Before Wilkins could react, two dead Americans grabbed the boy and killed him with brutal savagery. The expressions on the dead soldiers’ faces chilled him to the core. No flicker of emotion. Relentless. Remorseless. One of them dug deep into the German’s exposed torso and pulled out a handful of steaming, bloody innards. The soldier was still alive as he was eviscerated. He screamed with pain as his insides were emptied out like streamers.
The all-conquering wave of dead figures continued through the forest, heading after the handful of Nazis who’d somehow managed to evade them. Wilkins held his breath so as not to make the slightest sound, and prayed they’d pass him by unnoticed.
It was more than an hour before the last of the undead had disappeared from view.
Wilkins crept through the forest as quickly as he dared, balancing speed with the need to stay alive. The dead seemed to always be close: he’d evade one cluster, only to find himself heading straight for another. He was desperate to reach Liege, but still wasn’t completely sure that he was heading in the right direction. The longer he was out here, the more his cancerous self-doubt grew. He was tired, living on his nerves… and now the already dull light in this heavily forested area was beginning to fade.
And then, finally, after hours alone, he saw it. An inconspicuous-looking cottage. Isolated. Unkempt and shabby. Its dilapidation was hidden by a light covering of snow which was continuing to fall. He checked over his shoulder, conscious that his footprints were visible and would lead straight to him. He walked on for a short while longer then doubled-back on himself in a half-hearted attempt to throw anyone who was following him off-guard.
Back at the front of the cottage again now, he knocked the door. She took a long time to answer. Too long. He thought she’d gone and cleared out and that he’d be stuck out here tonight with just the dead for company. She eventually opened the door and scowled at him, the yellow light from her oil lamp making her appear haggard, even older than her clearly advanced years. She screwed up her face to get a better look at him. ‘Quelle?’
‘Madam Van Pruisen?’
‘Quelle?’ she barked at him again.
‘Savez-vous à quelle heure le départ du train du village voisin?’
His French pronunciation was less than perfect, but it was adequate. Wilkins didn’t care what time the train was leaving. Heck, he didn’t even know if there was a train here at all. He wasn’t interested in the next village, and Madam Van Pruisen knew it. At his mention of the designated phrase she roughly grabbed the collar of his tunic and pulled him inside, checking the road in either direction – both for the living and the dead – then shut and bolted the door behind him.
‘Merci madame,’ he started to say, but she wasn’t interested.
‘Il est sous le lit dan la chambre à l’étage. Être rapide. Vous risquez de ma vie en étant ici.’
‘Oui.’
‘Vive le résistance,’ she mumbled, almost sarcastically.
He climbed the creaking staircase she pushed him towards. His translation of her words might not have been expert, but the intent of what she’d said was clear. Madam Van Pruisen was in collusion with British Intelligence, and for that he was eternally grateful. The risks she took were equal to, if not greater than, his own. He knew exactly what Jerry would do to her if they found him here.
Wilkins found the radio exactly where she said it would be, and did what he had to do.
Within minutes he was back out in the freezing cold, exposed and vulnerable again. But it didn’t matter. He knew that soon, God willing, he’d be on his way back to Blighty.
12
Lieutenants Parker and Coley, along with Gunderson and Escobedo, had escaped Bastogne by the skin of their teeth. Swarms of dead civilians and soldiers pursued them through the ruins and out into the surrounding countryside, but had been distracted en masse by another engagement further north. It must have been a big fight, Coley thought to himself. He could feel the detonations shaking the ground they moved over, felt the dull roar of battle in his belly.
It was cold and unforgiving out here, enough to make Escobedo almost wish he was back in Bastogne again in their hideout on high, shielded from the wind. ‘Reckon we should hole up somewhere soon, sirs? Can’t feel my feet…’
‘Quit complaining, Escobedo,’ Parker told him.
Coley held his arm up to stop them all. ‘Movement. In the trees due east,’ he hissed. It didn’t look like much – no more than a couple of men at most – but they weren’t about to take any chances. ‘You and Gunderson follow the tree-line,’ he said to Parker. ‘Me and Escobedo will loop round through the forest, try and come up from behind them.’
Parker nodded. He held way back with Gunderson then moved slowly forward, giving the other pair time to take up position.
The closer they got, the less concerned they were of attack. There was a jeep wedged up against the upended root of a recently felled tree. And the movement Coley had seen from a distance? It looked like there was a man down. An American at that. Coley ran to his fellow serviceman’s aid, but pulled up fast. The poor bastard wasn’t lying on the ground alongside the jeep, he was under it. His pelvis had been crushed under its wheels and it was clear that he’d been deliberately mowed down. He’d been there a while (they could tell from the dried blood and his unnatural pallor) but when he became aware of the others approaching, the trapped GI began to thrash furiously.
Gunderson took him out with a knife to the back of his head, affording him what little dignity he could.
The jeep – once they’d disentangled it from the tree roots and the remains of the American soldier – gave them an unexpected boost. The area of countryside through which they travelled was quiet. There was a moment of concern when they spied the outline of a Panzer up ahead, but it was a wreck. Burned out and full of corpses.
They came across another couple of GIs on the road to the front. They looked exhausted and beaten; barely able to keep their heads up, it seemed to take all the effort they could muster for them to just keep breathing and keep moving. ‘Give you boys a lift somewhere?’ Lieutenant Parker asked as they drew level.
‘Much appreciated, sir,’ the older of the two replied. ‘Guess we’re all heading in the same direction. I’m Hooper, and this here is Stacey. Stacey don’t say much at the moment. He’s seen too much if you ask me. Though I’m guessing we probably all have by now.’
‘Hop in,’ said Parker, and they did. Escobedo hung off the back of the jeep, allowing Hooper and Stacey to sit, squeezed up alongside Gunderson’s bulk.
For half an hour or more the drive was deceptively peaceful. Six men, none of them with much to say to the others, grateful for a little rest and relaxation before the inevitable onslaught. Conversation was sparse. It was just good to have a little headspace. They all knew it wouldn’t last long.
Frost and snow obscured much of the things they knew were there but didn’t want to see. Bodies frozen solid were all but hidden in drifts. The wreck of an overturned Howitzer looked almost like a piece of sculpted ice in the fading light.
They heard the front before they saw it. Smelt it. Felt it, even.
The jeep was dumped when it ran out of fuel, leaving them with a short march to the battle-lines. The chaos and killing they’d briefly escaped, the destruction and devastation, the pain and suffering …all returned in a heartbeat.