by Bill Walker
They reached the site by mid-afternoon, passing more columns of weary, battle-bloodied troops trudging toward the rear. The Kübelwagen pulled into a makeshift parking lot filled with all manner of vehicles, mostly troop transport. Up ahead, through a stand of trees, Thorley could see a mass of men moving about in a large clearing. In the distance he heard the steady rumble of artillery, the front a mere five miles to the east. Too bloody close.
Climbing out of the Kübelwagen, Thorley suddenly found himself reluctant to move forward. Rainer took the lead. They moved quickly, and as they neared the clearing, the first thing Thorley noticed was the smell: heavy, pungent, cloying—the smell of death...and rotting flesh. And it took every ounce of his will not to vomit.
They arrived at the clearing’s perimeter and Rainer bent down, reached into a bucket and pulled out a wet handkerchief that he proceeded to fold and hold over his mouth. When Thorley hesitated to follow his example, he pulled out another and handed it to him. “It’s soaked in a mixture of camphor and water,” Rainer explained. “I suggest you use it.”
Thorley clamped the cloth over his nose and mouth and moved forward, his stomach churning. The camphor had its own unique odor, but it was more tolerable than the one it masked.
Passing through a cordon of guards armed with MP40 machine pistols, Thorley saw a group of thirty-odd soldiers in coveralls using shovels to carry refuse to a six-foot-deep trench. He estimated it must be at least forty feet long and twenty feet wide. Another smaller group—accompanied by a clique of Swiss civilian observers in red armbands with white crosses—photographed the actions with Leica cameras and a newsreel crew photographed the goings-on with a battery-powered Arriflex camera fitted with a high-capacity magazine. Except for the whine of the Arriflex and the occasional clank of shovel against rock, the area was eerily silent. It all sank in as he realized what he thought to be “refuse” was in actuality the decomposing bodies of soldiers.
Hundreds of them.
The entire clearing lay covered in a jumble of arms and legs jutting out of ragged uniforms caked with grime—many with patches of putrid flesh still clinging to them. The faces were the worst: gaunt and eyeless, they faced skyward, mouths frozen in twisted grins mocking all who gazed upon them.
Mixed in with the bodies were rust-spotted rifles, dented helmets and dirt-encrusted backpacks. Bayonets and boots, along with cartridge belts and magazines lay strewn about with no rhyme or reason.
“You must understand that we did not do this,” Rainer said, his emotion-laden voice muffled by the camphor-soaked handkerchief. “We are not butchers.”
Thorley’s mind reeled. “My God, there must be an entire battalion here.”
“More than that. We have counted over a thousand bodies thus far....”
Thorley stumbled away but stopped when something small and metallic clinked against his shoe. Looking down, he spotted a shiny object. He reached down and brought it up to his face. His hand trembled and he had to squint to bring it into focus.
Cast out of a metal that resisted rust, the design consisted of a laurel wreath surmounted by a King’s crown. In the center of the wreath stood a rampant Wyvern, a mythical dragon-like creature, its teeth and claws bared. At the bottom of the badge, on a scroll, ran a motto in raised lettering: Royal South Wessex Inf. Reg.
It was a cap badge, a British officer’s cap badge.
Stunned, Thorley placed the badge in the pocket of his tunic and trudged back to the Kübelwagen. He threw the handkerchief to the ground and leaned against the car, gulping lungfuls of air, anything to clear his aching head and take away the stench of death.
“Major White?”
Rainer was walking toward him, the wary sergeant by his side. “Are you all right? Perhaps you would like to rest a while?”
Thorley stared back at the man; his eyes felt as if someone had scoured them with steel wool. “Let’s get the bloody hell away from here.”
The camp was a five-minute drive back the way they’d come. It occupied five acres of cleared land and consisted of two dozen prefabricated buildings of raw pine with tar-paper roofs arranged in a quadrangle. The largest building stood in the center; a sign above the door read: Mess Hall. A plume of white smoke rose from its chimney, and as drab as it was, it was a welcome respite from the horror they’d left behind.
The sergeant pulled the Kübelwagen into a space next to a BMW motorcycle with attached sidecar, and Rainer indicated that they should go into the Mess.
The inside of the building was a boxy affair with electrical wiring strung between the exposed rafters, smelled of boiled cabbage and potatoes, and was jammed with both officers and enlisted men, and even a few of the Swiss civilians. The somber mood at the massacre site was reflected here, as well. Men quietly consumed their meals, drank their ersatz coffee, smoked, and some even played cards. Conversations were few and carried out in a low murmur, the only other sounds being the clink and clatter of utensils and the muted strains of classical music emanating from a portable radio at the far end of the room. For a fleeting moment, Thorley considered waiting outside, but the sun had dropped behind the mountains and a chill breeze had blown up. All he wanted was some coffee, with perhaps something a little stronger poured into it.
The sergeant left them to join a group of his compatriots, while Rainer led him through a sea of tables, nodding to some of his men as he went. Thorley saw they were heading for a semi-private area near the back. At an empty table, Rainer pointed to one of the stiff-backed chairs. “Please, sit down.”
Thorley eased himself into the chair with a weary sigh and threw his cap onto the table.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“I’d ask for a Schnapps, but I don’t think that would go over very well.”
Rainer’s eyes twinkled. “You might be surprised. Out here, we tend to view things with a little less severity than they do in Berlin.”
“Oh? Then make it a double,” Thorley said, with the ghost of a smile.
Rainer turned to a passing soldier and spoke to him. The soldier nodded and hurried off, appearing moments later with two tumblers and an unopened bottle of Akvavit. Cracking the seal with a twist of his hand, Rainer poured a generous amount of the colorless liquid into both glasses, then raised his own. “To our families. May they never know the horrors we have seen.”
Thorley clinked his tumbler against Rainer’s then drank deeply, feeling the fiery caraway-flavored liquor burn its way down to his stomach, where it sat warming him like the dying embers of a once roaring fire. “Christ, that’s bloody strong,” he said, his eyes watering. “And I probably shouldn’t ask where you got it, either.”
“One learns to keep one’s own counsel if one wishes to remain above ground,” Rainer replied, his eyes fixed on the sparkling reflections inside his tumbler.
Emboldened by the brandy, Thorley leaned closer to Rainer. “Who did this? Who killed them?”
“Are you sure you really want to know? And will your people act on it?”
“You asked them to send someone, they did. So why are you playing coy with me?”
Rainer exhaled. “Forgive me. I’ve become far too paranoid for my own good. May I ask you a question?”
Thorley nodded.
“What did your people tell you?”
“That the man who would contact me was a member of—” he stopped and looked around, afraid to mention the name.
Rainer raised his hand in an assuring gesture. “Please, you have nothing to fear. I trust my men implicitly. You may speak freely.”
“They told me that you belonged to Der Weisse Adler, The White Eagle, and that this was an organization of junior officers dedicated to ending the war and bringing democracy back to Germany. Do I have that right?”
“You do.”
“They also told me that they had no idea why you wanted someone sent.”
“And now you do.”
“Yes. Now I do. And I wish to God I didn’t.” Thorley paused
to take another generous swallow of the 180-proof brandy, then asked the question that had nagged him ever since they’d left the site of the massacre. “How long have they lain there?”
Rainer gulped the rest of his Akvavit and poured another two fingers into his tumbler. “Our medical man estimates that they’ve been dead for about six weeks.”
This last revelation surprised Thorley. “My God, if what you’re saying is true, that means they were here—”
Rainer nodded. “Since the before the beginning of our campaign against the Russians. Exactly.”
“But you chaps have been in Finland all this time, why has it taken you so long to find them?”
“We’re not in Finland, Major, we’re more than twenty kilometers inside Russia.... I would say your government owes you an explanation.”
Though the rebuke was a mild one, Thorley understood its import. Britain’s policy regarding the Winter War between Russia and Finland had been one of emphatic refusal to become involved, a fact at odds with what they had just seen. But before Thorley could comment, someone turned up the volume on the radio as a popular song began. The tune was mournful and the voice was at once familiar and strange, a husky feminine contralto that could turn a man’s knees to water.
“Vor Der Kaserne, vor dem grossen Tor. Stand eine Laterne und stedt sie noch davor. So wollen wir uns wiedersehen, Bei der Laterne woll’n wir stehen. Wie einst Lili Marlene, wie einst Lili Marlene....”
Marlene Dietrich. A woman without peer.
Some of the soldiers began taking up the tune on the second verse, and very soon most of the men were singing it.
“A sad song for a sadder age,” Rainer said, smiling wistfully.
“It’s popular in Britain, too.”
Rainer’s expression became inquisitive. “Is it really?” He pursed his lips, then laughed. “I guess we all have someone waiting for us.”
“Family?”
“Just Gerda, my wife. We wanted to have children right away, but the Führer’s war got in the way.”
The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable.
“Does she know about—”
Rainer shook his head. “No. And the less she knows, the safer she will be.”
“That must be an awful burden, keeping secrets like that.”
Rainer’s glass was empty again, but he made no move to refill it. “And I would bear it for eternity if it would keep her safe.”
“What about the Gestapo?”
“Those Schwein! If I didn’t have to deal with them, I wouldn’t make the effort to spit on them.” Rainer’s eyes bulged as he spoke these last words in a low voice taut with anger and bitterness. “It is they who will bring down Germany. It is they who sully our honor.”
A chilling thought ran through Thorley’s mind. “Was it them? The SS? Did they do this?”
“No,” Rainer said, shaking his head and reaching for the Akvavit. “It wasn’t them. It was—”
Rainer stopped speaking and listened. A sound like that of a banshee screaming dopplered overhead. And then the explosion came, rocking the mess hall to its makeshift foundation.
A soldier stood up, his face flushed red from fear and excitement. “IVAN!”
The room erupted and Thorley felt the hard fist of panic punch him in the solar plexus when another banshee screamed overhead. It sounded closer.
They were being shelled.
“Bloody fucking Ruskis!” Rainer bellowed.
The next explosion took out part of a wall and caused a stampede for the door. Thorley snatched up his cap when Rainer grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic, propelling him toward a side door. In moments they were outside.
Soldiers were running every which way in a blind panic to find shelter. More incoming rounds shrieked overhead and one smashed through the roof of a building. It flew apart in a cloud of wood splinters and dirt, and Thorley felt Rainer tug on him again. “Come on!” he screamed.
They ran with other soldiers toward a series of trenches. At best, it was marginal protection, and none at all if it suffered a direct hit. Suddenly, a lorry careened around the side of a building and sped toward them, weaving erratically as the panicked driver fought to maintain control.
A shell hit the lorry dead center, blowing up the cab, shredding the driver, and setting it on fire. But instead of checking its momentum, the explosion only seemed to accelerate the wreck in its headlong rush.
More shells screamed earthward, stitching a line of craters that passed within fifty feet of where Thorley and Rainer lay sprawled in the dirt.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Thorley shouted, trying to be heard over the incredible din.
Rainer shook his head vigorously, his brow knitted in a deep frown. “The safest place is where a shell has already struck.”
Rainer pointed to a large crater and the two of them crawled on their bellies until they reached the edge of the shell hole, then dove in.
“Welcome to Man’s folly, Major White,” Rainer said, as another explosion shook the earth, throwing clods of dirt on them.
The shelling went on for another half an hour before it petered out to an occasional lob that ended as dusk fell. Thorley and Rainer crawled out from the crater and surveyed the devastation. Five of the dozen buildings were destroyed, and four others looked as if they would need extensive repairs. Prefabricated to begin with, they wouldn’t take long to rebuild. Fortunately, the Mess Hall had mostly been spared, and everyone gathered there to lick their wounds. By eight o’clock that evening, the camp cook, a stocky Bavarian with a perpetual smile had cobbled a meal of potato soup, boiled cabbage, black bread and ersatz coffee from what hadn’t been blown up or incinerated. Everyone, including Thorley ate their portion greedily, remarking to themselves and to each other that nothing had ever tasted so grand.
After the meal, Thorley accompanied Rainer back to his quarters, a cramped six-by-ten-foot room with bunk beds, a footlocker, and a shadeless window that looked out onto the quadrangle. Pale moonlight filtered in, casting ghostly shadows that made the austere little room feel like a monk’s cell. None of this made much of an impression on Thorley, who felt as if he might collapse from the weight of the day’s events. “Which bunk is mine?” he said, his voice drained of emotion.
Rainer pointed to the bottom bunk. The mattress was a moth-eaten affair that looked as lumpy as the Alps, and was covered with a field-gray blanket woven from a rough, homespun fabric. As uncomfortable as it looked, it beckoned. Thorley pulled off his boots, let them clatter to the floor, and crawled onto the bunk, feeling his muscles ache in protest as the mattress, true to its appearance, dug into his lower back. He grimaced at the musty odor of mildew and forced himself to ignore it. In moments his fatigue overcame everything, and he was fast asleep.
It was the light that woke him: a gray and featureless day swathed in wreaths of morning mist, overcast and dreary. A light rain pattered against the window. White noise that both soothed and grated. Sitting up in the bunk, Thorley’s head throbbed, a leftover gift from the Akvavit.
I’ve got to stop drinking, he thought. I can’t bloody take it.
But that was not what was bothering him. He’d dreamed of the bodies, the eyeless faces staring at him, accusing him, saying, “You’re to blame, too....”
Blame for what, though? For casting his vote for Tory instead of Labour—for supporting a government that had sent these men to their deaths? War was war, he understood it instinctively, yet these poor sods had been here prior to Germany’s invasion.
Why?
He wanted to ask Sir Basil and the others that very question. Why then was he suddenly more afraid of going home than being in the lion’s den itself? Rainer seemed to be an honest chap, but could he really trust him? After all, they were still enemies. Common cause or not.
Above him, Rainer shifted his weight and the bunk creaked softly while he settled into his new position. It was just after dawn. Reveille, or whatever passed for that here, would be sounding
at any moment.
Boots clattered in the hallway and the door burst open. A wild-eyed private barreled into the room.
“Herr Hauptmann, Herr Hauptmann!”
Rainer bolted awake, instantly alert. “Yes, what is it?”
“We’ve just received word that Obersturmbannführer Müller is approaching the camp.”
This news galvanized Rainer. “How far away?”
“Two miles, sir.”
“Get back to your post.” The private saluted and beat a hasty retreat, slamming the flimsy door behind him. Rainer hopped onto the floor and began throwing on his uniform, his movements quick and practiced, as if he’d had to do it this way many times before. “Get up,” he said. “We must leave immediately.”
Alarmed, Thorley jumped to his feet and began pulling on his boots. Fate had lent him a helping hand: he’d slept in his uniform. “I don’t understand, what’s wrong?”
Rainer snapped his collar closed and began buttoning his tunic. “Perhaps you didn’t hear the man. The SS are coming.”
“Christ.”
“We have to get you back to the plane. I just hope those Luftwaffe boys are on their toes. If Müller finds you here everything is lost.”
“Wait a minute. I’m just one among hundreds. For this man to notice me would be a minor miracle. And even if he does, my papers are flawless, and I speak German like a native.”
“The man was born suspicious, my friend. He knows when the slightest thing is amiss. He’ll smell you. And when he finds you, he will make you talk. And I can’t risk that. There’s too much at stake. Let’s go.”