SNEAK PEEK: In the Ashes – Chapter One
Zac Northup
READ TIME:8min
NOTE: This story contains realistic wartime violence, coarse language, and disturbing depictions of concentration camp atrocities. It is intended for mature readers only. Reader discretion is advised.
Eddie Yoho was afraid the sound of his breathing would get them killed. It echoed off the cold concrete floors and brick walls as he approached the next corner. He calmed himself and focused on what he needed to do to survive another day.
The conical lights hanging from the high ceiling were still on. A dead SS guard was on the floor next to his feet. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Wilkins and Sergeant Smet were still behind him. Smet nodded him forward. Eddie pursed his lips and pulled the butt of his rifle into his shoulder. He took three short breaths and rounded the corner.
Rifle up, both eyes open, checking for movement. The lights at the end of the corridor were broken, the door nearly hidden in darkness. Gunshots echoed through the building from above. He flinched slightly. Harsh German voices called out. American voices barked back, followed by the thud of a grenade. Dust and debris fell from the ceiling. More gunshots. Someone called for a medic.
He felt Wilkins’ hand on his back and stepped forward.
When he reached the closed door, Eddie didn’t wait. He kicked it hard. It burst open and they rushed through. Inside, a lone SS officer was sitting at a desk. A cigarette between his index and pointer fingers. The smoke drifted up, illuminated by a small green desk lamp that fought against the shadows of the room. The German’s other hand rested on a green desk blotter beside a Luger.
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His hair was blond and slicked back with hair cream. His black officer’s uniform immaculate. He took a long draw of his cigarette, and blew out the corner of his mouth, squinting as the acrid smoke irritated his left eye. He tapped the ashes on the edge of a crystal ashtray and leaned back in his chair, considering the American soldiers standing before him. Utterly calm, he said nothing and took another puff.
Eddie put three rounds in his chest. The man fell to the floor with a dull thud.
“Grab his Luger,” Smet said, pointing to the pistol on the desk.
Eddie picked up the souvenir. He pressed the magazine release, pulled the toggle lever up, ejected the live round, and tucked it in a green canvas satchel slung across his body.
Wilkins stepped over to another door on the opposite wall and tried the knob. It was unlocked. He looked back at Smet and Eddie. Smet nodded. They stepped to the side and readied their weapons. Wilkins turned the knob slowly until he heard the latch trip and pushed the door open before ducking back to cover. A thick, sickly stench of decay wafted back into the office.
Smet tapped Wilkins on the shoulder, and they stepped into a long, rectangular-shaped, windowless room. Like the rest of the building, the walls were concrete and brick. Lights, flush with the ceiling, enclosed in cages extended down the length of the room. There was a wooden table with a bench close to the door. A bespoke Mauser 98 hunting rifle rested on top, its heavy barrel supported by a marksman’s felt front bag. The rifle’s polished walnut stock had gold inlay that reflected the light giving it a warm, orangish glow. Initials were engraved on the gold butt plate. Dozens of empty brass shell casings littered the floor.
Wilkins whistled, “Hot damn, would you look at that.” He put his M-1 on the bench and picked up the hunting rifle. “This baby is going home with me.”
Smiling and his latest trophy, he looked over at Eddie and Smet who were staring past him. At the far end of the room, sandbags lined the wall. Three marksmanship targets hung at eye level. Scattered in front of them were bodies – emaciated men and women in blue and grey striped prisoner uniforms, soiled, bloodstained, and torn.
Eddie spit a glob of tobacco juice, dug the plug of leaf from his cheek and flicked it on the floor. He looked back at the door to the office, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he shook his head back and forth, “That dirty, rotten son-a-bitch.”
Sergeant Smet stepped forward, his eyes locked on the atrocity. He turned and looked to Eddie and Wilkins but couldn’t find the words. Smet went back into the office, kicked the dead German out of the way, and began going through the desk, “Fucking animal.”
Wilkins walked to the bodies at the far end of the room and stood over them. Sand trickled out of the sandbags and mixed with blood to form a thick, pasty, cast on some of the bodies.
He counted the dead. Pulling the rifle’s bolt to the rear he pressed the spring-loaded internal box magazine. Five rounds. It held five rounds. “The bastard had to reload at least six times,” Wilkins whispered to himself.
The faces on the floor burned into his memory. His jaw tightened. With one quick movement, he removed the bolt and dropped it on the floor. Going back to the bench, he used his knife, pried the gold butt plate off, and tucked it in the breast pocket of his OD wool shirt. He dropped the rifle on the floor, picked up his M-1, and tapped Eddie on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Smet was standing in front of the desk. Privates Gyalog and Lamb had come in. Gyalog lit two cigarettes at the same time and handed one to Lamb, who was eyeing the dead German’s watch.
“The El-tee wants us to clear the basement,” Smet said, his drawn South Georgia accent dry and resigned.
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There were groans and curses. They had been clearing buildings since Remagen. The basements were always the worst. Last stands for fanatics; Hitler Youth, SS officers, and Nazi Party officials who no longer cared if they lived or died.
“Why us?” Wilkins asked as he looked back at the target range room. “We just done our part. Let some other poor bastards do it. Hell, Lamb there damn near got his head blown off the last basement we cleared.”
“It’s a damned fool thing,” Eddie said to no one, his thick Appalachian accent turning the last word into two syllables.
“I heard First Sergeant say it’s clear already,” Gyalog said, keeping the cigarette tucked tightly in the corner of his mouth. “We don’t need to go down there.”
“There’s no fuckin way you heard the First Sergeant say anything, Gyp. You’re making shit up again,” Smet snapped.
“Maybe the El-tee should come down here and do it himself?” Lamb mumbled.
“Knock it off!” Smet barked. “We got our orders. We’re doin’ it. Now, get your asses moving and follow me.”
Random sharp cracks of gunfire bounced through the building as other squads cleared the third floor. With Smet in the lead, they found the door to the basement and stacked up. Smet glanced back to make sure everyone was ready and swung it open. Nothing. He tucked his head around the jamb. The narrow stairwell plunged into absolute blackness. The bottom steps vanished into darkness so complete it felt like staring into an open tomb.
“Grenades,” Smet ordered in a whisper.
Wilkins and Eddie tossed two pineapple fragmentation grenades down the stairs and took cover on the opposite side of the door. Explosions shook the floor.
“Go!” Smet said.
Weapons up, Wilkins and Eddie entered the stairwell and slowly made their way down each concrete step. The rest of the squad waited at the top.
Halfway down, Wilkins held up his hand. Eddie froze. Wilkins looked up at Smet, silhouetted in the light of the open door, and pointed to his ear. Noises below.
Smet nodded. Wilkins pulled a smaller Mk 3 concussion grenade from a pouch on his web belt and tossed it down the stairs ducking away and covering his ears as it bounced off the concrete floor and rolled away. A deafening explosion.
He unhooked the GI-flashlight from his suspenders and tested it to make sure it worked. They continued their descent and reached the basement floor. There were groans in the dark. Wilkins dropped to his knee and fired five rounds into the darkness. Bullets ricocheted off the walls. Both he and Eddie fell to the floor.
When the echoes faded, Eddie raised his head slightly. Barely able to hear his own voice above the ringing in his ears, he shouted so he could hear himself, “Shit, Wilkie, I think you got ‘em!”
Smet had the rest of the squad waiting halfway down the concrete stairwell, “Wilkins! Yoho! You two alright?”
Wilkins was up and moving forward with an angled flashlight in one hand, his rifle in the other. He didn’t respond. Something was moving. He awkwardly raised his weapon and tried to hold the light steady.
Eddie froze beside him, the blood draining from his face. “Oh, shit…”
He lowered his rifle slightly, staring at the crumpled bodies in the dim beam of the flashlight. His stomach twisted violently. He turned his head and spat a thick stream of tobacco juice onto the concrete floor, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“God Almighty,” he muttered, voice rough. “Those are prisoners…”
Wilkins ran to the stairs, “Sarge, we need medics! We got civvies hurt down here!”
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