Necrocide (8 page)

“While we're here, grab anything you can eat.” George said thinking ahead. Hawkins plucked an apple from the table and proceeded to rummage through a series of small pallets containing supply crates stacked in the far corner. Granger decided however to loot the dead soldiers first and Hawkins noticed him rummaging through their clothing.

“What are you doing?” Hawkins asked. As if the situation was not odd enough as it was, his friend had seemed to lose the plot.

“You're not going to find a Luger or anything like that on these guys.” Hawkins sighed as his friend continued his fruitless search for the prized pistol of a German officer.

Hawkins peeled back some protective brown paper from a crate of canned food and plucked an item to inspect more closely. The can seemed to hold his attention as he tried to decipher the label. It was not the foreign language that caught his eye but a sinister looking picture that prominently sat beside it.

“What do you make of that?” Hawkins asked his busy companion, temporarily ceasing the frustrated looting. Granger looked carefully as the can and read slowly as if translating.

“Something rations...do not something...err...something verboten...that's prohibited...something soldiers only...or things to that effect.” George smiled as he had clearly given up. Hawkins frowned.

“What, so they’re rations that only certain soldiers are allowed to eat?” Hawkins' curiosity grew and he began to rummage through the tables contents for a can opener.

“Something like that.” George replied, as vague as possible.

“I'd better have some then!” Hawkins smiled as he held aloft a can opener like a prize at a sporting contest.

Piercing the can, the contents immediately emanated a foul odour which was difficult to describe.

“Jesus!” Hawkins exclaimed as he turned his nose up. Persisting with opening the can, he worked his way around the circumference and used the tool to flip the lid revealing a thick, dark gelatinous jelly which looked similar to congealed blood and smelled almost as bad.

“I can smell that from here!” George remarked as Hawkins offered his nostrils a little closer.

“Glad I’m not a German soldier having to eat this shit!” He spluttered.

“That's probably why there are crates of it left here!” George replied impatiently.

“It's probably engine oil and I've got the translation wrong.” He added.

Hawkins placed the can on the table and tried to forget the stench as it seemed to cling to his clothes.

“There's not much else here. No radio.” Hawkins said as he considered leaving.

“No, best keep moving.” George agreed that lingering there did no one any good.

Emerging from the machine gun nest, they carefully closed the door behind them and considered their options. To the west was Arromanches, a small town which was part of their original route to the port where they were designated initially. There would be at the very least would be locals who may be willing to aid them or conceal them until such time they could rendezvous with other Allied troops. George began to stride off down the dark road until Hawkins called him back with a loud whisper.

“Where are you going?” He inquired.

“I thought we were going to the next town?” George replied befuddled.

“What about Beach?” Hawkins said incredulously.

“What about it, I’ve had enough of it!” George responded.

“No, not 'the' beach, you daft twat, Beach, the young lad.” Hawkins despaired of his friend sometimes.

“Bloody hell. I forgot about him.” George looked up at the dark overcast skies where only one or two twinkles remained of the stars.

“You know we're better off without.” The corporal said his assessment of the young soldier clearly clouded by his performance that morning.

“It's another gun in't it.” Hawkins reminded George that they were but two soldiers in an area sodden with heavily armed enemy forces.

“Stop being right all the bloody time.” George whispered as they headed with pace back to the beach. As long as they were moving, Hawkins felt like he was accomplishing something although at the present, he had no idea what his goals were or how he was going to achieve them.

CHAPTER 10

Hawkins and Granger boldly marched down the dark and narrow coastal road with Beach bringing up the rear. Both of the commando's had their reservations about the young man who could have barely been eighteen years old. He was a skinny specimen with a prominent nose and a very short fuzz of brown hair. There was little time to get acquainted with their new colleague. The cover of night was not going to last forever and there were certain things the Commando's wanted to achieve in the course of this quiet period. Primarily, it was to find other allied forces in the area. In numbers, there was greater safety and if the invasion had utterly failed, possible avenues for retreat might be explored. Secondly, a radio of some kind would be most welcome if only to shatter the feeling of isolation that was so overwhelming. If all else failed, at least some kind of place to rest without fear of detection until the next evening when the search could begin again. Several things moved in their favour. They were well armed with a light machine gun and a pack full of heavy ammunition plus two sub machine guns. They were not hungry yet and thus were fresh and could move swiftly. The only thing holding them back at present was the languid pace of their rear gunner who seemed to struggle with the furious pace the others were setting. The Commando's were trained in force marching and it showed, it was why they were a specialised, elite group of soldiers whose physicality left Beach puffing and panting in their wake.

“Guys, slow down!” Beach whispered loudly, almost breaking into plain speech. The party stopped and Granger looked over to Hawkins in an 'I told you so' kind of way. Hawkins played the diplomat.

“Beach, If a German patrol came down this road right now, we are stuffed. That's why we need to move at best possible speed, it's not because we enjoy pain.”

Beach looked up to Hawkins and nodded. It was clear that he was as green as the Normandy Bocage.

“Sorry, Sir.” The private apologised.

“I'm not your superior, I'm a private too. My name is John Hawkins. You can call me John. Are you ready to move?”

Beach nodded and hauled his heavy pack firmly on his narrow shoulders once more.

“Thanks, John.” The young soldier felt better about being introduced informally.

“Where are we going?” He added. Hawkins only realised then that his young friend had no idea where he was heading or what for. He suddenly became acutely aware that this man's life was in his hands.

“We are going to Arromanches. The town west of here, do a recce and see what's what.”

Beach nodded, a little knowledge gave him a boost of confidence and Hawkins saw his gusto returning.

Then trio moved at silently as their heavy boots and chaffing clothes would allow. The road to Arromanches was desperately dark and with the moonlight compromised by overhead cloud, it was the blackest of nights. The high hedgerows of the Bocage gave the soldiers the impression of being in a maze and as Hawkins had alluded, it would be very difficult to find cover if encountered by a patrol. Hawkins and Granger knew this road well. They had not been here before but had studied the route closely in their preparations for the landings. Aware that Arromanches was now only a few hundred metres away, they became cautious and slowed their pace.

Ahead in the distance, the soldiers could just about make out the silhouettes of buildings and a few glimmering lights which offered a little hope of finding an ally to aid their cause. It was still quiet, unusually quiet save the sounds of the sea to their right and they had not heard the distance drones of vehicles or any sounds of battle since that morning. Hawkins estimated that it was now approaching eleven o'clock and most of the town's population would be taking to their beds. Of course with the excitement of the day, he could understand if they were restless. The French people had also been waiting for this day for some time and Hawkins hoped that they appreciated their efforts, for so many had died for their liberty.

A dog barked out in the distance and the soldiers pricked up their ears. It was the first sign of life since that morning at Gold. The furious beast's vocalisation reverberated through the buildings and into the surrounding fields.

The road widened a little as the town loomed larger before them and the spire of a church could now be clearly seen through the wispy haze. Hawkins was not a religious man but he thought that sanctuary could not have come at a more fortuitous time. It would be a comfort to have a fast roof over their heads for a period so that they could get some well earned sleep.

Creeping down the road which descended at a gradient, the small town of Arromanches was to be part of their journey to the Port au Bessin. Hawkins had seen aerial photographs and in geographical terms, it looked similar to a Cornish beach resort. It was to be the host to one of many artificial harbours that could be constructed to offer mooring to supply ships. Thinking on it, Hawkins wondered what could have gone so incredibly wrong that only the primary stages of the operation were put into place. By this time, thousands of troops should have been consolidating their gains, tanks and armoured support should have been pushing forward and engineers working overtime to accommodate the massive influx of supplies, ammunition and even more manpower. To think that his small party were the only survivors of a part of an operation that included thousands of troops was unthinkable. If all had gone according to plan, the 47
th
would have taken Port au Bessin by now and eventually would meet up with the Americans who had landed on the beach codenamed Omaha. There were some 50,000 troops in total who were expected to land that day, the chances of not bumping into them sooner or later was virtually zero, or that was what Hawkins believed. As they descended down into the town it started to become apparent that it too was as anomalous as the rest of the day's events.

The first sign of something out of the ordinary was the sight of a civilian motor vehicle, its nose firmly buried in the ditch at the side of the road. Cautiously scouting around it and maintaining vigilance for enemy soldiers, it was soon apparent that its driver had suffered a similar fate. Hawkins and Granger looked at each other with a sense of foreboding as they studied the middle aged man, suited and well coiffed, hanging from the driver's side window, his body limp and lifeless. It was still very dark and it could not be determined yet what had caused his sudden death but his face was darkened with clotted blood. Beach then pointed out three tell-tale bullet holes in the wind-shield and they all quickly came to the conclusion that he was ambushed, shot at the wheel and subsequently drove off the road at speed, ejected through the open window.

“Maybe he was military...non uniform. Perhaps a Gestapo agent that the locals wanted to off at the first chance.” Granger whispered. Hawkins raised his eyebrows, it was quite an assumption. His friend had a vivid imagination.

“Let's press on.” Hawkins urged, feeling tense at the unusual sight and with a feeling that the town before them had many more secrets to discover.

As the first darkened dwellings appeared, it was clear to all three of the soldiers that this sleepy coastal town had seen better days. Some of the buildings had suffered from significant bomb damage and Hawkins felt hopeful that it was not Allied aircraft that had inflicted this terrible toll. Peering carefully into windows and hugging the walls tightly, the soldiers scouted around a series of small cottages which appeared deserted as far as they could ascertain. Moving forward, it soon seemed apparent that the townsfolk had left their homes in a hurry. Front doors were left ajar or even wide open and the soldiers surveyed one of the cottages and found lamps still lit, the wireless left on despite it emanating only sustained static and a pan on a stove, having boiled its contents dry, only a blackened residue remained. The soldiers remained calm and kept their theories to themselves as they prodded around with the muzzles of their guns. Whoever lived here was no king, it was a modest abode but patriotic at the very least. French flags and paraphernalia adorned the living room and in a photograph which sat proudly upon the mantelpiece, a young soldier was receiving a medal in a pompous ceremony.

“Hey!” Beach whispered catching the other two's attention. The young soldier was drawing attention to a dark stain upon the worn carpet which ran from the room into the hall.

“That doesn’t look healthy.” George remarked assuming the spattered pattern was a sign of blood loss.

“Do you think the Germans lost the plot and took their anger out on the locals? Maybe they got a taste for murder after they wiped us out?” Hawkins added, trying to find some sense in the slaughter.

“Best keep moving.” Granger said solemnly.

Silently, the soldiers left the cottage and resumed their path into the town. The significant silhouette of the church was growing large and it seemed to be at the very heart of the conurbation. A little further along the road, the soldiers could make out obstructions on the asphalt path and cautiously, they moved in to take a better look. An upended motorcycle and side-car and more lifeless corpses were strewn about the road and to the British soldiers surprise they unmistakeably Wehrmacht in identification. Two uniformed and helmeted men lay still, their bodies contorted as if they had died instantly and their forms crumpled to the ground at awkwardly uncomfortable angles. Granger studied one of the bodies cautiously. It might well have been a trap well set but no, the soldiers were quite dead and the Commando made sure by jabbing one of them in the eye with the muzzle of his weapon.