The Twisted Patriot

by Pirate Irwin

  All this, of course, was done without the ineffectual if civilized commandant of the camp, Colonel Pieter Dietrich, being a witness to it and when the murders were brought to his attention by the POW’s commanding officer Lieutenant-Colonel Pat Roche it was dismissed because of lack of evidence but more likely because Dietrich did not wish to believe one of his men was capable of such brutality.

  Roche was a good man and had apparently had a good if brief war, holding off a German division for five days with just 25 men before, like Sebastian, having to give up on account of the lack of ammunition and the weakened state of his unit. He was one of the few of the several hundred in the camp who Sebastian had any regard for and with whom he would play the occasional game of chess, finding the amiable Irishman extremely good company and a good loser to boot which was a good thing as for all his qualities Roche lacked guile and it reflected in his straightforward strategy in chess. Thankfully for Sebastian there was always that to look forward to because while he found it not so difficult to settle down to the routine – so that is why I was sent to public school, he joked to himself, to prepare me for this, though even his most sadistic masters had not got near the standards of Maier – he found the endless days of roll calls, dreadful food and enforced camaraderie tedious. It was a feeling that was acerbated by the fact no one knew how long this would go on for. It was like receiving a life sentence without even knowing how far that would stretch and not even with the remotest chance of the ennui being broken up by prison visits – the Red Cross excepted – though he admitted he would not have a long list of possibilities queuing round the corner to come and see him, his mother apart and that was one tearful encounter he was relieved to have to do without. Like any group of men there were also those who opted to chuck their cards in and co-operate openly with their guards, though for the majority it was only to get extra tobacco or a bottle of schnapps – ah yes, cognac in France so if it’s Germany it has to be schnapps, mused Sebastian – and there was never any question, or so it seemed, that escape attempts were betrayed but these men were viewed with some suspicion by the rest. Sebastian did not place himself in any particular group, preferring to mix with those whom, like Roche, he thought worthy of his friendship while also using his fluent German to converse with some of the friendlier guards, including a private called Horst Liebenberg. He was a simple man, one of the middle-aged brigade, and who hailed from Cologne but was humane and good company, regularly supplying Sebastian with cigarettes and chocolate and drink, though Sebastian preferred to stay off it as it only meant he reflected more on the sight of his men lying dead in that bloody thicket.

  It was one of these cigarettes that he was smoking when the annoying non-descript Macready sidled up to him and broke into his daydream, in which he was back in Berlin and Victoria had just climbed off him having given him yet one more afternoon of unimaginable pleasure while he basked in the glory of being a young Englishman enjoying the high life and the favours of a senior Foreign Ministry official’s wife. How long ago those days seemed now and Macready’s interruption was about as welcome as if Eric had burst into his apartment to find him naked astride his stepmother.

  “Go away, Macready, I haven’t got one for you. When was the last time you gave me one of yours?” sneered Sebastian at the smallish figure of his unwelcome guest. Macready recoiled like a puppy being reprimanded for not having learnt after six months how to go out into the garden and defecate and held his hands up. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to strike you. Maier’s bad enough and you haven’t broken one of their rules, only one of mine and that’s not a capital offence!” laughed Sebastian. Macready put his hands down and gesticulated behind him, Sebastian raised his eyebrows askance at this irritating little man and received an even more annoying wink back.

  “What the hell are you going on about, Macready!?” he asked angrily. Macready took the bold step for him of coming closer to his fellow officer and said in a low voice “Grosvenor wants to see you in Hut D,” adding another of his conspiratorial winks to further irritate Sebastian. Captain Nigel Grosvenor was one of the die-hard escapees in the camp, somewhat engaging if reckless, and him being summonsed to his hut suggested that he had another of his dreamland schemes up his sleeve and Sebastian was reluctant to get involved. Sebastian shook his head and waved Macready away but the mouse-haired squat-featured lieutenant – though his uniform like most of theirs bore little resemblance to the khaki green and shiny buttoned outfit they had sailed to France in – stood his ground. “Oh come on, Sebastian, just come and listen to what he has got to say and then you can make up your mind,” pleaded the wet little spaniel.

  “Very well, Macready, let’s go. I’d hate for you to get a spanking from your master,” he commented laconically. They trudged in silence past the drab collection of huts, where several officers lounged outside turning their faces and naked torsos towards the early summer sunshine, some tended little patches of allegedly fertile ground where they hoped to plant some plants or potatoes to give themselves some purpose to their daily drudgery or just to give themselves a marker of the time they spent pent up in the claustrophobic camp. Macready ushered Sebastian into the hut and along the narrow passage which smelt of cheap coffee mixed with soap, a more pleasant aroma than the natural odour emanating from their bunk hall every morning. He stopped at a rickety wooden door and knocked and on receiving a grunt, opened the door, which was hanging virtually off its hinges – Sebastian raised his eyes to the ceiling in wonderment at the orderliness of British army life even when they were prisoners – and Macready nodded at him to come in. Grosvenor was seated at a dodgy looking table, one of whose legs was too short and had been built up with a couple of books, while there were two other officers leaning against the walls, almost like pillars trying to hold up the collapsing temple around them. He greeted them, took a cup of the disgusting coffee gladly and waited for Grosvenor to explain why he was required. Grosvenor offered him a cigarette from his gold case, which he had managed to retain despite the attentions of the guards, lit it for him and then fiddled with his array of splintered pencils lying in front of him. “Sebastian, the reason I have asked you here is because I am in desperate need of your help,” Grosvenor said smiling weakly. “Well, I didn’t think it was for my tobacco,” he replied tartly, which received a blank response. Grosvenor stubbed out his cigarette and recommenced running his hands up and down the line of pencils. “Now, we are planning an escape, the tunnel is in the process of being built and we are putting together a team to go with the necessary papers but the one thing we are lacking in is intelligence . . .”

  “I’d say,” grinned Sebastian, turning to Macready, who frowned back. “Very funny, Stuart,” harrumphed Grosvenor before continuing. “Now there are several of us who have a smattering of German but the only one in the camp, apart from the guards, of course – and I don’t imagine receiving an awful lot of help from them – who speaks fluent German is yourself.”

  Sebastian breathed in deeply, knowing that his previous advantage of knowing the language was about to be turned into a serious disadvantage, and thought of a way where he could avoid the task about to be set before him. For while he was dead bored in the camp, he didn’t like the option of just being plain dead, which surely would be the fate were he to be captured. A German-speaking Englishman in plain clothes was unlikely to be treated as a soldier and the fate of spies was well known – a few slaps, name rank and number, disbelief from the captors and then bang if you were lucky, one bullet and upstairs you go to your blessed maker. The odds weren’t looking good but he saw little choice and tried to draw out the silence a bit longer while Grosvenor, who was a bundle of nervous energy and was now running his fidgety thick dirty fingernailed digits through his thinning black hair. His superior broke the uncomfortable silence, seeing that there was no immediate response forthcoming from Sebastian.

  “What we would like you to do is get yourself out of here, obviously the tunnel is out of the question as not on
ly is it far from complete but also were you to be captured we couldn’t risk you divulging where it was,” said Grosvenor whose eyes rested staring down at his finely arrayed pencils.

  “What if I refuse for this suicide mission, because if you think that either once I am out and I have the miraculous fortune to go undetected that I am going to come marching back through those gates to relate all I have found instead of making it back to safe territory, or the other possibility that if caught I will be slapped on the back by some thug and told ‘better luck next time but please return to your quarters’, then I think you are all being pretty naïve,” replied Sebastian somewhat forcefully. Grosvenor for once raised his coal-black eyes to look at him and almost apologetically cleared his throat, “Well, of course, there is an element of both in what might happen, but I would like to remind you, Stuart, that it is the obligation of every officer and soldier to try and escape and it is also the duty of those who wish not to, to aid in any way those who are hell-bent on getting back to their side. Obviously you fall into the latter category,” Grosvenor said sternly.

  “I don’t like the inference that I am an indolent son of a bitch who has no interest in fighting the fucking Germans . . . I’ve done my bit as far as I am concerned and did it well with no help from the stuffed-up bastards or the treacherous French who had apparently devised a plan where the Germans couldn’t possibly even get into France. Lest you have forgotten, I was hung out to dry with a platoon of 25 men like others were and lost every single one of them . . . I thought I was done with suicide missions and all I can see that even if I were to garner the information on where we are and a general idea of how you could get back to safety, you wouldn’t make it and I am not willing to have you, Macready and the others on my conscience,” stormed Sebastian.

  Grosvenor sighed and looked at the other three in the room, shrugged his shoulders and made to stand up while the others also prepared to leave. However Grosvenor then thought better of it and retook his chair. “Listen, Sebastian, I know very well what you went through because the rest of us had similar experiences, why Oates there even lost an eye, but our duty is to set those dreadful memories aside and try and make it back but not so we can avenge the deaths of our friends and comrades. It’s the reality of war. Like it or not, we are not linked to who has gone any more than we are inextricably tied to the fortunes of our country and somehow winning the war,” said Grosvenor and smiled sympathetically. “So you’ll do it then?” he added quickly in a manner that brooked no further argument. Sebastian shifted uneasily from foot to foot, reviewing his possibilities of evading the task but he saw little room for manoeuvre and nodded reluctantly back at Grosvenor, who breathed deeply and returned the gesture. “Very well, Stuart, you will be kept informed of when you should make the move. I would just like to say on behalf of all of us that we appreciate the risk you will be taking but it is in the larger picture of the war absolutely vital.” Yeah, sure, Grosvenor, this is going to really make a difference helping perhaps a score of officers including one with only one eye and several with dodgy nerves reach safety. “I’m certain this is the turning point of the war,” Sebastian cynically reflected.

  “You can count on me, Grosvenor. Anything I can do to help, after all, as you say, it is my duty as an officer and gentleman of this great army and nation. How could I refuse such an opportunity to sacrifice myself so the army can recoup you splendid body of men?” Sebastian remarked acidly. Grosvenor flashed him an irritated look but let it pass and dismissed him, whereupon Sebastian saluted in zealous fashion, turned on his heel and left the room, leaving its motley crew of officers to build on their plans for changing the course of the war – poor deluded souls.

  “Do you think we can count on him, Grosvenor?” asked Oates as they watched Sebastian make his way back to his hut. “I have no idea. He is such a quare individual, Stuart, that one doesn’t really know what he is capable of. Apart from Roche and that German guard he chats to, there isn’t anyone I know in the camp who has got inside what he is thinking. We haven’t got any other alternatives and deep down I want to believe he isn’t going to let us down,” replied Grosvenor with an air of resignation. Macready snorted derisorily at his accomplice’s response. “That’s one hell of a vote of confidence in someone who we are relying on to help us get out of here. Personally I wouldn’t trust him. He’s too egotistical and keen on his own self-preservation to really help us.”

  “Ah, you’re just annoyed with him because he’s not prepared to play the game we are, but this army has need of all types and I know from my sources that he was the first junior officer who was called upon to lead the resistance against the Germans on the retreat to Dunkirk and that says enough for me,” interjected Lieutenant Reilly, the fourth officer in the group, speaking for the first time. Macready decided to keep his own counsel but he remained deeply sceptical of Sebastian’s intentions once he got out of the camp, but as Grosvenor had said there wasn’t any alternative.

  Weeks went by, though the time was used by Sebastian in cultivating his friendship with Liebenberg as he realized to get out of the camp without being able to use the tunnel he would have to go out by the front way and that meant with a group of the guards. From Liebenberg he learnt the routines of the changing of the guards and who the regular sentries on the gate were, none of whom he knew by name or more importantly visually, while Grosvenor organized the camp’s tailor to put together a suitable German soldier’s uniform which would pass muster not only in the thick of the night, which was deemed the best time for him to pass through the gates, but also once he reached more urban areas. All they really knew about the geographical position of the camp was that it was in northern Germany, as different guards gave the same elliptical responses to even the simplest of questions and not even Liebenberg was very forthcoming – the threat of being discovered imparting important military information to the enemy, as the typically pompous Nazi directive termed it, was at best removal from duties or worse a trip to the front, infirm or not. The tunnellers continued their work, the risks they ran were as great from the damn thing collapsing, while being discovered would mean several days in solitary confinement. It didn’t mean much to those caught as if they were prepared to risk their lives tunnelling out, then several days on their own in a cell was a small price to pay. Some, of course, who were regular visitors to the cells, sent there usually by Maier, eventually cracked and either tried to take their own lives once released back into the camp or became shadowy figures who became subservient to the sadistic sergeant and thus lost the trust of their former comrades. Penalties too could be exacted on those who were seen to be fraternizing too much with Maier and his group, men such as Liebenberg were cast in the harmless category, and matters over one of this number came to a head shortly before Sebastian was due to go out. He was called once again to see Grosvenor, this time the oneeyed Jack Oates was the emissary and Sebastian found himself back in Hut C standing in front of the dodgy old table though with one difference: there was another officer in the room, someone whom he knew by sight but had never spoken to except to occasionally say hello. This officer had replaced Macready in the group and Sebastian was somewhat relieved that he wasn’t there, though he wondered why he was absent. Grosvenor looked more strained than usual and had smoked two cigarettes before he opened his mouth. “Sebastian, thanks for coming. I know you are busy preparing your mission but this is a matter of some urgency which directly involves you so without further delay may I introduce you to Colonel Johns, who you may have seen round the camp but who is, shall we say, a man who likes, rather similar to you, to keep himself to himself, though his is for the very good reason that he is in intelligence and alone of us it is a job he can still carry out when he is a prisoner. Though, of course, it is rather more unpalatable work as it involves spying on your own team. I am afraid he has discovered something rotten within the core of this group and hence as it also involves you. I called you here to listen to what he has to say,” and with that Gro
svenor lit another cigarette and left the floor to Johns. The Colonel sniffed in recognition of his introduction and lowered his brass spectacles over the tip of his beaklike nose before looking up at Sebastian and then at the others in the room. “How well do you know Lieutenant Macready, Stuart?” he asked brusquely, whose background was not all that clear but claimed to be a former Cambridge college don who had been enlisted into intelligence on the back of his outstanding languages and Great War service in Imperial Germany and then Russia. There he had been relied upon to furnish intelligence on the whereabouts of the Imperial family so the White Russians and the Allies could try and liberate them from their Bolshevik captors. So that’s why Macready isn’t here, surmised Sebastian, he’s been up to some dirty tricks, the little runt. “Well, he’s always asking me for cigarettes which is to put it bluntly rather wearying but on the surface our relations are cordial, if not wholeheartedly friendly,” he replied. “Hmm. Well it may come as a surprise to you Stuart to learn that our Lieutenant James Macready is not who he purports to be but is in fact Lieutenant Karl Zeiss of the Gestapo and his sidekick is none other than the man you have set such store by, Private Liebenberg, who along with Macready was posted here for the collation of evidence in unearthing if I may use that unfortunate term for tunnel escapes and missions such as yours . . .”

  “I don’t believe you. Macready perhaps, but Liebenberg the simpleton from Bavaria? I don’t think so, Colonel,” interrupted Sebastian.

  “That simpleton, as you put it, Stuart, is one of the original heroes of the Beer Hall Putsch in Munich and a highly valued member of the Nazi Party. He is, in fact, Macready’s superior and rather good at his job, evidently, as he appears to have convinced you of his identity,” said the Colonel with an even tone. Sebastian felt his legs wobble at the revelations by the cold figure of a man who stood before him; he sensed the sweat dripping down his forehead and stinging his eyes as a rising tide of panic swept over him in trying to recall exactly what he had told his Bavarian “friend”. More pertinently, he fretted about what questions he had posed about the routine of the guards and the way into the nearest town, should one be late for the truck which ferried them to and fro. Johns observed him keenly before going on with the question Stuart was dreading. “So what I need to know, and indeed what Oates, Reilly and Grosvenor require, is how much Liebenberg has wrested out of you with his charming ‘I’m an idiot but you can trust me strategy’?”