Fireshadow (9 page)

Erich, his sweeping abandoned, sat heavily in the chair beside the bed, the throbbing of rain on tin the only counterpoint to his breathing.

‘Erich?' Günter's voice was gentle.

From somewhere deep within him a wave of pure, raw emotion started to grow, and sensing it, aware of its potential to tear him apart and destroy everything he had been so careful to build here – the safety, the security of superiority – Erich rallied himself against it, squashing it. He forced the wave down and down again until it settled once more, a dull ache in the pit of his stomach and the back of his mind. Finally, he stood on shaking legs to tower above the man in the bed.

‘I think you are wrong.'

For a long moment the two regarded one another through the haze of tobacco smoke, until Günter shook his head, resignedly.

‘Perhaps I am, Youngster, perhaps I am. In any case, how about one more cigarette? To help me sleep.'

Crossing in silence to the sideboard, Erich bent to retrieve the hidden cigarettes and was holding them, getting to his feet again, when the door slammed open.

‘Well, well.' Guard Thomas removed his slouch hat, flicking droplets of moisture onto the bare floorboards. ‘Look what we have here.'

‘Be careful, Youngster.'

Erich barely heard Günter's whispered warning. His eyes were locked on the figure standing in the doorway framed against the darkening sky outside. Thomas's rifle hung sloppily from its strap, slung under his right shoulder. Runnels of water streamed off his greatcoat, forming dark pools. His flaming red hair was heavy with moisture and his face twisted in a crooked half-smile.

‘Speak English, or don't speak at all,' he snapped at Günter, not once taking his eyes off Erich.

‘Can I help you?'

Thomas didn't answer, but started to prowl around the room, touching this and that, running his fingers lightly over the surfaces of the desks and beds.

‘What are you doing in here on your own?'

‘I am finishing the cleaning up for the evening.' Erich gestured at the broom, abandoned by Günter's bed. ‘Then I will be leaving.'

‘Is that right?' The guard's eyes glittered.

‘Yes.'

‘Yes what?'

Erich knew that the guard expected him to say ‘sir', and knew that the safest course would be not to antagonise the young man, but pride wouldn't allow him.

‘Yes, it is right. You are correct.'

‘Be clever, Erich.' Günter whispered again in German.

‘I said, speak
English
.' By this point Thomas was beside the bed, and he made as if to hit Günter's bandaged stump.

Günter jumped in involuntary readiness for an impact that never came, the guard's hand stopping to hover just millimetres above the wounded leg. Thomas laughed.

‘Don't worry. I'm not about to touch
that
.' He spat the word. ‘Who knows what sort of diseases I'd pick up from you
krauts
, eh?'

He was being provoked. Erich deliberately calmed himself.

‘Do you need something?'

‘I told you.' Thomas's gaze returned to meet his. ‘I want to know what you're really doing here on your own, talking German to him at this time of night. It looks suspicious to me. What's in here?' He had reached the locked cupboard behind the desk.

‘That is the medication cabinet. Also where the doctor keeps the surgical implements.'

‘Locked, eh?' Thomas jiggled the sturdy lock and tested the door. ‘Makes sense, I guess. No trusting you lot, is there?'

‘I should be leaving now.' Erich stepped towards the door.

‘Don't move.' In a fluid motion the rifle swung into firing position, aimed directly at Erich's stomach. ‘You still haven't given me a decent explanation for what you're doing in here without the doctor. Giving contraband to the patients, by the look of it.'

He nodded at the cigarettes which Erich still clasped, forgotten, in his right hand.

‘It is not contraband. It is cigarettes.'

‘Yeah? I thought the old bloke didn't allow smoking in here? So you must be goin' behind his back.'

‘I do not understand.'

‘Don't play stupid. I know what's goin' on. You keep the cripple here supplied with ciggies, but what do you get in return, eh? That's what I'd like to know.'

‘I am sorry, but you are not making sense.'

The guard's eyes became thin, dark slits.

‘Not making sense, aren't I?' He took a step towards Erich, the muzzle of his rifle glinting metallic around the black opening of the barrel. ‘I've told you before to be careful how you speak to me.'

‘I am sorry. I meant no offence.'

The apology floated as Guard Thomas continued across the room until the rifle hovered just millimetres from Erich's body. Erich stared, mesmorised by the circle of darkness hovering in front of him. He considered the consequences if Thomas's finger twitched against the trigger. The safety catch was off – he had noticed that immediately. Erich imagined the sensation, the bullet snaking its way into his body, shredding and destroying organs, tearing flesh, scorching its way through him.

‘Listen to me carefully, Fritz.' The boy's voice was little more than a guttural hiss, barely audible. ‘If I find out that you've been sniffing around my girl, if I see the two of you wandering around together again, or if I hear another word out of your mouth apart from “here” at rollcall, then there's going to be a little “accident” around here. You understand?'

For several seconds they held one another's stares until the guard leaned closer, pressing the end of the barrel hard into Erich's stomach.

‘And just in case you're thinking of reporting this little conversation, have a think about who's going to be believed, eh? 'Cause I reckon you're a bit of a troublemaker, you Nazi.'

Some insane impulse, the need to make some kind of stand, welled up inside Erich. He remembered standing up to the bastard English in Libya. Acutely aware of the cold, round circle of steel pressing into the flesh of his belly, Erich spoke softly and calmly, keeping his voice steady, ‘You are not a very good soldier, no?'

‘What?'

‘If you pull that trigger now, I will die, yes, but probably you will also blow your hand off. You do not hold a rifle hard against the target. Any good soldier knows that.'

Somewhere in the forest a bird screeched raucously into the night, the sound unearthly as it slid into the gloom of the hospital, and Erich held his breath, listening to the racing thud of his heartbeat – feeling it at his temples. Then slowly the barrel withdrew and Thomas stepped back, not dropping his eyes for a moment.

‘You watch yourself, mate. You just watch out.'

But he'd backed down, and both of them knew it.

‘You better keep an eye on your back.'

The young man stopped briefly to replace his hat and then the door slammed behind him as he vanished, his exit admitting a burst of icy wind.

‘You have made an enemy there, Youngster.' Günter was propping himself on one elbow.

‘He was already my enemy.' Erich slumped into the chair beside the bed.

‘Nonetheless, I think you need to let Commander Stutt know about this immediately.'

‘No need. It is in the past.'

‘He needs to know. For your safety.'

‘The boy is all talk. You saw him back away.'

‘Only because he had no choice.'

‘Still, I would rather not make a scene about this.'

Günter shook his head. ‘You are making a mistake.'

‘We'll see.'

For some minutes the two remained silent, each alone with his thoughts, until Erich stood up.

‘I should go. It's almost time for rollcall. Will you be all right for the evening?'

‘
Ja
. But think about talking to the commander.'

‘I'll consider it.'

Erich slipped quickly out into the rain.

Thirteen

October 1943

The desert night was almost over, the velvety darkness thinning to pink. At his post, Erich glanced up, watching the foreign stars beginning to twinkle into obscurity.

‘It is cold, yes?'

‘Yes.' His companion was talkative. A private named Janz. Twenty-two or twenty-three years old but still wet behind the ears, as far as Erich was concerned.

‘You think they will come today?'

Erich shrugged a noncommittal reply. Who knew? Perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow. Sometime soon, that was certain.

‘They say there are reinforcements on their way from the north.' His companion reached for a cigarette.

‘Put that away, idiot! Do you want to bring the whole British army down on us?'

‘Sorry.' Janz's fingers, numb with cold, fumbled the cigarettes back into his shirt pocket and the silence of the desert settled again.

Erich stared into the growing dawn, watching the light slowly ooze along the landscape and across the rolling dunes towards them as the invisible sun climbed towards the horizon.

‘At least it will warm up soon, yes?'

‘Yes. And then we will burn all day.'

It was the worst thing about this cursed desert – when it wasn't freezing, it was boiling. During the day the sun would blaze down on the little encampment, scorching pale Germanic skin into angry red welts easily inflamed by the sand which seeped its way into every crack and cranny of the body. It was bad enough that they were there, worse because none of them had any idea why.

‘We will be moving soon, do you think?'

‘Who knows.' Erich hoped so. Their encampment was weak, nestled on low ground between dunes for protection from air attack, but to his eye clearly vulnerable. That was no surprise, though, given their commanding officer's incompetence.

‘Do you think . . .'

‘Shh.' Erich waved the man to silence. ‘Did you hear something?'

Janz wrinkled his brow in concentration, listening to the desert for long seconds before shaking his head.

But Erich, alert now, was peering intently at the crest of the nearest dune. It had just been a whisper, the faintest hint of a human voice echoing on the slight breeze. He glanced behind at the tents a few metres from their watch post. Their sand-coloured camouflage nets fluttered slightly, but otherwise no sound emanated from them, the men all still in deep, exhausted sleep.

There it was again. A muted whisper, right at the limits of his hearing. He reached for his rifle and gestured his companion close.

‘Go and wake the captain. Quietly.'

Nodding, Janz slung his rifle under his arm and set off, running low and silent towards the nearest tent. In the gloom beyond the encampment Erich could make out the barrels of the two mobile artillery cannons they carried with them, glinting dully in the growing light.

The desert fell silent again. Hunkered low in his post, Erich again scanned the crests of the dunes surrounding the camp. As soon as the sun broke the horizon he'd feel a lot happier. This pre-dawn light played tricks on the eyes – shadows slinked around the edges of the tents and between undulations in the sand, drawing his eyes left and right. Where the hell was Janz? The seconds ticked away with agonising, silent sluggishness.

Behind, light footsteps slid towards him and Janz was there again.

‘He'll be right along.'

‘What's keeping him?'

‘He's just getting dressed.'

Erich cursed inwardly. What sort of commander didn't sleep battle-ready?

Above them the sky took on the first hints of indigo. Apart from the whisper of the wind across the sand, Erich hadn't heard another sound.

‘There he is.'

Their captain was slipping from behind the flap of his tent to stand outside. He was helmetless.

‘Fool.'

For a couple of seconds the man stood still and erect and then, yawning, stretched his arms out. At that moment the sun burst into full light, sliding with unexpected rapidity above the crest of the dune right ahead of them.

Erich blinked and felt his skin tingle, welcoming the warmth. Their captain started towards them, still yawning, but made only two steps when a shot rang out and his chest exploded into bloody fragments.

‘Captain!' Janz was on his feet and running.

‘Janz! Get . . .'

The guard's head snapped back and he too fell, face first.

Erich turned his attention back to the dune ahead of him, but the glare of the sun, still low to the horizon, blinded and dazzled him, forcing him to crouch below the parapet of the guard post, aware only of bullets hissing down out of the sunrise and thumping into the other side of the sandbags. One penetrated with a ‘whump' and buried itself in the sand beside him.

Men were emerging from tents now, yelling and firing wildly into the dunes, hitting nothing. Then came the staccato chatter of a machine-gun and they too began to fall, clutching at limbs, stomachs and chests. The artillery cannons exploded, first one, then the other, shattering into fiery fragments, hot metal tearing through the fabric of nearby tents, adding new screams to the noise of the battle.

Crouched low, Erich waited for his opportunity, checking the breech of his rifle, making certain it had a bullet in it, slipping off the safety catch. Patience. The worst thing he could do now would be to put his head up and start firing wildly into that dazzling sun. Wait.

Footsteps thudded heavily down the dune behind him, accompanied by shouted orders. British. English. He tensed, finger at the trigger, prepared. Heart pounding ready to burst. In a moment the British soldiers would come past his parapet, down into the camp, into his line of fire, and then he would kill them. The wooden stock pressed against his cheek, and he had to push it harder to stop his hands trembling. A rush of blood ran salty down the back of his throat, and he realised that he'd bitten the inside of his mouth. Breathing in gasps, Erich tried to summon the willpower to steady his index finger against the trigger. Why wouldn't it stop shaking?

Then, with a yell, a figure vaulted over the parapet, almost landing on him and knocking his rifle from his trembling grasp. The infantryman spun, rifle levelled, and in the moment of eye contact, of connection, Erich realised with shock that he knew the man, knew him well. He found himself staring into cold, blue eyes as familiar as his own, and reaching towards the soldier, calling to him, ‘Father!'

But there was no return of the recognition. Only hard distaste in those blue eyes, and when he thought he was about to drown in them, his father's rifle butt swung up towards Erich's head . . .

Sweating, gasping, Erich sat upright, his cot creaking under him. Outside, the forest slept in the pre-dawn fog. Reaching out in the darkness he found his clothes and, trembling, pulled them on silently before stumbling outside. One of the other men stirred but no one woke and Erich sat heavily on the top step, shaking. So real. He'd not thought about the battle in North Africa in all the time since he'd been captured and now here it was, haunting him in his sleep. He breathed the sharp air deep into himself, trying to throw off the effects of the dream. And that last vision, his father as an enemy, clubbing and attacking him. The thought disturbed him far more than he dared to admit.

Behind the huts, a spotlight snapped on from one of the guard towers, raking along the tree line, the powerful lantern struggling to throw a beam through the fog. Erich could see droplets drifting nonchalantly through the white light. A couple of grey kangaroos looked up as the beam captured them, their startled eyes glinting red before they bounded away into the dark safety of the forest. A man emerged from one of the huts a little further down the row and stumbled off in the direction of the latrines.

Slowly, he felt the icy touch of the dream lifting and his heart steadying. As the man returned from his early morning ablution, Erich settled himself back into the reality of the Western Australian forest, forcing the sands of Libya down into the depths of his memory, until he felt some sort of calm again.

But it wasn't real calm; there was no contentment. There hadn't been since the moment he'd arrived here at Camp Sixteen, or even before that. Now he thought about it, Erich found it difficult – no, impossible – to remember life without the cold weight of fear, suppressed and controlled but ever present, guarding every thought. The only time it had lifted, even a little, had been the previous afternoon, walking with the girl. Allowing himself back into his life, to remember things deliberately left unacknowledged . . .

Standing, Erich crept around into the shadows behind the raised hut and relieved himself on the ground. It was forbidden not to use the latrines, but all the men did it at one time or another. Sometimes it was just too cold or wet to make the walk down the hill, and anyway there was a strange feeling of liberation about it. Once finished, he climbed the steps, collapsed fully clothed onto his cot and fell immediately into a heavy, dreamless sleep.