Erich returned the bowl and spoon to the table and strode across.
The woman hung limply between both soldiers but as he approached, her shoulders and head began shaking, slow, triumphant laughter bubbling from her lips. She angled her head to peer at him through a curtain of lank greasy hair; brown skinned, her face was young but creased like a leathery hag. Her eyes were strange, small, black, glinting. That was when he noticed the blood coating her hands, sticky, not fresh, and the smears of it on her filthy clothing.
“Woman! Where did this blood come from?” Erich demanded.
Bruhn shook his head — all jaw, cheekbones, blue eyes and blonde hair — and told him: “She does not speak German. She raves in some Norwegian dialect. I can understand her, but only just.”
Erich didn’t show his irritation at Bruhn’s tone, or the fact they had brought the woman here rather than to Hauptmann Raske who was responsible for the military hold on Svolvær and the dozen or so squads of Heer within it. “Can you talk to her? Why is she covered in blood?”
Bruhn reinforced his brutal grip on her arms, using his strength to force a jolt of pain through her joints that made the laughter stop momentarily. “We heard her on patrol. Up behind the slopes here, behind the Fløyfjellet.” He sneered, and jerked his head at the bunker’s open door — indicating the mountain that dominated the edge of the settlement. “She was howling. Like a Valkyrie! We found her by a small altar of stone, blood everywhere. ”
The overweight form of Sturm clambered to his feet, holding a hand over his nose, mumbling something about her being a witch. Bruhn grinned at this suggestion, pleased by it, and nodded, “Yes, a witch. Where did the blood come from? She is not wounded. No animals were there. And where is Krebs? Nobody has seen him. Why was she there? Overlooking our position…”
The naïve Quirin Siekert glanced from Bruhn to Erich and found his gaze, imploring him to do something that would make them proud. “See her eyes. I think she is one of the Sami people. Why else would she be here but to put a curse on us?”
Cold air was swirling in through the open door. Sturm shuffled over to close it but Erich hurled words at him: “Nein, noch nicht!”
Everyone stopped and stared at him. Erich sighed, gathering his patience. “The Sami are nothing to do with the war and they are not witches or warlocks. This woman looks like she is crazy. Take her to Raske and leave him to deal with it.”
It was not the right thing to say, of course. But Erich had not reached his rank by always pleasing his men. But then the woman caught his eye with her gaze — which was smiling, mocking him. She spoke to him. At him!
“Du er kristen?”
Erich sensed he knew what statement she had made. He replied in German. “I am a Christian. Yes.”
“Du er ikke som de andre. Blind av frykt. Du må høre.”
Erich bunched his cheeks beneath his eyes in a grimace, he looked at Bruhn. “What did she say?”
“She wants you to listen. Says you’re not blinded by fear like we are. Is that right, eh?” Bruhn gave her a harsh shake between him and Siekert; barked a quick laugh in contempt.
The woman held Erich’s attention like a snake might a mouse. She continued, relentless. “De kommer. Menn som trenger veien åpen. Jeg har åpnet den. Veien er åpen.”
Bruhn started to translate, his words hurriedly overlapping hers as he rushed to catch up. “Men are coming. Men who need the way to be open. She has opened the way. The way is open.”
“Tell her to shut up!” Dirchs shouted, his titanic frame hunched over as he shuffled away from her. Her eyes didn’t waver from Erich.
“Stjernene er i posisjon i Tomheta. Han som hører, har hørt mitt kall. Til og med nå, beveger den seg, den faller gjennom Tomheta mot oss. Du kan ikke stoppe det. Veien er åpen.”
Bruhn’s lips rolled back to expose bared teeth, his eyes alive with wild fire as he translated: “The stars are aligned beyond the Void. The One who listens has heard her Call. Even now, it moves, falling through the Void towards us. You cannot stop this. The way is open.”
Sturm grabbed his wood-handled boot knife and edged forward, seemingly intent on using it. Dirchs stopped retreating and surged forwards to join in.
“HALT!” Erich boomed the word. Causing everyone to freeze in their tracks. Even the Sami woman with her damnable raving fell silent, watching him.
Erich inhaled slowly through his nose, diaphragm trembling in the core of his chest. The woman had unsettled him. He vividly recalled the sense of doom that had sprung upon him earlier. All a trick of the mind, a defect caused by the power of suggestion — the cognitive legacy of hundreds of thousands of years living as primitives. Placing hands on hips, he puffed his chest up, pushed his jaw forward. “Take her to Raske. She is his problem. If she is a witch, then I doubt she will have much luck with a man so ignorant of the subtle ways of nature.”
It was true. Raske would rather burn a tree than enjoy its shape or the colour of its canopy.
Sturm clasped his free hand to the bald dome of his skull, smearing his own blood across it, and shuffled away. Dirchs seemed unable to move. He glared at the woman, but she kept her eyes on Erich. Even as Bruhn and Siekert dragged her away, she twisted her head at a painful angle and held him in her gaze.
And then they were gone from the bunker.
“Close that damned door…” he ordered Sturm gruffly. Then softened his tone a little to add, “Go clean your face. And then come and finish cooking this fish stew. It smells too good to wait much longer.”
Sturm did as he was told and walked to the latrine to wash the blood away.
Erich glanced upwards and saw the reptilian figure of Schenck, standing at the wooden rail that stopped soldiers falling onto the balcony below. “That was a mistake, Oberleutnant.”
Arching his spine to tilt backwards, he called back up, “Yes, thank you for your opinion Gefreiter. I am sure your option would have been to gut her open on the floor here and see if her innards turned to smoke. Get back to your watch. I will relieve you when I have eaten.”
The massive Dirchs muttered something and then strode to the door. Erich whirled round and called after him, but Dirchs either didn’t hear or didn’t care — hauling the steel door open and closing it after him like it was part of a child’s toy.
Erich finally got to eat, which was pleasant even if he sat alone at the table. Sturm did not want to engage with him and remained by the stove, stirring the food.
It had been a mistake to send the woman away with them, of course.
Erich climbed up the wooden steps to the balcony and then up the concrete steps to the observation gallery. He took over from Schenck and lit another cigarette as he stared into the darkness beyond the wide aperture; chilly night air pushed through and swirled around him.
It was a little later when Bruhn, Siekert and Dirchs all returned together, furtive and silent. Siekert seemed shaken and appalled by something. Bruhn led him into the latrine. Dirchs slumped down in front of the oil-burning heater and appeared to collapse in on himself, sobbing.
Erich wrestled with the surge of panic and anger that welled up from his stomach. It took him nearly an hour before he felt capable of going down to ask what had taken place.
He learned the truth easily. Nobody could deny it. None of them wanted to deny it — they were proud of what they had done, even if they were also upset by it.
Bruhn, Siekert and Dirchs had killed the woman. They beat her with their fists and then Siekert, his youth forever spoiled from this point forward, had strangled the life out of her. They had wrapped rocks in her rags, carried her and dumped her body in the sea overlooking the island of Høgøya.
That was it then. That was the end of it. The witch was dead.
No.
Not the end. Erich sensed a trap had been sprung and the only way of closing it had died with the woman’s last grinning breath.
Erich resumed the night watch. Bruhn, Siekert, Dirchs and Schenck slept in their cots
near to the radiating heat of the oil-burner. Sturm had come to take over at some point but Erich waved him away. He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the sky or the sea. Something was coming. That’s what she had said. What was coming? What couldn’t they stop?
The air flooding through the open gallery numbed his face and hands. Burrowed through his coat and uniform. Impaled shards of ice in his bones. He gritted his teeth and stood through it. He was a German soldier. He could suffer with honour.
He smoked the last of his Ecksteins at four o’clock in the morning. His eyes roamed the empty space ahead of him — the Void, eh? –but nothing broke the darkness. He thought of the Sami woman… where was her body now? Had it sunk or had it tumbled free of the rags and their rocks to float up and drift?
It was nearly thirty past six when the dawn finally arrived. With some relief Erich saw that the heavy clouds had retreated to the horizon, allowing a pale blue with streaks of cerise and new gold to sweep across the heavens. Then the fiery blister of the sun rolled above the horizon spilling furnace light across the sea towards him. Yet his rising mood crashed like a wrecked ship on a perilous shore when he saw the black silhouette of a figure, a shadow of a man, step out onto the rocks.
Only one hundred metres away, perhaps less, the figure was dressed in a uniform and seemed to be staring intently — directly at the bunker!
Erich span away to the wooden railing and hollered at the top of his voice, yelled until his throat was raw. The men leapt from their cots, dressed and responded to his orders — more out of sleepy instinct than any sense of loyalty or respect. Dirchs was to guard the entrance with an M34 machine gun; recoil-operated and air-cooled, Dirchs was big enough to handle the 800 rounds per minute of 7.92×57mm Mauser cartridge it could tear into a fire zone. Erich turned back to the observation gallery window whilst Bruhn, Siekert and Schenck dashed down to the rowing boat, moored at the foundations of the bunker. The silhouetted figure, Erich was certain it was an officer, stepped from one shallow ridge of black rock to another, surrounded by the lapping swells of the open sea. Perhaps it was a British spy?
Then the figure waved an arm, as if it knew it had his attention… as if trying to warn him. And then it vanished, perhaps stepping behind a larger rock; Erich wasn’t certain, he had only blinked and then the figure was gone.
A few moments later, the tiny boat appeared below his position, and began to approach the rocks as instructed. Bruhn and Siekert rowed, whilst Schenck crouched at the bow with his Karabiner 98 Kurz aimed and ready. Erich dry-swallowed several times, watching their progress. He was worried that the silhouette would appear suddenly and shoot his men. He was worried the silhouette wouldn’t be there at all.
They reached the rocks. Schenck leapt from the tiny boat and searched every nook and cranny. But it rapidly became clear nobody was there.
When the three soldiers returned, derision was stencilled across the smug grins of their faces. No doubt Bruhn had made some comments whilst rowing back. Dirchs muttered something under his breath and went back to his cot with the machine gun.
Sturm politely suggested Erich had spent too much time away staring out the window.
Erich politely advised Sturm he was close to being hurled into the stockade for questioning his ability to perform a simple role. He grabbed Sturm’s packet of Lucky Strikes from the soldier’s tunic pocket and walked away.
The mood within the bunker continued to deteriorate from that point.
Erich remained in the observation gallery, smoking, whilst Bruhn, Sturm, and Schenck talked quietly at the mess table. Bruhn — looking like a Teutonic lord; Sturm — nursing his bruised nose; and Schenck — the snake.
Siekert sat by the radio set with headphones on, a thousand yard stare, looking like a boy who had lost all innocence. Returning to his watch, Erich squinted as the rising sun sparkled and glinted off the sea. Were the British coming? He wondered. Maybe the silhouette had been waving at his co-conspirators seeking rescue before the rowboat reached him? That was plausible. Perhaps there was a U-Boat under the surface in preparation for the attack — a botched attempt at landing a spy. Yes, it made sense. Yet Erich resisted the urge to inform Hauptmann Raske in case there really was something wrong with him, a malfunction within his mind.
The men started to behave strangely. And Erich, standing on his perch above the bowels of the bunker, realised he was trapped by them; no way out except through the steel door below. It started with Schenck, standing up from the table clutching his strange-shaped head and stumbling silently to the door. Sturm called after him but Bruhn grabbed his arm where they sat and held him back. Bruhn’s attitude was to watch as Schenck whirled around, away from the door, his eyes bulging, hands like rigid claws against his skull, mouth parts working to utter some sound that never came. Then he stopped, slowly lowered his hands and stood motionless, staring at a wall… muttering. Sturm slapped both hands across the top of his bald dome and began to drag his fingers down his face, making baby-sounds and rolling out his fat lips. Bruhn eased himself up from the chair, the mask of arrogant confidence now cracking as he began to perceive something pressing down upon them.
Erich felt it too. Above them. A weight, or force…
It ended with Siekert, crying out and leaping away from the radio set; the headphones tumbled to the concrete floor, the cable snapped. He claimed he had heard the woman’s voice — whispering through the chatter of German officers… the mountain! It was the mountain!
Schenck snapped out of his daze, grabbed him roughly and demanded to know what the woman could have said when she was dead. Bruhn expounded, succumbing to the babbling madness: it was the Svolværgeita! The Svolvær Goat! The tall pinnacle at the southwest face of the Fløyfjellet mountain. It had a two pronged rock-formation that made it look like a troll’s molar tooth — or a radio antennae beaming into the Void!
Or the horns of the Devil, Sturm pointed out.
Erich stood silently observing from above as Sturm and Bruhn closed in on Siekert, who was helpless in Schenck’s vice-like grip. What had the woman said? They wanted to know. What was the mountain doing? Was it broadcasting her message from the horns?
None of what they were saying made any sense.
And then Dirchs woke up. Rising from his cot like a nightmare, a giant demon wrapped in the field grey uniform and bottle-green collars — the fabric stretched as his muscles worked, shoving the butt-stock into his hip and swinging right to left and back again, finger pressed hard on the trigger unleashing fire and an unholy cacophony of noise in the enclosed space. So much noise Erich mercifully did not hear the screams of the four men he gunned down.
The noise stopped. Great clouds of shattered concrete dust and cordite boiled upwards from the belly of the bunker.
Dirchs would have to be dealt with. Erich upholstered the Walther P38 from his side and quickly marched down the concrete steps to the balcony. The stench of cordite grew stronger but didn’t obscure the reek of human excrement from below. He coughed as the clouds of dust rolled up over him. Visibility dropped to almost nothing. Erich chambered a round, using the de-cocking lever to safely lower the hammer without firing, allowing him to carry the weapon primed. As he carefully approached the wooden steps leading down into the maelstrom, he heard the sounds of a struggle, happening somewhere unseen below him: a grunt, a scream that withered into a gurgling heaving wheeze.
When he initially reached the bottom, Erich stood by the steps, holding on as if they were a lifeline to some pathetic notion of escape. The dust and smoke began to clear and revealed a scene of horror not unfamiliar to him; the bodies of men he had known lying dead or dying amongst the carnage of machine gun fire. Uniforms tattered and stained in blood. The scene was made more eerie by the golden light streaming in through the observation gallery high above, causing some of the shadows down here to deepen in contrast to the beams of light.
He found Bruhn alive…barely. Beside him lay the gargantuan corpse of Dirchs, s
peared through the neck with his paratrooper knife.
“My brother…” Bruhn gasped.
Erich frowned, squatted down beside him and deftly examined half a dozen bullet wounds puncturing Bruhn’s left bicep, thorax, abdomen and thigh. He was leaking blood too fast to be saved. “Your brother? Is that who is out there?”
Bruhn’s face twisted with pain; he shook his head, gulping air, struggling to talk. “Mountain… Black Sun. Up there. The woman… Krebs… sacrifice.”
Ice water seeped into his veins. Erich’s features formed the visage of snarl: “You know this?”
Sweat was pouring down Bruhn’s face, mixing with the coating of white dust that made him look crazy. He glanced briefly at his own wounds and could see he was done for. “No…. guessing. Makes sense.”
“Pah! Rubbish. What about us? What about you? Would the Black Sun sacrifice us too for whatever this woman claims to have done?”
Bruhn’s blue eyes were half-lidded now, they stared back into Erich’s with a horrible certainty. Yes, the Black Sun would allow anything to happen — even to good German soldiers.
The life ebbed from Bruhn in the next few moments. The harsh final breath came with a rattle that Erich had heard from dying men dozens of times before.
Something interrupted the gilded light streaming in from above. Erich twisted round and stood, staring up at the wide slit of the observation gallery. The sky was different. It was changing. He went to the steel door, hurled it open and dashed outside. Sucking in great breaths of the fresh sea air, clouds of dust billowing from his uniform, he scrambled down the rocky path to the shore line. And nearly fell over in shock at what he saw.
The sunlight was buckling. A vast dome-like shape was forming in the sky ahead of him… like the noise of a rocket made of fire, trailing tendrils of heat that were distorting the air around them. But there was nothing there. Just sunlight being forced back by — Erich span round and angled his head upwards into the cobalt blue firmament of dawn and saw… a hole. Or something. He couldn’t describe it. His brain couldn’t fathom it. Something was there. And growing larger. His eyes tracked downwards and saw the pinnacle of Svolværgeita with its two prongs, Storhorn and Lillehorn, separated by just 1.5 metres. Soldiers had climbed up there and leapt from one horn to the other, with a 300 metre fall below them.
Dark Tales From the Secret War Page 2