SS-GB

by Len Deighton

  ‘Then they should be in the custody of the civil police,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Well there’s the cunning bit of it, you see. They are held pending inquiries into what they did while in the army. This justifies holding them here in this military detention camp.’

  ‘Very clever,’ said Douglas.

  ‘And they are deprived of trial by court-martial too,’ explained the Captain. ‘Under international law a POW has the same rights of trial as a soldier of equal rank in the army that captures him. And in the German army that means the right to be tried by men of equal rank. Can you imagine that? To try one of these fellows would have required a tribunal made up of German army Generals.’ He chuckled at the thought of it.

  They walked briskly. The wind was plucking at their coats, and lashing the trees into a demented dance. They reached the barrier and the barbed wire. The sentries saluted and the Captain walked as far as the first shed, and ushered Douglas inside. ‘It’s easy work,’ said the Captain. ‘And they have their food and a bed. They are better off than many civilians.’

  ‘Is that what you think, Captain?’ said Douglas.

  The shed was unheated. The elderly prisoners worked at benches, using simple machines – hand presses, drills and hammers – to construct the false limbs. The interior echoed with the noise of their efforts. None of them looked up at the visitors.

  ‘Do you want to see what they are doing?’ said the Captain raising his voice above the noise.

  Douglas shook his head. But then he saw a face he recognized from the newspapers and newsreels of those final days of fighting. ‘I would like to speak to that man,’ said Douglas.

  The Captain grabbed the man Douglas had indicated. ‘You!’ he said. ‘Name, ex-rank and camp number!’

  The old man came to rigid attention, fingers extended straight and chin pressed in, as recruits learn at Prussian cadet schools. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said loudly without raising his eyes. ‘Wentworth, Major-General, prisoner number 4583.’

  ‘You commanded Force W?’ Douglas asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m that Wentworth,’ said the old man. It was at the very end, with Wentworth’s makeshift, mobile-brigade spread thin along the river Colne. The German armour tried to outflank Colchester, and roll up the defences from the seaward flank. By that time the result was no longer in doubt, but Wentworth’s determined stand had given a destroyer flotilla of the Home Fleet enough time to steam out of Harwich. At the time, the rumours said that Churchill and the King were aboard the warships. Some people still believed it.

  ‘You fought well, General,’ said Douglas.

  ‘I did what I was paid to do,’ said the General.

  ‘More,’ said Douglas. ‘You made history.’

  Something within the old man flickered into life. His eyes brightened, and he stared at Douglas, trying to see whether he meant that Churchill and the King had escaped. Then he nodded, and turned his face away as if suddenly interested in the metal he was polishing. And Douglas was pleased that the old man was moved. Now the hammering had almost ceased and the shed quiet. Perhaps the conversation would have ended there but the men did not move.

  ‘I was there,’ said the Captain. ‘I commanded a battery of self-propelled artillery – StuG III with assault guns – the only SP guns there.’

  ‘You came up the London road, about five o’clock in the afternoon,’ said Wentworth. He nodded. ‘My CRA came on the blower and said counter-battery fire would be no good – you were moving all the time.’

  ‘I was supporting our Panzer-pionier battalion,’ said the Captain. ‘We were sent to attack the defence line of Colchester and hold you there. Our casualties didn’t matter, they told us that.’

  ‘By the time you arrived it was more or less all over,’ said the General. ‘I was surprised that my boys stuck it out as long as they did. They were good troops, you know.’ A gust of wind hammered the window panes and doors with enough noise to make the old man look up anxiously. ‘At seven o’clock that evening, I told the gunners to destroy the breechblocks. I told my unit commanders to decide their own course of action. Already the infantry trapped on Mersea Island were putting out white sheets from the houses there. And the navy reported that your big guns were ranging on to the harbour at Harwich.’

  ‘Can I take a message for anyone outside?’ Douglas asked the old man. He looked at the Captain, half-expecting him to object. But he moved away and showed no more interest in the old General.

  ‘My wife,’ said the General. ‘Tell her you’ve seen me, and that I’m well and cheerful.’ Laboriously he unfastened the button on his army shirt and found a slip of paper with his wife’s address and phone number. It was as if he’d been carrying this mangled piece of paper about for months, hoping that someone would make such an offer.

  Douglas took the paper and followed the young Captain who was already moving towards the far door. He looked back at Wentworth and found himself meeting the gaze of the rows of old men, their faces registering various amounts of wonder, contempt, hatred and jealousy.

  ‘Why him?’ said the Captain. ‘Why Wentworth?’

  Douglas reached into his top pocket and found the SD pass that bore the unmistakable signature of the Reichsführer-SS. It was a curious zig-zag handwriting that bore an uncanny resemblance to the SS runes. Douglas held up the pass until it was level with the Captain’s eyes. The Captain gave a weak smile and nodded. There were no more questions about Wentworth.

  ‘You still want to go to the issuing department?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Douglas.

  They stepped out into the cold again. They walked past lines of huts each identical except for the painted numbers. The Sinodun Hills were being swallowed by mist, and dark clouds were racing across the sky as fast as coal-fired locomotives, and twice as dirty. By the time they reached the four linked huts that were used as the issuing department they felt rain in the air.

  The longest shed was divided by a counter along its length. Behind this counter, rows of shelving, holding documents, tools and spare parts, were attended by a dozen elderly men in brown warehouse coats. In front of the counter were the amputees, attending by appointment.

  ‘Who gets limbs here?’

  ‘British ex-servicemen, of all ranks, who live in the southeastern control zone,’ said the Captain. His voice was curt and formal. The enthusiasm with which he described his part in the Colchester fighting was now gone.

  ‘Or who lived there when the application was made?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Captain.

  ‘What documentation do they need to get through that door?’

  ‘No one gets even past the outer gate without a pay-book, proving discharge from the British army without labour service obligation, and endorsement to prove they are not listed for the War Crimes Tribunal. They also need a current identity card, to show that their place of residence is registered with the local police. And then, of course, they must produce the card that is mailed to them to confirm their appointment here.’

  ‘Sounds all right,’ said Douglas.

  ‘It is all right,’ said the Captain. He smoothed his collar at the place where a Knight’s Cross would have hung, had he been awarded that coveted decoration.

  ‘You’ve just told me the theory,’ said Douglas. ‘When was the last time you sent someone to try and gain entrance without all that paper?’

  The Captain grimaced and nodded. ‘Do you want me to alert the sentries?’

  ‘That’s the last thing I want,’ said Douglas. ‘I want my man to get through.’ Douglas turned and looked along the counter. ‘Now show me where you keep the elbow joints and pivots.’

  ‘Is that a joke?’ said the Captain.

  ‘When I make jokes I waggle my ears.’

  ‘Replacements are done at the far end of that counter. Through that door there is a workroom, where they fit new parts and do small repairs.’ They both turned to watch a young man with a shiny-new artificial leg. It was obviously the first time he�
��d worn it. Perhaps he’d hoped to strap it on and run home. Tragic disappointment was written all over his face. An old man, in a brown warehouse coat, supported him, an arm wrapped tightly round the young man’s thin body, and taking most of his weight. ‘It’s always difficult at first,’ said the old man gently. The boy’s forehead glistened with sweat and pain.

  ‘Let me go!’ said the boy softly but urgently. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘No one ever did it first time,’ said the old man. His voice was rich and mellow; an authoritative voice. It was all he could do to support the weight of the boy, and the old man’s lips were pursed with the exertion.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ insisted the boy, his voice as thin as the body from which it came.

  ‘You’ll fall, lad!’

  They were only a short distance from the horizontal bars, and the boy’s hand reached out towards them. But the old man didn’t release him.

  ‘Let me go!’ The boy’s voice was louder now, and pitched higher. He struggled to get free. ‘You’re not a bloody General any more. Let me go, you silly old bastard!’

  The old man stiffened, halted and let go, but his hand stayed in the air as if holding an invisible string. The boy tottered forward, biting his lip in determination and clawing at the air. At first it seemed that he would get there but before he could grasp the bar, his metal leg twisted under him, and he collapsed with a terrible crash that knocked the breath from his lungs. For a moment he was still and lifeless but then his body trembled and began to shake as he sobbed in silent and inconsolable despair.

  The old man waited. He watched the boy carefully, seemingly oblivious of everyone else in the room. Then, kneeling down with the carefulness of the aged, he whispered, ‘Just one more try, eh?’

  The boy did not answer. His face was buried in his arms but the back of his head moved in an almost imperceptible nod. The old man ruffled the boy’s hair with his fingers, in a gesture that was both admonitory and affectionate.

  ‘Arm parts are here,’ said the Captain.

  There were racks of them, stretched up to the ceiling, the larger items in shallow trays, and the small ones stored in tin boxes, with a sample of each wired to the end for identification.

  Douglas saw the tin he wanted. He moved the stepladder and climbed to the high shelf for it. Inside the tin he found a part like the one he’d picked up from the floor of the Shepherd Market flat. It was not a component in much demand, and the tin held only one such piece. It bore a tie-on label ‘Robert John Spode – urgent’. Douglas looked at it. It was not exactly the same as the piece he’d found in the flat. The tube that had made the other one so strong and heavy was not a part of this simplified lighter-weight component. He put it into his pocket. He looked down at the artillery Captain but his face was blank. ‘Are you nearly finished?’ said the Captain. ‘If we are not sitting down for lunch by one o’clock sharp, we’ll have to eat with the duty officers in the transit mess, and that will be a meal you won’t forget for a long time.’

  ‘I won’t be having lunch,’ said Douglas. ‘I’m hoping to make an arrest.’ He came down the steps.

  ‘Not here,’ said the Captain sharply.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said you wanted to talk to a civilian, and there is no objection to that. But this is an army establishment; it’s nothing to do with the civil police or the SS either. Even the authority of Heinrich Himmler cuts no ice here. Our orders come from the OKH in Berlin, via the Commander-in-Chief of the occupation army, and the Kommandantur. You’ll not arrest anyone here.’

  ‘I’m investigating a murder,’ said Douglas. ‘The British army always let the civil police…’

  ‘I’m not interested in ancient history,’ said the Captain. ‘If there is a man to arrest, the German army will arrest him. But you’ll have to provide me with all the paperwork, and show competent authority to take custody of the prisoner.’

  ‘Then I’ll stand outside the gate and arrest him off army property.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said the Captain. His face was calm but his voice was acid. ‘But if you are armed and there is shooting, I will instruct my sentries to take any necessary steps to protect themselves, and the installation, and the staff, and the detainees. And that might mean more shooting. It would be your responsibility and furthermore, I would regard an arrest made close to our perimeter fence as an act of provocation. And my report about you would say that.’

  ‘I’ve been a police officer since you were at school,’ said Douglas. ‘I haven’t needed a gun yet to arrest a man, and I won’t need one today.’

  The Captain nodded and looked at his watch again, as if checking how close it was to lunch-time. ‘Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in the guard hut?’ he said in a more conciliatory way. ‘Spot your fellow coming up the road from Clifton Hampden – they have to come that way to the gate this side – and grab him long before he gets here?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Douglas. The Captain opened the door and they stepped out into the cold and walked in the direction of the guard hut.

  ‘You won’t mind if I go to the mess for lunch?’ said the Captain. ‘I missed breakfast this morning.’

  ‘You didn’t sleep late?’ said Douglas with a trace of sarcasm.

  ‘I went to church,’ said the Captain haughtily. ‘I will send a tray to the checkpoint hut for you. Anything you don’t like?’

  ‘There used to be,’ said Douglas, ‘but now I’ve forgotten what they are.’

  ‘The pork chops are always reliable,’ said the Captain.

  ‘You’re most kind,’ said Douglas.

  The young Captain touched the peak of his cap in a salute that carried more than a hint of mockery. His eyes were hard and unfriendly. ‘Always pleased to help the gentlemen of the Sicherheitspolizei,’ he said. He opened the door of the guard hut and waved Douglas inside. It was a wooden construction, with windows on all sides – like a railway signals box – and it occupied the centre of this narrow country lane. On one side of the hut there was a small counter, and a sliding window, through which visitors presented their credentials.

  The hut was very warm, its air perfumed by the heat of the paraffin stove and the last traces of hastily extinguished cigarettes. There were three men inside the hut. One sat at the sliding window and stared down the lane to where a road led eventually to the delights of Oxford. The other two sat at a table, trying to repair the damaged wing of a huge model aeroplane. The soldiers came to attention. ‘This is Superintendent Archer of Scotland Yard,’ said the Captain. ‘He’ll be using the hut for an hour or so, but he won’t want to do anything that will interfere with the Standing Orders, will you, Superintendent?’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ said Douglas.

  When the Captain had gone, the men relaxed and gave Douglas a chair near the stove. He turned so that he could see as far down the lane as possible. After a decent interval the soldier at the counter lit a cigarette and the other two went back to work with balsa wood, and the pungent-smelling glue.

  The surveillance was a boring task, and Douglas was pleased when a white-coated mess servant brought him a tray of food; bouillon in a vacuum jug, pork chop and cabbage, green salad, Liederkranz cheese and black bread.

  He was still eating the last of the cheese when, at three-fifteen, the Captain returned. ‘Still no luck, eh?’ He let the soldiers stand at attention, while he positioned a chair facing Douglas. ‘How long are you keeping up this vigil?’

  ‘He’ll come,’ said Douglas. The Captain dropped into the chair.

  By now dark clouds had closed across the sky, and a drizzle of rain had begun. The Captain loosened his wet overcoat, stretched out his booted feet, and gave the sort of sigh that comes after a heavy meal. ‘I remember the time when I was in charge of 800 prisoners, taking them on the Harwich ferry en route to Germany. It was night…only natural that they would want to escape, they all had wives and families in Britain. Some of them could almost see their homes; they were from
a regiment recruited in that part of the country. I knew I had to be vigilant. On the previous transport, the officer in charge had been court-martialled for losing two POWs…’ The Captain seemed not to notice the three soldiers and he let them remain rigidly at attention. ‘And there was good evidence to show that the missing men had drowned, but the officer lost his commission just the same – damned bad luck.’

  ‘Damned bad luck,’ said Douglas, but the sarcasm went unremarked.

  ‘Your Highlanders were the toughest – hard men, and we had two companies of them on that ship. They didn’t take kindly to the idea of going into a prison camp…’

  Douglas detected something unusual in the Captain’s tone and manner. He saw him glance sideways. Douglas got to his feet, to see through the window behind him. About thirty yards away, there was a man dressed in the brown coat that many of the prisoners wore. He was carrying a large cardboard box, holding it on his shoulder in such a way as to conceal his head from the men in the guard hut.

  Douglas walked to the door of the hut. The Captain watched him. ‘Wait!’ he called. But Douglas had it open and was through it.

  The box the man was carrying prevented him from seeing Douglas as he hurried across the grass, squelching in the soft ground that the endless rain had made. Douglas reached into his back pocket. ‘Don’t shoot or I’ll fire,’ shouted the Captain, thinking Douglas was bringing out a pistol.

  By that time Douglas had the man’s forearm. The hand in his pocket emerged with handcuffs, and swung them over Spode’s wrist before he’d even loosened his hold on the cardboard box. The right arm of his cotton coat flapped in the cold wind. ‘OK,’ said Spode, ‘OK,’ and the cardboard box fell to the ground with a thump.

  Douglas looked back to where the Captain was standing outside the guard hut, holding a rifle he’d grabbed from the rack. Whether it was to shoot Spode, to shoot Douglas or defend the sacred soil of the German army’s Detention Camp, Little Wittenham, Douglas could not tell. He smiled at the Captain and locked the second half of the handcuffs on to his own wrist. ‘You’re under arrest, Spode,’ he said.