It occurred to Wilkins that whoever was responsible for this most heinous act might still be loitering nearby. However, he owed it to his fallen comrade and his family not to leave him hanging there unceremoniously. He was swinging like an executed man who’d been left on the gallows, chin on his chest and his head hanging heavy on his shoulders. Wilkins looked around and checked that all was clear, then tried to steady the corpse. ‘I’m sorry, old boy,’ Wilkins said. ‘I wish that I could—’
Wilkins jumped back with surprise when O’Neill looked up and fixed him with a gaze from cold and lifeless eyes. Somehow O’Neill’s flailing arms caught hold of him and the dead man attempted to take a bite out of Wilkins’ hand. Wilkins snatched his hand away and staggered back. By now O’Neill was twitching and bouncing tirelessly on the parachute cords which bound him, spinning around furiously to reach for Wilkins again, but succeeding only in tying himself up in knots. The flesh-free bones of his useless legs clattered together like some bizarre kind of voodoo totem or wind-chime designed to keep evil spirits at bay.
Wilkins didn’t believe in evil spirits. Part of him wished he did. Somehow the idea that what was happening here in Belgium could be attributed to the whim of some displeased demi-god was preferable to what he already knew to be the truth. The foul aberrations he’d so far encountered were the result of despicable Nazi experiments. He wanted to run and put maximum distance between himself and this place, but that wasn’t an option. Thousands of lives depended on him and the other men who’d baled out over the region during the early hours of this morning. By all accounts, it was no exaggeration to believe that, perhaps, the lives of every last man, woman and child in Europe, if not the entire world were at risk here.
Before he did anything, though, Wilkins knew he had to deal with what was left of O’Neill first. He couldn’t leave a fellow soldier hanging up there in such a pitiful state. He took his standard issue clasp knife and, with one hand around O’Neill’s throat to keep him steady and keep his snapping jaws at bay, he plunged the blade deep into the dead man’s heart.
It had no effect. Absolutely no effect.
If stabbing the heart doesn’t do the trick, he thought, then I have only one other option.
Wilkins twisted O’Neill’s squirming head to the left and stabbed his exposed temple. Almost immediately the dead soldier stopped thrashing and hung from the tree like an abandoned marionette.
Wilkins wiped his knife clean then dug in against the wind and the cold and the pain and the fear in his gut and pushed on towards Bastogne.
5
A hole had been punched in the German attack around Bastogne, but the gains made by the allies were bittersweet. The recapture of the town and the end of the siege there had been cause for much celebration, however the hard-fought victory had emphasised the scale of what was left to achieve. The audacious Nazi advance continued west across Belgium and France.
In two days and nights, more than a hundred thousand troops travelled over a hundred miles east under the command of General Patton. They’d known the ensuing battle was going to be hell, but despite all the rumours and reports they’d heard, no one was fully prepared for what awaited them.
The British 6th Airborne and 53rd Infantry Division began to move against the western tip of the German advance, taking up position on the defensive line between Dinant and Namur. As the men fought to force back the Nazis, the terrifying depravity of what was happening elsewhere became clear through radioed reports.
Upon arriving in the area around Christmas the men had, for the briefest time, felt surprisingly festive. It was bitterly cold, and more than six inches of snow had fallen, giving the battlefield a disarmingly calm and peaceful appearance, almost like a greetings card. Securing the town of Bure was the company’s first objective, and in no time the illusion of calm had been shattered.
Sergeant Daniel Phillips sprinted down the snow-covered track in pursuit of a group of Nazis who’d so far evaded capture. He was going to get those bastards if it was the last thing he did. He’d left Jack Hewson – his lucky charm who’d been with him every step of the way in this damn war so far – bleeding out having taken a bullet to the chest from one of them. He owed it to Hewson to hunt the bastards down. Never mind that, he wanted to do it.
He stopped and took cover against a towering spruce, steeling himself as the tree took several rounds intended for him, feeling the shock travel through the hundred-year-old wood. He crouched down and looked out through the splinters and smoke, then drew his head back in fast when another hail of bullets came his way. Jerry was looking for cover around the back of a grubby cottage on the outskirts of Bure. There were three of them hiding there, maybe even four, but numbers were academic. Phillips was poised to make his move – one last hurrah in memory of Jack – but a well-aimed round from one of the Fife and Forfar Yeomanry’s Sherman tanks put paid to any German resistance. The mortar hit the corner of the cottage and brought the whole thing crashing down on top of them.
The area (what was left of it) was secure, and Phillips made his way back deeper into the town. Corporal Charlie Lowell hollered to get his attention and ushered him into a dilapidated house where several other men had gathered to catch their breath. This had been someone’s home once, Phillips thought as he looked around the miserable place. It was a cold and empty ruin now, filled with dust and debris and broken glass, little trace of the former occupants visible. ‘All right, chaps?’ he asked through chattering teeth. It was clear the other men were far from all right. Given their dire circumstances, there could have been any reason for their low mood and dejected nature, but Phillips sensed this was something of the upmost seriousness. Warrant Officer Brian Stewart passed the sergeant a lukewarm drink. Phillips took it but didn’t drink. Instead he looked around from man to man, waiting to hear what horrific twist the war had now taken.
Stewart had a wide cockney accent which made him sound chirpy even when he clearly wasn’t. ‘You ain’t heard, Sarge?’
Phillips’ blank expression was as good an answer as Stewart needed. ‘Heard what?’
Stewart called to another man sitting spread-eagled on the floor in the corner. ‘Tell him, Wilson.’
Private Harry Wilson cleared his throat and wiped his face. Phillips had fought alongside him these last few days, and had grown to know him as an effervescent, larger-than-life Yorkshireman. All the verve and vigour had been knocked out of him today, though. ‘I overheard it on the radio just a half hour ago, Sarge,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
‘Overheard what exactly?’
‘News from the front, down to the south. The yanks are taking a hammering.’
‘The Germans are gaining an advantage? Dammit, I’d heard our boys were fighting them back. General Patton’s relieved Bastogne, hasn’t he? I know it’s been fraught, but the tide’s turning, isn’t it?’
‘It seems the Germans aren’t our only problem, these days.’
‘What do you mean?’ Phillips didn’t like the sound of this.
‘Have you not heard the rumours about the krauts that don’t feel no pain?’
‘Rumours, yes… but for goodness sake, the battlefield is a strange place. It can play havoc with a man’s sanity. And the human body is capable of all kinds of extraordinary stunts when one’s put under extreme pressure. I saw a fellow who’d had his legs clean taken off by a blast managing to run on the stumps. I think it’s just a case of…’