by Peter Haden
Rather than reply, Gross simply resumed his march to the vehicle. ‘Who is Willi?’ Günther asked Hartmann as the vehicle was driven off.
‘Not his boss,’ replied Hartmann with a grin, nodding towards the departing Gross, ‘more like his boss’s boss, SS Hauptsturmführer Willi Richter. We go back quite a way. Family friends – his are party, mine aren’t, but same hometown, same university. It was through Willi’s father that I got this job. SS Brigadeführer Richter was involved in the planning for the Lebensraum move on Poland. He knew I couldn’t serve in the Wehrmacht but thought I would be a good choice to run this workshop – save having to appoint a military man and all that. Even though he’s party, he’s quite a decent chap, and so is his son Willi. It won’t do that pompous little prat Gross any harm at all to know that I, and therefore we, have friends in places higher than those to which he will ever aspire.’
‘Gentlemen, I look forward to working with both of you,’ said Maurer, now sporting a huge grin. ‘I think we have the measure of that silly little Nazi, nicht? Now,’ he rubbed his hands together enthusiastically, ‘I have some cold beers on ice in the back of my wagon. Let us enjoy a toast to friendship before my men set to work!’
Maurer and his team proved themselves to be a highly effective construction unit. By the time Hitler was reviewing a Wehrmacht victory parade in Warsaw on the fifth of October, they had dug and concreted the foundations of an equally sized workshop attached to one of the long outer walls of the existing one and extending into the field behind. The following day, they laid the floor. The walls were built and beams supporting a tin roof took another week. Additional machinery that had originally been stacked in the old workshop was secured in the new structure. Next, a generator building was constructed to house the heavy-duty electricity supply that would be required for the considerably enlarged facility. Outside, what had once been a productive field was converted to hard standing. It was whilst a substantial two metre fence topped with barbed wire was being set up that Gross returned in his Kübelwagen followed by two lorries containing twenty men, six guards and more basic stores and rations.
The “Untermenschen”, as Gross referred to them, were all Poles, clad only in the clothes they had been wearing when they were rounded up. They were dirty, unshaven and from the smell had clearly not been allowed washing or bathing facilities for many days. Gross had the Poles herded into a small group whilst they were surrounded by the armed guards, rifles at the ready.
‘You have been brought here to work,’ he told them in German, ‘and you are fortunate. The alternative would be a concentration camp. All of you have some mechanical experience. You will work under the direction of Herr Schultz. In return, the Reich will provide food and accommodation. As you can see, this facility is being enclosed. If you try to leave, you will be shot. The same will happen if you do not work to our satisfaction. I know some of you speak German, so one of you can act as interpreter after I have spoken, and then help Herr Schultz determine how best you will be employed.’ With that he turned on his heels, as if abrogating all responsibility for the project, and strode back to his vehicle.
The SS-Rottenführer in charge of the guard detachment addressed Günther and Hartmann Schultz. ‘I will settle them into the workshop, and they can make themselves something to eat. They will have to sleep on the floor downstairs until the construction is finished and Herr Maurer’s men leave. I expect that later on,’ he turned to Hartmann Schultz, ‘you will wish to interrogate them and decide how best you can make use of their abilities. Any you do not want or cannot use,’ he said evenly, ‘just let me know and we will take care of it.’
It did not come across as an order, but neither was it presented as a basis for discussion. Günther decided that for now it would be better to avoid any hint of confrontation. ‘Ach so,’ he replied pleasantly, ‘perhaps you and Herr Schultz here would simply settle the men in for this afternoon, and perhaps find out what qualifications and experience they have between them. Tomorrow morning, the three of us should have a meeting, to agree how we will proceed. Herr Rottenführer, perhaps you and your men would billet underneath the construction team tonight, and we will try to make more comfortable accommodation available to you in the morning.’
It was early evening before Hartmann Schultz returned to the house. ‘There’s good news and bad,’ he told Günther as they enjoyed a cold Pils before dinner. ‘Two of those men are graduate mechanical engineers and four more of them have worked as foremen, either in a factory or within a machinery repair business. The rest are all basic vehicle mechanics. But it’s better than I would have expected. Quite honestly, considering what we are going to have to do, we have the making of quite an effective workforce.’
‘And the bad?’ Günther queried.
‘I had a long chat with two people,’ Hartmann replied. ‘First with one of the qualified engineers who speaks pretty good German – like you he studied in Stettin before the war. He knows they are slave labour, but he and his men are also aware that the alternative could be a hell of a lot worse. And to a man they are worried sick about their families. But they are also realistic – they wouldn’t stand a chance if they tried to escape, and accept that the best chance of survival is to barter their engineering skills in exchange for food and accommodation for the duration.’ He set down his tankard on a side table. ‘I can form two good teams, with a German speaking supervisor in charge of each.’
‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ Günther responded after a moment’s thought. ‘But what’s the downside? I sense that something must be worrying you?’
‘It’s the Rottenführer,’ Hartmann replied. ‘His name’s Bauer by the way. I don’t think he’s as bad or as stupid as Gross, but he’s a committed Nazi and doesn’t give a damn for the Poles. And he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. But he knows he and his men are on to a good thing, guarding a few workers instead of being on the front line, so I don’t think he’ll give us too much trouble. My recommendation would be to treat him and his men as well as we can. That way, they will all want to stay here and we’ll get at least some co-operation.’
‘Agreed,’ said Günther without hesitation. ‘But what about the Poles?’
Hartmann ticked off an index finger. ‘One, they are skilled men, but all they have is the clothes they stand up in. Two, they are filthy. Some of them have lice. Soon, they’ll all be the same. Three, it never occurred either to Gross or Bauer that we would need some basic form of accommodation for our workforce. They can’t sleep on a concrete workshop floor for too long. And finally, there’s the question of rations. I got Bauer to show me what he’s been given to feed twenty-odd men for the next week. I’m no expert, but it’s barely a quarter of what they need to keep them reasonably well-nourished.’
He paused. ‘I think the SS intention is to work them to death, then just provide replacements. But that doesn’t take account of the fact that once we have trained them up into an efficient workforce we would have to start all over again a few months down the line. And in any case,’ he concluded, ‘the last thing I want is to behave like a Nazi. It’s inhuman and it’s indecent. I know we are at war, but I just won’t do it!’ As if for emphasis, his hand slapped down on the arm of the chair.
Günther sat quietly for several seconds, deep in thought. ‘Here’s how we might proceed,’ he suggested eventually. ‘My problem, as you have realised, is Gross. And it’s personal. But we have him in a pincer movement. Below, there is Bauer. He doesn’t want to be sent to the front, so even if he’s scared of Gross, he’ll want this project to succeed. He’ll be reasonably co-operative.
‘That’s from below,’ he went on. ‘But above Gross, we have the huge advantage of your friend Willi. He also needs the workshop to succeed. So, this is what I suggest.
‘We’ll have a meeting tomorrow morning, you, me, Maurer and Bauer. We’ll invite the other two to the house. I don’t think it will apply to Mau
rer, but Bauer will definitely be out of his depth. Could you, this evening, make a list of what humanitarian supplies you will need for the workforce? Bedding, clothing including overalls, extra rations, bunk beds and mattresses, soap and towels and so forth?’
Hartmann, sensing where this was going, nodded that he could.
‘I’ll get Maurer to agree to build a small outside latrine and shower block. I don’t think that will be a problem. We’ll also explain to Bauer that the only way we are going to succeed here is if we retain a skilled-up workforce. If we fail, I’ll tell him that we will in all probability be closed down, which leaves him and his section on the way to the front line.’ Günther smiled. ‘You say he’s not that smart, but he’s not stupid either. I think he’ll see things our way. Afterwards, you go and see Willi and I tell Bauer what we need. He’ll tell Gross, and Gross won’t like it, but I think he will finish up with pressure from below and above. And knowing his talent for self-interest, I think he’ll cave in.’
Two days later a second lorry arrived with more bunk beds, clean palliases, clothing and personal items – even down to a box of toothbrushes. Of Gross, there was no sign. Maurer was as good as his word and built a basic but hygienic shower and latrine block, the cost of which was hidden in the overall invoice to the Reich. They had to cook for themselves, but the Poles also inherited a good field kitchen, not to mention a diet that would just about sustain them – one with several times the calories meted out to thousands of their fellow countrymen being enslaved in the Third Reich. And Günther resolved to supplement his workers’ diet from the farm as and when he could. By the end of October the workshop was receiving a steady flow of damaged vehicles and equipment. It was thriving and efficient.
It took Jan six weeks to learn English. ‘Nie musisz mówić płynnie, you don’t have to be fluent,’ Aron Goldek told him from the outset, on one of the few occasions when he addressed Jan in Polish. ‘After all, there’s no need for you to try to pass as an Englishman. Your cover language will be your native Polish, although we’ll also give you a set of German papers. The instructor who interviewed you in that language was impressed – a slight border accent,’ he said, ‘but if you needed to enter Germany, you could pass for a local any day of the week.
‘So, all we now need to achieve,’ Goldek went on, ‘is for you to have a good enough command of English so that you can live and work with us.’ Clearly, thought Jan, Goldek now considered himself to be British.
The instruction was intensive but effective. For two one-hour sessions in the morning and one in the afternoon, Jan was bombarded with questions, all a mixture of sign language and spoken English. For the rest of the day, armed with the thickest dictionary Jan had ever seen, he was given written work to complete: verb tables to study, next simple sentences to translate, and finally newspaper and magazine articles or passages from a book – occasionally, but not always, a military manual. These latter introduced him to English arms and equipment at the same time, most importantly the Lee Enfield Mark 3 rifle, with its bolt action and ten round magazine carrying point three-oh-three inch rounds out to a range of 2000 yards.
From the manuals he had been given, the Enfield and Webley and Scott revolvers seemed remarkably simple. But Jan was fascinated by the mechanics of the BREN Light Machine Gun, or LMG – also a three-oh-three like the rifle, and with the same range, but a fire rate of five hundred rounds a minute from a thirty-round magazine. Intrigued by its gas driven operation, he learned that the weapon had been introduced into service with the British Army only the previous year.
By late October Aron Goldek could report to Colonel Bray that Jan Janicki would be able to live and accept instruction using only the English language. ‘He’s still got a marked Polish accent,’ he concluded, ‘but he’s a quick learner and he understands pretty much everything that’s said to him.’ In his final interview, Jan learned that he would be travelling by train initially to Manchester and then on to Scotland for further training.
Ringwood, in Manchester, proved a rude awakening. After the comfort of an English country house, Jan’s new facility comprised two Nissen huts, one for men and one for women, and between them a third hut separated in the middle with a door at either end – showers and toilets. Next to the huts stood a huge hangar, in which half a dozen of them gathered the following morning.
‘My name is Sergeant Hathaway,’ said a track-suited non-commissioned officer bearing parachute wings on his arm. ‘If I hear any of you referring to me as “Sergeant Anne” or “Mrs Shakespeare”, you will spend every hour of your waking time running round the perimeter track of this airfield.’ Jan suspected that it was an old joke, designed to break the ice, but there was an element of steel behind the remark.
‘We only have a few days,’ Hathaway went on, ‘but my job is to train you lot to be qualified parachutists. And we are in a hurry. Please follow me outside.
‘There are only two tricky bits,’ he continued, as they stood in a semi-circle, ‘the first is leaving the aircraft, and the most important is landing. If you mess up the first, you become what is commonly referred to as strawberry jam. To me, this is mind over matter. Which is to say, I don’t mind and you lot don’t matter. But if you mess up the second part, the landing, you will find yourself in enemy territory with a sprained ankle or a broken limb. That way, you could be captured and interrogated. So, this training is going to start with the really serious bit – hitting the ground.’
He indicated three wooden platforms on the grass. One was barely three feet high, the second came up to Jan’s waist, the third to his shoulders. ‘Watch and learn,’ said Hathaway. ‘This is how you land.’ With his knees together, he demonstrated the landing roll. ‘If you don’t roll as you touch down,’ he confirmed for emphasis, you could well break something. You are now going to demonstrate five perfect, consecutive landing rolls from each of those platforms in turn. One mistake, and you stay on the same box to start your five all over again.’
Sergeant Hathaway did one more demonstration from the lowest box, then stood to watch as they filed up make their first “landing”. A couple of people did not meet his exacting standards and had to restart their five, but by mid-morning all six of them had progressed to the third box. A van appeared with a counter flap cut into one side. ‘It’s the NAAFI wagon,’ he told them without explanation. Each of them received a mug of tea and a “cheese wad” – a thick slice of cheese inside a bun of buttered bread, which Jan rather liked.
After the boxes came a period of classroom instruction. They were shown the diagrammatic construction of a parachute, and the importance of rolling and gathering the canopy before they were dragged helpless across the DZ by the wind. ‘That’s the Dropping Zone to you lot,’ Hathaway explained. He also demonstrated the chest release mechanism in case they came down in a tree.
‘We are going to have a light lunch now,’ he went on. ‘It’s just a sandwich and a drink. Because this afternoon you are going to experience “the contraption”. You will put on a harness and jump from a platform right at the top of the hangar. The harness and friction device will ensure that you hit the ground at roughly the same speed as you will from a genuine jump. So, don’t be nervous, just think of it as another box job. At the end of the day, all I want from each of you is a few successful landings. For now,’ he added with a wicked grin, ‘please fall out and enjoy your lunch.’
Hathaway formed them in a semi-circle, then made the first descent. He did not, Jan observed, ask them to do anything that he was not prepared to demonstrate himself. One woman, Jan thought she had maybe a French accent, twisted her ankle slightly as she rolled, but the rest of them made it through without incident.
‘So far almost perfect,’ said the Sergeant at the end of the afternoon. ‘I have contacted the Met office and it’s looking good. Tomorrow you will each make two jumps on a static line from a balloon. Thank you for your attention today, and I will see you all, lad
ies and gentlemen, in the morning.’
That evening they decided to walk to the nearest public house. But after a day’s exercise and fresh air they stayed only for a couple of drinks. Besides, conversation was difficult when you couldn’t use your own name or talk about your background.
The following morning was cloudy but still – ideal for a first jump, Sergeant Hathaway told them. They were driven a short distance from Ringwood to a grass strip in the countryside. On the ground were two flatbed lorries parked well apart, each with a winch and cable drum on the back. Taught lines led to two enormous barrage balloons beneath each of which a rectangular wicker basket was tethered to the ground. Jan found it difficult to take his eyes off the square opening cut in the end of the nearest one. But he was pleased to be selected to jump from Sergeant Hathaway’s basket, rather than from the second one with an instructor they did not know.
‘For this jump,’ he told the three of them, ‘just concentrate on your technique, and for God’s sake remember what I told you about the landing. You’ll be jumping from about eight or nine hundred feet, so you can’t miss the field. You don’t have to worry about coming down too near the lorries, as they will be driving slowly upwind, so you should be well clear.’
Sergeant Hathaway entered first and waited for his group to follow. Jan found it extremely cumbersome to walk with a chute on his back. Once inside the three of them sat on a canvas bench that ran along each side, then Sergeant Hathaway clipped on their static lines before taking his own place by the exit. An officer on the ground gave an order to the winch crew, their basket was released and the balloon lifted it into the air. As they began to rise, the officer bent down and picked up a megaphone. Jan realised that his heart was thumping.
All too soon a metallic voice came from the ground – ‘Ready to jump’. As they had been briefed, Jan stood at the opening. Sergeant Hathaway waited for a few seconds, then with a pat on Jan’s shoulder shouted ‘Go!’ To his credit, Jan managed not to hesitate. He was out and falling, feet and knees together till his harness lurched into his crotch as the chute opened. His hands went to the lines. Suddenly it was deathly quiet, with just a faint hiss of air and the rumble of the winch lorry barely audible as it crawled across the field. But the stillness and the view were absolutely fantastic. Jan realised that he was heading towards a clear patch of field and all too soon he was double-checking his stance for the landing. It was textbook, the grass actually softer than the landings they had practised. A vehicle was crossing towards him. As he had been taught, he hauled on the lines to steer the chute into what little wind there was then hurried to gather everything in. A small, open four seater saloon drew up alongside – a civilian model, hastily brush-painted khaki.