Twenty Five Million Ghosts

by Steve Aitchsmith

  “Are you sure?” questioned Ed.

  “I’ve met them before,” spoke another soldier. “They’re the hardest, toughest, most committed and best soldiers you can imagine. They’ll fight to the last most of the time.”

  The trucks soon lost contact with each other. Lots of small mobile offensive units prompted the enemy to create lots of small mobile defensive units to counter them. Along the north coast the war became a series of skirmishes between small mobile groups. One such caused the trucks to split up and Ed’s vehicle pressed on alone in what they all hoped was east. The skirmish had been nothing more than a few exchanged shots but that had been enough for both sides to scuttle off.

  They’d been rolling along without incident for over an hour. The occasional Frenchie on the roadside did not supply exactly the euphoric greeting they’d been warned about.

  “They will be ecstatic,” the briefing officer had said. “They’ll offer you wine, food and their daughters. Don’t get drunk, leave them the food ’cos they need it and don’t touch the daughters. Things will look a lot different in a few months when she’s got a big belly and a couple of angry brothers.” That caused some laughter. As it turned out the civilians offered nothing more than curious stares and half hearted waves.

  “Can’t really blame ’em,” said Ed to the driver. “We didn’t exactly announce ourselves and if even we don’t know who controls this area they probably don’t want to commit yet.”

  One of the others pointed out an apparently abandoned farmhouse near the road.

  “We can’t just break in,” said the driver.

  “Yes we can. Look, I thought I saw movement in an upper window. It might be the enemy waiting to ambush us, what with his sneaky shooting back and everything.”

  The farmhouse was a large three storied characteristically French building. Its marble front steps and large bulging roof declared it a wealthy and genteel abode. It was intact and lacked any sign of abuse. Nonetheless the dirt on the windows and the dead leaves on the steps suggested it was empty.

  They forced the door and entered cautiously, obviously empty places sometimes store a surprise. Not this time though, the small group’s armed search revealed nobody. The place was completely intact with wine stocks, food, mainly now corrupted, and working bathrooms and turned down beds, albeit covered with dust sheets.

  “I’ve solved the mystery,” said one of the group while they were in the drawing room. From a drawer he held up a small minora, seemingly made of solid gold and expensive it had undoubtedly been missed by whoever removed the occupants, or maybe they just fled.

  “Let’s hope they ran, let’s assume they give their permission for us to use their house.” The driver’s suggestion was agreed unanimously.

  After several days of disrupting the enemy, primarily by means of not seeing them anywhere, they all welcomed the chance to clean some kit and wash some bodies. They all rinsed down their uniforms and went on to enjoy one of the four working bathrooms, the one with a huge shower. They could have used all four rooms but felt safer staying in a group. It didn’t matter that there was no hot water, this was luxury to the five tired men.

  The sound of an engine complaining as it was forced to work hard across open land interrupted the washing of the five. One went to the window and carefully peered out.

  “Oh blimey me, blimey,” he exclaimed. “It’s Jerry and he’s seen our truck. There’s about five or six of them and they’re deploying to the bund at the side of the house.”

  “Move, lads, move, move,” instructed the driver. “We’ve got to get to the opposing bund before Jerry fully deploys or we’re lost. We can’t fight from here, we need to get the house between us.”

  Generally speaking, five naked men don’t make an effective fighting force. The group gathered up their wet uniforms from the chairs and doors where they’d hung them. Some wrapped towels around their waists, one donned a flowery dressing gown he’d found on a door hook and another opened a wardrobe and pulled a pretty pink jumper over his head.

  They rushed out of a side door looking like the cross dressing section of the invasion force. Some bare foot, some in ladies’ slippers, a variety of clothing grabbed at random, all female. Clutching their boots, helmets, rifles, webbing and wet uniforms they ran for the bund at the opposite side of the house to the Germans.

  They were surprised that no shots were fired at them, then they heard the laughter and one man shouting angrily. It was clear that the enemy extended a professional courtesy by not shooting at the group while they looked so ridiculous. The officer disagreed and was shouting at his men.

  The group quickly squeezed themselves into their kit and took up firing positions on the bund. The wet uniforms caused dirt and leaves to adhere, a kind of quick form camouflage. Either side of the house the enemy could be seen in the same position on their bund.

  “Reckon you can hit one, Ed?” asked the driver.

  “Yep, easy.” Ed was the best shot. He worked his bolt to load a round and took long careful aim. He then fired the only shot of this encounter which felled the officer and stilled his coarse aggressive voice. This was his first kill and Ed thought it strange that he felt nothing, not anger, not regret, not elation, not fear, just nothing. “An emptiness of being,” he said softly to himself.

  They expected a fusillade of shots in reply and sank into the earth to minimise their exposure. Instead the group was taken aback to see a white handkerchief being waved over the opposite bund.

  “What?” called out the driver.

  “We should talk,” called back one of the enemy in good English, the accent uncertain but not German.

  “Just one of you, come out into the open, I’ll meet you. My blokes will take you down first if this is a trick.”

  It wasn’t a devious trick. The soldiers were Ukrainian seconded into the Wehrmacht. The officer was German SS and they couldn’t care less about him being shot.

  “It saved us the trouble,” said one of them.

  They had been Ukrainian army and after their nation’s capitulation were taken over to the German side to fight the Russians. They were quite happy to fight Russians.

  “Not you, though,” explained the spokesman. “The Russians are our natural enemy, but so too are the Germans. We hate the Russians the most so we fought on the side of our lesser enemy. We have no quarrel with you or England or France and we want to surrender to you and be put in the English army to fight the Germans.”

  The Ukrainians gave up their arms, it was agreed that one of them would retain the officer’s Lugar purely for personal defence, they would be returned to the British line, wherever that might be, and any information they had would be gathered. They knew that they might not be able to simply join the British forces but still wanted to go. They also explained that in the initial encounter they would have fired as ordered but were too immobilised with laughter when they saw the British cabaret pile out of the house. The officer was threatening them so they would have shot him anyway if the British hadn’t done it first. They thought it a good shot and congratulated whoever fired it.

  The group delivered the Ukrainians, who gave some useful information about enemy deployments and reserves. Ed and his team were called before the officer commanding this part of the invasion.

  “Well done, men.” He had the face of a slashed joint of meat with scars and old rips all over it. “I see you’re admiring my handsome good looks. Just the result of Chindit work in Burma. I got called back for this show. The Japs are more ferocious fighters than the Germans but it’s all one on one stuff. The Germans fight en masse and present a more intelligent and organised resistance.”

  “Are we to return to skirmishing, sir?” asked Ed bluntly.

  “Do you want to?”

  “It doesn’t really matter what we want, does it sir? We’ll do as asked, whateve
r it is.”

  “You know,” observed the officer, “I’ve noticed that it’s the hardened men who answer back but obey orders anyway. Did you have much of a scuffle with Jerry while you were out and about?”

  “A little, sir. Not as much as you obviously had with the Nippon wallahs but we swapped a few shots.” Ed didn’t want to exaggerate their combat experiences. This man was the real thing and had experienced more than any of them would ever have to, hopefully.

  “Well, what can we do?” asked the officer rhetorically. “We don’t want the Germans to know that we know things the Ukrainians told us, at least not for the next couple of weeks. We can’t run the risk of you falling into German hands because they will persuade you to tell them everything you know, don’t dispute it, believe me, with your best intentions you will still tell them. They can be very insistent. So, our options: We can shoot you,” the group feigned concern, “we can transfer you to the far east,” the group showed real concern, “or we can send you back to Blighty to drink and fuck for a fortnight. What do you think?”

  “I am quite thirsty,” grinned the driver, “and my girl could do with some company that’s not either too old or American.” The officer laughed.

  Ed enjoyed a couple of weeks leave. Most people assumed he’d been wounded during the invasion, even though he was obviously healthy and unharmed. He got a free drink in the Tower Arms and a couple of passers by patted him on the back. He was quite content to play the hero for the public.

  London was still under sporadic attack from Nazi vengeance weapons. He didn’t like the doodle bugs, underhand little weapons that cowards fire, he thought. He saw a few, one of them glided over the rear garden at roof height while he and his mum were drinking tea. The thing must have been caught on some kind of updraft because even with its engine off it just kept gliding until it was out of sight.

  When he reported back to his unit, still based in Weston, he learned that he was to be posted as a driver and run a constant delivery between London and Portsmouth.

  “Easy war, no?” asked the colour sergeant who posted him.

  “No, but not as hard as some have it.” The colour sergeant did not comment. Ed thought that the war must be going well if the army could afford to leave fit men doing this kind of work at home. He kept doing this for a few months.

  Eventually he was told to attend a new briefing and that his deployment would change. He and several others, almost a full battalion, were spoken to by a young and inexperienced officer.

  “Now then,” the young man started, “you may wonder why you chaps have been kept here in England while you want to be over there getting at the Hun.”

  “The Hun? Really?” The cheeky words from a grizzled old young soldier in the audience. “We are here because the King doesn’t want his prettiest boys to get hurt and you need a fuckin’ nursemaid.” Everybody laughed. The young officer was flustered.

  “Pack it in, Jackson,” ordered a sergeant in the crowd. “Carry on, sir. I’ll thump any other ill disciplined idiot who fails to listen or interrupts.”

  “Yea, shut up, Jackson, yer old woman.” This from somebody further back and caused more laughter.

  “You’re going to Germany.” This announcement from the officer forced immediate silence. “We are already over the Rhine. Jerry has thrown an armoured brigade against the Americans. It initially broke through but the Americans have now turned it back. Our men further north are slicing into German territory, so much so that we’ve had to slow down. We’re taking prisoners by the thousands and word is the enemy are now pouring old men and boys into the mix. We’re beating the sods.” Cheers. “The invasion of Normandy was an amusing reversal of history.” Amusing? Nobody spoke but a few of the men glanced at each other. There was a general silent decision to tolerate the young officer’s silliness. “Now we compound that by entering the land of the Saxons, the land from which many of you originate over fourteen hundred years ago. We leave tomorrow night.”

  Ed realised that despite his couple of actions, he’d had a lucky war so far. As the aircraft landed in Holland he feared that now he might have to really fight. This was the area of the earlier operation Market Garden, that disaster had now been mitigated by the general allied advance. The invasion was now making inroads into Germany and moving into the endgame. The Germans would not easily give up their Fatherland. They were good fighters and capable of turning the tables, even now.

  After landing, the troops were drilled to shake of the stiffness of flight and then sent to makeshift camps in the Dutch countryside. They were warned that this area was only recently liberated and it was possible some enemy still lurked. Alert and well armed guards were posted with instructions that each man was to retain full combat kit and ammunition at all times. The following day they were trucked about thirty miles towards a forest and then told to advance on foot.

  They were joined by a small fleet of tanks so that they were now an armoured infantry column pressing into the heart of the enemy’s home. The forest was huge and they pressed on for a couple of days, ripping paths through the vegetation without a single sight of the enemy as they advanced into his homeland.

  The small German village was very still. People watched from their windows but nobody came out. There was no sign of damage or fighting and the enemy forces had withdrawn from this place just a day ago. This village was not worth a fight in itself and had no strategic value.

  Nonetheless, Ed and his battalion moved in battle formation, lines either side of the road, tanks rolling in the centre, advance scouts secured the ground onto which they moved and reported any problems. The sound of a firefight sent all of the soldiers to cover. The officer sent runners to the front and obtained information from the scouts. There was no major problem, a small group of SS had engaged the scouts just beyond the village and were quickly dealt with. Nobody seemed to know why they decided to fight over a packed earth and gravel fork in the road. They soon found out.

  An excited scout on a motor cycle came roaring back to the main body. He let his machine fall to the floor and ran to the officer. Ed stood nearby since he’d been told to remain close to the officer in case his dead eye shooting skills were required.

  “What is it man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Worse than that, sir. I’ve just seen hundreds of living ghosts.”

  “What do you mean? Be straight, I can see it’s shaken you up but we can’t afford emotion. Not here, not now. We need to stay calm.”

  “The camps, sir. The ones they talk about at home. The ones the papers say exist. The camps the politicians won’t talk about. It’s true, sir. There’s one about half a mile up the road. We’ve found a camp sir.”

  The officer purloined a Jeep from somewhere, he drove it himself but ordered Ed to go with him. They raced ahead of the column which would catch them up.

  At the gates to the camp stood a German SS officer. Ed started to work his bolt but was stopped by the officer driver. The officer left the Jeep and went to the German. They saluted each other, proper military salute from the German and not the silly schoolboy raised arm of the Masters of the World party.

  When the officer returned to the Jeep he explained to Ed. “The German Commandant will stay in command of his men. The German SS troops have left and the only private German soldiers here are in fact Hungarian. You will stay until the column catches up. At that point you will be joined by more men to start sorting out this mess.”

  “Sir, surely I’m not to take orders from the German?”

  “No. He has been told that you are in command. He will manage his men and act on your instructions. They will remain armed for the moment. If the SS officer declines any instruction from you, and I mean any, you are to shoot him. Understand?”

  “Yes sir. Sir, did you expect to find this place, is this why we’re here?”

  “Ask n
o questions, Aitchsmith my man, and you shall not be lied to.”

  Ed looked hard at him. “I don’t expect to be lied to anyway. I just want to know if this was expected.”

  “Yes,” said the officer, looking at Ed respectfully. “It was. That’s why I brought you. I need an intelligent and thoughtful yet ordinary man. I wonder if you know just how rare that is.” The officer drove back towards the column. It shouldn’t take them too long to mop up the area and then join him.

  “What should I do?” asked the German.

  “I think you’ve done enough, don’t you? I will wander round. You just carry on being in charge of your men. When I’ve seen enough I’ll let you know.”

  “There is a great deal of disease here, these Jews have no idea of hygiene and it spreads. Watch out for typhus, a terrible Jewish disease that they can give to people. There’s a few Russians here as well, watch out for them…” Ed raised his hand to stop the German. Ed wanted to hit him but decided to do so later, there was no point in testing his theoretical lone authority. He instructed the German not to shoot anybody, not even a Jewish anybody, and started a tour of the camp.

  This was a camp of death but not a death camp in the true sense. Nobody was brought here to be killed although thousands died of neglect. There was no gas chamber and no oven. This camp was for holding or transfer. It became permanent by default and murder here, with the exception of individual sadistic acts by guards, was by indifference. Thousands left here for the more proactive Auschwitz and other industrialised extermination camps. It was the lack of ovens here that permitted the evidence of human remains to be documented.

  The camp consisted of double perimeter wire, guard towers with spotlights and lines of long wooden huts. It was hard to guess just how many but certainly in excess of fifty.

  When he’d been waiting with the Jeep, Ed had seen some thin hunched figures milling about between the huts. They all appeared to be bald, dangerously skinny and wearing tatty striped clothing. He didn’t yet have a close look at these people. As he walked towards them most fled into huts but a very few just stood and stared, a stare more like that of a petrified kitten than a curious person.