by Pirate Irwin
Soon enough they drove through a set of gates and into a majestic courtyard which was surrounded by a four-storey marble-faced building; it had obviously belonged to some rich merchant or perhaps an aristocrat but had now been sequestered by the state for their internal security investigations where the only profit seen was in blood and not in cash. They hurried him up the stone steps and through the entrance, passing by a clerk who was registering all those who came in and probably not those who failed to make it out. Sturmer, who was the one that had punched him, stopped briefly by the clerk to make some feeble joke after gesturing at their prisoner, and then led him up three flights of stairs, passing more of their fellow officers scurrying around, all looking equally mean as his trio of jolly Jerries. Sturmer knocked on a splendidly golden tapered set of double doors and proceeded through on his own, leaving Sebastian waiting outside, where he fretted about the likely consequences of his actions, having first impersonated a German soldier and then been caught wearing civilian clothes. He could prove he was a prisoner of war but it would be up to his interrogator whether he wished to spare him or gain some kudos with his superiors by having him shot as a spy. He cursed inwardly at the double game played by Grosvenor and the others in not telling him about Johns’ role, for he certainly would not have participated in the reconnaissance mission and would not be standing here in this spectacular but cold mansion sweating on what fate awaited him. By all means, he thought selfishly, let Johns take his medicine because he had lived and earned his medals and other distinctions his career had brought him, but he was still young and had so much to live for. He wished that by some miracle at that moment perhaps Eric or even von Helldorf would stroll up the stairs and embrace him and have him released, but instead the door swung open and Sturmer walked out with a smirk on his face, which, had he been in a stronger position, Sebastian would have gladly wiped away with interest. He indicated with his thumb that Sebastian could go in and allowed his companion manhandle him into the room, which was empty save a blonde female, who was sitting to the side by the large framed windows and did not bother to look up at him. Instead she spent the next five minutes looking over her typewriter as if she had just been introduced to it.
Sebastian was pushed forward roughly by Sturmer’s associate to a gold-backed chair which faced a large desk and shoved down by his shoulders into the seat, though he would have done it voluntarily as it seemed like a lifetime since he had sat with Johns drinking their coffee at the station. The Gestapo officer then withdrew, closing the doors behind him, leaving Sebastian alone with the mute secretary, who threw him one furtive glance to which he decided to be bold and winked back at her cheekily but only provoked her into more studious looks at the typewriter. Finally there was a noise from behind the doors, he heard the handle turn and looked up into the large gold embossed mirror to see Johns enter. However, this was not the Johns he had last seen wearing the threadbare suit and being frogmarched away; this Johns was dressed in a sharp double-breasted pinstripe suit and didn’t look to have been put through much of an interrogation since his arrival.
“Johns, gosh I am glad to see you,” cried Sebastian in English as he rose from his seat and turned to greet him.
“Sit down, Lieutenant Stuart, please,” replied Johns in German to which Sebastian laughed. “There’s no need for that, Johns, they know all about us so you can cut the pretence for God’s sake,” he protested.
“Of course they do, dear boy, because it is I who told them. Indeed it is I who organized this whole adventure,” said Johns icily. Sebastian couldn’t believe what he was hearing, his legs gave way and he collapsed onto the carpet, holding his head in his hands at the treachery of the Colonel. Johns came over and lifted him up, whereupon Sebastian spat in his face and slapped him. Johns simply wiped away the spittle and dragged him to the chair dumping him in it before walking round to the other side of the desk.
“You see, Stuart, you may think I am a traitor but in fact I am just doing my duty as a good German officer,” he said.
“You’re German? What about all that stuff of trying to save the Russian Imperial family and being a don, it was all made up?” asked Sebastian incredulously.
Johns smiled and slid his hand over the desk. “But of course it all is, Stuart, I was the plant in the camp and not Macready or Liebenberg and you were the bait, to which you rose admirably after your little temper tantrum initially,” Johns replied.
“You murdering bastard!” screamed Sebastian and made to rise from the chair but the cocking of a pistol by Johns dissuaded him.
“You can think what you want, Stuart, but just as you will have intelligence officers or spies among our prisoners so we would do the same. It is important that we stop any mad ideas your fellow prisoners may have of reaching the other side because then anarchy would break out in the camps should any succeed in doing so,” said Johns.
“But why go to such extremes, why sacrifice two innocent men, why not let the original plan go through? You could still have stopped it,” Sebastian insisted.
“No, that was impossible because if you had got out on your own then there was always the risk you would perhaps even make a break for it on your own and we couldn’t allow that to happen. This way we will get you and snap up a score or so of other wannabe heroes,” he smiled contentedly.
“Well, if you think I am going to go back and set them up, you’re very mistaken Johns, or whatever your name is. I’d rather die than do that,” Sebastian retorted.
Johns stood up and paced over to the window before turning towards his prisoner shaking his head in sorrowful fashion.
“That may well be the fate that lies in front of you, but I am willing to make you an offer which can get us both out of this with our lives,” Johns muttered.
“What is that, Colonel?”
“You can join the German army.”
Sebastian thought he was dreaming and that at any moment he would awake and find himself back underneath the foul-smelling blanket in the camp but then realized that Johns was being serious and he began to laugh uproariously.
“Me, in the German army, how ridiculous is that? I thought you Germans lacked a sense of humour, but obviously I was wrong,” said Sebastian with tears rolling down his eyes. “You may think that playing a double game comes easily to everybody but you are wrong, sir, and I am not willing to betray my comrades or my country by siding with the enemy. Do with me what you will but at least let me die with some honour,” Sebastian added.
Johns gave him a mock salute and returned to his desk, rifling through several files before returning to the subject in hand.
“Listen, Stuart; it’s not as clear cut as that. We are currently, as you know, fighting the battle of the ideals to the east between Fascism and Communism and while things are going well we wish to make it a world crusade against the latter ideology. You may not be aware of this but we already have French, Scandinavian, Spanish and British legions fighting there. Thus you would a) not be fighting your own and b) you would be with your own compatriots. I don’t see where the betrayal comes into it and in any case with us all but assured of winning the war, it is always a more attractive option to be on the winning side, no?
“Of course, the other choices for you are torture for the fun of it, and Sturmer is outside waiting to get his hands on you, followed by a firing squad or else being returned to the camp. That will either result in you spending the rest of your life there or else if I so wish I will make sure that the escape goes ahead and you will be blamed for its failure because you will have turned them in . . . and I think you know what the result of that would be.
“So I would ask you to consider the offer carefully and not in your usual impulsive fashion,” said Johns with a warped smile.
Sebastian sighed resignedly and looked away from his interlocutor, assessing his possibilities, none of which were remotely appealing. He had to admit the thought of passing several more years in the camp was probably the least attractive option
in equal billing with Sturmer being given free range on torturing him, and he was determined not to allow that bully his moment of triumph. That left being shot or joining the enemy which could well result in the former were he to fall into the Soviet’s hands, however he had never felt much love for Bolshevism and his experiences with Peete had hardly warmed them. Even if Fascism held little attraction either after his stay in Berlin, but it wasn’t as if he would be fighting his own blood and kin so long as Johns kept to his word, and there was little he could do but trust in the malevolent figure sitting calmly at his desk. At least if he opted for that, Grosvenor and the rest would probably remain alive because without his intelligence report they could not possibly try and escape, small consolation but something to hold onto he remarked. Still he needed more time to think about it, because the possibility of it ending in disaster were plentiful and he wanted to make Johns squirm for a few hours longer. Finally he turned back to Johns, whose real name he was bursting to know so he could settle scores with him if he had the chance later, and smiled his warmest smile he could summon up. Johns stared at him quizzically and waited for his response.
“I need more time to think, if you will allow me. Also I would find it easier if I had some food inside me. Would you indulge me in that at least?” Sebastian asked in a confident tone, though it was hardly how he was really feeling. “After all, you are requesting I become a traitor, be tortured or be shot, ah yes, and with delicious irony be strung up by own side to join the two innocents you have already consigned to some anonymous spot in the camp. So to expect me to take such a momentous decision so quickly is asking rather a lot,” he added drily.
Johns tapped his fingers together, moving them up and down between his lips and the tip of his beaklike nose as he thought about how Sebastian should be treated, and in the end he reasoned that he was unlikely to make a break for it; he didn’t want Sturmer to torture him unless he drove him to that through procrastinating too much, and feeding him might make him more agreeable to his offer. Johns nodded and said they should both dine together and he would order the food to be brought up along with some wine and schnapps.
“That would be most agreeable, Colonel . . . whatever your name is?” said Sebastian hoping that he would lull Johns into revealing his real rank and name. Johns grinned back and waved his finger at Stuart as if berating a naughty schoolchild for being cheeky. He walked over to the pretty secretary and issued her with some orders, whereupon she picked up the telephone and for the first time since Sebastian had entered the room gave evidence that she had a voice after all, though it was a rather high-pitched falsetto tone and one definitely not something to look forward to waking up to in the morning. Johns looked like he enjoyed more than just a working relationship with Ingrid – Sebastian didn’t know her first name but she conjured up images of an athletic-looking Ingrid he had come across in Berlin – in the manner he dropped his hand onto her shoulder as he conversed with her and aside from the voice, Sebastian didn’t disagree with his choice of skirt.
Lunch was brought up, and it was a feast with pork, “you’re not Jewish, I hope, Stuart” guffawed Johns, apple sauce, potato dumplings and cabbage rounded off with apple tart and washed down with a fine German white wine and a bottle of red while they took a slug of schnapps with their coffee. Ingrid had been dismissed while they ate. Sturmer had glared at Sebastian as he led in the waiter with the food which the Englishman had returned with a smirk of triumph.
Johns proved cultured and humorous company, though diffident and remote whenever matters got close to their respective backgrounds and Sebastian played the same game while keeping in the back of his mind that his lunch partner was ruthless enough to have manipulated the murders of two men and God knows how many others previously to that.
“So, Johns, what are you going to do now that you have trapped me and effectively blocked the escape? Are you going back to the camp in your German identity to laugh in their faces as you did to me or in your English persona, to wreak more havoc?” Sebastian asked as they drank a second shot of schnapps.
“No, I think that part is over and I will be moved onto other duties. There are plenty of other camps where similar disinformation can be just as effective and besides, I will be received as an heroic failure at any of the camps and you will be forever in my thoughts as I express my remorse at not being able to save you from those wicked Gestapo men,” he smiled smugly.
Cocky bastard, thought Sebastian, we’ll see how long you can survive; not everybody is as naïve as Grosvenor and his acolytes, but he wasn’t so assured by the past tense used in his case; was Sturmer to have his wish after all?
“So I am to be killed off, is that it, Johns?”
“Not exactly, but I will let it be known you are a shadow of the man that left our camp and the last I saw of you was being taken away in a car by three Gestapo officers to an unknown destination,” he replied with the same self-satisfied air.
“Charming. Nice and open-ended and I would imagine the definitive version depends on my final response to your offer,” Sebastian asked and received a patronizing nod.
“Well, I have decided that you can take that bottle of schnapps and stuff it up Ingrid’s ass for a start, you smug son of a bitch!” yelled Sebastian. That brought Sturmer roaring into the room along with his associate but Johns barked at them to get out and refused to rise to Sebastian’s insult.
“Very unbecoming language for an officer, Stuart, but what else would I expect of you having witnessed your intemperate behaviour in the camp and your total lack of respect for your superiors. What is your real answer for the last time before I let Sturmer and Wenzel work their sadistic sexual pleasures on you,”
Johns asked wearily.
Sebastian breathed in deeply, poured himself another glass of the schnapps, lit a cigarette and blew the smoke directly into Johns’ face.
“I will accept your offer of a commission in the Wehrmacht on condition it is solely to fight the Bolsheviks and never to do battle with my side and their allies in the West should that ever come about they return to France, which I imagine they will,” replied Sebastian defiantly.
“The Wehrmacht? I didn’t say anything about being enlisted into the Wehrmacht, it is the British Free Corps you are to join. You will not be given the honour of donning a proper German Army uniform, that is ridiculous,” spluttered Johns.
“Well I am not prepared to sign up to some ramshackle bunch of amateurs, who I doubt are of the calibre of a prison battalion. It is either the Wehrmacht or nothing and furthermore I wish to be assigned to the regiment that an Eric von Preetz is in, provided of course he is still alive,” demanded Sebastian.
Johns snorted derisively but Sebastian could tell he was rattled in him bringing up von Preetz’s name, which even if he didn’t know him directly he would be aware of the family being one of the most distinguished in German society. The colonel sauntered back to his desk and spoke down the telephone, getting irritated at the faceless respondent before slamming the receiver down. He returned to the table, poured himself another glass and sat there silently waiting for the phone to ring.
Sebastian didn’t try and help break the tension, instead he began whistling which didn’t help ease Johns’ increasingly bad mood, until the phone rang.
Johns replied monosyllabically to his caller while eyeing Sebastian with increasing distaste, but he knew unlike his prisoner that the reason he was even being given the chance of life was because he had been awarded the Military Cross for his actions on the retreat to Dunkirk. Those in captivity who had earned such accolades were all being tapped to see if they would join the crusade against Bolshevism and Sebastian was the first one to give his assent. German spies in England might not be able to furnish details of things such as airfields and naval bases but they were effective when it came to discovering details of medals and their recipients and one more week’s delay in escaping would have been disastrous as the news of his award would have got to the camp via th
e Red Cross. Brave he might be, but he was a right irritating little prick, thought Johns, but soon he won’t be my problem and he will find the discipline in a German field regiment quite a shock after the shambles of the British Expeditionary Force.
“You have your wish, Stuart. Von Preetz is indeed alive and he is currently on leave in Berlin but is due to rejoin his regiment in a week’s time. Now I have to warn you that any infringement of the rules, no matter how slight, and you will be shot. We give Germans several opportunities, but a turncoat like you will receive none, is that clear?” Johns asked menacingly.
“Yes, it is clear, Colonel. I wouldn’t expect anything less of the German army,” replied Sebastian sarcastically. “One other thing, Colonel, and it is something you may sympathize with but I would like to have my name Germanised. Self preservation and all that, you know, just in case things turn out awkwardly,” Sebastian added, smiling.
“That should not be a problem. You can sort that out with the regiment’s commander when you are escorted to headquarters by von Preetz when his leave is up. Prior to that, Sturmer will take you to Berlin and deposit you with the von Preetz family where you will be under watch the whole time. Obviously if you distinguish yourself at the front, these restrictions will be eased on your return to Berlin for a rest, should you still be alive and well,” replied Johns firmly.
“Thank you, sir. Let us hope I do just that because it would be most awkward for yourself were I to prove a liability after all the trouble you have gone to, to enlist my services,” said Sebastian.
Johns was beginning to bristle just as he had done in the hut that day when they were discussing Macready and Liebenberg’s fates and decided to bring the matter to a close.
He called Sturmer in, issued his orders and Sebastian noticed with glee how the thug’s shoulders dropped on realizing that there was to be no physical enjoyment for him today. As the sulking Sturmer and Sebastian left, Johns got one last word in. “If you fuck up, Stuart, you can expect me to be the first in line to do some damage to you. That bottle of schnapps may come in handy but it won’t be Ingrid’s ass but yours that will be the recipient. Dismissed,” he added in his haughty tone.