Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Weren’t you frightened?”

  “Frightened of Elsa...? No, she was lovely...” He offered a longing smile that she missed.

  “No, I mean being in Germany, all that goose-stepping and torchlight parades?”

  “I attended a torchlight parade once. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen...” She again missed the poignant glance at his left hand and the absent wedding ring that had been stolen whilst he was in hospital following Dunkirk. Nuremburg was where he had met Elsa.

  Christine Baldwin took one last discreet draw on her cigarette before stubbing it out under the soul of her clumpy shoe. She had felt comfortable in the company of the limping, scar-faced man until his last admission. A sense of revulsion filled her when she heard his last declaration. It was almost as if he had confessed to drowning kittens. Without a word, she returned to the pub for breakfast.

  Hunloke had been sentient to the sudden change in her mood. For an instant, he felt the urge to offer her clarification but let the moment pass. His military upbringing outlawed the justification of his opinions to a corporal and yet on a personal level, he wanted to explain what he had meant to the young and naive driver.

  However, how could he explain in one simple sound bite all he had seen and done in the service of His Majesty? He defied any man not to be moved and impressed by the pomp and grandeur of a staged Nazi rally. Perhaps the British were not so easily swayed by the manufactured passions that veered towards mass hysteria. Yet perchance, all it took was the right social conditions, the right man, and excellently choreographed stage directions. Conceivably, that he had been in love clouded his emotions. Elsa had looked incredibly beautiful with her face enflamed with passion, lit by the dancing radiance from hundreds of flaming torches.

  He lit another cigarette and grimaced. If he could not vindicate his thoughts to a comrade, how the hell were future generations going to understand?

  It was after nine thirty when they left the Red Lion. Flash Camp lay a few miles away atop the escarpment between Chesterfield and Matlock. Only one village and isolated farmsteads sat atop the plateau, the land given over to forestry and farming. Despite sitting just outside what was later to become the Peak District National Park, the land alluded to the rugged beauty of the High Peak. The land broached the boundaries of sustainable arable pursuits; the gorse moors peppering the land favoured the hardier endeavours of sheep farming.

  The underpowered Austin struggled up to the top of the hill and Conway navigated them through the forested land towards the camp. Hunloke noticed a gatehouse with open rusting iron gates set back from the gorse-lined road and silently noted that something of estimable worth must lie hidden behind the barrier of trees. They followed the unerringly straight tarmac trail until Conway ordered a left turn at a road junction, the stump in the ground offering clear evidence of where a road sign once stood. Hunloke could imagine any invader taking one look at the lie of the land before deciding to beat a sensible retreat back to civilisation.

  The lieutenant advised Christine to slow the Austin and eventually spotted the object he was seeking. Hiding amidst the bare deciduous trees on the roadside was a gatehouse not dissimilar to the one Hunloke had earlier spied. On either side of the arched entrance stood two sentry boxes, each occupied by two seated men. Christine swung the green Austin off the road and pulled up in front of the two wrought iron gates.

  “Can I help you?” The request came from a bored sounding khaki clad soldier, his Lee-Enfield rifle slung over his left shoulder. He looked into the rear of the Austin. From his standing position, he could only see the fresh face of Brian Conway beneath his stiff peaked cap.

  “Yes, thank you, we’ve come to see Major Beevor,” declared Conway.

  The soldier carelessly waved a hand towards the gate. Hunloke leant across Conway to peer accusingly up at the sentry and took his identification card from the breast pocket of his battledress blouse. “Don’t you want to see our papers?” asked Hunloke officiously.

  The soldier shrugged resignedly and took the officers’ identification documents before lackadaisically sauntering off to disappear inside the lodge at the north gate of Flash House. From the seclusion of the old gatekeeper’s family dwelling, the sentry alerted the camp to the arrival of the overbearing visitors.

  “Seems all very low-key,” commented Conway absently whilst they waited for the sentry to return.

  “Yes, you wouldn’t know there was a war on...,” commented Hunloke cynically.

  “Well, first impressions can be misleading,” muttered Conway.

  “Misleading, my arse! That private needs a good kick up the jacksy!”

  Conway decided not to pursue the argument. Hunloke clearly wasn’t going to agree with him no matter what he said.

  The sentry handed back their ID’s and nodded to his companion to open the gates. “Right, drive down the driveway about a hundred yards. You’ll see a concrete track on the right. Follow that and you’ll come to the camp. Park by the lorry and someone will come and get you.”

  Christine followed the nominated route. She was surprised by the astringent affect of the forested landscape, especially with many of the deciduous trees having already shed their leaves. She could identify an oak but that was the extent of her arboreal recognition skills. Despite her twenty years on the planet, this was her first visit to a forest. She was used to the sparsely placed trees of her local city park and found the encroaching woodland both bestially enthralling and intimidating.

  After an age of bucolic oppression, it was as though someone had drawn back the curtains. The Austin swung a sharp left where an open vista of sparse and desolate moorland presented itself.

  Before them stood Camp 876.

  “My God, it’s much bigger than I thought!” Christine could not restrain her excited outburst.

  “Most girls tell me that, corporal...” Despite the flippancy of the remark, Hunloke peered with unrestrained wonder at the sight before them. He ignored Conway’s blushing cheeks.

  The camp squatted inelegantly on the undulating gorse land. Christine found it difficult to estimate the size of the encampment, for any sense of perspective seemed to be distorted by the encompassing wire fence supported by pristine concrete posts. Further analysis was postponed whilst she concentrated on parking the Austin by a battered Bedford truck.

  Hunloke was the last person to vacate the car; he took his time in the presence of the camp corporal, who had appeared as soon as the car halted. He didn’t want to be seen clumsily falling out of the vehicle.

  The most striking thing that struck Hunloke was not any visual aspect of the camp’s vast footprint but the noise fermenting from within. The din reminded him of a school playground at break time, or perhaps more aptly that of football spectators on a Saturday afternoon. The Derbyshire air was rent by a cacophony of competing Germanic voices. He noticed Christine blanch at the testosterone-fuelled assault upon her ears.

  “What’s that smell?” asked Christine. Her nose twitched and she screwed up her eyes with distaste.

  “That, corporal is what a thousand men smell like without the sanitising presence of womanhood,” replied Hunloke.

  “Wait here, corporal,” instructed Conway to the ATS driver. “Stay in the car and wait for us.” Christine was only too happy to comply with the order.

  Hunloke and Conway followed their guide towards the wooden framed camp gate that was covered in wire mesh, topped with barbed wire. The entrance accessed the guard compound, which accounted for only a small fraction of the camp. The zone contained half a dozen of the sturdier apex roofed huts. The guardroom, the effective administrative centre, flanked the entry road into the compound.

  The neat and precise whitewashed stones fringing a small lawn fronting the guardroom reminded Hunloke of his pre-war days stationed at the regimental garrison. The curious captain had little time to consider the remainder of the camp when he and Conway were bustled hurriedly into the hut. The main office comprise
d of two Ministry of War huts joined side by side. Desks and filing cabinets filled the interior, the air still revealing traces of the impregnated oil protecting the structure despite the overwhelming aroma of burnt tobacco.

  The left hand side of the room had been partitioned off into small offices, as had the area at the far end. A sergeant rose from behind a desk at the extremity of the hut and saluted smartly.

  “The name’s Sergeant Donovan. If you’d like to follow me, Major Beevor is expecting you.”

  Donavon was a dour Yorkshire man in his forties of middling height and precisely centre-parted brown hair. He performed a smart about face and strode briskly to the office at the end corner of the hut. Below the glass panel in the top half of the door, Hunloke read the nameplate, ‘Major Beevors Office’. The missing apostrophe was only noticed by Brian Conway.

  The office was much smaller than Hunloke anticipated. The room was barely large enough to accommodate the vintage desk. Compared to the rest of the guardroom, Major Beevor’s office appeared Spartan and uncluttered. It did not evoke a feeling of artful directorial acumen.

  “Gentleman, so good to see you both!” Charles Beevor rose with difficulty from his chair and leant across the desk to shake hands with the two visiting officers. Brian Conway’s attempted salute wilted on its ascent to his brow. The senior officer present clearly had no intentions of saluting. Beneath his hat, Beevor’s hair was a shocking white as was his bushy moustache. He wore an old style service dress uniform with a Sam Browne belt.

  The visitors allowed the major to initiate the conversation after the formalities of the introductions and the three men had seated themselves. “With the Buffs I see, captain. Which battalion?”

  “I last served with the 2nd before being invalided out in forty-one. I’ve have only just been re-commissioned and seconded to the CSDIC.”

  “Ah, yes, this war has seen many of us brought back into the fold,” replied the major with a smile.

  “You served in the last shindig, sir?” It was Brian Conway’s question.

  “Yes, lieutenant, saw action in France. A rum old show.”

  “Indeed, sir...” Conway had no idea how to interpret ‘A rum old show’.

  “So what brings you to Flash...?” The major addressed his question at Hunloke but it was Conway who answered. The lieutenant wondered if the major was being disingenuous or really had no idea why two officers from London had descended upon his camp.

  “Major Beevor, we have received a report that certain irregularities have taken place at the camp,” asserted Conway. He noticed Hunloke light a cigarette without offering one to himself or Beevor.

  “Irregularities? Who has made such an allegation?” asked an apparently unconcerned commandant.

  “I am not at liberty to reveal the source, sir.”

  “Bloody namby-pamby Red Cross I suppose. What the hell do they think has happened? Didn’t tuck a bloody Hun in at night and read him a bed time story!” The major may have uttered his light-hearted comment with a feeling of disdain but beneath the shroud of words, it was easy to discern his ennui and lack of concern.

  “We have an obligation as signatories of the Geneva Convention to investigate reported complaints,” continued Conway calmly.

  “And do the Hun investigate complaints concerning the treatment our POW's?” asked Beevor.

  “I have no idea, sir. But we do.”

  “This is all utter tosh! We feed the buggers, what more do they want!”

  “To be treated humanely...”

  “You know they get the same rations as our fighting boys? That’s more than our own civilians,” asserted Beevor.

  “That may be true, sir. However, I wonder if it would be possible to speak to the Lagerführer?”

  Conway was referring to the designated German POW. In most camps, the Lagerführer was a fluent English speaker; responsible for internal work detail rosters and maintaining some form of discipline amongst the POW’s. Generally a ‘white’ POW, they were the official liaison between the prisoners and the outside organisations, be it Red Cross or British captors.

  “Feldwebel Grass is out on work detail at the moment,” answered Beevor. He glanced at his wristwatch irritably. “After roll call at 09:00, the POW’s leave to set about their allotted work for the day. About half are allocated tasks within the camp, the others to outside work details. At the moment, there is a project to drain some of the bog by laying drainage pipes to create land for forestry development.”

  “I was rather hoping that whilst Captain Hunloke interviewed the Lagerführer, I might take a look at the camp records.”

  “To what ends, lieutenant?

  "Simply to establish whether the names given to me involved in the alleged complaints are indeed present at the camp.”

  “Do you mean to say that the allegations are against camp inmates, not the guards? If that’s the case, why bother with any inquiry.”

  “It would be inappropriate for me to comment at this juncture, major. Suffice to say that the problem has been elevated beyond camp level.”

  “I see...” replied the major scornfully. “Well, I suppose we have little choice other than to cooperate. I’ll see that Sergeant Donovan is at your disposal. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with the chiropodist in Matlock.”

  “What the heck did you make of that?” asked Conway of Hunloke whilst they smoked outside the hut in order to talk privately.

  The prisoner compound was obscured by the guardroom against which they leant; their immediate view was taken up by the prefabricated medical block. The noise from the prisoner compound appeared to have lessened after the detainees had set about their assigned duties. Either that or the visitors had simply acclimatised to the invasive noise.

  “You mean the major?” replied Thaddeus Hunloke. “I think the old boy was rightly evasive, so too would you if two bods from London arrived saying that something was amiss with your camp. To be honest, I don’t think he gives a damn.”

  “That should make our job easier. I’m going to start sifting through the paperwork, that’s what I do best. With the Lagerführer absent, do you have any plans?”

  “I thought I might ask Corporal Baldwin to run me around the estate. I’d like to get a look at the lay of the land,” stated Hunloke.

  “And why do that?”

  “I soldier likes to know where the fight will take place. Thought I might see if Flash House is close by...”

  Hunloke was unsure why he wanted to see the house but the idea of visiting the Victorian Gothic pile had been dominating his thoughts ever since he had spied the old gatehouse.

  “Okay, sir. I suggest we meet back here at 13:00. I’m sure I could do with a spot of lunch by then.”

  Chapter 5 - The Monkey-Puzzle.

  Friday, 24th November 1944.

  “How are you feeling now, corporal?” asked Hunloke from the front seat of the Austin beside Christine Baldwin.

  “Fine, sir. But I still wouldn’t like visiting the place on my own.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it, corporal...” With her eyes fixed upon the road, she failed to notice his grimace that accompanied the thought.

  Whilst following the concrete track that led to the junction with the estate road, they broached a gang of men working at the roadside, digging what appeared to be a drainage ditch.

  The ragtag of men wore a variety of clothing. Many were dressed in the uniform of the German Wehrmacht, less the decorative embellishments. Others wore British serge battledress, some the full kit, many just blouses or trousers. Instead of the khaki drill colour, the uniforms were dyed a deep indigo. On the backs of their tunics, bold white lettering depicting ‘POW’ had been stitched or stencilled. Similarly, the letter ‘P’ adorned their trouser legs.

  The proximity of the enemy sent a shiver through Christine. The sight deeply disturbed her; perhaps it was the realisation that the mortal foe was wandering around the country with next to no supervision. “Shouldn’t they
be guarded or at least chained up?” asked the perturbed corporal.

  “I had the same thoughts, corporal. However, these are low risk prisoners. They are not your ardent Nazis like the SS or Fallschirmjägers are considered to be. I hope they realise they’re on an island with nowhere to go.”

  “But isn’t it the duty of every soldier to escape?”

  “I don’t exactly recall ever being told that was the case. I think the fact is, under the Geneva Convention, officers and other ranks are kept in separate camps. Captured officers, I’m told, are not obliged to work like other ranks and so probably plan escapes to while away the boredom.”

  “Why aren’t officers put to work? That’s unfair...”

  He laughed. “You’re not some bolshie red are you, corporal? Intent on social revolution?”

  “My brother Jimmy reckons things will change after the war, like they did after the last one. He reckons Labour will get in once the wartime collation winds up.”

  “You mean to say that after all he’s done, Churchill will be told ‘thanks very much, now bye-bye’?”

  “Jimmy reckons so... Would you try to escape if you were captured?”

  Hunloke paused before answering. “Prisoners of war are a difficult subject. Truth is, they’re a pain in the arse. You have to feed, house, and guard them. You could say it's a strange concept that we’ve spent five years trying to annihilate each other and yet we’re supposed to treat captured troops as if they’re hotel guests. You could also say that if a soldier is granted his continued existence on the planet by the enemy, then he should at least agree to his parole and not cause any bother.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I’ve never been a POW, so couldn’t tell you.”

  “You don’t talk like an officer sometimes, sir...”

  “And you don’t have to drive so fast, corporal, this isn’t a bloody race.”

  The forested concrete avenue petered out and joined the main tarmac road running down from the north gatehouse through which they had entered the estate. Christine swung the Austin to the right and took the driveway, leading them deeper into the more refined region of the park. Unbeknown to the two military personnel, they were following the tradesmen's route to Flash House. They had crossed into what was technically known as the old plantation. Here, the deciduous trees were much older and stouter than those in the vicinity of the camp. The overhead canopy of remaining russet beech leaves shimmered beneath the overcast sky and Christine unwittingly slowed the car, gawping around her with unrestrained curiosity.