by David Roy
He might have looked jolly but for his scowling expression which made him look sinister instead. His suit was immaculate with stripes that matched up at the collar. Sam wondered how the tailor managed to do this. His shoes, black brogues, were highly polished. He was loathsome - all the more so because of the slightly tattered appearance of those around him. He had privilege when such things had almost ceased to exist.
The man next to him by contrast wore rough worker’s boots and trousers that had been patched too many times and were held in place with braces. He held his old tweed jacket over his arm. When they were called forward to board the train the well-dressed man rose quickly to get to the front of the queue. His contempt for his fellow passengers was obvious, as if he was a miraculously perfumed individual trapped in an airless box with some stinking lunatics. Some of the men turned at the staccato sound of high heels striking the concrete floor. They were worn by a robustly built hausfrau who had somehow squeezed herself into a grey woollen jacket with a tight skirt which restricted the movement of her short fat legs. She was utterly graceless despite the extravagant and expensive looking hat with its ridiculous plume that was perched on her head. Sam imagined her to be the overbearing and ambitious wife of an officer; a man who was probably glad when he’d been called up for war service, if only to get away from his spouse.
They shuffled forwards, each man proffering his documents to the security officers. They wore the overcoats and humourless expressions of the Gestapo. One of them was so well turned out as to seem effeminate. His hair was blond and slicked back, his complexion perfect, his hands dainty and clean. It was he who took and scanned the travellers' paperwork, snatching it sulkily from their grasp like a disappointed lover, leafing through it, pursing his lips as if some lifetime of expertise was being called into use.
Sam handed over his small clutch of papers and looked directly ahead. No guilt registered on his face and he felt strangely amused about the fact that he was without a doubt Germany’s most wanted man - or should be. He had dealt the killer blow to the Nazi’s war effort. The effeminate Gestapo agent would have been promoted instantly had he but known with whom he was dealing and arrested him. He looked from the photo on Sam’s ID card to Sam’s face. They clearly corresponded but nevertheless his eyes narrowed in that practised, suspicious Gestapo manner. He made no indication that he could proceed and the man behind him nudged Sam gently as if the delay was down to his own reticence. Sam shot off a quick backward glance off and the man desisted. The Gestapo man looked again at the photo and over at his colleague as if seeking reassurance on some matter but the other man was looking elsewhere. He breathed in deeply and tapped the card against his palm as if trying to make up his mind about how to handle this situation.
Sam felt perspiration fall from his armpits onto the sides of his shirt. His heart began to beat quickly and he thought about running. They’d never catch him - not straight away…. but they would get him eventually or failing that, take his mum and dad. The agent drew the edge of the card against his knuckles and ran it along them with a dull snapping sound. Sam’s fear was compounded by each second that dragged past and then suddenly he said, ‘Move!’ Sam re-took his ID card and made his way onto the platform.
Even as he walked to the side of the hissing train, a compartmentalised serpent, he was expecting a call, a shout, running feet, a hand on his shoulder but none of these happened and he climbed aboard. He sat heavily and began to wonder what the problem had been. If the Gestapo agent was suspicious, then why didn’t he simply take Sam into custody? Was it a lack of certainty, fear of ridicule? Had he done just that too many times in the past and had all his suspicions proved unfounded? He had certainly wanted a second opinion and supposing he’d got one - what would have happened to Sam then? Something had made him - Sam Beattie - seem suspicious.
More men piled into the carriage but Sam’s thoughts were still inward-looking. He contemplated his possible fate and tried to fathom out why he had been delayed. If they thought he was connected to the explosion at the factory then they had had ample opportunities to arrest him before now…. Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity. Maybe just the way that Sam acted made him seem guilty - and God only knew he had been carrying plenty of guilt around with him. It would be a miracle if he didn’t look like a wanted man. He began to feel comfortable with that explanation for a few moments until another thought crept into his mind - had someone informed on him? Perhaps the Gestapo had been warned that a fugitive was going to try to get on the Dublin train? It didn’t matter now. Escape would only bring misfortune upon others if any of his suppositions were true.
Sam looked out of the window as the carriage filled up. A little cloud of steam floated by, partially obscuring the German soldier who paced the platform. He had a peculiar shoulder patch on his arm - one of the Russians who had enlisted with the Wehrmacht, perhaps. Sam wondered about the strange odyssey which that man had undertaken to end up here. What would his fate be? He’d probably thought that he would never end up fighting the Russians - he had been as far from the Eastern Front as it was possible to be but now the Eastern Front was coming to him!
The train jerked steamily out of the station only moments after the last raggedy passenger had jumped on board. Thick black smoke leapt into the air as if startled by the locomotive’s sudden movement and the passengers lurched in unison with each lumpy jolt that sent the old engine towards the South. Belfast was bathed in sunshine but no less dismal for that. It was an unhappy city and its citizens knew fear. The Nazis had been bad but the Russians might be worse…. and there would be massive collateral destruction when these two titans met.
As they cleared the edge of the city Sam saw a convoy bringing V1 and V2 rockets out to launch sites in the countryside. For some time now, convoys had been taking these missiles to the docks, to be shipped to the mainland to be fired against targets in France. Sam had heard that the V1s were being built by Short Brothers. Now he knew it was true. Rumour also had it that these rockets were loaded with chemicals such as mustard gas and that these had been tested out against prisoners. In fact, the Germans possessed chemicals weapons much stronger than mustard gas, the most powerful being Soman.
With the end of their atomic weapons programme they now pinned their hopes on this type of weapon, although they once again lacked suitable targets; it was unlikely the Russians would care much if they dropped gas on French or British cities. Attempts at firing missiles from submarines had been abandoned with the rout from mainland Europe.
The beautiful County Down countryside that drifted past failed to move Sam. The freedom he sought, felt as if it could never amount to much or be anything other than temporary. In addition, he felt like a traitor, particularly cruel in light of the reason for his flight. Few men had dealt the Germans such a crippling blow and yet this was a secret which he would probably take to his grave. The fields being worked, as they always were, the blue skies, the birds and animals…. all these simple things were lost to him. He had earned the right to appreciate these simple things but it seemed as if he never would.
He didn’t want much and he couldn’t have it.
Sam was crushed. The thought of being back in uniform - a foreign uniform, at that - didn’t do much to lighten his load, either.
At each station, he saw bored German soldiers patrolling the platform and security men checking ID. Few people boarded the train and no-one got off. Each platform was a little milestone. He was edging closer and closer to his destination and once there he couldn’t be touched - theoretically at least.
Now and again the smoke from the engine would be tugged earthwards by a gust of wind but otherwise his view was an extended vista of the simple rural life that characterised much of his country. It was clear that some things hadn’t changed during the occupation and this line of thought brought back all the troubling doubts he had ever had. Maybe someday history would record his name in a heroic sense but that would have to wait. He had stirred up the ho
rnet’s nest and he knew that if his part in the factory bombing was made known he would be handed over to the Germans. Had it been worth it? Could whatever weapon they had been working on have been so deadly as to warrant their actions? Guilt washed over him.
Soon they approached the border with the Irish Republic. They were about to pass into County Louth but the formalities were to be carried out at Dundalk station just a few miles inside the Republic. The actual border had a few bored Germans on one side and a few bored Irish soldiers - looking remarkably like Germans in their coal scuttle helmets - on the other. There was clearly no bond between the two armies and only a grudging co-operation. Perhaps what he had seen didn't amount to enmity but it was certainly suspicion and dislike. How well would the Irish fight if it came to a German invasion?
SS and Gestapo prowled Dundalk station evilly. Surely their presence contravened whatever treaties or arrangements had been arrived at between Hitler and De Valera. But then again were the Irish in a position to argue? Accept this or prepare for something much worse. The Gestapo accompanied by armed Gardai, boarded the train and began checking documentation again. Sam felt himself tense in a way which would probably have occurred even if he wasn’t, potentially at least, a wanted man. The other passengers shifted awkwardly in their seats, retrieving their documents from inside pockets or bags stowed neatly above their heads.
‘Not again!’, mumbled someone. No-one tried to turn that singular protest into a chorus. No-one dared. It seemed to take an age for them to get to Sam’s carriage but when they did enter, they brought with them a suffocating aura of fear, the way another person might simply have admitted a cold breeze. Sam’s mouth ran dry. The Gestapo agent’s suit almost hid his pot belly but this was a man running to seed nevertheless. As he extended his arm for the documents he was to examine, Sam glimpsed the little Walther in its shoulder holster. It was tiny in comparison to the hefty Colt revolver on the Gardai’s hip. In other ways he contrasted unfavourably with his German counterpart. His uniform looked like a comic interpretation of what a policeman should wear. He resembled a railway official, in fact. His tunic was puckered were he had buckled it too tightly and his trouser cuffs almost touched the ground. His waist belt had given up on the impossible task of holding his trousers up. But at least he was likely to be a reasonable man if something untoward happened. Reasonable but powerless probably.
The Gestapo spent too long examining Sam’s details. He looked from the ID card to its bearer and back as they all did. It was as if his face was known to them but was, at the same time, unplaceable. He discourteously returned the paperwork and moved on to the next passenger. He said nothing and a minute or two later he and his Gardai companion dismounted, their job done.
Sam waited for the whistle and those first tell-tale chugs that would signal their departure from Dundalk station but there was only an expectant silence. Something about that silence filled Sam with foreboding and he felt his stomach knot with fear. Something was wrong. A muted, anxious conversation started amongst the passengers. They were eager to show that, although they didn’t mind being delayed and the German authorities would have a very good reason for that delay, they would still like to be able to proceed with their journey. Experience had proved that this reasonable tone was the best one to adopt in one’s dealings with the Nazis.
And then a cry went up from some unseen official, followed by a blizzard of activity as soldiers ran to each door to prevent anyone from leaving. Sam peered over at the far platform and there too a section of Germans had taken up position to prevent anyone from jumping onto the tracks. Sam was trapped! There was nowhere to hide. He felt the urge to run and knew that he would stand some chance of making an escape. He knew also that he was the cause of this panic. Who else on the train had committed a bigger crime against the Nazis than he? Roy had talked. It had to be that. The big farmer had given in to the torture and cracked. They’d checked for Sam’s whereabouts, realised that he was on the train and phoned ahead to Dundalk. It was so obvious now. The train probably didn’t even usually stop there and it would certainly explain the presence of the German Army in what was still an unoccupied sovereign state.
He slumped in his seat, his situation hopeless but once he had had a few moments to consider the implications of his predicament he decided that he would run for it instead of being captured. After all, a bullet in the back was a quick end and, he supposed, there was always just the chance that he could escape. The alternative, imprisonment, torture and execution, well….
He rose calmly and was about to move to the corridor when a loud noise stopped him in his tracks. It was a megaphone. The chatter stopped as everyone strained to hear what was being said. At first it was indistinct, with only a few words delivered in guttural English and electronically distorted, being discernible. But the megaphone user moved down the platform like a town cryer and soon his message became clear. It wasn’t unexpected, of course but it still came as a shock. Bombs had been dropping on the mainland for a few weeks now. But no-one had expected them to come so early. No-one actually thought that they would be able to come so early and yet here they were. The Russians had finally invaded Britain. The train was going back to Belfast.
An image of Tony O’Keefe flashed into his mind for a second. He’d been hoping to meet up with his old friend. Those hopes were fading.
‘Are you waitin’ for the Belfast train, by any chance?’, asked the porter. It was a stupid question. There was simply no other reason to be standing there. Sergeant O’Keefe looked at the man and nodded. Tony’s uniform was immaculate - he wanted to show his old friend that he had not lowered his standards.
‘Well, the Belfast train’s been cancelled, so it has.’
‘Cancelled?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when was someone going to tell me this?’
‘I just have’, said the porter jabbing a finger indignantly at his own chest. He walked away, muttering profanities under his breath, his trouser cuffs dragging slightly through the dust on the platform.
New Recruits
The train made its way back to Belfast in a hurry. They didn't stop on the way but once back in the city it was apparent that all hell had broken loose. A pall of smoke rose from the area of Harland and Wolff’s shipyard and the Short Brothers aircraft plant. Elsewhere bombs were still falling. Not long after the train pulled in, the line behind it was destroyed and as Sam alighted onto the platform the concussion from yet another bomb threw him to the ground. He picked himself up and looked around. Other people were doing the same but one person lay still…. no-one bothered with them. He began to run with his suitcase but found that all the exits were blocked by soldiers. They were selective about who was let through - women and old people seemed to be free to leave. It was also clear that children could exit as well. However, a sizeable group of men had been collected - some of them in their fifties, thought Sam, and he knew that there would be no escape for him. The Nazis were recruiting again, only this time they weren’t looking for volunteers. Nevertheless, he headed for one of the main exits. He could but try…. A well-built feldwebel with the chest plate of a military policeman blocked his path and pointed to the group of men he had seen moments before. Not a huge surprise perhaps.
Sam joined the disconsolate men, each a picture of misery. No-one spoke but seconds later the need for pleasantries was removed as the roof of the station was shorn off by an Ilyushin heavy bomber that came crashing to earth. The noise was like a rumble of thunder and was followed by a huge explosion that shook the building still further. They threw themselves to the ground, as masonry and glass fell like heavy petals from the sky. The battle raged outside and they could now see the dogfight going on high above them. Sam staggered to his feet coughing in the clouds of dust. The soldiers were no longer guarding the exits and he pushed his way out of the station, jumping over the prone figures of casualties as he did so.
The sky was now a jumble of fighters and bombers and streams of thic
k black smoke reached up to add yet more confusion to the scene. Tiny bat-like Messerschmitt 163s danced around the skies, tearing into the ponderous Russian bombers with their cannons. Prop-driven Yaks did their best to defend the bombers but these were no match for the Me 262s sent to hunt them down. Sam stopped to watch the clash for a moment as yet another Ilyushin sprouted flames, turned turtle and fell onto Belfast’s ravaged streets with a terrifying wail. Another crashed with a roar into the Lough. Sam ducked involuntarily as a flight of German jets ripped over the station at little more than a hundred feet. He watched as they then leapt into a steep climb, cannons blazing into the mass of Soviets above them. As a background to the screaming of jets and the roar of bombs Sam became aware of another sound, a long continuous drone and followed the sound to the east were yet another wave of bombers was coming in. As he watched, their bomb doors opened and sticks of bombs rained down onto the fighter airfields. Anti-aircraft guns poured fire into the sky and Sam began to run home.
Sirens sounded and fire tenders raced to the scenes of a multitude of fires, often finding their way barred by debris.
More bombs fell onto a street of terraced houses from unseen bombers and Sam took cover against a ten-foot-high wall of red brick. Smoke and dust rose high into the sky, blocking out the sun. He could just hear the bells of a fire truck above the din and then saw the vehicle itself at the bottom of the street turning left onto the main road. As he watched, it disappeared in a thunderous explosion and for several seconds wreckage rained down onto the pavement. Still more bombs fell and Sam crawled to the shelter of an upturned van lodged against the wall twenty feet from where he had lain. He doubted that it offered anything more than superficial protection and yet he found that he wasn’t alone.