Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,47

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.

CHAPTER 18

11.50 a.m.

Will opened his mouth to shout. Before he could speak, a shot rang out. Everyone turned to see Eddie Hertz sitting up in the hay wagon, his pistol pointing to the sky.

‘That one went into the air,’ he announced. ‘The next one goes into any one of you who thinks it’s a good idea to hang this boy!’

Although few of them actually understood him, his meaning was clear. The two men holding on to Axel let him go and pushed him towards the American.

Will watched tensely, wondering what was going to happen next. The reaction of the crowd seemed mixed. In some there was a resentful defiance, in others there seemed to be shame. Perhaps the American had brought them to their senses. Whatever, they weren’t about to kill one of their liberators.

Eddie called to Axel in German. ‘Come and stand over here with me. I’m not going to let them kill you.’

The crowd’s hostility was rekindled. Pitchforks and shovels were raised again. Eddie realised his mistake. ‘Hey, amis . . .’ he spoke in