Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,2

had mounted around the coastline had put a stop to any luxuries reaching Germany. Now everyone had to make do with turnips and acorn coffee.

Axel had decided it was his duty to encourage his fellow soldiers – even boys his own age like Erich: keep their spirits up so they would have the courage to fight the enemy. Erich smiled at him but his eyes were dull with fear. Axel hoped his own courage would hold up. His father had sent him off with stern words. Uphold the good name of the family. Don’t bring disgrace on your village. Make your mother proud. She will be watching from heaven. Axel thought he was a bit old for that now, but he would have loved to believe she was watching over him from somewhere.

A company Feldwebel lined them up and they began to march towards the flaming wreckage ahead. The fires were burning bright enough to scorch the skin on their faces. As they marched past, Axel turned to Erich. ‘An ammunition truck?’

‘A lucky shell, maybe,’ he replied. ‘Or maybe a Tommy or a Yank flyer dropped a bomb.’

The scene around them was like an image of hell. Whatever had blown up here had set rolling stock alight and ignited several piles of ammunition and shells. Axel wondered if they had all gone off, or whether there was more to come. A few wounded men were being attended to, but most of the casualties were dead – burned to a crisp shell or mutilated beyond recognition. Axel stared straight in front. As they marched towards the town, he wondered what else lay ahead.

CHAPTER 2

2.00 a.m. Close to the British front line

William Franklin could sense the earth tremble beneath his feet. It wasn’t the irregular tremors of an artillery bombardment, or the solid rhythmic stomp of a long column of marching men. This was a deep, heavy rumble – the sort that only a large armoured vehicle would make.

Will felt himself surfacing, like a diver coming up from dark depths. He was so tired he just wanted to stay down in his underwater world for ever. The nearer he came to consciousness, the more he became aware of the soggy cold of that November early morning. It had been raining all of the previous day and his thick trench coat and woollen tunic had soaked up the moisture from the soil.

The men had searched for three hours for a barn or farmhouse to rest in, but every one they had come to had been bursting with other British soldiers. After four years stuck in the trenches, Will’s ‘King’s Own’ Royal Lancaster Regiment was on the move.

His platoon had been marching all day and were close to exhaustion. Sometime after midnight their commander, Lieutenant Richardson, decided the roadside would have to do. There was a raised parapet of earth either side, which offered slightly better protection than sleeping out in the open. Will had fallen asleep almost as soon as he unbuckled his pack and laid down his rifle. Now his brief rest was being disturbed.

Will could hear a grinding, clanking sound – so loud he could feel its vibration in his chest. He saw the lieutenant running down the road towards the vehicle, shouting and waving his arms. Will was sorry to see it was him. Richardson had taken the first watch, as he usually did, so that meant they had been asleep for less than an hour.

In the gloom he could make out the silhouette of a single British armoured tractor with caterpillar tracks, pulling a large artillery piece – a heavy howitzer, by what little he could see of it. Will and two of the other boys in his platoon had watched one of them in action the other day – until the artillery commander told them to clear off.

The engine cut abruptly and Lieutenant Richardson’s angry voice carried clearly through the night air.

‘There’s a platoon of men by the side of the road. What made you think it was safe to drive this vehicle down here without checking what was in front of you?’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said a gruff voice. ‘Been ordered to take this up the line, sir, under cover of darkness, sir.’

Will recognised the insolence in the driver’s voice. Richardson was barely eighteen – the age Will himself was pretending to be – and had barely started shaving. Richardson was making a good job of being a lieutenant, but beneath the uniform and the officer’s bearing and authority,