“In case we can’t hold the position, the second the British get in, the whole lot goes up.”
A shell exploded a yard or two in front of the trench, sending cascades of earth and small rocks into the air.
“What if one of those hits this lot?” asked Steikel, pointing to the dynamite.
Herzog made a sweeping gesture with his hands. “Bang.”
“Very reassuring,” muttered the big Austrian and sat down in the mud.
The British were approaching the lines of barbed wire which protected the rise up to the first German trench. They struggled through the glutinous mud trying to run. The muck gripped their ankles, holding them back.
Erhardt pressed the butt of the MG to his shoulder and squinted down the sight, waiting for them to come in range. The advancing tanks spat streams of tracer towards the German position as they crawled slowly through the mud, like dinosaurs. The German 75s thundered and a fusillade of explosions sent bodies and mounds of earth flying into the weeping sky.
A tall sergeant, flung by an explosion, crashed into the barbed wire, shrieking as it tore his flesh. Even before he could move, those following had used his body as a bridge across the cruel spikes. The tanks crushed down what remained of the barrier. Herzog broke off a square of chocolate and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. As he watched, many of the British leapt aboard the tanks to be carried safely past the wire. Others followed their example or merely passed the route flattened out by the Churchills. Herzog chose his moment, carefully.
“Fire,” he bellowed.
The German trench came to life, pouring fire into the oncoming ranks. The incessant rattle of automatic weapons was deafening, all the time supported by the roaring of cannon and the screams of agony.
The music of war.
Men fell in heaps but now they were over the wire. Yelling like maniacs, the ranks of khaki men rushed towards the German trenches.
Vastly outnumbered, the Germans were swiftly overwhelmed. Herzog looked up and saw more and more British troops spilling into the trench while on the left two Churchills and a number of men were gaining valuable ground. The sergeant realised that his men were in grave danger of being caught in a crossfire.
“Move out,” he shouted, hurling a grenade.
Erhardt snatched up the MG 42 and fired it from the hip, bringing down a group of soldiers advancing towards him. One of them managed to get a shot off and the German crashed to the ground. His knee shattered by the bullet. Steikel snatched up the discarded weapon and covered them as they ran for the connecting trench. Erhardt, supported by Fritz, dragging his pulverised leg as if it were rotted wood.
Thirty other Germans followed them into the second line trench.
Herzog saw Corporal Meininger hunched over the detonator and as he ran past he yelled, “Now.”
The burly corporal nodded and pushed down the plunger.
The ground shook as two thousand pounds of explosives went off. A curtain of earth, fully fifty feet high, rose into the air and British troops standing nearby were buried alive under tons of blood-soaked, reeking mud. A Churchill was lifted into the air, turned a somersault and crashed to earth on its turret, its tracks facing skyward it lay like some gigantic stricken tortoise.
And now the Tigers rolled forward, driving back the remaining khaki men and tanks.
Steikel dropped to his knees, panting. He exhaled and spat.
“Jesus, that was close.”
“Where’s Bonhof?” asked Herzog, looking round.
“Dead,” explained Fritz, clutching an injured hand, “bayonet in the guts.”
Two stretcher-bearers arrived and dumped Erhardt unceremoniously on the stretcher. He gritted his teeth and smiled at Herzog as they carried him away.
“They’ll probably cut his fucking leg off,” murmured Steikel, watching the medics disappear.
“Maybe,” said Herzog, “But it’s better than being dead.”
He peered out over the body-strewn battlefield and saw the Tigers rolling back towards their own lines, a group of smouldering Churchills underlining their superiority. The British artillery, from the safety of the woods, fired a few token shots after them.
Steikel grinned, the familiar brown and rotten smile. “That’ll keep those khaki buggers quiet for a while,” he chuckled.
No sooner had the words left his lips than a familiar sound filled the air. The arc of a shell. It exploded with a roar, hurling lumps of earth into the air.
“You were saying,” muttered Herzog, raising one eyebrow.
Chapter Nine
The oil-lamp threw out long shadows, burning with a small yellow flame it lit the centre of the room but was not powerful enough to drive away the darkness which lurked around the walls.
Each fresh explosion sent a stream of dust and earth falling to the floor of the bunker. It seemed as if the entire flimsy structure were going to collapse at any minute. Major Sturn sighed and looked up, feeling somewhat reassured by the sight of the heavy beams which held the roof up. He turned up the wick of the lamp and brushed some particles of dust from the pile of papers which lay before him. He poured himself a glass of French brandy and sat back, warming the brown liquid, rolling the fat glass between his palms. He pulled at the lobe of his one ear and, for the hundredth time that night, looked at the document before him. Beneath his own signature he read the efficient hand of General Wimmer, Divisional Commander, and, across from that, two more signatures. Both of them rubber-stamped.
Adolf Hitler.
Heinrich Himmler.
The major picked up the paper and read it, although he already knew the contents by heart. There were twenty names on the paper. And a date. June 10th 1944. Sturn absent-mindedly began toying with the Iron Cross on his jacket and read the names of the men who were also to receive the medal. He smiled, and they were to receive it for the same reason as he had won his own. For their part in the fight against the terrorists. St Sarall, 10th June, 1944.
“Sergeant Herzog reporting as ordered.”
The voice startled Sturn and he looked up. Herzog saluted, wondering if he could detect the beginnings of a smile on his superior’s lips. He discarded the thought.
“Sit down, sergeant,” said Sturn, good-naturedly, motioning to a chair. Herzog accepted the offer and now saw that Sturn was smiling. This display of emotion was so blatantly out of character that it made the sergeant feel uneasy. His bewilderment grew as Sturn pushed a glass of brandy towards him.
“To the Führer,” said Sturn, raising his own glass.
“To the end of the war,” mumbled Herzog, swallowing a great gulp of the fiery liquid.
“Quite. To the end of the war, and to victory.”
Herzog ignored the remark. “Do you want my report now, sir?”
Sturn waved the suggestion aside. “No. No. I did not send for you for that reason. I have some good news for you.”
Herzog’s expression didn’t alter. He watched expectantly as the major picked up the piece of paper before him and tapped it with his index-finger.
“There are twenty names on this, sergeant,” he explained, “yours amongst them. They are the names of men who are to be awarded the Iron Cross.”
“Why?” Herzog said, impassively.
“Does that matter?” laughed the major.
“Yes.”
“For service to the Führer of course, for your part in the fight against terrorists, against the resistance.”
“You mean the village. St Sarall?”
“Of course. But why question the reason? You are to be awarded the most coveted medal in the German army, some men would give their right arm for it,” he grinned, “some have.”
Herzog was unmoved. He reached for the paper and read quickly, his blue eyes skimming over the typed words.