Beyond their circle, two grey-clad soldiers lounged on ammunition crates behind a tripod-mounted machine gun. They weren’t typical German Army soldiers, although the uniforms and weapons were the same. These were something new the Germans had invented, something called the Waffen SS, whatever that meant.
Clarke lit his last cigarette, the binding cord cutting into his wrists. They weren’t soldiers. They were criminals — murderers dressed up and playing soldier, like a bunch of teenaged hoodlums wearing Dad’s collar and tie whilst robbing the corner sweet shop. It was ludicrous. Obscene.
“Do you want to use my fingers, too?”
Brownell’s cautious settling back ended with a thump and one savage word. “There’s twenty-two of us.”
Clarke’s swearing was whole-hearted and much lengthier. “Wonder who’s going to dig our graves. Think they’ll make us dig them ourselves?”
“Shut up, Clarke. We don’t know anything for certain.” Brownell crossed his legs again. His shoulders and bound hands drooped, as if the knowledge he denied was heavier than he could support.
“The blazes we don’t.” Clarke took a long drag, yanking the smoke into his lungs until he choked. “Wonder how our kids have grown.”
Brownell peered up at him without turning his head.
Clarke flicked ash. “The last photo Cezanne sent, Bobby looked as if he’s overflowing her lap. I tried to figure out how tall that would make him. But it wouldn’t matter if she’d taken his photograph against a yardstick. I have to measure my son against my leg or it means nothing.”
“You should have taken the leave.”
In February, with the invasion season in cold storage, the 48th (South Midland) Division had offered its staff and line officers a brief visit home. None of them had seen their families since the previous September. Brownell had gone and now his wife was expecting their second baby. Clarke had made a point of staying with the troops, who hadn’t been offered the option.
Now Cezanne would never have his second child, never have the daughter she wanted so terribly — unless she remarried. And that thought, more than his impending death, made Clarke squeeze his eyes shut and swallow the tightness in his throat.
“I know.” He glanced from his cigarette to the turf. Maybe starting a grass fire would help them escape. More likely the Germans would let them burn.
“Clarke, you’ve always been a blooming fool.”
“I know that, too.”
Angry voices rose, climbing over each other, not close but loud. Clarke stared past the machine-gun emplacement to the command tent, camouflaged beneath wispy trees. The Germans inside had to be shouting toe to toe.
“What do you think the row’s about?” Brownell asked.
“I hope it’s about us, and I hope the German Army chap wins.”
Brownell lifted his head. “You think so?”
Clarke shrugged. “Don’t recall much German from school, and I can’t make out their words even if I did. They could be arguing about us, their orders, or a skirt, for all I know.”
Brownell’s head sank again.
The voices fell silent. The tent flap whipped aside and two German officers emerged. The Army officer, a non-com’s side cap replacing the usual peaked cap, stalked toward the huddled prisoners, his riding boots raising puffs of dust. The Waffen SS officer, Greis, followed more slowly, a little smile curving the corners of his narrow lips.
Clarke’s heart sank. It was only too obvious who had won.
Near the edge of their huddle, the Army officer stopped, legs spraddled, hands on hips, staring in a slow sweep as if he wanted to impress every man on his memory. His face was pale, with scorching blotches of color in his tanned cheeks. He breathed as if he’d been running.
“What do you think?” Clarke glanced at Brownell. He froze.
Brownell’s staring eyes were huge. His mouth hung open for a long moment. Then he snapped his jaw shut and wet his lips. “It’s — ”
But the Army officer was issuing orders, German words stuttering in a staccato rhythm like a machine gun, and Brownell swallowed the rest of his sentence. Automatically, Clarke turned to see what the fuss was about — and smashed into the German officer’s smoking glare, aimed right at him.
“You,” he said in English. “Come on. I don’t have all day.”
Two of the Waffen SS soldiers waded into the sitting Englishmen, grabbed Clarke by the arms, and heaved him to his feet. So this was it; he’d go first. His legs were asleep, but he’d die before he’d take any help from these murderers. He shook off their arms, dropped his cigarette butt, and forced his tingling legs to carry his weight as they escorted him, one on either side, to the German officer.
Halfway there, he glanced back at Brownell. His mouth was open again and he was half on his feet, legs beneath him as if for a sudden push. Clarke shook his head — Brownell needed to save his major effort for his own life, not waste it on a fool’s attempt at gallantry — and mouthed goodbye. Without waiting for a response, he turned away.
It was a ruddy awful way to part.
When Clarke turned, he was eye to eye with the German. Although they weren’t close and sunshine blazed between them, there seemed barely room between their bodies to breathe. The heat of the German’s anger smoldered still, like a flare not quite burned out. But his brown eyes were clear and even a trifle desperate as he gazed into Clarke’s, as if he awaited some response and they were all running out of time.
Clarke sniffed in his face.
The German turned away. Was it Clarke’s imagination, or was the tinge of color in those cheeks even darker? He could only hope.
“Right,” the German said over his shoulder, “come on.” He led the way to his open staff car, on the far side of the tent.
The SS guards crowded Clarke on either side, forcing him along. He passed close enough to Greis — the murderer — to punch him. It was tempting, but Clarke resisted. It would only get him killed sooner.
The guards put Clarke into the front passenger seat of the staff car. A layer of dust coated the faded interior. The officer slid behind the steering wheel. Greis sauntered to the driver’s side and leaned one gloved hand against the door panel as the officer started the engine.
“Are you certain you can handle the prisoner alone?” A mocking half-smile still adorned Greis’s lips, the smile of the winner. He adjusted his black leather gloves, never glancing at Clarke. Despite the smile, there was no humor in his narrow hatchet face, only contempt. “Perhaps I should have one of my soldiers accompany you.”
Clarke seethed. He should have chanced a punch.
The officer shifted gears. “Your soldier’s welcome to run along behind.”
The smile slipped by a hair, then resumed. Only now it seemed fixed.
The officer released the clutch and gunned the engine. A spurt of dust slewed over Greis’ polished boots and up to his squenched eyes.
Clarke stared back at Brownell’s strangely hopeful face until the encampment was cut off by rising ground. Then he swung about. The dusty road rolled toward the staff car then vanished beneath it. Strong sunlight baked the interior, and he smelled fresh sweat along with the mechanical blend of oil and petrol. The engine vibrated up his spine, tapped against his eardrums.
One man. One pistol. No rifle, no tommy gun. No guard.
After the wisecrack at Greis, he’d regret killing this man. But he’d do it. A single pistol wasn’t much firepower, but with it he could take this one, then return to the encampment for the prisoners. They didn’t have to die today.
The Wehrmacht officer took the road over the crest of a small ridge and down into a grove of trees. To their left, the land dipped into a shallow valley, matted with brush and low trees that swarmed up the slope to the road. To their right, the trees thickened into a forest toward the ridge’s crest.
Under the midday twilight of that canopy, the Wehrmacht officer steered the staff car onto the verge and killed the engine. In the silence, Clarke lis
tened to his heart beating and knew with cold certainty he didn’t want to die for the hopeless defense of France. He twisted his wrists, trying to break the cords, but they only cut more sharply. The silence was so deep he thought he could hear the German’s heart, too; then Clarke wondered if the man even had one.
He faced the German as he, too, slewed in his seat. Again they stared at each other, and Clarke took stock of his new captor. This was the man he had to defeat, even kill, if he and the others were to live.
They seemed the same height, an inch or so beneath six feet. But while Clarke was solid, the German was more slender, shoulders tapering to hips, which needed suspenders. His face echoed that line in a wedge shape, broad at the forehead and narrowing through well-defined cheekbones to a pointed chin. His brown hair was dark, the color of cocoa, and combed back from his high forehead in the Continental fashion. A formidable reserve of energy fired his eyes from within; even sitting motionless behind the wheel of the car, he seemed to vibrate like a tuning fork, and Clarke wondered how he kept his hands still.
Like most modern German officers, he was clean-shaven, his uniform tailored although not of the highest quality. The Iron Cross ribbon, red and white and black, decorated his left breast pocket; the knotted silver cords on his shoulders were bare of insignia, in the manner of a major. His earlier anger had drained, leaving his brown eyes clear, and Clarke knew he wasn’t imagining the touch of derision now in their depths.
For one crazy moment, Clarke believed he had known this man at some point in their past and he had only to sweep away the agitation to remember a more innocent age. But of course it was impossible. His subconscious thoughts were returning — to Sandhurst, University College, Eton, or even his father’s estate, this German officer symbolizing someone haunting his memory. One thing for certain; this man didn’t have the polish of rank. There was an earthy edge beneath his combat-hardened sophistication.
Clarke pushed the thought aside and cleared his throat. “Is this it, then? Shot while attempting to escape?”
The German produced a pack of cigarettes and shook one halfway out. “Do you use these things?”
Clarke fought his pride — he didn’t want to accept anything from a German — but his sudden nicotine craving was stronger. He took the fag and the light that followed, and cradled it in his bound hands for a drag. “A last cigarette?”
“Every condemned man deserves one.” But the German’s tone was light.
“It’s not a joking matter.”
This time the German’s stare was considering. “You’re right,” he finally said. “It’s not.”
“I know what happened at Guise.”
“So do I.” The German seemed to reach a decision and opened his door. “Step out. I want to show you something.”
Clarke hesitated. The German shrugged, drew his pistol, snapped the magazine from its butt and pocketed it, and tossed the gun itself onto the dashboard. “We don’t have much time. Come on.” He closed the driver’s door softly and stepped to the opposite verge of the road.
For a moment Clarke stared, flabbergasted. But he wasn’t hallucinating. His only guard had unloaded his only weapon and turned his back. The shelter of the trees was on his side of the road and temptingly near. But his curiosity won the brief struggle. There had to be a reason for this otherwise senseless behavior, and Clarke wanted to know what it was. He followed the German to the opposite side of the road and stood beside his enemy.
The German cupped his cigarette in his left hand, glowing edge toward his palm, and gestured to the shallow valley at their feet. Neither hand left the deepest shadows spread by the trees overhead.
“See them?”
It took a moment. Then a motion caught his eye. The valley was alive with camouflaged yet shifting forms. He peered closer and made out netting, a half-track, machine-gun nests, hammocks.
“On the left,” the German continued, “those are Greis’s Waffen SS troops, from the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler.” He paused for a drag. “Undoubtedly some of the best soldiers I’ve ever seen.”
“Murderers.”
“That, too.” He pointed with his chin. “On the right, those are elements of my own division, the First Panzer.” He peered sideways at Clarke through the gloom, smoke drifting from his mouth. “A Wehrmacht unit.”
Clarke peered back, his mind blank.
The German sighed. His gaze dropped openly to Clarke’s upper-sleeve regimental insignia for the Royal Warwickshires. He straightened and grunted. “Infantry. Oh, frag. I’ll try using small words.”
Heat climbed Clarke’s neck. “Is that an insult?”
He got another sideways stare. “If you’re in any doubt — ” The German took another drag, eyes slitted against the smoke. “We’re all tired, you know. The campaign hasn’t been long — ”
“Six ruddy weeks.”
“About right — but we haven’t stopped until today. Are you catching on?”
“No,” Clarke snapped. “I am not catching on. What are you getting at?”
The German closed his eyes. “The two units haven’t joined up well, have they? You could march a brass band through there at full volume and nobody would notice.” Again the sideways glance. “Especially if the brass band in question kept to the Wehrmacht side.”
Clarke got it. “Did you have any particular brass band in mind?”
“Progress.” The German nodded once. He ground the butt of his cigarette underfoot without ever showing the fire edge to the valley. “Three days ago, Greis — the pig back there — ”
“I know who he is.”
“ — murdered thirty British officers at Guise. He didn’t have facilities to hold them; he didn’t want to spare the troops to guard them. He claimed he had orders and it was in retaliation for the officers he’d lost in combat. So he ordered them shot.”
“I know.” An admission of knowledge seemed to be the only intelligent thing he’d said all day. He dropped his own cigarette and asked the question that mattered most to him. “Did he make them dig their own graves?”
“French privates,” the German said, his tone cool but not as cool as it sounded. “The mass grave was multinational. I heard him give the order, I saw the massacre, and I saw the grave filled. Well, the situation hasn’t changed. He’s amassed British officer prisoners, whom he particularly hates because you didn’t flock en masse to the Anglo-Saxon banner Hitler waved. He doesn’t have facilities prepared for you, and he doesn’t want to spare the troops to guard you or move you to the rear. He still claims he’s under orders, although I let him know I couldn’t find any reference to them at headquarters. And nothing else I said made any difference, either.”
Clarke fought his mulishness. His decency won. “Thank you for trying.”
The German gave him a puzzled glance, then pulled a penknife from his pocket and sliced through the cord binding Clarke’s wrists. As he folded the blade away, he nodded toward the distant glint of water. “That’s the Aa Canal.”
“I know what it is.”
“Just checking. We have orders to stop there.”
Clarke stared. “Can’t imagine why.”
“Neither can I.” The German shrugged. “It’s a mistake, of course. If we truly wanted to destroy you, we should keep going all the way to the beach and drive you into the water.” His sideways glance this time was a curious mixture of pride, shame, and defiance. “You and I both know the B.E.F. doesn’t have the firepower left to stop us.”
Just another German after all. “That’s your opinion and not any sort of fact.”
The German grinned. In the shadows and gloom beneath the trees, his face lightened as if by magic. They had to be close in age. A vague tremor of unease made Clarke’s fingers tingle; he refused to call it envy. While he had frittered away his — and his wife’s — youth in an all-out assault upon law-court silks, this German had learned how to live. While he had developed a career, this man had developed his character.
“I e
xpected no less from you,” the German said. “Our orders come from the highest. They say stop at the Aa Canal — so no matter what we think, we’ll stop at the Aa Canal. And that means — ”
“ — that means,” Clarke interrupted, “anyone down on the beach will be out of range of your artillery.”
The German nodded. “So long as the brass band reaches the canal before, oh, five o’clock tomorrow morning. That’s about how long it will take us.”
So there it was. This German major offered life and freedom — for him. Not for Brownell, nor the colonel with the drooping shoulders, nor the weeping subaltern or anonymous lieutenants squatting on the scuffed turf. Clarke tried to harden his heart. He couldn’t.
He cleared his throat. “Why are you doing this?”
This time, the German’s sideways stare was compounded of equal parts derision and hilarity. He shook out two more cigarettes, passed one to Clarke, and lit both behind the cover of his turned shoulder. As an afterthought he handed over the remainder of the pack and the matches.
“Do you remember the cricket match against Cambridge?” he asked.
Clarke forgot the landscape and even the doomed prisoners. He stared at the German officer and it was as if a spotlight slowly illuminated the man within his memory.
“Of course,” the German continued, “I couldn’t follow cricket in those days. For that matter, I still can’t. But even I knew we were in deep trouble. We were so far behind we could barely see daylight.”
The face in Clarke’s memory wasn’t sophisticated or battle-hardened. It was a younger face, uncertain, wide-eyed, softer about the edges, but nevertheless the same. The body was more slender, bulked out by a cheap, rusty-black academical robe, the thinner arms juggling an armload of used poetry textbooks. Even the memory made Clarke sneer. And in a heartbeat he was ashamed of the sneer and of himself.
“But then the coach sent you in to bat,” the German rambled on, oblivious, “and it was as if the whole field came alive, the spectators, the team, everyone. You strode onto the pitch with your head in the air, the bat in your hand, a swagger in your step, and for one shining moment there was no doubt within the entire of Oxfordshire that you could do it.” He shrugged and flicked ash. “We still lost the match, of course, but I have to admit you looked magnificent just walking onto the field.” No sideways stare this time; the German turned to face him squarely. “Do you recognize me yet?”
Shakedown Page 5