Eleven Eleven

CHAPTER 17

11.10 a.m.

The two boys hoisted Eddie’s arms over their shoulders and began to hobble towards Axel’s line. They tried not to make rapid movements – every jolt through the field seemed to bring the pilot further pain. It seemed strange, unnatural, walking upright in plain view of any enemy snipers. But the war was over now and they could hardly drag the pilot along the ground.

‘Wait here,’ said Axel, and they put Eddie down. Then Axel ran forward shouting in German. ‘He’s telling them not to fire, that he has found a wounded man,’ Eddie translated for Will. ‘He’s all right,’ he said. ‘I told you.’

Axel disappeared from view, but he came back almost immediately.

‘Gone,’ he shouted. ‘They must have withdrawn.’

They would have to go to the town after all. They picked Eddie up and continued past the church where he’d dropped his bombs. The German boy seemed numb with anguish. They could see a few dead bodies. ‘Sieh Dir das an,’ – Look at this – said Axel, gesturing towards the fallen soldiers. Will didn’t understand but he could hear the anger in his voice. For a second or two he wondered if Axel was going to walk off and leave him alone with Eddie. He wouldn’t be able to carry him on his own.

Eddie hung his head – from shame or exhaustion Will couldn’t tell. Axel stayed with them, anger still blazing in his eyes.

The road to the town passed along the outer edge of the wood. It was all downhill, which helped. They approached a German command post, with a flag and telephone wires disappearing into a trench and dugout. Axel called out, but there was no reply. It too had been abandoned.

Axel spoke to Eddie, then left him with Will and ran towards it. ‘He’s going to see if they’ve left water or first-aid supplies.’

Will panicked. ‘Stop,’ he shouted. The warning in his voice was enough to make Axel hesitate. Over the last few weeks Will had been through several recently evacuated enemy positions and he knew they were potential death traps for the unwary.

He helped Eddie sit down on a tree stump and was alarmed to see Axel was already climbing down into the trench. ‘Wait!’ Will screamed, beckoning him back. His gestures must have made sense because Axel came out at once with a puzzled look on his face.

Peering into the dugout trench, Will could see one of the duckboards at the bottom was sticking up a little. It was a trick Jim had warned his men about soon after Will arrived at the Front.

Will took a sandbag from the side of the trench and emptied some of it out so he could pick it up. He beckoned Axel to take cover. Then he tossed it down and threw himself flat on the ground beside him. A second or two later there was an explosion and the side of the trench was peppered with splinters and shrapnel.

Patting Axel on the shoulder he said, ‘Watch this.’ Will picked up another sandbag and hurled it through the open door of the dugout. Another explosion followed, and the dugout collapsed in on itself.

‘Danke,’ said Axel. For the first time, he gave Will what seemed like a genuine smile.

Will had seen several of his own platoon lost to booby traps in abandoned enemy positions. Any Pickelhaube helmet left in an obvious place, or officer’s pistol, or bayonet – all tempting souvenirs – were likely to have a wire and a charge attached. Flags on poles were another common one. Arriving at a recently vacated German command post, Will had seen two men blown to pieces when they had hurried over to grab an Imperial German Army flag.

Will ran back to Eddie, beckoning Axel to hurry, and after another twenty minutes of slow, exhausting walking, they reached the outskirts of the town. It too seemed deserted. Palls of smoke rose from several points. The acrid smell of burning buildings mingled with the low stench of sewage and leaking gas from pipes ruptured in the recent bombardment.

‘There’s bound to be water here, supplies,’ whispered Eddie. ‘Even if the locals have fled.’

They reached a large square, overlooked by a medieval church at one end and a railway station at the other. There were shops here – windows boarded up – and still no people. The square was full of debris – masses of equipment left behind by a fleeing army – backpacks, field guns, even a wagon full of hay for horses that had also fled.

Will called out, ‘Is anyone here? Help! We have an injured man!’ His voice echoed around the square.

They looked around. In the distance they could hear two dogs barking at one another. Will hoped they didn’t come any closer. Dogs, driven into a frenzy by artillery fire or hunger, were terrifying to deal with. Will had had to shoot one once.

‘I need water,’ said Eddie weakly.

Will knew those wounds needed washing as soon as possible. The American was heading for a nasty dose of gangrene if he couldn’t clean him up.

‘Let’s put you down on that hay wagon,’ said Will. ‘Then I’ll look for some water.’ They carried him across the square and gently laid him down in the hay.

‘Tell Fritz here to help me find some water,’ said Will to Eddie.

Axel gave him a dirty look. He spoke very little English, but he knew the English called the Germans ‘Fritz’ or ‘the Hun’, after the savage barbarian foes of the Romans. Both words were meant as an insult. He cursed himself for leaving his rifle in the shell crater.

Eddie picked up Axel’s hostility. He needed these boys to look after him, not start fighting. ‘Easy fella,’ he said to Will. ‘War’s over. Why not call him Axel?’ The effort exhausted him.

Eddie spoke to Axel and the German boy nodded. He went over to the pile of backpacks abandoned in the square, searching for water bottles. Will looked around, hoping to find a water pump. He was lucky. Close to an empty fountain by the church there was a stirrup pump. Will shouted over, asking Axel to bring a container. Eddie translated for him, although his voice faltered as he tried to speak loud enough for the German boy to hear him.

Axel hurried over with an abandoned bucket and held it under the pump as Will worked the handle. Water dribbled out in a trickle and the bucket took an age to fill. When Axel looked down, his feet were soaking. The bucket was leaking. Will put a hand under the bottom, and they hurried back to Eddie. He seemed to be asleep. He was still breathing at least.

Axel carefully undid the zips on Eddie’s flying boots, but the pilot screamed himself conscious when they tried to take them off. Blood had hardened over the shrapnel perforations. Will could see an army blanket among the debris in the square so he ran over to pick it up. He still had his bayonet on his webbing and used it to cut a strip off. The blanket was pretty filthy, but he needed something to use as a sponge. Will dampened the outside of the boots and carefully wet the inside too, slowly pulling them open as the blood inside dissolved on contact with water. Eddie winced – it smarted – but it was not as painful as just pulling at the boots and breaking the scabs.

Once they had loosened them enough to remove them, Will began to cut away at Eddie’s lower trouser leg, using the scissors that came with his first-aid kit. Axel stood close by, collecting strips of bloody fabric as Will handed them to him.

Will felt very grown-up all of a sudden. Like one of the Medical Officers in a field hospital. When both Eddie’s legs were free of bloody fabric, he bathed the exposed flesh with water from the bucket until they were almost cleaned of mud and blood. Eddie’s calves were pockmarked with little wounds. But Will was sure they wouldn’t be fatal. There was a small patch of blood around his thigh as well – which Will would need to look at next.

Will’s mother was a nurse and she had taught him well. He felt confident treating other wounded soldiers when the stretcher-bearers and medical orderlies weren’t available. Will was proud of his first-aid skills. He’d like to work in a hospital when he got home but he knew he’d never be able to afford the schooling to become a doctor, even if he had the brains, and nursing was a job for lasses.

He used another piece of blanket to dry Eddie’s legs off, and then reached for the antiseptic ointment in his kit. ‘This will sting a bit,’ he told him, but he had passed out again. Will quickly applied the ointment, and used another roll of bandages to dress the wounds.

Axel tapped Will on his arm, causing him to look up. A small circle of middle-aged men stood around them, armed with a motley collection of weapons – pitchfork, various knives, a spade, a single rifle fitted with a bayonet. Will started in fright. He pointed to his uniform. ‘English, Ong-layz, ami,’ . . . He tried to dredge up some more words in his pigeon French, then began to wonder what language these people spoke. They were in Belgium, after all. Was it Flemish? Walloon?

Will looked at their sallow faces. These were men who had spent four years on meagre rations. All of them had cold, hard eyes. The one with the rifle seemed a bit better fed. He had a bowler hat and great black moustache and stood slightly in front of the others. Will supposed he was the leader.

‘Allo,’ said the man in English. ‘We know you are anglais. And him –’ he pointed with his bayonet. ‘What is he?’

‘He’s American,’ said Will. ‘His plane was shot down over there.’ He pointed to the south-west.

‘And he is Boche.’ The man pointed his bayonet at Axel. Will said nothing.

At once there was something frightening about these men. ‘We need to get help for the flyer,’ said Will. ‘He’s been badly injured.’

The older man would not be deflected. ‘Him. What will you do with him?’ He pointed again at Axel, who had stayed silent. All of a sudden he looked white with fear.

‘He is my prisoner and he is helping me with my wounded ally,’ Will announced, trying to sound older and braver than he was.

The man with the black moustache spoke to the others. It was obvious to Will that he was translating, not least because he was mimicking Will’s frightened tone. They all laughed when he finished speaking.

‘You, Boche,’ said the man in German. ‘Come here.’

Axel stayed where he was, gripping the side of the wagon as if it would protect him.

‘No,’ said Will. ‘He’s been helping us.’

One of them grabbed Axel by the arm and wrenched him away from Will and Eddie. The men began to throw punches and kick him. Will launched himself between Axel and the angry men, trying to push them apart.

He was quickly pulled away, and although they did not hit him, two of the men held him tight enough to prevent him from wriggling free. ‘You look after your American friend,’ the older man said. ‘You leave the Boche to us.’

‘No, leave him alone,’ shouted Will, realising as the words left his mouth how frightened he sounded.

The man gave him a scornful look. ‘We lived with the Boche for four years. Four years we have our crops taken with no recompense, our houses occupy, our wine steal, and they have take hostages and shoot them.’

‘But he hasn’t had anything to do with that,’ shouted Will desperately.

‘He is Boche,’ said the man plainly.

One of the civilians had come back with a rope, which he was beginning to fashion into a noose. Axel was bloodied and bruised, pinned tightly between two of the burliest men. He was protesting loudly but no one was listening. They were all looking around, wondering where was the best place to rig up a rope and hang him.

At the side of the square was an art-nouveau lamp post with a graceful curving arc close to the top of its metal stand. One of the men pointed and the two holding Axel started to drag him over to this makeshift gallows.