War of the Damned (Relic Hunters)

by Martin Ferguson

  ‘Fascinating,’ Professor Veitnar says as he inspects the generator. ‘No fuel or electrical input, but uses hydro-power instead. This is impressive technology, especially for the 1940s. It is a wonder it still functions.’

  ‘Do you see what’s in the water?’ I ask Dave, spotting several submerged outlines of U-boats with their towers breaking the surface.

  ‘This is where our sub in Scotland came from?’ he suggests.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ Doctor Zajak says. ‘Look.’

  There’s a facility carved into the mountain and it looks like a base of operations for the SS Division Totenkopf with a vast hangar filled with rows of armoured tanks and jet-propelled fighter craft.

  ‘This is enough for a small army, air force, and navy,’ Dave says.

  ‘King Tiger and Maus tanks,’ Professor Veitnar marvels. ‘Messerschmitt Me 262 fighter jets. These were the greatest military vehicles the Third Reich created.’

  ‘You sound a little too pleased to see them,’ I state.

  ‘They were technological wonders of their time. Barely any survived – or so it was thought,’ he replies. ‘And yet here they are, all in pristine condition.’

  ‘Now, if you want to see something really cool,’ Follia says, ‘follow me.’

  We follow her through the cavern, the Winterbourne operatives still keeping watch for the blood-thirsty creatures. Empty bullet casings are scattered across the floor and the windows of the facility are all either smashed or holed with bullets.

  ‘Somebody had a good fight here,’ Dave observes.

  ‘Maybe they were fighting those creatures that attacked us,’ I reply.

  ‘It sure was,’ Bishop says with gritted teeth, pointing out warped and twisted bodies and skeletons similar in appearance to the creatures. Just for good measure, he fires two bullets into any he sees.

  ‘Here we go,’ Follia says, following the train tracks until they split off into three lines and enter a similar hangar space. What we find stuns us into silence.

  ‘I think the word you’re all looking for is JACKPOT!’ Follia says, skipping forward with glee.

  Three steam locomotives, each emblazoned with the Nazi swastika across their front and each with over a dozen cargo cars connected behind, stretch into the distance.

  As we walk closer we note how the central train is different from the others, with their single locomotives. This one has two steam engines and then an array of passenger carriages and offices as well as cargo cars. It has defences too, in the form of a pair of anti-aircraft batteries.

  ‘The Fuhrersonderzug,’ Cecylia whispers.

  ‘I believe you are correct, girl,’ Professor Veitnar says.

  ‘Hitler’s Steel Beast; his special train,’ Cecylia explains. ‘This was the Fuhrer’s mobile armoured headquarters. There was a radio room, a map and planning room, and two flakwagen anti-aircraft guns along with living quarters, a dining carriage, sleeping quarters, washrooms, and shower compartments. Each carriage had its own heating and air conditioning systems, unheard of anywhere else at that time.’

  ‘What was it used for?’ I ask.

  ‘Hitler used it to travel across Europe and Russia during the outset of the war,’ Cecylia explains. ‘The radio and comms car could keep contact with Berlin and the front lines using enigma coding machines. This is where Hitler lived and made tactical decisions and policies throughout occupied Europe. Entire station towns would be cleared when Hitler stopped for the night.’

  ‘You’d give Abbey a run for her money with your knowledge,’ I say.

  ‘Abbey?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah …never mind,’ I say.

  ‘You seem to be quite a fan,’ Follia says.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Cecylia snaps. ‘Trains, not too dissimilar to these, carried millions of Jews and other persecuted people to their deaths.’ She pauses for a moment, struggling with emotions. ‘But to the matter in hand; this train was said to have been divided up between the British and Americans at the end of the war,’ she explains. ‘It shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Yet, it is,’ Doctor Zajak says as she inspects one of the carriages.

  ‘Search the trains and report their contents,’ Professor Veitnar orders.

  The Winterbourne operatives spread out, searching all three trains, whilst Follia, Bishop, and two others keep watch. They quickly report their findings.

  ‘Looks like they mostly cleared them out,’ a soldier reports, ‘except for the Steel Beast. It’s filled to the brim. You need to take a look.’

  ‘We should be looking for the others,’ Bishop says.

  ‘Soon, soon,’ Professor Veitnar replies as he climbs the steps of Hitler’s Steel Beast. ‘Bring the boy,’ he calls over his shoulder.

  I am shoved up the steps and into the first carriage, stumbling into some of the heavy crates that fill the entire car. Several have already been prized open; gold and jewels sparkle in the torchlight. It’s stacked with art, sculptures, and more wealth than some countries. There are gold bars too, including more marked with the Kotwica Polish Resistance symbol. There can be no doubt; these are the missing Nazi gold trains.

  There’s so much history hidden away here. I cannot let Winterbourne have it for their evil purposes. Cecylia was right; they belong to the families from whom it was stolen.

  ‘Ergh, gross,’ says one of the soldiers, ripping open another chest. ‘It’s full of gold teeth.’

  ‘Taken from prisoners and the murdered,’ I say with spite.

  We walk through several carriages until we reach one very different, lavishly furnished with polished mahogany and marble. Bronze, silver, and gold adorn every surface. Maps and instructions are across the walls, and a table is covered with a map of Europe and Russia marked with battle lines, troop positions, and the names of military commanders and Nazi leaders like Rommel, Himmler, and Goering. The tech is impressive, too; telephones, radios, and even an enigma coding machine.

  ‘This was where Hitler planned his war,’ Veitnar says with wonder.

  ‘Didn’t work out too well for him though, did it?’ I ask, earning a swift shove from the soldier behind me.

  ‘This is nothing,’ says the man guiding us. He leads on towards the next carriage, calling over his shoulder, ‘You won’t believe this one. It’s right up your street, Doctor Zajak.’

  As the rest move on towards the next carriage they do not see me lower my hand to the table and pick up a bronze dagger-like letter opener, concealing it in the sleeve of my overalls. It is no weapon, but I have a different use in mind.

  If the previous room showed the Third Reich’s organisation and military might, then the next showed its madness. It’s like stepping into a sorcerer’s workshop. Esoteric etchings and markings are painted over the walls, ceiling, and floor. Books and scrolls, hundreds of years old, cover the tables. Fleshless skulls are mounted like trophies. Jars and vials of dark potions and poisons, maybe even blood, are secured in cases. Maps of far-off lands and photographs of tombs and burial sites are stuck to the walls. Twisted and demented masks of demons and beasts hang from the ceiling, looking down at us.

  ‘Witchcraft,’ mutters Professor Veitnar. ‘Utter nonsense.’

  ‘The occult,’ corrects Doctor Zajak as she gazes on the scrolls and texts.

  ‘So, it’s true,’ I say, still trying to wrap my head around it. ‘SS Totenkopf experimented with the occult.’

  ‘More than experimented,’ Zajak says as she studies the markings and runes on the walls. ‘These are prayers, spells and formulas; a powerful mix of science and the supernatural.’

  ‘That might explain those critters that took Leon,’ Bishop says.

  ‘We must take all of this with us,’ Doctor Zajak says.

  ‘We should burn it all,’ orders Veitnar.

  ‘No, we could learn so much…’ she begins to protest before Veitnar strikes her hard across the face.

  ‘I have warned you,’ the professor declares as Zajak recovers. Her cheek is already
bruised. ‘I will hear no more of your foolishness. We take the recovered treasures but burn all this… heresy.’

  ‘No,’ Zajak pleads. ‘You cannot do this.’

  There’s no time for a reply. A blood-curdling scream of pain echoes through the cavern. I’m dragged along as we make a swift exit.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ the professor demands as we re-join the rest of the group.

  ‘The facility,’ says Follia, pointing towards the main structure of the base. Her blade is unsheathed and the rest of Winterbourne command wait ready with their weapons.

  ‘Then that is our destination,’ Professor Veitnar instructs. ‘I want three men to stay here with the trains. You are to move all the cargo from the other two trains onto the Steel Beast. Leave the girl with them, too.’

  ‘No,’ I say, standing firm beside Cecylia. ‘I won’t leave her with your thugs.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice,’ Bishop says with a weapon raised at my head.

  ‘Besides, would you rather she was in there with those creatures?’ Follia taunts.

  ‘Why me?’ she asks. Her hands grip around her inhaler tightly.

  ‘We’ll be right back,’ I try to reassure her.

  ‘C’mon, hero boy,’ Bishop says, hitting me hard in the back to force me on.

  41

  CORPORAL ANDREW COOPER—Bremen, Germany. 27TH April 1945

  It’s good to feel the weight of the rifle in my hands again. There was a time in the hospital that I thought I’d never return to the First Suffolk. A tremor grows in my hands but I grip the rifle tighter to steady them. The shakes have been growing worse over the past weeks. With Lathbury, McClair, and Myhill to cover us, Jenkinson and Jacobs run between cover towards the next building in the street.

  ‘Now, Jacobs,’ I encourage.

  ‘Komm jetzt!’ he shouts after checking his notes. ‘Hande hoch.’ Come out. Hands up.

  There’s no sign of movement. We know the building was occupied as rifle fire came from the upper windows.

  ‘Komm heraus…oder wir werden dich töten,’ Jacobs demands. Come out or we will kill you.

  ‘We warned you,’ Jenkinson says, tossing a grenade through a window.

  The grenade explodes, smoke rises from the windows, and we hear voices call out.

  ‘Bitte! Bitte!’

  ‘Hande hoch!’ Jacobs yells as three figures stumble out of the building with their hands raised.

  ‘They’re just boys,’ Jenkinson says. ‘Ten or twelve years old at most.’

  ‘Hitler Youth,’ I reply, keeping my rifle raised as Jacobs and Jenkinson disarm them and search their pockets.

  I spent close to three months in the hospital recovering from wounds to my arm, chest, and stomach. The doctors threatened to send me back to England a number of times but I told them I wasn’t going anywhere except back to the First Suffolk. Maggie would kill me if she knew, but I can’t leave my lads behind – what’s left of my lads. Myhill was with me in the field hospital for the first few weeks, but he returned to our section as soon as able.

  Captain Grayburn visited when I first regained consciousness and explained what happened. The SS Totenkopf Death’s Head Division had set the perfect trap for us, capturing a large number of E Company and driving the rest of us back with many casualties. Stone and Thompson were killed, along with Lieutenant Radley, whilst Myhill and I were wounded and evacuated. I know Lathbury had everything in hand, but I couldn’t help but feel I was letting the lads down by being stuck in the hospital.

  Our boys of the First Suffolk returned to the ruined town of Neveltsom with armoured support, but the Death’s Head Division was long gone, leaving behind the massacred town and our dead. Over a dozen of our regiment are still missing, including Lieutenant Clarke from F Company. I hate to think what became of them at the hands of the Nazi Death’s Head Division.

  I heard all about the successful failure of Operation Market Garden, as command was calling it. So much for only facing old men and boys and ending the war by Christmas. In December, I heard of the German counter-attacks in the Ardennes and broke out of the hospital, grabbing a lift from a convoy heading for the front. From there, I found my way to the First Suffolk. My depleted section was pleased to see me.

  None of us were the same after Holland. The jokes and laughter are few and far between. Some of the lads barely speak anymore. We’re all eager for this damned war to be over. We’ve pretty much reached breaking point.

  My hands tremble when I hear the enemy shells approaching and, although unseen by the lads, I was unable to hold back tears. That was the first time I lost control, but thankfully, no one saw it. I haven’t written to Maggie for weeks. How am I supposed to tell her about any of this?

  We endured a miserable cold winter before advancing over the Rhine and at last into Germany; ‘the last good heave’ so Churchill called it. Bremen, a city heavily bombed by the RAF, was our next target. What’s left of the German army is fighting, desperate to protect its homeland. We have heard more stories of the SS Totenkopf Death’s Head Division but have not crossed paths with them since Holland.

  At Bremen, the First Suffolk fought with the support of Cromwell tanks of the Eighth Armoured Division, going from house to house to dislodge the defenders. It took us and the rest of the British Second Army a week to capture the city, but still small pockets of resistance need rooting out. Casualties have been relatively light with nobody taking any chances this late in the war. Germany is so close to falling.

  Bremen is in a hell of a state. Not a single building is undamaged. We search any buildings that could be hiding German soldiers. We see the various parts of the lives of the people who lived here; family photos with glass and frames smashed, a child’s doll trampled on the floor, meals abandoned in the kitchens. These were real people, families and innocents; no different to ours back home.

  We have some new arrivals, boys who have just completed basic training and been shipped straight out to us. Privates Paul Baker, Charles Taunton, and Patrick Waters. They seem like a decent bunch, but there is a notable division between them and the rest of us. They are overly keen and at times, reckless, whereas the rest of us are tired and eager for the war to end. There are reports that Berlin is surrounded. Hitler cannot hold out for much longer.

  ‘British?’ one of the German boys asks in pretty good English.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Suffolk?’ he asks, seeing our uniforms. ‘I grew up in Cambridge!’

  ‘How the hell did you end up here?’ Jenkinson asks.

  ‘My parents were born here in Bremen,’ he explains. ‘They answered Hitler’s call to return to the Fatherland, along with my brother.’

  ‘And how did that work out for you?’ I ask bitterly.

  ‘My father died in Russia,’ he says. ‘My brother was shot by the SS for deserting his post when he knew the war was lost.’

  ‘More of those bastards,’ Jenkinson mutters. ‘Any of them around here?’

  ‘Some,’ the boy replies. ‘They ordered us to fight until our last breath. Anyone who retreated would be shot for cowardice. We had no choice.’

  ‘The SS, the Nazis, they’re the real enemy,’ I say without thinking.

  ‘Yes,’ the boy dares to reply, drawing glares of warning from his comrades. ‘To the north, by the coast, there is a base among the mountains they tried to keep secret. We’ve heard stories though, terrible stories. You need to go there. Your army needs to see what they were doing there.’

  Once the prisoners are escorted away, we check the rest of the street, building to building. In one we discover a whole family slaughtered, including a baby in its crib.

  All at once the full horror hits me. The horrors I have seen. The fear and the pain. The loss and the suffering. I break down in tears, unable to stop myself. I struggle to breathe, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘Andy?’ Lathbury says, his hand on my shoulder.

  It begins to pass.
/>   ‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘C’mon. The war isn’t going to end itself.’

  42

  CORPORAL ANDREW COOPER—North of Bremen, Germany. 29th April 1945

  ‘Tell me again, Corporal?’ Jenkinson whines.

  ‘Tell you what?’ I ask. I haven’t shaved in weeks, showered in days or eaten since early this morning. I’m tired, hungry, and I’ve had enough of all of this.

  ‘Why us? Of all the sections in all the platoons, in all the companies of this damned battalion, why do we have to go out on patrol again?’

  I don’t answer, but thankfully, Lathbury does.

  ‘Third Platoon of E Company have been missing since they patrolled this road yesterday,’ the lance corporal replies.

  ‘Then let that be E Company’s problem,’ Myhill mutters from the lead of our patrol.

  ‘We find them. We get back to the battalion. That’s the end of it,’ I say.

  ‘Did you hear about that camp they found near Hamburg?’ one of the new lads, Baker, asks. ‘They uncovered thousands of bodies.’

  ‘Can’t be,’ Waters says.

  ‘I swear that’s what they’re saying,’ Baker replies.

  ‘I heard it, too,’ adds Taunton.

  ‘Shot?’ Myhill asks.

  ‘Gas chambers and starvation,’ Baker replies. ‘They worked the prisoners without feeding them. When it was liberated, half the camp was burned down. There were mutilated bodies strewn everywhere.’

  ‘Sounds like the Death’s Head Division,’ Lathbury whispers to me.

  ‘There were a few survivors,’ Taunton adds. ‘Like skeletons they were. They said other prisoners were taken, dozens over the past few months and none were ever seen again. They said it was for some strange experiments. There’s rumour of a giant.’

  That elicits a round of quiet laughter from the lads, although there’s an edge of fear to it.

  Giant, that’s what the elderly Dutch woman said before she died. I remember their attack in Holland and Lieutenant Radley’s death, his skull crushed by a brute even bigger than Lathbury.