Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,39

Did he have a bullet in the chamber of his rifle? He couldn’t remember. He certainly wouldn’t be able to cock his rifle and fire off a round before the airman shot him in the face.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, frozen in time – Axel with his rifle raised and his bayonet a few inches away from Eddie’s face. Eddie, his arm out, was holding a revolver pointing straight at Axel.

Axel became aware again of his breathing and his heart beating painfully hard in his chest. But strangest of all was how calm he felt. Why had the American not shot him when he had charged towards him? What were they going to do next?

The pilot, it seemed, had the advantage, but Axel noticed how the revolver was shaking in his hand. Its weight seemed too much for him and Axel realised he must be badly wounded. Should he wait to see what happened next, or should he press home his attack? He searched his opponent’s face for a sign. His hand might be shaking, but his eyes seemed clear and well focused. Then he noticed his face. He looked strangely familiar. The man had the sort of ruddy colouring often seen in the region he came from. And he wasn’t really a man – he was only a year or two older than Axel.

‘Just put the rifle down and catch your breath,’ said the pilot, speaking German with a Berlin accent.

‘You’re German,’ blurted out Axel. ‘Why are you fighting for them?’

‘Don’t be a Dummkopf?,?’ said the pilot. ‘Put down your rifle or I’m going to have to kill you. I don’t want to die on the last day of the war, and I don’t want you to have to either.’

Axel was reeling. This airman spoke German like a native. And, he knew, he could easily have shot him just now. He began to shake a little himself. His anger was dissolving and, much to his embarrassment, he realised he was having to fight back tears.

‘What’s your name, son?’ said Eddie. He had realised this boy was his only chance out of this pool of mud. He needed to win him over quickly, before he sank further.

‘Axel,’ said the boy warily. ‘Why are you talking to me like this? Are you a traitor? Have you changed sides?’

Eddie laughed. ‘Look, my parents moved over to the United States forty years ago. I was born there. We speak German at home, and English everywhere else. I’m as American as those soldiers who were attacking you just now.’

Axel noticed the airman had a woman’s scarf poking out from the top of his flying jacket. Then another thing he’d just heard hit him like a flash of lightning. He blinked in confusion. ‘What did you say . . . the last day of the war?’ he blurted.

Eddie laughed again – this time in disbelief. ‘What! They haven’t told you?’

Axel felt exasperated. ‘Well, they didn’t tell your soldiers attacking just now, did they! They didn’t tell your artillery men . . .’ He could feel his anger boiling up and raised his rifle. ‘And if you knew the war was ending today, what the hell were you doing coming over here in your flying machine and killing all my comrades?’

Eddie’s eyes flashed with anger too. He levelled his revolver at Axel’s head again. ‘Stay where you are and calm yourself.’

Axel froze.

‘Our top brass . . .’ said Eddie, then he faltered. All of a sudden he was having to find the strength to talk. ‘Got reputations to make. Gonna keep us fighting right to the eleventh hour . . . Then it’s all over, Kamerad . . . You stay here with me and wait.’ He glanced very rapidly at his watch and his eyes returned to Axel. ‘Not long . . . then we can both go home to our mothers.’

Eddie felt guilty, making this speech. After all, he too had set out at the break of day to add a final notch to his belt. All at once he realised he was no better than any of the rest of the glory hunters – hoping to impress the other pilots by taking the life of another man.

‘I came out to help our boys,’ he lied to Axel and to himself. ‘If our boys are attacking, then it’s my job to help them.’

Axel felt confused. This pilot he had been so intent on killing was only doing his duty –