D-Notice Bill Walker (online e book reading txt) 📖

cloth over his nose and mouth and moved forward, his stomach churning. The camphor had its own unique odor, but it was more tolerable than the one it masked.

Passing through a cordon of guards armed with MP40 machine pistols, Thorley saw a group of thirty-odd soldiers in coveralls using shovels to carry refuse to a six-foot-deep trench. He estimated it must be at least forty feet long and twenty feet wide. Another smaller group—accompanied by a clique of Swiss civilian observers in red armbands with white crosses—photographed the actions with Leica cameras and a newsreel crew photographed the goings-on with a battery-powered Arriflex camera fitted with a high-capacity magazine. Except for the whine of the Arriflex and the occasional clank of shovel against rock, the area was eerily silent. It all sank in as he realized what he thought to be “refuse” was in actuality the decomposing bodies of soldiers.

Hundreds of them.

The entire clearing lay covered in a jumble of arms and legs jutting out of ragged uniforms caked with grime—many with patches of putrid flesh still clinging to them. The faces were the worst: gaunt and eyeless, they faced skyward, mouths frozen in twisted grins mocking all who gazed upon them.

Mixed in with the bodies were rust-spotted rifles, dented helmets and dirt-encrusted backpacks. Bayonets and boots, along with cartridge belts and magazines lay strewn about with no rhyme or reason.

“You must understand that we did not do this,” Rainer said, his emotion-laden voice muffled by the camphor-soaked handkerchief. “We are not butchers.”

Thorley’s mind reeled. “My God, there must be an entire battalion here.”

“More than that. We have counted over a thousand bodies thus far....”

Thorley stumbled away but stopped when something small and metallic clinked against his shoe. Looking down, he spotted a shiny object. He reached down and brought it up to his face. His hand trembled and he had to squint to bring it into focus.

Cast out of a metal that resisted rust, the design consisted of a laurel wreath surmounted by a King’s crown. In the center of the wreath stood a rampant Wyvern, a mythical dragon-like creature, its teeth and claws bared. At the bottom of the badge, on a scroll, ran a motto in raised lettering: Royal South Wessex Inf. Reg.

It was a cap badge, a British officer’s cap badge.

Stunned, Thorley placed the badge in the pocket of his tunic and trudged back to the Kübelwagen. He threw the handkerchief to the ground and leaned against the car, gulping lungfuls of air, anything to clear his aching head and take away the stench of death.

“Major White?”

Rainer was walking toward him, the wary sergeant by his side. “Are you all right? Perhaps you would like to rest a while?”

Thorley stared back at the man; his eyes felt as if someone had scoured them with steel wool. “Let’s get the bloody hell away from here.”

The camp was a five-minute drive back the way they’d come. It occupied five acres of cleared land and consisted of two dozen prefabricated buildings of raw pine with tar-paper roofs arranged in a quadrangle. The largest building stood in the center; a sign above the door read: Mess Hall. A plume of white smoke rose from its chimney, and as drab as it was, it was a welcome respite from the horror they’d left behind.

The sergeant pulled the Kübelwagen into a space next to a BMW motorcycle with attached sidecar, and Rainer indicated that they should go into the Mess.

The inside of the building was a boxy affair with electrical wiring strung between the exposed rafters, smelled of boiled cabbage and potatoes, and was jammed with both officers and enlisted men, and even a few of the Swiss civilians. The somber mood at the massacre site was reflected here, as well. Men quietly consumed their meals, drank their ersatz coffee, smoked, and some even played cards. Conversations were few and carried out in a low murmur, the only other sounds being the clink and clatter of utensils and the muted strains of classical music emanating from a portable radio at the far end of the room. For a fleeting moment, Thorley considered waiting outside, but the sun had dropped behind the mountains and a chill breeze had blown up. All he wanted was some coffee, with perhaps something a little stronger poured into it.

The sergeant left them to join a group of his compatriots, while Rainer led him through a sea of tables, nodding to some of his men as he went. Thorley saw they were heading for a semi-private area near the back. At an empty table, Rainer pointed to one of the stiff-backed chairs. “Please, sit down.”

Thorley eased himself into the chair with a weary sigh and threw his cap onto the table.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“I’d ask for a Schnapps, but I don’t think that would go over very well.”

Rainer’s eyes twinkled. “You might be surprised. Out here, we tend to view things with a little less severity than they do in Berlin.”

“Oh? Then make it a double,” Thorley said, with the ghost of a smile.

Rainer turned to a passing soldier and spoke to him. The soldier nodded and hurried off, appearing moments later with two tumblers and an unopened bottle of Akvavit. Cracking the seal with a twist of his hand, Rainer poured a generous amount of the colorless liquid into both glasses, then raised his own. “To our families. May they never know the horrors we have seen.”

Thorley clinked his tumbler against Rainer’s then drank deeply, feeling the fiery caraway-flavored liquor burn its way down to his stomach, where it sat warming him like the dying embers of a once roaring fire. “Christ, that’s bloody strong,” he said, his eyes watering. “And I probably shouldn’t ask where you