The Wraiths of War

by Mark Morris

  I was lathered in sweat, plastered in mud, and every muscle in my body seemed to have been pummelled and stretched beyond endurance. I wanted nothing more than to sink to the soft ground and sleep for twenty hours. I might even have done that, and damn the consequences, if I hadn’t forced myself to bring Kate’s face to mind. The memory of her chestnut hair, her big blue eyes behind her pink-framed spectacles, and her cheeky, half-crooked smile instantly brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. I swayed for a moment, vision blurring, my defences so low that simply allowing the memory of my five-year-old daughter to emerge from the shadows, where for reasons of self-preservation I usually kept it, was almost enough to reduce me to a quivering mess.

  Paradoxically, though, it also gave me the impetus I needed to carry on. After the weakness came the strength – a surge of energy and determination, like a shot of pure adrenaline.

  My plan was sketchy, to say the least. I’d approach via the woods, in case there was a sentry on the gate, seek out an officers’ billet, and take it from there. God knew how long I had left before daybreak, before the camp started to rise. I’d got this far through guts, luck and endurance, but my luck now felt like the thinnest of threads, and as frayed as my nerves. All I could do was hope it held out for a little while longer.

  Trudging down the hill I felt exposed, though there was no way anyone from the camp could have seen or heard me, not without shining a great big spotlight up the slope. All the same I was glad to reach the clump of woodland which flanked the left side of the camp, by which time a shower of soft winter rain had started to fall, the droplets hissing in the highest branches of the skeletal trees, as if a thousand people were whispering up there. I welcomed the rain. Later its cold might seep through to my bones and make me shiver, but right now the light, cool touch of it against my skin felt soothing and oddly protective, the sound of it masking my squelching progress through the woods. I felt as though the rain was cleansing me too, spiritually as well as physically, ridding me not only of a layer of mud, but also the stench of death. A fanciful notion, but that was where my head was at that moment. I was focused on my task, but at the same time my thoughts felt as if they were floating free.

  When I felt I’d gone deep enough into the woods I turned sharp right. Five minutes later the trees thinned out and I found myself on the fringes of the German camp. I was relieved to discover I’d been right about the lack of security. The only thing blocking my way was a waist-high wooden fence, which was so dilapidated I guessed it must have been erected by the camp’s former owner, who, I decided, must have been a farmer, because the billets were wooden outbuildings – a couple of big barns and a selection of smaller, rickety-looking sheds which I guessed must have housed livestock or stored things like tools, machinery and animal feed. The wooden buildings were clustered around what had clearly been the farmhouse – a grim stone construction with a low roof and small windows through which a little light bled.

  Parked in the yard, a large open area composed of muddy cobbles with puddles of black water filling the ruts and dips, were a dozen or so armoured cars that looked as if they had seen plenty of service. Beyond these, off to my right, was the camp entrance, separated from the outside world by a wooden gate topped rather pointlessly with coils of barbed wire. Just inside the gate was a lone sentry with a rifle over his shoulder. Thanks to the lantern perched on the gatepost beside him, I could see he had his back to me. He was smoking a cigarette and gazing off into the darkness.

  There was no one else about, though I could hear soft sounds, which I associated with horses – snuffles and the occasional hoof-clack – coming from an outbuilding to my left. Beyond that, perhaps drifting from the farmhouse, I could faintly hear a buzz of conversation and the odd burst of laughter.

  Was that where the officers were billeted? It seemed likely. But if that was the case, how was I going to get in undetected? How the hell was I going to find this Kapitan Heidrich and retrieve the heart?

  Even if all the officers had been asleep it would have been a daunting task. But they clearly weren’t asleep. At least some of them (I guessed there were at least three and possibly as many as half a dozen) were awake and having a few drinks, maybe even a party.

  What time was it? Four, five in the morning? It might even be six, in which case I had only an hour or so of darkness left. I was starting to feel desperate, but I tried to stay calm, to think through my options. I could create a diversion, draw the men out of the cottage – but how? By freeing the horses? That, though, would only cause a commotion, and my best chance of success was to rouse as few people from sleep as possible.

  Maybe I was over-thinking it. Maybe my best and simplest choice was to sneak round to the back of the farmhouse, try to find a way in, then sneak upstairs while the officers were still occupied in the room at the front of the house. Maybe I’d strike lucky. Maybe I’d find the heart in one of the unoccupied bedrooms. But what if Kapitan Heidrich was one of the men I could hear carousing, and what if he had the heart on him? In that case I guess I’d have to wait, try to conceal myself, take my chance if and when it arose.

  It was all ifs and buts, and I told myself irritably that there was no point just standing there pondering on them. What would be would be. The important thing now was to actually do something.

  Keeping an eye on the sentry at the gate, I climbed over the fence and scurried across the farmyard, aiming for the nearest armoured car. With every step I expected the sentry to whirl round, bring up his rifle, order me to halt, but I reached the vehicle undetected. I slipped into the shadow between that and the next one, and paused for a moment, breathing hard. Sweat was pouring off me even though I was shivering inside. In getting this far I felt I’d used up not only every ounce of strength I had, but all my reserves as well. If I’d been a car I’d have been running on nothing but fumes by now. But I had to keep going. Had to take the next step, then the one after it, then the one after that. I tried not to think about what I’d do if Kapitan Heidrich wasn’t here, or if the young soldier had given me false information. As long as I had a target I’d carry on. Beyond that… who knew?

  I decided not to run. Once I broke free of the shadowy cover of the cars, I decided that I would stroll casually and unhurriedly across the open stretch of maybe fifty metres to the corner of the farmhouse; I would walk as if I owned the place. It went against all my instincts, but I told myself that not only would running exhaust me, but I’d be more likely to attract attention. And yes, walking would take longer, which meant there was more chance the sentry at the gate would turn and spot me, but even if he did, what would he see? An officer walking towards the officers’ billet. Granted, I had no knowledge of German army etiquette, but what I did know was that if I’d been that sentry in the British army and I’d turned to see what looked like a British officer walking towards the officers’ billet, I wouldn’t have challenged him. I probably wouldn’t even have wished him a good evening unless he wished me one first.

  I slipped from the cover of one car to another until I was standing behind the rear bumper of the last vehicle in the row. I hovered a moment, looking at the open ground in front of me, my stomach doing slow cartwheels.

  ‘He who dares,’ I murmured, and then I stepped out into the open and began to walk towards the farmhouse.

  It felt like a fuckload more than fifty metres, but eventually I reached the corner of the building. I slipped behind it, into a black wedge of shadow, and then sagged against the wet stone wall, panting as if I’d not walked fifty metres but sprinted two hundred. I waited until the shakes subsided, then made my way along a narrow path dividing the side of the house from a long wooden outbuilding next to it. At the end of the path was another cobbled yard, this one smaller and strewn with filthy straw and broken farming equipment.

  It was dark at the back of the house and the rain was coming down harder now. It ran down the roof of the farmhouse and dripped freely from the eaves and guttering, which gave the impression
that the building was melting or slowly decaying.

  However, even though I was getting soaked, I was thankful for it. At least the rain’s hissing clatter would mask the sounds I might make breaking in. The building had a back door, set into a recessed stone porch, but to my despair it looked stout enough to withstand a battering ram.

  There was a window to the right of the door, but like the rest of the building’s windows it was small – perhaps even too small to crawl through. I approached it to examine it, and was actually in the process of leaning forward to peer into the house, when all at once the window flared with orange light, as if a fiery eye had opened.

  I leaped back, startled and alarmed. My first thought was that this was a trap, that the Germans had known of my presence all along and had lured me into an enclosed space from which there was no escape. Then my scrambled thoughts settled. Staring at the light even as I backed away from it, I saw that it came from a lantern held by a figure who had entered the kitchen – a figure who, I could tell at a glance, had no inkling of my presence; was not even looking in my direction.

  All the same I had to hide, in case the figure looked out of the window and spotted me in the yard. I scuttled across to a broken-down cart and crouched behind it. Peering around the edge of one of the remaining wheels, I saw that the light in the window had grown more diffuse, though only because the lantern was no longer visible. From the way the light swayed and shifted and gradually brightened, I could tell its bearer was heading in the direction of the back door.

  Was he coming out? Why? Perhaps I had been spotted. Perhaps the young soldier had somehow managed to get a message to the German camp ahead of me? I had no idea how, but exhaustion was making me paranoid, and paranoia doesn’t care about logic. Perhaps the Germans had ways. Ways we didn’t understand. Could it even be that the heart was involved? Surely it hadn’t betrayed me?

  I found that thought more alarming than the prospect that I might be discovered. And my fears seemed borne out even further a moment later when I heard the grinding judder of the back door being pulled open.

  Here it comes, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut and drawing myself into as tight a ball as I could. I wished I could somehow melt into the shadows in which I was crouched, become one with them. What would the Germans do to me if they found me? Torture me for information? Shoot me? My hand slipped into my pocket and closed around my gun. But even now I wasn’t sure whether, if it came down to it, I’d be able to kill anyone in cold blood. Zombies and monsters, yes, but another living, breathing human being? Maybe if my own life was threatened, maybe if it came down to a cold choice between him and me… but even then I wasn’t sure. There was no doubt I’d become more ruthless and resourceful these past few years, but taking someone’s life changed you. It broke something inside, something intrinsic. Even killing someone accidentally, as I had done, took something away from you that you could never get back. And not even finding out that the victim had orchestrated their own death at your hand made a difference to the sense of desolation you were left with.

  Crouched behind the cart, I heard the lantern-bearer moving about in the yard. Was he looking for me? A moment later I heard a metallic clunk as he placed the lantern on the cobbled ground, and then I heard him stop, settle.

  What was he doing? Perhaps if I opened my eyes I’d see him grinning down at me, pointing a gun at my head? Then I heard a spattering of liquid more concentrated than the rain, and a sigh. I sagged with relief. He was taking a piss! Whoever the lantern-bearer was, he’d come out of the house to relieve himself.

  I felt another hysterical giggle bubbling up and raised a hand to stifle it. But the hand stopped halfway to my mouth. It had suddenly occurred to me how I might take advantage of this situation. I had to act fast, though; almost before thinking about it, in fact. And even as the half-formed idea was taking shape in my head, I was rising from my hiding place, moving swiftly across the yard, drawing my revolver from my pocket.

  The German soldier was standing with his back to me, his left hand raised above his head, palm flat against the wall of the house, his right hand holding his cock. He was finishing off, oblivious to my presence, as I moved across the yard towards him, was shaking out the last droplets when I pressed the barrel of the gun to his head, just behind his ear.

  He jumped, flinched away, started to turn. Acting instinctively I pushed him from behind, slamming him into the wall, and pressed my gun hard against the side of his cheekbone, maybe even hard enough to bruise.

  ‘Don’t move!’ I hissed. ‘Move and you’re dead! You understand me?’

  He went rigid, and even though I could see only part of the right side of his face I could tell he was scared.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, eager to please.

  ‘You speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’m looking for Kapitan Heidrich. You know him?’

  Silence.

  I pushed the gun harder into his cheek, making him grunt in pain.

  ‘Are you Kapitan Heidrich?’

  ‘Nein!’ He blurted out the word, his voice shrill, then immediately tried to compose himself. ‘No. It is not I.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He is inside. Sleeping.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he is up the stairs.’

  My mind was racing. My captive was young, maybe mid to late twenties, and, though I may have been wrong, he struck me as the German equivalent of an upper-class English officer – well bred, private school, privileged background. He certainly spoke English well, with only a slight German accent. He seemed genuinely scared – and who wouldn’t be with an enemy soldier holding you at gunpoint? – but was he scared enough to co-operate fully with me, to betray a fellow officer?

  ‘Put your cock away,’ I said.

  ‘My…?’

  ‘Your cock. Your knob. Your penis.’

  He understood that all right. Without another word he did the necessary, then buttoned himself up.

  ‘Now I want you to take me to Kapitan Heidrich. He’s got something of mine and I want it back. But if you raise the alarm, I’ll kill you. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Good. Come on then.’ I grabbed the scruff of his collar.

  ‘Wait,’ he said.

  Wait? This was unexpected. I was thrown for a moment. Then my sense of self-preservation kicked back in. I was deep in enemy territory. I had to keep the upper hand here, had to keep my captive compliant, in fear for his life.

  Still maintaining a tight grip on the back of the soldier’s collar, I yanked him backwards, then slammed him into the wall again. He gave a gasping cry of pain.

  ‘Fuck your “wait”,’ I said. ‘I’m in charge here. I give the orders. You understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ A breathless croak.

  ‘Good. Come on then.’

  Leaving the lantern on the ground, I manhandled him towards the open back door and the darkness beyond.

  I wondered why he’d asked me to wait. Perhaps because he wanted an assurance from me that after he had led me to Heidrich, I wouldn’t kill the both of them. So maybe, in order to keep him compliant, I ought to give him that assurance. Stepping into the sparse and functional kitchen, I said, ‘Stop.’

  The soldier tensed, but complied. Leaning in close, I said, ‘Before we proceed, let me tell you how this is going to go. You’re going to take me to Kapitan Heidrich and I’m going to take back what’s mine. If you do as I say, no one will get hurt. When I have what I want I’ll tie you both up, and then I’ll leave, and you’ll never see me again. You understand?’

  He gave two quick, jerking nods.

  ‘Not good enough. Say if you understand.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand.’

  ‘Good. So there’s no need to do anything stupid. You’re not going to try to be a hero, are you?’

  ‘No,’ he whispered.

  ‘Good lad. As long as we understand
each other. Now take me to Heidrich. And remember – stay quiet.’

  He led me through a door on the opposite side of the kitchen into a narrow corridor with rough stone walls and a stone-flagged floor. My hair and clothes wet from the rain outside, I tried not to shiver. Despite the warm glow of a candle, which was set into a recess in the wall halfway along the corridor, the interior of the house was like an ice-box. In fact, it was arguably colder in here than it had been in the yard.

  At the end of the corridor, on the right, was another stout wooden door, from behind which came the sounds of men talking in German, interspersed with gouts of laughter. They sounded drunk, their speech – though I couldn’t understand what they were saying – sloppy and slurred, their laughter over-raucous. That was good. If they were drunk it meant their reflexes would be slow.

  On the left, curving round and up, was a wooden staircase. It looked uneven, worn, roughly hewn. The handrail atop the twisted and haphazardly spaced support posts of the banister looked like it would give you splinters if you ran your palm across it.

  ‘He is up here,’ the young soldier whispered, indicating the staircase.

  ‘Up you go then.’

  With my left hand still holding his collar and my right hand holding the gun which I was still pressing to his head, he preceded me up the stairs. Inevitably the steps creaked as we ascended, some so loudly that I clenched my teeth and glanced behind me, certain that the conversation below would dwindle and stop, that the door would suddenly fly open and half a dozen armed and drunken German officers would tumble into the corridor.