"Sarah! I love you!"
Tony was not sure whether the whispered words actually issued from his lips or if they were only spoken in his mind. But he knew they had been said and that, somehow, Sarah would know that his last thought had been of her.
Tony lay for a long time with his eyes closed, wondering if this was heaven. He tried to move. Sharp knives of pain coursed through his body, and he knew he was not dead after all. Slowly he opened his eyes, and turned his head to survey his surroundings. He was in a small room lit by a naked bulb, which threw the bare stone walls into stark relief. The walls were unbroken by any obstruction, save for a heavy wooden door. The only furnishings, if they could be so called, were a bucket in one corner and the bed on which he lay. With tentative fingers he explored the thin mattress on the base of bare wooden boards. His joy at finding himself still alive began to recede, as he recognised the room for what it was, and the grim truth of his predicament burst on is brain. It was so similar to the room where he had been held before that there was no doubt in his mind that he was once more in the hands of the SS. For a moment he lay still, absorbing the facts of his situation. He knew that he would not be able to hold out under interrogation this time. He felt the hollow tooth with its hidden parcel of death with the tip of his tongue, and took a strange comfort from it. This time he was not solely at the mercy of his captors, but had the freedom to choose the time of his own death.
Summoning whatever reserves of strength he had, Tony moved his right hand, carefully exploring the areas of pain on his body. His chest was swathed with bandages. He probed them gently to reveal a long wound which, though painful, was not too hard to bear. He thought one of the bullets in its flight had cut a groove in the flesh of his chest. He was thankful it had not hit him an inch to the right, for then it would have entered his rib cage, and the chances were that it would have caused his death, through damage to either his heart or lungs. The exploring hand moved on to the left shoulder. Waves of excruciating pain flooded his being as he explored the bandaged wound. He could not determine the extent of the wound, and wrongly assumed that it felt worse than it was. In fact the bullet had entered through the shoulder blade, and as it exited had taken muscle and bone with it, leaving a gaping wound. Whoever had dressed it had cleaned it fairly well, but had not removed all the fragments of bone from the torn flesh nor attempted to mend the torn muscle. When the wound healed, always assuming that Tony would live long enough for it to do so, the shoulder would always be stiff and awkward to move. The only other part of Tony’s body to pain him was his leg. A bullet had torn through the top part of the calf muscle, carrying much of it away in a gobbet of blood and flesh. The wound had been dressed, but again no attempt had been made to rectify any of the damage. The leg was bound to be weak when healed.
Tony wondered how long he had been lying in the cell, and who had dressed his wounds, but his questions went unanswered as the minutes and hours slowly ticked by. Gradually the pain was pushed to the back of his mind. Hunger and thirst took precedence in his tortured body, but pain and the loss of blood took their toll and he slowly succumbed to sleep once more.
The sound of a key in the lock and the heavy wooden door opening brought Tony back to wakefulness. He turned his head towards the entrance. His heart sank, though his face remained impassive as the two men walked in. Major Steinhauser’s face wore a malicious grin as he looked at the helpless man on the bed.
"So we meet again." Tony said nothing as the major turned to the sergeant who accompanied him. “Well, Karl, what do you think of our brave Englishman now?"
"Like a snake with its fangs pulled."
Steinhauser laughed.
"At least the snake managed to cause you plenty of trouble before you were able to draw its fangs."
Steinhauser stopped laughing and glared at Tony. "Brave words, Englishman, but they won’t sustain you when the questioning begins." His voice was harsh as he crossed the bare floor with brisk strides, blue eyes flashing. "You won’t get away from us this time."
"That’s irrelevant." Tony was defiant. The suicide pill gave him extra courage. He knew that he could always find blessed release if the pain of questioning was too great. "You must realise by now that you have lost this war. It is only a matter of time before the Allies are successful."
"You will never live to see that day!"
Tony smiled mockingly. "I know. But just knowing the day will come is enough for me!"
Steinhauser kicked the wooden bed. The vibrations jarred Tony’s body. He gritted his teeth as waves of agony suffused his body. Steinhauser grinned as the Englishman gasped for breath.
"You have an inflated idea of your own worth. You are a worthless pawn in this war, and I won’t waste my time with you. You have nothing that can be of any use to me now, so I’ll have you moved to a place where they can interrogate you at their will, before executing you for the spy you are." Steinhauser turned on his heel and left the room with brisk strides. Tony frowned at Dresner.
"What does he mean by that?"
"You will be on the next transport to a labour camp, like all members of the Resistance who fall into our hands. We no longer waste our time with such rabble here."
The German turned and left the room. As the door closed and the key turned in the lock, Tony smiled. The Germans seemed rattled. A year ago they would not have considered the interrogation of an English spy as a waste of time. His heart lifted as he realised that this could mean only one thing. The Allies had landed at last, and the Germans were worried. He closed his eyes and willed his injured body to rest in preparation for whatever ordeals lay ahead, and said a silent prayer of thanks that he had lived long enough to see the beginning of the end for Germany.
161
The days passed slowly. Each day saw a small improvement in Tony’s condition, as his wounds began the slow process of healing. It was still impossible for him to move his left arm without a pain in his shoulder of such nauseating intensity that it made the room swim around him. He could not put any weight on his mangled leg, but the wound to his chest was healing fast and he was able to sit and feed himself with his right hand.
By the time he had been in the hands of the Germans for a week, he was able to move a few paces, as long as he leant against the wall for support and moved slowly. He was trying to see how far he could walk when the door was opened. Two civilians entered, accompanied by a guard who pointed his rifle at Tony.
"Come now."
"Where?"
"Don’t question, scum. Just come."
The two civilians moved forward, one either side of him, and supported Tony as they moved out of the cell. Each step was an agony as they led him along the narrow corridor and up the stairs. In the yard at the rear of the building a truck was waiting. As Tony hobbled forward, he could see that it was already full of tired, weary men, whose heads were held low beneath the threatening barrels of the German guns. The two men with Tony helped him into the back of the truck, the excruciating pain in his shoulder causing him to cry out, and the German guards laughed. Tony lay on the floor of the truck, gasping for breath as the two civilians climbed up behind him and sat down.
"Where are we going?"
"Silence!"
The butt of a rifle caught Tony in the ribs. He slipped into merciful oblivion as the truck began to move away.
Tony had no idea how long he had been unconscious. When he opened his eyes once more, he was in a dark, stuffy place, lying on bare wooden boards. Chinks of light shone through the cracks in the wooden walls. A hut perhaps? He struggled to sit up and felt a hand on his arm.
"Here, let me help you."
He turned his head to see who it was and saw a Frenchman in his forties, one of the two who had helped him into the truck.
"Where are we?"
"On a train."
Tony looked around. The confined space was full of men who stood or sat in the gloom. They looked depressed, as though they had no hope for the future. Tony frowned.
"This is a train?"
The man nodded. "Yes. They put us in a cattle truck."
"Who are all these people?"
"We’re just ordinary men who’ve done something to annoy the Germans. We’re being transported to a labour camp in Germany."
"Germany?"
The man nodded. "We are to work, to help the German war effort."
Tony felt his heart sinking. They would be moving east, away from the advancing Allied forces and any hope of rescue. There was no chance of him escaping alone in his present condition, and the future looked bleak. He began to realise why the men with him were so quiet and depressed.
"What’s your name?"
"Henri Arnaud. I’m here because I drained the petrol from a German truck." He looked quizzically at Tony.
"What happened to you?" Tony thought for a moment. Should he tell this man who he really was, or should he continue with his cover story? Henri mistook his silence and made to turn away.
"You don’t need to tell me. I’m sorry I asked."
"No. Wait." Tony smiled. "I'm sorry, I was just debating what to tell you. You see, I’m English and have been working in France under the name of Albert Fouquet. But now the Germans know I’m English, I can revert to my true name, though I shall tell them nothing else. I am Tony Kemshall and I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Henri."
Henri shook the proffered hand. "I’m pleased to meet you too, Tony." He indicated the bandages as he spoke. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"I sabotaged the docks, and was shot while trying to escape."
"A saboteur! You’re lucky the Germans didn’t shoot you straight away!"
As Henri spoke the train began to move. As it jolted forward Tony cried out in pain. Henri helped him to lie down again, and tried to make him as comfortable as possible. The truck swayed from side to side as it gathered speed. Henri wondered if the pale Englishman was well enough to withstand the rigours of a train journey that could last as long as two days. If he had known just how bad the journey would be, he would never have believed that Tony would reach their destination alive.
The train was made up of many trucks, and it wound its way eastwards like a slow snake. The hot sun beat down on the cattle trucks. They grew stuffy with the lack of air, for the only ventilation came from small slits high in the sides. During the first day, the prisoners ate and drank freely of the bread and water which had been placed inside the truck with them. But as the train was halted in a siding that night, the huge doors remained tightly locked and the men began to realise that their provisions might have to last them until they reached their destination, so they began to ration themselves carefully. As pressing as the need for food and water was, the suffering men found the need to relieve themselves even more demanding. The small bucket in the corner had overflown early in the afternoon. It was now surrounded by a pool of urine and excrement, attracting numerous flies, which were able to come and go through the cracks in the walls whenever they pleased. The smell was discomforting, and the men hoped they would be able to empty the bucket in the morning.
Before dawn the train moved on again, the bucket still unemptied. With the Allied landings a week old, transport priority went to troops and munitions trains so that the prison transport was shunted back and forth to keep the main lines clear. Sometimes they would travel for hours in an easterly direction, only to be sent south or north at the next town. Twice they travelled west for some indeterminable time before regaining their route once more. All the time, the conditions in the truck deteriorated. The bread, green with mould, ran out on the fourth day, some hours after the last drop of water had been drunk. The atmosphere was oppressive, hot and stuffy. A sickening stench of vomit and excreta filled the air, which was unbreathable. Henri had managed to widen a crack in the walls, so he and Tony could take welcome gulps of fresh air whenever possible. There was no doubt that this enabled them to survive, where others did not. A number of older men had already died by the end of the fifth day, unable to breathe, their bodies desperate for water. When the train stopped, the prisoners cried out and banged on the sides, pleading for provisions and a chance to unload the dead. But they were ignored. The bodies had to be piled beside the offensive bucket, whose filth had long since spread all over the floor so that the men sat in their own excreta. The smell of the dead mingled with the other smells, to create a miasma the like of which none of the prisoners could ever have imagined in their wildest nightmares.
Tony was thankful that Henri Arnaud stayed by his side. The rocking and bumping of the truck filled his wounded body with pain. At times he slipped into unconsciousness. He might have died, save for the ministrations of his new friend. The fresh air which came through the enlarged crack was more than welcome, helping Tony to fight off the fever which struck him on the second day, and did not leave him until three days later. Lying weakly beside Henri, he noticed that the Frenchman had done his best to keep the dressings of his wounds out of the filth covering the floor. But the white bandages were now grey, and he feared that if they were not changed for clean ones soon, infection might set in. It would be ironic if he died from gangrene, before the Germans were able to interrogate him.
The nightmare journey continued until, in the early afternoon of the seventh day, the train came to a halt. Tony pressed one eye to the crack. He looked out to see a marshalling yard full of German soldiers, with dogs barking and straining at their leashes. A sign over the small platform told the grim legend of their destination. BUCHENWALD. They had arrived.
The huge doors of the cattle truck were pushed open, allowing fresh air to enter for the first time in a week. Those who had survived dragged themselves through the muck and over the bodies of their dead comrades, gasping as the clean fresh air filled their lungs. Climbing down from the truck, they blinked hard as the bright sunlight burned their eyes. Tony stood supported by Henri, and stared in amazement. The few dozen men who had journeyed from Saint Nazaire were insignificant compared to the hundreds of people fighting their way out of the trucks of the long train. Trucks which had become coffins on wheels.
There was the sound of whips, the barking of dogs, the screaming voices of guards. It was chaotic, but slowly order was being made out of the chaos as the prisoners were pushed into columns of fives. Tony noticed that all those from the other cattle trucks were wearing a yellow star. Those who were slow to take their places were kicked or beaten, whips rained down on their shoulders and the huge German shepherd dogs bit and snarled at their heels. Tony and Henri found their place in the short column of people who had come from France and waited until the cattle trucks were empty of all, save the dead and those too weak to move. At last the prisoners were marched off.
The track was dry and sandy, lifting dust which settled on their filthy clothes and bodies like a crust. Tony was hardly aware of that, all he could think of was dragging his injured body forwards. Henri was at his side, constantly supporting and encouraging. Tony knew he would never have made it without that help. At last, over the heads of the men ahead of him, Tony was able to see his destination. A huge fence stretched away in both directions. At intervals of a few yards there were posts, with shelters high above them and in each shelter a guard. Beyond the fence were groups of buildings, but Tony was too far away to make out what they were.
The column slowed to a crawl. As Tony approached the huge iron gate, he saw that they were being divided. An SS officer watched those approaching impassively, as though assessing their worth. Some he sent through the gates and into the compound, while others were directed to follow the road as it turned left and continued parallel to the fence. As he watched, Tony felt he could discern the criteria for selection. The young and healthy went through the gates, while the old, children, the sick and those dreadfully weakened by the journey went to the left. The majority of those sent that way wore the gaudy yellow star. Henri and Tony approached the officer, who perused the Frenchman and indicated that he should enter the compound. His ey
es roved over Tony’s wounded body and pointed left. A young man at his shoulder whispered in his ear. He indicated Tony’s injuries, and then a note in the file he carried. The officer held up his hand. Tony stopped. When the German beckoned, he limped forward, flanked by two armed guards.
"Name?" barked the SS officer.
"Albert Fouquet."
The young soldier whispered again.
"That’s an alias. You are English?" Tony nodded. "Real name."
"Lieutenant Anthony Kemshall."
The young man beside the officer nodded, and pointed to something written in the file. The officer pointed to Tony, and then to the gates. Without a second glance at the young man, he continued to select which of the new arrivals were to go to the right and which to the left.
Tony hobbled through the gates to where Henri was waiting for him. Together they followed the rest of the column into the building, which they would come to know as the Sauna. Men in prison garb with a red cross painted on the back were yelling orders in German. The prisoners were ordered to take off their clothes, which were taken away to be de-loused and were never seen again. Then they marched into the showers where the lukewarm water washed away the filth of their journey. Tony’s once white bandages were filthy. He removed them, and allowed the water to wash over his wounds, hoping that it would clear away any infection before it had a chance to take hold. On leaving the showers, the new arrivals at Buchenwald were dipped in disinfectant, a foul smelling greenish blue liquid. Tony gritted his teeth as the fluid burned into his slowly healing wounds. He felt as though a fire was raging through his skin, and he scrambled out at the far side as quickly as possible.
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