The Devils of D-Day

  The Devils of D-Day

  * * *

  (1979)

  In an attempt to uncover the truth behind the devastating mayhem wrecked by 13 black tanks erupting through enemy lines in 1944, one man sets out for Normandy - and unwittingly releases an age-old horror on modern-day civilisation.

  A novel full of the author's favourite things: demons, angels, myths, history and Nazis. Considering its length (180 pages) it's surprisingly gripping and well written. The final confrontation between good and evil is a stunner.

  The Devils of D-Day

  Graham Masterton

  ARMY OF EVIL…

  At the bridge of Le Vey in July I944, thirteen black tanks smashed through the German lines in an unstoppable all-destroying fury ride. Leaving hundreds of Hitler’s soldiers horribly dead.

  Thirty-five years later, Dan McCook visited that area of Normandy on an investigation of the battle site. There he found a rusting tank by the roadside that was perfectly sealed, upon its turret a protective crucifix. Sceptical, he dared open it, releasing upon himself and the innocents who had helped him an unimaginable horror that led back to that black day in I944. And re-opened the ages-old physical battle between the world and Evil Incarnate…

  From today’s master of the occult thriller, here is a riveting, mega-chill novel of modern-day demonism.

  THE DEVILS OF D-DAY

  IS ABOUT A NEW SATANIC KIND OF WAR.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  All of the devils and demons that appear in this book are legendary creatures of hell, and there is substantial recorded evidence of their existence. For that reason, it is probably inadvisable to attempt to conjure up any of them by repeating out loud the incantations used in the text, which are also genuine.

  I would like to point out that the Pentagon and the British Ministry of Defence strenuously deny the events described here, but I leave you to draw your own conclusions.

  - Graham Masterton, London, 1979

  CHAPTER ONE

  I could see them coming from almost a mile away: two small muffled figures on bicycles, their scarves wound tightly around their faces, pedalling between the white winter trees. As they came nearer, I could hear them talking, too, and make out the clouds of chilly vapour that clung around their mouths. It was Normandy in December—misty and grey as a photograph—and a sullen red sun was already sinking behind the forested hills. Apart from the two French labourers cycling slowly towards me, I was alone on the road, standing with my surveyor’s tripod in the crisp frosted grass, my rented yellow Citroen 2CV parked at an ungainly angle on the nearby verge. It was so damned cold that I could hardly feel my hands or my nose, and I was almost afraid to stamp my feet in case my toes broke off.

  The men came nearer. They were old, with donkey-jackets and berets, and one of them was carrying a battered army rucksack on his back with a long French loaf sticking out of it. Their bicycle tyres left white furry tracks on the hoar frost that covered the road. There wasn’t much traffic along here, in the rural depths of the Suisse Normande, except for occasional tractors and even more occasional Citroen-Maseratis zipping past at ninety miles an hour in blizzards of ice.

  I called, ‘Bonjour, messieurs,’ and one of the old men slowed his bicycle and dismounted. He wheeled his machine right up to my tripod and said, ‘Bonjour, monsieur, Qu’est-ce que vous faites?’

  I said, ‘My French isn’t too good. You speak English?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Well,’ I said, pointing across the valley towards the cold silvery hills, ‘I’m making a map. Une carte.’

  ‘Ah, oui,’ said the old man. ‘Une carte.’

  The other old man, who was still sitting astride his bicycle, pulled down his scarf from his face to blow his nose.

  ‘It’s for the new route?’ he asked me. ‘The new highway?’

  ‘No, no. This is for someone’s history book. It’s a map of the whole of this area for a book about World War II.’

  ‘Ah, la guerre,’ nodded the first old man. ‘Une carte de la guerre, hunk?’

  One of the men took out a blue packet of Gitanes, and offered me one. I didn’t usually smoke French cigarettes, partly because of their high tar content and partly because they smelled like burning horsehair, but I didn’t want to appear discourteous- not after only two days in northern France. In any case, I was glad of the spot of warmth that a glowing cigarette tip gave out.

  We smoked for a while, and smiled at each other dumbly, the way people do when they can’t speak each other’s language too well. Then the old man with the loaf said, ‘They fought all across this valley; and down by the river, too. The Orne. I remember it very clear.’

  The other old man said: ‘Tanks, you know? Here, and here. The Americans coming across the road from Clecy, and the Germans retreating back up the Orne valley. A very hard battle just there, you see, by the Pont D’Ouilly. But that day the Germans stood no chance. Those American tanks came across the bridge at Le Vey and cut them off. At night, from just here, you could see German tanks burning all the way up to the turn in the river.’

  I blew out smoke and vapour. It was so gloomy now that I could hardly make out the heavy granite shoulders of the rocks at Ouilly, where the Orne river widened and turned before sliding over the dam at Le Vey and foaming northwards in the spectral December evening. The only sound was the faint rush of water, and the doleful tolling of the church bell from the distant village, and out here in the frost and the cold we might just as well have been alone in the whole continent of Europe.

  The old man with the loaf said, ‘It was fierce, that fighting. I never saw it so fierce.

  We caught three Germans but it was no difficulty. They were happy to surrender. I remember one of them said: “Today, I fought the devil.” ‘

  The other old man nodded. ‘Der Teufel. That’s what he said. I was there. This one and me, we’re cousins.’

  I smiled at them both. I didn’t really know what to say.

  ‘Well,’ said the one with the loaf, ‘we must get back for nourishment.’

  ‘Thanks for stopping,’ I told him. ‘It gets pretty lonely standing out here on your own.’

  ‘You’re interested in the war?’ asked the other old man.

  I shrugged. ‘Not specifically. I’m a cartographer. A map-maker.’

  ‘There are many stories about the war. Some of them are just pipe-dreams. But round here there are many stories. Just down there, about a kilometre from the Pont D’Ouilly, there’s an old American tank in the hedge. People don’t go near it at night.

  They say you can hear the dead crew talking to each other inside it, on dark nights.’

  ‘That’s pretty spooky.’

  The old man pulled up his scarf so that only his old wrinkled eyes peered out. He looked like a strange Arab soothsayer, or a man with terrible wounds. He tugged on his knitted gloves, and said, in a muffled voice, ‘These are only stories. All battlefields have ghosts, I suppose. Anyway, le potage s’attend.’

  The two old cousins waved once, and then pedalled slowly away down the road. It wasn’t long before they turned a corner and disappeared behind the misty trees, and I was left on my own again, numb with cold and just about ready to pack everything away and grab some dinner. The sun was mouldering away behind a white wedge of descending fog now, anyway, and I could hardly see my hands in front of my face, let alone the peaks of distant rocks.

  I stowed my equipment in the back of the 2CV, climbed into the driver’s scat, and spent five minutes trying to get the car started. The damned thing whinnied like a horse, and I was just about to get out and kick it like a horse deserved, when it coughed and burst into life. I switched on the headlights, U-turned in the middle of the road, and drove
back towards Falaise and my dingy hotel.

  I was only about a half mile down the road, though, when I saw the sign that said Pont D’Ouilly, 4 km. I looked at my watch. It was only half past four, and I wondered if a quick detour to look at the old cousins’ haunted tank might be worth while. If it was any good, I could take a photograph of it tomorrow, in daylight, and Roger might like it for his book. Roger Kellman was the guy who had written the history for which I was drawing all these maps, The Days After D-Day, and anything to do with military memorabilia would have him licking his lips like Sylvester the cat.

  I turned off left, and almost immediately wished I hadn’t. The road went sharply downhill, twisting and turning between trees and rocks, and it was slithery with ice, mud and half-frozen cowshit. The little Citroen bucked and swayed from side to side, and the windshield steamed up so much from my panicky breathing that I had to slide open the side window and lean out; and that wasn’t much fun, with the outside temperature well down below freezing.

  I passed silent, dilapidated farms, with sagging barns and closed windows. I passed grey fields in which cows stood like grubby brown-and-white jigsaws, frozen saliva hanging from their hairy lips. I passed shuttered houses, and slanting fields that went down to the dark winter river. The only sign of life that I saw was a tractor, its wheels so caked with ochre clay that they were twice their normal size, standing by the side of the road with its motor running. There was nobody in it.

  Eventually, the winding road took me down between rough stone walls, under a tangled arcade of leafless trees, and over the bridge at Ouilly. I kept a lookout for the tank the old cousins had talked about, but the first time I missed it altogether; and I spent five minutes wrestling the stupid car back around the way it had come, stalling twice and almost getting jammed in a farm gateway. In the greasy farmyard, I saw a stable door open, and an old woman with a grey face and a white lace cap stare out at me with suspicion, but then the door closed again, and I banged the 2CV into something resembling second gear and roared back down the road.

  You could have missed the tank in broad daylight, let alone at dusk in the middle of a freezing Norman winter. Just as I came around the curve of the road, I saw it, and I managed to pull up a few yards away, with the Citroen’s suspension complaining and groaning. I stepped out of the car into a cold pile of cow dung, but at least when it’s chilled like that it doesn’t smell. I scraped my shoe on a rock by the side of the road and then walked back to look at the tank.

  It was dark and bulky, but surprisingly small. I guess we’re so used to enormous Army tanks these days that we forget how tiny the tanks of World War II actually were. Its surface was black and scaly with rust, and it was so interwoven with the hedge that it looked like something out of Sleeping Beauty, with thorns and brambles twisted around its turret, laced in and out of its tracks, and wound around its stumpy cannon. I didn’t know what kind of a tank it was, but I guessed it was maybe a Sherman or something like that. It was obviously American: there was a faded and rusted white star on its side, and a painting of some kind that time and the weather had just about obliterated. I kicked the tank, and it responded with a dull, empty booming sound.

  A woman came walking slowly along the road with an aluminium milk pail. She eyed me cautiously as she approached, but as she drew near she stopped and laid down her pail. She was quite young, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, and she wore a red spotted headscarf. She was obviously the farmer’s daughter. Her hands were rough from pulling cows’ udders in cold dawn barns, and her cheeks were bright crimson, like a painted peasant doll’s. I said: ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ and she nodded in careful reply. She said, ‘You are American?’ ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I thought so. Only Americans stop and look.’ ‘You speak good English.’

  She didn’t smile. ‘I was au-pair in England, in Pinner, for three years.’

  ‘But then you came back to the farm?’ ‘My mother died. My father was all alone.’ I said, ‘He has a loyal daughter.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, lowering her eyes. ‘But I expect I will go away again one day. It’s very solitaire out here. Very lonesome.’

  I turned back to the grim brooding bulk of the abandoned tank. ‘I was told this was haunted,’ I said. ‘At night, you can hear the crew talking.’ The girl said nothing.

  I waited for a while, and then turned again and looked across the road at her. ‘Is that true, do you think?’ I asked her. ‘That it’s haunted?’

  ‘You mustn’t speak about it,’ she said. ‘If you speak about it, it turns the milk.’

  I glanced down at her aluminium pail. ‘You’re serious?

  If you speak about the ghosts in the tank, the milk goes off?’

  She whispered, ‘Yes.’

  I thought I’d heard everything, but this was amazing. Here, in modern France, an intelligent young lady was whispering in the presence of a beaten-up old Sherman tank, in case her fresh milk curdled. I rested my hand on the tank’s cold rusted mudguard, and I felt as though I’d found something quite special. Roger would have adored it.

  ‘Have you heard the ghosts yourself?’ I asked her.

  She quickly shook her head.

  ‘Do you know anybody who has? Anybody I could speak to?’

  She picked up her pail, and started to walk off down the road. But I crossed over and kept pace with her, even though she wouldn’t look at me, and wouldn’t answer.

  ‘I don’t want to be nosey, mam’selle. But we’re getting a book together, all about D-Day and what happened afterwards. And this seems like the kind of story I could really use. I mean it. Surely someone’s heard the voices, if they’re real?’

  She stopped walking, and stared at me hard. She was quite pretty for a Norman peasant. She had that straight nose you see on nth-century women in the Bayeux tapestry, and opalescent green eyes. Underneath her mud-spattered jerkin and her sensible skirt and her rubber boots, she had quite a noticeable figure, too.

  I said, ‘I don’t know what you’ve got to be so sensitive about. It’s only a story, right? I mean, ghosts don’t exist, right?’

  She kept staring. Then she said, ‘It’s not a ghost, it’s different from that.’

  ‘What do you mean, different?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  She started walking again, and this time she walked so quickly I had difficulty keeping up. I guess if you walk three miles to the cowsheds and back twice a day, your leg muscles get themselves built up pretty tough. By the time we’d reached the mossy stone gate where I’d turned my car round, I was wheezing for breath, and my throat was sore from the chill foggy air.

  ‘This is my farm,’ she said. ‘I have to go in now.’

  ‘You won’t tell me any more?’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell. The tank has been there since the war. That’s more than thirty years, isn’t it? How could you hear voices in a tank after thirty years?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you,’ I told her.

  She turned her face away in profile. She had sad, curved lips; and with that straight aristocratic nose, she was almost beautiful. I said, ‘Will you tell me your name?’ She gave a small, fleeting smile. ‘Madeleine Passerelle.

  'Et VOUS?'

  ‘Dan, short for Daniel, McCook.’

  The girl extended her hand, and we shook. ‘I am pleased to have made your acquaintance,’ she said. ‘Now I must go.’

  ‘Can I see you again? I’m up here again tomorrow. I have a map to finish.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m not trying to pick you up,’ I assured her. ‘Maybe we could just go for a drink. Do you have a bar around here?’

  I looked around at the cold soggy countryside, and the mournful cows gathering at the fence across the road.

  ‘Well, maybe a small hotel?’ I corrected myself.

  Madeleine swung her pail of milk. ‘I think I am too busy,’ she said. ‘And besides, my father needs a lot of care.’

  ‘Who’s the old woman?�
�

  ‘Which old woman?’

  ‘The old woman I saw at the stable door when I turned my car round. She had a white lace cap.’

  ‘Oh … that’s Eloise. She’s lived at the farm all her life. She nursed my mother when she was sick. Now, there’s someone to speak to if you’re interested in stories about the tank. She believes in every superstition.’

  I coughed in the cold twilight. ‘Could I speak to her now?’

  Madeleine said, ‘Not tonight. Perhaps another day.’

  She turned, and started to walk across the farmyard, but I caught up with her and grabbed the handle of her milking pail. ‘Listen, how about tomorrow?’ I asked her. ‘I could come around noon. Could you spare a few minutes then?’

  I was determined not to let her get away without making some kind of firm commitment. The tank and its ghosts were pretty interesting, but Madeleine Passerelle herself was even more so. You don’t usually get much action when you’re drawing up a military map of northern France, and a few glasses of wine and a tumble in the cowshed with the farmer’s daughter, even in the deep midwinter, was a lot more appealing than silent and solitary meals in the brown garlic-smelling mausoleum that my hotel jocularly called its dining room.

  Madeleine smiled. ‘Very well. Come and eat with us. But make it at eleven-thirty. We lunch early in France.’

  ‘You’ve made my week. Thanks a lot.’

  I reached forward to kiss her, but my foot slid on the churned-up mud of the farmyard, and I almost lost my balance. I saved most of my dignity by turning my slide into three rapid steps, but the kiss was lost to the freezing air, a puff of vapour that vanished in the dusk. Amused, Madeleine said, ‘Au revoir, M. McCook. Until tomorrow.’

  I watched her walk across the yard and disappear through the stable door. A cold wet drizzle was beginning to sift down from the evening sky, and it would probably turn into snow in an hour or two. I left the farm and began to trudge back down the road towards the Pont D’Ouilly, where I’d left my car.