Tumult in the Clouds

by James Goodson

  As I walked, I cleaned one of the potatoes as best I could and bit into it. It was so unpalatable it took my hunger away, but I continued to chew it, hoping it would help keep up my strength. Strange how delicious a potato can be when it’s cooked and how unappealing when raw.

  Occasionally a military vehicle came along, but the headlights were blacked out and it was easy for me to dive into the side of the road and wait for it to pass. It was the third time that I got a shock. The car was coming from behind me. I limped off the road and lay face down in the long grass and weeds. I waited. The car didn’t come. I raised myself on my elbows and looked over my shoulder, I saw the car not far away. Almost at the same time the bright blinding beam of a searchlight came from the side. It started sweeping the fields at the side of the road; stopping, searching, then sweeping again. At the same time, another search-light stabbed out from the other side of the car.

  It was too close for me to get up, and move into the field. All I could do was to roll over twice to get further from the road and flatten myself against the earth. I turned my face away from the road and pressed my cheek into the grass. I could see the light coming and going as the beam swept and probed. Soon I could hear the car, getting close to me. I could see the field light up almost opposite me. I waited to be blinded by the beam catching me in its glare.

  Then I could hear the car almost on top of me. Still I stayed in the shadow. Then the beam swept down the field towards me. I could see how it lit up every stalk of grain, as if it was in bright sunlight. I waited as the light came nearer. It was lighting the tips of the grain a few yards from me. Then it stopped. It started to lift and sweep back up the field. I couldn’t believe it. The car moved on. Soon I could risk looking up. I saw the rear of the vehicle moving slowly down the road.

  I watched fascinated, still unbelieving. Then it occurred to me how I had escaped being seen. As the beam swept down towards the road, it always stopped just before it lit up the immediate road-side. I realised that the searchlight could not be depressed below a certain angle. It was probably calculated that, in the unlikely case that their quarry would be that close to the car, either the dimly diffused headlights or the glow from the powerful searchlight’s glare would give enough coverage to spot it. But there was a narrow strip between the two patches of light, and of course eyes used to looking into light can’t see into the darkness just beside it. It was in that dark gap that I had been lying.

  So I continued to hobble along through the dark summer night. Before long, I came to a neat metal sign, black German Gothic letters on a yellow background. I later learned that these same plates marked every village and town throughout Germany, and as far as I know, still do. They not only give the name of the village but also the name of the Kreis, or district, which takes its name from the main town or city. In this case, I was relieved to see that the Kreis was given as Demmin, and my map had told me that Demmin was the first big town I should head for. I was on course!

  By now my most immediate problem was food; not so much because I was hungry, but because I still felt weak. The trees around me were small pine; probably the only tree that could be grown in the sandy soil. I knew pine offered no food, but I was hoping to find some berries. So I kept going; even if there was nothing to eat in the woods, I could get out of them into farmland again. It was mixed farming country, so there must be cows somewhere.

  So I stumbled on through the woods. It was flat land until I came to a slight decline. I went down into the small valley. At the bottom, as I had hoped there was a stream. I drank and bathed my face. As I rubbed my chin, I realised that I badly needed a shave. I imagined that beards were pretty much out of fashion with the Aryan master race, and my unkempt stubble would be a dead give-away if I should be seen, which was always a possibility. This was a problem which had been foreseen by the geniuses who had designed the amazing escape kit. It contained a miniature razor and a sliver of soap.

  An hour later I was stretched out, naked and clean-shaven, in a small, sunny clearing surrounded by my newly washed clothes spread out on the grass, drying in the sun. My knee was clean and doused with iodine. I was on top of the world. I was lord of all I surveyed.

  The only slight problem was food. I had been chewing wheat ears, raw potatoes and grass, but this had made matters worse by upsetting my stomach. So I was soon struggling along through the woods. When they petered out, I found myself on the edge of a wheat-field. I crawled in and started to make may way through the grain, hoping I was going parallel to the road. Suddenly I saw a field mouse scurrying away in front of me. I lunged at it. It wasn’t hard to catch. I soon had it firmly in both hands. It bit my finger, but I still held it. I suppose I had some idea of sucking its blood to give me some strength. I looked at it as it wrinkled its pinkish nose. I felt its trembling heart-beat under its soft body. I opened my hands to let him scurry off. But he seemed mesmerized. He sat in front of me, his little heart beating. ‘You’d better get going, buddy,’ I said. ‘You’re up against the scourge of the Luftwaffe!’

  I watched him disappear into the forest of wheat stalks and felt better.

  As night fell, I was back on the road, but my knee was really hurting now but above all, I was weak. The moon was out, and, looking out to the side of the road, I saw pasture land. I kept looking, and stopping and listening, praying for some sign of cows.

  And finally there they were; a large herd, black and white in the moonlight. I climbed the fence and slowly, painfully, moved towards the nearest one. It didn’t panic. In fact it kept on grazing. It was only when I was within a few feet of her that she casually moved away. Once again, slow step by slow step, I approached. This time she moved away faster. I decided to try another one. The whole minuet repeated itself. Once I even put a tentative hand on her rump. She started and moved away. I tried a new strategy. I lay down on the grass and painfully inched towards her. As she grazed, she would step forward, but I slowly gained on her. I wasn’t trying to hide my presence; just hoping she’d gradually get used to me. I finally got so close I could reach her udder. My hand slowly closed around a teat. At the same moment she walked on. Slowly I crawled after her. Each time she moved on at the last moment.

  I realised I was up against two problems. First these cows were not used to being milked in the fields; and, second, they had probably been milked in the evening, and felt no desire to be milked again. I decided sadly that I was wasting too much time.

  It seemed food was not to be found in the open. I would have to continue my trek, and try one farm after another.

  The first farm, set back as usual from the road, had a dog. It started barking almost as soon as I turned into the lane leading off the main road. I turned back, and kept going. I didn’t come to another farm until I reached the outskirts of a village. I thought at first this would be more dangerous, or at least more difficult. But then I wondered if being close to a village might not make the farmer less nervous about intruders. Besides it was a small farm; maybe not so well organised; The barn was at the back of the house. I went back to the road, climbed a fence into a field, and approached the farm from the rear. I saw by my watch it was 4 a.m.

  The barn was small, not more than a shed, and, more important, it had only a wooden latch. When I gently lifted it, the door swung open. An odour of chickens, manure and hay hit me. But there was also a pungent smell which I recognised as soon as I heard the staccato bleat. Somewhere in the darkness was a goat. A goat meant milk and a goat in a shed meant I could catch her.

  I closed the door behind me to keep the clucking of the hens and the noise of the goat from being heard in the house. I stood still to let them calm down and to get my eyes used to the darkness. I thanked God for the goat but I prayed it was tethered. Slowly I moved towards the sounds and smell of the goat. I heard it moving to avoid me, and then I could just see it. I kept on moving towards it and, from its movements, I saw that it seemed to be tied. I went to the wall and moved along until I came to the rope. With one han
d I held the rope; with the other I reached out and stroked her head.

  I worked my way down her neck, caressing the coarse hair on her body; but as I dropped to my knee, and groped for her udder, she shied away from me. I tried again. And again. Then I realised my only chance was to tether her so short she couldn’t move. I remembered the blacksmith when I was a kid. He had me twist a horse’s nose with a small loop of rope and a wooden handle.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt him, it just holds his attention, and keeps his head up,’ he said. So I took the rope, pulled the goat’s head up to the iron ring, and tied the rope as close as I could. She wore a loose sort of halter so there was no danger of choking her, but it didn’t stop her bleating. It didn’t stop her kicking either, but I was still able to reach one of her teats, and squirt a stream of warm milk into my mouth as I knelt on the floor.

  It was the answer to all my prayers. I felt strength, well-being and joy flood into me with each grateful swallow.

  But I was only just getting the hang of squirting the milk into my mouth when the shed was suddenly lit up. I turned to the source of the light. In the doorway, holding a lantern, was, an elderly farmer.

  They say it’s the essential characteristic of a good fighter pilot to react quickly and decisively. At least in this case that’s what I did. I scrambled to my feet and lunged towards the light. The old man staggered backwards. His face still showed amazement at the sight of me. I brushed passed him. He crumpled and fell backwards to the ground in his frantic effort to get out of my way.

  I dodged around the shed and headed back into the field the way I’d come in. It was beginning to get light in that northern latitude, and the locals would be quick to respond to the old man’s alarm.

  The field was pastureland, but behind it I could see woods. That’s where I headed, loping along as best I could. The trees were pines or spruce, and as I plunged in, I saw that they were regularly spaced; obviously planted like most of the woods in Germany. They were tall and closely enough planted to prevent any protective underbrush from growing. The tree-trunks were mostly bare, as if the lower branches had been trimmed. The ground was sandy and partly covered with dead pine-needles. I felt very exposed, as I kept stumbling on.

  When I could keep going no longer, I flopped down to rest. Then I took out my map. I was making my way around the large town of Demmin. I had covered about half the distance from Neu Brandenburg to the Baltic, and I was determined to make it. I knew my knee was getting worse, and I was getting weaker. I knew they were looking for me, and would have alerted police and military all along my route, and especially in the densely patrolled coastal area. But, just as these thoughts were going through my mind, I froze. There was no doubt about the sound I heard; it was the barking of dogs: not happy barks, but the excited yelping of hounds on a scent.

  I realised there was no sense in just running. There was no stream to cross to throw off the trail. I looked around desperately for cover. There was none. Then I looked up. I saw the thick, dark umbrella of evergreen above me.

  I remember reading somewhere that searchers seldom looked up. I picked out a group of trees that seemed to be closer together. One of them had vestiges of branches left where they had been trimmed. It wasn’t easy. It took all my strength and several attempts to shimmy up the smooth trunk to where the branches started. Then it got thick. I had to fight my way up into the pine branches at the top. I went up as far as I dared. It swayed alarmingly, but settled down when I clung to the trunk and kept still.

  Now there were men’s voices mixed with the barking of the dogs, and they were getting closer. Soon they were underneath. The noises of men and beasts indicated they were confused. I could only see the ground immediately under the tree just around the trunk. My cheek was against the rough bark as I strained to see. I was dreading the sight of a dog following the scent to the foot of the tree, and then barking up at me.

  For almost five minutes they milled around below me. Then to my amazement they moved away. I still don’t know why the dogs didn’t surround the tree. Maybe they weren’t good tracking dogs, Maybe a trail over pine needles isn’t that easy to follow.

  I clung to my perch after the sounds of the men and dogs had died away. I kept expecting them to come back, but after about fifteen minutes I had to move my stiff limbs. Slowly I climbed down, dropping the last twenty feet to the ground. I lay still and listened. Only the sounds of the forest! I couldn’t believe my luck; but I also knew it would get tougher from now on. The whole area would be alerted. It would need more than determination to get to the coast now; and then there was the problem of crossing the Baltic! Still I wasn’t downhearted. At least, even if I eventually got caught, every day of freedom was one day less in the prisoner-of-war camp. I set course for the North, and limped off.

  I crossed the main road from Demmin to Jarmen and Swinemünde, which meant I was due east of Demmin. My next landmark would be the river. When I crossed that I could turn west to pick up the main road running north from Demmin to Stralsund on the Baltic.

  When I reached the river it was wider than I had expected. What’s more there were houses along the opposite bank. I followed the river bank westward, looking for a clear crossing. As I picked my way along the river bank, I saw a bridge. I knew a bridge could be a serious trap.

  A small road led up to the bridge. I dare not cross it close to the bridge, near which there were buildings. I followed the edge of the road away from the bridge before crossing; then I followed the road back towards the bridge again, then veered off into the field, hitting the river again about a hundred yards upstream from the bridge. I slithered down to the water’s edge; then into the river, boots and all. There was no problem until I had to start swimming; then the current started floating me downstream towards the bridge. I tried not to splash, but they must have heard. Suddenly there were searchlights. Almost immediately there was gun fire. I dived under water and let the river carry me down under the bridge, helping the current by trying to swim underwater. When I could stand it no longer, I surfaced for a gulp of air, then dived under again.

  When I finally had to surface, all was quiet and dark. I made for the far bank and by the time my feet touched bottom I was well past the bridge. Slowly I crawled to the bank and lay half in, half out of the water catching my breath.

  After about ten minutes I started to crawl up the bank. I knew there were houses there, but I figured I was coming up behind them through their back gardens. They might give me some cover to reconnoitre before venturing out to cross the road, which I expected to find on the other side of the houses.

  There was a clear space between me and the buildings. I decided to make a rush across it. Half crouched, I hobbled across as fast as I could. Then I saw my mistake. Right in front of me was the road. I wasn’t behind the houses. I was in front of them. Suddenly everything happened at once. I heard the sound of running. Orders were barked out in German. Beams of light caught me in their glare. There were men and vehicles behind the lights in front of me.

  I turned to run back to the river. They were behind me too, cutting me off. There was no alternative so I kept going. I had some hope of diving back into the river, and being carried downstream out of range. I didn’t make it. The last thing I saw was two uniformed, helmeted soldiers. Both had their guns pressed into my stomach. Both looked determined, desperate and frightened. It was time to change tactics. In my best German, and with as charming a smile as I could muster, I said:

  ‘Gentlemen; good evening! Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’

  It didn’t raise a smile, but they didn’t shoot.

  They took me to a modest village police station. I sat surrounded by what seemed to be the entire complement. Five men were seated on wooden chairs. All had guns pointed at me, except for the man seated behind a desk who seemed to be the boss. Two men were wearing what I took to be police uniforms. Two seemed to be wearing SS uniforms. The other two, including the man behind the desk, were in
civilian clothes.

  The man behind the desk was strangely friendly and cheerful. He seemed more like a farmer than a Gestapo boss. Of course he was probably happy to be responsible for my capture, but I had the feeling that he was a nice guy; probably the local police chief. He was smiling as he said in German: ‘Let’s try it again, shall we! Who are you and what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m a French worker. I got separated from my work party which was on its way from Stettin to Rostock.’

  ‘And where are your identity papers?’

  ‘Lost during the bombing of Stettin. We were completely bombed out.’

  ‘You are supposed to keep your identity papers on you all the time.’

  ‘I was knocked out and wounded in the leg during the bombing. Maybe they were stolen.’

  ‘Komische Geschichte, but it’s nothing to do with me. You’ll have to tell it to the others.’

  ‘What others?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  I was still puzzled by the fact that he was in civilian clothes. Maybe he was a Nazi Party boss, a Gauleiter, or even the mayor. I hazarded a direct question.

  ‘Are you Gestapo, sir?’

  ‘Mixed,’ he said. ‘But we are all Nazi dogs.’

  I showed my surprise at the use of the word ‘Hünde.’

  ‘You understand? Dogs!’ he repeated, and started to bark like a dog.

  Then he laughed. To this day I don’t know why he used those words. Was he showing that he knew that foreigners and non-Nazis referred to them as ‘dogs’? Was he using the word to indicate their solidarity and loyalty to one another like a pack of dogs? Or was he by any chance expressing some underlying disillusion with the Nazi force?

  A truck pulled up outside. Doors banged; orders were barked out; heavy boots stomped and the door to our room was thrown open. The smiles and friendly atmosphere vanished. The men leaped to their feet, stamped to attention, and gave the Nazi salute almost in unison. A man in civilian clothes, wearing a rather wide-brimmed hat came in, followed by a uniformed sergeant and a soldier armed with the small sub-machine gun, which I soon learnt was called a ‘Maschinen-Pistole’ by the Germans.