Wilkins was keen to gain the trust and respect of the others. ‘You stay here, Lieutenant, and I’ll go. I don’t want to be accused of shirking. You’ve got your men to look after.’
‘Very good. Thank you, Wilkins.’
He and Barton swapped places with the pair at the fence. Wilkins was impressed by the amount of work which had already been done: the hole was wide enough and deep enough to crawl into, just not yet quite long enough to reach over to the other side of the electrified fence. It soon would be, though. He worked hard to match Barton’s pace, but made a mental note to try and conserve his energy. Despite the physical effort breaking in was taking, he knew the real work would begin once they were on the inside, and there would be no time to catch their breath once the camp wall had been breached. He had in his mind that the next few hours would be something of a sprint; a war conducted at breakneck speed.
Twenty minutes more and they were just about through. Near the trees, Harris returned to report back to Lieutenant Henshaw. ‘It’s really not right in there, Lieutenant.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Dunno, sir. Can’t rightly put my finger on it. Most of the lights are out, and I couldn’t see any movement from where I was. I think it’s every bit as bad as Lieutenant Wilkins reckons.’
‘We have to be positive. Fewer lights and fewer guards might mean it’s easier for us once we’re inside.’
‘Here’s hoping, sir,’ Harris said, praying the low moonlight was dull enough to disguise his unease.
Barton jogged back over. ‘We’re through, Lieutenant.’
Henshaw nodded at Jones. ‘Right. You’re up next, Lance Corporal. You know what to do.’
With trepidation wrote clear on his mud and sweat-stained face, Jones stripped down to his vest and walked towards the fence, teeth chattering with cold. The others took his gear. ‘We call him the rat,’ Barton explained to Wilkins. ‘And not just because of his looks, neither. He’s a slippery little bugger. Can just about get through any gap we need him to.’
And he was right. The hole they’d dug under the fence was relatively shallow, but it was deep enough for Jones who half-crawled, half-dragged himself through, seeming to contort his torso to a remarkable degree to avoid touching the wire. ‘He could have been in the circus,’ Harris laughed.
‘A deserter from the big top,’ Steele agreed.
‘All right, all right… that’s enough,’ Henshaw snapped. ‘We need to focus. There’ll be time for laughs when we’re safely back in Blighty.’
Jones looked up as the others neared. He was on the other side of the fence now with the entrenching tool he’d pushed ahead of him, working hard to increase the size of the hole so his colleagues and all their kit could fit through. He didn’t like being over on this side on his own. His teeth were chattering with nerves now as much as cold, and his guts were tied up in knots.
19
Captain Hunter and his men reached the airfield with only minor inconvenience from a handful of rogue corpses. Some of the soldiers appeared overly keen to try their hand at ‘re-killing’ (as someone had named it) and almost fought with each other to be among the first ones to attack. Hunter let them have their moment. He’d felt all along that there’d be plenty of opportunities to face this new unnatural foe.
And he was soon proved right.
The airfield at Leginów appeared barely equipped to support any kind of military activity. It was little more than a long, roughly rectangular field with a number of small, hut-like buildings at the far end. A camouflaged hangar stood off to the right.
Hunter split his men, one group advancing along each side of the makeshift runway which, had it not been for the tell-tale grooves left in the frozen mud and long patchy strips of flattened grass, would have been indistinguishable from any other field in any other place. There was some movement in the trees nearby, but the soldiers were able to advance with such well-practiced stealth that they passed by the dead unnoticed.
The groups converged near the hangar. Hunter sent a couple of his best men inside, Sergeants Hennessy and O’Rourke. They were in and out in a couple of minutes and wasted no time reporting back. ‘Looks clear, Captain,’ Hennessy said. ‘I mean it’s empty and all, but no surprises.’
‘Good, good. Looks like we got the better end of the deal then, eh boys. We get to protect an airfield that don’t much need protecting.’
‘Can we get inside, sir?’ a kid called Rumbelow asked. The adrenalin had worn off, and cold was setting in.
‘Don’t see why not. Mudriczki and Carter, take a couple more fellas and get those huts checked out. The rest of you, let’s get in out of the cold.’
Jimmy Mudriczki led the men over to the first of the huts. He peered inside through an ice-covered window but could see little. Definitely no movement. Nat Carter looked in from the opposite side. ‘Looks okay, Jimmy,’ he said.
‘Yeah, this place is like the grave. No one here. Anyone with any sense is long gone. Get the door and let’s get this done.’
The two other men – Coles and Willard – took up position just to the rear of Carter as he leaned across and pushed the door open.
The hut was booby-trapped.
The building exploded, billowing flames and searing heat filling the night air. The noise echoed like a gunshot. Mudriczki, Carter and Coles were killed instantly. Willard staggered away from the wreck, his smock on fire, trying to put himself out. Other men were there in seconds to help, but they all knew it was too little, too late.
The trap had had the desired effect. A horrific parting shot from the krauts who’d fled Polonezköy.
All around, the dead turned towards the airfield and began their lethargic advance.
Hundreds of them.
20
Within the hour the Brits had all made it across the wire. They leaned against the wall which stood between them and Polonezköy’s inmates. They were making plans to go over the top when Barton grabbed hold of Harris. ‘Guard approaching,’ he hissed, and the message was quickly passed from man to man. They each pressed themselves against the wall, hidden in the low light and shadow, and watched as the lone figure neared. The Nazi officer was moving lethargically and aimlessly; not so much patrolling, more like staggering…
Nervous glances were exchanged. Barton reached for his pistol but Wilkins stopped him and took his knife from the pocket of his Denison smock. He held a finger to his lips.
The enemy officer lurched closer, and though the limited illumination made it hard to discern any great level of detail, they saw enough to know that he was in a wretched condition. His face was covered in blood, one eye bulging from its socket as if it was trying to escape. ‘He one of them?’ Jones whispered to Lieutenant Wilkins.
‘Almost certainly,’ Wilkins whispered back as he readied himself to strike. But Sergeant Steele had other ideas.
‘This bastard’s mine,’ he announced, and he stepped out in front of the Nazi. He grabbed Jerry’s head in a tight neck lock.
‘Watch his bite…’ Wilkins warned, but Steele wasn’t listening, nor was he concerned. He took a fistful of the German’s hair and pulled his head back, then drew his own blade across his throat. A large, dark gash appeared in the dead man’s pale flesh, curved like a lecherous grin, and thick, dark semi-coagulated blood flowed like glistening mud down the front of his grubby-looking uniform tunic.
Steele pushed the Nazi away. Job done.