Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,38

circle right in the centre of Cowell’s back. It was getting bigger by the second.

‘The clever bastard,’ Will heard Jim say to no one in particular. ‘Got them both with a single shot.’

‘What do we do now, Sarge?’ said Hosking.

‘We wait,’ said Jim. ‘Stay here till dark if we have to. Keep looking around. But make your movements really slowly.’

‘Let’s hope he’s not up in one of these trees, and can see us on the ground,’ said Hosking. He sounded terrified, and Will felt his own fear in the pit of his stomach.

But they were covered pretty well, kneeling in deep foliage in a dip in the ground. They should be hidden.

Jim called quietly, ‘Weale, where are you, man?’ He sounded on edge – as near to frightened as Will had ever heard him. Will suddenly realised Weale had not been among them since Cowell had caught the mine.

‘I haven’t seen him, just now,’ said Ogden in a terrified whisper.

Will raised his head to take a look around and see if he could spot his comrade. A shot immediately rang out, hitting the side of his helmet in such a way that it knocked it off his head. In that one instant all four of them were seized with a blind urge to run. They scattered, each one in any direction his legs would carry him, praying that he could run fast enough to outwit the hidden enemy there in the forest.

CHAPTER 15

10.15 a.m.

Axel counted the remaining men from his unit. There were fifteen of them left. Some of those who had chased the retreating Americans were returning. They looked fearful, wondering what punishment their bravado would earn them. A few wounded men were having their injuries attended to. Some still thrashed and whimpered in their agony, but the screaming had mercifully ceased.

The calm that had descended seemed unreal. Axel felt like he was in a dream. Everything, even on this dim, drab day, seemed pin sharp. His breath in the cold air, raindrops on grass, pools of water glistening in the mud, the grey clouds, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He was still alive. He had survived his first combat unscathed. He thought he would feel more upset or shaken by what had happened. Maybe that would come later.

The Feldwebel ignored the men who had come back, which surprised Axel, who had expected him to berate them with his usual ferocity. Maybe he felt they had shown the correct fighting spirit. Now he was sitting in a dip in the ground, cleaning his rifle, a smouldering clay pipe clamped firmly in his mouth. Even sitting down he still seemed like an enormous physical presence. Axel approached him with trepidation. ‘Feldwebel, my comrade Becker has been killed by a bomb. I ask permission to inspect the crashed aircraft and ensure the pilot is dead.’

The Feldwebel nodded abruptly. ‘Return shortly,’ he said.

Axel withdrew his bayonet from its sheath and fixed it to the mount on his Mauser rifle. It had repelled him when he was first issued with it. On the underside of the pointed blade were serrations. ‘What is this for?’ he had asked the drill sergeant, expecting it to be some bloody form of torture. ‘It’s a saw, you Dummkopf?,?’ the man had replied. ‘What do you think?’ Now that bayonet looked entirely fit for its gruesome purpose.

He wriggled out of his field pack and ran over the freshly churned ground. The crashed fighter plane was still burning fiercely and thick black smoke was rising into the grey sky. He could feel the heat of it as he approached.

As he reached the edge, he dropped to the ground and cautiously peered over. There was a terrible stink coming from inside the crater. He saw the grinning corpse and recoiled in revulsion. Then he saw the American airman at the bottom of the crater. He hadn’t spotted him yet.

Axel took a deep breath and steeled himself for what he was about to do. He would run straight towards the pilot and skewer him with his bayonet. He deserved no less. He tensed and hurled himself over the edge – he would be upon his enemy in a matter of seconds and then it would be all over. He ran at full pelt, his rifle raised and ready to strike.

Only when he was almost upon the pilot did he realise he was staring straight into the barrel of his revolver. Instinctively he froze in his tracks.