Avenging Steel: The First Collection

by Hall, Ian

  I looked away as the women’s naked bodies loomed white and pale in my eyes.

  “Don’t turn away, East Coast.” my partner warned me. “You have to watch everything. And I mean, everything.”

  Soldiers descended on the naked crowd, pushing and guiding them towards the furnace building, my partner walked round the perimeter, following them. I found the whole scene disturbing, yet did as was told; I watched, I witnessed the cruel behavior by the guards, the beatings, the men dragged by their friends, and recalled my first day, my first rifle butt.

  We were now close to the furnace, and the people were being led inside. They were loudly told by the guards they were going to the showers to be de-loused.

  “How come we didn’t get a shower on arrival?” I asked, my silence broken by my curiosity.

  “I told you, East Coast, they’re not showers.”

  Soon I could hear screaming from the building, then all went quiet.

  “Smell the breeze.” He said, sniffing boldly.

  A curious smell wafted across the ground to us. “Almonds,” I said.

  “Very good, East-Coast. Go to the top of the class.”

  “So what does it signify?”

  “Hydrogen Cyanide.”

  “What?” I protested. “That’s poison!” I clamped my hand over my mouth for a myriad of reasons.

  “It’s too dilute at this range, East Coast.” His eyes looked cold. “But not in there. In there it kills in less than a minute.”

  “But why them?” I said between my fingers.

  “Because they’re Jews.” He replied. “And you’re here as God’s witness.”

  Twenty minutes later, smoke started to drift from the stack, and despite holding our noses, we got the aroma of freshly cooked bacon.

  Ashes to Ashes

  “Every hut gets a turn at the rota,” Evans told me. It had taken me a week to get his name, a whole week of digging fencepost holes. “I’ve had mine. Tomorrow when the ashes cool, hut six will spread the ashes on the pathways.”

  If I hadn’t witnessed it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. Two Saturdays in a row. The ultimate low; killing for killing’s sake.

  “So what can we do to stop it?”

  The smoke from the tall red-brick chimney had diminished, and thankfully the wind had changed direction. Our Saturday off was turning into hell, and soon I’d force myself to eat. I had to. I was filled with a new challenge; not revenge, not getting back, but getting out. Getting out to tell the world what was going on.

  “There’s nothing we can do from inside.”

  Considering he’d had seven weeks in the camp, I valued his opinion. “And?”

  “We canny break out; we’re in the middle o’ nowhere. Jerry would have us back inside in days at the most, and we’d be the next coat o’ ash on the paths.”

  “But if one person could get out, if one person could get the news to the people.”

  He turned and forced a smile. “And how, Mister Reporter, are you going to do that. You’ve already told me that Jerry control the newspapers.”

  “We’ll start another one.” I blurted out. Then the idea, once in the open seemed to have some merit. “An underground one.”

  Evans nodded. “A people’s newspaper,” He started to walk away, and motioned with his head for me to follow. “You know, East Coast, that might work.”

  “We could distribute in every town.” I caught up quickly, settled into his stride. “Maybe even print regional copies, swap stories around. Hell, it’d be a whole network of news-gatherers.”

  “A lot to organize.”

  “But not if you know the right people.”

  I could hardly tell him that S.O.S. cells probably existed in every newspaper in the country, and that, with a simple message to Ivanhoe, I could start the ball rolling in days.

  We walked for a while in silence, then I left to join my own hut, ideas running rampant in my head. I lay on my bed, determined to get the images of burning Jews out of my head, filling it instead with hopes and aspirations of a new communication with the people.

  “I’ll call it ‘The Tree of Liberty’.” I said out loud, knowing no one was listening. I remembered Robert Burn’s poem from my youth, learning the political rant for Burn’s Night in January. The whole ‘Tree’ idea made sense, as every town would have its own branch, and the tree would grow; damn the analogies were endless. It was perfect.

  I could even see the first issue, a wide-spread oak tree, village names in the twigs, small town names written into the branches, the five cities of Scotland carved into the sturdy trunk.

  I set to finding paper and something to write with. I had to get my ideas down on paper before they diffused of I forgot. My hut had nothing.

  At dinner, sometime around six, I found Evans and told him of my needs. He simply nodded, and said it’d be done soon.

  At my table, the talk was of football. If Hibs had won their game last Saturday, my first jew-witnessing day, Hibs were set to play in the third round of the cup, and we speculated on their unknown opponent, and the score. Then we mimicked the radio announcer, and added many more games to the list. Before long we’d got to the final, and Hibs had bet Rangers six nil. I was miles away from ashes and burning bodies.

  I slept peacefully that night, which was just as well, for on Sunday and Monday I had the most frightening nightmares.

  The days were small notches carved into my pine bed with my nail. I had only been in the camp for just over two weeks, and already I could feel hopelessness creep into my comrades. I began to make a mental barrier between us; I had my Tree of Liberty dream, and the will to survive my camp encounter.

  I also cuddled my wrath against MacManaman and Alfie. Dealing with those two miscreants would be first on my agenda once I returned to civilization. As I worked that day, I visualized their deaths a thousand different ways. As I walked back to camp, I took pride in having a spring to my step that was missing from so many around me.

  A hand slapped down on the table next to my food. Under its grubby fingers I could see a small notebook. “Evans!” I exclaimed, probably a little too loudly. “You did it.”

  He grinned. “You owe me.” He placed a small pencil in my hand, no longer than four inches, but hey, it was a pencil.

  That evening, I sat near the window and used every minute of light before crawling onto my bed exhausted. In my notebook were the cover drawing, title, and a few starters for stories.

  Grinning at my cunning, I penciled MIST, code for Military Intelligence Scottish Territories. Following the same format SAUCE became Scottish Auxiliary Units Could Explode, and SOD was Submarines Offshore Daily; I’d started a whole new code system to help with stories and newspaper distribution.

  I now carried the small notebook in my front trouser pocket. I grinned at my open defiance.

  On Wednesday morning, as we marched into the open ground, I noticed a group of civilians standing about half a mile away. They were well outside the new fence line, but their observation of us made me nervous. Three men, four women, and a teenager, all just standing there, watching the camp, watching us work.

  “It gives me the willies,” I said, leaning on the handle of my spade. Our guards rarely made an issue of us taking a breather, we were still one of the best squads in the camp, I heard Jerry talk about it all the time.

  “Why?” Bill asked, lifting himself up from the shallow trench. “They’re just watching, not threatening, not doing anything.”

  I tried to shake the feeling, but when we walked away to dinner, they were still there, sitting on the moorland.

  The next day, the group had expanded to eleven, now mostly women. The Germans didn’t challenge them, they never threatened anyone. Beyond the group, a tractor ploughed, struggling against the hard virgin turf. I could see a woman drive, and although I wished for Alice to be the driver, coming to rescue me, I soon disabused myself of such thoughts. My illusion was totally shattered when she stopped, pulled her headscar
f off, and reset it, tying her blonde hair back in place.

  On Friday morning, I started to feel really uneasy. The line of spectators had grown to thirty or so, with others having formed new groups at other locations. Knowing that Saturday loomed, and the new delivery of Juden that might arrive, I wondered if the Germans would tolerate any public witnesses to their atrocity. By dinner, more people had joined the groups. I could see even the guards becoming restless. They urged us to dig faster.

  On my turn to distribute the displaced earth, I walked about halfway to the group nearest us, then started to upend the heavy hessian sack.

  I almost turned for home when I saw the piece of paper. Written on the uppermost side was;

  You’re not alone

  I bent to pick it up, and dumped the rest of the soil, spreading it with my shoes, the note now firmly in my pocket. With the message burning a hole in my side, I patiently waited until I sat down to dinner. It was the least supervised time of the day. At the table, I picked it out and sat it in my lap, my movements so surreptitious even my dining partners didn’t notice.

  You’re not alone

  I turned it over, and gasped at more writing. Just the thought of communication with the outside filled me with fevered anticipation.

  We see you. Our numbers will grow every day. Get ready. We do not forget you. Get ready. Even caged birds fly. Get ready.

  When I raised my head, the men were still busy eating. My decision was never in doubt. Only by communicating with my fellows could this news be used to its utmost efficiency.

  “I found this today when I dumped dirt.” I passed it to Bill, who read it and passed it on.

  Bill checked the positions of the guards before he spoke. “What does it mean?”

  “Hope, my friend.” And that simple word meant more to the table than five dinners. Hope for the future, hope for our release, rescue, something. Just the news that Scotland had not forgotten us was enough for me.

  Saturday, I joined Evans, doing his obligatory death watch. The train arrived, a small group of people were led through the town, and they were halted before the furnace building.

  The only difference? Today, about a hundred civilians lined the road on either side. They crowded near the gate when the Jews were ushered into the camp, and they stood watching. It was like watching a beehive after a wasp had flown close. Officers, usually so confident, walked back and forth, issuing conflicting orders. Stand up, sit down. They strode to the main administration building, the commandant’s office, and returned with little more to add.

  We watched way into the afternoon, but still the Jews were not ordered to strip, or to approach the Furnace. Soldiers came from the village, and began to disperse the crowd, but it was hard work. Five soldiers against two hundred determined protesters.

  Only when we were called away to dinner did we stop our part of the watching game.

  When we returned after the meal, others told us they had been moved inside one of the new huts.

  “Stripped?” I asked.

  The prisoner shook his head. “No, they stopped that.” He pointed at the now dwindling crowd.

  “Where do the people come from?” I asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  That night I wrote a page of my notebook, and folded it, pushed it deep down in my trouser pocket.

  They are killing Jews here by the hundred. Every Saturday. They strip them and gas them and then burn the bodies. They have not done it since you started to gather. God bless you all.

  That Sunday, the crowd had grown again. Perhaps three or four hundred people now stood in groups far from the camp’s new growing perimeter. When it was my turn to ‘dump dirt’ I waited until I was well away from the guards, and slipped the letter from my pocket. I waved it slowly in front of my chest, then dropped it at my feet.

  I then took no more notice of them as I spilled my new dirt over the turf.

  I had done my job.

  The coming week saw the crowd grow again.

  On Wednesday I strolled forward, sack on my shoulder, watching the three or four hundred watching me.

  “Over here,” a voice spoke from absolutely nowhere.

  I’d never seen or heard a ghost before, but every hair on my body now stood on end, my senses tingling. “Where?”

  “Here.”

  I veered to the sound, then to my horror, saw a young boy lying in a hollow in the grass. Turf had been pulled over his body, but his dirty face was clear. “We got your note.” He said, grinning.

  “They’re burning…” I began as I dumped my dirt nearby.

  “We know,” The boy cut me off. “We know everything. Tomorrow is 4th of July. They’re starting to block our roads to get here, so tomorrow we’re making our move.”

  “What?”

  “Ten o’clock sharp.”

  “Okay,”

  Only when I walked back to my team did I realize we didn’t have watches.

  I trembled with anticipation, dinner tasted better than ever.

  Finding Evans, I gave him the news.

  “We can’t tell anyone.” He said immediately.

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s stooges in the camp; informers who will tell tales for money.”

  I saw the point. “But I got told for a reason. They must need our help or something.”

  I could see him debating the idea. “Leave it with me. I’ll spread the news, but I’ll just tell the leaders, no one else.”

  I couldn’t sleep, my heart beating nine to the dozen.

  I woke with a start, the door being kicked as usual.

  We formed up, marched to the tool store where we got our allocated tools, as usual.

  When we marched out of the back gate, there was no way I could call the situation normal. Yes, there were more protestors, but even I could see their duplicitous plan. They were sitting on the grass, but if you looked real close you could see others behind them. The crowd was bigger than the previous day, but the people in hiding made the numbers swell more.

  We set to work on our square of turf, quickly removing it, and piling it on the camp side, as usual. We’d worked for a while when I couldn’t stand it any longer. I walked up to the nicest guard.

  “Entschuldigen sie bitte, was ist die zeit?”

  He looked at me with astonishment, then looked at his watch. “Hälfte nach neun,”

  Half past nine. I could hardly breathe, my heart beat so loud, I could almost see my chest rise with every beat.

  The First Branch of the Tree

  And for the next thirty minutes, I watched their numbers gradually swell.

  Only when they began to walk towards us did the guards take notice. “Everyone … out of hole.” One said, unshouldering his rifle.

  From somewhere the crowd had produced large placards, signs saying ‘Not here’, ‘Not in Scotland’, ‘Not on Scottish soil’.

  I looked all round. Everywhere, on every part of the perimeter the crowd had swollen to thousands.

  “Get back into camp!” Our sergeant barked, but my feet did not answer. I fell to my knees, smiling at the determined faces that approached us; men, yes, but predominately women, some children over ten, none younger.

  Then one of the guards raised his rifle to fire. “Halt!” he roared, pulling the bolt to his body and slamming the first round home. “Halt.”

  Slowly, Bill walked to the guard, and placed his chest against the muzzle of the rifle, pulling the barrel tight with both hands. I admired his courage, somehow unwilling to accept that I could not have performed the same feat.

  “Back to camp!” the sergeant bellowed, then seeing we were not paying him any attention, he ran towards the gate himself. The other two guards followed him. I looked around; everywhere on the open perimeter, Germans were finding themselves with similar circumstances.

  The crowd had approached to about fifty feet when the first shots were fired. I braced myself for mass destruction, but surprisingly, I heard German shouts
to cease fire. When the crowd passed us, the people in the back of the group each took one of us, and proceeded to simply walk us away.

  My savior, a lady of perhaps forty, put her arm around me, and pulled me first to my feet, where she embraced me. Then she turned away from the camp, and took her first step away, her arm still around my waist, pulling me with her. I daren’t believe that escape could possibly be that easy. As I walked I caught glimpses behind me, the cheers of the crowd now growing. The inner fence was now being attacked by thousands of hands, grabbing the barbed wire, pushing it back and fro. I could only imagine the panic inside.

  I simply found it difficult to fathom why the Spandau machine guns on the guard towers, that had been aimed at us so often, didn’t open fire.

  Looking behind me, one of the tall frames of the fence began to topple. Still my little old lady pulled me away.

  “Why don’t the Germans shoot?” I asked, allowing myself to be led into the moorland.

  “They don’t have enough bullets.” She said in a very Glasgow accent.

  To my right, I saw Bill’s face frozen in the exact same dumb-struck expression. “Where are they taking us?” I called over. I could see nothing ahead but moorland and tufty grass.

  “My car’s up the road a bit.” The lady said. “I’m Margaret.”

  I gave a quiet chuckle. “Well, I’m glad to meet you, Margaret. I’m James, James Baird.”

  When we grew nearer to Bill and his ‘woman’, it became obvious we were heading in the same direction.

  Behind us, I heard the rattle of a machine gun burst, followed by a few punctuated shots. Again when the firing ceased, I struggled to look behind. “They stopped shooting…”

  “The men don’t have a lot of ammunition in case you blokes revolted against them.” It made sense in a perverted way. “There might not have been as much as a hundred bullets in the whole camp.”

  Again, the firing died down. All around me, pairs of walkers strode off into the moorland. By now, the fence had long since disappeared from view, and to be honest, apart from the people walking, I couldn’t see a single piece of civilization. Then over a rise I saw the grey line of a dry stone dyke, and a line of cars parked behind it.