Once they were dealt with, the chaotic attack was over.
Wilkins brushed himself down. The men were relatively safe here, hidden by the slope of the ground and a couple more wooden huts. He could see constant movement in the courtyard, but crucially for now, the dead couldn’t see him. Regaining his composure after the sudden exertion of the last few minutes, he took a step forward to examine the corpses they’d just felled. ‘Shine a torch down here,’ he ordered, and Jones obliged. ‘All German,’ Wilkins announced. They were all wearing Nazi uniforms and had real weight and bulk to their bodies. A stark contrast with what they’d seen of the prisoner population of the camp so far; cruelly starved and forced to work until their bodies resembled skeletons held together with the merest amount of flesh and sinew.
‘There’s something different about these,’ Barton said, and he hefted one of the corpses to the top of the steps and dumped it on the ground. Jones nearly emptied his stomach when he shone his light into the foul thing’s repulsive face. It was far more decayed than any of the other corpses they’d seen since reaching the camp. The skin was heavily discoloured. Wilkins forced himself to get closer to the repugnant aberration. He took its gloved right hand in his and began to bend and flex the arm repeatedly.
‘Pardon me, Lieutenant,’ Harris said, ‘but what in heaven’s name are you doing?’
Wilkins said nothing for a few moments longer, his face a picture of concentration. He took off one of his own fingerless gloves and unbuttoned the dead Nazi’s heavily stained tunic and shirt. He rested his hand on its pallid skin and agitated it slightly. When he was ready, he answered. ‘I’m trying to date the bodies.’
‘Date the bodies,’ Jones said to the other two. ‘What’s he on about?’
Wilkins looked up at him disapprovingly. ‘If you’d do me the honour of keeping quiet for a short while longer, I’ll explain.’
He held open the Nazi’s left eye, then prodded its distended belly.
‘Come on, sir, I think that’s enough…’ Barton protested.
Wilkins wiped his hands and stood up. ‘It’s quite simple really, but important. I’ve no doubt you’ve all seen more than your fair share of death since this infernal war began. I’ve just carried out a few simple tests I’ve picked up along the way to try and ascertain when a person died. The sclera over the eye, the amount of movement in the joints…’
‘Rigor mortis?’ Harris suggested.
‘That’s right. The condition typically manifests itself shortly after death, then relaxes again approximately a day later. Prodding the belly and inspecting the extremities allows me to estimate the gas content of the gut – the longer a person’s body has been decaying, the greater the volume of gas produced. Similarly, swollen joints and buttocks can indicate the presence of pools of blood where the corpse has remained in one position for an extended period of time.’
‘And rubbing the chest?’ Barton asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
‘As the body decays and undergoes such dramatic internal changes, so the skin can loosen. I was checking for slippage.’
‘So how long have these been dead? And pardon me, Lieutenant, but why in heaven’s name does it matter?’
‘In answer to your first question, I estimate between three and five days. And with regard to your second point, knowing how long these guards have been dead gives us the best indication we can get as to what has happened here. We know that the prisoners out here are dead, but what about those who were within the castle walls? Did they die first? I have to admit, I believe this place is filled with nothing but death in every conceivable corner. Yet, somewhere in that cesspit of decay, I also believe we might find the secret that will put an end to this nightmare.’
No more talk. Time for action.
Wilkins snapped a branch from a dead tree (is nothing left alive here? he wondered) and wrapped a jacket from one of the Nazi corpses around it. He poured lighter fuel over the material then set it ablaze.
The four soldiers ducked down through the low stone doorway and disappeared into the gloom.
23
The ancient building was silent, but not quite quiet enough for the soldiers’ liking. They had uncovered a complex labyrinth of tunnels beneath the heart of the castle, and despite their best efforts to pass through the place unnoticed, the noise their every move made seemed to be amplified beyond all proportion. Their boots echoed off the walls, every step like a gunshot, and even the sounds of their breathing seemed to fill the air with noise. Wilkins took the lead carrying the flaming torch while Harris brought up the rear. The passages they moved along were claustrophobic and tight: dark grey walls, low curved ceiling, dripping damp, a layer of slurry underfoot.
It wasn’t long before they were under attack again.
A sudden sharp right turn led to another long corridor which seemed to stretch the entire length of the castle. It was so long that the light from Wilkins’ torch barely reached halfway, and it was only when the flickering shadows began to move towards them that the British soldiers realised more of the enemy were close at hand. Three more Nazi corpses came at them suddenly as if they’d been woken from hibernation by the unannounced arrival of the Brits. Their faces, withered and drawn into furious expressions of anger and hatred, appeared infinitely more hideous in the wavering light. Barton, now unfazed and increasingly confident when facing the dead, carefully pushed past Wilkins and dealt with all three of the dead Germans in quick succession. He thrust his bayonet through the left eye of the nearest at the same time as dragging the second one down then planting his boot between its shoulder blades. He slid the first creature off his blade, then drove the sharp point up through the chin of the next into what remained of its putrefying brain. Barton finally returned his attention to the ghoul at his feet which he spiked angrily through the back of the head with far more aggression than was necessary.
‘You looked as if you almost enjoyed that,’ Harris said from the rear.
‘I did,’ Barton replied. ‘These things are miserably weak—’
‘—yet incredibly dangerous,’ Wilkins warned, ‘and we’d all do well to remember that. One scratch is all it might take to spread the condition. One bite. Remember, that’s what did it for Lieutenant Henshaw.’
And the men became silent at the memory of their recently fallen officer.
‘Keep moving,’ Jones said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Let’s get this done and get home.’
Wilkins checked his watch. Under four hours to go.
They’d realised what they were likely to find down here long before they reached it. The castle keep. Most of the dungeon-like cells were being used for storage (and they took the welcome opportunity to arm themselves when it presented itself), yet other rooms clearly had a purpose more akin to their originally intended use. ‘No sense locking people up in here,’ Barton had observed. ‘Not when this whole bloody place is a prison.’
They’d thought nothing of his words until they’d reached the third cell along. Each of these confined chambers was claustrophobically small. The rough walls, hewn from centuries-old rock, were thicker than a man’s arm and the portcullis-like iron doors appeared virtually impenetrable.