by C. T. Wells
‘Lie down, then.’
The station master just stared intently at the insignia on Josef’s flying jacket. Suddenly he scuttled backward like a retreating crab. When he stopped wheezing enough to speak again, he pointed with a crooked finger at the Luftwaffe eagle badge on Josef’s flying jacket. ‘You’re German.’
There was no point denying it.
‘You’re the enemy!’
Josef fixed his eyes on the man. His compassion evaporated like a gasoline spill. He spoke sternly. ‘Listen to me. You’re injured, but you’re going to live. Just stay here.’ He looked around, trying to assess the danger that the old man posed. Maybe he should just shoot him and be done with it. He certainly shouldn’t have rescued him. But perhaps the risk was not so great after all. ‘The phone line is down, so you can’t call anyone. I am going to take the bicycle and leave you alone. I have helped you. Now you help me, yes? Stay here. Don’t say anything.’
The station master nodded, his eyes fixed on the gun at the pilot’s side.
Josef glared at him. Turning, he strode across to the bicycle and pulled the dark railway cape over him, covering himself from shoulders to knees. As he rode away, Josef glanced back and saw the station master standing amongst the wreckage, rocking slightly and hugging his wounded ribs.
IV
The telephone rang loudly. It broke through Lucas Moreling’s whisky–soaked dreams and he finally stretched an arm towards the bed–side table. He knocked the empty bottle of Old Pulteney onto the floor before he got a hand on the receiver.
Squinting at the clock, he saw it was only just six in the morning. He muttered a curse. What an outrageous time to be woken up. Completely uncivilised.
‘It’s O’Donnell, sir. Just providing an update on the man hunt.’
‘The what?’
‘You know, sir. The Luftwaffe pilot.’
‘Oh, have you got him yet?’
‘Not yet, sir...’
‘Is he headed for my bedroom?’
‘Ah, no, sir...’
‘So why do I care?’
‘Well it’s a routine update, sir. I’m obliged to let you know. He was spotted in the Tavistock vicinity. A station master saw him. Phone was out but the clever old chap sent a morse message up the line from the signal box. We’re dispatching men as we speak.’
Lucas grunted, rolled onto his face and hung up.
***
Josef rode along a quiet country lane. Pedalling in the morning sun warmed him, and he found that riding the bicycle caused little pain in his ankle. The moor had felt like purgatory. But this was different. The lane passed through English countryside; fields shining with dew and tracts of lush forest. He had quenched his thirst from a stream and, though he felt the pinch of hunger, he knew he could go without food for days if he had to.
Movement helped. He was making progress. Winning. The countryside slid by and the search area expanded vastly. It was such a different landscape to that of his dusty homeland. Josef had seen some of Europe, particularly Germany, in the last three years. For a brief moment it was quite a thrill to be in England, although he had never imagined arriving by parachute. At least there would be a story to tell. If he made it back his escape would be legend. He’d tell the story as the staffel knocked back some lagers.
He had just one close family member left. He would write to his sister, tell the story of his escape. Rescuing the station master even added a touch of gallantry. She would be impressed. The truth of it was that he had done nothing very noteworthy since the war began. He had flown dozens of missions, crossed the channel many times. Photo-reconnaissance missions. Bomber-escort missions. But these were routine operations. He had not shot down an enemy plane or sunk an enemy ship. He had no medals. Nothing to boast of. Nothing to even allude to. But an escape from England—from under the very noses of the Tommies—now that would be something to write home about.
The rubber tyres hummed on the tarmac, but a new sound penetrated Josef’s thoughts. Another truck. He kept his head down and pedalled steadily. The railway cape mostly covered his uniform.
A milk truck rounded a bend and rumbled towards him. The big driving lamps atop the mudguards were blacked–out. The vehicle chugged closer and the moment of passing seemed to last forever. He saw the ruddy jowls of the Englishman above the steering wheel. But there was no shock or fear on the face. Not even curiosity. He was just a bleary–eyed milkman off on his early–morning rounds, paying no heed to a man on a bicycle. The truck vanished around another bend and Josef was alone again. If there were milk deliveries around here, he must be close to civilisation. People further out would probably get their milk straight from the cow.
Josef thought about hiding in the woods. There would be places. But the fact it was so quiet here, encouraged him to push on. He could rapidly eat up distance now, and every kilometre away from the crash–site counted. If it were a game of poker, he decided he wouldn’t fold just yet.
Several minutes later he approached an intersection where the narrow lane terminated at a larger road. There was a roadsign pointing to Tavistock. He sat astride the bicycle, well back from the intersection as he considered his next move.
There was forest on both sides of the road. He would have to avoid the town and head south. It would be far too busy. Yet perhaps it would be easier to hide in a crowd. He could speak English and if he watched his accent, he could probably get away with it for a few necessary words here or there. But the uniform was the problem. The railway cape couldn’t completely conceal his flying suit and boots. And even if he could steal some clothes, that would only make it worse. Better to be caught in uniform than shot as a spy.
Josef felt tired. His mind was churning over the facts and options slowly. He was getting weak from lack of food and sleep. It was time to find a place to hide out for the day.
Then there was motion in his peripheral vision. Something beyond the dense screen of trees. An olive green car shot across the end of the laneway heading south, the engine idling as it coasted downhill. A military vehicle. A staff car. And the instant it crossed the intersection, he saw the white blur of a face glancing down the lane in his direction. He had been seen.
He thumped the handlebars with his gloved fist. He should have been more alert. He tried to tell himself a man on a bicycle was hardly an unusual sight … but he heard the squeal of brakes and through gaps in the birches to his left, he saw the vehicle slowing.
He had to move fast.
The road offered no cover. To his right, the forested landscape rose. To his left it fell.
Fifty metres south of the junction, the car was making a fast U–turn. Now the engine was revving hard.
Josef swung the bicycle to the left and pedalled straight into the forest. Immediately it became a precarious descent as he plunged through the trees. The narrow tyres skidded on leaf litter and crunched over sticks. He was nearly shaken off the seat. He heard the car somewhere above and behind as he rattled downhill.
A shout. Had he been seen?
A pistol shot cracked through the still air.
Josef swerved around an oak and risked a glance backwards. At breakneck speed he saw nothing but a blur of timber. He turned back, only to see the outstretched limb of a tree the same instant it caught him square in the mouth. He snapped backwards and fell to the ground.
He was stunned. He lay prone for a moment as the pain surged through him. Then he slowly sat up, wondering if he’d broken his neck. No, the pain was only in his jaw. But, oh, it was like being felled by a heavyweight. Josef pressed his gloved hand to his chin and it came away covered in blood. He felt its warmth, tasted its saltiness.
Where were his pursuers? He twisted around to look back up the hill. He saw nothing, but he heard a car door slam and someone pushing through the brush. He was dribbling blood onto the leaves.
Dizzy, winded and ach
ing, he got up, clutching his jaw. The bicycle had hurtled on several metres and the front wheel was still turning in warped revolutions. It was no use now. He staggered and slid down through the forest, damp leaves avalanching beneath his feet. The cape was snagging on every branch it seemed, so he tore it off and flung it aside.
He tried to hurry, conscious of the predators behind. He nearly gagged on the blood in his mouth so he spat. His jaw hurt so much it completely eclipsed the pain of the twisted ankle.
Josef had to start thinking again. He would soon come to the bottom of the hill. He’d be in trouble if he hit a watercourse or had to try and outrun them on rising ground on the far side of the valley. He started traversing the slope, making his way to the right, back towards the larger road, sometimes skidding on his feet or sliding on his buttocks through the leaf litter as the ground pitched away beneath him.
It took longer than expected to reach the verge of the road. When he got there, he huddled against the crusty bark of a tree. For a moment he could hear nothing but the pounding of his heart. He couldn’t hear pursuers in the forest. And there was nothing on the road, so he slid out of the trees and sprinted as quickly as his battered body would let him go. He plunged into the trees on the other side of the road, just as a truck loaded with troops approached from the south. Josef pressed himself into the ground as it passed. He heard it halt further up near the intersection. Bellowed commands were followed by the thud of boots landing on macadam. Amongst the commotion he thought he heard the yap of hounds. That scared him more than anything else.
Josef pushed on, again taking the downhill route. He stumbled and tripped more than once, each time jarring his body. Something gritty like sand was in his mouth and he spat fragments of what must have been a tooth as he ran. The teeth in his lower jaw felt loose but there was no time to check.
He pounded across a ploughed field and waded into the windrow on the far side. A pair of grouse took flight and thumped at the air, bursting through the foliage in a ruckus of leaves and feathers. He swore, hoping the disturbance had not betrayed him.
Josef struggled on through a tract of forest, flailing to part the branches that snatched at his face. The forest thinned and he found himself on the brink of a steep defile that plunged away to a tumbling stream in a broad, heath–floored valley. He could scramble down the embankment, but he would be exposed on the low ground.
Breathing hard as he considered his options. Long shadows reached down the valley. He looked upstream and spotted the feet of a massive structure. A vast stone viaduct crossed the valley. Massive Roman arches reared up from the valley floor and carried the railway line across the river.
There was no way of reaching the woods on the far side without an extended time in the open. He could not risk doubling back towards the troops. There was only one choice.
Minutes later, Josef clambered up the stone rampart onto the railway viaduct where it met the line on his side of the valley. He scanned the surrounds from this high vantage point and saw no–one. There was a low parapet either side of the rail line, which might conceal him from the hunters. He started jogging out across the massive span, ducking slightly so he would not be seen above the brickwork.
The viaduct was a marvel of engineering, able to carry a train a hundred feet or more above the valley. But there was no time to admire it. He just had to get into the woods on the far side. The wind had stiffened and clouds scudded past overhead, their shadows swarming over the folds of the valley as it channelled the wind. His clothes and hair were snatched at by the wind and his eyes streamed with the stinging cold. He pressed on, wanting to meld into the woods, hoping the wind and the hard path would throw off the hounds.
Josef was well past the midpoint of the viaduct when the British soldiers broke cover. A squad of them had already been stationed at the far end of the bridge. They calmly stepped out of the brush and shouldered their rifles. There were six barrels aimed at him.
Josef’s heart thumped even harder. He glanced behind him and heard the squad of soldiers from the truck bashing through the woods at the far end of the viaduct. Two hunting dogs strained at their leashes.
Cut off at both ends. For the briefest moment, he considered flinging himself over the parapet and ending it on his own terms. Flying for a few final seconds …
The British Sergeant at the closer end of the viaduct strode forward with a revolver in his hand. It was pointed to the ground. He obviously didn’t want to shoot. The enemy was close enough now to make out the face beneath the helmet. A weather–beaten man of fifty or sixty.
Josef glanced at the parapet one more time. His gaze flicked back to the Sergeant.
The Englishman shook his head. ‘Don’t do nothin’ foolish, young feller. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’
Josef could do nothing else. The chase had ended. He raised his hands in surrender.
V
‘’Allo, what ’ave we ’ere?’
Josef opened his eyes as a Warrant Officer with the physique of a boxer and a slab of a face to match stepped into the cell. The man gripped a swagger stick in his right hand as he moved in close to inspect the Josef’s battered face.
‘I have told your Sergeant, I am Feldwebel Josef Schafer. I have requested amnesty under the Geneva convention.’ He sat slumped on a metal chair in the police lock–up of a small town. A comma of blonde hair hung over his right eye, but he could not brush it aside because his hands were cuffed behind his back. The Walther was long gone.
The Warrant Officer’s craggy face hovered centimetres away. Josef suspected he had been picked for the interrogation based on his intimidating presence. Certainly not for his elocution.
‘You might ’ave been a pretty boy once, but it looks like you’ve ’ad a run–in wif the ugly stick.’ The British soldier used the tip of the cane swagger stick to lift Josef’s chin, to better inspect the wound. He frowned and pouted his lips as he examined the swelling.
Josef swallowed, tasting the metallic residue of blood in his mouth. He could feel a crust of blood amongst the whiskers on his unshaven chin.
‘You hurtin’ bad, son? You understand English, don’t you?’
He nodded.
‘You hurtin’?’
He nodded again.
‘Right about ’ere, is it?’ The Warrant Officer tapped the left side of the Josef’s jaw with the swagger stick.
Josef roared and nearly fell off the chair as he arched in pain. He regained his balance and breathed heavily through his nose. This was going to be rough. Bombing a country didn’t win any friends on the ground.
‘You might want to see a den’ist about that mess. You really oughtta look after yourself a bit better, lad.’
Josef’s only reply was a sullen glare.
‘Don’t mind a bit o’ den’istry meself.’ The Warrant Officer slapped the cane on his palm. ‘Always thought I could give it a bit of a go. And you’ve given me my chance.’ His expression became a mad–eyed grin. And then, an instant later, the brutish face morphed into a look of complete sincerity. ‘But if you’ve a mind to answer some questions, we might be able to provide a li’l somefink for pain relief.’
‘I am Feldwebel Josef…’
The cane slapped him on the jaw.
Through the waves of pain, Josef listened to himself make a low animal moan.
Pacing the room while Josef recovered from the blow, the Warrant Officer explained the capture. ‘We ’ad you surrounded wif a whole battalion, Herr Schafer. The net was tightening. One of my corporals was offerin’ two–to–one that we’d ’ave you afore mornin’ tea. You see, we met your old mate the station master. He signalled down the line by semaphore. So up goes a few of ’is mates and we gets the news quick as a flash. German pilot on the loose. Told us you bashed ’im, poor old bugger. Then he said while he were ’alf dead from the terrible floggin’ you inflicted on him, you stol
e his bike and his railway uniform. You are not only an enemy, Herr Schafer, you are a right mongrel.’
Josef shook his head.
‘What’s that, Herr Schafer? Are you doubtin’ the word of an Englishman?’
‘I helped that man.’
‘What a lot of rot. You stole his bike, and his uniform. Not to mention bombin’ the livin’ daylights out of ’im.’
‘Under the articles of the Geneva Convention of 1929, I have no obligation to …’ Josef flinched as the Warrant Officer raised the swagger stick. He had not sensed an imminent beating for some years now, but he was accustomed to such threats. He turned his eyes to his captor and spoke in a level voice. ‘It is forbidden to torture prisoners of war.’
‘Listen ’ere, Jerry. You were in the uniform of an English railway officer. You could well be shot for spyin’. So why don’t you start makin’ yourself useful and we might be able to overlook your clandestine activities and see to some civvy–lised medical treatment.’
Josef looked at the ground. He knew he was in precarious situation because of the railway cape. It possibly amounted to wearing an enemy uniform and that could mean the firing squad.
‘There are a few things what I would like to know, Herr Schafer. What were you flyin’ and what was your mission?’
‘I have told you. I am a pilot officer of the Luftwaffe. My name is Josef Schafer. That it is all you are entitled to.’
‘You are a German spy.’ There was a cold detachment about the Englishman. Josef started to wonder whether this dummkopf might in fact be totally oblivious to legal treaties. He shivered as fear crawled through his aching and exhausted limbs. His mind was in no better state. Was there anything he could say to save himself? To draw attention away from the railway cape.
‘No. My plane was shot down. I couldn’t have planned that. And I’m not even German.’
The Warrant Officer’s eyebrows gathered in confusion. ‘What are you on about?’