Eagles Over Britain (The After Dunkirk Series Book 2)

by Lee Jackson

  She sniffed. “Would you please take me home? This is more than I can handle with people all about.”

  Paul drove the small government sedan he had checked out for the day in silence. Claire muffled quiet sobs with a handkerchief. At her front door, she turned to him. “I think it best if we say goodbye here. There’s no sense in prolonging the pain. I love you, Paul, my big brother. I shall miss you terribly.”

  Paul nodded. “And I’ll miss you.” He hugged her. “Talk to Major Crockatt. If anyone can help Lance, he can. MI-9 was formed to help POWs escape and evade.”

  Claire rested her arms on his shoulders and gazed into his eyes. “You’ve always been so strong for the rest of us. You showed us how.” She paused. “I told you the country needs you. Apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so. I’m proud of you.”

  With that, she squeezed him tightly, kissed his cheek, and ran into the house. Paul closed the door behind her. She stood at the living room window and watched him drive away. Then she went to stare out the back window. In the garden below, Timmy played with the nanny.

  Claire went into the garden. Seeing her, Timmy ran with arms wide open and wrapped them around her legs. While picking him up, she told the nanny, “You can take the rest of the afternoon off. I’ll be here.” As soon as the lady had gone, Claire sat on a stone bench at the back of the garden, clung to Timmy, and sobbed.

  52

  Sark Island, English Channel Isles

  The man rapping on the windowpane at the Seigneurie’s back door looked frantic. “I must speak with you,” he said. “British officers are hiding out in your daughter’s house.”

  “Come in,” Marian said, letting him into the kitchen. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  Tom peered around nervously and took a seat while Marian made a pot of tea. “We’re fast running out of this,” she said. “I hope you have more on Guernsey.”

  “Not much more, mum. Scarcity is settling in.”

  “Go ahead and tell me what you have to say.”

  Tom gulped and rubbed the back of his neck. “A submarine dropped two British officers off Guernsey’s coast for a reconnaissance mission,” he said. “They’re friends of Claire from her schooldays. One is Phillip Martel of the Hampshire Regiment. The other is Desmond Mulholland of the Duke of Cornwell’s Light Infantry.

  “They were supposed to map out German garrison positions, gun emplacements, fuel storage tanks, and ammo depots ahead of a commando raid that was planned for two days after they landed. But the raiding party didn’t show, the two soldiers were not picked up, and they’re stranded on Guernsey in civilian clothes. They don’t have ration cards, and with food becoming scarce, we have little to feed them. If they’re caught, they’ll be shot as spies. For that matter, if I’m caught harboring them, I’ll be shot too.”

  Marian’s mind flew into overdrive. She had known both of the men when they were boys and had watched them grow up. Further, she cared for Tom. He was a good man who had taken tremendous risk to alert her, and she wanted no harm to come to him. He stayed in a guest room that night.

  After conferring with her husband, Stephen, they devised a loose plan. Stephen was not thrilled about it but agreed that there was nothing else to be done.

  The next day, on the basis that her daughter’s house needed routine maintenance and she should be there to oversee it, Marian took the boat back to Guernsey with Tom, bringing with her extra food she had scraped together. In Claire’s vacation home, she met with the young officers who remained stoic in the face of their desperate situation.

  “You must surrender,” she told them. “There’s no food for you—supplies are running low for residents. We’ll find British uniforms, and then, I’m very sorry to say, you’ll have to turn yourselves in. The way things are, your presence is dangerous to yourselves, to Tom, and to your families here in Guernsey.”

  The two soldiers balked at first, but arriving at no better alternative, they reluctantly agreed. Within a day, uniforms were found and altered, and the two men were dropped in the early morning hours at the office of the commandant of Guernsey Island. A day later, they were sent to the Continent for internment in a POW camp.

  On her way back to Sark, Marian’s heart ached, and her mind swirled at having participated in turning over to Germany two fine young British soldiers. “I know them,” she whispered to herself. “I know their mothers and fathers.” Tears ran down her cheeks as she imagined the stark reality of what the two men would endure for the rest of the war. The same conditions that continue to engulf Lance.

  When Marian arrived home, the commandant, Major Lanz, waited with her husband in the drawing room. “I’m so pleased to see you,” he said. “Stephen was just explaining the reason for your trip. Were you able to complete whatever repairs were needed?”

  Marian sniffed. “As well as I could,” she said. “While I was there, two British officers were captured. I’m sure you’ve heard of that. Will you please see that they are well treated? I knew them as boys.”

  “Of course, Madame, and that’s related to why I came to see you.”

  “Oh?” Marian sighed as she took a seat. Stephen and the major also sat down. “I’ve been meaning to ask, are you still expecting the war to be over by Christmas?”

  Lanz dropped his smile and leaned back stiffly. “It’s not going as we would have hoped, but we are sure of the end result. I’ll give your RAF credit. It produced a few surprises. We’re looking forward to the day that British and Germans fight on the same side against the Bolsheviks.”

  “Are you speaking of your current Soviet allies?”

  The major’s face reddened, and he coughed. “I came to see you about your son, the POW.”

  Both Marian and Stephen sat upright, their eyes fixed on Lanz. “You have news?” Stephen asked.

  Lanz shook his head. “Regrettably, no. However, I’ve sent his name forward so that the prison authorities will watch out for him. As the son of the Seigneur and Dame of Sark Island, he will be considered a prominente. That is someone held in German custody who is himself or herself of importance in their respective countries, like a duke, a count, or a general. Someone of high standing, or their sons or daughters.”

  Marian and Stephen exchanged questioning looks. “Is that a good thing?” she asked.

  “I think so,” Lanz replied. “He’ll probably receive better treatment, including better quarters and protection. He’s a noncommissioned officer, isn’t he?”

  Both parents nodded.

  “Then, under the Geneva Convention, without being a prominente, he’d be held with enlisted men. Those who rank below sergeant can be required to do labor, but noncommissioned officers may only be assigned supervisory duties. With this elevated status I suggested, he’ll be removed from that population and cannot be required to work, and he’ll be housed among his own kind.”

  Lanz alternated a glance between the two. “You don’t seem pleased.”

  Bewildered, Stephen shook his head. “I think we’re both stunned, that’s all. It’s nice to think that Lance will be treated well, but anything short of seeing him arrive home safely and in good physical and mental condition is less than good news.”

  Marian nodded in agreement.

  “I understand,” the major said. “I know that is not the best news, but I hope it gives you some small comfort. Parents worry about their children, regardless of age. I worry about mine too. I have a son in armor. He might be bound for North Africa soon.” He sighed and eyed them soberly. “There is another issue I want to mention to you.”

  He spoke reluctantly. “At some point, the Wehrmacht will relinquish control of the Channel Islands to German civilian authorities. That won’t happen for several months, but when it does, you should know that conditions might—” He took a deep breath and looked alternately into Marian’s and Stephen’s eyes. “Well, they’ll probably worsen.”

  “In what way?” Marian asked stoically.

  The major spread his han
ds. “I’ve said more than I should, but you’ve been courteous with me, and your people have not complained loudly as we’ve imposed restrictions. I wanted to return the consideration as best I could by giving you a word of caution. That’s all.”

  The visit ended shortly afterward. The Littlefields showed Major Lanz to the door, thanked him for his concern, and retired once more to the drawing room.

  “What do you think?” Marian asked.

  “I think the good major doesn’t like this war any more than we do, but he was bound to serve. Being commandant here was his best bad option.”

  “Agreed. I’m not sure Lance will be pleased to be labeled as a prominente, though. Special treatment breeds contempt and resentment. He won’t like that.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s too late to stop it. The major has already acted.”

  “Maybe the notice will get lost in the shuffle. The fact is that, at this moment, all we know about Lance is that he’s in that Dulag Luft place in a town called Oberursel, waiting to be sent somewhere more permanently.” She glanced at Stephen. “I’m glad we decided not to tell the major that we had received that card through the Red Cross telling us where he is.” She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “This is a nightmare, but at least our other three children are safe. I suppose counting on that would be a mistake, though.”

  They sat on the sofa in front of the empty fireplace, holding each other.

  53

  Dulag Luft, Oberursel, Germany

  A faint smell of goats irritated Lance’s nostrils as he sat in the dark, waiting for the signal to move. Mentally, he went through his checklist again. He wore civilian clothes. He had identity papers, cash, and maps, and he had memorized as much as was known among POWs about the area immediately surrounding the prison, including the best route to the train station.

  Although eager to escape again, he had balked at making another try at this time. Since arriving at the camp, he had learned that both Day and Roger had been prolific in their own escape attempts, but at the moment both the guard cadre and most of the POWs thought the two were cooperating in pacifying prisoners to the point of subduing such efforts, a point that rubbed many POWs the wrong way.

  The contrary was true. Day and Roger used their apparent cooperation as a ruse to cover their actual activities, which included active participation with a small group of prisoners in digging an escape tunnel.

  Day had named Roger as the camp escape officer, that job being to organize resources, review and approve or decline escape plans, and queue those intending to make such an endeavor so that their efforts did not cross each other in ways that subverted success.

  Now Roger proposed to move Lance to the front of the line. “He must go,” he told Wing Commander Day. “If he doesn’t, they could ship him to that new high-security prison at any time. Given that he speaks both French and German, he has one of the best chances of any prisoner to get home, and he’s demonstrated an ability to make his way through the countryside. More importantly, his probabilities go down considerably when the Germans send him to that special unit.”

  Day had seen the sense of Roger’s argument, only adding, “If he’s caught, he could be sent straight there. Train him in coding. He might be able to get messages back to London that could be helpful here. We need to learn more about that place.”

  Roger divulged the conversation to Lance, who objected. “I can’t jump the line. It’s not cricket.”

  “We’re not playing cricket, old boy. This is war. When you get home, you’ll tell our intelligence chaps all you know, and they’ll use that information to help the rest of us.”

  Lance had further objected when he learned that the plan Roger suggested was one that the squadron leader had devised for himself. “That could spoil things for you. If I’m caught, they could torture relevant information out of me. Only an idiot would think otherwise.”

  Roger had shaken his head. “They’re not going to torture you. The Germans keep psychologists on the prison staff to study each prisoner. They divide them into three categories. Those they can bribe, they coopt with better treatment and privileges, and use them to gain information.

  “The weak prisoners make up the second group. The Germans threaten them with torture and actually do torture them into submission.

  “You’re in the third group, those POWs that are strong. They’ll put you in the cooler for a while, hoping you’ll weaken and divulge something of value. For the time being, they want to be seen adhering to the Geneva Convention, so they get as much intel as they can with minimal pressure.

  “So, they let prisoners in the strong group loose in the camp population and rely on the first two categories for information.

  “We’ll come up with another story of how you make your escape. This war’s just getting started. Britain might stave off an invasion, but it can’t win against Germany unless the US comes in. Unless you have new information—”

  Lance shook his head.

  “New arrivals don’t have any either,” Roger went on. “So, the prospect of US entry is a long time off, and Germany still wants to project that it is treating POWs well. They can keep the weak prisoners from complaining to the protecting power.”

  “The what, sir?”

  “The protecting power. It’s set up by a provision of the Geneva Convention to send teams to check on the condition of POWs. Right now, the US functions in that role. If it enters the war, another neutral country, Sweden, will take up the task.”

  Lance looked askance at Roger. “Do those teams have any teeth?”

  Roger shrugged. “If Germany wants to keep the US out of the war, it’ll abide by the Convention as much as it can.” He had stepped in front of Lance to face him directly. “What’s it going to be? Are you going to try to make this escape, or not?”

  Finally convinced, Lance had agreed and prepared vigorously. As part of that preparation, Roger taught him how to embed intel in Red Cross missives. “No use trying this in notes to Sark now,” he had said, “but someday it might apply. When you get your brother’s and sister’s addresses, you’ll send them a message making a statement they will know to be untrue on its face, like, ‘I so much enjoyed that trip with father to Paris last year.’

  “Now, if you never made such a trip, they’ll be alerted. Hopefully, they’ll take it to intelligence headquarters in London, and they’ll set up a cypher system. We’ve run that scenario here, so if you end up going to that high-security prison, information you send from there could be forwarded to us here.”

  He showed Lance some simple systems he had used. “If you find you can’t decode it, hopefully other prisoners wherever you are might have that skill. Keep in mind that ninety percent of them will never try to escape, but most of them will be happy to help your effort.”

  Earlier in the evening, Lance had said his goodbyes. They had been surprisingly emotional; he was bothered by the thought of leaving comrades who had helped him in barbaric circumstances while he struck out for freedom. With a lump in his throat, he had thanked Roger and Wing Commander Day for everything.

  “I’ll never forget you,” Lance told them.

  “Just get home, inform British intelligence of all you know, and get back in the fight,” Day had said.

  “And good luck,” Roger had added, giving him a bear hug. “We’ll toast each other in Piccadilly when all this business is over.”

  As soon as curfew began and the roving guard patrol had gone by, Lance dropped through a carefully hidden cutout in the floorboards of his barracks to the ground. Crawling on his belly and clinging to shadows, he moved from building to building, counting on the guards being too lazy to shine their flashlights in the crawlspaces.

  The land that Dulag Luft occupied had once been a chicken farm. The stone building that had housed the broods was the one where Lance had been interrogated and now served as the camp headquarters. Upon the property’s conversion to a prison, the Germans had built the barracks.

  Emerging
from under the last of the barracks and timing his short sprints between splashes of light cast by probing spotlights, he had arrived at the goathouse, now used for miscellaneous, non-critical storage. It had not been cleaned since the compound’s transformation, and thus retained vestiges of the smell that had been present when the goats last inhabited the space.

  The signal Lance awaited would alert him that the tower guards were changing shifts. Roger had noticed that at a sentry tower on the other side of the goat shed, a blind spot occurred if the guards being relieved walked down the stairs before their replacements ascended them.

  The staircase descended from the tower in a direction ninety degrees out from the blind spot. The location was bathed in floodlights, but since the sentries typically concentrated on watching the inside of the camp’s perimeter, Roger had counted on getting through the wire while they were still at its base.

  A difficulty was that, from the inside of the goat shed, he could not see the tower. That was the reason for the signal: another prisoner inside the barracks would keep watch on the guards and let him know when they changed their shift, and that the ones in the tower had walked down to the ground before their replacements went up.

  On seeing the signal, Lance would have only seconds to dart through a twenty-foot-wide no-man’s land marked by a knee-high barbed wire strand. Trespassing on that strip was grounds to be shot with no warning. Assuming he got to the first fence, he would clip it with improvised cutters, scurry to the second one, and duplicate his actions.

  The plan anticipated that once the sentries mounted the stairs, two POWs ostensibly having a violent disagreement would start a fight. The commotion would escalate into a riot inside the barracks and spill out into the yard.

  During the resulting diversion, the guards’ attention and their machine guns would be trained on the center of the camp. The miscreants would spend a few days in the cooler, but they willingly volunteered. Lance’s absence would be covered by another prisoner who had faked an escape but remained hidden in camp for that purpose.