissions fell silent and they could not be contacted.’

  ‘This was their last message,’ Zajak says, activating a recording.

  The voices of the recon team sound from the speakers around us.

  ‘…there’s contact…you see that…fall back into…stay in…formation…’ The voices of the recording are blocked out by gunfire and inaudible shouting before becoming nothing more than blood-curdling screams.

  ‘….they’re not stopping….keep…reload…arrgghh….AAARRRGGHHH!’

  ‘That was the last we heard from them,’ Veitnar says as the recording comes to an end. ‘We were just about to send in a search party.’

  ‘Something down there doesn’t want us to get our hands on the Nazi gold,’ Follia says. ‘Leon, Bishop,’ she says, turning her direction towards them, ‘have my team ready at the entrance in ten minutes. They need to be combat ready and be carrying good lighting. I want to be ready for whatever is in there but also be able to see it.’

  ‘What about us?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, you’re coming, too,’ Follia says. ‘I think you know more about these trains and what’s in those tunnels than you’re letting on.’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere,’ Dave says.

  ‘You don’t have a choice,’ Bishop replies, hand resting on his firearm.

  ‘We shall join you,’ Professor Veitnar says for himself and Doctor Zajak. ‘If there are discoveries to be made, I will be there to document them.’

  ‘A request,’ I say, ‘if you’re going to drag us down into the darkness.’

  ‘Speak,’ Veitnar says.

  ‘Can we have some dry clothes?’

  Veitnar nods and I take it as a sign of hope. If they were going to kill us, they wouldn’t care if we were wet or not.

  Within minutes, we’re given dry overalls. Leon takes my glasses and Cecylia’s inhaler and secures them in his pockets. Our hands are bound again, this time, in front of us. Then we are escorted to the entrance of the tunnel.

  This is no historical excavation, but a military operation with soldiers who belong on a battlefield. The lumbering brute, Bishop, carries a large generator on his back for the lights.

  ‘Not afraid of the dark, are you?’ I taunt.

  ‘Evil lurks in the darkness,’ Doctor Zajak remarks.

  ‘You and your friends would know,’ I reply as we enter the mountain.

  36

  CORPORAL ANDREW COOPER—Chateau de la Londe, Normandy, France. 28TH June 1944

  Our artillery bombardment begins at 04:00, right on time. We watch it from the cover of the woods to the north and it is like a gigantic fireworks display of explosions. The ground tremors beneath our boots. I check on the men and make sure they are ready. The lads seem all right; a few nerves, but that’s only to be expected. Lieutenant Long keeps watch over us and is keen to get this business started as soon as possible.

  ‘It’s just like when we took the beaches,’ Lieutenant Long instructs. ‘Keep moving and don’t stop. If you stop, you’ll get pinned down, just like the South Lancashires. Do not let that happen. No smokes lit either; they’ll just light you up for the snipers. Sherman and Churchill tanks will support us as we go in and the morning artillery should help clear the way.’

  I do not share the lieutenant’s optimism, but I daren’t share my view with the lads. They have enough to contemplate as we wait in the trees. They are soaked through from the morning dew and without sleep from the night before; morale is already low.

  ‘Remember, it’s only a company of engineers you’ll face,’ Wilson imitates the lieutenant.

  ‘That’s what our Intelligence told the South Lancashires,’ I reply.

  He doesn’t joke further, remembering the column of retreating wounded.

  As the artillery bombardment comes to a stop, we advance in silence, no whistle needed from Captain Grayburn this time. We emerge from the trees of the woods and enter knee-high cornfields. Ahead of us are gardens and orchards; the whole area is pitted with shell holes and bomb craters. The stench of death and rancid blood hangs in the air. We pick our way through dead cows and horses littering the fields. They soon give way to the corpses of the South Lancashire men.

  My section is directly behind me, all nine of us advancing together with the rest of our platoon and the rest of First Suffolk. We are moving towards the high hedgerows of the chateau grounds. Despite the immense bombardment, the looming chateau still stands strong over the landscape. We have to take it if we are to clear this area, no matter what the cost.

  Without warning, bullets, artillery shells, and mortar rounds rain down towards us.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ Lieutenant Long yells at us.

  We keep advancing but there is little cover in the cornfields. Men fall wounded or dead. To my right an entire platoon is engulfed by a mortar round. Beyond that, the Sherman and Churchill tanks advance up the track to the chateau. They’re hit hard repeatedly, zeroed in by the artillery and anti-tank guns, forcing them to pull back. So much for our armoured support.

  We take cover behind the ruins of walls, in bomb craters, and whatever else we can as more shells come down around us. Lieutenant Long and more of our company reach us, unable to push any farther in the face of the enemy onslaught. The bombardment is like nothing I have ever seen. Entire sections of our lads are torn to shreds and earth rains down on us.

  ‘Get back,’ a man cries as he staggers towards us, covered in blood and mud. ‘Get out of here. My section…all my section…killed.’

  ‘Take cover!’ I shout, recognising the man as a member of Third Platoon. ‘Take cover, you fool!’

  He never reaches us as he’s swallowed up by a blast of shrapnel.

  ‘F Company will take the left flank of the chateau!’ Lieutenant Long shouts to me. ‘E Company will take the centre and right flank, joining up with the East Yorkshires. Looks like they’ve got machine guns on the top floor and…’

  His words are silenced by a bullet tearing through his chest.

  ‘Sniper!’ I yell. ‘Get your heads down!’

  Doc Baird quickly comes to the lieutenant’s aid, but it’s too late. Machine guns open fire. They have turned the building into a fortress.

  ‘Corporal Cooper!’ Captain Grayburn shouts to me over the chaos of the bombardment. ‘We need to take the chateau! They have us zeroed in! Get your section moving! Get moving now, Corporal!’

  ‘First Section, Second Platoon, on me!’ I yell, rising up and advancing towards the left flank of the chateau.

  My section is with me, keeping low.

  ‘Woods, McClair, grab what cover you can and fire on the upper windows,’ I tell the Bren crew. ‘Get those bastards to keep their heads down.’

  ‘Yes, S…’ Woods begins to say before a bullet tears through his eye and out the back of his skull, killing him instantly.

  ‘No!’ yells McClair who grabs hold of Woods’ body before it collapses. ‘No, stay with me, mate. Stay with me!’

  ‘He’s gone,’ I state coldly. There will be time for grief later – I hope. Another bullet hisses near and ricochets off the wall behind us
. ‘That bloody sniper! Myhill?’

  ‘On it,’ the lad whispers, already peering through the scope of his rifle.

  Myhill ducks and a bullet thuds into the trunk of the tree behind him. Without pause, the poacher’s son quickly aims his rifle and fires back, a brief grin at his lips.

  ‘Got him,’ he mutters, the grin disappearing as he sees the body of Woods.

  I struggle to take my eyes from him, too. He’s the first man I have lost under my command. I force myself to look away.

  ‘Go! Go!’ I yell, leading my section on, closing the distance from the hedgerows to the chateau across open ground.

  Smithy is hit first, caught by a mortar blast before Wilson is cut down by machine gun fire. I can’t stop for them, not out in the open, and all we can do is press forward. When we are near enough, Lathbury and I throw grenades through the windows of the nearest rooms on the ground floor of the chateau before leaping over the sandbag barricades and barging open the doors.

  Inside, a fierce fight is already being raged as Captain Grayburn and around twenty men fight the German occupants on the lower floors. Lathbury, Jenkinson, Myhill, and Thompson are with me, firing on anything in a German uniform.

  ‘We have to go back for Smithy and Wilson!’ Thompson yells.

  ‘Not with those machine guns still firing,’ I say, pointing up to the upper floors. ‘They’ll cut us down before we can get to our lads.’

  ‘We can’t leave them,’ Thompson replies.

  Lathbury grabs him to stop him from running back out into the open. ‘You won’t be doing them any good if you get hit, too!’ the lance corporal says, dragging Thompson away from the doors.

  We advance through the ruined chateau, stepping over bodies and discarded weapons. The entire building stinks of death. With the lower floor secured, we advance with Captain Grayburn and a few lads from First Platoon up the staircase. Windows smash above us; McClair and other Bren gunners are keeping Jerry busy. We move with speed, a few men taking each room with grenades and a burst of rifle fire. We find the sniper Myhill shot, though the young lad takes no pleasure in finding his kill.

  ‘God bless you, lads,’ Captain Grayburn says as he joins us and tries to catch his breath. ‘Well done. Well done indeed.’