CHAPTER 2.

As the dawn broke, 65 year old Klaus Goddard walked with his cows back to the milking barn on his meager farm. Morning chores would not wait, war or no war. 1944 had been a hard year, particularly with so much of his crops and milk production being diverted away for the war effort. It had been so much harder after the Allies landed in France and began pushing the Wehrmacht back. It seemed inconceivable to Klaus that things could become so unraveled. If anything, 1945 appeared to be much worse. He sighed tiredly. Things had been like this back in the Great War too. It was a vicious cycle, it seemed.

Klaus sat down at his stool and began to milk the first of his cows when he heard the commotion coming from out in the barnyard. All of his animals seemed to be howling, deathly afraid of something out there. With a grimace, he hoisted his tired old bones from the stool, grabbed a pitchfork and ambled towards the noise.

He gasped with a mixture of revulsion and surprise when he beheld the origin of the ruckus. All of his animals not inside the corral were running away, braying and barking and clucking madly. Those still inside, the cows mainly, had cowered into a cluster that threatened to tear down the fencing. A soldier, an officer if Klaus’ dim recollection of his own time in uniform was accurate, seemed absorbed in devouring one of his chickens. The officer had ripped the chicken’s head off with one bite. Feathers and blood, along with a huge stain of vomit clung to the officer’s tunic. He seemed oblivious to Klaus till the old man yelled at him.

“Vas der teufel? What are you doing to my chickens? Stop that this instant!” Klaus brandished his pitchfork and confidently stepped forward to defend his property. Aged or not, he wasn’t going to let anybody destroy his hard-earned gains. The soldier dropped the chicken with a moan of longing and awkwardly began staggering towards him. “Now stand back! I’m warning you!” He didn’t want to attack a member of the German military, even if he was defending his home. He’d heard stories of reprisals from the Gestapo and the SS. But this was different. Surely the authorities would see that. This man was a lunatic!

Klaus leapt forward and plunged the pitchfork deep into the soldier’s chest. To his astonishment, it had no effect. If anything, the moans increased in intensity the closer he got to him. When the man’s hands fell onto Klaus’ forearm, he gasped at how cold his assailant’s grasp was. “Let go of me!” He screamed, suddenly becoming frantic. He struggled, but the grip was as steadfast as it was freezing. His screams rose in pitch as the impaled man with the blood, puke and chicken feathers plastered on his face and clothes bit deep into his arm.

The man pulled away from Klaus with a large hunk of his forearm in his mouth, his jaw and chin coated anew in blood. The mewling moans descended into satisfied grunts as he ate heartily. “Mein Gott….. He is a madman! Helfen mich, bitte! Anyone!” Klaus flailed away from the soldier and began to stagger back to his farmhouse. He had a hunting rifle in there. Surely he could reach it in time, if only he weren’t in such horrible pain from that bite! He reached the door, but his hands were too slick with blood to turn the knob. Trying to fight down his panic, he concentrated and grasped it again. Just as he felt the knob turn beneath his fingers, a pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders and the man who only a few hours ago answered to Johannes sank his teeth deep into his throat and began to feast again.

It didn’t take more than a few minutes for Klaus to come back himself, equally ravenous. The cows had managed to break down the corral in their panic and began racing up the road, mooing loudly and kicking up a cloud of dust. Johannes and Klaus followed dutifully. One was now two.

Ten minutes later, farther up the road Heidi Braun emerged from her widow’s farmhouse. Her young husband, Heinrich had died on the Ostfront two years before and Heidi had done her duty to the Fatherland by reporting to a Lebensborn camp with the intent on giving Germany as many healthy children as she could bear. She’d been there two weeks and endured with patriotic resolve, the rough caresses of many an SS officer before it was discovered her womb was barren. Afterward she worked in a munitions factory till the damned British had bombed it into rubble. Now, devoid of purpose she had returned home to the small farm she’d shared for oh so brief a time with her now cold and dead husband, who lay forgotten in some hole in Stalingrad. Since returning from the Lebensborn camp, she’d not felt a man’s touch. Despite the crudity of many of the men she lay with while there, she found she missed the feeling. It was lonely here.

Her brow crinkled as amidst a cloud of dust, several cows came running up the road. They made a horrible din. She clucked in disapproval. Klaus was far too old to be running a farm by himself. He could no longer control even his own livestock. That was a disgraceful waste of resources. She laughed ruefully at the thought. He was a widower too. Too bad he was so old because they might have made a good match.

As she stepped out into the lane to watch the cows vanish around a bend, two figures emerged from the dust and fell upon her greedily. Heidi now had the touch of two men upon her, but it was hardly the reception she’d been expecting. A few minutes later, she stood up. Her bodice was bloodied and torn open, revealing several large bites and gouges across her neck and breast. One arm dangled from torn ligaments. With eyes gone milky and opaque, she joined Johannes and Klaus on their trek. Two was now three.

Just outside the village of Ornel, Mannfred Kleine contemplated how lucky he had been in the last few years as he drove his horse-drawn cart to market. As the town’s butcher, he was perhaps not well off, but affluent enough that his family did not starve. And he provided a specialized service to their small community. He was needed and not necessarily conveniently replaced without some effort. Hermann Schmidt, their fat village burgermeister remembered that and had been kind enough to ignore the fact that Kleine’s grandmother had been named Mandelbaun before she married. Of course, some prime head of cattle delivered to the greedy bastard had served to fuel his selective memory and misplace those marriage certificates when the Gestapo began nosing around their town’s genealogical records. Having a quarter Jewish blood in his background was ample grounds for being deported and never heard from again to one of those camps people talked about under their breath. Yes, Mannfred was lucky, but he always felt that somebody was looking over his shoulder. Maybe one day that greedy bureaucrat would get tired of covering for him and denounce him. It had happened to others he knew, after all. If his luck held out, the Amis and the British would get here and he wouldn’t have to worry about his distant lineage anymore.

“Whoa!” Mannfred pulled the reins tight. To his astonishment, a herd of cows stampeded across the road, blocking him from proceeding. What were they doing running loose like that? He glowered. What a shame. They were probably branded already. There was probably little chance that he could catch one or two of them and supplement his losses a bit. Still…it couldn’t hurt to check.

He got down from his cart and scanned the road. Some of the cows had finally stopped their headlong flight about thirty yards to the east. He looked around. No one seemed to be about. This bit of thievery might just be worth the effort if he was swift about it. Before he could take another step, his horses began to scream and wheeled off down the road in a panic. Likewise, the cows again began their loud mooing and renewed their headlong flight once more. “Dammit!” Mannfred yelled dejectedly. “It’s barely 8 o’clock and already my day is ruined! Could this get any worse?”

He turned with another string of curses on his lips and walked right into Johannes, Klaus and Heidi, who promptly fell upon him noisily. Their pure Aryan stock was not offended in the least by Mannfred’s one-quarter Jewish blood. On the contrary, they seemed to relish it. Three was now four.

Within minutes, their quartet stumbled upon a brother and sister, eight and ten years of age who had just left their cabin for school. Four became six. The children’s hysterical mother, screaming her children’s names over and over became the seventh. A minute later their father, who had managed to actually blow away part of Mannfred’s lower jaw with a hunting rifle before being overpowered and devoured, became the eighth.

Drawn outside by the gunshot, three more villagers emerged from their small houses along the lane and were welcomed into Johannes’ growing troupe. The eleven had swelled to eighteen by the time the first one of them set foot within the village of Ornel proper.

At the same time, not far away at the castle ruins last occupied by the late Johannes and his charges, Horst awoke to Reuter Dietel kicking him in the rear end. “Wake up, idioten! Didn’t the Leutnant place you on guard duty?”

Horst glowered at him. “What does it matter? There isn’t anybody around here anyway! The locals steer clear of these ruins! The Yanks and Tommies are miles away and so are our own people! What is there to watch out for?”

“Look around, fool. The Leutnant wandered off while we all slept last night. If you’d been awake, you’d have seen him. He was getting sick from that bite.” Reuter pointed towards the vomit and blood that had dried into the dirt and grass along the shoreline of the river. “See for yourself. The man was not well.”

Horst visibly paled. He owed a great loyalty and sense of gratitude to Johannes and this lack of discipline instantly made him feel guilty. “Ach…I’m sorry herr Scharfuhrer. I should have stayed awake!”

Reuter waved his apology away. “Jah, you should have. But what’s done is done. We need to find him, but we have no way of knowing how many hours ago he wandered off. And knock that rank crap off. We’re all deserters now. The only man here worthy of being called by rank is out there somewhere, probably out of his mind with delirium.”

“What’s going on?” Hans asked with bleary eyes as he emerged from an arched doorway leading back to their bivouac farther in the castle ruins.

“Johannes…the leutnant disappeared last night. We need to go find him, but I’m not happy with the idea of us tromping around in the woods. He’s going to need a doctor and I’m afraid that’s going to mean traveling into the closest village.”

“There’s a village not far from here called Ornel,” Horst said as he pulled out a map from a case at his feet. “The leutnant didn’t want to go there if we could avoid it, but if he’s hurt…I don’t see any choice either.”

Reuter considered as Hans rushed back into the ruins to awaken the others. “Horst, how far away was your column when the Amis strafed it? Do you think we might be able to salvage any vehicles from it?”

The man snorted with a laugh. “No need. We drove here in a kubelwagen after the column was attacked. Herr leutnant had me park it behind that wall to your left and cover it with branches.”

Reuter nodded. “Sehr gut. Go uncover it. We leave for Ornel in ten minutes.”

CHAPTER 3

“Are you sure we’re going the right way? This bloody map is nae tellin’ me a fookin’ thing.” Corporal Clive Bellows tossed the map dejectedly into his lap and folded his arms across his chest. He seemed for all the world like a frustrated, petulant child. Sergeant Martin Knight shook his head at him in a patronizing manner. Bellows was a fairly decent solider, but was always getting his arse in a bunch about something.

“Ease up, mate. The map is perfectly fine and we’re on the right road. Dinnae worry. Now enjoy the scenery and leave the navigating to me.” Martin, by contrast had been in the British Army a lot longer, and was generally a calmer, more centered individual than the younger soldier who sat in the front seat of the jeep with him. Two American-made Willy’s jeeps bounced along the dirt road some miles outside of the village of Ornel. Their occupants were an advanced recon patrol from the rapidly advancing 9th Battalion, 2nd Devonshire Regiment. A few miles behind them were an entire infantry division and an armored column of over a dozen Sherman and Churchill tanks. While the Yanks were busy engaging the Jerries in Wessel, the British had begun a sweeping southerly envelopment to cut off any resistance or reinforcements trying to reach the besieged city. So far, the Brits had encountered little resistance, but many, many prisoners. German soldiers by and large were giving up in droves.

Clive seemed amazed and incredulous at this, the orderly procession of prisoners marching down the roads and highway, their discipline and esprit de corps still surprisingly intact. This was an army that knew how to give up with dignity. Martin, on the other hand wasn’t surprised. He’d fought the Germans since North Africa, back when things hadn’t been going so well for England. He remembered many a bloody battle, but always a gallantry of sorts in the enemy he fought. Of course, some of the Jerry units they’d encountered since Normandy were downright nasty. The SS for instance had all the discipline, but none of the soldierly…well, camaraderie wasn’t the right word. Both sides were trying to kill the other after all. But he’d always felt that the difference between the Wehrmacht and the SS was that one group at least respected their enemy while the other was nothing but contemptuous and thuggish.

All of this still caused a surprised intake of breath and a startled “Shite!,” when the lead jeep driven by Martin rounded a long winding curve in the road and the British soldiers came face to face with a kubelwagen parked across the road and five German troops standing calmly in the middle of it. Martin barely managed to brake the jeep and downshift before they careened into the Germans standing before them.

Private Allen, the youngest soldier among their group immediately leapt up from the seat in the rear of the second jeep and grasped hold of the .50 caliber Browning M2HB machine gun set up on a pedestal. He was already in the midst of cocking it when Martin shot him a withering glance. “Are ye daft, ye wee idjit? Do they look armed to you, Bobby?”

Allen had already broken out into a sweat. He was far too green to be this far forward with the action in Martin’s estimation. “No sir.”

Martin nodded. “Aye. But still, stay up there and be ready just in case.”

Allen nodded, still sweating profusely as Martin withdrew his Webley sidearm and casually got out from the behind the wheel of the jeep. In front of him, driving the second jeep in their entourage was Martin’s long-time mate, Joe Kirk. He nodded to Allen. “Ease up, lad. Ye’ll be alright. Just stand ready but make no hostile move unless the Germans do.” Martin and Joe had been together a long time and rarely needed to speak in order to communicate. A look or a gesture often sufficed. Martin was pleased to see that Joe had already caught the look and was directing his attention to cover each side of the road in case this was an ambush. He needn’t have bothered. This lot had clearly been waiting for them. All of their weapons were neatly stacked already in a pile far out of reach. Four of the Germans already had their hands in the air and the fifth was slowly approaching Martin with his hands out to his sides. “Guten Morgen. Wie gehts, Tommy?”

Martin nodded. “Jah. Ich bin gut. Sprechensie English?”

“Yes…a little anyway. Meine bruder…my brother is better at it.” The German who appeared to be in charge motioned for a second man to come forward. The man who responded was short, a little scrawny and bespectacled. “My name is Private Hans Deitel. My brother is Scharfuhrer…I mean, Sergeant Reuter Dietel. We and the men with us wish to surrender to you.”

Martin studied them, attempting to look as casual as possible. This looked like a pretty motley lot. These two were regular German Army, the other two had gulls on their collar tabs, so that meant they were Luftwaffe. The Medic in their company had anchors on his shoulder boards. That meant Navy. What the hell was a swabbie doing here? Martin waved the thought away. The Germans were pretty much on their last legs at this point. It shouldn’t surprise him that coastal units were now this far inland. They were most likely deserters, which would explain their eagerness to surrender so quickly.

“Alright then, Fritzy. I accept your surrender. What’s yer story, mate?”

Reuter and Hans exchanged glances and spoke in a rapid clip of German that Martin only caught patches of. “We left Wessel when the Amis attacked. We met up with this group last night and were hiding out in some castle ruins a few kilometers back. We have one request we wish to make.”

“I dinnae recall granting any conditions on this surrender, sunny jim. But speak yer piece and I’ll decide, eh?”

Hans nodded. “We had a lieutenant in our company. He was very good to us, but he took sick last night and we think he wandered off into the village of Ornel. We were on our way there when we heard your jeeps approach. We were intending to surrender anyway to whatever Allied troops we first encountered, so we decided to stop and wait for you. Bitte…please, we ask for the opportunity to at least make sure Herr Leutnant is alright.”

Martin chewed this thought over slowly. “You lot wait right here and keep yer hands on ye’re heads, eh? I’m going to consult me mate.” Martin re-holstered his webley and pointed at Clive and Allen. “You watch them, Clive. Allen, search the lot of them and make sure they’re not carrying any nasty surprises. And don’t be nervous nellies about it. I don’t need any dead Jerries right now if I can avoid it.”

Clive nodded and pointed his sten gun at the Germans as Allen began nervously patting them all down. He chewed methodically on the end of a cigarette like some Yank gangster in the cinema. Martin just shook his head again.

“Joe, come down here, mate. Looks like they’re a group of deserters. They seem alright enough, but they want to go into that village we’re heading to and check up on a wounded officer that supposed to be there.”

“I dunno, Martin. There’s only four of us. I’m none too keen on draggin’ five Jerries in tow behind us if we hit that village.”

Martin nodded. “Aye. I was thinkin’ the same thing. I don’t think they’ve got any more stomach for fightin’ though. I’ve got a feelin’ their story is no fib. I ken we could send one jeep into the village with two of ‘em and the rest of ye stay put till the column catches up. Radio our position and tell ‘em to build a fire under their arses and get up here.”

“Aye. Fair enough.”

Martin turned back towards Reuter and Hans. “Alright, gentlemen. Here’s how we’ll play this. You and yer Medic will come with me in me jeep and we’ll check yer man out in the village. The rest of you lot stay where ye are. We’re taking ye’re weapons and as soon as our column catches up to us, ye’ll be evacuated to a prisoner collection area in the rear.”

Reuter saluted the British Sergeant, who returned it with a grin and an offered hand. “Thank you, Sergeant,” Reuter said in halting English. “I am glad to see these men make it out alive. They’re not a bad bunch. Herr leutnant ordered me to take charge of them and see them through and I was worried there for awhile.”

“No worries,” Martin replied. “Allen, stay here with Sergeant Kirk and guard these prisoners. Clive, get in back and mind the machine gun. Move like ye’ve got a purpose, ye twits!”

A moment later, Sergeant Knight’s jeep roared again to life, circumnavigated the kubelwagen blocking the road and headed once more towards Ornel.

“What was wrong wit’ yer officer if ye don’t mind me askin’.

Reuter frowned. This might be hard to explain, and not just because it was a strange story. Remembering this much English was difficult and Rudi spoke it not at all.

“He had been bit by an old man who was acting crazed back at the ruins we hid in. I think something was wrong with him and the bite got infected. Herr Leutnant was lucid when I last saw him, but he must have gotten worse in the night. When we woke up, he was gone. There was a trail of blood and vomit leading in the direction of the village.”

Martin pursed his lips. “That could be rabies, mate. That’s not good. But lucky fer you lot, aerial recon has already shown us there’s no troop concentrations in that village. Its just civilians, otherwise we wouldn’t be goin’ anywhere near it.”

Reuter nodded grimly. “Jah. We figured the same thing. But…some of the villagers might have decided to hold us for the Fepos…our military police units…that would be bad for us.”

“Aye”, Martin agreed. “I’ve seen their work. A nasty bunch. Not to worry.  We’ll check on yer man, then light out, quick as ye please.”

The jeep rolled on for another two minutes before a sudden fireball appeared on the horizon. Black smoke began to fill the air as tongues of flames could be seen poking above the tree line. Rudi almost shot up from his seat. “Mein Gott…that’s got to be the village. Is it being bombarded?”

Reuter made the medic sit down. It wouldn’t pay to make these Tommies nervous. So far, their surrender had been a bloodless one and he wanted to keep it that way. “Nein. Sit down, Rudi. Look around you. There aren’t any planes in the air. And you didn’t hear any artillery, did you? Think, dumpfkoff.”

Rudi nodded nervously and sat back down. “Jawhol, herr Scharfuhrer. I’m sorry. It’s just…”

Reuter waved him quiet. “I know. Hold tight. We’ll see in a moment.”

Martin gunned the jeep and sped it up towards the village. “What in the hell is that all about? Clive, be ready in case there’s trouble.”

The jeep rounded another curve in the road and the four men aboard it beheld the small town of Ornel. It was beginning to burn. Three buildings in the central square of the small town were already in flames. Even from a few hundred yards away, all aboard could see figures milling about in the streets. Some appeared to be running haphazardly about, while some seemed to sway and stagger as if drunk. Screams and cries floated out of the town, mingled with the occasional retort of a rifle.

“What in God’s name is going on in there?” Martin eased the jeep forward very slowly. All of a sudden he was in no great mood to hurry this humanitarian gesture.

They passed by a handful of cabins and small houses along the lane leading into the town. Some of the homes had their doors flung wide open as if their occupants had rushed outside to see some commotion and hadn’t bothered to close up shop behind them. A flurry of a half-dozen cattle rushed past them, kicking up a cloud of dust. All four of the men coughed and choked on the dust as they drove through it. “Bloody hell, this is a right mess. Sorry to disappoint you two, but I’m not driving us into that donnybrook.”

Reuter nodded. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want to either. If Herr Leutnant is in the middle of that, I don’t even know how we’d find him, let alone get him out of there.”

Martin stopped the jeep and stood up in the seat. He got out his field glasses and scanned the village’s interior. “My God. They’ve all gone barmy.” It looked like a bloodbath in there. People seemed to be trying to fight off the ones staggering around. All of them looked like they had horrendous wounds on them, bloody and open gashes all across their faces, necks and torsos.

“Let me see,” Reuter said. Martin handed his German counterpart the field glasses without a word. Reuter looked for the better part of a minute and when he put down the binoculars, he slumped back into the seat. His face was incredibly pale. “I…I don’t understand any of that. What’s wrong with them?”

“I dunno, mate. I’ve seen some horrible things in the last few years, but this takes the cake. I couldn’t even begin to explain that one.”

“Let’s take a closer look. Carefully.”

Martin looked at him cautiously. There was no way in hell he was going to pull into that village directly, but he did want a better look. Maybe they could figure out what started the whole thing if they got closer.”

Rudi shot up from his seat in a complete panic. “Wohin gehen Sie? Sie konnen dort nicht hineingehen!” Reuter held onto him and forced him back into his seat.

“Calm down, idioten! We aren’t going in there! We’re just taking a closer look, then turning around.”

Martin eased the jeep back into gear and slowly pulled forward. They advanced another 100 yards till they came across a man hunched over the body of a cow. With his back turned, he seemed oblivious until Martin tapped on the horn. “Here you! Turn around! Hande Hoch!”

Slowly, the man turned his head, causing instant revulsion in all four of the jeep’s occupants. Blood and viscera dripped from his mouth. It covered his hands and dribbled down his chest. A milky glaze covered his eyes and his skin looked almost gray. He staggered to his feet with a gurgling moan and began hobbling towards them with his arms extended as if inviting an embrace.

“Gor Blimey! He’s a right monster! Stop right there! Don’t you come any closer!” The man ignored Martin’s warnings and continued to stumble towards them. Both Martin and Reuter recognized what was wrong with this man almost simultaneously. Both were long-time veterans of this war and both knew immediately what a dead body looked like. And despite all logic, here was one stumbling towards them.

Clive didn’t bother to wait for an order. He let loose with a short volley from the pedestal-mounted .50 caliber Browning, causing all of them to jump in surprise at the sudden burst of noise. The bullets slammed into the man’s chest and torso, punching enormous holes in him and throwing him violently back to the ground in a pirouette. Astonishingly, he sat back up and struggled to his feet again.

“Jesus God above,” Martin swore loudly. He threw the jeep into gear and pushed down hard on the gas. The jeep sputtered and stalled, the engine flooded. “Oh, Goddammit! Not now!”

“He’s still coming!” Clive whipped the machine gun around and again fired at the gruesome figure staggering drunkenly towards them. This time he crisscrossed the burst, stitching a line across the man from his knees to his neck. At that range, there wasn’t much left of him. His head imploded as the bullets pounded into him and sailed on through the other side. This time when he went down, he didn’t get back up again.

“Got ‘im! That bastard won’t bother us again, eh?” Clive spit for good measure, but everyone could see that his hands were shaking like leaves on a tree.

Martin screamed at him. “Quit braggin’ ye daft bugger and keep a lookout, goddammit! I’ve got to try and get this bastard started again.”

Reuter grabbed the field glasses. He stared through them back towards the village. With the shifting of the wind, he could hear a loud moan go up from its interior.

“Hurry, Sergeant. I think those lunatics heard us! I can see them through your glasses. They’re starting to head this way…” Reuter adjusted the magnification on the field glasses. He began to make out detailed features on the faces of the approaching horde and he gasped at the horrifying nature of their wounds. There were at least fifty of them that he could see. Their shuffling pace was not quick, but it was persistent. Near the vanguard of the throng, he could clearly make out the bloodied uniform and now sunken features of Leutnant Johannes Hauser. Blood and gore coated his face, and in that instant, Reuter could scarcely envision the jovial and good-natured man he’d met less than twenty-four hours before.