Red Devils

15

The plan sounded simple. But then again, thought Wilkins, they usually did. Sitting here in the comfort and relative safety of the manor house, studying blurred photographs and hand-drawn maps, listening to intelligence reports and weather forecasts, the task at hand sounded decidedly less daunting than it should have.

The men gathered in the room were a mix of Brits and Yanks. Wilkins looked around, feeling like the odd one out as they all seemed to know each other. This mission had evidently been in planning for some time, just awaiting confirmation that the scientist was still at Polonezköy and additional intelligence from himself and others. The Yanks were from the 84th Airborne, and had been here at the manor house for the best part of a week, undergoing training alongside a small British task force. Captain Hunter was the American lead. He’d an accent so thick it had taken Wilkins a while to acclimatise to it. Even now he frequently misheard words. Not such a big deal had they just been enjoying a conversation in the pub on a Saturday afternoon, but to misconstrue an order in combat could be fatal. The stakes were far higher where they were going.

Colonel Adams ran through specifics of the mission, using a long stick to point out salient information on a blackboard mounted on the wall at the far end of the room. The colonel banged and scraped the stick, and the noise cut right through Wilkins. Was it just nerves, he wondered? He didn’t feel himself at all. If he could have left the room without retribution and never returned, he thought he probably would. He did what he could to remain focused, but couldn’t help remembering that buried deep below where he was sitting was one of the undead. It was frightening to think that one drop of blood, one splash of spittle, one bite, one scratch, one dribble of mucus, might be enough to unleash the unstoppable contagion on his beloved homeland.

Captain Hunter’s men would provide cover to enable the Brits to gain access to the camp, find the scientist and extract him alive. His name was Doctor Egil Månsson, and they had been provided with the most recent photograph available. They all knew full well that being held in a concentration camp would inevitably have had dramatic effects on the doctor’s appearance. At best he’d no doubt be weak and malnourished. There was every chance he wouldn’t even be alive.

The task force was to be led by Lieutenant Charlie Henshaw, who had already wasted no time in letting Wilkins know who was in charge. Wilkins knew of Henshaw by reputation. Respected and loathed in equal measure, he got the job done and that was all that mattered tonight.

Sergeant Boris Steele was Henshaw’s number two. He struck Wilkins as a decent chap, willing to listen and take a step back when he needed to, but equally prepared to stand his ground. He seemed to offer a welcome counterpoint to Lieutenant Henshaw’s abrasiveness. There was no mistaking the high regard in which Steele held his closest comrades. Somewhat older than most of the men, he had a fatherly air about him.

Lance Corporals Harris, Barton and Jones were also along for the ride, and though Wilkins didn’t know any of them, they all seemed like decent fellows. Wilkins thought that Jones, an enthusiastic scouser, didn’t look old enough to be out alone this late, let alone to be parachuting deep into enemy territory. He was a diminutive lad who seemed to have trouble filling his own uniform.

‘The main thing you need to know about Polonezköy right now is that it’s been awful quiet over the last week or so,’ a bespectacled intelligence officer explained.

‘They stopped using it?’ one of the Americans asked. ‘Shut it down?’

‘We’re not sure. All we know is that movement around the camp has reduced to practically nothing.’

‘Think they’ve cleared out?’ another man asked.

The intelligence officer clearly had little in the way of useful intelligence to offer. ‘I’m afraid we don’t know. Even if the Germans have left the camp, there’s been no major activity. That would indicate the prisoner population is still being held there.’

‘Left to rot,’ the first American seethed. ‘That’d be right. Damn krauts.’

Colonel Adams took over and explained that the plan was to be dropped in a barren region a couple of miles south-west of Polonezköy. Captain Hunter’s men would hold position long enough to ensure the task force had reached the camp, then move several miles north to take – and hold – the airfield at Leginów. There they’d wait for the Brits to return with their precious cargo, then call in air support so they could get out and get home.

Perhaps Wilkins wouldn’t have felt like such an outsider if he’d been the first choice for the mission. But, as Colonel Adams had pointed out on more than one occasion with his customary lack of tact, the first choice officer was dead. As was the second choice. And the third. And the fourth was missing in action.

Shortly it was Wilkins’ turn to step up to the front of the room to brief those who hadn’t yet had the misfortune of facing the dead directly. He felt he needed to make them understand the magnitude of the threat which they had been tasked with trying to contain. The information he imparted was met with a curious mix of concern and incredulity. He thought they’d all grasp the seriousness of the situation soon enough. Indeed, the direness of his warnings was compounded with an update from the front: the US troops to the north and south of the German advance continued to struggle to hold back the undead masses. At the western tip of the bulge, where the British 6th Airborne and 53rd Infantry Division fought to contain the Nazis, the first contact with the ungodly creatures had been reported east of Namur.

The briefing was all but complete, and yet Colonel Adams didn’t dismiss the men. He had still more to say. He cleared his throat and looked around the room. ‘Gentlemen, please hear me out. You are all of you under the most extreme pressure imaginable, and I am well aware that I am sending you into one of the most – if not the most – dangerous places on the face of the Earth today, but I fear I must increase that pressure still further. Understand this, your mission must succeed. There is no room for failure. The undead scourge simply cannot be allowed to continue its progress unchecked. I feel I have a duty to tell you all that there is an alternative solution should your mission be a failure.’

Absolute silence. Not a movement. Not a murmur.

‘The Americans are developing a weapon of untold power. Whilst I do not have any specifics – and some of you yanks here in the room with us today might – I have it on good authority that this new bomb could change the direction of the war with a single blast. I hope to goodness that such an awful weapon is used sparingly in battle, but consider this: if we are unable to stop the progress of our new ungodly enemy, total annihilation of great swathes of mainland Europe may be our only alternative. This is no understatement. The weight of the entire world rests on your shoulders tonight, men. God speed to you, and God help us all.’