From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories

by Smythe, B. P.

  As far as his military career was concerned, he was finished and he knew it. The only thing they could do with him now, so he could keep his pension, was to get him out of the public eye. Have him sit out the rest of the war at some backwater desk job, looking after POWs.

  ‘What’s up, Sergeant Major?’

  He stood to attention and saluted.

  ‘Err - a slight problem with today’s count, sir.’ He looked at the roll call sheet for hut Number Four. ‘We have some prisoners missing, sir.’

  ‘Missing, what do you mean, missing?’

  ‘There should be a count of forty-three for hut Number Four, sir. But there’s only eight, sir.’ He nodded to the men in line.

  ‘Eight?’ said the major, incredulous. ‘Where’s Lutz?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I thought perhaps you might know, sir?’

  ‘Me, why me, for God’s sake?’

  The Sergeant Major shifted awkwardly.

  ‘I thought perhaps they might have gone on some early morning work detail that you and Lutz arranged, sir.’

  ‘I arranged nothing, Sergeant Major. If I had,’ he said sarcastically, ‘you would have known about it.’ Major Henderson walked briskly over to Felix and his men. ‘Where are the rest of you for this hut, Oberstleutnant?’

  Felix shrugged his shoulders again. Karl and the remaining six POWs looked vacant.

  ‘I told the sergeant, sir, they were gone when we woke up. Just guessed,’ Felix said looking hurt and concerned, ‘we weren’t included in some work detail, sir.’

  The Major came up close and eyeballed Felix.

  ‘Where’s Lutz, what have you done with him?’

  At that moment, all hell broke loose. The air-raid siren started up and three perimeter guards came running up. Out-of-breath, they stood and saluted then one of them said quickly,

  ‘Sir, we think there’s been an escape. They must have gone over the wire. They’ve broken into the supply warehouse and used the canteen benches to get across.’ The private stopped and cast a glance at the small group in front of hut Number Four, looked at the other groups and then back to the major. ‘Do we have any men…?’ The private tapered off; from the glum faces, he knew he was asking the obvious.

  ‘Yes, we do have men missing, private,’ the Major shouted. ‘Now start looking.’

  By lunchtime, with the remaining camp locked in their huts using temporary buckets for latrines, Major A.P. Henderson and his garrison of thirty-two men had launched a search of the camp and the surrounding Grizedale Forest. The Major wanted to keep the escape under wraps as long as possible before notifying the police and his superiors, as well as not letting the locals find out about it. That would be all he needed, the press getting hold of it and driving the village population of Grizedale into a blind panic.

  At least, if he caught some of them, it wouldn’t look so bad. He could wipe some of the egg off his face. It could be seen that he’d made an effort. But as the day wore on, the chances of that started to look pretty slim. With a quick inventory, the supply corporal had calculated the prisoners had stolen ten canteen forms and four rolls of flagpole rope.

  Later on, alone in his office, Major A.P. Henderson sat with his head in his hands mulling over the escape possibilities. No doubt, some of them knew the area and the layout. Most Luftwaffe pilots had studied detailed maps of England during their training. It didn’t take much to work out that with Coniston Water on one side of Grizedale forest and Lake Windermere on the other and rope they’d planned to make a raft with the canteen forms and get to the coast.

  If that turncoat Lutz was with them, he could’ve had access to a radio transmitter, pinched one from the signals office and taken it with him. Lutz could have planned the whole thing over months. Arranged a submarine to pick them up; then back to Germany. They’d be heroes of the Führer at the major’s expense. He could just see the front pages of the Daily Mirror.

  Major Henderson shut his eyes, his mind was working overtime.

  *

  ‘Did any of them get caught?’ Karl’s ten-year-old grandson asked. He was sitting cross-legged, wearing his Blackpool football kit with his sister at Karl’s feet, hanging onto every word.

  Both children had their grandparent’s original good looks with fair skin, and especially Amber with her auburn hair.

  ‘Yes, Granddad, tell us what happened,’ chimed in his pretty granddaughter, her pony tail bobbing around with excitement.

  Karl, now bald apart from some grey strips around his ears, shifted his seventy-six-year-old frame to make himself more comfortable. His rheumatism was playing him up again.

  ‘Well, they caught most of them when they landed their rafts further down Lake Windermere. Some of the rafts came apart so they had to swim for it. I heard a few of them drowned.’

  Karl stopped for a second while his eyes misted up, but he didn’t want the kids to see. In reality, all of them had drowned, there hadn’t been a sole survivor.

  ‘You got something in your eye, Granddad?’ asked nine-year old Amber.

  Karl blinked a couple of times and pretended he had an eyelash caught. Then he carried on.

  ‘They were trying to get to the sea at Morecambe Bay. Then I suppose, get a boat back to France.’

  ‘What happened to you, Granddad, when you were a prisoner?’ Lenny asked excitedly. ‘Did they torture you; pull out your finger nails like the Japs did?’

  Karl laughed,

  ‘No, son, not quite that bad. I married your Gran instead.’

  Sitting next to Karl on the sofa, Valerie playfully slapped his arm. ‘You shouldn’t say that in front of the children.’

  She was watching her favourite, Cliff Richard. He was on television singing in Hyde Park at the 50th VE Day anniversary celebrations.

  Karl laughed and gave her hand a friendly squeeze.

  ‘You know I’m only teasing.’

  ‘So what happened, then?’ Amber was getting impatient. ‘What about your friend, Felix?’

  ‘Well, Felix and I stayed together in the camp until the end of the war. Then he returned to Germany. I never heard from him again.’ Karl stared for a while at the carpet. Valerie could see he was getting choked up. She gently rubbed his back with her arthritic hand. At seventy-seven with her white hair, she suffered in silence with the painful condition. Even so, she knew he found it hard to talk about certain things; the comrades he’d lost, his family life in Germany before the war.

  For Valerie, his nightmares were the worst. For years, Karl had dreamt about some boy he’d killed. She had tried to hold his swinging arms, had wrestled with him, shouting at him to wake up as she had listened to him yelling in his sleep,

  ‘I killed him - I killed him, I killed the little boy. God forgive me, what have I done?’

  Lenny and Amber were staying over for the night. Their parents had gone to a golf club dinner and dance. A few of the club committee members were veterans of the war so they were celebrating the 50th anniversary of VE Day.

  At school, Lenny and Amber shared the same class for history and were learning about the VE Day celebrations and what it all meant. As a treat for tomorrow, their grandparents were taking them to London by train to visit Madame Tussauds waxworks and the Imperial War Museum where there was an exhibition about children during the war, showing wooden toys, 1940s school uniforms, childrens’ sweets, children being evacuated, wearing gasmasks, sleeping in underground shelters and much more.

  The school history teacher had set a competition over the half-term holiday. She had told the class to fill up their project book with anything about the war. The winner would receive a book token. Lenny and Amber had asked if they could do theirs together and she’d agreed. With this in mind, and using as much as their pocket money would allow, they planned to fill their project book with anything useful from the museum gift shop.

  Now they wanted a story, an exciting story from granddad Karl for their project.
/>
  Lenny couldn’t believe his grandfather had been a prisoner of war. He had never known his granddad was a hero. British or German, it didn’t matter. His granddad had been shot down, taken prisoner, and tried to escape. Lenny and Amber were fascinated by his story.

  After the holidays, everyone would have to stand up in class and show their project. Lenny told Amber he wanted to read granddad’s story. He knew it would increase his status, especially with the bigger boys.

  ‘Go on then, Granddad, carry on,’ they said.

  ‘Well, I’ve told you mostly everything. After the war when I was released, I decided to stay in England and marry this very hard-working farm girl I knew, although her dad wasn’t too pleased at first.’

  Valerie playfully nudged him again,

  ‘ “Too pleased,” that’s an understatement; he pointed a shotgun at you and told you to clear off,’ she joked.

  ‘Wow, really? That’s so cool,’ said Lenny.

  ‘So cool? I’ve never seen your granddad run so fast.’

  All of them creased up with laughter.

  ‘But I was persistent. I never took no for an answer.’ Karl squeezed her hand again. ‘Your dad, God rest him, came round in the end. I ended up running the farm for him.’ Then Karl remembered, ‘I’ve got something to show you two.’ He took out from his top waistcoat pocket, a small fancy box. He opened it and showed them. ‘My dad gave me this; it was one of a pair. He called it his lucky cufflink. A British soldier had given it to him on Christmas day in 1914. The soldier had kept the other one. He told my dad it was his lucky charm and that as long as Dad kept it with him, he’d never get harmed: and he didn’t; he survived the war.’ Karl dropped it into Lenny’s hand.

  ‘Wow! Is it magic, Granddad?’ Then he read the engraving, ‘Who’s G. ANSCOMBE?’

  ‘That’s the soldier who gave it to my dad. On that Christmas day they agreed, if they both survived the war, they’d meet up and my dad would give it back to him. But they never met after that. So I’ve kept it ever since. Mind, you, I had it with me during my war, and I’m still here.’

  Amber said, ‘Do you think you’ll ever meet that soldier, Granddad?’

  Karl smiled,

  ‘I don’t think so, darling, he’d be way too old now, if he’s still alive.’

  Valerie saw Karl’s eyes droop. He was getting tired.

  ‘OK, you two, that’s enough for tonight. It’s getting late and Granddad’s sleepy. Up to bed now and don’t forget to clean your teeth. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.’

  The usual moans ensued,

  ‘Can’t we have one more story?’ Amber pleaded.

  ‘Now come on, be good you two, do as Grandma says. If you get into bed, you can watch a video.’ Valerie pretended to be serious. ‘But don’t have it on loud or you’ll wake the neighbours. And if you’re good, I’ll bring you up some milk and chocolate biscuits. So kiss Granddad and say goodnight.’

  They kissed their grandparents in turn then dashed up the stairs, squealing with excitement.

  The following morning, after phoning their parents and being told to behave for the weekend, they all took an early train from Windermere to Skipton. Then it was on to Leeds and eventually to London. As a treat for the grandchildren, they’d booked a hotel just off the Bayswater Road that was near Marble Arch tube station and ideal for getting around London.

  The plan was Madame Tussauds on Saturday afternoon, then as a surprise, a trip to see Oliver at the London Palladium in the evening. Eating out had been simplified, they just wanted a Wimpy.

  That evening, Lenny and Amber tucked into quarter pounders with chips followed by Brown Derby and chocolate sauce. Karl and Valerie satisfied themselves with an ice-cream each, while they watched the grandchildren. They were hoping for a quiet after-theatre meal in the hotel, once the kids were in bed.

  By eleven thirty that evening, they wearily climbed the hotel stairs, peaked in to see the grandchildren were asleep then climbed into their large double bed with the fancy padded headboard and overhanging reading lights. The reading lights were not used; within fifteen minutes, Karl and Valerie were both snoring.

  After breakfast the following morning, they took the tube to Lambeth North station then made the short walk along Kennington Road to the Imperial War Museum.

  ‘Look, Granddad, It’s on the lower ground floor.’ Lenny had spotted The Children’s War sign on the large board as they entered through the swing doors.

  ‘OK, let’s use the guide and work our way round to it.’ Karl orientated himself with page one showing a plan of the ground floor and the arrow stating - You Are Here.

  ‘Man! Look at that rocket,’ Lenny said looking up as it towered above him. ‘Did you fly those, Granddad?’

  ‘No, son, there was no pilot,’ Karl chuckled. ‘That was a one-way ticket, it was a flying bomb; a V2, they called them.’

  ‘So what’s a doodle-bird then?’ Amber looked puzzled.

  ‘It’s a doodle-bug, silly,’ Lenny laughed. ‘You’re such an idiot, Amber.’

  ‘OK, Mr clever Dick, a doodle bug then? And you’re the idiot.’

  Valerie intervened,

  ‘Now - now, you two, stop the arguing. They were called doodle-bugs, Amber, and looked like a rocket with wings. But I like the name doodle-bird, it sounds funny.’

  ‘It wasn’t funny when the bloody thing dropped,’ Karl laughed, ‘they could level a whole street.’

  The kids giggled.

  ‘Don’t say that word in front of the children, Karl,’ Valerie scolded, ‘you should know better.’

  ‘Sorry, kids.’ Karl playfully slapped the back of his hand. Then he looked at the guide. ‘Let’s have a look at the submarines.’

  They strolled over and slowly ambled their way around three mini-subs on display.

  ‘Not much room for the driver,’ Amber said, nonchalantly peering into the one-man cabin. ‘Certainly couldn’t get all my dolls in there.’

  Lenny butted in,

  ‘Dad says you’ve got more dolls than all the people living in China.’

  Karl and Valerie laughed; when they stopped, Valerie put an arm around Amber.

  ‘Never mind, my love, your brother’s only jealous. He wishes he had dolls.’

  ‘Yuk!’ Lenny said making a face.

  Karl looked at the guide,

  ‘Where to, now?’

  ‘The children’s war - let’s do the children’s war,’ Lenny pleaded. ‘Look, it’s through that entrance.’

  Just inside, they were confronted by photographs of young evacuees dressed in school uniform carrying gas masks. The children were holding small cases and wore identity tags around their necks. Some held hands with their mothers on a station platform or leant out of railway carriage windows waving goodbye; most of them with smiling faces and a few tearful younger ones.

  As they moved along, more photos showing children playing in an East End street. Amongst the debris left by the bombings, they played hop, skip and jump; others grouped together at each end of a long skipping rope and took it in turns in the middle.

  Just as they turned a corner, two mannequins confronted them, a boy and a girl dressed in 1940’s school uniform. Further along, more mannequins, this time a complete family scene around a kitchen table with the young daughter helping Mum with her cake mix. A sitting, smiling father building a model Spitfire plane with his son completed the group.

  With the grandchildren ahead, Karl and Valerie ambled up to another display cabinet. On various shelves, carved wooden toys and dolls sat amongst school books and pencil drawings. Karl remembered and said to Valerie with a wistful smile,

  ‘Some of the prisoners used to make toys in the camp at Christmas.’ He stared into the display glass as if lost in his memories; then he said thoughtfully, ‘I used to watch them. It was fascinating how skillful a man could be with his hands. You could see by their concentration, they were totally immersed in it. I used to
envy them sometimes. How they could forget their surroundings for a while; forget the uncertainty of everything, the future as well as the past. I suppose it gave them something to cling on to.’ Karl smiled at Valerie and gave her a hug, ‘I must say though, I didn’t have that problem once I’d met you.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you found me slightly more interesting than carving,’ she nudged him as she said it.

  Karl wasn’t listening. He was staring into the cabinet. It was something on the shelf.

  ‘What is it, darling?’ Valerie was looking at him and then trying to see where his attention was.

  Karl pointed to the cufflink by the open school exercise book.

  ‘My God!’ he said. ‘I can’t believe… It’s my cufflink. The same one I’ve got, look!’ He took out from his waistcoat pocket the little box he carried and flipped the lid. ‘There, see. Exactly the same as the one in the cabinet. My dad said the man that gave it to him was called George.’

  ‘What a coincidence.’ Valerie leaned forward to get a better view. ‘You’re right, but how did it get there?’ Then she looked at the exercise book; the name at the bottom of the two page story with the crude drawing in crayons of a German plane with its swastika and yellow under-belly, firing at somebody on a bicycle.

  ‘Karl, the name in the book, at the bottom, love, it’s the same, Anscombe.’

  Karl strained his eyes and then they widened. He looked at the drawing that was signed, Jack Anscombe, and then began to read the story. While he read, Valerie looked at his face as it took on an expression of utter astonishment.

  Finally he put a hand to his mouth and began to shake.

  ‘It’s him, Val, I’m telling you, read the story. It’s me in that plane in the kid’s book.’ Valerie looked worried; she put her arm around his shoulder. She’d never seen him like this. ‘All these years and I thought I’d killed him.’ Karl bent over and buried his head in his hands and began to sob.