Behind Nazi Lines by Andrew Gerow Hodges Jr. & Denise George

Author:Andrew Gerow Hodges Jr. & Denise George
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-07-13T16:00:00+00:00

THIRTY

THE PIT OF DESPAIR

Before Dawn, Tuesday, 21 November 1944, the Marsh

When Michael Foot stepped into the large opaque puddle, he instantly regretted it. He sunk slowly into the liquid mix of mud, sand, and slime, deeper and deeper, his body not stopping until the gunk settled around his shoulders.

Don’t panic! You survived La Brière. You’ll get out of this mess, too. Blast it! Where in the world is Spanin?!

He kicked both legs hard, trying to find something solid to rest his feet on, to hoist his body up from the sucking bog. But the more he struggled, the deeper he descended. He turned his head, searching in the darkness for a vine or twig—for something he could grab onto before it was too late. The murky water now reached his chin.

“Spanin!” Foot screamed. “Spanin! Come help me!”

Even the movements of his vocal cords, and the motions made by his struggled breathing, seemed to pull him deeper into the abyss.

Shan’t make it. Foot held his breath. He tried not to move lest he sink completely under and drown.

Struggling will not only exhaust me, but it will pull me under. Quicksand? Didn’t I hear that somewhere? Sod it! I must be trapped in quicksand.

The rain, now gentle and steady, sprinkled the captain’s face as he prepared himself for death.

Foot, like his father, wasn’t a religious man, but for some reason quotes from The Book of Common Prayer—a leftover from some of his childhood’s mandatory Church of England services—filled his thoughts.

Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep.

The words poured from his heart.

We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. . . .

He forgot the rest of the prayer, but could remember five more words, and he said them to himself, over and over and over as he continued to sink. . . .

“Lord, have mercy upon me. . . .”1

He envisioned his father at home, sitting in his favorite chair, agonizing about him, wondering what had happened to his son, the promising English SAS captain.

I hope Father knows I did my military duty. I tried to live up to his expectations and make him proud. He will soon recover from my death because that’s what old English military families do. They put their dead son-soldiers behind them and move on.

Michael thought about the burial service he would receive.

Hard for Father to have a burial service without a body. Maybe he will arrange a brief memorial service and put a brass plaque somewhere with my name on it.

He pondered his death.

It will be a quick death. Suffocation. A gift of mercy perhaps. Less painful than a bullet.

Michael envisioned the young soldiers he had seen fall across many battlefields during the years of the war.

Why did I ever think I was anyone special? I’m just another Tommy sacrificed on the battlefield, buried beneath a nameless grave, lost to family, lost to history. Why should

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