Black Camp 21

by Bill Jones

  ‘You’re a lying cunt.’ The men let Koenig go. ‘Tell him his stuff’s going on the fire.’

  After that, there were no more indignities. In place of SS grey, they pulled on two-piece prison suits, cut from rough military cloth. Sewn on to the back of the mauve jacket and the left leg of the matching trousers was a large black disc. In the pockets of each were three unexplained metal tokens.

  ‘I met Hitler in that uniform, Max,’ mumbled Koenig, stretching out his right hand. ‘He shook that. I touched him.’

  ‘I know. You told me. Hands like an artist.’

  None of the others was speaking. Humiliation had rendered them mute.

  During the meal which followed, not even Rosterg dared fracture the silence. At one end of a deserted canteen, they sat across tables replete with food: serving plates tottering with bread and brutish chunks of orange cheese; rock-like dumplings bobbing in tureens brimming with fatty broth.

  So much food – more than they’d seen for months – and to begin with, as always, they had ripped into it like fifty or so frenzied animals. A few minutes later, very little of it had been eaten. First our souls, now our stomachs, Hartmann realised. Everything about us has shrivelled.

  It had been a long day. When they were herded outside, nothing much else was moving. Spotlights flickered across the wet metal roofs but the huts were dark and the residents silent. In his head, each man was trying hard to cling on to his bearings: a lamppost, a manhole cover, a chimney, anything. Knowing the way back might be useful, but the night had come early and there was nothing much to see; just the silhouettes of their guards, the neat lines of identical arched Nissens, and the first stars pricking the forested horizon.

  Finally, at what felt like the camp’s black heart, they’d entered a second compound. More wire and more huts, built in pairs and staring across at each other like accusing twins. At the third one on the left, they stopped. There were two small windows either side of a crude wooden door set in a semicircle of brick. A number six had been painted in black on the wooden doorframe and neither its door nor its windows were locked.

  ‘This is it. Home sweet home.’ A soldier had stepped forward and was gesturing for them to enter. ‘What were you expecting? The Ritz?’

  No one moved. A few more drops of rain stirred on a sharp swirl of wind.

  From the back of the group, Goltz was pushing through. ‘I’m knackered. Let’s stop dicking about.’

  As he wrenched open the door and stepped in, a rancid draught blew out. Men in barracks, from Dresden to Devizes; the same flatulent stink everywhere.

  Followed by the others, Goltz pushed on into the darkness of the block. Down each side, sleeping men were stretched out on bunk beds. ‘Just find a space,’ he said. ‘We’ll see who they are in the morning.’ If anyone was awake – which they were – they didn’t speak.

  For once, indifferent to the swampy air, Hartmann could have slept for ever. Since his capture, every day had seemed never-ending, and a thin blanket on a doughy mattress felt like luxury. He had pushed Koenig ahead of him, and the two of them had taken a bunk at the end furthest from the door. Within seconds, Koenig’s snores were swelling the hut’s glottal chorus, while Hartmann’s legs had embarked on their involuntary nightly dance.

  When the twitching eased, and the dreams began, they were rotten ones. He was suffocating in a giant swastika. He was being thrown out of a plane, bound naked to Alize. He was standing alone in a vast field full of blazing torches. But even when he stirred, troubled by the distant nag of his bladder, Hartmann slumbered on.

  Private and Confidential

  Diary entry:

  HQ, Salisbury Plain and Dorset District (POW directorate)

  Date:

  13 Sept. 1944

  At 23 POW Camp Devizes, additional facilities have been put in hand to meet the new commitment – i.e. 7,500 German POWs in permanent residence. It is expected this could be accepted by 30th Nov. 44 as follows: in covered accommodation: 6,170; in tents: 1,330.

  Furthermore, the District Command has authorised the provision of a further 46 Nissen huts to replace the single tentage at present in use. Three working parties, each of fifty German POWs from Camp 23, have been organised by HQ under escort to work on public highways, a helpful expedient in removing the large deposits of mud brought on to the roads by tracked vehicles which have led to the cancellation of local bus services.

  Urgent note: SS – and other black-grade prisoners – are in no circumstances to be granted access to these work parties.

  15

  It was still dark when the bugle blew. Distant at first, but then closer and loud, a shrill coda to a sleep cut short.

  As the men surfaced, subdued conversations began, building quickly to a curious buzz. Outside, someone was banging the hut’s glossy metal skin repeatedly with a stick. Inside, legs were swinging down off beds and a string of men was dashing for the door. Everyone, like Hartmann, had slept in his prison clothing. Everyone, like Hartmann, was desperate for the lavatory. Without waking Koenig, he slid on his boots.

  The hut was full. Twenty bunks each side; eighty men in total. No wonder the place stank. During the night, a handful of buckets had served as latrines and no one seemed in any hurry to empty them. Instead, the prisoners were filing out into the sharp morning air where a thin beading of dawn was visible beyond the perimeter wire.

  Hartmann filled his lungs. It was five in the morning maybe, certainly no later than six. Across the whole camp, dingy security lights were still glowing on their concrete stalks. Shapes were becoming clearer. Seven more identical huts in his compound alone; over six hundred prisoners.

  Black discs were everywhere, like holes in the men’s backs; a sea of black holes bobbing towards the concrete toilet blocks intent upon only one thing. And among them, the loping adolescent form of Kurt Zuhlsdorff.

  Hartmann spotted him first. ‘How perfect that we should meet up again in a shithouse.’

  ‘I know that voice.’ Zuhlsdorff’s eyes squinted against the low, rising sun. ‘My old friend, the patriot.’

  ‘Were you on a mission, or did you just fancy a cushier number?’

  ‘Fuck off, Hartmann. I missed you. They rumbled me. I couldn’t keep away. All right?’

  ‘Piece of advice, Zuhlsdorff.’ Hartmann pointed at the younger man’s ravaged hand. ‘Next time you go undercover, wear gloves.’

  Inside the icy latrine they pulled down their pants and took a seat. Along an entire wall, twenty men sat over an open drain which ran out through a wall. As the river of waste flowed beneath them, schoolyard comments flew around the block.

  ‘There’s not much to amuse us here, Max. Seeing who generates the day’s biggest turd represents a high point in our routine. You should do well.’

  Hartmann cast around for some paper.

  ‘We get issued three sheets a day and most people save it to keep diaries or write letters.’

  ‘So what do we use?’

  Zuhlsdorff held up both hands, revealing the puckered stumps of his lost fingers. ‘When you’re done, the sinks are over there.’ He grinned.

  Hartmann groaned. Lately, his bowels had felt as if they were full of rocks. Without any paper, maybe that was a blessing.

  With an awkward hitch of his trousers, Zuhlsdorff stood and moved towards the row of sinks. After a few more seconds of futile heaving, Hartmann gave up and shoved his filthy hands under a trickle of cold water.

  ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘Back at that military hospital, you told me you’d had blood transfusions.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Zuhlsdorff had stood up straight to wipe his wet hands on the seat of his trousers.

  ‘Anyone ever tell you where the blood was from?’

  ‘What’s your fucking point?’

  ‘My point, Zuhlsdorff, is that they were using Jewish blood, drawn from the pumping heart of a real-life American Jew boy GI.’

  ‘You’re lying. You’re fucking lying.’ Zuhlsdorff’s shoulders
had slumped, and in the toilet block’s feeble light his skin looked grey.

  ‘Maybe I am. But you’ll never be sure, and that makes me happy. Great start to the day. See you around, my friend.’

  Back at the hut, Hartmann poked Koenig awake. The bugle was blowing again and the new arrivals were floundering towards the door. Zuhlsdorff still hadn’t emerged from the latrines.

  ‘We eat when they’ve counted us,’ someone was explaining.

  Ahead of him, he could see Goltz and Mertens, distinct shapes against the brightening windows. Beyond them, marshalled by British soldiers, a line was forming on each side of the grassy rectangle between the eight prefabricated dorms. Everywhere he looked, hundreds of men were slouching into position. Each one sported the two giant black discs, and as the sunlight finally broke clear two British officers bellowed into the silence.

  ‘Att-en-tion.’

  No one moved. Hartmann’s chest was pounding. The tinny drone of the bugle had stopped and a halyard was pinging rhythmically on a flagpole. Witnessing Zuhlsdorff’s collapse had been good. He’d forgotten what elation felt like.

  ‘ATT-EN-TION.’

  The officers were standing back to back now, pale-faced. One of them had his fingers clamped over the pistol holstered to his belt. The other already had a service revolver in his hand. Both looked utterly lost. All around them, the prisoners were slowly raising their right arms in a stiff-backed salute. When a solitary voice rang out a ‘Sieg Heil’, it was immediately joined by more, until every man – including Hartmann – was spitting out the mantra; a hoarse crescendo of hatred that rose above the entire camp like a sullen cloud.

  ‘Sieg Heil. Sieg Heil. SIEG HEIL.’

  And then a shot, followed by more shots, and then nothing.

  ‘Don’t worry. It happens just about every day.’ An unfamiliar voice from behind in his ear. ‘They do their thing. We do ours. Then we can all go away and feed our faces.’

  Hartmann resisted the temptation to respond. Loaded weapons weren’t fun, even when they missed. Hut by hut, name by name, the prisoners were being ordered forward to be checked off. When his name came, he was ready. At last the guards were satisfied, and the men were dismissed. Only then, as they flooded off towards food, did the tension slacken. Barely an hour had passed since reveille, and already Hartmann felt exhausted.

  ‘I’m Heinz Bruling, by the way.’ It was the voice from roll call. ‘Mind if I join you for breakfast?’

  Hartmann shrugged. It was too early for small talk with another zealot.

  ‘Step on it a bit, and we’ll get to the front of the queue.’

  Ahead of them, prisoners were jostling to get through green-painted double doors into the long flat-roofed canteen.

  ‘There’s always plenty,’ Bruling explained, ‘but it’s usually cold if you get in last.’

  From inside, the crisp smell of fried food was pouring out of the kitchen. Despite his recalcitrant bowels, Hartmann’s appetite quickened. The bottom end would look after itself. Eventually. Right now, the top end badly needed attention.

  As the queue stuttered closer, the fatty fragrance became overwhelming. Along one entire wall, greasy-smocked orderlies stood watch over steaming tureens. Calibrated helpings of creamed rice for every man. A dollop of jam. Two plums. Four slices of fried bread. The ubiquitous sweet tea. And yet more cheese.

  Behind him, the low rumble of expectation seemed to stretch right back into the courtyard. It was his turn now. He picked up a chipped enamel plate and pushed it forward. Nothing happened. A dripping ladle of porridge hung motionless over his dish. ‘You’ve forgotten something, pal.’

  Hartmann stared back at the server helplessly.

  ‘They want paying.’ Bruling had returned, clutching a tray covered in food. ‘Somewhere in your clothes? The three metal discs?’

  Hartmann felt inside his trouser pockets. The ragged tokens, seemingly hacked from a tin can, were still there. When he handed one across, his plate was filled.

  ‘You surrender one for each of the day’s meals and then tomorrow morning you get them back and start again. Unless, of course, you want to trade them. You’d be surprised what people will swap for second helpings.’

  Hartmann doubted whether he would. He also doubted whether he’d ever grow tired of being fed like this.

  The two men took seats at the end of a long trestle. For a few minutes they ate in a state of trance-like concentration. Everyone in the room was doing the same, heads studiously bent and spoons scraping. Hartmann finished first and watched Bruling mopping up his porridge with a crust. He seemed different, somehow; less gaunt, and much less wired. Like all of them, he was horribly young – early twenties, no more – but his thinning hair framed a round, bookish face, and his manner lacked the obligatory tribal snarl.

  ‘Is it always this good?’ Hartmann asked.

  ‘Three times a day. I’ve never eaten better.’ Bruling took a measured sip from his tea. The room was jammed tight with men. ‘The Tommies hate us, but we’re soldiers too,’ he explained. ‘That means we get exactly the same rations as them. Bacon, cake, biscuits, everything. Those are the rules. Whatever else happens in here, you’ll never be hungry.’

  ‘You sound like an old hand.’

  From his tunic pocket, Bruling dug out the remains of two battered cigarettes. He lit both, and passed the longer one to Hartmann. His hands were pale and undamaged.

  ‘You came last night, right? I watched you come in. We’ve been here three weeks. All of us in that same hut as you. All rounded up together. All sick as pigs it ended so soon.’

  For fifteen minutes, they swapped stories under a stinging fog of service tobacco. Bruling was bright. Three years before, he’d walked out of a Hamburg university, preferring Mein Kampf to mathematics. He’d fought in Russia, then France, earning promotion to Rottenführer – section leader – somewhere along the way. Belonging to the SS, he said ruefully, had felt like a calling more than a duty.

  Inwardly, Hartmann grieved. ‘You don’t seem to fit the stereotype,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m disappointed.’

  Not long after that, they left, drifting out under still-warm September sun. The Rottenführer had been right. There were two more daily meals, each one just as substantial as the last. But in between them, Hartmann quickly realised, there was absolutely nothing.

  Forgoing Bruling’s offer of company, he’d paced his new world alone. Eight Nissen huts, a toilet block and the canteen building lay inside a compound the size of a football pitch. Around them was a badly constructed wire fence, slung between evenly spaced concrete posts no more than ten feet high. Along the top of the fence, barbed wire ran from corner to corner. Along the bottom, shovelfuls of earth had been slung hurriedly across the mesh to hold it down. On Hartmann’s first lap, he’d nudged it loose with his foot.

  On his second, he’d opened a gap big enough for a fox to crawl through.

  On his third, he scuffed the hole shut.

  No one had seen him. And from what he could tell, no one had been looking. Carefully, he scanned the compound. Security was laughable. A couple of dopey-looking guards by the gate set against the hundreds of bored young SS killers stretched out on the grass, or back in their bunks murdering time.

  They’ve put us all together, he thought, when they should have driven us apart. They’re feeding us up, and making us strong again.

  Bruling had looked so fit there’d been a bonfire in his eyes. Soon Goltz and the others would be re-energised, and everywhere he wandered Hartmann heard the same conversation. V2. V2. V2. The war was swinging round. Prisoners one day, kings the next.

  Faith was surging back through men programmed to believe in their own invincibility.

  16

  By the end of the day, he had a much sharper idea of his new world.

  His first impressions had been right. The camp was huge. Four independent compounds surrounded by their own wire sat within a further outer fence. One enormous compound for the Wehrmac
ht soldiers, smaller ones for the Luftwaffe, the officers and the SS; each fully segregated from the rest, and each one growing fast.

  Such as they were, the guards seemed to be a peculiar mix of old-school British officers and toothless veterans, supplemented by the miscellaneous Americans who’d been left behind in the Normandy rush. Every single one of them, he suspected, would rather have been fighting.

  ‘There’s one other thing you need to know,’ Bruling told him later over a bowl of mutton stew. ‘All the other prisoners can apply for work off the camp. Farming, ditch digging, road repairs, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘And because we’re category black, that’s not allowed?’

  ‘Correct. We’re the only ones with absolutely nothing to do. Except eat and get pissed off.’

  After that, the evening seemed interminable. Another tense roll call had preceded the third meal, following which the men were restricted to their huts until lights out at 9.30 p.m. As darkness fell, groups of men playing cards reached for their bedding. Games of chess were left abandoned. Huddled conversations withered and died.

  Propped up on his top bunk, Hartmann looked down the full length of the hut. It was strange, but for the first time in weeks he’d had a good day. Zuhlsdorff was still brooding alone somewhere. Koenig was refusing to eat, and had sulked in the hut between roll calls. Goltz was off circulating furiously, but their paths had not crossed. Left alone, under the sun, he’d felt almost normal. Staring up at the clouds, serenaded by a blackbird, he’d remembered who he was. Not just POW No. 15298. He was somebody’s husband, somebody’s father, and those twin certainties had unlocked an anomalous rush of joy. Even the cherub-faced Bruling had noticed.

  ‘You seem happy,’ he’d said.

  ‘Do I? Remind me how it looks.’

  Now, under the metal skin of the hut, having removed only their shoes, each prisoner had entered a grim, private race against the cold. Most still wore their caps, and unless sleep came quickly they’d shiver all night in their single blankets. Once the lights had clicked out, the building filled with new sounds: coughing; the clatter of urine in buckets; the rustle of a horsehair mattress and the eerie creaking of the roof as it contracted beneath a star-crammed sky. If we’re still here in December, Hartmann thought, we will all freeze to death.