From Hunloke’s perspective, it at least offered the opportunity of delaying his return to the camp and further interviews.
The Austin slid up the rutted track through the deep puddles of brown water. The rain had eased to a persistent downpour. He could imagine the look on Corporal Baldwin’s face when she discovered the mired state of the staff car. Despite being a city boy, he had visited many farms whilst on manoeuvres. Few conformed to the idyllic image city dwellers held as notions of bucolic beauty and Flash Farm was no exception. Admittedly, the main farm building looked rugged and substantial but the outbuildings and the yard fulfilled his expectations of rural squalor. The structures surrounding the farmhouse may have once been sound but after years of service, they had been patched up in a jerry-built fashion with anything that came to hand.
The barn, the one he assumed the work detail had been assigned to fix up, appeared devoid of a single right angle. The yard itself was swamped in the effluence of animal waste and general vegetable decay.
Captain Thaddeus Hunloke stepped calculatingly from the Austin, his foot placement designed to avoid contamination where possible. He felt justified in his choice of footwear, preferring the stout Army boot to the brown shoes as favoured by Brian Conway. This particular pair of boots had been issued when he had been hospitalised in Birmingham. He had spent many hours of his convalescence removing the pebble-grained finish with a heated spoon before melting polish into the leather. He had buffed them until he could see his reflection in each toecap.
Two black and tan Alsatian dogs emerged from the farmhouse. They dashed pell-mell across the yard, halting him in his tracks. He hated dogs. They stood off several yards from the cowering captain, alternating their challenging bark.
“Flanagan, Allen, come by!” The two German shepherds instantly ceased their baying and trotted obediently back toward the farmhouse where the coated figure of a woman wearing a headscarf stood in the doorway. “What do you want?” hailed the woman defiantly.
“I’d like to talk to you about the POW work detail. My name is Hunloke, I’m from Flash Camp,” he shouted in return, eyeing the dogs suspiciously.
“I’ve not seen you before,” accused the woman flanked by the two dogs.
“No, haven’t been there long.” He was prepared to offer a smile but thought better of it in lieu of the hostile reception.
The woman beckoned him to the door and despatched the dogs inside with a wave of her hand. As he approached the door, she stepped aside allowing him circumspectly to enter her home. He flinched at the sight of the double barrel twelve-bore leaning against the wall just inside the door. Hunloke had felt safer in France than he did at this miserable farmstead and was beset by a sudden bout of longing for the urban familiarity of London.
The kitchen was a large space dominated by a centrally placed battered but substantial oak table and chairs. Like Carey Gladwin’s cottage, a range sat against the far wall. The kitchen was cluttered but looked ostensibly clean despite the alien rustic smell that permeated the house. Hunloke was more familiar with the sulphurous tang of coal fires that perfumed the winter city.
The woman chose to remove her floral headscarf revealing her tied back brown hair that had been scraped back from her forehead. Her face was lined and dark shadows lay under her blue eyes. In another world, she might have been considered pretty, even beautiful. However, the Derbyshire climate and the harsh way of life on a working farm had solidified her features, expunging any suppleness that might invite favour. He guessed her to be anywhere between twenty-five and forty years of age. She looked more than capable of handling herself.
“So where is Hans and his boys?” asked the woman.
“Hans?”
“Hans, the leader of the German work detail.”
“Ah, I see. Well actually, Mrs...”
“... Maxfield, Cathy Maxfield.”
“... Mrs Maxfield, I was hoping you might tell me. Are they here?”
“No.”
“Has the lorry been here?”
“No.”
The first inkling of something not being right gripped him. “I take it you don’t have a phone?”
“No.” It was a blatant lie.
“Has Hans been here many times?”
“Of course he has, I always ask for Hans. He understands the running of the farm.”
“This is your husband’s farm?”
“Was. He’s dead. I farm it with my brother-in-law and his wife. They have two sons who help out.”
“So the farm is in your name?”
“I don’t see that is any of your business. As it happens, George, my brother-in-law, is now the official tenant.”
“The farm being owned by?”
“Why all the questions? You sound like a bloody copper!”
He allowed himself a restrained grin. “Sorry, I can’t help myself. But I would like to know who owns the farm?”
Cathy Maxfield tutted before replying. “For what it matters, Mr Gray.”
“That makes sense... How come you organise the labour requirements for the farm, saying as technically it belongs to George?”
“George and Daisy are farmers, not clerks. They don’t like dealing with the council organisers. They leave it to me.”
“So you’re the brains of the operation...” He again smiled and felt his compliment penetrate the thick hide of Cathy Maxfield irrespective of her stoic silence. “The question is, Mrs Maxfield, where are our German friends? Any ideas?”
She carefully selected her response. “The truck probably broke done. Like the rest of us, the thing is knackered.”
“You’re probably right... Is George here, or his wife and kids?”
“They’re in the barn, doing what the bloody Germans were supposed to be doing. Saving the hay.”
“Then I think I’d best leave you to it, Mrs Maxfield.”
Cathy Maxfield said nothing and Hunloke decided enough was enough. Flash Farm was no place to outstay one’s welcome.
Chapter 11 - Flash House.
Monday, 27th November 1944.
It was a matter of retracing his steps the short distance back to the Flash Estate. Along the way, Hunloke kept his eyes peeled for a broken down Bedford truck but no sighting was forthcoming before reaching the north gatehouse.
Although the situation had yet to be resolved one way or another, it was clear by the demeanour of the guards at the gatehouse that the mood within the camp had changed. Even though Hunloke was familiar to at least one of the guards, his paperwork was overzealously checked as if by doing so, any potential bad news might be mitigated.
Somewhat perversely, the rain had abated by the time he had driven to the camp and weak watery winter sunshine was attempting to break through the grey cloud.
The heightened sense of alertness shown by the guards at the north gate was replicated at the camp. Indeed, the camp itself was the quietest Hunloke had ever heard it. It was as though the POW’s were holding their breaths, awaiting the outcome of the saga of the missing truck.
No one had ever escaped from Flash in all its time of being in existence. In truth, despite the perceived grievances concerning poor food, lack of warmth, and doubtful medical provision, no one had ever wanted to escape from Flash Camp.
The atmosphere within the guardroom appeared twitchy to his way of thinking when he made his appearance, he was reminded of the first days of a murder investigation when working at Scotland Yard. The men appeared tense and restless.
“Private, have you seen Sergeant Donovan?” he asked of a face he had not seen before.
“In the major’s office, sir,” replied the distracted clerk.
Within the confines of the office, Hunloke found Donovan seated behind the major’s desk. With him were Brian Conway and the corporal of the guard detail for that day. The three men glanced up in unison. Hunloke noticed the glimmer of hopeful anticipation on Donovan’s face.
“Well...?” asked the sergeant expectantly.
“No Jerries at the farm, no sign of the truck. Mrs Maxfield said the truck never arrived.”
“Shit!” the one word from Donovan sufficed. Their last hope of any plausible explanation had evaporated with Hunloke’s report. “Then I’m left with no choice other than to issue a Code Blue.”
“Which is what...?” Only Hunloke felt sufficiently detached from the situation to pose the question.
“Code Blue is the official declaration that we have missing POW’s,” answered Donovan.
“And how does it work?”
“How the hell do I know? Do you think this happens every day, sir?” In light of the situation, Hunloke admired Donovan’s self-restraint.
“Then I suggest you set the wheels in motion, sergeant.” Hunloke had no explanation for the way he suddenly felt. It was an irrational feeling that defied analysis. His overwhelming emotion was one of a sense of relief.
“Corporal,” said Donovan as calmly as he could. “Issue full ammo to the men. Call a roll call.” For a moment, the man remained motionless until the full impact of Donovan’s order hit him. His chair skidded against the wooden floor as he sprung into action.
“Full ammo...?” asked Hunloke.
Donovan looked distractedly at Hunloke. “Yes, sir, the guards only normally have four rounds in the mag.” That was all he said before he picked up the receiver and dialled the number he hoped never to ring.
With the fateful call made, Donovan retired to supervise the roll call. Hunloke watched the operation through the dirty office window. He had never seen the guards move so fast, it was as if they had been given Benzedrine tablets to combat their fatigue.
Ten minutes elapsed without either Hunloke or Conway saying a word. The lieutenant had fallen into a state of agitated contemplation and appeared irritated by Hunloke’s air of dispassionate calm whilst he smoked. Hunloke wondered what was going through Conway’s mind. To the captain’s way of thinking, it was hardly their problem if a bunch of prisoners chose to do a runner. The uneasy quiet was broken when the door burst open and two uniformed men entered the room. Their actions reminded Hunloke of a pair of second-rate actors in a cheap Edwardian melodrama.
“Who is the senior officer here?” Perhaps only a regular soldier, as Hunloke had once been, would have immediately recognised the lack of regimental insignia on the questioning sergeant’s uniform. He wore a cap with the peak pulled down low over his eyes as was popular with the Military Police. The soldier had to tilt his head back to view the two officers. The only trace of regimental affiliation was his cap badge, which betrayed his allegiance to the Grenadier Guards.
“Well, I suppose I am, sergeant...,” stated Hunloke calmly. He noticed Brian Conway glance his way.
“If you’d be so good as to come with me, sir,” requested the sergeant with aggressive civility.
“Where are we going, sergeant?” demanded Hunloke.
“Just come with me, sir. There’s a good gentleman...”
Hunloke looked at the sergeant’s twin, a corporal who might have emerged from the same production batch as the sergeant. It seemed clear to Hunloke that to refuse the request was not really an option.
“Looks like you’re holding the fort, Brian...” With these words, Hunloke stepped out of Major Beevor’s office flanked by the two NCO’s. He spotted Christine Baldwin sitting in Sergeant Donovan’s chair and offered her a wink. She responded with a weak smile that did little to hearten his swirling mind. He may have looked calm but felt anything but. She had clearly been evicted from the office she had been sharing with Conway.
It was to that very same office that Hunloke was ushered. The escorting sergeant opened the door for Hunloke and remained poised as an unvoiced invitation for Hunloke to enter. The door closed quickly behind the visiting captain.
One glance was all it took to notice the rank of major and the Grenadier Guards cap badge on the upturned cap upon the desk.
“Captain Hunloke, it is good to see you again,” declared Henry Mills. He sat with a straight back, his feet resting upon the table, ruffling Conway’s untidy piles of paper. The unlit pipe moved up and down in sympathy with his lips.
“Major Henry, I presume...,” stated Hunloke.
“Actually Thaddeus, it’s Major Mills. But you can just call me major if it makes you happier.”
“You got here fast. The call only went out a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Yes, it pays to be expeditious in my line of work. What is your take on the situation? Please, take a pew.”
Hunloke wasted no time lowering himself into the chair set against the wall. He sat perpendicular to the major and was amused to note that his face was obscured by Mills’ shoes, compelling the major to shuffle in his chair so that he could regard Hunloke’s left profile.
“The place is a shambles,” declared Hunloke. “Major Beevor has been absent all day, unobtainable as usual. The guards are slovenly. Sergeant Donovan seems to be the only man who knows what’s going on.”
“Yes, strange how this camp is a reflection of the Wehrmacht. No disrespect to their officers, but their army does appear to be run by the NCO’s. We could take a leaf out of their book.”
“I’d rather not, major.”
“No, perhaps not. We don’t want a load of ordinary rankers thinking for themselves, do we?”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“No, I don’t expect you did. You were, after all, a ranker yourself once, eh? Anyway, we’re not here to discuss your career. How is Lieutenant Conway?”
“Upset I think. I think he blames himself.”
“And why should he do that?”
“Well, before we came here, no one ever tried to escape. Now, after a few days of investigation there’s been one.”
“Oh, he shouldn’t blame himself. I think it was somewhat inevitable.”
“Inevitable?”
“Yes. I told you I was privy to classified intel, ‘Operation Rabe’ is one such piece of intelligence. We still don’t know exactly what it is but we believe it may have something to do with POW’s.”
“Like what?”
“Like the insertion of a group of key individuals. Suppose you took a couple of dozen selected Waffen-SS or Fallschirmjäger personnel, you know, Johnnies who are dedicated to the cause and all that. Suppose you had them surrender on the battlefield to British servicemen. Perhaps half a dozen or more might make it through screening and end up in a comparative holiday camp like Flash and not in a Gulag in Northern Scotland. Free entry into the country... Allowed to more or less roam at will... Who needs bloody fifth columnists?”
“But what damage can a few individuals make?” Hunloke again noted Mills’ distracted nature, the way he avoided making eye contact if directly challenged.
“A lot if they are targeted wisely.”
“You mean kill the Royal Family?”
Mills laughed. “I hardly think that would win them the war. I don’t believe the King masterminds the Allied cause, do you?”
“Churchill?”
“Captain Hunloke, this is a democracy. The death of Churchill would not affect the outcome of the war anymore than should you or I go for a Burton.”
“So what then?”
“That, my dear Thaddeus, is a very good question. A question to which I don’t know the answer. Tell me, are any of Conway’s SS suspects missing?”
“We don’t know for sure until the count is made. The Jerry leader of the work party appears to be a guy named Hans according to Mrs Maxfield. I don’t recall his name being on Brian’s list.”
“The men we are looking for probably won’t be. Their legend will have been created before they were captured. None of that sordid business of stealing another man’s identity. I think we must assume for our purposes that one or all of the escapees are part of Operation Rabe. Your hunt for war criminals may have precipitated their move or it may just be coincidence. We’ll have to wait to hear if any more escapes have occurred around the country. Again, we’l
l have to assume that the escape was planned and that they know where they are going.”
“I’d like to interview Mrs Maxfield. She’s the one who organised the request for the POW’s,” said Hunloke.
“Steady on, Thaddeus. Don’t go leaping to any conclusions. First, I have something else I want you to do. I’d like you and your team to move into Flash House.”
“Why?”
“To be honest, it wasn’t my idea but Lieutenant Colonel Turbutt’s.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s head of section 19, he’s your boss, if you did but know it.”
“I was told Flash House is off limits.”
“It is, was. There won’t be a problem. Mr Gray has been advised apparently. He’s been bloody lucky not to have his home commandeered already. Just don’t go looting the place. Send your young lieutenant and the fragrant Corporal Baldwin to collect your gear. Whilst I help sort out this mess, I suggest you pay a visit to the house. Reconnoitre, isn’t that what you chaps do before a major engagement? My sergeant will prepare paperwork should any of the Gray clan turn up from wherever they are currently lurking...”
Christine dropped Thaddeus Hunloke off at the stable block they had earlier visited with Carey Gladwin. He didn’t mind being away from the camp and Mills’ order had rekindled his yearning to see the house. The desire was hard to explain. It reminded him of the feeling he experienced as a child when his father had told him that they were to visit Southend for the first time. The inexplicable urge to visit Flash House was akin to the calling of the sea.
From the stable block, he traipsed through the trees along what was plainly a desire path in the general direction of where he had again caught glimpses of a turreted castle. Nothing in his life had prepared him for the view that greeted him. Admittedly, it was a view that few, if anyone, had been granted on their first sight of Flash House.
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 11