Necrocide (7 page)

“I guess those wankers the paratroopers didn't manage to get the job done then?” George whispered, exhibiting the lack of love for the Army regiment and the perceived volume of the artillery shells that had taken their toll.

“The whole thing is one big cock-up mate. Someone spilled their guts; they knew we were coming for sure.” Hawkins replied, conceding that the level of hostility they had faced could not have been performed by an under-strengthed division of poorly equipped soldiers.

“Why has it gone so damned quiet?” Hawkins pondered.

“Probably celebrating over schnapps and a fucking schnitzel, mate.” George replied with a venomous humour.

Hawkins looked over to the young soldier from the 231
st
that remained asleep although his pallid complexion and blue lips led Hawkins to believe he might be dead or dying.

“This kid's given up.” Hawkins suggested with a whisper.

“Too much for the poor lad, mate. Probably better to drift off now than face what we're going to get if the Krauts find us.”

Hawkins took a deep breath.

“Well, that's not goin' to happen, mate. I'm not sitting around here waiting for some Kraut to execute us.” Hawkins said adamantly. It seemed that the Germans had no will to offer their mercy on this day of days.

“I reckon we scout around these rocks, find a nice cave somewhere until dark and then find a radio and find out what's what.” Hawkins suggested.

“Agreed. What about him?” Granger replied knowing that to attempt to bring the youngster along would hamper their efforts.

“He's better off here. Let him sleep.” Hawkins whispered knowing full well that it was better for him to die in tranquillity.

Gathering themselves together under the midday sun, the two Commandos' ensured their weapons were primed and they had gathered all they could from their own possessions. There was a brief discussion regarding the young soldier's ammunition but it seemed heartless to rob the poor soul of his only lifeline. If he did ever awake, neither Granger nor Hawkins wanted to be plagued with the guilt of having been the instrument of his downfall.

Rolling themselves into a position where they could crawl way on their hands and knees, the two Commandos' slowly began to edge back out towards the lapping waves which were still tarnished by fuel oil and blood intermingled, leaving dark liquor behind on the beach as the waters receded.

The soldiers briefest of movements were suddenly halted as a volley of small arms fire was heard in the distance. The soldiers once again reacted and buried their faces into the noisy pebbles of the beach. Several seconds passed with more gunshots echoing out and reverberating around the coastline and raised voices could also be heard although it was not clear what they were saying.

“That's coming from the beach head!” George whispered with some degree of volume.

“Do you think some of our boys made it up there?” Hawkins asked, suggesting that there may have been some degree of success after all.

As quickly as the fire-fight started, it was over and an eerie silence ensued until the sounds of motor vehicles were heard, perhaps driving away into the distance.

“Whoever it was, they didn't last long.” George suggested morbidly as Hawkins once again peered over the rocks desperately trying not to reveal himself to spotters. His helmet removed, his dark thatch of hair blended in well with the craggy rocks.

“Sounded like MP40 fire to me.” Hawkins whispered. George understood what that meant and concurred. The sound of German machine pistols was rather distinctive and they were well acquainted with German munitions.

“Could have been Sten's, same kind of rattle.” George added optimistically.

“Come on, that was MP40. They were most likely executing prisoners. Now they've sod off to get their medals in time for tea.” Hawkins was more of a realist. He did not like to find encouragement where none existed.

There was a minute of contemplation after such a profound statement and both soldiers thought about the prospect of being captured. The Germans were not known for executing prisoners although it happened on both sides. The emotions of war often led to instant reprisals and lawlessness reigned. George finally broke the silence.

“Listen, we could stay here till dark. If they were going to come down here and rummage through what's left of us, they would have done it by now. More likely they've done their job here and have been pulled to another area. It's clear that we aren’t sending anymore in. Even Monty isn’t mad enough to send in troops just to get slaughtered. When it's dark, we can get out there, find a radio and see what the situation is. Just wandering about aimlessly is going to get us nowhere and if we stay close to the coast, we might be able to get picked up.”

Hawkins nodded slowly. Looking out to the ocean, he could vaguely see the silhouettes of some of the larger Allied ships in the distance through the haze. All was not lost; a little patience was required although they both felt aggrieved that their carefully planned mission had failed so completely. Hawkins sat back down and rested his gun upon his lap. Looking down at the weapon, he wondered if he would ever get a chance to fire it.

CHAPTER 9

As the skies darkened and even the sounds of distant artillery fire subsided, Hawkins and Granger maintained vigilance despite the trauma of the day catching up on them and bringing about a dreadful weariness. No troops had come down onto the beach and no other movement was detected. It was as if the two commandos' were the only living things remaining in the immediate vicinity. Even the usual sounds associated with the night were not heard and an eerie atmosphere descended.

Hawkins took the role of scouting the beach for a radio. Despite being numerous, the bombardment of the beach offered little hope of finding one without grave damage. Granger, with Hawkins gun pointed into the darkness as cover, peered into the gloom to see how Hawkins faired as he moved silently from mutilated body to body. Although only gone a few minutes, George was getting nervous and only the return of his friend caused him to be at ease. Heavily laden, Hawkins skipped back into view, his hands as full as he could manage. He flopped down with his pickings and displayed them for his friend's delectation. Fumbling at a sodden radio which had somehow survived the battle, George was more interested in the hefty Bren machine gun that Hawkins had recovered with accompanying ammo crate.

“If this radio works, my dad's King George.” Hawkins stated as he assessed the large box before him. Dialling in the appropriate frequency range and ensuring the receiver was still functioning, he called for a response. Granger waited with baited breath for Hawkins to begin dialogue but his wait was a long one.

“There's nothing there. Don't know if it's the radio or just the fact that no one is responding.” Hawkins huffed and puffed.

“Not entirely unexpected.” His pal added.

“To be honest, mate...” George was about to deliver bad news and Hawkins knew it.

“...We wouldn’t get pick up anyway with an assessment of the immediate area. We'll have to move up the beach and scout the German emplacements.”

Hawkins raised his eyebrows but knew his corporal was right. If they were going to endanger themselves by surveying the ground, the cover of night was the best time to do it.

“OK.” The Yorkshire man replied in agreement. It was not often that Granger got a call wrong and he trusted him.

The Commando's readied their weapons and brushed themselves down. Still damp and uncomfortable, they crouched in readiness to hug the rocks all the way to the small road which ran from the very top of the beach.

“Where are you going?” A whispering voice was heard and to Hawkins' and Granger's astonishment, they looked down to see a pair of bright white eyes staring at them in the moonlight.

“Jesus, he's awake.” Hawkins whispered, partly in relief, part in annoyance that he had been absent whilst others had been vigilant.

“We're going to recce the beach head. Are you injured?” George inquired.

“I don't know.” Came the whimpering reply.

“Obviously not then.” Hawkins blasted, yet kept his voice whisper quiet.

“Get your side-arm out then, Private.” Granger ordered. The young soldier began to whimper and whine like a frightened child and the Commando's knew that he would be a heavy burden if not an impediment to their safety.

“Oh, hell. This kid's not in a state to do anything. Leave him here.” Hawkins suggested. The Corporal blew his cheeks out and realised that Hawkins was right.

“What's your name?” Granger asked.

“Beach, Sir.” The youngster replied.

“Nice, well Beach, I suggest you sit tight and keep your mouth firmly shut. We will be back in the next hour.” Granger stated.

“But...but...how will I know it's you?” Beach inquired, his terror clearly visible in his eyes.

“Just don't shoot anything unless it's speaking German, is shooting at you, or eating a schnitzel.” Hawkins added unhelpfully.

*

Hawkins and Granger scurried up the beach, hugging the dark form of the rocks behind them; their footfalls were the only things that could be heard as the unusual silence remained. As they neared the grassy dunes and the road that ran west to Arromanches, the bodies of their fallen brothers-in-arms were fewer. By the time they had gathered themselves behind the ridge of the dunes, there were no signs that any of the Allied soldiers had even made it that far. In the space of a hundred yards, many hundreds of young men had been killed and the evidence suggested that they themselves were the only surviving members of their force.

Beyond the dunes and along the road to the East, there appeared to be some kind of small defensive installation. A reinforced concrete shelter of some kind although in the darkness it was difficult to make out. There appeared to be no light, no sounds of occupation no movement of traffic from the road. Hawkins took point and crouched, leaning back against the ridge. He made eye contact with his friend as if to telepathically communicate his intentions. George decided to stick with his prearranged hand gestures to make it clear that they were going to proceed to the bunker-like building and take a look. Hawkins felt naturally anxious about this but it did seem that anyone who had been here had clearly left and there was more sense in moving forward than back.

Still stooping low and remaining  as concealed against the line of the ridge as possible, the soldiers followed it as far as they could before climbing up to the roadside and along an overgrown verge where brambles snagged their clothing. As the bunker came clearly into view, Hawkins could see that it was set off the roadside a little and that a series of small steps led toward the entrance. At the front, the long pointed muzzle of an MG42 protruded ominously from a narrow slit and was likely one of the weapons which claimed so many lives earlier that day.

Nearing the building, the two soldiers readied their weapons and hovered their fingers over their triggers. Hawkins edged silently towards the small reinforced wooden door which appeared to be slightly ajar on closer inspection. A sliver of yellow light emanated from the gap which heightened Hawkins senses further. It was not unimaginable that the occupants were still inside, perhaps asleep, tired from the rigours of the day. Creeping down the small steps, Hawkins took one side of the door and Granger the other. They glanced at each other to confirm the synchronisation of their incursion and with self control and a significant amount of courage, they rolled around the corner and Granger nudged the door of the bunker slowly open with the muzzle of his long barrelled machine gun.

Rushing into the dimply lit chamber, neither soldier offered a battle cry or other obscenity which might attract attention. Silently and swiftly, they surveyed their surroundings, objecting to the urge to unload a magazine of bullets into the room just to be sure. They were soon rewarded with their restraint when it was clear that no living thing remained in the machine gun nest.

The chamber was fairly spacious, a good six or seven square metres. It was lit by a small battery powered lantern that was at the end of its usable life. As expected, a used and now silent MG42 rested in a horizontal slot in the thick front wall and boxes of spent cartridges lined the floor around it.

In the centre of the room there was a table and upon it, there were dishes, metal mugs and eating implements, some half eaten food stuffs and several bottles of French beer. It was however the least eye-catching thing about the room for around the table, splayed awkwardly across the chairs and slumped forlornly over the table were the very still and deceased bodies of three German soldiers wearing Wehrmacht uniform. Their bodies punctured by high velocity rounds, their untimely demise was explained by a number of bullet holes not in the far wall opposing the entrance, but in the wall where the thick portal was set.

“Jesus. They were shot while they were taking a spot of Tiffin.” George exclaimed with the blackest of humour. Hawkins examined a series of bullet strikes in the wall from which they had just entered.

“Executed more like...by someone inside.”

George looked down and picked up one of the German's arms by his sleeve. The dead man still clutched a tin mug with some alcoholic residue inside.

“Looks like they were celebrating their victory and POW!”

Hawkins furrowed his brow. He was certainly glad of the Germans' demise but found the whole scene odd to say the least.