Eleven Eleven

by Paul Dowswell

  Will felt a huge sense of relief when Jim announced they were going. He was desperate to be away from this gloomy forest. He was convinced that hostile eyes were watching him, or worse, even at that moment, someone had him in the cross hairs of a telescopic sight. He had to force himself to stop wondering if these were the last thoughts he would ever have.

  He tried to cheer himself up. There were still seven of them left. That gave Will a sense of security.

  As they trudged back, steady rain trickled down through the trees to add to their misery. The forest was dark at the best of times. Now it was almost like patrolling at dusk. Jim held up his hand, bringing them all to a halt. He beckoned Will forward and pointed to a black shape in the undergrowth close to the path, indicating he should have a look. It looked like the sole of a boot.

  Will moved forward cautiously, then flinched at the sight before him. Two skeletons, bones bleached by the elements, were lying on their backs close to each other. Both still had their army boots on their feet, but there was no evidence of any other clothing or weapons. Will beckoned the others to come and look. ‘Watch out for booby traps,’ whispered Jim to them all as they gathered round the macabre spectacle.

  ‘Maybe they were sunbathing,’ sniggered one of the men.

  ‘Glad someone finds it funny,’ said Jim brusquely. The soldier’s smirk vanished in an instant.

  ‘They were the boots they gave out to soldiers in 1914 – the original British Expeditionary Force,’ said Jim. ‘I remember them. Look at the stitching. These fellas were killed at the start of the war – probably retreating back from Mons in the late summer.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said in despair, looking up to the sky. He turned his back on his men as he tried to stop his face crumpling up. Will felt for him but didn’t dare put a consoling arm on his shoulder. He could see the other men looking uncomfortable. No one liked to see their sergeant so vulnerable. He was a tough bastard, and if he started to go, then what chance had the rest of them?

  Jim took a few deep breaths, until he could be sure his voice was steady. Then he said, ‘It’s taken us all this time, and all these blessed dead soldiers, to get back to where we were over four years ago. Don’t know who was luckier – them or us that’s had to carry on fighting . . .’

  He turned abruptly. ‘Come on, let’s get the bloody hell out of here.’

  They began to walk back west. Jim had his compass out and that gave them a rough sense of the direction they needed to be going in. No one said a word, each of them completely wrapped up in scanning the gloom for movements. But it was difficult to tell whether a shifting branch was caused by a sniper or the wind.

  Even though they were tired, the men picked up speed. They were all anxious to get out of the forest with no further casualties. After fifteen minutes, Jim raised an arm to signal a halt. ‘Right, two minutes’ rest,’ he whispered, ‘and then Cowell can take point.’

  Cowell nodded. They set off without a word when Jim got up. The rain had stopped at least, but the sky above, as far as they could see through the canopy of leaves and branches, was still leaden.

  Will was next in line, with Cowell at least five yards ahead. It was standard patrol procedure. You kept a good distance to make it more difficult for a sniper with a quick trigger finger to pick off a group of men in a few seconds, or to prevent a sudden artillery or mortar shell wiping out the whole patrol.

  There were more bodies ahead of them. Five German soldiers – very recently killed, by the look of them. The trees around them were scarred and tattered from shell blast. It was not difficult to see what had happened here.

  ‘They were probably after us too,’ whispered Jim. ‘No sign of ’em when we came this way before. Wonder if there are any more German patrols?’

  Will shook his head and tried to control the terrible anxiety that lurked in his gut. He just wanted to run as fast as he could out of the forest.

  As they hurried past, Will looked at the bodies, with their weapons and supplies scattered around them. Two were lying separate from the others. Three had been caught in a tight bunch – maybe they were leaning in to light a cigarette from a single match – maybe they had been having a whispered conversation. Now they lay tangled together. Most were untouched, save for bleeding around the ears or nose. They had yet to take on the stench of death. One, a young soldier close to Will’s age, had a letter poking out the top of his trouser pocket.

  Will hated seeing the personal belongings of dead men. The wristwatch, the shaving kit, the comb, the penknife, the mess tin and spoon and fork, and especially the letters from home. These things all had a terrible intimacy – once of great value to their dead owner, now worthless.

  As Jim’s patrol hurried on, something stirred in the pile of bodies. The man had heard them coming and, in his haste to hide, had realised the safest spot was in among these dead soldiers. He wondered where his fellow sniper Hoffmayer was, and whether he had managed to add to his total today. They had set off at first light this morning, and had bet a bottle of schnapps on who would claim the most kills by sunset. He’d already caught some fool out in the open, shouting to draw attention to himself. That was too easy. He wondered if Hoffmayer had had similar luck.

  Moving with extreme care, he slowly placed his rifle to his shoulder and peered at the back of the last man in the line. He needed to wait a moment or two more. The further away they were, the less they would be able to tell where the shot came from. He also hoped there might be further shell fire from somewhere, to hide the sound of his rifle. He breathed deeply and slowly, keeping his eye on his target and his finger by the trigger. Not too close though. Like many snipers he had filed down the levers on the firing mechanism of his Mauser, to make the trigger more responsive. It was a mixed blessing. An unintended shot could easily give him away.

  The path ahead of Jim’s patrol veered off to the north, but they could see it was close to another path heading in the direction they needed to go. Cowell took a short cut through the low undergrowth and all at once he disappeared in a white flash of earth and flame.

  Seeing the flash and the flying debris, the sniper’s finger touched his trigger. He hit his target in the back of the neck. He could not have done a better job if he’d standing right behind him with a pistol.

  Will, standing nearest to Cowell, was knocked off his feet. His head buzzed from the noise of the explosion, but he could not feel any other sort of injury. How he had escaped he did not really understand. When he looked at Cowell again, he was lying on his side with a tattered leg oozing blood and a horrible white stump of bone above where his left foot should be.

  ‘Hold back,’ said Jim urgently. He moved cautiously forward. ‘That were a mine, weren’t it?’ he asked his men. ‘I didn’t hear a shell coming in. Stick to the path. Keep your eyes ahead – and watch where you’re putting your feet.’

  Will could see his brother talking but he couldn’t hear him. There was just a whistle in his head. It didn’t hurt or anything, but it made him feel trapped, not being able to hear anything.

  The sniper cursed. The men in the patrol were now dispersed. His line of fire was no longer clear, but at least they hadn’t noticed another of their men was missing. He kept watching them flit between the trees.

  Wait. That’s what snipers did. His moment would come again.

  Sergeant Franklin edged over to Cowell. ‘He’s still breathing. Must have knocked him unconscious.’

  Cowell stirred, then began to moan. Then he started to scream. He looked down at his injury. ‘My leg. The bastards, they’ve blown off my bloody leg.’

  Jim propped him up. ‘It’s just your foot, Cowell. The rest of you is all right. Try not to make a noise.’ He took a flask from his backpack. ‘Drink some of this rum.’

  Cowell gulped it down until he choked. ‘Jesus it hurts,’ he said, gritting his teeth. He was pale now, his eyes slipping in and out of focus.

  Jim took some bandages from his pack and began to improvise a rough
tourniquet. ‘Stay with us, Cowell,’ he said. Then he turned to the biggest man in the squad. ‘Bradshaw, will you run ahead with him, get him to a field station as quick as you can?’

  It was a request rather than an order. But Bradshaw didn’t need a second bidding. Before the war he had worked down the mines and he could pick a man up as easily as he could heft a sack of coal. He put a hand on Cowell’s shoulder and said, ‘Don’t you worry, mate, I’ll get you back,’ then hauled him up. Cowell flinched as his injured leg brushed against his comrade.

  Bradshaw hurried off ahead, Cowell’s body bent over his shoulder, and the others marvelled at his strength.

  Will watched them go. He wanted to get out of this forest more than anything else he had done in his life. His hearing was coming back in little bursts. Sometimes clear, sometimes just a whistle.

  There was a sudden crack, like a twig being snapped, and all of them turned to look at Bradshaw and Cowell. The big man stumbled and lurched forward, stopped in his tracks. He and Cowell fell to the ground in an instant. Neither of them moved. All of the patrol threw themselves down. Then Ogden stood up to get a better view. Jim immediately signalled for him to get down. Will could see a small bloody circle right in the centre of Cowell’s back. It was getting bigger by the second.

  ‘The clever bastard,’ Will heard Jim say to no one in particular. ‘Got them both with a single shot.’

  ‘What do we do now, Sarge?’ said Hosking.

  ‘We wait,’ said Jim. ‘Stay here till dark if we have to. Keep looking around. But make your movements really slowly.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s not up in one of these trees, and can see us on the ground,’ said Hosking. He sounded terrified, and Will felt his own fear in the pit of his stomach.

  But they were covered pretty well, kneeling in deep foliage in a dip in the ground. They should be hidden.

  Jim called quietly, ‘Weale, where are you, man?’ He sounded on edge – as near to frightened as Will had ever heard him. Will suddenly realised Weale had not been among them since Cowell had caught the mine.

  ‘I haven’t seen him, just now,’ said Ogden in a terrified whisper.

  Will raised his head to take a look around and see if he could spot his comrade. A shot immediately rang out, hitting the side of his helmet in such a way that it knocked it off his head. In that one instant all four of them were seized with a blind urge to run. They scattered, each one in any direction his legs would carry him, praying that he could run fast enough to outwit the hidden enemy there in the forest.

  CHAPTER 15

  10.15 a.m.

  Axel counted the remaining men from his unit. There were fifteen of them left. Some of those who had chased the retreating Americans were returning. They looked fearful, wondering what punishment their bravado would earn them. A few wounded men were having their injuries attended to. Some still thrashed and whimpered in their agony, but the screaming had mercifully ceased.

  The calm that had descended seemed unreal. Axel felt like he was in a dream. Everything, even on this dim, drab day, seemed pin sharp. His breath in the cold air, raindrops on grass, pools of water glistening in the mud, the grey clouds, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He was still alive. He had survived his first combat unscathed. He thought he would feel more upset or shaken by what had happened. Maybe that would come later.

  The Feldwebel ignored the men who had come back, which surprised Axel, who had expected him to berate them with his usual ferocity. Maybe he felt they had shown the correct fighting spirit. Now he was sitting in a dip in the ground, cleaning his rifle, a smouldering clay pipe clamped firmly in his mouth. Even sitting down he still seemed like an enormous physical presence. Axel approached him with trepidation. ‘Feldwebel, my comrade Becker has been killed by a bomb. I ask permission to inspect the crashed aircraft and ensure the pilot is dead.’

  The Feldwebel nodded abruptly. ‘Return shortly,’ he said.

  Axel withdrew his bayonet from its sheath and fixed it to the mount on his Mauser rifle. It had repelled him when he was first issued with it. On the underside of the pointed blade were serrations. ‘What is this for?’ he had asked the drill sergeant, expecting it to be some bloody form of torture. ‘It’s a saw, you Dummkopf?,?’ the man had replied. ‘What do you think?’ Now that bayonet looked entirely fit for its gruesome purpose.

  He wriggled out of his field pack and ran over the freshly churned ground. The crashed fighter plane was still burning fiercely and thick black smoke was rising into the grey sky. He could feel the heat of it as he approached.

  As he reached the edge, he dropped to the ground and cautiously peered over. There was a terrible stink coming from inside the crater. He saw the grinning corpse and recoiled in revulsion. Then he saw the American airman at the bottom of the crater. He hadn’t spotted him yet.

  Axel took a deep breath and steeled himself for what he was about to do. He would run straight towards the pilot and skewer him with his bayonet. He deserved no less. He tensed and hurled himself over the edge – he would be upon his enemy in a matter of seconds and then it would be all over. He ran at full pelt, his rifle raised and ready to strike.

  Only when he was almost upon the pilot did he realise he was staring straight into the barrel of his revolver. Instinctively he froze in his tracks. Did he have a bullet in the chamber of his rifle? He couldn’t remember. He certainly wouldn’t be able to cock his rifle and fire off a round before the airman shot him in the face.

  They stared at each other for a few seconds, frozen in time – Axel with his rifle raised and his bayonet a few inches away from Eddie’s face. Eddie, his arm out, was holding a revolver pointing straight at Axel.

  Axel became aware again of his breathing and his heart beating painfully hard in his chest. But strangest of all was how calm he felt. Why had the American not shot him when he had charged towards him? What were they going to do next?

  The pilot, it seemed, had the advantage, but Axel noticed how the revolver was shaking in his hand. Its weight seemed too much for him and Axel realised he must be badly wounded. Should he wait to see what happened next, or should he press home his attack? He searched his opponent’s face for a sign. His hand might be shaking, but his eyes seemed clear and well focused. Then he noticed his face. He looked strangely familiar. The man had the sort of ruddy colouring often seen in the region he came from. And he wasn’t really a man – he was only a year or two older than Axel.

  ‘Just put the rifle down and catch your breath,’ said the pilot, speaking German with a Berlin accent.

  ‘You’re German,’ blurted out Axel. ‘Why are you fighting for them?’

  ‘Don’t be a Dummkopf?,?’ said the pilot. ‘Put down your rifle or I’m going to have to kill you. I don’t want to die on the last day of the war, and I don’t want you to have to either.’

  Axel was reeling. This airman spoke German like a native. And, he knew, he could easily have shot him just now. He began to shake a little himself. His anger was dissolving and, much to his embarrassment, he realised he was having to fight back tears.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’ said Eddie. He had realised this boy was his only chance out of this pool of mud. He needed to win him over quickly, before he sank further.

  ‘Axel,’ said the boy warily. ‘Why are you talking to me like this? Are you a traitor? Have you changed sides?’

  Eddie laughed. ‘Look, my parents moved over to the United States forty years ago. I was born there. We speak German at home, and English everywhere else. I’m as American as those soldiers who were attacking you just now.’

  Axel noticed the airman had a woman’s scarf poking out from the top of his flying jacket. Then another thing he’d just heard hit him like a flash of lightning. He blinked in confusion. ‘What did you say . . . the last day of the war?’ he blurted.

  Eddie laughed again – this time in disbelief. ‘What! They haven’t told you?’

  Axel felt exasperated. ‘Well, they didn’t
tell your soldiers attacking just now, did they! They didn’t tell your artillery men . . .’ He could feel his anger boiling up and raised his rifle. ‘And if you knew the war was ending today, what the hell were you doing coming over here in your flying machine and killing all my comrades?’

  Eddie’s eyes flashed with anger too. He levelled his revolver at Axel’s head again. ‘Stay where you are and calm yourself.’

  Axel froze.

  ‘Our top brass . . .’ said Eddie, then he faltered. All of a sudden he was having to find the strength to talk. ‘Got reputations to make. Gonna keep us fighting right to the eleventh hour . . . Then it’s all over, Kamerad . . . You stay here with me and wait.’ He glanced very rapidly at his watch and his eyes returned to Axel. ‘Not long . . . then we can both go home to our mothers.’

  Eddie felt guilty, making this speech. After all, he too had set out at the break of day to add a final notch to his belt. All at once he realised he was no better than any of the rest of the glory hunters – hoping to impress the other pilots by taking the life of another man.

  ‘I came out to help our boys,’ he lied to Axel and to himself. ‘If our boys are attacking, then it’s my job to help them.’

  Axel felt confused. This pilot he had been so intent on killing was only doing his duty – like they all were. And the man could have killed him easily enough. Axel extended an arm, reaching further down to make contact. But the pilot warned him away. ‘Don’t come any closer. I’m stuck in the mud here. You need to get something, a rope and plank, a belt, to pull me out.’

  Eddie wondered whether he had told this boy too much. He was at his mercy. What would he do if the boy refused to help? Threaten to shoot him?