To Grandad Jack and Grandad George,
who survived the Great War and ensured my existence.
Also to J & J and DLD.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Fact and Fiction
Acknowledgements
Pick up the next Incredible thriller from Paul Dowswell . . .
Also by Paul Dowswell
CHAPTER 1
Tuesday, 11 November 1918, 2.00 a.m. Close to the German front line
Axel Meyer was sleeping, his head resting on a black woollen scarf pressed against the train window. Lulled by the steady rhythm of the wheels on the rails, he had managed to fall into his deepest sleep for days, after a nightmare journey from Berlin. Soldiers had been waving red flags and when there were officers around they would whisper, ‘Out with the lights, out with the knives.’ He nearly saw a man shot in Hannover when an officer had pulled a pistol to restore order. He expected at least an arrest, but the man just melted back into the crowd of soldiers, and the officer must have felt it unwise to try.
Axel struggled to understand why this kind of behaviour was being tolerated by the greatest army on earth. He had never imagined he would fight in the war, but now the High Command had lowered the combat age to sixteen he had been able to enlist in the Imperial German Army.
Axel was bewildered by what he saw. He knew there was so little food at home that people were suffering from slow starvation, but Germany was winning, wasn’t she? Hadn’t the Russians been beaten? Hadn’t vast swathes of territory in the east been given over to Germany? Hadn’t Germany’s submarines been sinking enemy cargo ships by the score? He felt a rising anger against these traitors with their red flags, these revolutionaries they called Bolsheviki.
He’d heard many of them were soldiers who had recently returned from the Eastern Front. Some had even been prisoners of war. They had been infected with communism, the dangerous ideology of the regime that now controlled Russia. These Bolsheviki carried the threat of anarchy – a word he had recently learned at school – burning, rape, murder. It was against everything a loyal soldier was supposed to do. He wasn’t going to be like that. He was going to make his family – what was left of them – proud of him.
Hearing the men around him talk, he sensed the train was full of these traitors. So he kept his head down and tried not to catch anyone’s eye. Especially after that old man in his platoon had picked on him before they’d even left Berlin. ‘They’re sending kinder out now. Look at him.’ He pointed to Axel. ‘He’s barely out of short trousers. You should go home to your mother, lad.’
Axel thought to tell him his mother was dead, but he decided not to reply. He could smell the alcohol on the man’s breath and didn’t want to antagonise him, especially in the cramped confines of a railway compartment, where he couldn’t get away.
After that, Axel tried to make himself inconspicuous. He wondered why the man had singled him out. He wasn’t the only sixteen-year-old in that carriage. The man must know this had been decided by the High Command.
Now here he was, heading for the Front, afraid of his own comrades. He told himself to stop worrying about them. It was the enemy he was supposed to be frightened of. Axel had heard all sorts of things about the Tommies and the Yanks. That was who they were up against in this sector. He knew he didn’t want to be taken prisoner by either. He had read in the papers that the British dropped hand grenades into the pockets of German soldiers foolish or cowardly enough to surrender. He wasn’t going to let anyone capture him.
As his head lolled against the carriage window, he dreamed of schnitzels with fried eggs on top, and potatoes coated in butter. Even in his sleep Axel was permanently hungry. He had hoped he’d get better food in the army, but the boys he’d trained with were just as hungry as the villagers back home in Wansdorf.
Axel was jolted from his sleep by a great explosion. It swept over the train, rocking his carriage, followed a second later by the sound of shattering glass. Outside, night became day, and the countryside was flooded with a garish glow which slowly faded to a dull yellow. The man opposite him was screaming and clutching at his throat. A fountain of blood gushed from his neck. Everyone instinctively recoiled. A quick glance at a hole in the fractured window told what had happened. The train had been hit by debris from the explosion. ‘Brace yourself for more,’ said one of the other men, hurriedly placing his steel helmet on his head.
Another explosion followed, smaller than the first but still enough to shake the carriage like a hurricane gust of wind. Then they heard small-arms fire – spitting like firecrackers.
In a carriage near to theirs there was a sickening thud. Something heavy had fallen out of the sky. The train ground to a screeching halt.
A steady rattling, like heavy rain, began to fall on the carriage roof. Fragments from the explosion. Some penetrated the thin metal but their force was largely spent.
There was more screaming. For a moment Axel was gripped by a terrible urge to flee through the shattered window. What if the train caught fire? The thought of being burned alive brought a blind panic to his chest. But he breathed deeply and told himself to wait for orders. Besides, there were so many people in the train carriage it would have been impossible to move.
‘Are we being attacked?’ shouted one of the soldiers in the carriage. ‘Let’s get out . . .’
An older man – Axel thought he looked old enough to be someone’s grandfather – listened for a second then the tension drained from his face. ‘That doesn’t sound like any fire fight I’ve been in. I think they’ve hit an ammunition dump.’
The injured man was being attended to by a soldier sitting next to him, who was covered in blood too now. He had managed to apply a field dressing, but the wounded man’s ghastly, chalk-white complexion and vacant eyes suggested he did not have long to live. Axel had seen dead people before – but he had never seen a man die.
‘Disembark!’ someone shouted, followed by a piercing whistle.
Everyone grabbed packs and rifles and helmets and began to scramble for the exits. Axel felt he was being spat out of the carriage, disgorged in a tide of grey uniforms, with this ragtag collection of young boys and older men. A Feldwebel – sergeant – was walking up and down, trying to create order from chaos. Axel stumbled to the rail side, grateful to have escaped, especially when he saw what had hit the carriage behind them. A great steel axle, with a heavy wheel still attached, lay half in and half out of a compartment. Above the pandemonium of the disembarking men he could still hear the cries of those trapped inside.
The train had come to a halt between stations. Axel could see a terrific blaze further down the line and the outline of a town beyond the flames. He could also see star shells floating down to the west, and guessed that was where the Front was. Maybe an hour or so’s march away. He felt a stab of fear, but pushed it aside when a boy his own age came over. Like Axel he was wearing a uniform that was too big for his skinny frame. Like Axel his blond hair was cropped short, a style that accentuated his pinched features.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘Something blew up.’ Axel shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Now we have to walk.’ Hearing his own voice slightly surprised him. He had spoken to no one for the entire j
ourney.
‘You’re a Berliner?’ said the other boy. ‘I know that accent!’
Axel smiled. ‘No. But I live close by – in Wansdorf. It’s a few kilometres to the west. My parents come from Berlin. And you?’
‘Kreuzberg.’
Axel nodded. He had often visited family in that part of Berlin when he was younger.
‘It’s a madhouse there,’ said the boy. ‘Red flags. Soldiers’ councils. They’re turning into Russians – they’re even calling for a Soviet Republic.’
‘And what d’you think of that?’ said Axel warily.
‘I don’t know,’ said the boy. Axel didn’t know whether he was being honest or whether he’d decided it was not wise to talk to him about the Bolsheviki.
An awkward silence hung between them until the boy fetched an oatmeal biscuit from his pocket and offered it to Axel. ‘I’m Erich Becker,’ he said, and put out a hand to shake. ‘My Mutti made these.’
‘Thank you,’ said Axel, and ate the biscuit at once. He had eaten nothing since breakfast the previous morning. ‘As soon as we get to Tommy, we can have our fill of his bully beef, ja?’
Axel had heard the British soldiers were well supplied with foods that had become scarce in Germany, especially meat. And he really liked the idea of finding some British chocolate bars as well. Cadbury, Rowntree, Fry – those were the names to look out for. The navy blockade the British had mounted around the coastline had put a stop to any luxuries reaching Germany. Now everyone had to make do with turnips and acorn coffee.
Axel had decided it was his duty to encourage his fellow soldiers – even boys his own age like Erich: keep their spirits up so they would have the courage to fight the enemy. Erich smiled at him but his eyes were dull with fear. Axel hoped his own courage would hold up. His father had sent him off with stern words. Uphold the good name of the family. Don’t bring disgrace on your village. Make your mother proud. She will be watching from heaven. Axel thought he was a bit old for that now, but he would have loved to believe she was watching over him from somewhere.
A company Feldwebel lined them up and they began to march towards the flaming wreckage ahead. The fires were burning bright enough to scorch the skin on their faces. As they marched past, Axel turned to Erich. ‘An ammunition truck?’
‘A lucky shell, maybe,’ he replied. ‘Or maybe a Tommy or a Yank flyer dropped a bomb.’
The scene around them was like an image of hell. Whatever had blown up here had set rolling stock alight and ignited several piles of ammunition and shells. Axel wondered if they had all gone off, or whether there was more to come. A few wounded men were being attended to, but most of the casualties were dead – burned to a crisp shell or mutilated beyond recognition. Axel stared straight in front. As they marched towards the town, he wondered what else lay ahead.
CHAPTER 2
2.00 a.m. Close to the British front line
William Franklin could sense the earth tremble beneath his feet. It wasn’t the irregular tremors of an artillery bombardment, or the solid rhythmic stomp of a long column of marching men. This was a deep, heavy rumble – the sort that only a large armoured vehicle would make.
Will felt himself surfacing, like a diver coming up from dark depths. He was so tired he just wanted to stay down in his underwater world for ever. The nearer he came to consciousness, the more he became aware of the soggy cold of that November early morning. It had been raining all of the previous day and his thick trench coat and woollen tunic had soaked up the moisture from the soil.
The men had searched for three hours for a barn or farmhouse to rest in, but every one they had come to had been bursting with other British soldiers. After four years stuck in the trenches, Will’s ‘King’s Own’ Royal Lancaster Regiment was on the move.
His platoon had been marching all day and were close to exhaustion. Sometime after midnight their commander, Lieutenant Richardson, decided the roadside would have to do. There was a raised parapet of earth either side, which offered slightly better protection than sleeping out in the open. Will had fallen asleep almost as soon as he unbuckled his pack and laid down his rifle. Now his brief rest was being disturbed.
Will could hear a grinding, clanking sound – so loud he could feel its vibration in his chest. He saw the lieutenant running down the road towards the vehicle, shouting and waving his arms. Will was sorry to see it was him. Richardson had taken the first watch, as he usually did, so that meant they had been asleep for less than an hour.
In the gloom he could make out the silhouette of a single British armoured tractor with caterpillar tracks, pulling a large artillery piece – a heavy howitzer, by what little he could see of it. Will and two of the other boys in his platoon had watched one of them in action the other day – until the artillery commander told them to clear off.
The engine cut abruptly and Lieutenant Richardson’s angry voice carried clearly through the night air.
‘There’s a platoon of men by the side of the road. What made you think it was safe to drive this vehicle down here without checking what was in front of you?’
‘Sorry, sir,’ said a gruff voice. ‘Been ordered to take this up the line, sir, under cover of darkness, sir.’
Will recognised the insolence in the driver’s voice. Richardson was barely eighteen – the age Will himself was pretending to be – and had barely started shaving. Richardson was making a good job of being a lieutenant, but beneath the uniform and the officer’s bearing and authority, he was still a schoolboy. Will knew his sort from the Officers’ Training Corps parades back at home. Will liked him though.
The smell of burning tobacco wafted down the road and caught in his nose. The driver must have a snout on the go. The others in Will’s platoon had been disturbed too and some of them were sitting up and instinctively reaching for their Players or Woodbines. Lighter flames and the brief flare of matches lit up faces etched with dirt and exhaustion.
‘Settle yourselves, men,’ said Richardson. ‘We just have to let this half-track past. Then you can get back to sleep.’
The platoon shuffled up the side of the road. Will hated to move. Even in the coldest, dampest spots, if you stayed still, your body heat lent a grudging warmth to the earth and your damp clothes. But if you stirred, the cold bit like shards of broken glass.
The half-track edged forward, close enough now for Will to taste the exhaust in the back of his throat. As it passed, he felt the warmth from the engine on his nose and cheeks. The meagre heat stirred a mad impulse in him. As the caterpillar tracks clanked past, mere inches from his feet, he realised how easy it would be to stretch out a foot and give himself a ‘Blighty injury’. That’s what the men called the wounds that got you sent back to Blighty – Britain. He stretched his foot out, right to the rim of the metal track.
It was worth it, surely. Will’s mind was racing now. Just do it. A crushed foot would have him stretchered to the rear and on a boat back to England. He’d be home within a week. A warm hospital ward. Three hot meals a day. He could sleep as much as he liked. And he would live to see the end of the war. The tractor passed and now the howitzer lumbered after it, its broad armour-plated wheels churning up the muddy road.
Will looked at those wheels with trepidation. It would hurt like hell, and he’d walk with a crutch for the rest of his life. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Watch that foot there, lad,’ whispered Weale, one of the older men in the platoon.
The huge gun slipped in the mud, and the wheel lurched closer to the resting men. Weale pulled Will back just as he hurriedly drew his legs up. The metal plates left deep imprints in the ground right next to him. The driver gunned his engine, trying to gain traction in the soft ground, and then the steady chug of the tractor faded into the distance.
‘Lucky escape there, lad,’ whispered Weale in his ear. ‘Double lucky. If you had caught your leg, they might have thought it deliberate. Boys have been shot fer less.
‘Not that I thought that’s what you were do
ing of course,’ Weale said with a wink. He patted Will on the back and went back to join his friend Moorhouse. Will’s heart was racing, but he knew Weale wouldn’t say anything. He liked those two. They’d both been out in France since 1914. If they could survive four years of it, maybe he could too.
Jim Franklin was looking for a man to relieve Richardson for the next hour. Will turned his back on his brother and prayed he wouldn’t pick him. Cold and wet as he was, Will was wretchedly weary and desperately needed to rest. The platoon sergeant was careful not to give any of his men the slightest reason to suspect his younger brother had an easier time than the rest of them. Will was also keenly aware that Jim was still angry with him for coming out here in the first place. His mother and father had already lost a son to this war, and Will was only sixteen.
‘Battersby, you first, then Uttley,’ said Jim. ‘Uttley, you can come and get me at oh five hundred.’
Will was safe. At least for the next three hours. He wrapped his trench coat tight around his body and tried to settle. The rain was holding off for now and he began to drift in and out of sleep. Far above he could hear a persistent hum. It sounded like an insect – but it could only be a distant aeroplane. He wondered how the pilots ever managed to find their way back to base on a dark night.
He glanced over to see his brother a few feet away giving instructions to the night watch. Since coming out to France Jim had grown a carapace of steel along with a great bristly moustache. Will understood well why his brother had had to change. How else did you keep a soldier out in no-man’s-land in a forward observation post in the middle of the night, with his head and shoulders above the parapet, where he could catch a stray bullet or be snatched by an enemy patrol at any moment? The men in Jim’s squad had to be more frightened of their sergeant than they were of the enemy.
Shortly after Will had arrived in C Company, someone had raided the hamper in the Regimental Aid Post. All the comforts for wounded men – the brandy, the cocoa, the Oxo, even the biscuits – had been taken. Jim had called his platoon to order and told them that unless the goods were returned in the next hour, the whole lot of them would be on night patrol, every night, until they were. It worked.
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