Witnesses Page 8

  Reluctantly, Dilly pulled open her bedroom door and stepped out onto the landing. As she approached the stairs, she saw below her Mama, a uniformed policeman, and two other men dressed in plaid suits. With the exception of the policeman – who stood almost to attention at the rear of the group – they all looked up the staircase at her.

  “Come on down, darlin’.” Mama even smiled and reached out a hand as she said the words.

  “What’s going on, Mama? Who are these men? Why are they here?” The words tumbled out of her, the dread solidifying in her stomach like concrete.

  The smile on Mama’s face widened to a grin but the emotion she was attempting to manufacture was not reflected in her eyes, which threw daggers at her daughter. “Why don’t you come on down here, sweetheart, and we can sort all this out?”

  “Sort what out, Mama?” She could hear the stress in her own voice.

  “Right now, Dilly!”

  A blush warmed Dilly’s face, but she was unsure whether it was born of anger or embarrassment. Slowly she began to descend the staircase, gripping tightly onto the banister as she went.

  “You took your time! Showing me up, keeping me waiting in front of these gentlemen, these professional gentlemen!”

  “Please tell me what’s happening, Mama,” Dilly said as she made her way down towards the group. “Have I done something wrong?”

  Her mother made as if to reply but then bit her tongue. “Nobody’s done anything wrong here,” the words said in a low monotone. “These gentlemen are here to help you.”

  Dilly hadn’t quite reached the bottom of the stairs but she stopped, shocked at what she’d just heard. “Help me? What do you mean, help me?”

  “Now, now, Dilly, there’s nothing to worry about.” It was one of the men who had spoken, the taller of the two, bald and bespectacled.

  “Help me with what? I don’t understand.” Dilly began backing up the staircase. Seeing this, Mama lunged forward and grabbed her arm, pulled her back down, her face a picture of utter fury. “Come here, young lady!”

  “We’re here to take you somewhere where you can get yourself better,” the tall man said, “a place to recuperate.”

  “Better? But there’s nothing wrong with me! Mama, what’s going on here? What’s happening?” The man had grabbed her arm now, the pressure he applied a little more than was necessary, enough to make a point. Her mother gave no reply, turned away. The policeman had left his post by the door and approached Dilly, grabbing her other arm, helping the bald man to pull Dilly towards the door.

  “Mama!” But her words were wasted. Her mother kept her back to her, unwilling to watch her removal by the two men. The shorter of the men stood to one side, diplomatically averting his gaze from the struggle which now ensued. As Dilly was dragged past him, he removed some papers from his jacket pocket and handed them, along with a pen, to Dilly’s mother. “Some signatures, Mrs Chambers, if you would be so kind.”

  Dilly struggled, but the men were too strong for her, and they easily dragged her out the front door. They pulled her towards the car and bundled her inside, the policeman holding onto her as the bald man opened the door. With Dilly inside, he too climbed onto the back seat to sit alongside her.

  “Where are you taking me?” She screamed the words.

  “Somewhere to make you better!”

  Dilly turned away, reached for the door handle on the other side of the car, pulled hard on it but found it locked. She screamed her frustration.

  “This will be so much easier if you just relax, Miss Chambers,” the bald man said. “If you won’t do it on your own, I have something that can help.” He dipped into his pocket and withdrew a syringe. “Now, how’s it going to be?”

  Dilly could not reply. Events were unfolding too quickly; it was all too confusing. She stared mutely at the syringe. The second man clambered into the car, rocking it on its suspension as he did so. “Okay to go?”

  “Okay to go,” replied the bald man, turning and smiling at Dilly.

  The engine roared into life and the car pulled away from the kerb. Still dumbfounded, Dilly stared out of the window as the houses flashed by. Where was she going? Who were these people?

  Where was Chris?

  * * *

  My journey into Hell continues…

  I feel I am a cultured man, able to appreciate the finer things in life; a good wine, a well written book, fine architecture. In any other circumstances, the city of Dinant would have been a joy to visit, its dramatic location on the banks of the River Meuse, the Gothic cathedral of Notre Dame, and the towering cliffs of the Rocher which loom over the city like a slumbering giant.

  In any other circumstances, yes…

  Not today, though. The city’s magnificence and splendour, undoubted as they are, failed to make any impression on my sensibilities, overwhelmed as they were by the scenes of horror on display for all to see. The aftermath of another massacre, a massacre it was my responsibility to prevent.

  It was simply a matter of timing, so I keep telling myself. We made good progress here, even marching through the night in order to arrive as soon as possible. And yet we were still too late. It is little consolation to know that the intelligence we had was robust, that Dinant was indeed the next target of whoever is responsible for this mindless slaughter.

  I had thought that I was somehow becoming hardened through exposure to the horrors of this war, but I now know this to be untrue. It is one thing to see the terrible things that happen to the soldiers – on both sides of this conflict – but to see the same, and worse, inflicted upon the civilian population, women and children included, is quite another matter.

  Bodies strew the narrow winding streets, left to rot where they fell. In the market square lay hundreds of corpses, piled seven-, eight-deep, all with gunshot wounds to their heads. A mass execution. For what? Where is the logic (all matters of decency and morality aside) in the killing of innocent civilians? How can men bring themselves to commit such atrocities? Who are the men in charge of these operations, the monsters responsible for these horrific acts? How can they sleep at night?

  So many questions. Some, God-willing, I will find the answer to when we finally catch up with these devils. Others, well, some I may never get the answers to, or at least answers I can believe. I remember the first man I killed in combat, in the mud of the Mons battlefield. In the heat of combat I had no time to react to what I had just done. The battlefield is no place for contemplation or any kind of thought, other than remembering the drills and basic training drummed into oneself, the only way of ensuring survival. I killed another six men in that battle and I am still haunted by the memories of those acts. And they were justified killings, a terrible thing yet necessary. I cannot comprehend how any man could carry out such atrocities as I have seen today and be able to live with the consequences, how he could live with himself.

  The platoon is subdued tonight, understandably so. I saw some men in tears today, distraught at what they beheld in the city. The children are the worst; seeing those small bodies broken and abused, lying on the ground like discarded dolls is enough to break the heart of even the most hardened man. The remaining inhabitants of Dinant stand around on every street, silent, unmoving, the horrors they have witnessed reducing them to ghosts of their former selves. This is not war, this is something else again. Dark forces are at work here, of that I am convinced.

  The men are working in shifts to bury the dead. Over six hundred and fifty bodies have so far been found, but there is the potential for more. Already we have begun interviewing the survivors to gain as much information as we can about the perpetrators of this hideous act. I have no doubt they will strike again. They have a bloodlust now which must be satisfied. Tomorrow we will pursue them, hunt them down, put an end to this barbarism. God-willing we will catch them soon. Although, I have to admit, I fear God has long since left this place.

  * * *

  Dilly saw little of her journey in the car with the two men bec
ause of the tears that constantly filled her eyes. She travelled in silence, her attempts at engaging the man sitting beside her in conversation, her attempts to find out what was happening to her, coming to nothing. She saw the red flares in the man’s aura as she questioned him, saw the anger her queries were creating in him. Remembering the syringe he had shown her when they’d gotten into the car, she thought it wise to halt her questioning.

  The journey seemed to take an eternity, took Dilly along roads and byways she was unfamiliar with. As the shock of the morning’s events slowly wore off, fear began to take hold of her, an intense feeling that tightened her throat, brought more tears. She was alone, so very alone despite the presence of the two men in the car with her. These acute feelings brought with them a realisation that, in reality, she had been alone for all of her life. An outsider (an outcast?) from society, her only function to look after the shambles of a woman her mother had become, her only release from this psychological and emotional prison the books she read avidly.

  Until, that was, Chris came into her life. The thought of her boyfriend brought a fresh wave of emotion, a mixture of loss and longing, but also the seeds of hope. Chris would deal with this, he would save her. Just as he’d saved her from her previous life of drudgery, he would make this scary, new situation good. She bit her lip, tried not to get too excited at the prospect of rescue.

  Outside the car, the open countryside was gradually replaced by housing. A sign for Lynchburg passed by, a city Dilly had never been to. Was this to be her final destination? She searched her mind for information about the city. What was here that they would drive all this way to bring her to? Founded by John Lynch, “The City of Seven Hills”, facts learned in school crowded her mind. The Battle of Lynchburg, the only city in Virginia not to fall to Union forces… The last recollection brought with it images of the Confederate soldiers she had seen on her first date with Chris, and suddenly the feelings of optimism she’d been experiencing slipped away and a chill settled in her body.

  The car passed over the slow-moving James River, entered the commercial heart of the city. The man next to her folded up the papers he had been reading – some kind of scientific paper, Dilly thought, from the glimpses she had seen of it – and replaced them in the briefcase at his feet.

  “Is this where we’re going?” Dilly asked, taking the opportunity to address the man.

  He turned to face her, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Nearly there,” he replied in a tone meant to be reassuring but somehow sounding quite the opposite. Menacing in fact.

  The car continued through the city streets, leaving the centre behind and moving out through the suburbs to begin climbing the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The scenery unfolding through the car windows was spectacular, but Dilly was in no mood to appreciate it, as once again a feeling of dread filled her.

  Some ten minutes or so out of the city, the car took a right turn onto a dusty dirt track that climbed the hillside. The uneven surface made for an uncomfortable ride as the vehicle bounced up and down on its springs, the wheels hitting ruts and potholes in the poorly maintained surface, despite the best efforts of the driver. As the car climbed the hill, a cluster of buildings came into view. A wall surrounded them. Access was via a large, metallic double gate. The car pulled up to it and Dilly saw that there was a small booth alongside it in which a uniformed man sat. As the driver spoke to the guard, she glanced out of the other side window and saw the sign. Her blood turned to ice as she read what was written on it, Lynchburg State Colony.

  The gates swung open in front of them and the car pulled through the entrance. Panic filled Dilly’s mind again as the vehicle approached a large, rectangular building. Brick built and two storeys high, its main entrance was surrounded by a portico supported by four pillars. Beyond it, Dilly could see other buildings of the same design, though smaller. “What is this place?” She spoke the words aloud but neither expected, or received, an answer to her question.

  The car pulled up in front of the large building and the driver turned the engine off.

  “Come on, Dilly,” the bald man said. “We’re here now.”

  The door to the building opened and a man dressed in a white coat stepped out, made his way towards the car accompanied by a woman in a nurse’s uniform.

  Dilly felt her pulse pounding in her head, felt the wave of nausea spread out from her stomach. The world began to darken around her, constricting into an ever-diminishing tunnel of light. The last thing she saw before blacking out completely was the man in the white coat reaching out for the car’s door handle, a Cheshire Cat smile on his face.

  * * *

  We head for Leuven. I can scarcely believe the good fortune we have encountered today. Perhaps I was wrong in my earlier assumption that God has deserted us. Our intelligence gathering carried on through the night, but there was surprisingly little to be gleaned from the citizens of Dinant. Many were understandably angry at what had happened to their home town and took the opportunity to vent that anger and frustration without providing any concrete information on the perpetrators of the atrocity.

  Most were simply too distraught to provide help. I doubt if there is a family remaining in the city that has not been touched in some way by the massacre, that has not lost someone dear to them. What information we could obtain told us of a dawn attack by a platoon of Germans under the command of a young Captain (I use the word young somewhat tongue in cheek. The popular opinion amongst those we spoke to was that the man was about my age). The men were well drilled, the attack had been planned thoroughly, this was no onslaught by berserkers, despite what the aftermath may have suggested. I find this, somehow, more disturbing.

  A sleepless night with nothing to show for it seemed inevitable and, as the sun slowly made its way above the horizon, I found myself wandering the deserted streets to contemplate the best way forward. At that time, I had no idea what the best plan of action could be. I had received no further intelligence upon which to formulate a plan. We needed to keep moving, but to where? In which direction would we head out? The monsters would strike again, of that I was certain, but knowing what the next target would be was impossible. A number of options existed. To choose the wrong one would be disastrous, potentially increasing the distance between ourselves and them, allowing still further atrocities before we finally caught up with them. The red skies were reflected in the stained-glass windows of the Notre Dame Cathedral, but the beauty of what I was witnessing failed to make any kind of impression on me, so lost was I in contemplation.

  And then I heard the footsteps behind me. I turned, tensed, ready to draw my revolver should the occasion require it, and saw a figure shuffling towards me. He was dressed in German uniform and had his hands raised in the air in surrender. He walked slowly, dragging his right leg behind him. As he drew nearer, I could see the blood on his uniform and his face.

  I did draw my gun and commanded the man to halt. He did so, smiling and raising his hands even higher. He spoke to me in German, which I didn’t understand. The tone of his voice and his general demeanour convinced me that he offered no threat. After a protracted pause, I pointed to my gun, raised my eyebrows in what I hoped would be a questioning manner.

  He smiled again, shook his head. Slowly, he pirouetted, showing me that he was indeed unarmed. He spoke to me again, a note of pleading now discernible in his voice. Without further ado, I motioned for him to come to me. As he did so, I turned to one side, ushered him past me. Using my pistol as a prompt, I pointed the way to our field HQ.

  Once the interpreter had been summoned, I began questioning the man. Up close, more injuries were apparent; his nose was broken, both eyes blackened by the injury, and a number of teeth were missing, presumably dislodged by the beating he had obviously so recently suffered. As it turned out, I actually had to do very little by way of interrogation. The man was more than willing to tell us everything he knew.

  I now know my nemesis goes by the name of Carl Dre
schler and is a captain in the German Army. Our informant – his name is Peter Schmidt – told us of how the mission he had originally been assigned to had changed beyond all recognition, how the task of hunting down members of the Resistance (or so it had been put to him, although I must confess to being unaware of any such organisation) had become an uncontrollable killing spree, driven on to greater and greater acts of atrocity by the deranged Dreschler. He had had enough, but had made the mistake of voicing his opinions (which, he assures me, many of the other men share) and as a result had been savagely beaten, then shot and left for dead.

  Shot? I asked, and yet you survived?

  He had smiled and shrugged his shoulders at that. Perhaps the coup de grace had been sloppily done (here he showed me the red groove that scarred his forehead, the path the bullet intended for his brain had actually taken) or perhaps his executioner had secretly shared his views, was unable to bring himself to carry out one more unjustified murder. Either way, he had survived and was taking his second chance at life to try to somehow make amends for his past crimes.

  The information flowed from him. One could sense the relief, almost see the weight lifting from his shoulders as the words flew from his mouth. “Er ist ein Dämon ” he said of Dreschler at one point, and I could see the fear in his eyes as he did so. The words needed no translation.

  And so we head for Leuven, the target of Dreschler’s next attack. We aim to be there by dawn, the time that the murderer commences all his attacks. We can, and must, stop the man and his evil cohorts. If what Peter Schmidt says is true then I have my suspicions the task will be easier than anticipated if enough of Dreschler’s men share his disgust at what they are being made to do. Mutiny is likely if we can present the opportunity.

  We are stopped now en route, taking the opportunity of a rest before recommencing our march to Leuven. I shall never forget Dinant and the terrible sights I beheld there. It is a haunted city now, haunted both by the ghosts of those who died, and also by those fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate, enough to have survived.