‘He’s already back into the thick of it,’ says Matt.
‘The United Nations?’ she guesses correctly. ‘That was quite a mess he’s been left to clear up after all that trouble with the pyramid and those curses. He should be careful. That whole episode took quite a toll on him. He takes too much on.’
‘That we can all agree,’ I say. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t been in touch if the museum is funding all this. I’d have thought he would want constant updates.’
‘Fortunately for the museum, they’re not the ones funding this pointless exercise,’ the professor mutters.
‘No, that would be us,’ a new voice announces as two people enter the cabin.
The first is a woman in her mid-twenties, frizzed hair and thick-rimmed glasses. She fixes Matt and me with a curious look, uncertain of newcomers. The second person to enter is a girl about my age, short with black hair, green eyes, and piercings through her left ear. She follows on, looking uncertain and out of place, not that I can really talk. She avoids eye contact, looking at the room around us but never directly at us.
‘Oh good, more people to annoy me,’ Professor Lainson says. ‘Matt and Adam Hunter, meet Doctor Natalia Zajak of the Polish Historical Society. Doctor Zajak is our local historian, guide, and investor backing this little enterprise. Matt and Adam are colleagues of mine from the British Museum.’
‘A pleasure to meet you both,’ the doctor says with a heavy Polish accent before shaking our hands. ‘And may I introduce our young Cecylia Nowak. She is undoubtedly a technical genius, and lead engineer for our dig teams.’
‘Hello,’ she says quietly, uneasy with the praise. Her accent is also Polish and she awkwardly and uneasily shakes our hands.
‘It’s good to meet you both,’ Matt greets them.
‘How goes the Beta site?’ Professor Lainson asks of Cecylia. ‘You got those rusted pieces of crap they’ve lumped us with working again?’
‘The turbines on all of the primary drills need replacing,’ Cecylia explains bluntly. ‘They never should have been brought here. They are as worthless as the lazy crew you hired to operate them. If given better management, they may have achieved better results – and not damaged your equipment.’
‘Me being the management,’ Professor Lainson says. ‘Don’t hold back, Cecylia.’
‘You know I don’t,’ she replies, ‘not with my…’
The professor cuts her off. ‘Just tell me if you got the drills working again?’
‘I have,’ Cecylia explains. ‘I stripped out the fans and replaced most of the burnt out wiring and capacitors as well as…’
‘Are they working?’ the professor asks, cutting to the chase.
‘They are,’ Cecylia says. ‘I have saved you at least a week’s wasted time and a vast sum of money on repairs.’
‘And that is why you are the best damn technical engineer I’ve ever worked with,’ Professor Lainson says with her first smile. ‘That’s the only good news I’ve had all day.’
‘I cannot guarantee how long my repairs will withstand constant…’ Cecylia tries to say before the professor stops her.
‘The digging has recommenced. That is all I need to know for now.’
Cecylia moves to say more, a confused look on her face, but she remains silent.
‘Anyway, so you are funding these excavations, Doctor Zajak?’ Matt asks of the historian.
‘Not with enough money,’ Professor Lainson mutters.
‘Yes, I am the source of funds that pay for everything around here,’ Zajak replies, throwing a brief stern look at the professor. ‘I am fortunate to have financial backers for this endeavour, but they will not be pleased by our lack of progress.’
‘Don’t come looking to me if you’re upset we haven’t found anything yet,’ Professor Lainson replies. ‘I warned you of the risks. You know this is all based on rumours.’
‘Rumours?’ Matt asks.
‘The tale of the Walbrzych Gold Trains has been told many times by many people,’ Doctor Zajak explains, handing us a folder of black and white photographs taken during the Second World War. Among them are images of large steam trains emblazoned with the Nazi Swastika; the trains’ container trucks and wagons are being filled with crates, and masses of people being escorted from their homes at gunpoint.
‘On the orders of Adolf Hitler, the Nazis pillaged the nations they conquered,’ the doctor continues. ‘Anything that met their liking was taken; gold, silver, jewels, pearls, pieces of art, anything of value. In the final days before the Third Reich fell, it is believed that up to three trains were loaded with the valuable cargo and hidden somewhere amongst the mountains. We have witness testaments from dozens of sources saying they saw these trains but nothing was ever recovered. Not the trains nor their valuable cargo. People have scoured Europe for decades in search of these prizes.’
‘What leads you here?’ Matt asks.
‘Many of the rumours point to the Lower Silesia area, which was located in South-East Germany but now is a part of South-West Poland,’ Professor Lainson adds.
‘The town of Walbrzych north of us was one of the last locations looted by the Nazis,’ Doctor Zajak explains before giving Cecylia a concerned glance. ‘Before this though, many people in the town were taken from their homes to be used as slave labour. There was talk of caves in a mountain. None of the people who were taken ever returned.’
‘We thought that with the deep-level scans of the terrain, and the latest in mining technology, we could succeed where so many others had failed,’ Professor Lainson says. ‘So far it seems we were mistaken.’
‘We just need time,’ Doctor Zajak reassures.
‘And a miracle,’ Lainson mutters.
‘Did the British Museum send you here to help us?’ Doctor Zajak asks.
‘Not exactly,’ Matt replies, handing them the image of the solid gold bar. ‘We thought you’d be interested to see this.’
‘The Kotwica,’ Cecylia says without looking to us. She takes out an asthma inhaler from her pocket and takes one long inhale before speaking again. ‘The Polish resistance marked anything of worth with the symbol. This was taken from Walbrzych.’
‘Where did you find that?’ Professor Lainson asks.
‘Aboard a U-boat off the Scottish coast,’ I reply.
‘And where is it now?’ Doctor Zajak asks. ‘I would be eager to conduct tests on its authenticity.’
‘It’s gone,’ Matt says, without explaining more.
‘As is the U-boat,’ I add.
‘We can vouch that it is authentic though,’ Matt says.
‘Interesting,’ Professor Lainson says. ‘The Polish mark alongside the Nazi emblem does suggest this was part of the cargo taken from here.’
‘So the question is, how did a gold bar from Poland end up on a submarine off the coast of Scotland?’ I say.
‘There are other questions too,’ Matt adds. ‘We also recovered a British soldier’s identification tags from the U-boat. The rest of our team tracked down the last living survivor of that unit and he mentioned the word Riese.’
‘Giant,’ Doctor Zajak replies instinctively. ‘It is German for giant.’
‘The phrase does hold meaning for us,’ Professor Lainson says. ‘According to recovered records, Riese was a codename for a German project to build underground structures throughout the Third Reich that was linked by railway lines. Supposedly, the project was never completed but is one of the main reasons the missing trains are thought to be in this area.’
‘Was the soldier stationed in this area during the war?’ Professor Lainson asks.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘His unit saw out the last days of the war in Bremen, Germany.’
‘Interesting,’ the doctor and professor say in unison.
‘The soldier mentioned one other word,’ Matt says. ‘Totenkopf.’
‘Death’s Head,’ Cecylia replies.
‘What does it mean?’ I ask.
Cecylia appears hesitant at
first, looking to us with uncertainty before speaking.
‘SS Totenkopf Panzer Division was known as the Death’s Head Division,’ she explains, gazing at the floor at her feet. ‘They had two objectives; to take anything of worth, and to investigate the occult, which often involved unethical experimentation. Along with the Gestapo, they desecrated entire villages throughout Europe in these pursuits.’
She sighs heavily before she continues; ‘The true number of their war crimes was never brought to light. One of the most infamous was the La Paradis Massacre of 1940. After running out of ammunition, soldiers of the Norfolk Regiment surrendered to the German soldiers who had encircled them. The SS Division Totenkopf led them in front of a wall and executed them. Ninety-seven were killed with only two escaping.’
‘Were the perpetrators ever brought to justice for war crimes?’ Matt asks.
‘No,’ Cecylia says, looking to Matt for a moment before her gaze becomes distant again. ‘They got away with it.’
‘Do any of the trains lines of the Riese project link up with the known U-boat pens or construction harbours?’ Matt asks.
‘That would be an excellent question if we knew where all the Riese train lines were,’ Professor Lainson replies. ‘Only a fraction of the lines are accounted for and there is no comprehensive record of them. The Germans were pretty thorough at hiding their secrets.’
‘There is one map,’ Doctor Zajak announces.
‘Where?’ Matt, the professor, and I ask at the same time.
‘Museum Island in Berlin, Germany,’ Zajak says with a strange smile.
‘As if that’s a real place.’ I laugh until I see the serious faces all around me. ‘What? That’s a real place?’
‘It’s a collection of five of Berlin’s biggest museums, all of which are located in one city district,’ Zalak explains. ‘In their vaults, hidden away from the public, is one of the trains designed for the Riese project. It was captured by Allied forces before its construction was finished.’
‘How do you know this?’ Matt asks.
‘The same way I know the British Museum has secret vaults containing a wealth of historical artefacts,’ she taunts, shutting Matt up.
‘How does a hidden train in Germany help us?’ I ask.
‘According to the schematics, there should be a completed map of the Riese train lines chiselled into the engineer’s compartment,’ the doctor says. ‘If you can match up the train lines with the locations of U-boat pens and factories, that should give you a destination of where your U-boat was loaded with the gold bars.’
‘How come you’ve never been to see this train and its map for yourself?’ I ask.
‘Or told anyone else about this?’ Professor Lainson adds.
‘Because the curator who oversees the Berlin museums is Karl Lehmann,’ Doctor Zajak explains, earning laughter from Professor Lainson.
‘Why is that of significance?’ Matt asks.
‘He’s even more stubborn than me,’ the professor replies with a cruel chuckle.
13
PRIVATE ANDREW COOPER—Gibraltar Barracks, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk, England. 7TH October 1940
‘Fire!’ Lieutenant Wright orders.
A dozen triggers are pulled as rifles shoot at targets across the firing range until the magazines are spent. The feel of the weapon, the kick-back of the rifle butt into my shoulder, the unforgettable sound and smell, is all familiar to me and makes me feel like a soldier again. Memories of the chaos in France quickly surface in my mind; the fear, the blood, the mud and dirt. I remember the cries of the wounded and dying, the whistle of bullets and falling artillery and the droning sirens of the Stuka dive-bombers. I remember seeing my friends die around me. I remember it all – especially the fear.
When the rifles of our section fall silent, I hear others across the barracks; rifle fire, Bren light machine guns and even the thuds of explosions from grenades and anti-tank weapons. A few more weeks of this and we join up with the rest of the regiment, and then God only knows where we’ll be posted. Africa keeps being mentioned; the British Army fighting in the desert. The headaches and blurred vision are forgotten and I only remember the wound I suffered at Dunkirk when I look in the mirror and see the scar. The lads keep reminding me though, asking what it was like in France and what I saw. I spare them the truth.
‘Commendations to Smith, Cooper, and Lathbury,’ Lieutenant Wright tells us, inspecting the targets through his binoculars. ‘Disappointing from Thompson. Most of your rounds hit to the left. Smarten up or I’ll use you as a target next time.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Thompson replies sourly.
‘And Myhill, Sir?’ Smithy asks.
‘You don’t have to ask that,’ Myhill replies, sheepishly.
‘Yeah he does,’ I tell him. ‘How’d he do, Lieutenant?’
‘Every round dead-centre,’ Lieutenant Wright replies proudly.
The men let out a cheer and Myhill blushes with embarrassment.
Thomas Myhill is the son of a poacher, young and a bit naive. Some of the lads have played tricks on him over the past few weeks, too innocent for his own good, but he more than makes up for it with his skill with a rifle. His father’s talent has clearly rubbed off on him and Myhill is easily the best shot I have ever seen. The lads take great pride that he is in our section.
The rest of our training section is made up of me, Clive Smith, Simon Thompson, and Robert Lathbury. All are lads from nearby towns.
Clive ‘Smithy’ Smith was a barman before enlisting, the joker of the group, and chief complainer too. His heart’s in the right place but we’ve had to remind him a few times there’s a war on.
Simon Thompson, a Lowestoft lad, is already the group’s scrounger and supplier of anything and everything for a price. It seems Thompson worked with the black-markets before he was caught by the police and forced to enlist. He certainly hasn’t lost touch with his contacts judging by the contraband materials that keep appearing.
That leaves Robert Lathbury. Bob worked in construction before the war. His size and impressive strength is a testament to it. Compared to the scrawny and short Myhill, Bob is a giant. Despite his intimidating size, Bob is cheery and has an ever-present grin. The lads look up to him and don’t dare put a foot wrong in his eyes.
‘How long do you reckon until we join with the rest of the regiment?’ Bob asks as Lieutenant Wright inspects the targets further.
‘Not long now,’ I reply.
The rest of the regiment, those who survived the evacuation of Dunkirk, were posted to Weymouth and then to Folkestone. It has been put in charge of defences along the coast, preparing for Hitler’s invasion if it ever comes. All summer, the Royal Air Force has been fighting their own battles with the Luftwaffe in the skies over Britain, and thankfully there’s been no sign of a German invasion fleet. The men and I watch from the barracks as the Spitfires and Hurricanes of the RAF fight their war in the sky. Every day, we see them take on numbers far outnumbering their own. A lot of brave men are dying up there to protect our homeland, but despite their losses, those inflicted on the Luftwaffe are far greater according to the news broadcasts on the radio each night.
‘Well, when we go, I hope they don’t break up the lads,’ Lathbury says.
‘That’s all in the hands of the officers,’ I reply. ‘Depends which companies, platoons, and sections are short, I guess.’
‘They’re a decent enough bunch, all except Smithy,’ Lathbury says.
‘Hey,’ Smithy replies, the rest of us laughing.
‘So, you got plans for that three day pass of yours next week?’ I ask Bob.
‘Might catch up with family,’ he replies. ‘My brother is shipping out to join with the Eighth Army in Egypt in a couple of weeks.’
‘You never said you had family in the army,’ I say as I clean away dirt from my rifle.
‘Just Christopher,’ Lathbury says. ‘What about you? Heading down to London to see that nurse of yours?’
‘Hope
fully,’ I reply, unable to contain the grin.
‘Enough chat!’ Lieutenant Wright barks. ‘Reload and prepare to fire at the same targets again.’
‘Try to hit your own target this time, Thompson,’ Smithy teases him.
‘I’ll shoot you, if you’re not careful,’ he replies.
‘If you two just focused on your aim you might actually hit something,’ Bob taunts them. ‘You might even be as good as Myhill one day.’
‘I doubt that,’ I reply, turning to the poacher’s son. ‘You’re a helluva shot.’
‘All I do is look down the sights and pull the trigger,’ he replies, blushing. ‘I’m no different to everyone else.’
‘The difference is, you hit the target every single time,’ I tell him
‘Ready!’ Lieutenant Wright calls out. ‘Aim! Fire!’
10th October 1940
Dear Andy,
I hope you are well and not suffering too much during the training at the barracks. It sounds like your wounds are healing well. I wish that was the case with all my patients; but none are quite as stubborn as you, or as handsome, I admit. Some do send me letters, but none have left quite the impression that you have. Strange to think of it but your letters are quickly becoming my favourite part of the week.
I am glad you were able to speak with your mother. It has been a long time since I saw any of my family. All of them moved away from London when the bombing began. I wish I was with them but my place is here and my duty, caring for the sick and wounded, is here. They send weekly letters, complaining of the rationing, the weather, and that I have not yet joined them. They have no idea what it is like here in the capital. There are shortages of food, medicine, shelter, and even clean water. I cannot leave when I’m needed here.
It is always busy at the hospital, and getting worse every day. Three nights ago bombs hit the next street from here. There were a lot of people hurt and most of them brought to my hospital. There were children among them. For one little girl there was simply nothing that we could do. I stayed with her for hours just holding her hand. She was only four years old. I haven’t left the building since. I’ve barely slept for days.
War of the Damned (Relic Hunters) Page 8