The Outsider

By Peter Hingston

Two foes meet in no-man’s-land, deep in a Belgian forest in December 1944. One is an innocent medical student who has never seen combat, the other is a battle-hardened Hitler Youth.

But the student is from the present day, and is initially unaware he has travelled back in time. He thinks the youth is a re-enactor.

A gripping, yet heart-warming human story, set against the engrossing backdrop of the Battle of the Bulge, the largest battle fought by the US Army during WW2.

A full-length 80,000 word novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Hingston
• Release date: Jun 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9780906555323

Peter Hingston

Peter Hingston is an acclaimed non-fiction author, having written 12 books, including three best-sellers. All his titles have received excellent reviews, and to date over half a million copies have been sold worldwide. The image of the author appearing as a WW2 GI is to celebrate the publication of his debut novel, The Outsider, which is set against the backdrop of the Battle of the Bulge, the largest battle fought by the US Army during WW2. The author graduated from Glasgow University with an Engineering degree, and then served in the Royal Air Force on a 6-year short-service commission. On leaving, he studied as a post-graduate at Oxford University. In the following years he ran a number of his own businesses before writing his first best-seller in the mid 1980s which led to a career in writing. Peter has lived in India, Barbados and Scotland. These days he lives with his wife and family in the beautiful county of Herefordshire in England.

Book preview

THE OUTSIDER

DECEMBER 1944, BELGIUM

by

Peter Hingston

Copyright © 2013 by Peter Hingston.

E mail: [e-mail]

www.hingston-publishing.com

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Front Cover Images copyright © iStockphoto.com and Hingston.

Cover design copyright © Hingston.

ISBN: 978-0-906555-32-3

About the Author

Peter Hingston is an acclaimed non-fiction author, having written 12 books, including three best-sellers. All his titles have received excellent reviews, and to date over half a million copies have been sold worldwide.

The Outsider is his debut novel, which he plans to be the first in a series featuring the two medical students, Guy Mallory and his American colleague, Al Strasser.

The author graduated from Glasgow University with an Engineering degree, and then served in the Royal Air Force on a 6-year short-service commission. On leaving, he studied as a post-graduate at Oxford University. In the following years he ran a number of his own businesses before writing his first best-seller in the mid 1980s which led to a career in writing.

In researching this book, the author made two visits to the Ardennes in Belgium during winter.

Peter has lived in India, Barbados and Scotland. These days he lives with his wife and family in the beautiful county of Herefordshire in England.

Also by Peter Hingston:

Guide To Buying A Used Sports Car

The Greatest Little Business Book (10 editions)

The Greatest Sales & Marketing Book (3 editions)

The Greatest Guide to Home-based Business (2 editions)

The Very Best Visitors Guide to Barbados

The Best Small Business Accounts Book (Yellow) (3 editions)

The Best Small Business Accounts Book (Blue) (3 editions)

The Best VAT Business Accounts Book (3 editions)

Starting Your Business (translated into many languages)

Effective Marketing (translated into many languages)

Working from Home (translated into many languages)

The Enthusiasts’ Guide to Buying a Classic British Sports Car

THE OUTSIDER

‘No one is stupid enough to prefer war to

peace. In peace, sons bury their fathers,

and in war, fathers bury their sons.’

Herodotus (c.485 – c.425BC)

Sketch Map of the Battle of the Bulge. The villages of St. Dominic and Trois-Arbres are fictitious, so are not on the map, but are imagined to be somewhere in the southern sector, inside the Bulge.

CHAPTER 1

Autumn, early 21st century, Glasgow, Scotland

A motley group of well wrapped-up students scurried along University Avenue towards their first lectures at the University. Over the sound of rush hour traffic, a young man’s shout could be heard.

‘Hey, Guy, wait a minute!’

Guy stood out in the crowd with his bright red anorak and tall, lean frame. He turned round to see his friend, Al, running towards him, skirting deftly around other students and commuters. Al was smaller than Guy, quite rotund, with shaggy fair hair and a big smile.

‘I’m outta breath,’ said Al in his southern American drawl as he caught up. ‘Wanna vacation?’

‘Sure,’ replied Guy in a deadpan manner, continuing to walk. ‘I could do with one.’

‘Seriously, do you want a free vacation?’ said Al.

‘With lots of sun, maybe Barbados?’

‘No, but I’m serious.’

Guy stopped. ‘Al, what the hell are you talking about?’

‘I’ve just been given a great offer by my pops. You’ll like it.’

‘I’ll like it?’ asked Guy, pointing to himself.

‘Yeah. Pops wants me to visit the grave of some old uncle in Belgium, and he suggested I took someone for company. That’s you.’

‘Belgium?’ Guy seemed shaken. ‘Barbados would be warmer.’

‘Yeah, well pops has been researching his family roots and discovered he’s got an uncle buried in a military grave.’

‘In Belgium?’

‘Yeah, and he wants me to go there and check it out. The man died during the Battle of the Bulge in December ’44. He didn’t have kids, and no one from the family has ever visited his grave.’

‘Sorry about your uncle,’ said Guy, looking thoughtful.

‘Great-uncle, actually,’ said Al. ‘Apparently he was a surgeon, William Strasser, but little else is known about him. Do you want to come? My pops is paying. You’re into that military history stuff, and you’ve said you speak French.’

‘My French ain’t brilliant. My German’s better. Where’s your great-uncle buried?’

‘Not sure. Pops said the American Battle Monuments Commission don’t have a record of a grave with that name, so he’s still trying to find out.’

‘Thanks for asking me. When shall we go?’ asked Guy, feeling drawn in.

‘Ideally just before Christmas as that’s the anniversary of his death, and…’ Al stopped abruptly as they reached a lecture theatre, and glanced at his watch. ‘I’m a bit late,’ he said. ‘Sorry, gotta go.’

‘Do you want a lift into Uni tomorrow?’ asked Guy. ‘I’ve got my dad’s MG.’

‘Hey, that’s great!’

‘About 8 o’clock?’ asked Guy.

‘How about 8.15?’

‘At 8,’ repeated Guy. ‘Traffic’s bad.’

‘Sure. Any excuse for a drive in your little MG.’

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Next morning, Guy picked up Al from his student flat.

‘It was good your pops let you have his MG Midget,’ said Al.

‘It’s on an extended loan.’

‘Sounds cool,’ said Al.

‘I just hope he doesn’t change his mind,’ said Guy. ‘I think he’s happy for me to use it as I’ve always been interested in old vehicles. I got that interest from him.’

‘So, has he owned this MG a long time?’

‘About ten years,’ said Guy. ‘It was a bit of a wreck when he got it, but over the years he completely rebuilt it. We all thought it would never be finished. The enthusiasts’ clubs were a big help. This is the 1500 version, which was the last model made.’

‘Changing the subject,’ said Al. ‘I started searching for stuff on the Battle of the Bulge last night, but ran out of time. History at college was not my strong point. So tell me more about it, Professor.’

‘I’ve printed out some sheets on the battle,’ said Guy. ‘Have a look in the blue folder behind my seat.’

Al fumbled around behind the driver’s seat and brought out a folder. He shuffled through the papers inside, putting them in some sort of order. He started reading one sheet to himself.

‘Can you read it out?’ asked Guy.

‘Sure.’ Al cleared his throat. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘It says here: The battle eventually involved about 600,000 Americans, nearly half a million Germans, and about 55,000 British. Say, I didn’t know you Limeys were there too.’

‘Yes, the Brits were there,’ said Guy, ‘but it was predominantly an American-German show. It all came about because Hitler dreamt up a plan, which he called Wacht am Rhein, which means, Watch on the Rhine, even though it had nothing to do with the River Rhine.’

‘That’s pretty sneaky,’ commented Al. ‘I’ll read on. The battle occurred after the Allies had reached the western border of Germany. Hitler’s plan was to smash a path through the lightly defended Ardennes region to Antwerp on the Channel. This would split the Allied armies in the west, and deprive them of a major port. On the 16th December 1944 the Germans made their surprise attack along a huge front, over fifty miles wide. Their Panzer armour started their race for Antwerp. There was fierce fighting all around, during which the town of Bastogne came under siege ... I’ll skip a bit, said Al ... Fresh American troops were rushed to the area, and Montgomery, the British Army commander, sent a large force into the projected path of the German spearhead. By Christmas, the German attack had created a huge fifty to sixty-five mile bulge in the allied lines, hence the name given to the battle, but their attack faltered under increasing resistance from the Americans, and a lack of fuel. The German advance eventually ran out of steam before they got even half way to Antwerp. There followed a tough fighting retreat by the Germans, and by late January 1945 the Americans were back to approximately their original positions on the German border. Sounds like it was a big deal.’

‘Understatement,’ said Guy. ‘It was a really big deal. In fact, the Battle of the Bulge was the largest battle fought by the American Army during the Second World War.’

‘Wow!’ said Al. ‘There must have been a load of casualties.’

‘Sure. Different sources quote different figures. I’ve got some numbers in that folder somewhere.’

‘Found it,’ said Al. ‘It seems the Americans lost some 19,000 killed, and there were just over 200 British dead too. There were also a huge number wounded, and many cases of frostbite.’

‘It was the worst winter for ages,’ added Guy.

‘Really? How many Germans died?’ asked Al.

‘I think that’s on another printout.’

Al looked through the papers and took out another sheet. ‘Seems the Germans had 60-100,000 killed, wounded or captured, but no one knows for sure. I’m glad they had big losses,’ he added, with perhaps just a hint of anger in his voice.

Guy was surprised at Al’s remark. ‘Why the hate?’ asked Guy.

‘Yeah, well, loads of things. I guess my family was badly affected by them.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You’d no reason to know. My family came from Eastern Europe. They were caught up in the war. Many were killed.’

‘I see,’ said Guy. ‘I can understand your feelings.’

‘No, I don’t think you can, unless you had a similar background.’

‘It was a long time ago. What about peace, reconciliation and all that?’ asked Guy.

There was an awkward silence. They continued driving through the morning rush hour traffic towards the University.

Eventually Al spoke. ‘Pardon my outburst,’ he said, ‘that wasn’t…’

‘That’s OK,’ interrupted Guy. ‘Did you find out where your great-uncle is buried?’

‘No, not yet. It’s a saga tracking down his grave. There’s also some mystery surrounding the man. Some family don’t want to talk about him. Maybe he was the black sheep. All we know is he was a surgeon, and he died during the battle. I’m sure we’ll have an answer shortly.’

‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Guy.

‘I like this little sports car,’ said Al. ‘I love the smell of leather. We could drive to the Ardennes.’

‘In summer maybe, but not in December,’ replied Guy. ‘By the way, the seats aren’t actually leather, I just use a polish that smells like leather. It’s cheaper.’

‘I guess we’ll just have to fly then,’ said Al, with some disappointment.

‘I think we should base ourselves in Bastogne,’ said Guy.

‘Why there?’ asked Al.

‘It was a key position during the battle, and was besieged. It should be interesting.’

‘Right,’ said Al. ‘You sort out the travel. I’ll organise where to stay in Bastogne, and the car rental.’

‘We could hire a car in Brussels, and drive down,’ suggested Guy. ‘That might save us time and hassle.’

‘Yeah, but I’ve been doing research myself,’ said Al. ‘I want to hire a specific vehicle. I’ll work on renting one in Bastogne.’

‘Why?’ asked Guy.

‘It’s a surprise.’

‘Hope I like it.’

‘Yessir,’ said Al with one of his big, winning, smiles.

‘How’s the clinical work?’ asked Al.

‘It’s OK,’ replied Guy. ‘There’s so much to learn. I must admit that at times I wonder if I might have been happier doing History instead of Medicine.’

‘Yeah, you spend a lot of time reading that stuff,’ said Al.

‘I really enjoy military history,’ said Guy, ‘especially 20th century, but I’m under a lot of pressure at home to continue with Medicine. We’ve so many doctors in my family it has always been presumed I would be another one, simple. How long do you think we should go for?’

‘About two to three days. We’ll be back by Christmas.’

CHAPTER 2

Two months later, a taxi approached the outskirts of the small Belgian town of Bastogne, which looked grey on an overcast December day. There were several centimetres of snow covering the ground and the roofs of the houses.

‘So this is it,’ said Guy, looking through the taxi’s misted-up windows. ‘This is the famous town of Bastogne, where the Americans were besieged and held it for many days with fierce fighting.’

‘It’s interesting,’ said Al, who was sitting next to Guy, ‘what you said on the plane about the Battered Bastards of Bastogne. Good name! Say, I loved the scenery from the train. I’d no idea the Ardennes had so many forests. It looked attractive with the snow.’

‘I’m not sure the soldiers back in ’44 thought the snow was so attractive,’ said Guy.

‘No, guess not,’ replied Al.

‘When did your dad say he would call today?’

‘He’s to text me this evening, our time.’

‘I’m still amazed the US authorities don’t seem to know where the grave is,’ said Guy.

‘Yeah, pops got nowhere with them, but today he’s meeting an old military colleague in Washington who says he may be able to help.’

‘Is it definite he died here in ’44?’ asked Guy.

‘We’ve always believed that was the case. Sorry about the confusion.’

‘No worries. It’s not your fault, or your dad’s. If we get no information we will just have to visit the American Cemeteries near Liège and Luxembourg, and look around for ourselves.’

‘Sure, but let’s have a short tour around here this afternoon, as the cemeteries are miles away.’

‘Excellent idea,’ replied Guy. ‘If we’re going north to Liège tomorrow, let’s have a look at the area to the south of Bastogne today.’

‘Sure, anyway it’s not the anniversary of his death until tomorrow,’ replied Al.

A few minutes later their taxi drew up in front of a small garage in Bastogne’s outskirts. Guy noticed a bold red and black sign, 101st Airborne, painted on one wall of the building. ‘This is promising,’ he said.

The pair got out of the taxi and collected their large rucksacks from the rear of the vehicle. Guy skidded on the icy forecourt, dropping his rucksack in the process. ‘Whoops! Nearly fell!’ he exclaimed, quickly regaining his balance and composure. He picked up the rucksack, and slung it over his shoulder, this time carrying out the manoeuvre more carefully.

Al paid the taxi driver, put on his sheepskin gloves, and with Guy entered the garage office. A strong, though pleasant, smell of floor polish greeted them. The office had white counters, white walls and light grey vinyl flooring. It seemed clinically clean.

From behind the high counter, a girl looked up from her screen.

‘Bonjour,’ said Guy.

‘Bonjour,’ replied the girl.

‘Hi,’ said Al, with a big grin. ‘I’m Al Strasser. I’ve booked online one of your special vehicles.’

‘Hello, Mr Strasser,’ said the girl in English. ‘I will let Michel know, and he will bring it here.’ She opened a door behind her, and shouted something in French. Returning to her desk she smiled. ‘May I see your driving licence, passport … and your card for payment?’

A few minutes later, while the girl was still processing the paperwork, to Guy’s surprise, a green wartime Jeep appeared and parked just outside the office.

‘Wow!’ said Guy. ‘Is that for us?’

‘Sure hope so,’ grinned Al.

‘I guess this is the surprise you promised!’ replied Guy, looking pleased. ‘Excellent!’ He continued to stare through the window at the Jeep. ‘I’m glad it has full weather protection,’ he added. He rubbed his hands together and gave a little shiver.

The girl looked up. ‘The Jeep has no heater,’ she said, in a matter-of-fact way, resuming her paperwork.

The two men frowned, and looked at each other.

‘Is the heater broken?’ asked Al.

‘No,’ replied the girl. ‘Jeeps do not usually have heaters, but there are two coats in the Jeep.’ She smiled again. It was warm in her office, and very cold outside.

‘Oh,’ said Al, ‘I hadn’t realised the Jeep wouldn’t have heating.’

‘If you like, you could have another 4x4,’ said the girl. ‘We have a Land Rover Discovery you could rent instead.’

‘No, we’ll take the Jeep, thanks,’ said Al. ‘OK, Guy?’

‘Yes, I think the Jeep adds authenticity to our mission,’ replied Guy.

‘Please do not take the Jeep off the road,’ added the girl. ‘The insurance man says you must only drive on the road. If the Jeep breaks down, please phone me, but your phone may not work in the forest. Be careful if you walk in the forest as there are still … bombs from the war.’ The two young men grinned at each other. This was going to be a great adventure.

The girl shuffled and stapled the vehicle rental papers, then stopped and stared at them both for a moment, clearly pondering what she had to say next. She looked serious. ‘I must tell you,’ she said, ‘we have some neo-nazis who visit here … about now … in winter. They wear German soldier uniforms, and they can be a problem…’

Guy prompted her. ‘A problem? What sort of problem?’

‘They … give trouble to visitors, Americans especially, they fight with our local boys, and they write Nazi slogans on our old buildings. They are a big nuisance. If you are driving in an American Jeep you need to be very careful, please.’

‘Where are these jokers from?’ asked Al.

‘We don’t know, but they come here about the anniversary of the Battle of the Ardennes, and they don’t come every year.’

‘Are they here this year?’ asked Guy.

She paused. ‘Yes, we hear reports of them near Houffalize, Wiltz, and to the south of here. They move around. There are probably only a few neo-nazis, but if you see them let me know, and I will tell the Police as they like to know where they are. Our phone number is on the rental papers. The neo-nazis camp in the forest. Maybe they like to replay the battle, but they do it in a bad way. They are very different to the re-enactors we often see here, and who we welcome – they are OK. Please be careful.’

‘We’ll be careful, and thanks for warning us,’ said Guy.

‘They seem to be everywhere,’ said Al grimly. ‘I’ll check the map.’

‘Have you ever been to a wartime re-enactment?’ asked Guy.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Al replied.

‘You would be amazed. They are so realistic, except for the onlookers, and nobody gets killed.’

Paperwork finished, the pair went outside. Guy pulled his balaclava from his pocket, and put it on, over his short dark hair. Michel, the mechanic, had his head under the bonnet. He looked up as the pair approached, and smiled.

‘Bonjour,’ he said, continuing in French, ‘I’ll complete these checks, then I can talk to you.’ His gestures made it fairly clear what he intended, but Guy translated the gist of it for Al’s benefit.

While Michel did his work, Guy walked slowly around the vehicle, admiring it. The Jeep had been beautifully restored. Smiling, he ran his gloved hand over the cold metalwork. It was a matt olive green colour, and had white wartime US Army markings. It also had a canvas roof and sidescreens, and was complete with spade, jerry can and spare wheel. Guy ended up standing beside Michel who was busy checking the oil level on the dipstick. The mechanic was wearing a one-piece blue overall with various motor racing badges sewn on. Guy thought for a brief moment to get the right words in French, then asked Michel: ‘Is the engine original?’

‘Non, it gets too much use, but it’s a Ford engine, same size as the original, and petrol also,’ replied Michel. He said more, but Guy could not follow as he spoke too quickly.

Once finished his checks, Michel wiped his big grimy hands on a rag, then started to give them a description of the controls, mainly with sign language. A flimsy sidescreen door was open, and Guy peered into the vehicle. There was one long gear lever, and two short ones beside it.

‘I show you gears now,’ said Michel, in halting English. He put his hand on the long gear lever. ‘Three gears … go forward. This reverse.’ He then held one of the two smaller gear levers. ‘Two-wheels … four-wheels,’ he said. Then holding the other small gear lever, he added, ‘High … low. Yes? OK?’

Guy shook his head. ‘I hope you are following this, Al.’

Al nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s OK.’

Michel grinned at them, then pointing to the fuel tank under the driver’s seat, he said, ‘Petrol, no diesel, no gazole!’ waving his index finger to emphasise the point. The Jeep door swung shut.

‘What’s gazole?’ Al asked Guy.

‘I think it’s French for diesel. Good place for a fuel tank … right under your seat!’

Michel gave Guy a stern glance to stop him speaking, then continued with his instructions, recited with great flamboyance, in limited English. When he had finished his set piece, which he had obviously said many times before, Michel paused.

‘Be careful,’ he said slowly, ‘if you meet … boches.’ He gave a wave, and returned to the warmth of the garage.

‘The locals are mighty jumpy,’ said Guy. ‘It’s a touchy subject. Unlike most areas of occupied Europe that saw the tide of war pass through twice, here the locals caught in the bulge had double that. There was the initial German invasion in 1940, liberation by the US Army in late 1944, the German attack in December, and finally the Americans clawing back the lost ground. Just during the Battle of the Bulge, there were, I think, about 3,000 civilians killed. It was tragic.’

‘Yeah,’ said Al, not knowing quite what to say. ‘Better put on our coats.’ He picked up one from the seat. ‘Hey, look they’re GI greatcoats, and … guess what, we’ve both been promoted. We’re now 2nd Lieutenants!’ A small rectangular gold-coloured bar was attached to each shoulder strap on both greatcoats. ‘These coats sure smell of mothballs,’ he added.

‘I like the way you Americans pronounce Lieutenant as Loo-tenant,’ said Guy, as he transferred some stuff from his bulging anorak pockets to the greatcoat’s two, deep, side pockets. ‘I think that for the duration of this trip, as an honorary American, I should say Loo-tenant.’

Al laughed. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go. We don’t have many hours before it’s dark, but we can go out into the forest, and do a recce.’ Then putting on a wartime movie accent, he added: ‘Say, don’t you think that gal in the office was a real peach?’

‘I’m trying to remember the saying,’ said Guy. ‘Oh, yes, it went something like … GIs were overpaid, oversexed, and over here. I think you are trying to live up to that!’

‘Ha!’ said Al. ‘I’ll do my best!’

‘God, these coats are really heavy,’ said Guy, tugging his over his red anorak. ‘I think these may actually be replicas of enlisted men’s greatcoats, not officers’ ones, but at this precise moment I don’t really care if it keeps me warm.’ He buttoned it up and pulled his balaclava down further to