The desk sergeant had escorted Lukas to the lavatory block and grudgingly told him to clean up his face but gave him nothing to use. Instead he leant against the wall and watched as Lukas splashed water on his wounds. In the mirror above the sink he studied the split along his eyebrow, not deep but still oozing. The skin under his eye was already darkening – he would have one hell of a black eye by the morning. God, he wished he had Millie to soothe his wounds. The sergeant stepped into his line of vision.
‘Get a bloody move on, you filthy Kraut,’ he said.
He pushed Lukas down the corridor to a small office. The RAF officer was waiting for him. He was a slight man, thin-faced with large ears and a mouthful of crooked teeth. The first thing he asked was whether Lukas would like a cup of tea. Lukas almost laughed.
A Spitfire pilot, downed near his field in France, was delighted when they offered him cognac; said in England it was always tea.
While they waited for the tea to be brought, the RAF officer silently paced around the room, deep in thought, then he sat in front of Lukas, watching him drink. When Lukas finished, he asked if he could see his identification papers.
‘I destroy everything when my plane crashes,’ Lukas said. ‘I can tell you only that I am Oberleutnant Lukas Schiller and my Luftwaffe number is 51010/02. That is all.’
‘Oh, yes, I know all that,’ the officer said, taking out a notepad and pencil. He flicked the pages back and forth a couple of times before looking up and saying, ‘You speak English well.’
‘Not well.’
‘Well enough to get by over here, I would imagine.’
The officer smiled at him, a tight little smile that kept most of his teeth out of sight. As the seconds ticked by, he started tapping the end of his pencil against the notepad. Lukas stared back, his stomach beginning to pitch.
He wasn’t prepared for any of this, none of them were. God, the conceit of the Luftwaffe. They had one visit from an intelligence officer and all he said was the chances of being captured were minimal and besides, British interrogation methods were so gentlemanly, there was nothing to worry about. He’d been wrong there. He also said Britain would fall as quickly as France and they’d be liberated almost immediately.
Then rumours reached their unit that German spies, landing by boat in Britain, had been swiftly arrested, tried and hanged. Their intelligence officer never told them that.
‘Why are you in England?’
‘I am a Luftwaffe pilot. My Messerschmitt is shot down.’
‘So you say. Where?’
‘I do not know.’
‘You must have some idea.’
Lukas shook his head. His captors had been local men. They must have primed the officer, suspecting his story didn’t add up. He couldn’t prove he wasn’t a spy without implicating Millie.
‘You must know when you were shot down.’
Lukas pressed his lips together, shook his head.
‘What happened to your uniform?’ the officer said, writing as he spoke.
‘I destroy that too.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I do not wish to be recognised.’
‘Why?’
Lukas frowned. He thought the answer was obvious. The officer looked up from his notes.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘I do not wish to be captured.’
‘I see. And were you wearing uniform when you crashed?’
‘Of course.’
The officer resumed writing. After several minutes he said,
‘Where did you get the clothes you’re wearing today?’
Lukas dropped his head, touching his finger on the cut on his forehead, trying to hide his expression as his mind struggled to find an answer. How the hell could he have got the clothes? It was too late to return to the tack of name, rank and number now; the officer would know he was hiding something. Did he stumble across them? Find someone sleeping rough and steal them? No, something close to the truth is always the best lie.
‘I take them from a house.’
‘Where?’
Lukas shrugged. ‘I walk for many, many days. I do not know how far.’
‘Tell me about that.’
‘About what?’
‘How you got the clothes.’
The officer watched him with a steady gaze.
‘I see a house.’
‘Before or after the blizzard?’
Christ, he’s well briefed. Think, man.
‘Before.’
‘So you crashed before the blizzard?’
Lukas felt his stomach give a great swoop. He was being pushed along a narrative he may not be able to complete without a blunder. Then he remembered the farmer with the dog and the gun and, ignoring the officer’s last question, he said, ‘This house stands with no other houses.’ He felt more secure. He could picture the scene. His aunt always said, before you tell a lie, make sure you believe it yourself. ‘I watch it in the morning. I see a man and a dog leave.’ Careful now, not too accurate. He didn’t want them finding that farm, discovering nothing went missing, ‘and I see a woman and childrens leave also. I go to the house and it is not locked. I take the clothes.’
The officer put his pencil on the notepad, closing it thoughtfully and placing it on the desk. Then he got to his feet, straightened his jacket with a tug and slowly walked around the back of Lukas’s chair. Lukas twisted to see where he was going.
‘Eyes front,’ the officer said.
He was standing very close, the toecap of his boot glinting at the edge of Lukas’s field of vision. Lukas caught the tang of a recently smoked cigarette. His pulse quickened, his muscles tensed, readying himself for a blow. The officer grabbed hold of the collar of his jacket and Lukas sprang to his feet, knocking over the chair. The door flew open and the pugnacious constable strode in.
‘It’s all right, Constable,’ the officer snapped, bending to right the toppled chair. Lukas kept still – he didn’t want the constable involved again. When the door closed the officer pressed him back into the chair, making a noise as if he was soothing a horse and twisted the collar of Lukas’s jacket. Of course, Lukas thought, he’s looking for a manufacturer’s label.
The officer returned to his seat and notepad, the hint of a sneer twitching the edge of his mouth. Lukas felt a fury building inside him but he fought it. It didn’t matter if this officer was mocking him – all that mattered was that he believed his story.
‘How many days ago was this?’ the officer said.
‘I do not remember. Many. The days and nights are the same as I am tired and hungry.’
‘What did you do with your uniform?’
‘I bury it.’
‘Where?’
‘In a wood.’
The officer looked up again. ‘It’s difficult to dig a hole in woods, isn’t it? All those roots under the ground – especially if you’ve only got your bare hands as shovels.’ The officer closed his notebook and stood. ‘Tomorrow you will be handed over to the army.’
‘The army? I am Luftwaffe.’
‘So you say but that’s the way we do things over here. You’ll be moved to an interrogation camp for further questioning. I should warn you, it may not be a particularly agreeable experience.’
* * *
Lukas spent a miserable night in the cells, the officer’s words banging around in his head. There’d always been a camaraderie between pilots but the army may take a very different approach, especially after these months of relentless bombing.
The following morning two armed soldiers arrived and escorted him to the back of a truck. One had a ratty face, the other was porcine. Although he was taller than both, their surly refusal to make eye contact or reply to anything he said made them uncomfortable travelling companions. He was pushed into the back of a truck and the guards clattered in after him.
As they set off, he started watching the road through a small window in the canvas, flinched as they approached an oncoming vehicle, bracing hi
mself for the crash which never came and gave up. It was too alarming to be driven on the left-hand side. Instead he watched the countryside pass through an opening in the back of the canvas hood.
With an increasing sense of despair, Lukas began to realise that Britain was far more prepared for an invasion than he imagined – anti-tank trenches criss-crossed the land, camouflaged concrete bunkers appeared round every corner of the road. On one occasion he spotted a concentration of armoured vehicles, hidden from aerial view by acres of camouflage netting.
After they’d been travelling for about an hour, the density of housing increased – they must be heading into London. Desperately he looked for bomb damage but could see little. Had the success of the Blitz also been exaggerated by the German propaganda machine? Christ, even the shops seemed full. This didn’t look to him like a country on its knees.
He had a horrible feeling Germany may not repeat the swift victory they had in Europe and if that was so, how many years would have to pass until he could come back to Millie? Perhaps, like Pilötchen, she would abandon her lonely vigil and find someone else.
The truck turned off the main road, driving through a park until it reached a set of gates, fortified with barbed wire. Once inside the compound, the truck stopped outside a large house where he was handed over to an MP sergeant and taken upstairs.
He was locked inside a cavernous room, empty except for a single chair and a small table. The house had obviously seen better days – the ceiling from which a bare light-bulb hung, had elaborate mouldings but the paint was peeling and deep cracks ran across the plasterwork.
As the minutes ticked by there was nothing Lukas could do but worry. What if the rumours of torture and duress were true, if the British were abandoning their gentlemanly tactics along with the Geneva Convention? He knew that many German soldiers had already contravened it, particularly the SS – it was logical that the British would abandon their decency and follow suit.
If he were killed in captivity, Millie would never know. The thought of her forlorn hope was unbearable.
Chapter Thirty Four
Christmas is a tricky time of year for everyone, Hugh thought as he struggled to do up the top button of his shirt. Millie was probably thinking a lot about Jack or something. It really couldn’t be all Hugh’s fault, this change of mood, could it? She’d dropped her usual game of pretending to be mildly irritated but amused by him and gone sullen, sulky almost. He tried joshing her along a bit but she looked as if she was on the verge of tears the whole time and he never knew what to do when she cried, so he’d taken a bit of a backseat. Today it couldn’t be avoided.
‘Hugh. Are you finished up there?’ his mother called.
‘Coming.’ He abandoned the top button, tightened his tie over the gap and pulled on his Sunday jacket.
Mrs Adamson, surrounded by a pall of steam, was rattling away at the roasting pan, trying to get it out of the top oven.
‘Here, I’ll do that,’ he said, picking up a fistful of tea towels. ‘Where do you want me to put it?’
‘On the table, darling. Thank you. I need to give it a bit of a baste.’ She whipped off the greaseproof paper and they both stared down at the heap sitting in the pan. ‘What do you think of my murkey?’ she said.
‘Your what?’
‘Mock turkey – it’s mostly sausage meat and breadcrumbs but I’ve bashed several rabbit fillets flat with the rolling pin and tucked them underneath the bacon to give it a bit more body.’
‘But it’s got drumsticks.’
Mrs Adamson laughed. ‘I know – those are parsnips wrapped in bacon.’ She leant towards him and added quietly, ‘I couldn’t possibly have got hold of all this lovely bacon without the Farrows’ ration books.’
Hugh whispered back, ‘But without the Farrows billeted here, I could have accidentally run over one of the geese in the yard and given us a proper Christmas dinner.’
‘Not with that Gauleiter Mrs Wilson joining us for lunch, you couldn’t.’
They both chuckled and shushed at each other.
‘Well,’ Hugh said, ‘it doesn’t look like any bird I’ve ever seen, but it’s a bloody good effort.’ He flopped his arm across her shoulders and planted a kiss on her burning cheek.
She flapped him away and said, ‘Go on with you. Now, you’d better get going or you’re going to be late. And make sure she brings her night things. I can’t bear the idea of that girl all on her own on Christmas night.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
He reversed the Austin out of the garage – it was a bit extravagant, but it was Christmas, after all. The snow had all but cleared apart from some stubborn lumps along the verges but the wind was still whipping in from the east.
He gave a couple of hoots on the horn as he drove into her farmyard. Gyp came bounding out and he followed the dog into the house. There was a pile of brown-paper packages on the table, which was a good sign. He flicked over a couple of the labels, gave the package marked for him a gentle squeeze. It was squishy. Bless her, she’d made him that cushion cover at last.
He heard a footstep and snatched his hand away just as Millie appeared in the doorway, looking terribly pale.
‘Happy Christmas, Mills,’ he said, leaning across and giving her a peck. She stiffened, moved back a fraction.
‘And to you,’ she said, picking her coat up from the back of the chair.
‘Where’s your overnight bag?’
‘I’m coming back to do the afternoon milking.’
‘No, you’re not. I’ve got that all under control. I’m picking up a couple of the farm lads this afternoon to help me. It’s all organised.’
Millie gave a great sigh and wearily shook her head.
‘Leave the lads to have Christmas with their families.’
‘Both boys jumped at the chance, couldn’t get away fast enough. So no, I won’t. I want you to have a real break – I thought it was all agreed.’
‘Hugh, please.’
She looked exhausted, crumpled almost. Hugh blundered on, ‘You’ve no idea how much trouble Mum’s gone to. She’s got a room all ready for you – she’s been airing that bedding for days. Come along now. You can’t shut yourself away for ever.’
‘Jack’s not been gone six months,’ she said but her eyes slid away from him and she started to fidget with the coat in her hands.
‘I know…’ He softened his manner; he mustn’t bully her into coming. ‘It’s bloody poor luck.’ She stared up at the ceiling and he thought she was going to cry. He hurried on, ‘I know I can’t come close to understanding how sad you are…’ she made an odd sort of sound, ‘… but when Jack went, I lost my closest friend too and a day doesn’t go by when I don’t think about him.’
She nodded, said nothing.
‘These are terrible times for all of us but you’ve got good friends, people who care about you. Think about that instead – and for goodness sake, go and get your overnight things. Look,’ he pointed out of the window at the Austin parked in the drive, ‘Gyp’s keen as mustard to come.’ The dog was circling around the car. ‘He knows where he’ll get a good Christmas dinner today.’
She gave another great sigh and said, ‘Will there be lots of people?’
‘Quite a few – you know what Mum’s like. Come along. Get your things,’ he said, determined to hurry her along.
He scooped up the packages and went outside, stowing them in the boot and opening the back door to let Gyp hop in. He paced up and down as he waited.
Why did everything have to be so bloody difficult? There was a time when they got on like a house on fire and now, all he could do was tiptoe around her, terrified of putting his foot in it. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t his fault the War Ag asked him to oversee the running of Enington. He’d convinced them to let Millie stay but if he didn’t watch his step, the War Ag would be on his back, checking productivity. Whatever Millie was struggling with, he had a job to do and he couldn’t do it if he was terrified of saying someth
ing to upset her.
There she was at last, coming across the yard and, thank the Lord, she had an overnight case with her. She gave him an apologetic smile as she handed it over and said, ‘I’m sorry, Hugh. I think I got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.’
He gave her a fraternal pat on her shoulder, and said, ‘That’s OK, Mills. Christmas is always a poignant time, this year more than any, but it is what it is. Come on, hop in. A glass of sherry and a good hot meal will put you in a better mood. And I’m sure Mrs Wilson will be bursting to talk about the capture of that ruddy Nazi.’
* * *
That must be the evacuees Mrs Wilson was talking about, Millie thought when she saw two strangers, sitting mute and deferential at one end of the Christmas table surrounded by Mrs Adamson’s friends and neighbours. Mr Farrow had a blue, pinched face and his wife was small and neat, her eyes pink-rimmed like a mouse. Millie could tell they didn’t want to be there either.
Hugh stood at the end of the table carving, incongruous in his Sunday suit, his hair damp and lumpy where he’d tried to comb it flat to his head. Millie sat beside him, handing the plates along.
When the afternoon darkened, Mrs Adamson closed the curtains and Hugh carried in the small ball of Christmas pudding, a few blue flames licking around the base of the plate. As the dish heated, he speeded into the room, dropping the dish onto the table with a bang, sending a splash of burning liquor onto the tablecloth.
‘Blast!’ he said shaking his hand.
‘Hugh!’
‘Sorry, Mother.’
And everyone laughed, particularly Mrs Wilson who was in rather good spirits. There was something looming about Mrs Wilson, her large bosom encased in tailoring, her hair a solid helmet of blue waves. As the GP’s wife, she was tireless in her pursuit of donations to the various charities she patronised and the war had increased her range and zeal.
A Dangerous Act of Kindness Page 15