by Doug Dollard
“Corporal Hansel sir,” he answered smartly. The corporal had a distinctly British accent for an American.
“Where are we going Corporal?” I inquired.
“I am afraid I am not at liberty to answer that sir.”
“May I ask what your orders are?” I asked.
“My orders are to see you arrive at your destination without incident sir,” he replied, his hand reflexively sliding to his sidearm. It was clear I wasn’t going to get any useful information from my escort. I had no idea who had been responsible for my release. It appeared however Major Chandler had been duped, but he was not without cunning. Eventually he would discover he had been tricked and then things would get truly interesting.
We drove northwest heading out of the city. London still suffered from the devastation of the blitz and we often found our path blocked by cratered streets and piles of rubble. If I had suspicions I was the object of some great hoax these were quickly dispelled by what I witnessed from the rear seat of the Packard. We drove past entire blocks without a single standing building.
Everywhere rubble stood in great piles along abandoned streets. Burst water mains gushed water that flooded the basements of surrounding homes and black smoke drifted lazily from the smoldering ruins of collapsed buildings. On nearly every street corner work crews were clearing rubble from the streets. In sections of the city that had escaped damage long lines of people queued up in front of butcher shops and bakeries to buy what little was there before inventories ran out.
Other than pictures and contemporary news footage I had seen little of war torn London. But pictures of bombed out buildings and piles of rubble were not nearly as poignant as the courageous spirit of the British people. Everywhere I saw Londoners busy with the task of getting on with their lives despite the devastation surrounding them. They were a courageous people and I had tremendous respect for their stoicism. It made me feel a twinge of shame.
I had been so caught up in the events of the past week I had given little thought to the extraordinary circumstances in which I now was a participant. The soldiers seemed inured to the devastation. They looked but neither spoke nor showed signs of any emotion. It was a defense mechanism of soldiers everywhere. You seal off your emotions and pray you can reclaim them once you put the horror of combat behind you.
Once we were out of the city center the driver ceased his constant erratic turning and we picked up speed, heading into the countryside. It was nearly dark when we finally turned onto a narrow road hemmed in on either side by thick hedgerows. Here we began to pass military vehicles of various configurations traveling in the opposite direction. Trucks, lorries, cars and jeeps filled with British soldiers and RAF airmen sped past us along the narrow tract. The narrowness of the road forced our driver to pull precariously close to a deep ditch that followed the track of the road.
Making a hard left turn the driver pulled onto an even narrower dirt road. Within a mile we came to a halt at a military guard post. Armed soldiers checked the driver’s credentials before letting us pass. We drove on for a short while until the driver turned into a large area of Quonset huts and wooden buildings. Dozens of British Super Marine Spitfires and Hawker Hurricanes were lined up in rows along a long strip of grass and dirt runway.
I noticed several airmen along with a number of soldiers moving about along narrow paths interspersed among the buildings. The driver pulled up in front of one of the buildings and stopped. The soldiers got out but the corporal signaled for me to remain in the vehicle. I waited in the back seat of the vehicle for several minutes before the corporal beaconed me to step out. If I were expecting a reception committee I would have been disappointed. The winter light was already fading and the temperature was dropping rapidly.
“This way if you please sir,” the corporal said, indicating I should follow him. These were the first words he had spoken since we left London and neither the driver nor the soldier to my right had uttered a single word the entire time.
I was still barefoot and the rough path on which we walked stabbed painfully at the bottoms of my unprotected feet. Despite hobbling gingerly around protruding objects embedded in the path my escort seemed to take no notice. With Corporal Hansel in the lead and the other soldier following closely behind I was lead into one of the huts.
The hut was made from corrugated aluminum sheets that wrapped around a crescent shaped wooden frame. Inside the space was lit from a series of large bulbs that hung on long wires from the top of the structure. The floor was a series of wooden boards nailed into place. Heat was provided from a large metal stove located near the center of the room. A long exhaust funnel attached to the stove rose up through the top of the roof. Wooden crates of various sizes were stacked high on either side and scattered about were various tools and parts from aircraft engines.
I noticed many of the crates identified their contents with large, block letters painted in black. The soldiers lead me to the rear of the structure to a room sectioned off from the rest of the hut. The room was built across the back of the hut and occupied nearly a third of the hut’s internal space. A single large wooden door allowed access to the space beyond. The door was secured with a padlock that the corporal unlocked with a key he took from his pocket.
“Your quarters sir,” he said, pulling the door open and directing me inside. I did as he asked.
Inside the room was about one hundred feet square and appeared to have been hastily assembled. Wooden two by fours covered with sheetrock formed the walls. A single light bulb equipped with a pull chain swung from the ceiling on a long electrical wire. In the far corner was an army cot on which were piled khaki woolen army blankets. Next to the cot was a portable field desk and near this a stand on which sat a porcelain bowl partially filled with water.
“I’ll send a medic for you sir,” the corporal offered, as I finished surveying my new quarters.
“I don’t require medical attention Corporal,” I replied.
“Peg pardon sir, those are my orders,” he said, closing the door to effectively bring our brief conversation to an end. I should be growing accustomed to the novelty of my situation I admonished myself.
The room was pleasantly temperate so I removed my jacket and laid it on the cot. Dressed only in my now dry pajama bottoms I began hobbling about the room, taking inventory of my accommodations. Beside the porcelain bowl I noticed a toothbrush, razor and soap brush. I dipped my fingers into the porcelain bowl and was surprised to find the water in it quite warm. I had no idea how long whomever had liberated me from the London Cage intended to keep me here, but as I hadn’t showered in over a week I was drawn to the idea of warm water and soap.
As I examined the toiletries presumably left for my use I noticed a small oval mirror hanging from one of the wooden two by fours. Catching my reflection in the mirror was startling. Removing the soiled strip of gauze from my forehead I noted the area around my eye and cheek was swollen and discolored. My face was sallow and gaunt, my eyes dark and sunken. The wound on my forehead was an ugly gash about an inch long leading up into my scalp. It had been sutured and appeared to be healing but its appearance was disconcerting. Using a small cotton cloth and the bar of soap laid out near the basin I washed my face, chest and arms, wondering how the British managed hygiene during the Blitz.
It is surprising how important these little things become once you are deprived of them. The razor was an old fashioned straight razor and it cost me a few painful nicks before mastering its use. If felt good to scrape the stubble from my face. When I had finished I toweled off and searched around for something to wear.
Near the pile of blankets on the cot I found a pair of pants, long sleeved shirt, a pair of boxer shorts, T-shirt, socks and a pair of shoes, size nine. Stripping off my soiled and blood stained pajama bottoms I donned my new clothes. It is surprising how humanizing clothing your nakedness could be.
Despite the marginal improvement in my situation I knew things couldn’t be much worse. Whoever ha
d planned for my release from the London Cage would in all probability had a similar agenda to Major Chandler’s. I could not afford revealing what I knew irrespective of the intentions of my new host. Though it had been inadvertent I had already given Commander Whitley far more insight into my condition than was safe for him to know.
It was imperative I divulge no more information on the events about to transpire. The only way I could ensure that was to escape. I understood the immense difficulty I faced not only in escaping, but integrating into the British population. But I didn’t see I had any choice. I had already rejected any hope I could return to my own time. Whatever this was, and I was not at all certain exactly what I was experiencing, it appeared I was destined to remain locked in its trajectory. From the moment I had been brought into the Quonset Hut I had been considering how I might escape.
It was clear this building was being used to store soft goods and I had noticed one of the crates had the word TUNICS painted on it. That suggested there might be crates containing British Military Uniforms among the hundreds of others stacked up just outside my makeshift prison. Disguising myself as a British soldier would improve my chances of escaping immeasurably. But I would first have to find a way out of my current confinement without alerting the guard posted just outside.
Chapter 40
DIVIDED LOYALTIES
Having reached a decision I began to feel as if I had regained control of my situation when a loud banging sounded on the door to my room.
“Come in,” I shouted before realizing I had little control over the sanctity of my quarters. Corporal Hansel stood in the doorway but quickly stepped aside to reveal Lieutenant Wellington.
“May I come in?” she asked tentatively. She wore a plain, long sleeve, brown dress buttoned down the front, heelless tan shoes and seamed stockings. Her dark hair fell loosely about her shoulders in large curls and her lips glistened with dark red lipstick. Over her shoulder hung a green medical bag like the one I recalled from the London Cage.
“Of course,” I said, surprised to see the lieutenant again. She stepped forward while Corporal Hansel remained just outside the door.
“You are out of uniform,” I said, noting her civilian attire.
“I had little time to change,” she confessed.
“This facility doesn’t have its own medical staff?” I inquired, curious why she had been brought all the way from London. And then it suddenly dawned on me the only person who could have arranged for Lieutenant Wellington’s attendance here was Commander Whitley.
“Sir James sent you,” I exclaimed, surprised I had not considered it from the beginning.
“It would be helpful if you would remove your shirt and trousers,” she said, asserting her professional authority while ignoring my question.
“You want me to take off my clothes?” I asked stupidly. “Isn’t there a clinic or some other place you do this kind of thing?” I asked.
“Your movement about this facility has been restricted for your own safety,” she replied.
“Now, unless you would prefer one of the guards assist you?” She was looking back to where the guard still stood in the doorway.
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, stripping quickly down to my skivvies. She came closer and set her medical bag on the bed, her focus on my wounds.
“These dressings have been recently changed,” she noted critically.
“Compliments of Major Chandler,” I answered with a hard edge in my voice. I saw a puzzled expression spread across her face but she said nothing.
“Sit on the bed,” she directed me. When I was seated she carefully examined the deep gash in my forehead.
“It will leave an ugly scar but it is healing properly. I can’t determine if you have suffered any neurological damage.”
“I don’t have any symptoms,” I assured her. “No headaches, nausea, dizziness, hallucinations, loss of balance,” I added as proof I understood the symptoms. Again she stared at me with a puzzled expression but did not comment. Taking a Lister bandage scissors from her medical kit she cut through the gauze binding my knee.
Wellington examined the wound carefully, inspecting the incision for signs of infection. Finding none she bathed the area in iodine and wrapped the area in clean bandages. With each of my wounds she repeated this process, carefully inspecting, sanitizing and bandaging them. When she had finished she looked over at me and smiled.
“Whoever attended you last has done a fair job,” she noted her approval.
“Why do you think Sir James chose you to attend my injuries?” I asked, interrupting her appraisal of my wounds. She stopped her examination of my still swollen knee and looked up at me. Slowly she rose to her full height, a look of uncertainty crossing her face. Since the moment she had entered my new quarters she appeared distracted, constantly wringing her hands and looking about as if she were expecting someone. I wondered if I had done something to make her feel ill at ease.
I had made the assumption the Lieutenant was far to smart to believe Sir James intended her role be limited to providing my medical care. She held my gaze for some time before relinquishing it. When she did it was clear she had come to some decision.
“I believe the Commander feels you will be more responsive to someone who you believe posses no threat.”
“You must have come to some conclusions about me,” I stated. Again the Lieutenant hesitated before answering, as if she were carefully considering how much of her true feelings she would divulge.
“I think Sir James has misjudged you,” she said finally.
“How so?”
“I think on some level he actually likes you. But for some reason I do not understand he sees you as a threat and is acting accordingly.” I had to admit I couldn’t have stated it better. Without realizing it I had given Sir James reason to fear me when I had unwittingly divulged two of the greatest secrets of the Second World War.
“Why did he secure my release from the London Cage?” I asked pointedly. The Lieutenant looked at me quizzically.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered, obviously unaware of my brief time as Major Chandler’s guest. Quickly I changed the subject.
“When we were at the White House you attempted to warm me about the listening devices. You must have known if you were discovered you could have been court marshaled?” She looked away then, unable to hold my gaze.
“I don’t know why I did that. I suppose I had a sense you had no intention of harming your country or ours.”
“That couldn’t have been the only reason,” I pressed her. “If what you say is true then nothing I said would have been incriminating.”
“Not that you would have realized. I think you know things that you shouldn’t and I don’t think you were aware of that then. I was afraid you would say something unintentionally.” I had forgotten some people are intuitively astute. They have insight that transcends explanation. Wellington appeared to be one of those people.
“Do you know what he intends to do with me?” I asked, again changing the subject.
“He doesn’t confide in me if that is what you are asking,” she answered. “But I have the sense he intends to keep you under guard until he decides what to do with you.”
“That’s what I think as well,” I confirmed her supposition.
“What will you do?” she asked, suspecting I had come to some conclusion that could put me at odds with the Wing Commander. I had the feeling she wanted to help, but it was far too risky. I had to make an effort to escape, but my odds of succeeding were quite slim and she would surely be implicated.
“You should go now Lieutenant,” I advised her. “I’ll see you next time Sir James sends you to check up on me.”
“I won’t be back,” she admonished me firmly. “Sir James will have made his decision about you and it won’t involve additional medical care.” She was probably right I surmised. But I could not involve her further.
“I think you are wrong about Sir
James,” I lied. “He intends to learn more from me and he needs to know I’m in good health.” I don’t know if she believed me but it didn’t matter. I had to do this on my own and the sooner Wellington was on her way back to London the sooner I could get started. Reluctantly she donned her coat and collected her medical bag from the cot.
“You were brought here by a driver?” I asked.
“Yes, Sir James arranged it,” she answered. Taking the car would have been the perfect solution, but it would involve her and I couldn’t take that risk. I would have to find my own way out whatever the difficulties. I decided I must make my escape as soon as the lieutenant was safely away.
“Goodbye Lieutenant Wellington,” I said as she knocked on the door to signal the guard she wanted out. “Thank you for everything.” She turned back to look at me but didn’t say a word. Perhaps she was thinking this would be the last time we saw each other. For her sake I hoped she was right.
Chapter 41
ESCAPE AND EVASION
After Wellington left I began to take stock of my predicament and means of escape. There was no clandestine service on earth including the United States that could stage the destruction I had witnessed on the drive through London. There were not enough restored Hawker Hurricanes or Super Marine Spitfires in the world to account for those parked on the grass airstrip outside my quarters. The air raids to which I had been witness as well as the decorum of the British people were all testament to that same conclusion.
I had no alternative but to focus my mind on how I was going to affect my release irrespective of whoever was holding me prisoner. I had to assume revealing the date and place of the D-Day landings had placed me in grave danger. The British would have every reason to fear the Germans had discovered their plans for the Normandy invasion and would act accordingly. Hitler was convinced the Allies would cross the channel at Dover and land at the Pas de Calais. If the Allied Forces altered their D-Day plans it could spell disaster for the successful invasion of Europe.