by David Moody
The vast area enclosed by the border fence and the wall just beyond was difficult to make out from up here. He could just about make out the roofs of low huts and other buildings, grey against the gloom, and a couple of guard towers which appeared to be unmanned. There were occasional glowing lights in places, but nothing like the level of illumination he’d expected to see there. Harris was a tough soldier who’d faced more than his fair share of unspeakable horrors during his relatively short years of service, but there was something about Polonezköy this morning that unsettled him more than anything he’d come across before today. It seemed to have a brooding menace all of its own. He knew the camp was packed full of people. Whether they were alive or not was a different question (and he was pretty sure it was a question to which he already knew the answer). It was like they were waiting for the task force to try and break in. Like they were lurking in the shadows, ready to jump out. Thousands of them.
Harris held his position and kept a close watch until they were ready to make their move.
Jones and Steele worked hard and fast with their entrenching tools, moving with unspoken synchronicity as they took turns to dig in and shift more frozen soil, all the time taking care not to touch the electrified fence. The sergeant led by example, easily matching the younger man’s pace.
The smell of burnt flesh still hung heavy in the air from the thing that had made contact with the deadly barrier a short time earlier, a stark reminder of the dangers they faced. Henshaw, Wilkins and Barton watched from the near distance until the two men began to visibly flag. ‘Barton, we’ll take over for a stretch,’ Henshaw said.
Wilkins was keen to gain the trust and respect of the others. ‘You stay here, Lieutenant, and I’ll go. I don’t want to be accused of shirking. You’ve got your men to look after.’
‘Very good. Thank you, Wilkins.’
He and Barton swapped places with the pair at the fence. Wilkins was impressed by the amount of work which had already been done: the hole was wide enough and deep enough to crawl into, just not yet quite long enough to reach over to the other side of the electrified fence. It soon would be, though. He worked hard to match Barton’s pace, but made a mental note to try and conserve his energy. Despite the physical effort breaking in was taking, he knew the real work would begin once they were on the inside, and there would be no time to catch their breath once the camp wall had been breached. He had in his mind that the next few hours would be something of a sprint; a war conducted at breakneck speed.
Twenty minutes more and they were just about through. Near the trees, Harris returned to report back to Lieutenant Henshaw. ‘It’s really not right in there, Lieutenant.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Dunno, sir. Can’t rightly put my finger on it. Most of the lights are out, and I couldn’t see any movement from where I was. I think it’s every bit as bad as Lieutenant Wilkins reckons.’
‘We have to be positive. Fewer lights and fewer guards might mean it’s easier for us once we’re inside.’
‘Here’s hoping, sir,’ Harris said, praying the low moonlight was dull enough to disguise his unease.
Barton jogged back over. ‘We’re through, Lieutenant.’
Henshaw nodded at Jones. ‘Right. You’re up next, Lance Corporal. You know what to do.’
With trepidation wrote clear on his mud and sweat-stained face, Jones stripped down to his vest and walked towards the fence, teeth chattering with cold. The others took his gear. ‘We call him the rat,’ Barton explained to Wilkins. ‘And not just because of his looks, neither. He’s a slippery little bugger. Can just about get through any gap we need him to.’
And he was right. The hole they’d dug under the fence was relatively shallow, but it was deep enough for Jones who half-crawled, half-dragged himself through, seeming to contort his torso to a remarkable degree to avoid touching the wire. ‘He could have been in the circus,’ Harris laughed.
‘A deserter from the big top,’ Steele agreed.
‘All right, all right... that’s enough,’ Henshaw snapped. ‘We need to focus. There’ll be time for laughs when we’re safely back in Blighty.’
Jones looked up as the others neared. He was on the other side of the fence now with the entrenching tool he’d pushed ahead of him, working hard to increase the size of the hole so his colleagues and all their kit could fit through. He didn’t like being over on this side on his own. His teeth were chattering with nerves now as much as cold, and his guts were tied up in knots.
19
APPROACHING THE AIRFIELD AT LEGINÓW
Captain Hunter and his men reached the airfield with only minor inconvenience from a handful of rogue corpses. Some of the soldiers appeared overly keen to try their hand at ‘re-killing’ (as someone had named it) and almost fought with each other to be among the first ones to attack. Hunter let them have their moment. He’d felt all along that there’d be plenty of opportunities to face this new unnatural foe.
And he was soon proved right.
The airfield at Leginów appeared barely equipped to support any kind of military activity. It was little more than a long, roughly rectangular field with a number of small, hut-like buildings at the far end. A camouflaged hangar stood off to the right.
Hunter split his men, one group advancing along each side of the makeshift runway which, had it not been for the tell-tale grooves left in the frozen mud and long patchy strips of flattened grass, would have been indistinguishable from any other field in any other place. There was some movement in the trees nearby, but the soldiers were able to advance with such well-practiced stealth that they passed by the dead unnoticed.
The groups converged near the hangar. Hunter sent a couple of his best men inside, Sergeants Hennessy and O’Rourke. They were in and out in a couple of minutes and wasted no time reporting back. ‘Looks clear, Captain,’ Hennessy said. ‘I mean it’s empty and all, but no surprises.’
‘Good, good. Looks like we got the better end of the deal then, eh boys. We get to protect an airfield that don’t much need protecting.’
‘Can we get inside, sir?’ a kid called Rumbelow asked. The adrenalin had worn off, and cold was setting in.
‘Don’t see why not. Mudriczki and Carter, take a couple more fellas and get those huts checked out. The rest of you, let’s get in out of the cold.’
Jimmy Mudriczki led the men over to the first of the huts. He peered inside through an ice-covered window but could see little. Definitely no movement. Nat Carter looked in from the opposite side. ‘Looks okay, Jimmy,’ he said.
‘Yeah, this place is like the grave. No one here. Anyone with any sense is long gone. Get the door and let’s get this done.’
The two other men – Coles and Willard – took up position just to the rear of Carter as he leaned across and pushed the door open.
The hut was booby-trapped.
The building exploded, billowing flames and searing heat filling the night air. The noise echoed like a gunshot. Mudriczki, Carter and Coles were killed instantly. Willard staggered away from the wreck, his smock on fire, trying to put himself out. Other men were there in seconds to help, but they all knew it was too little, too late.
The trap had had the desired effect. A horrific parting shot from the krauts who’d fled Polonezköy.
All around, the dead turned towards the airfield and began their lethargic advance.
Hundreds of them.
20
INSIDE POLONEZKÖY
Within the hour the Brits had all made it across the wire. They leaned against the wall which stood between them and Polonezköy’s inmates. They were making plans to go over the top when Barton grabbed hold of Harris. ‘Guard approaching,’ he hissed, and the message was quickly passed from man to man. They each pressed themselves against the wall, hidden in the low light and shadow, and watched as the lone figure neared. The Nazi officer was moving lethargically and aimlessly; not so much patrolling, more like staggering...
&nbs
p; Nervous glances were exchanged. Barton reached for his pistol but Wilkins stopped him and took his knife from the pocket of his Denison smock. He held a finger to his lips.
The enemy officer lurched closer, and though the limited illumination made it hard to discern any great level of detail, they saw enough to know that he was in a wretched condition. His face was covered in blood, one eye bulging from its socket as if it was trying to escape. ‘He one of them?’ Jones whispered to Lieutenant Wilkins.
‘Almost certainly,’ Wilkins whispered back as he readied himself to strike. But Sergeant Steele had other ideas.
‘This bastard’s mine,’ he announced, and he stepped out in front of the Nazi. He grabbed Jerry’s head in a tight neck lock.
‘Watch his bite...’ Wilkins warned, but Steele wasn’t listening, nor was he concerned. He took a fistful of the German’s hair and pulled his head back, then drew his own blade across his throat. A large, dark gash appeared in the dead man’s pale flesh, curved like a lecherous grin, and thick, dark semi-coagulated blood flowed like glistening mud down the front of his grubby-looking uniform tunic.
Steele pushed the Nazi away. Job done.
Yet Jerry didn’t stop.
His head lolled awkwardly, and the glutinous blood continued to seep, but his progress and intent appeared otherwise unimpeded until Wilkins took control. He shoved the Nazi’s face against the wall, then stabbed his knife into the man’s exposed right temple. He withdrew the blade then did it again, then a third time to be sure, then he let him go. Jerry immediately collapsed like a half-stuffed rag doll. Henshaw shone a torch into his face, checking for any reaction. The flow of blood had partially obscured the Totenkopf symbol patch on the guard’s right collar. It was clear that this man had been a member of the SS-Totenkopfverbände. ‘Good Lord,’ he exclaimed. ‘If evil bastards like this have been overcome by this hideous disease, what hope is there for any of us?’
‘So I take it that you believe everything you’ve heard now, gentlemen?’ Wilkins asked. ‘This is no joke, no trick... These creatures are the reanimated bodies of the dead, and I’ll wager there are many, many more of the damn things waiting for us on the other side of this wall. We need to have our wits about us. We must treat everyone and everything we see in there as a potential threat, do you understand?’
He didn’t need to hear their replies to know that they did.
The soldiers moved quickly and quietly to scale the wall. Henshaw had deliberately chosen this spot as he considered it to be the part of the camp under the least amount of scrutiny and guard from the Nazis. This was the area where they disposed of bodies. And here there were many, many bodies to dispose of.
Henshaw ordered Harris to use a grappling hook to scale the wall. The clattering of metal on brick was unnaturally loud against the all-consuming quiet of everything else. The soldiers stood silently with their backs against the wall for several minutes until they were sure the noise hadn’t attracted more unwanted attention. Harris climbed up and paused at the top to look down over the other side. ‘Courtyard’s empty,’ he hissed to the others. ‘Should be all right, sir.’
‘Good. Drop down and keep out of sight.’
He did as he was ordered and the rest of the men followed in quick succession. Steele was the last one. Perched precariously on the top of the wall until he was sure the others were down safely, he detached the grappling hook and spooled the rope, then dropped it down to Harris who stashed it in Barton’s pack.
Behind the imposing castle entrance and within the vast encircling wall of the camp were several clearly defined areas. Nearest the castle were the barracks of the SS-Totenkopfverbände. Next to the barracks, a half-full vehicle compound. Beyond that, more than half the total area of the site was occupied by large factory buildings where the prisoners were put to work by the Nazis. Most of the smaller, squat, dank-looking huts were almost certainly where the prisoners were housed, separated into sub-areas: one for men, the other for women and children. The part of the camp where they’d gained access, though, was unspeakably grim. Wilkins was glad of the lack of light. There were things here he had no desire to see. Jones, on the other hand, exhibited far less self-control. ‘Bloody hell,’ he cursed, forgetting himself. ‘Look at all this...’
He shone a torch in a wide circle over a space to the rear of where they were standing. They knew the Nazi’s preferred methods of extermination from the intelligence which had been gathered, but what they could see now was way beyond anything they’d been told.
‘Crikey,’ Barton mumbled, barely able to string two words together. ‘It’s like they ran out of space and time.’
He was right. His description was remarkably apt and succinct. Many of the bodies appeared to have been carved up, limbs dismembered and stacked in hotchpotch piles. Jones was transfixed by the horrific sight, and it took his sergeant’s firm grip to drag him away. ‘Come on, lad,’ Steele said. ‘Focus.’
Jones tried, but it was difficult. Before turning away he looked again at a particular mound of flesh which had been momentarily illuminated by his torch. He was sure he’d seen fingers moving on a hand sticking out from the bottom of a pile. And he could see the remains of Nazi uniforms too. He wondered what had really happened in Polonezköy, and wished with all his heart that he was anywhere but here.
Focus!
Another figure was moving across the courtyard now, coming towards the British soldiers with the same uneasy slothfulness as the German guard they’d already dispatched. Wait... more than one. Wilkins counted three of them. It was clear that their overall physical condition was very different to the undead Nazi. ‘Good Lord,’ said Henshaw, ‘they’re prisoners. What in heaven’s name are they doing out here like this? They’ll get themselves killed.’
But they were already dead.
The three men approaching were each dressed in the same loose-fitting, shapeless uniforms, and whilst the colour might originally have been relatively standard, it was now anything but. Harris shone a flashlight at them, and the sorry state of these poor lost souls was clearly revealed. Their smocks were stained and smeared, deep red and brown patches where blood and other discharge had seeped from open wounds which would now never heal.
‘What do we do, Lieutenant?’ Harris asked, clearly unsure. Henshaw glanced at Wilkins before answering.
‘We get rid of them. We don’t have any choice.’
‘But they’re innocent men...’ Steele started to protest. Wilkins cut across him.
‘They’re dead, Sergeant, and you need to remember that. Ending this eternal misery is the kindest thing we can do for them now.’
Wilkins stepped forward with his knife again and went for the nearest of the three. The man’s awkward gait and poorly controlled movements resulted in him virtually stepping onto Wilkins’ blade and skewering himself. Wilkins quickly yanked the knife clear then went for the dead man’s head. He pushed the suddenly lifeless figure out of the way and was ready to move onto the next but Jones was there first.
‘Don’t!’ Wilkins exclaimed, but it was too late. Jones shot both of the other prisoners in the head in quick succession.
The noise echoed around the emptiness of the concentration camp, seeming to take forever to completely fade away.
‘What the hell were you thinking, Jones?’ demanded Henshaw.
‘Dealing with the situation, sir.’
‘And did you not listen to anything Lieutenant Wilkins had to say about the threat we’re facing?’
Wilkins himself was furious. ‘Good grief, man. Do you realise what you’ve done?’
Jones shone his torch from side to side, and the true extent of the situation he’d created quickly became clear. All around them there was movement now. The shadows seemed to be detaching themselves from the walls. Unfolding. Unfurling. Untangling themselves from the darkness and creeping towards the light. And the longer the men looked, the more of them they could see, as if scores of the infernal creatures had been woken by Jones�
� two shots. The way they moved made their appearance all the more terrifying. They lurched and listed, contorted and twisted as if they were barely in control of their own physical form.
The nearest of them reached out for Jones and grabbed his smock with gnarled fingers, snagging the drab material. He hadn’t realised and tried to back away, but was pulled back. Henshaw saw that one of his men was in trouble and instinctively moved to help him. Although he managed to prise the wretched ghoul away from Jones, all he did was drag the creature closer to himself, and when another one of them came at him he lost his footing in the gloom and was down before anyone realised.
‘Blades, not bullets,’ Wilkins hissed, and this time the other soldiers did as he instructed, fishing knives, daggers and even entrenching tools from their kit. Wilkins himself waded into the melee, and the others followed his lead.
Two more were disposed of by Wilkins in quick succession. He took the first one out through his tried and tested method of a sudden stab to the temple, then rammed its decaying face hard against the side of the nearest hut. He turned to take out the next one, but was immediately filled with uncomfortable, conflicting emotions because this figure had clearly once been a young woman. For a split second he felt overwhelming guilt, then remorse, then desperate fear when he realised this poor wretch couldn’t have been very different in age when she’d died to his love, Jocelyn.
No room for emotions now. Everything depended on what happened here tonight. The pressure was immense. Almost unbearable.
It was impossible to be sure how many of the unspeakable fiends were converging on them now. Between them, Harris and Steele dispatched several more, the efficiency of their kills increasing with each one. Contrary to how the papers and the movies often portrayed it, there was nothing easy or glamorous about killing anyone in battle. In films you didn’t have to deal with the blood or the stench or the cries for help or mercy. Films made killing look easy, effortless. Steele had just about become used to the guilt-tinged adrenalin rush he felt whenever he faced the Hun, but this was a different matter altogether. And as he struggled to deal with an emaciated prisoner’s remains which fought with the tenacity of a trained SS Obersturmführer, he knew this was an even more terrifying enemy they were now having to face.
