In the bitter cold of January 1982, Driver Steve Cooper found himself enduring yet another winter exercise. Despite the picturesque quality of the landscape before him, where snow draped the trees and ground in a scene reminiscent of a winter wonderland postcard, the stark truth presented a contrasting reality. The biting cold, at minus seven degrees Celsius, likely amplified to minus twelve by the wind chill, made it far from enjoyable.
Mere moments ago, he had been snugly ensconced within his sleeping bag, but now it was his duty to stand guard. He knew he would be here for another two hours before he could return to his vehicle and seek some much-needed warmth. The shrill cries and gruff snarls of wild boar reverberated through the thick underbrush, drawing nearer with each passing moment, uncomfortably close for his taste. He’d crossed paths with these creatures in the past and had no intention of reliving that encounter. Wild boars were creatures designed for battle – fierce and formidable, armed with razor-sharp tusks and devoid of any trace of humour.
He spat out a string of expletives, cursing the new Commanding Officer for calling another ‘Active Edge.’ These exercises were intended to assess the unit’s agility in mobilising and deploying quickly, preparing them for potential Soviet attacks. Such drills carried weight when initiated at the divisional level – you could never discern whether it was a genuine alert or merely a practice session. But this had been called at unit level, meaning it was just the new guy in charge – power tripping and fucking everyone around.
Suddenly and without any discernible reason, the boar’s grunts ceased, and the night was enveloped in an eerie silence, devoid of any sound – not even the rustle of a leaf or the crunch of anything moving in the snow. The darkness deepened, as though a sombre veil had been cast over the landscape, rendering the night many shades darker.
Only a few short weeks ago, Steve had ventured to the nearby Bergen-Belsen Memorial. The atmosphere had been thick with an unsettling and oppressive sense of depression that had clung to him long after he had left. The memory of the thirteen mounds, covering the remains of so many people, had burned itself into his mind like a hot iron brand. The lack of bird song – it was an odd thing, really. There were birds there, but they didn’t sing. It was as if they had been silenced by the horror that had taken place there.
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