From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories

by Smythe, B. P.

  The explosion rocked the plane and threw Karl to one side. He grabbed the joystick and looked out of the cockpit. Smoke was pouring from a large hole in the starboard wing. He’d taken a hit from a QF94mm shell from an anti-aircraft battery over Portsmouth. Karl tried to hold her steady but it was no use, she was going into a dive. He had to bail out quickly; he was spinning round and upside down., losing his orientation. Smoke was filling the cockpit; the fear of burning alive spurred him on. All he knew was the cockpit roof was above him and he had seconds to get it open. He found the catch and pushed it, but it wouldn’t move. Karl hammered frantically with his fist on the glass. The ground was moving very quickly towards him and he hammered the glass again. This time it moved a little, he was getting frantic, the smell of burning oil was overpowering now. With his last desperate reserve of energy, Karl gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and gave one almighty punch upwards.

  The blast of cold wind smacked into Karl’s face as the canopy hinged-open. As he hauled him-self out, he became snagged by part of his parachute backpack. He tugged at it and tugged again until it came free, jerking him out into the coldness of space. Without thinking, he pulled the ripcord and the tremendous force yanked him back up as the chute unfolded, making him gasp for air.

  As he floated down, he took one hand off the rigging line and felt in his flak jacket. It was still there; the lucky cufflink his father Otto had given him.

  *

  The next day a reporter and a photographer arrived on Mrs Anscombe’s doorstep. Two people from the road had phoned The Daily Mirror about yesterday morning’s events. While Jack sat with his mum and gave a very good account of himself to the reporter, the photographer snapped away.

  They were told the article should be in Saturday’s edition. Jack couldn’t wait to cut out the story and any photos of him-self. Then he’d show them all at school.

  On the Monday, armed with a quarter-page story including photos of him and his damaged bike, wearing his head bandage with pride, Jack walked through the school gates and was mobbed. Everyone but everyone wanted a piece of Jack Anscombe. He was a celebrity, a playground star in his own right.

  During morning assembly, Mr Strutton had him up in front of the whole school. The headmaster, who had a copy of The Daily Mirror, read out part of the story and then everyone applauded. To Jack’s amazement, the headmaster shook his hand and told him he was a brave lad.

  For the rest of the day, Jack basked in popularity - to such an extent that his back was sore from being slapped. He had no appetite for tea considering all the sweets he’d scoffed.

  During three playground breaks that day he’d been offered Fry’s chocolate bars, gobstoppers, liquorice allsorts, pear drops, bubble gum, wine gums and anything else on the sweets menu he could stuff in his face. His jaws ached from chewing.

  To finish off the week, his mum and a rather overweight aunty took him out to high tea at Lyons Corner House in London on Saturday afternoon.. With his favourites, egg sandwiches, Eccles cakes and a knickerbocker glory tucked under his belt, they finished off the afternoon in Hamleys’ toy store, spending the bit of money his mum received from the newspaper story.

  That night, Jack went to bed with a big contented smile. Even with a scab on his forehead and knee, it had been worth it. In fact, it was so memorable that he’d written the whole story down in his school essay book, supported by a crayon drawing. Perhaps Mrs Trumble might let him read it in front of the class?

  *

  Karl’s Messerschmitt had crashed into the sea while he’d landed on the beach at Hayling Island where he been taken prisoner. The Home Guard had seen him come down and within minutes he been surrounded by seven rifles, five of them wooden because of the shortage of weapons and the desperate need to equip the armies of the B.E. F

  On the beach Karl was handcuffed and marched to a waiting police car. Hayling Island didn’t see a lot of captured Luftwaffe pilots, so he was a bit of a celebrity amongst the locals. His one-night stay in the local police cell had created a buzz around the town.

  Karl was surprised how well he was treated. They gave him a hot meal of corned beef, cabbage and potatoes with coffee, and the station sergeant offered him cigarettes and chocolate through the bars. This was better than he got at his Le Havre airbase.

  The following day, because of his high risk Luftwaffe classification, Gefreiter Karl Gottlieb was taken by train under military police escort to Grizedale Hall in Cumbria. This was a large stately home known by the Prisoner of War Interrogation Section as Camp One. To deter escape, Camp One was surrounded by Grizedale Forest with Lake Coniston on one side and Lake Windermere on the other.

  After a medical examination and being photographed, a balding s intelligence officer, Major A.P. Henderson, along with two personnel from the PWIS, interrogated Karl for two days. During breaks he was offered sandwiches and coffee, even pastries. They asked him about his family and hobbies, his job before the war - where he’d learned to speak good English. He told them his father had been a strong influence, having worked in London at the Savoy hotel before the First World War. Then came questions about the books he liked to read and his favorite films - his tastes in music and art - what sport he followed.

  Karl knew he was being softened up in a friendly atmosphere; they were trying to gain his confidence. No doubt, the probing military questions would come later. But at the moment, he answered them freely; and all the time a stenographer was taking notes at a desk behind him.

  For Karl, the alarm bells began to sound when they asked him his views on National Socialism - the Nazi treatment of Jews and what he thought of Adolf Hitler. Then there were questions about his training and where he’d learnt to fly. They pinned a map to a wall and asked him where exactly in France his airfield was; how many planes and personnel and the whereabouts of strategic troop and tank movements. But all the time, Karl just said his name, rank and serial number, the minimum information he was permitted to give, as laid down for prisoners of war by the Geneva Convention.

  They never used any physical force, but they did threaten him. If he didn’t co-operate, they would drop leaflets during the next raid over Berlin, giving his name, rank and photograph. These would show that he’d been enlisted in the RAF as an advisor. Then let the Gestapo decide what to do with his family. Major A.P. Henderson supported this with a dummied up leaflet showing a close-up of Karl on parade wearing a Squadron Leaders RAF dress tunic and cap.

  The photograph of his head had been superimposed on someone shorter than his six foot frame and the hair colour was touched up to be more blonde than his own; no doubt to make him look typical Aryan. However, there was no mistaking his Germanic, chiselled good looks.

  The leaflet showed him shaking hands with a smiling Air Chief Marshal. The caption underneath read, Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Harris congratulating Squadron Leader Karl Gottlieb on his newly appointed position as head of the 1st Anglo-German squadron made up of former Luftwaffe pilots.

  Karl nonchalantly looked at it then once again gave his name, rank and serial number.

  Major A.P. Henderson ticked the Grey Box and stamped Karl’s file, for de-nazification, dated August 26th 1940.

  Although Karl was classified high-risk, as with all Luftwaffe pilots, he’d been graded with a grey patch, which meant he was not considered to have the strong feelings of an ardent Nazi. A black patch was reserved for hardened National Socialists - Waffen SS and the like.

  After his interrogation, they moved him to the POW barracks in the surrounding forest. They let him keep his Luftwaffe tunic but painted a large white POW on the back.

  That afternoon, Karl was escorted by military police to Nissen hut Number Four. As he entered, around forty prisoners looked up. Some of them were squatting on the edge of their beds, others were lying in bunks. A few were grouped around crude wooden tables and chairs playing cards and chess. Elsewhere, conversations were going on.

  They stopped when they saw
him, then huddled together and spoke more softly.

  In the middle of the austere room was a wood stove. Although it was still August, Karl realised the winters here would be bleak if this was going to be the only source of heat. As well as burning wood, his nose detected a strong smell of stale sweat and tobacco.

  Just at that moment, a blonde German named Lutz entered the hut and took a military Waffen-SS whistle from the breast pocket of his uniform. A long, drawn-out, piercing shrill stopped all the talking. Lutz, an unsavory looking individual with high cheekbones and sharp features, wore a Hauptmann Luftwaffe tunic with two wings and one bar. The whistle dangled from a lanyard as he looked at the piece of paper he was holding with Karl Gottlieb's details. He smiled at Karl and then at the others.

  With the group’s undivided attention, Lutz, even with his boots on, had to straighten his five-foot nine-inch frame to make himself more impressive as he introduced Karl to the rest of the men. Lutz made it very clear to Karl that he was in charge and known as the Lagerführer of the camp. It was his job to liaise with the British and enforce discipline when it was required. With the others looking on, he gave Karl the induction speech.

  Because of his former rank and excellent English, Lutz was billeted in the luxury of the stately home, Grizedale Hall. No doubt there were other reasons why he was given this status, especially with the looks he was receiving from behind his back while addressing Karl.

  It was obvious; Lutz was not liked, probably because he was some kind of informant.

  With a smirk of pride, Lutz proceeded to explain to Karl about some of the opportunities in the camp. These varied from lessons in learning English and shorthand by a local lady who visited once a week under guard, to forestry and farming while on work detail. Karl also learnt that Lutz was in charge of the work detail.

  ‘Would you like to work, yes?’ asked Lutz. He saw Karl hesitate and added in a mocking tone, ‘Of course you don’t have to. Under the Geneva Convention it is not compulsory for Luftwaffe, including the rank of Gefreiter, such as you. Most of the men choose to do it as it passes the time more quickly. And, the one thing we do have here, Herr Gefreiter Gottlieb,’ he added with sarcasm, ‘is time.’

  ‘As long as it’s not directly helping the allies, what are the benefits if we work?’ asked Karl.

  ‘Ah! Spoken like a loyal German,’ said Lutz still mocking, ‘but nevertheless, a sensible and realistic one.’ Lutz then went through the perks of what a working prisoner received. ‘If you work, you will receive the same rations as British servicemen.’ He pulled out a packet of British cigarettes, lit one, and offered it to Karl. Since the others were watching, he thought it better to refuse.

  Lutz continued,

  ‘If you volunteer for work detail, as well as your canteen meals, you will receive cigarettes, chocolate, jam, cake, cheese, tea and of course, coffee.’ He paused to inhale his cigarette then said with a laugh, ‘And how us Germans love our coffee, eh?’

  Karl cast a nervous glance over Lutz’s shoulder at the others. One of them nodded to confirm it was OK.

  ‘Count me in, when do we start?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I will have you detailed for local farm work. After morning roll call, you will move off with the others.’ With his leather boot, Lutz ground out his half-smoked cigarette in a wasteful gesture while the others looked on. He turned to them and smiled, ‘Good-day to you all.’

  After he’d gone, some of them spat on the floor and mumbled insults. One prisoner moved swiftly to the doorway to act as a lookout. Another one shouted,

  ‘Quick, he’s been under there too long.’

  Four of them using rags and clothing as padding wrestled the hot stove off the tin plate that was used to catch the ash. They kicked the plate to one side to reveal a hole just bigger than a football.

  ‘Hurry, get him out of there.’ The same person who had shouted seemed to be their leader. He looked to be in his thirties and was a dark haired man who stood around six foot in his boots and flying jacket. A previous flying mission had left him with a distinct scar on his chin and part of his left ear was missing. They called him Felix.

  With the others looking over, Felix knelt and offered his hand down into the hole. Karl watched in astonishment as a muddy arm grabbed hold and was then hauled up. The man, wearing only shorts and covered from head to toe in dirt and filth, collapsed on the floor breathing hard and calling for water.

  Felix cradled his head and administered the water using a shaving mug. The man, spilling most of it, gulped and spluttered it down then called for more. After a while, they helped him to stand.

  Swaying a bit, he slowly walked around the room to get the feeling back into his legs. Karl was amazed at the power of water, how quickly it could resuscitate, bring someone back into the land of the living.

  Now the digger had to get himself to the latrines before the British guards spotted him. They had a water pump there for showering. Four latrine buckets full of mud had to be disposed of as well, all before evening roll call.

  With the all-clear, the digger slipped out holding a fresh set of clothes. The others lined themselves up and in turn, took a handful of mud and stuffed it inside their torn pockets. Then they casually wandered outside in groups and nonchalantly spilled it out, bit by bit, from the bottom of their trouser turn-ups.

  Grunting and puffing, they positioned the stove back over the tin plate. Then Felix came over to Karl and introduced himself. With a click of his heels and a stiff Nazi salute, he said in near perfect English,

  ‘I’m Oberstleutnant, Felix Kappel, head of the escape committee.’

  Karl returned his greeting with a click of heels while holding up his hand the Roman way.

  ‘Your English is good,’ Felix said. ‘We try and speak it while we’re here, so it comes naturally. To condition us for when we breakout.’

  With four other committee members standing with him, Felix explained to Karl their plan.

  “We’ve set the date for the camp concert night in two weeks’ time. It’s going to be a mass escape for all the men in this hut after the show. They’ve been digging for three weeks and are not far from coming up through the wooden floor boards into the supply warehouse.’

  From his tunic pocket, Felix took out a crumpled piece of paper with a crude map. He whistled to the lookout to keep alert then continued in a low voice.

  ‘The warehouse stores the long canteen forms we require to make a bridge across the two barbed wire fences. Getting to the fences at a distance of thirty-feet without cover is going to be our biggest obstacle.’

  Felix looked at the map and suggested,

  ‘Couldn’t you carry on and tunnel under the fences, or just break into the warehouse under cover of night?’

  Felix smiled. ‘

  We’re ahead of you. We considered those alternatives, but the extra digging required and the time it takes increases the risk of us being caught. Then, there’s the intense security around the warehouse with the constant sweep of searchlights; makes it easy for them to spot us breaking in from outside. We have to breakout from the inside.’

  Felix took out a fancy silver cigarette case and offered one of his Woodbine rations to Karl. As Felix flicked his Leitz lighter, both men inhaled. Then he continued,

  ‘Using the warehouse as cover, we can time it right. Use it as the nearest place to meet up before we escape. In between the searchlight sweeps, we can make our move.’

  Felix pointed on the map to the dotted lines of the tunnel.

  ‘Look, you see, once we’ve come up into the warehouse through the floorboards, we can cut a hole in the wooden side that faces the fence. The hole will be blind to the view of the sentry tower. Then, under cover of night and concert party noise, we’ll lay the canteen benches on the wire fence and crawl across, making our escape into the surrounding woods. After that, it’s every man for himself.’

  For a moment, there was silence. Karl looked at the map on
ce more, then Felix. He smiled.

  ‘Sounds good, count me in.’

  Felix slapped him heartily on the back.

  ‘Wunderbar. I am so glad you will join us, Herr Karl.. If you had said no, we’d probably have killed you anyway, being a new man and left to tell a possible tale,’ he joked. ‘The English are very good at their bribery. We couldn’t take a chance, you see.’

  With a half-limp smile Karl said,

  ‘I’m glad I made the right decision.’

  Felix took a long draw on his cigarette and frowned.

  ‘We do have a slight problem, though. The British guards patrol the fence day and night, so we have to be careful. However,’ he broke into a smile, ‘there is a possible silver lining, as the English say. At the previous concert party, to improve morale, Major Henderson allowed the guards to draw straws to decide who could watch the show and who remained on duty. The relaxation in security reduced patrols around the perimeter fence. We just hope he repeats his goodwill gesture.’

  The committee nodded in agreement.

  That night after lights out, the recurring dream came back to Karl. He was in his Messerschmitt again. He had the dispatch rider lined up in his sites. He dived and got within range, then opened up with his four 7.7mm machine guns. At that moment, he suddenly realised it was a boy on a bike and shouted in horror, Goot Gott im Himmel! He yanked the joystick up, but too late, he was going to crash…

  ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ His bunk mate was shaking him. ‘You’re shouting the place down, we can’t get any sleep,’

  Karl raised himself up on one elbow and looked vacant. Then his surroundings slowly began to make sense again. His hand groped at his tunic lying across the bed. He felt the lucky cufflink in the breast pocket. It had come to mean a lot to him. Not just for luck, but for some kind of stability, a link with his old life when his parents were still alive. For some reason, he knew that as long as he carried it with him, he’d get through this madness, the war, the camp, the uncertainty of a Germany, his future? He’d seen many POWs with their lucky charms; a rabbit’s foot, an engraved bullet, others with a coin or a fancy button.