Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,32

‘can we come down? The shells are coming closer.’

The Feldwebel unleashed a torrent of curses. They were so colourful some of the other soldiers even sniggered. Axel felt a bright red blush flush across his cheeks.

‘The Schwein,’ said Erich. ‘He’s sent us up here because we’re expendable. He doesn’t mind us getting killed, as long as we tell him what we can see first.’ He grabbed his rifle and pack. ‘I’m going down.’

Axel grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t be stupid, Erich. They’ll shoot you. Cowardice in the face of the enemy. Look. You stay here, we might get killed . . .’ Another shell exploded close enough to drown the words in Axel’s mouth. Soil, roots, stones and hot metal fragments rained down on them like a torrential downpour. Axel’s mouth filled with the taste of earth. He reached for his water bottle to rinse it away. ‘Go down there, you’re dead for sure.’

Erich saw sense. He sat down, his back to the parapet.

‘You know what I heard,’ he said. ‘Last night in the barn one of the older soldiers said these Americans we’re expecting to attack us, they’re the 370th Regiment. The 370th! I don’t like the sound of that. Where are the other 369 regiments? Are they in France too? That’s a hell of a lot of men.’

Axel nodded but said nothing. He had a horrible sinking feeling about the Americans. He hoped the Feldwebel was right about them being soft.

His stomach lurched and gurgled. He would give anything for a fried egg and a big hunk of bread. Erich heard and laughed. ‘I’m starving too. I wonder if these Americans are as hungry as we are.’

Both of them knew in their hearts they wouldn’t be. America was the land of plenty. They had all read about it before the war, and watched the newsreels in picture houses: skyscrapers; endless fields of corn and cattle; those great factories churning out everything from motor cars to refrigerators . . .

He thought about everything they had all been asked to give in the hope of a German victory. First it had been their pots and pans. Then iron railings and door handles. Only last year the church bells at Wansdorf were melted down for vital war materials.

He knew it wasn’t patriotic but Axel felt exasperated with his rulers. First the farm labourers had gone to fight. Then most of the horses had been taken. Then the fertiliser to make explosives. How could the farmers feed people on what they had left? Now the whole nation was starving. He was sure that was why his mother had died. She had been working on a steam-powered threshing machine. Axel didn’t like to think about what happened. Something, her hair, her clothes, had caught in the drive belt. They wouldn’t let him see the body. Herr Meyer was convinced his wife was weakened by hunger. Too slow, too lethargic, to take proper precautions around that infernal machine . . .

‘Meyer, Becker,’ the Feldwebel’s voice barked up to them. ‘Report.’

The two boys cautiously peered over the stonework to scan the horizon. The sky was musty and clouded from the shelling, dirt particles still suspended in the air. They could still taste them. ‘Look, two hundred metres away – just over the brow of the hill . . .’ said Axel.

‘There’s hundreds of the Schwein heading straight for us.’ Erich couldn’t keep the fear from his voice. ‘They’re coming. Hundreds of them, two hundred metres.’

The Feldwebel called out, ‘Prepare to fire. Await my command,’ in a cold hard voice. His lack of nervousness steadied the men. High in their tower, Axel and Erich heard twenty rifle bolts crack back in a rapid rattle. ‘The shelling has stopped,’ said Erich.

An insistent buzzing reached their ears a second later. They both peered over the top of the tower.

‘Look, a fighter plane. Heading straight for us,’ yelled Axel.

He cracked back his rifle bolt and took careful aim at the nose of the plane. It was flying so low he wondered whether it would crash into the tower.

The roar of the engine almost blotted out everything else now. There was the snap of rifle fire from below, and the rattle of a machine gun. The Feldwebel was yelling that they should conserve their ammunition for the attacking Yanks, not waste it on a lucky shot at the plane. But no one heard him.

Axel’s finger tightened over the trigger. He felt its coldness, damp in the chill autumn morning. This was