Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,1

on his head.

Another explosion followed, smaller than the first but still enough to shake the carriage like a hurricane gust of wind. Then they heard small-arms fire – spitting like firecrackers.

In a carriage near to theirs there was a sickening thud. Something heavy had fallen out of the sky. The train ground to a screeching halt.

A steady rattling, like heavy rain, began to fall on the carriage roof. Fragments from the explosion. Some penetrated the thin metal but their force was largely spent.

There was more screaming. For a moment Axel was gripped by a terrible urge to flee through the shattered window. What if the train caught fire? The thought of being burned alive brought a blind panic to his chest. But he breathed deeply and told himself to wait for orders. Besides, there were so many people in the train carriage it would have been impossible to move.

‘Are we being attacked?’ shouted one of the soldiers in the carriage. ‘Let’s get out . . .’

An older man – Axel thought he looked old enough to be someone’s grandfather – listened for a second then the tension drained from his face. ‘That doesn’t sound like any fire fight I’ve been in. I think they’ve hit an ammunition dump.’

The injured man was being attended to by a soldier sitting next to him, who was covered in blood too now. He had managed to apply a field dressing, but the wounded man’s ghastly, chalk-white complexion and vacant eyes suggested he did not have long to live. Axel had seen dead people before – but he had never seen a man die.

‘Disembark!’ someone shouted, followed by a piercing whistle.

Everyone grabbed packs and rifles and helmets and began to scramble for the exits. Axel felt he was being spat out of the carriage, disgorged in a tide of grey uniforms, with this ragtag collection of young boys and older men. A Feldwebel – sergeant – was walking up and down, trying to create order from chaos. Axel stumbled to the rail side, grateful to have escaped, especially when he saw what had hit the carriage behind them. A great steel axle, with a heavy wheel still attached, lay half in and half out of a compartment. Above the pandemonium of the disembarking men he could still hear the cries of those trapped inside.

The train had come to a halt between stations. Axel could see a terrific blaze further down the line and the outline of a town beyond the flames. He could also see star shells floating down to the west, and guessed that was where the Front was. Maybe an hour or so’s march away. He felt a stab of fear, but pushed it aside when a boy his own age came over. Like Axel he was wearing a uniform that was too big for his skinny frame. Like Axel his blond hair was cropped short, a style that accentuated his pinched features.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

‘Something blew up.’ Axel shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Now we have to walk.’ Hearing his own voice slightly surprised him. He had spoken to no one for the entire journey.

‘You’re a Berliner?’ said the other boy. ‘I know that accent!’

Axel smiled. ‘No. But I live close by – in Wansdorf. It’s a few kilometres to the west. My parents come from Berlin. And you?’

‘Kreuzberg.’

Axel nodded. He had often visited family in that part of Berlin when he was younger.

‘It’s a madhouse there,’ said the boy. ‘Red flags. Soldiers’ councils. They’re turning into Russians – they’re even calling for a Soviet Republic.’

‘And what d’you think of that?’ said Axel warily.

‘I don’t know,’ said the boy. Axel didn’t know whether he was being honest or whether he’d decided it was not wise to talk to him about the Bolsheviki.

An awkward silence hung between them until the boy fetched an oatmeal biscuit from his pocket and offered it to Axel. ‘I’m Erich Becker,’ he said, and put out a hand to shake. ‘My Mutti made these.’

‘Thank you,’ said Axel, and ate the biscuit at once. He had eaten nothing since breakfast the previous morning. ‘As soon as we get to Tommy, we can have our fill of his bully beef, ja?’

Axel had heard the British soldiers were well supplied with foods that had become scarce in Germany, especially meat. And he really liked the idea of finding some British chocolate bars as well. Cadbury, Rowntree, Fry – those were the names to look out for. The navy blockade the British