A Dangerous Act of Kindness

by A Dangerous Act of Kindness (retail) (epub)

  ‘I am sure the Führer has made provision for that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Some say the Führer made a huge mistake switching from bombing the aerodromes to bombing London. We were weeks away from air supremacy – not any more.’

  Fischer jumped as the pale Kriegsmarine officer opposite laid a hand on his knee, glancing quickly at their fellow passengers, who were engaged in a noisy game of cards.

  ‘Be careful, gentlemen,’ he said quietly. ‘If you’re heard expressing opinions like that, things will go badly for you,’ then the Kriegsmarine officer sat back in his seat and added in louder voice, ‘The Führer hasn’t put a foot wrong yet. Those stories you’ve heard are nothing but British propaganda.’

  Fischer was blinking rapidly and opened his mouth to disagree. The card game had quietened and an unpleasant hush filled the carriage.

  ‘You’re not wrong there,’ Lukas said. ‘We are always fighters, even in captivity.’

  The card players agreed with a Heil Hitler! and returned to their game, quieter now and watchful.

  Fischer turned to face Lukas, the laughter gone from his face. He looked hurt, betrayed but there was nothing Lukas could do to comfort him at the moment. His sentiments were the same but he’d seen real fear in the pale eyes of their travelling companion opposite. Fischer was his friend. He had to look out for him. They lapsed into silence. Fischer stared out of the window and eventually dropped off to sleep.

  As the hours passed, Lukas watched the countryside sliding by, glad to be on the move but feeling the distance between him and Millie expanding. How far could he travel before the thread that linked them broke?

  Chapter Forty One

  Constable Bert Hanratty settled into his new post in Shawstoke remarkably swiftly. The ignominy of the posting to a rural nick was lessened by his first-hand experience of the Hun’s arrest. His new colleagues applauded his treatment of the Nazi, their only regret being the shortness of the encounter.

  ‘I’d have beaten him to a pulp,’ one of them said.

  ‘We should be wiping out the German nation,’ another said, ‘and what do our top brass do? Come to the rescue of a bloody Nazi. Makes me sick to my stomach.’

  They proudly showed him the photographs of the parachute that had been handed in.

  ‘Someone from War Office came and collected it the very next day.’

  ‘When was it found?’ Hanratty said.

  ‘Just before Christmas. Sergeant Turner’s got the log book. He’ll tell you.’

  The stand-up collar on Sergeant Turner’s uniform pleated the loose skin on his neck and Hanratty guessed he was probably in his late fifties. He was an agreeable fellow whose son had been successfully evacuated from Dunkirk.

  ‘Bad show,’ was all he ever said but Hanratty knew he understood what he’d been through.

  ‘Let me see,’ the sergeant said, flicking through the log. ‘Yes, here you are. The parachute was brought in on the Friday before Christmas.’

  ‘Who found it?’

  ‘Landowner over at Steadham Farm, name of Adamson.’

  ‘And when was the plane shot down?’

  ‘Ah, son, that’s a military secret,’ Sergeant Turner said with a twinkle in his eyes. He made a mock glance over his shoulder and said, ‘The battery at Edmonds Park reckoned they got him but the plane came down way over the other side of Sheppington Downs.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Sergeant Turner took him over to the ordnance maps which covered the back wall of his office.

  ‘Here’s where we are,’ he said. ‘And we think the plane came down somewhere here, south of Norrington.’

  ‘Think?’

  ‘It’s all been very hush hush. Morney Beswick owns most of the land over that way and he’s a big noise in this part of the world. He’s on the War Ag and you know what they’re like.’

  ‘Not really. I’m a town copper.’

  ‘Course you are. Well, let me tell you, the War Ag are judge, jury and executioner around here. If they reckon a farm is below par, they’ll requisition it. Dreadful case last summer. Dairy farmer topped himself when they threatened to take his farm. Been in the family for years.’

  ‘You must have some idea of when the plane crashed.’

  ‘Well, that’s where it gets a bit confusing. We thought the plane came down at the beginning of December.’

  ‘Two weeks before he was caught.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Bert Hanratty frowned, deep in thought.

  ‘Something troubling you?’ Sergeant Turner said.

  ‘Where was he all that time?’

  ‘That’s what we’d like to know.’

  ‘You should put some men onto it.’

  ‘I wish I could but we’re ridiculously overstretched. A lot of the lads here were reservists and they’re all fighting now. We’re running on a skeleton staff. As well as all our normal duties, we have to enforce the blackout, help the rescue services, pursue army deserters, clamp down on the black market.’

  ‘Where was the parachute found?’

  ‘Here,’ the sergeant said, tapping the map with a nicotine stained fingernail.

  ‘And the Hun was picked up round about here – which is how far away from the parachute, would you say?’

  ‘Ten miles, if that.’

  ‘It took him two weeks to travel ten miles. Does that strike you as odd?’

  The sergeant shrugged.

  ‘It’s a wild part of the world up there,’ he said. ‘They were cut off for weeks during the bad weather. It could easily take someone that long, especially if they didn’t know where they were going and had no map. I sometimes get lost up there myself.’

  Hanratty shook his head.

  ‘That man hadn’t been living rough. He was muddy when they brought him in, but he sure as hell hadn’t been on the run for two weeks. And I’ll tell you another thing – he had Brylcreem in his hair.’

  ‘What?’ the sergeant said.

  ‘I tell you. I had to grab him by his hair. I got it on my hands. We had a good sniff, me and the Home Guard chappies. We all agreed.’

  ‘Well, there’s a thing. I never guessed the Krauts used the same stuff as our chaps.’

  ‘They wouldn’t though, would they? One of the Home Guard chappies said they use hair tonic.’

  ‘How does he know that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But they’re not likely to use something British on their hair before they fly over here to kill us.’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Not really,’ the sergeant said, a benign look of goodwill on his face.

  ‘He had help. He wasn’t holed up in a barn or an outhouse. Someone took him in.’

  ‘No. Surely not.’

  ‘There’s no other explanation.’

  They turned their attention back to the map.

  ‘Here’s Podmore Hill,’ Hanratty said. ‘That’s where he was picked up and there’s nothing around there – no farms, no dwellings.’

  ‘And that’s Uplands Farm,’ the sergeant said, pointing to a cluster of squares on the OS map. ‘Belongs to the farmer who raised the alarm.’

  ‘No other houses until we get to… here,’ Hanratty said stabbing his finger onto the map.

  ‘That’s the village of Sheppington and that,’ the sergeant said, indicating a group of buildings north of the village, ‘is the Adamson’s place.’

  ‘And this over here?’

  ‘A small dairy farm.’

  ‘They all need to be questioned.’

  Sergeant Turner gave a great sigh and sat back on the edge of his desk.

  ‘I told you, we’re stretched to breaking point. We haven’t got time to go running around the countryside, questioning people. The man’s been caught.’

  ‘You’ve got a collaborator up there. They need rooting out, brought to justice. Just because you’re a country nick doesn’t mean you have to behave like one
.’

  ‘I don’t much like your tone, Hanratty.’

  ‘And I don’t much like the way you run your nick.’

  Chapter Forty Two

  Each morning, enveloped in a bitter darkness, Lukas and the other prisoners stood for roll call. He could hear the boom of the wind racing across the plains from the far ramparts of the highlands; he could smell the clean scent of snow and pine needles, coming to him through the wire.

  This was a precious part of the day for him, waiting for the guards to count them. If someone was still in bed or in the washroom, they kept them there, standing in the biting wind. Lukas sensed the resentment building up around him, the men shuffling their feet against the cold, the heavy sighs out there in the darkness. He didn’t mind. It gave him more time to think about escape; more time to think about Millie.

  From then on, there wasn’t a single moment of peace. Into the rattling, shouting melee of breakfast, the lump of boiled oats, sometimes salty, usually tasteless and then, before the sky lightened, outside they all went, to loaf around between the huts until midday when they were allowed back inside.

  The huts smelt of men and damp clothing; socks and shirts steamed around the pot-bellied stove and the men shouted at one another over endless games of cards or bargained for cigarettes with the small monthly pay they were given for essentials. Others sat gloomily on their bunks, writing letters home.

  Lukas usually found a grimy window to stare through and as he looked across the wastes of stunted heather, he wrote letters to Millie in his head. Sometimes he told her mundane things about the food in the camp, the endless meals of potato and salted herring. Other times he tried to define what was happening to him, the foment that was building inside him, his fear that unless they could be together, it would eat him away, leaving just a husk, like the carcass of a fly on a spider’s web, jerking in the wind.

  At night he pictured the journey back down the country to home, to Millie. The train journey had taken several days but with lengthy stops at stations that all seemed to be called Guinness. In his waking dream, he preferred to make the journey on foot, four weeks, perhaps a couple of months, walking down the spine of this island he never wanted to leave.

  Within their enclosure of wire, they crowded past each other in a permanent circuit round the huts, nothing but men, the same faces, the same voices, the same conversations. He knew everything about everybody. He knew about their families, he knew about their sweethearts, he knew about their childhoods, their time at school, their war, their capture – but not their politics. That was a subject best avoided.

  Rumours galloped through the camp: the invasion had begun – prisoners were rising up all over Britain; the invasion had been abandoned – prisoners were being shipped to the British colonies, Australia or Canada.

  Lukas stopped listening, stopped passing on what he heard. He wished Walter Fischer would do the same.

  * * *

  It was a sparkling April morning and Lukas and Fischer were sitting with their backs against the pitch-tar planks outside one of the huts. If a guard spotted them, they’d be told to move along but for the moment it was pleasant to feel the sun on their faces and watch the slow procession of fellow prisoners pass by.

  In the distance, Lukas spotted a body of men moving towards them. Their appearance was remarkable because, unlike the majority of the inmates, they wore full uniform, mostly Waffen-SS, Fallschirmjäger and Kriegsmarinen. The other prisoners parted as they came through, standing to attention to return their Heil Hitlers.

  ‘On your feet, Walter. Here come the Rollkommando.’

  Lukas and Fischer stood and saluted. They didn’t want any trouble.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ the soldier at the front of the group said. He looked young, barely twenty, with blonde hair razored short at the side, his long fringe glossy and swept straight back from his face.

  ‘Sturmbannführer Fleischmann,’ Lukas said, acknowledging him with a dip of the head.

  ‘Enjoying this wonderful Führer weather?’

  Fischer made an odd noise in the back of his throat as if he were stifling a giggle. Fleischmann’s expression darkened. He stepped towards him and two of his companions took a position either side.

  ‘Has something amused you?’ Fleischmann said.

  Fischer shook his head, pressing his lips together.

  Two Kriegsmarinen and four Fallschirmjäger who had wandered a few yards further on, turned and sauntered back to see what was going on, their hands in their pockets.

  Fleischmann lifted his chin and stared down at Fischer who returned his gaze with ill-concealed contempt. Fleischmann shoved Fischer on the shoulder and said, ‘Traitor for disrespecting the Führer.’

  Lukas was about to remonstrate when a fist flew past his face and caught Fischer on the cheek. Lukas bounded forward, violently shoving one of the flanking Kriegsmarinen out to the side. Fischer fell against the hut, shook his head and swung his fist at Fleischmann. The group split, rushing forward with punches and kicks. Lukas saw Fischer go down, a boot stamp onto his shoulder.

  Lukas smashed his fist into the attacker’s ribs, grabbed at Fischer’s arm. He was up, punching out wildly. A Fallschirmjäger grabbed the edge of Lukas’s jacket and swung him round, kicking him hard in the small of his back as he thumped against the side of the hut.

  Other prisoners started shouting and baying. Lukas turned and ducked. Another fist missed. He had a man by the waist, rushing him forward. The soldier struggled free, bounced back, came forward, fists bunched.

  Lukas crashed backwards into someone else. Turned and punched him. Other fists hailed down on his shoulders and he punched out at the spinning, circling figures.

  He heard someone bellowing over the racket and Reinhard Leibich, their own Lagerführer, pushed between the spectators. Leibich grabbed the man nearest to him and tugged him out of the scrap. The soldier drew a hand back to punch, recognised the officer and slunk away.

  ‘Sturmbannführer Fleischmann,’ Leibich bellowed.

  Fleischmann swung round, his face flushed and excited. The instant he recognised the senior officer, the savage grin fell from his face. He pushed his hair back and tugged his jacket down, neatening the collar before he came to attention with a salute.

  ‘I will not have soldiers brawling in my camp like street thugs,’ Leibich said.

  ‘It was nothing but high spirits, Korvettenkapitän,’ Fleischmann said. The rest of his group leeched away behind him and disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘Move along then, all of you.’

  Lukas helped Fischer to his feet and quietly joined the other prisoners on the circuit. When they were out of earshot, Lukas turned towards his friend and said, ‘You’ve got to stop that, Walter. One day you’ll take it too far.’

  ‘“We are all called upon by Hitler to behave like Germans,”’ Fischer mimicked. ‘You know what those thugs in the Rollkommando mean by that, don’t you Lukas?’

  ‘Of course I do. They want us to behave like Nazis.’

  ‘And we weren’t even allowed to be active members of the party when we joined the Luftwaffe.’

  ‘That hardly matters now,’ Lukas said. ‘We’ve got to play the game or we’ll get a night visit from the Holy Ghost.’

  ‘We can sleep tight in our beds tonight I expect,’ Fischer said, fingering the darkening skin on his cheekbone. ‘They’ve had their dose of violence for the day.’

  Chapter Forty Three

  Day by day the hours of darkness decreased and, as he waited each morning to be counted, listening to the wind soughing through the rolls of barbed wire, Lukas saw the mountains in the distance etched black against a tin-coloured sky; a few weeks later, it was light enough to see clouds streaming over the peaks. The year was slowly turning, spring was on its way.

  Then one morning after breakfast, they weren’t herded outside. They were told to fetch as much money as they had and go over to the reception hut where new arrivals were searched and vetted. Th
e tables were piled high with coats and jackets, scarves and hats. The air was filled with the smell of must and camphor, the scent of ancient clothing, long stored. He felt his guts slither and compress. These thick coats of tweed and wool meant one thing – they were bound for Canada.

  ‘Tree felling for us, Lukas,’ Fischer said, picking up a coat and giving it a cautious sniff, but Lukas could see he was struggling to keep up his cheerful bravado. Fleischmann and his entourage were crowing about escape – Canada was next to neutral America; they’d be across that border quick as lightening and back to fight for the Führer – but generally an air of shock had gripped everyone. Lukas wondered if it was the thought of moving thousands of miles further from home or the sickening realisation that their war was unlikely to be over in a matter of months.

  The commandant, Major Campbell, strode between the tables; Korvettenkapitän Reinhard Leibich, their Lagerführer, remonstrated with him on behalf of the camp.

  ‘The Geneva Convention,’ Leibich said, ‘forbids the sending of prisoners into an area where they may be exposed to the fire of the combat zone. As you well know, Major, our U-Boot fleet are targeting merchant convoys in the Atlantic with great success.’

  ‘Is that so, Korvettenkapitän? Perhaps you would be wise not to believe the propaganda your country was feeding you at the time of your capture.’

  ‘It is not propaganda. Millions of tons of your shipping lie at the bottom the ocean. It is a happy time for Germany. Britain will be starved into submission.’

  ‘So you say,’ Major Campbell replied, walking on, tapping his leg with his swagger stick.

  ‘You are contravening the Geneva Convention by sending us into this battle,’ Leibich called after him.

  The Major spun round and said, ‘Quite the contrary, Korvettenkapitän. The escalation of bombing over Britain has turned our whole country into a battle zone. Surely you have seen the sky blazing at night. Your bombers are targeting our ports and cities now. I would be failing in my duty of care to you and your fellow prisoners if I did not send you to a country of safety, a continent that your bombers cannot reach.’