Ziff under fire

Part 27 - The FOO

An eerie banshee wail filled the air for seconds before a shell burst about 200 metres in front of me. The shock paralysed me for moments until I dove into a slit trench someone had thoughtfully dug for my personal use. I was about to raise my head when another wail presaged an explosion behind me. Dirt rained down around me. Why would anyone want to use so much explosives to kill an unarmed teenager? Surely, a sniper would be more efficient.

The shelling stopped but I did not move. I had seen that trick before. The slit trench was long enough for me to stretch out but it wasn't very deep. It was also dry and cozy. Strange. A creepy feeling dawned on me. I was lying on top of a corpse. And it still warm. I wanted to jump up and run but I didn't want to get shot at either.

I almost died of shock when a voice said, 'Tom, would you get me a cuppa?'

I lifted my head slowly until my eyeballs were just above the edge of the trench. There was no one in sight. And then the corpse moved. 'Geh' roff,' it said.

Almost without thinking, I replied. 'Would you mind if I stayed. Someone is shelling us.'

'That must be Jerry, trying to keep our heads down. Who're you? What time is it?'

'Ziff Dion.' I scraped mud off my wrist watch. To my surprise it was still working. I wound it automatically. 'It's 8.30.'

'Good God. I've been asleep all night,' the voice from beneath said. 'You with the Royals or Riley's?'

I guessed they were infantry. 'Neither. I'm a civilian trapped here by accident. Who are you?'

'Mel Smith, Lieutenant, 4th Field FOO. What are you doing here? Where are you from?'

'I'm from Ottawa, Canada,' I said. 'What's a FOO?'

'Forward Observation Officer . . . Ottawa!' Mel exclaimed suspiciously, 'That's my home town. What school did you go to?'

'Silverwood.'

'Amazing! That's my old school.'

'Look,' Mel said. 'Let me up. I gotta catch up with my crew.'

We wriggled around on a mattress, presumably left by a former owner of the slit trench, until we were sitting side by side our heads just below the rim of the trench. Mel didn't look like a Canadian soldier, more like a hobo. He was covered in mud, unshaven and dressed in an odd assortment of clothing, knee high boots and a baggy sheepskin coat that looked three sizes too big.

He put on a flat steel helmet, draped a camouflaged gauze scarf over it and looked cautiously  through a pair of binoculars carefully covered by the head scarf. Then he consulted a map.

'That damned farmhouse. We shelled it last night and the Jerries are still holding out in the cellar.'

'No!' I exclaimed. 'They've all gone.'

'How on Earth do you know that?'

'I was the last person to leave there this morning.'

'Where did they go?'

'Judging from the boot tracks, they were heading back to a bunker near a small building in the trees. There were some camouflaged multi barrel mortars there. You could barely see them.'

'Moaning Minnies,' Mel said as he carefully arrange the gauze scarf over my head, 'Show me.'

I scanned the horizon with his binoculars. The scarf, ingeniously, did not interfere with the view. 'There!' I pointed. 'In the trees. To the left of that burnt-out tank.'

Mel carefully raised his head under the scarf and looked through the binoculars. He pulled out a map and a clipboard from his battle dress and made notes before stuffing the clipboard back inside his sheepskin coat.

'I must report the position of those moaning minnies . . . and I have to find A Company HQ and get back to my crew. You'd better tag along until we can arrange to get you back to Ottawa.'

'No!' I said with alarm. 'I don't want to go back to Canada. I've got to find my parents and my uncle. They're here!'

'Oh.' He looked at me curiously. 'Under the mud, that looks like a Jerry uniform.'

I shrugged uncomfortably. 'I was travelling with my uncle Kozak. The Wehrmacht was helping us find my parents so we had to wear German uniforms.'

'This uncle, he's not a spy, is he?' Mel asked.

'No! He is a professor.'

Mel walked over to a group of dead Canadian soldiers, pulled a greatcoat from one of them and picket up a helmet. 'Put these on before one of our snipers takes a shot at you.'

'What about my German jackboots?' I asked as I wriggled out of my field gray, German top coat.

'Oh, they're okay.' Most of us are wearing those. They're better than Canadian boots in the mud. I cut mine down. 'If anyone asks about your pants, tell them you took them off a Jerry.'

We set off cautiously constantly looking for cover but no one took a shot at us. We slid and stumbled over the water filled ruts and holes until we reached a field which looked like it had been plowed by a mad farmer. Judging by the small, regularly spaced trees it might have been an orchard but the trees had been stripped of leaves and small branches. Only the trunks remained.