No time to waste.
The closest cadavers were in touching distance. Wilkins dropped his shoulder and ran towards the ground floor of the building his would-be saviours were sheltering inside, but was halted in his tracks by a sudden stampede of the hideous monsters coming from both his right and his left. In what seemed like less than a second, his way through was blocked by an impenetrable-looking wall of dead flesh. Same behind him now, too. And on either side. His options were rapidly reducing to none.
‘Drainpipe, soldier. Now!’ a deep, southern accent bellowed.
Wilkins was momentarily aware of something flying through the air above his head, way out of reach. He looked up but before he could work out what it was, a sudden flash and belly-shaking crack answered his question for him. A grenade, thrown by the GIs as a distraction. And it seemed to work, up to a point. It exploded an uncomfortably short distance behind him, sending grit, rubble and body parts flying in all directions, causing enough of a disturbance to confuse the nearest portion of the crowd at least. Wilkins knew he wouldn’t get a better chance and so he charged forward again. He kicked and punched at the vicious creatures which constantly grabbed at him, closing in on him from all sides again now the effects of the temporary distraction were fading. They surged like crashing waves, and all he could do was drop below the surface and go under. He crawled along the ground, ignoring the pain in his knees and frostbitten hands, and weaving around and between the confusing mass of staggering legs until he found the wall and the cast iron drainpipe. He raised himself up and began to climb, kicking out at any of them who tried to pull him back down. Adrenalin forced his tired body to keep moving though all he wanted to do was stop. But he knew he couldn’t. Funny how so much seems to depend on me climbing up this bloody drainpipe, he thought, feeling like he was a young lad again, shimmying up drainpipes at prep school to escape the wrath of his house master. He allowed himself the briefest of glances down into the decaying hordes looking up, and almost fell back when one of them hooked a couple of rotting fingers into the back of one of his boots. He shook himself free and kept climbing.
Halfway up.
His fingers were numb. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to hold on for.
Keep moving.
Almost there.
Hand over hand, and he was nearly level with the soldiers at the window now. One of the yanks was hanging out precariously, gesturing for him to try and get closer. But he was more than ten feet away, and Wilkins was more than twenty feet off the ground. He didn’t know how he was going to make it. Maybe he’d just have to hang here until he could hold on no longer and dropped?
The drainpipe was coming loose.
The hardware holding it in place was giving up under the strain of his considerable weight. If he didn’t move fast, he knew he’d be back down amongst the dead quicker than he could say I don’t believe in Voodoo and superstitious mumbo-jumbo.
‘Use the ledge,’ the American called over to him, and Wilkins looked down at his boots. It wasn’t so much a ledge, more a single row of decorative bricks which jutted out slightly, but it was all he’d got. He used bullet holes and other battle damage as hand- and foot-holds and slowly began to traverse across from the drainpipe to the window.
He looked down again and wished he hadn’t. There were hundreds of rotting faces looking up at him, baying for blood. His water bottle fell from his belt and he watched as it landed in the crowd and caused pandemonium. The creatures violently scrummed with each other to get it. They seemed to be miles below and still dangerously close at the same time.
‘That’s it,’ the American said, doing what he could to keep Wilkins focused. ‘You’ve almost done it, fella.’
With his left hand outstretched, Wilkins felt the edge of the window frame. Pressed flat against the building’s pockmarked fascia, boot-tips resting on the ledge, he slowly slid himself across.
‘Gotcha,’ the soldier said as he dragged Wilkins inside and left him in a heap on the dusty floor. For a few seconds he couldn’t move. His legs were like jelly and he had a burning in his lungs the likes of which he’d never felt before. Self-preservation took a backseat to relief. Better to be up here than down there with them.
His feeling of relief was tested when the first person he saw when he looked up was a Nazi, but the kraut’s demeanour was such that it was clear he didn’t present an immediate threat. Neither did the four Americans he could see, nor the rotund dandy who appeared more concerned with a loose thread dangling from the cuff of his jacket than anything else.
Composure returning, Wilkins remembered himself. He stood up, snapped to attention, and saluted the most senior officer he could see. ‘Lieutenant Robert Wilkins. 5th Parachute Brigade.’
The weathered-looking officer returned his salute. ‘Lieutenant Parker, 969th Field Artillery Battalion.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant. And thank you.’
‘You’re a little off the beaten track here. And all alone, too. Care to tell me what you’re doing out this way?’
‘Several of us were dropped in overnight. Unfortunately it seems the wind decided to deposit me over here instead of over there. I’m actually a long way off the correct beaten track, and right now I fail to see what exactly I can do about that.’
‘Seems we’re all stuck here together, don’t it,’ Lieutenant Coley said, introducing himself. ‘If there is a way out of here, I’ll be damned if I can see it.’
Wilkins took the opportunity to peer out through the broken window through which he’d just made his unceremonious entry. The yanks were right. There’d be no getting out of this place without a fight. Endless numbers of corpses lapped up against the base of the building like toxic waves battering the most prone lighthouse imaginable.
7
Gunderson was losing his patience. Forgetting himself. He was becoming increasingly aggressive towards von Boeselager who, in turn, was becoming increasingly frustrated. ‘Do you really think I care? Do you think I have any remaining allegiance to the Reich after this?’
‘I don’t know what I think. All I know is it don’t feel right you being up here with us.’
‘Von Boeselager’s all right. Leave him be,’ Coley said. He was becoming increasingly annoyed with Gunderson’s attitude, though he understood his frustration.
Gunderson stood in front of the German with his rifle primed. ‘One foot out of line and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes before you know it’s coming.’
‘Stand down, soldier,’ Coley ordered.
‘I can hit a dime at a hundred yards, ain’t nowhere here you’ll be safe.’
‘I said stand down!’ Coley yelled.
At that moment Lieutenant Parker returned, having taken the opportunity to relieve himself on the staircase. ‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.
‘Just keeping an eye on the kraut,’ Gunderson answered quickly.
‘Good.’
‘I told you,’ Coley protested, ‘he’s all right. He saved my neck a couple a times out there.’
‘You buying any of this horse shit?’ Gunderson asked his commanding officer.
‘You know me, Gunderson. My golden rule when it comes to trusting a kraut is to never trust a kraut.’
‘Damn right,’ Escobedo said from across the way. ‘None of us would be in this damn mess if it wasn’t for him and his kind.’