Rogue Justice

by Geoffrey Household

  A delightful thought upon which to close my eyes was of that not-so-secret office in Istanbul. When it was discovered that the major had been bluffed by the fake Haase into sending him to Salonica for identification, at the same time providing Turkish army messes with a good story at the expense of the SD, would an enraged Führer, never forgetting the narrow escape he had had, reduce him to the simple job of slaughtering civilians or stick him up against a wall?

  When the sun was up I took stock of the unknown landscape. West of the river a range of mountains closed the horizon. They were very different to the high Carpathians with their steep, dark valleys where an armed band could disappear and defy pursuit. Here was rock under intensely blue sky and only low scrub for cover, all at the comfortable height of some four thousand feet. In such a canopy of light it seemed to me that to be safe an outlaw could be no larger than a rabbit. However, there were hints of precipice and gorge and for the present there was nowhere else to make my home.

  First I had to cross the river. Down stream was a bridge with a steady flow of German military traffic. That relieved one of my fears: that I might find myself in a district garrisoned by Italians with whom I had no quarrel. It’s a common misfortune for all nations to be governed at some time by a clown, especially if he turns out to be a belligerent clown. The bridge obviously would be heavily guarded, so there was nothing for it but an early morning plunge into the fast current, pushing ahead a piece of timber revetment with my clothes and my few possessions. Then I climbed up into what would be my hunting ground, hungrily eager to explore it and see what prey it might hold.

  4

  Villages were few, clinging to slopes like a scatter of nesting gulls, one house above another. For the first days I did not visit any of them and spent my time in search for my future headquarters, sometimes sleeping in shallow caves – if they were not occupied by goats – and sometimes in the thick scrub of the ridges. In places this scrub was so dense that if I burrowed into it well away from any path I could not be discovered unless stepped on. It swarmed with ticks and, while admirable shelter for the fugitive until danger had passed, it could not form a base for attack. One could see nothing without standing up.

  My first contact was with a goatherd. When I had answered his questions and he had found out that I was British and on the run, his first reaction, typical of all of them, was to say without any regard for possible consequence, ‘You must come to my house and we will have a party.’

  I thanked him profusely as one gentleman to another and answered that I would gladly come to his house at night but there must not be any party. At some time I might have to kill and I refused to risk reprisals against them.

  ‘They don’t come up here much,’ he said. ‘Goats and hunger, that’s all we have.’

  ‘What troops are there in the district?’

  ‘Many, many, at Kozani and on the roads.’

  My territory was the range running north from the bend of the Aliakmon to Kastoria, with the town of Kozani on lower ground to the east. It seemed to be a crossroads of strategic importance, one running south from Macedonia to Athens over the Aliakmon bridge, the other to Salonica, so a garrison had to be there.

  ‘And are there partisans to keep them busy?’ I asked.

  ‘No. All are over to the west. Here is nowhere for a band to retreat and be safe.’

  Indeed there was not, but one man could vanish when a dozen couldn’t. However, I did not ask him if he knew of a refuge for me. None of them could be allowed to know where I was.

  ‘I hear an Englishman shot down an aeroplane by the river. Could that be you?’ he asked.

  Rumour had arrived, and with the same exaggeration as a press report. My reputation was safe.

  I agreed to come to him after dark, and he led me along the ridge until we could look down on the roofs and I could single out his house and the path to it.

  Privacy was hopeless from the start. This was the man who had shot down an aeroplane, and half a dozen males of the village were there to inspect him. They had little to eat beyond bread and cheese and garden produce, but in order that a party should be a party the goatherd laid on the table two precious tins of sardines abandoned the year before by the retreating British.

  While on the subject, I asked whether the troops had left no arms behind them. No. It would have been possible to pick up a useful bit of this and that, but they had heard in time that houses were being searched, and if arms were found the village was burned to the ground.

  All the rest of my needs were easily satisfied. I exchanged my too conspicuous coat for the pullover and waistcoat usually worn by the peasants and after argument was allowed to pay – in view of their needs – for a small store of food and wine which would keep me from hunger without ever lighting a fire. More food would be hidden in a crevice in the bare rock which they would show me, where I could collect it and leave any money I pleased.

  When I went out into the night the goatherd came with me to set me on my way. The others wanted to come along too but he invited them to stay and keep on drinking as he would only go as far as the top of the ridge. I felt that he wanted to speak to me in private.

  ‘I know where there are arms,’ he whispered, ‘but in front of them all I was ashamed to say.’

  He told me that he had a brother who had fought gallantly against the Italians in Albania. Yes, he was no coward. But when his regiment was ordered back from the front to fight the Germans there was some disorder, for they were all worn out by the cold and the battles and no longer fit to meet tanks. So he had gone home, passing secretly by his brother’s village on the way, burying his arms and uniform, and then returning to his fields as if he had never left them. A deserter, yes. And there was no need since a week later all had surrendered. Still, it was not a matter to be talked about. His brother had told him where the arms were buried – near a striped rock which they both knew.

  The goatherd promised to show it to me next day, but I should not go with him as the place was not far from Kozani and a stranger might be suspected. In the afternoon I must watch from above where he went with his flock.

  It was on the slope leading down to the Kozani road that I found the flock. There was no cover but rocks and obviously the arms could only be recovered at night. Lying still at the edge of an inadequate patch of myrtle, I watched the goats very slowly and obstinately eating their way down hill, occasionally shepherded by their owner. At last he stopped by a rounded rock. At that distance I could not see if it was in any way striped, but, by his gestures and his face turned up to the crest where I was, he identified it for me.

  It was as well that I had not accompanied him. Evidently he was nearer to the road than he had any right to be. A motorcyclist suddenly appeared round a bend in the road, came weaving and bumping up the slope, dismounted and appeared to be storming at the goatherd with threats and questions. The black-uniformed brute then turned him round, gave him a kick up the backside and waved him back up the hill. For good measure he drew his Luger and shot the leader of the herd.

  I waited till after sunset. In the failing light that striped rock was harder to find than I thought, and I was beginning to think that I must risk going on with the search at dawn when I came across the body of the white goat. I had several times passed the striped rock but failed to recognize it. The vein of rust-red in the limestone was only an inch thick.

  So far, so good. But why had that demoralized soldier, who at least had the sense to see that further resistance was useless, hidden his rifle when he could just as well have thrown it away? Though myself no soldier, I understood him. I had experienced that hour of hopelessness when the only hope is that hope may return. Suppose there was a miracle? Suppose all the German armour fell into the Aliakmon? Then he could dig up uniform and arms and rejoin his unit as if an involuntary straggler on the march.

  There was no sign of disturbed earth, but a
little way down the slope was a jagged boulder with a band of soil a foot deep all round it showing that it had been dislodged and rolled after heavy winter rains. The track of the fast freshet was plain enough but the cavity from which the boulder had come was not. A dead bush with new green shoots at the bottom was suspicious. It might have been planted to fill up and conceal the hole which was already there to tempt the soldier when he passed it. A tug pulled out the bush. Below were some flat stones lying on top of a uniform coat. Under the coat was a rifle and, apart from it, the rusty bayonet which had shaped the hole to fit.

  Bolt and magazine were a bit rusty but the rest of the rifle was well oiled, proving that the deserter had been trained to take care of his weapons and that I had been right in my guess that he still could dream of marching as a hero through the streets of Athens. It was the old trustworthy British .303, as delivered by crateloads to any of His Majesty’s allies who still had a use for it. I pulled it through, tested the trigger and loaded the magazine. The poor chap had been carrying plenty for use on the Italians; and there was no reason why it should have deteriorated.

  I was now, I fear, a little irresponsible, but I was bitter at being chased across half Europe with no chance to do anything but snap back at the pursuit like a wolf with its tail between its legs. Where was my private war? Attack! I wanted to turn to the attack. To start with there seemed no more worthy target than the murderer of that harmless goat.

  The motorcyclist had come from behind a spur which ran down from the ridge to the road. Under a half-moon – yet bright enough in the sky of Greece to throw shadows – it was easy to traverse the slope and reach the spur. Once on the top I could see the lights of Kozani and make out a small blockhouse by the side of the road below me, which was presumably the quarters of the patrol. Beneath the roof were wide slits showing light. Quite unconcerned, they were within and possibly drinking, for one of them went out to a field latrine leaving the door open behind him.

  I would have liked a touch of white on the foresight, although the standing figure was fairly clear against the cement of the blockhouse behind him. There was nothing wrong with the ammunition. My first shot scored on the concrete, for range and my altitude were hard to guess. My second got him. Two of the guards incautiously dashed out to see what on earth was going on in this place of peace and passing transport. They never did see. Then a machine-gun started up from the embrasure under the roof, firing at the flashes, or perhaps – if the gunner had keen night sight – at my prostrate figure on pale gravel. He would certainly have bagged me if I had not dived for the shelter of a handy rock. He even managed to knock the top off that.

  The gunner seemed to be the last of them, for nobody came out to try an attack on foot. I crawled along the slope of the spur out of that too accurate line of fire and round to the door which he had had time to shut. On the next occasion when he thought he saw something and loosed off into darkness, drowning all other noise, I tried the door, which swung open at a touch. He and his gun were on a raised platform and he was staring intently into the night. This time I used the general’s revolver.

  Complete triumph. A little unsporting perhaps, but no more so than when the lone hunter is after other dangerous game. It was plain now that the goatherd had for my sake taken the risk of pasturing his flock in forbidden territory, and that as soon as the four bodies were discovered the village and its kindly inhabitants would be annihilated. I had to keep suspicion away from them. Experience offered a fair parallel. When you have collected the remains of a man-eater’s kill, you will find – if in any doubt – the trademark of the killer, and you will know whether he or she is resident or has padded for many hungry miles from some faraway district. The same principle applied. I would leave my trademark, and perhaps repeat it in future.

  There was an official logbook in the blockhouse. I tore off four pages and wrote on each in German:

  MIT COMPLIMENTEN VON EINEM UNTERMENSCH ZUM HERRENVOLK

  Hard to translate into English because, thank God, the conception of ‘Untermensch’ has never occurred to us. Perhaps ‘degenerate’ will do, which for the Nazis included Jews, Poles, Russians, other Slavs and, if they had not been allies, probably Italians.

  I took four table knives and pinned the notice to the throat of each of my victims, having of course, in the regrettable manner of the Voevod, ensured that they were dead. The relief force could not possibly hold the villagers responsible, for none of them could speak German, let alone write it. The investigators of the SD might think that they had carelessly left a Jew free and alive in Salonica.

  There must have been a field telephone or radio in the blockhouse, for I could hear the rumble of troop-carriers coming out along the road and just make out their low, fast-moving bulk. Again, what an advantage to be alone! By the time the men were out of their vehicles and saturating rock and scrub, I was off the spur and on top of the ridge. I could not see what was happening but my ears told me that the troop-carriers had reached the high ground by some sort of mule path. It was unwise to trust my luck any further. I must change my hunting ground like any other carnivore.

  For the rest of the night I travelled slowly west until stopped by the deep and narrow gorge of the Aliakmon. Dawn revealed a savage country: a desert of ravines where only infantry could go, and goats would be limited to tiny green shoots sprouting from gravel. The gorge might do for a base if and when I decided to call off the battle, but it was too far from Kozani for observation and attack.

  Short of any military experience, I could not prophesy how the enemy would react to a mere flea in their pants. All I knew was a little of the north-west frontier of India, where a Pathan sniper among the rocks can cause a deal of annoyance to traffic on the road below him. The method of dealing with him was, I think, political – by bribing informers, and threatening or subsidizing chieftains. Encirclement or direct assault only produced a few empty cartridge cases on the ground where he had lain. It was likely that such subtleties would be beyond the Herrenvolk and that I must at some period expect a massive drive by angry troops with nothing else to do.

  For three days I stayed close to the gorge of the Aliakmon to allow excitement to die down, and after secretly picking up some food retraced my steps to the escarpment overlooking the road. There was plenty of moving traffic but pot shots at that range would be largely a waste of ammunition, so when darkness closed down I decided to have a look at the movements of game in Kozani. I hid my rifle in a dry culvert, keeping the bayonet stuck into my belt under the sheepskin coat. There was then nothing in my appearance to distinguish me from any other villager visiting the town.

  As soon as I was in the outer streets, I noticed that they were empty except for the occasional patrol. A curfew. I hadn’t thought of that. The centre of the town was unapproachable, so I set out like a stray cat exploring dustbins on a stealthy circuit of the fields, gardens and lanes of the outskirts, always leaving myself a way of retreat.

  Romance. Disguise. The secret agent always in danger. The enemy was just as impressed by all that nonsense as any other simple soldiery: even my interrogators had given way to remarkable imagination. When I saw a casual pair of military police coming importantly down the street, more to ensure that patrols were doing their job than to arrest curfew-breakers, I took the risk of going boldly to meet them. If the audacity didn’t come off, I assumed that I should be quicker on the draw with the general’s revolver – an assumption which appeared optimistic as soon as they ordered me to put my hands up.

  What really did the trick was a cultured German voice coming from a dirty, dishevelled Greek peasant with a week’s beard. I explained that I had reached Kozani at the risk of my life, having escaped from partisans whose agents must never be allowed to recognize me, and that I must at once find and report to the headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst. I then pulled out Haase’s comprehensive pass and asked the sergeant to look at it carefully. When he saw the stamps an
d signatures, damned if he didn’t salute! He wanted to escort me at once to the office of the Sicherheitsdienst. No, I said, one never knew who might be watching and my orders were to hide my identity at all costs.

  ‘But, sir, you’ll never get there. You’ll be arrested at once in the main street,’ he said. ‘I tell you what we will do if you approve. We will escort you as if you were our prisoner and when you are inside the barracks you can show your authority and reach the right man.’

  He handed back Haase’s all-embracing papers and saluted again.

  There was no way out. I might be able to bluff my way past any sentry, but after that I hadn’t a hope. Gestapo and SD, so near to Salonica, would know all about the fake Haase.

  I was smartly marched through the centre of Kozani and a little way out on the eastern side.

  ‘There you are, sir!’

  We had stopped opposite a Greek barracks, commandeered by the garrison. Fronting the street was a blank wall, pierced by an archway with two sentries on it. Through the arch I could see the parade ground and the main building. I cursed my impulsive folly. Once through that archway I should never leave it again, unless they were pleased to shoot me somewhere else.

  ‘The office of the Sicherheitsdienst is in the left wing, sir. I believe there is a private entrance on the side street.’

  I was thankful for that, though it might mean only a minute’s respite. The SD preferred private entrances, which were good for morale. Decent troops were likely to be shocked by sights and sounds.

  I told him to take me round to the private entrance.

  ‘And give me your names if you have a bit of paper. I should like to report your tact and common sense. Heil Hitler!’

  The sergeant cheerfully wrote them down. Poor devil, he would not have been so cheerful if he had known why I needed the bit of paper – should the opportunity arise.