There were a number of bodies scattered around the overturned truck, twisted in rubber-limbed postures of death, some also blackened by the fire. Cinders drifted mournfully through the air.
Oblivious to the danger which he was placing himself in, Herzog began walking slowly towards the smoking wreck. Without waiting for orders, Steikel and Langer joined him and, rather than be left alone, Willi scuttled after them. As the four men drew closer the fetid stench of burned flesh and blood became more palpable. Smoke was still rising from the overturned vehicle spreading a dark mist across the scene. It hung just above the ground like a reeking fog.
The blackened ground around the truck crunched protestingly from the attentions of four pairs of heavy boots. Steikel accidentally kicked the outstretched hand of a corpse. He looked down and apologised silently to the eviscerated body. A swarm of flies was feasting on the mass of bared intestines.
“Resistance,” muttered Herzog, glancing around at the carnage. Steikel nodded thoughtfully and sucked at an empty tooth. Willi stood silently, transfixed by the sight before him. He watched as Herzog peered into the truck, stepping back hurriedly as the stench hit him.
“Shot,” he said flatly, “all of them.”
“What are we going to do?” Langer wanted to know.
Herzog looked around him and exhaled deeply. “We can’t bury them all, but at least we can get the bodies off the road.”
They began their grisly work, dragging bodies unceremoniously to the roadside and dumping them in the bushes. Langer took a corpse by the arm and began to drag it from beneath the truck, glancing briefly at the face. A bullet had entered the skull just below the left ear, smashing the hinge-joint of the jaw, causing it to hang at an impossible angle. As he dropped the body beside a clump of wild flowers, Langer knelt and swiftly went through the pockets. All he found was a half smoked cigarette which he jammed between his lips, lighting it with a match struck on the boot of the corpse. He returned to the road and set about wrenching the body of the driver from the buckled cab. Taking a firm grip on both wrists he pulled, irritated when he could not free the body. Gritting his teeth he pulled. The body split open like an overripe peach, spilling entrails across the road and dumping Langer on his arse. Cursing, he went in search of a more responsive corpse and found one with something silver gleaming on its chest. He knelt down and saw that it was an Iron Cross. Greedily he snatched it up, tearing the man’s jacket and exposing the death wound. Blood was in the process of clotting in the gaping hole and Langer found his hand coated in a kind of crimson porridge. He wiped it clean on the corpse’s jacket and set about inspecting his latest acquisition.
There was a sharp click which years of experience had taught him was the hammer of a pistol being drawn back. A voice lanced through the air, soft but full of menace.
“Put it back.”
Langer hesitated for a moment, then he felt the coldness of the barrel against the back of his neck.
“Put it back or I’ll blow your head off,” intoned the voice.
Reluctantly he pinned the Iron Cross back in position and turned slowly. He saw Herzog standing behind him, the Walther P-38 still held firmly in his hand.
“Sorry, Wolf,” said Langer.
Herzog nodded and holstered the pistol. “The iron cross is for those who earn it. He earned it.” He indicated the corpse. “Let him keep it.” Langer shrugged and watched as the sergeant dragged the body away, the medal winking mockingly at him.
Willi Feld held his breath and dropped the corpse at the base of a tree. A knot of black flies was swarming frenziedly in the empty eye-socket. Willi tore his gaze away and vomited violently. His head was spinning and he had difficulty breathing. Being careful that he could still see the road, he wandered a little way into the woods anxious to breathe air unpolluted by the stench of death. Gratefully he sucked in vast lungfuls of air, coughing now and again, spitting out the bitter aftertaste of his own vomit. As he lay back against a tree the silence began to envelope him and he inhaled, enjoying the cleansing smell of moss and damp earth. He leant his rifle against a tree and closed his eyes.
Away to his right, a twig cracked.
He snapped open his eyes, grasping for the rifle, swinging it up to his shoulder.
Three shots rang out, exploding in the silence. Herzog ducked down behind the overturned truck, his eyes searching the trees. Langer cocked the MP 40 and threw himself flat. Steikel eased a grenade from his belt.
“Where’s Feld?” snapped Herzog, looking round. He banged angrily against the side of the truck and scurried towards the direction from which the shots had come.
He found Willi immediately. He was standing beside a tree, the rifle still clutched in his hands, his eyes staring blankly at the ground.
Lying at his feet, the muscles still contracting, was the bullet-torn body of a young deer.
Chapter Three
St Sarall was a post-card town. Replete with white-washed houses, it supported a population of less than a thousand. Before the war, the inhabitants had lived a simple life revolving around the rich land which surrounded the town. The pinnacle of ambition for most of them was to be able to collect a rich enough harvest to support them through the winter. The village existed within a kind of perpetual, though desirable, seclusion due mainly to the enveloping presence of the forest which surrounded it on three sides, gradually receding into fields of corn and oats.
The network of towns and villages which existed on the outskirts of the sprawling forest, scattered over more than thirty-five miles, functioned without either help or hindrance from St Sarall.
But now the village was full of people. Grey-clad troops who scurried back and forth across its town square like ants trying to repair a break in the nest wall. In peacetime the square was the scene of a market every second Tuesday but now it resembled an artillery pack.
Tanks, self-propelled guns and cannons choked the square where equipment was being hastily repaired. The black-uniformed tank-crews swarmed over their vehicles removing the debris of battle. One of the men was scraping away the remains of a human arm from a caterpillar track. Engines purred gently and a blue haze of exhaust fumes slowly began to form in the air.
Led by Dorn’s Tiger tank, Herzog’s men limped into St Sarall. The Tiger came to rest beside a battered Panther tank which was having a new track fitted. Dorn shut off the engine clambered out of the turret hatch and vaulted to the cobblestones below.
“Made it at last,” he beamed as Herzog approached.
The sergeant nodded wearily and glanced around him at the wall of metal. A private of engineers passed and gave the column of tired troops a scornful look.
“What the fuck are you staring at?” rasped Langer sending a lump of gob after the retiring private.
“Officer,” snapped Herzog, catching sight of a young lieutenant heading in their direction. The men drew themselves to attention, Herzog snapped off a salute.
The gesture was curtly returned.
“Could you tell me where I can find Major Sturn, sir?” the sergeant asked.
The young officer hesitated, put off by the smell and appearance of the sergeant. He glanced quickly along the line of men and Steikel smiled his brown and rotten smile as the lieutenant’s eyes focused on him. The officer gave a look of horror and transferred his gaze back to Herzog. He then motioned to a tall grandiose-looking building across the square and said, “Major Sturn is in there.”
“My men need somewhere to rest, sir,” said Herzog, irritated by the lieutenant’s vague manner. The officer pointed across the square to where another group of men stood. Nearly all of them had wounds of some sort and the captain leading them was hobbling along on a makeshift crutch. His foot had been blown off.