The Devil in No Man's Land: 1917 Read Online Free
front of the church. They moved quickly across the cobblestones of the square and took up their positions: Potts and Kavanagh either side of the window to the right of the door, McDonald and Ellis flanking the one on the left. Harker and Thorpe moved to the door itself.
“What do you see?” the Captain whispered to Ellis.
The Private turned his head and inched it out across the empty window frame. He looked into the church for no more than a second, then pulled back and turned to Harker.
“Two candles on the altar, sir. There's something in between them ? looks like a statue. The rest is darkness.”
Quincey nodded. He turned to Thorpe and jerked his head towards the door. The six men peeled away from the brick wall and raised their rifles. Thorpe stepped forward, gripped the edge of the heavy door, and pushed.
A creak rang out, enormously loud in the silent village, as the hinges protested. The Lieutenant put his shoulder to the door and it swung inwards. Harker and Potts stepped forward, their Lee-Enfield rifles pointing over Thorpe's shoulders, ready for the slightest sign of movement, but there was none. The interior of the church was as still and dark as a crypt, the only light coming from the candles on the altar that Ellis had described.
There was a strong coppery smell in the air as the six men made their way into Passchendaele church. Above them, thick grey clouds hung low above the missing roof, blotting out the stars.
Harker sent Potts and Ellis to the right and left. If the lanterns that would have once been used to illuminate the congregation still contained fuel, perhaps they could shed some light on the source of the strange, metallic smell.
Familiar, though, thought Harker. I know that smell. If I could only place it. Matches flared in the darkness, first to the left and then the right, and Quincey heard the rasping squeak of lantern doors opening. The flames flickered, then the oil caught, and the church was bathed in pale yellow light.
“Oh my God,” gasped Thorpe.
Harker's breath caught in his throat.
“This isn't a church,” Ellis said to his left, his voice trembling. “It's a slaughterhouse.”
Sprawled across the pews and the ornate tiled floor of the church were at least a dozen German soldiers, their skin ghastly white, their mouths twisted into eternal expressions of pain and terror.
Blood was splashed across the whitewashed walls and pooled in near-black ovals on the floor beneath the men. And, in the flickering light of the lanterns, the squad could see that the shape on the altar was no statue; it was the body of a soldier, little more than a boy, bare-chested with his braces hanging off his narrow frame. He sat between the candles, his body riddled with bullet holes, his head lowered towards the blood-soaked floor.
“Dear Lord,” Potts whispered. “What is this?”
Harker looked at his young sniper. His face was almost as pale as the corpse he was staring at, a middle-aged Captain who had died crawling towards the door of the church. The man's body lay in the aisle between the rows of pews, one hand pressed to his throat, the other gripping something tightly in his fist. Beneath him, a great streak of dried blood, smeared by his elbows and knees, led back towards the altar.
Harker stepped forward and knelt down next to the man. He reached out, took the clenched fist in one hand and prised the cold, stiff fingers back with the other. There was a high tinkling noise as something fell to the tiled floor. The squad gathered round their Captain to see what the man had held on to, even as the last breath rattled out of his lungs.
It was a small gold crucifix.
Several of his men drew breath, sharply.
Harker leant forward and moved the man's other hand away from his neck. A wide gash ran from his windpipe to almost the bottom of his ear. There was no blood around the wound and, even to Harker's untrained eye, the edges of the cut seemed jagged and uneven, not the smooth
“What do you see?” the Captain whispered to Ellis.
The Private turned his head and inched it out across the empty window frame. He looked into the church for no more than a second, then pulled back and turned to Harker.
“Two candles on the altar, sir. There's something in between them ? looks like a statue. The rest is darkness.”
Quincey nodded. He turned to Thorpe and jerked his head towards the door. The six men peeled away from the brick wall and raised their rifles. Thorpe stepped forward, gripped the edge of the heavy door, and pushed.
A creak rang out, enormously loud in the silent village, as the hinges protested. The Lieutenant put his shoulder to the door and it swung inwards. Harker and Potts stepped forward, their Lee-Enfield rifles pointing over Thorpe's shoulders, ready for the slightest sign of movement, but there was none. The interior of the church was as still and dark as a crypt, the only light coming from the candles on the altar that Ellis had described.
There was a strong coppery smell in the air as the six men made their way into Passchendaele church. Above them, thick grey clouds hung low above the missing roof, blotting out the stars.
Harker sent Potts and Ellis to the right and left. If the lanterns that would have once been used to illuminate the congregation still contained fuel, perhaps they could shed some light on the source of the strange, metallic smell.
Familiar, though, thought Harker. I know that smell. If I could only place it. Matches flared in the darkness, first to the left and then the right, and Quincey heard the rasping squeak of lantern doors opening. The flames flickered, then the oil caught, and the church was bathed in pale yellow light.
“Oh my God,” gasped Thorpe.
Harker's breath caught in his throat.
“This isn't a church,” Ellis said to his left, his voice trembling. “It's a slaughterhouse.”
Sprawled across the pews and the ornate tiled floor of the church were at least a dozen German soldiers, their skin ghastly white, their mouths twisted into eternal expressions of pain and terror.
Blood was splashed across the whitewashed walls and pooled in near-black ovals on the floor beneath the men. And, in the flickering light of the lanterns, the squad could see that the shape on the altar was no statue; it was the body of a soldier, little more than a boy, bare-chested with his braces hanging off his narrow frame. He sat between the candles, his body riddled with bullet holes, his head lowered towards the blood-soaked floor.
“Dear Lord,” Potts whispered. “What is this?”
Harker looked at his young sniper. His face was almost as pale as the corpse he was staring at, a middle-aged Captain who had died crawling towards the door of the church. The man's body lay in the aisle between the rows of pews, one hand pressed to his throat, the other gripping something tightly in his fist. Beneath him, a great streak of dried blood, smeared by his elbows and knees, led back towards the altar.
Harker stepped forward and knelt down next to the man. He reached out, took the clenched fist in one hand and prised the cold, stiff fingers back with the other. There was a high tinkling noise as something fell to the tiled floor. The squad gathered round their Captain to see what the man had held on to, even as the last breath rattled out of his lungs.
It was a small gold crucifix.
Several of his men drew breath, sharply.
Harker leant forward and moved the man's other hand away from his neck. A wide gash ran from his windpipe to almost the bottom of his ear. There was no blood around the wound and, even to Harker's untrained eye, the edges of the cut seemed jagged and uneven, not the smooth
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