No Entry

by Manning Coles

  The two Vopos shouted at them.

  “What’s all this? Why are you stopping?”

  The senior workman threw the one word “Lunch” over his shoulder and they all repaired to a small clear space near by, where a pot was bubbling slowly upon embers. Three tin pannikins were charged with stew, three spoons were taken from pockets, and three workmen sat down in a row upon a low bank to eat.

  After a momentary hesitation the two Vopos sat down opposite to them and continued their watch. The Vopos stared, three pairs of jaws moved rhythmically, the sun shone down, and silence lay over all.

  Presently, with one accord, as at a given signal, the chewing stopped and the busy jaws were still. Through the trees behind the backs of the Vopo guard there passed the tall slim figure of an active young man.

  There was no change of expression on the workmen’s faces and no indication that they had seen anything unusual, only the slow chewing stopped and after a moment one of the Vopos commented.

  “What’s the matter? Food not good enough for you?”

  The chewing started again and continued until the pannikins were empty, when the senior workman, addressing no one in particular, said that the food was all right but that there was not enough of it.

  “You’d best be careful,” snapped the Vopo. “That’s enough from you.”

  The workmen sat still until the very last moment before the Vopos would tell them to get up and then rose slowly to their feet and plodded heavily back to work.

  * * *

  George Micklejohn walked on and presently came to the edge of the wood and looked across rolling agricultural country with a red-roofed town in the middle distance. There were people working in the fields but they took no notice of him. There was a path along the edge of the wood and he kept to it.

  He heard suddenly the sound of a fallen branch cracking beneath someone’s foot and turned to see two men in uniform with soft peaked caps on their heads. They carried arms; they were, in fact, soldiers. They came straight up to him, with no friendliness in face or manner, and addressed him in a language of which he did not understand one word.

  “Nichts verstehe,” he said, trying German first. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Je ne comprends pas,” he added in French and then, having exhausted his repertoire, smiled at them.

  They did not smile; on the contrary, they looked grimmer than before. One of them pointed down the path ahead and signalled to Micklejohn to proceed down it. By this time, of course, it had dawned upon him that he had somewhere crossed the zonal boundary and presumably these soldiers were Russians. In that case, the only thing to do was to apologise and retire. He stepped back.

  “Frightfully sorry,” he said. “Didn’t know I was trespassing. I’ll go back.” Since he was plainly not understood, he pointed to himself, then back the way he had come, added: “Good afternoon,” and turned to go, but one of the soldiers lunged forward and seized him by the left arm.

  This was too much and Micklejohn reacted promptly. He uppercut the soldier as hard as he knew how and the fellow rolled over backwards into a heap of dead branches. Instantly the second man unslung his rifle, took it back and swung at Micklejohn’s head with the butt. He saw it coming and dodged, but the blow fell upon his left shoulder, with paralysing effect. He staggered, caught his heel, and fell, and in a moment they were both on him, for the fallen man was more angry than hurt.

  The next few minutes were a blazing kaleidoscope of pain, fury, and humiliation. They were both heavier and older than Micklejohn; they had never heard of Queensberry Rules and would not have cared if they had. When it was quite plain that he was no longer capable of resistance they dragged him to his feet, held him by both arms, and took him down the rough path at a pace which he could not maintain without stumbling continually.

  Eventually they arrived at a small clearing in the forest, and stopped. Micklejohn, feeling more dead than alive, was dimly aware of a group of people. He pulled himself together and saw that there were more soldiers grouped about a table covered with maps and papers, there were some Army utility vehicles in the background and each of them bore the stencilled insignia of a red star.

  One of the men in the group had the air of a high-ranking officer. He was a grey-haired man with a podgy red face. Micklejohn’s captors talked, the officer evidently asked questions, and the soldiers answered. Finally they pushed Micklejohn forward and the officer addressed him personally.

  Micklejohn shook his head and said that he was English. Englander. British.

  The officer’s face lit up, at last something had been said which had been understood, but if Micklejohn thought that his troubles were over he was wrong. He was taken back to the outskirts of the group and one of the soldiers, in obedience to some order, trotted off into the woods.

  Micklejohn could hardly have chosen a worse moment to blunder into Russian Army activities. The Russians were in the acute stage of one of their periodical attacks of panic on the subject of an attack from the West; there was indeed a certain measure of poetic justice in Micklejohn’s troubles, since it was largely his father’s urging atomic weapons upon the West German Army which had set off the panic on this occasion. From the Russian point of view the Western Beast was crouching for a spring and the Smirnov Plan was being put into operation.

  The Smirnov Plan involved a strong line of defence along the zonal boundary between East and West Germany. The Russian thinks that if there has to be a war it had much better be fought on somebody else’s territory, not his, and a very sensible idea it is. General Vedovitch, the well-known expert on defence in depth, was making a close study of the Zonal Frontier, sector by sector, to co-ordinate, improve, and complete the layout of the land defence of Eastern Germany against attack from the West, which comprises the core of the Smirnov Plan. On the day when Micklejohn crossed the line, General Vedovitch was dealing personally with the Stapelburg sector; it was he before whom Micklejohn had been brought, and upon the table in the clearing lay the large-scale fully detailed maps covered with code markings and annotations about observation points, gun positions, fields of fire, concealed defences, ammunition dumps, lines of supply and communication, and all the rest of the Mystery of War.

  Time passed. Micklejohn took out his handkerchief to wipe blood and dirt off his face and sat down to rest. He was aching in every limb, his left shoulder hurt him, his mouth was cut and bleeding and his head ached, but all these things were of no importance compared with the fury which possessed him. There is nothing like being contemptuously kicked by louts in heavy boots to rouse the primitive beast in the most cultured undergraduate. He muttered, “Wait, wait,” to himself. He was so angry that his teeth chattered.

  General Vedovitch did not even look at him. The maps on the table were closely studied and marks and marginal notes made upon them. The General seemed to be delivering a lecture to four or five officers gathered round the table; they looked at the maps and nodded from time to time. At last the General folded up the biggest map together with several sheets of paper and put them in a brief case. The table now being clear, an orderly came from one of the trucks and began to lay knives and forks. General Vedovitch was about to lunch.

  The soldier who had trotted off upon some errand returned at this point with a young man in civilian clothes who was not much older than Micklejohn himself and not so tall, notably thin in the face and slender in build. He came to stand before the General, who looked at him with evident distaste and barked at him rather than spoke to him.

  “The Big Boy doesn’t like this one,” said Micklejohn to himself. “Wonder why. Clean and tidy lad. Quite well dressed, too. A good suit and it fits him. Bit of a fop by the look of him.”

  The young man bowed to the General, turned on his heel, marched across to where Micklejohn sat on a mossy bank and said abruptly: “Get up!”

  He spoke English.

  Micklejohn looked up without attempting to rise and said: “Why?”

  “The General will tell
you.”

  George hesitated, the young Russian scowled, and two soldiers moved up. It would be merely idiotic to invite more punishment.

  “I will hear the General’s apology for this outrage,” said Micklejohn, and got up slowly. The Russian’s eyes snapped but he said nothing. Micklejohn ignored him and limped towards the table, for he had been kicked on the knee. General Vedovitch sat squarely on a camp chair with his fists on his knees, looked Micklejohn up and down, and said something.

  The young man translated.

  “Who are you?”

  “George Micklejohn.”

  “What are you?”

  “An undergraduate of Brasenose College, Oxford.”

  A few sentences were exchanged at this point, probably explanations.

  “Your passport?”

  George produced it and it was handed to the General, who examined it with the interpreter’s help.

  “Now,” said Micklejohn firmly, “I am prepared to apologise for having inadvertently trespassed across your frontier, provided that I first receive an apology from you”—he looked straight at the General—“for the insolent behaviour of your men and the brutal treatment I received at their hands.”

  He waited while the translation was made. As it ended, the General slapped his knee and laughed loudly, the other officers laughed with him, and even the interpreter looked faintly amused.

  “How did you come here?”

  Micklejohn was quite willing to answer this and did so fully.

  “You expect we believe you merely stroll across without knowing where you go?”

  “Certainly. The frontier is not marked in any way.”

  “It is the stream you cross.”

  “Indeed? It is still not marked.”

  “You could have asked.”

  “Asked whom? There was no one about.”

  “What are your political affiliations?”

  “I have none,” snapped George, for he considered the question an impertinence.

  “We waste time,” said the General impatiently, and that also was translated.

  “I agree, we do,” said George. “You will apologise and then I will go home.”

  “The cock thinks he is on his own dunghill,” said the General contemptuously. “Andrey Lentov, take him down to my headquarters and lock him up. I will deal with him when I have time.”

  The young civilian received the order in silence.

  “And do not take too much delight in airing your beautiful English on the way down. I do not trust you, Andrey Lentov, as you know. I would not send you if I could spare anyone else. Take an escort. Go!”

  Lentov bowed again and stepped back.

  “Wait,” said General Vedovitch and addressed one of the other officers. “Vladimir, lend me your revolver.”

  Vladimir saluted and handed it over at once.

  “Here,” said the General, holding out the revolver to Lentov, “take this. Put it in your pocket,” he added as Lentov stood holding the weapon in his hand. “Yes, I daresay it will drag your beautiful jacket out of shape but you will do what you’re told. Pocket it, you fool, and take your hand out again. That’s right. If the prisoner tries to escape, shoot him. No excuses now about not having a gun, eh? Now go. No, wait a minute.”

  Lentov, who had turned to go, spun round again and Micklejohn noticed that he was white round the nostrils and that his mouth was a thin hard line.

  “You can take this brief case to Headquarters with you,” continued the General. “It is to be locked in the safe. Be careful with it, the contents are valuable. Much more valuable than the life of a civilian liaison officer with the local civil authorities. Go. Oh, and our prisoner’s passport, take it and hand it in with the prisoner. Go.”

  Lentov put the passport—it also contained George’s few surviving travellers cheques—into his pocket and turned for the third time. This time he was not recalled. He said, “You come with me,” to Micklejohn and shepherded him away from the table.

  “Where are we going?” asked Micklejohn, but he received no answer.

  5: Andrey Lentov

  Since no one had bothered to translate to Micklejohn anything but the questions he had been required to answer, he had no idea of what had been said, though the General’s manner had been unmistakable. He did not like Lentov, he had made a fool of him in public; Lentov in consequence was in such a rage that his hands were trembling and he could not command his voice.

  Micklejohn was conducted to a Russian version of a jeep and told to get into the front seat. Lentov took the wheel and a Russian private with a big machine pistol sat in the seat behind.

  “Where are we going?” repeated Micklejohn as coolly as though he were being taken for a pleasant drive in the country.

  “You will find out when you get there,” snarled Lentov. “Sit down and keep still or I shoot you. This—” tapping the revolver in his right-hand pocket—“if fired into the stomach, it hurts.”

  He slipped his left arm through the handles of the brief case and pushed it up his arm, tucking it close to his side out of the way. Micklejohn looked round as they drove off. The group had scattered and the General’s lunch was being served. George turned his head a little further and met the passionless gaze of the private in the back seat. The clumsy pistol he held wavered about as the car rocked on the rough track, but the muzzle was never more than a few inches from the back of George’s head.

  “No luck there,” said Lentov coldly. “Stepan likes shooting.”

  Micklejohn looked straight ahead and made no answer.

  For a few hundred yards they sidled and jolted down the forest track and then emerged upon a country lane, not a good road by any standards but yet a road. Lentov settled himself more easily and the car gathered speed.

  About two miles further along the road the car’s engine missed, spluttered, missed again, and stopped; Lentov coasted to the side of the road and brought the car to a halt. He gave some order to the private, who responded by practically resting the muzzle of his weapon upon Micklejohn’s coat collar. If he leaned back he could feel it and if he moved forward it came with him.

  Lentov raised the bonnet and examined the engine. He was, in fact, trying to flood the carburettor but without success. He went round to the back of the car and unscrewed the cap of the petrol tank. There followed a stream of remarks which were so unmistakably swear words that the fact of their being in an unknown tongue did not faze Micklejohn for a moment. Besides, he had already diagnosed the trouble. They had run out of petrol.

  Lentov returned to his side of the car and threw himself into the driver’s seat. He turned to the private in the back and led off a spluttering commentary which was certainly not praise. He banged the back of the seat with a clenched fist and uttered a series of single words which did not sound like endearments. Micklejohn could see the private’s face reflected in the driving mirror above the windscreen and was interested to notice that its expression did not alter at all. The man merely stared straight ahead and made no attempt to answer. Finally Lentov issued an order, for the private laid down his gun, got out of the car, and walked off by the way they had come.

  Lentov shouted one word after him and the man broke into a clumsy trot which lasted at least until he was out of sight round a bend.

  Lentov uttered an exasperated sigh and pushed the General’s brief case, still upon his arm, more comfortably against his side. He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, slewed round towards Micklejohn and spent the next five minutes trying to blow smoke into his prisoner’s face. There was, however, a pleasantly fresh current of air blowing in on Micklejohn’s side. The attempt was a failure and George gave not the faintest sign of having noticed it. Besides, he was engaged in thought.

  Lentov’s pistol was temptingly near at hand, since it was in the jacket pocket on the side nearest to Micklejohn. One might snatch the gun, shoot him, and run for it. George had read enough war memoirs to know that some men would do that at on
ce and without turning a hair, but he could not imagine himself doing it. He was much too young to have served in the war and even his National Service had been postponed till he had finished at Oxford. Double-barrelled shotguns he had always known, but what was this weapon and how did it work?

  “I know London,” said Lentov suddenly. “A foul place full of sullen peoples. It is only of use to buy things in. You English are a nation of manufacturers.”

  Micklejohn took no notice. One could hardly shoot a man in cold blood. Besides, if he did so and ran for it he might well be caught and if he were——If he was patient he might be taken to someone who had a little common sense.

  “You make good suits, I admit,” continued Lentov. “I myself have several I there bought. Good cloth, too. You should all be tailors. You would be more useful than trying to be clever at a university.”

  It occurred to George that perhaps the fellow was hoping to exasperate him into a quarrel in which he could be shot with a clear conscience. Patience, then, and take no notice. He looked up at the sky and saw a perfectly enormous bird very high up, it must be an eagle and a big one at that. It circled slowly in some rising current. George was so interested that he did not hear Lentov’s next remarks. The bird sailed out of sight and Lentov said, “You are sulky, that is bad. We will cure you of sulks.”

  Micklejohn looked at his wrist watch, but the face had been smashed in the scrimmage and the hands were bent.

  “Is your mother a good cook?” asked Lentov.

  George was suddenly seized with the urge to answer “No, but my father keeps goldfish in his top hat.” He resisted a desire to laugh; really, this was the most ludicrous little squirt. However, Lentov apparently decided that this game was not worth playing and they sat in silence until trudging steps on the gravel road brought them the private with a heavy petrol can in each hand. He unscrewed the petrol-tank cap and a refreshing glugging noise followed. The first can was set down empty, the second was brought into action, and Lentov leaned over his side of the car——