Black Camp 21

by Bill Jones

  Long ago, under a tank somewhere, he remembered craving the sanctuary of absolute silence – war’s impossible dream. But even here, in the night’s stillness, he could make out the thud of distant trucks and the laboured engines of bomb-heavy planes.

  Maybe it wasn’t happiness. Maybe it was hope. Against all logic, he felt certain that Helen Waters had sent his note and that someone would be moving it on from one bomb-crushed address to the next until it found her.

  Next time, he’d write more. Next time, he’d tell her he was coming home.

  A few bunks away, someone had started babbling in his sleep, a high-pitched voice like a terrified child’s. Someone threw a boot and the whining stopped. Hartmann turned and corkscrewed into his blanket. Deep within his groin, sharpened by the cold, his unemptied bladder was whispering again.

  Every few minutes, the hut’s two far windows glowed in the light spinning round on the guard tower. If he counted the flashes, maybe he could bore himself to sleep. But after fifty or so, the whisper was a scream. Somehow he had to reach those buckets. As he eased down on to the hut’s concrete floor, he tried to picture where they were: halfway down on the left; a dozen paces along into the cacophony of wheezing. That was it. Hartmann picked up his boots, clutched his testicles and inched forward, feeling for obstacles with his feet.

  Something ripe-smelling was horribly near. As the tower light flashed again, he saw it: a steaming pail, crammed with black water and faeces. He lurched back, rocking a second bucket hidden in the shadows. Something warm sloshed onto his trousers. Hartmann retched. Both buckets were full. He had to get outside. Upended chess pieces were rolling on the floor. Disturbed sleepers were bawling furiously after his phantom silhouette. A few more steps and he was out, hands on the side of the hut, wrenching open his flies.

  He stood up, relieved, and stretched back with a shiver. Dew was forming on the grass already, sparkling under a black helmet of stars. Feeling better in the open air, Hartmann pulled his coat tight and walked out beyond the latrine block towards the wire.

  Looking back from a slight knoll, he could make out the geometric shape of the camp and follow the spotlight as it swung lazily across the square-shaped SS compound. Between the fence and the toilet block he was completely invisible. Unless someone came looking, he could stay there all night. With his back against a concrete stanchion, he hunched up against the cold and filled his lungs. A raw northerly wind was carrying the rustle of distant trees, and with it the plea of a solitary owl. After a minute, he stood up and walked cautiously along the inside of the fence towards the canteen.

  At the midway point, he kneeled down. In the friable topsoil, his shaking fingers located the bottom of the wire. Within a few seconds he had freed a section the width of a man. He took a long, deep breath. What was he doing? He’d only come out to relieve himself. Now, for the first time in days, his guts had started to move.

  He could stand, turn round, and go back. He could forget all about this and eat three huge meals a day until someone put him on a boat home. Except that he wouldn’t. He would see where this went. No one else would need to know.

  With both hands, Hartmann held the lower edge of the fence and pulled upwards until a space had opened into which he could crawl. One quick glance over his shoulder, and he was through. No gunfire. No dogs. No voices. Only the timpani of his heart. He was alive. His mouth was crammed with dirt. But he was still alive.

  Slowly, he came up off his knees. Directly in front of him was another identical fence running parallel to the one he had just scrambled under. Between them was an overgrown no man’s land, around six feet wide, running away on both sides like a corridor through the darkness. Beyond the second fence he could distinguish the outline of more huts – huge huts – similar in shape but four times bigger than his own. As he tried to count them, the arc of a second guard tower light began moving quickly towards him. He froze. The beam advanced, rippling on the apparently endless rows of tin roofs before spinning out towards the fence. Certain that it would find him, he raised his hands over his head. The white ellipse of light was tracking speedily across the sodden grass. Any moment now, they would see him and shoot.

  He closed his eyes. Nothing happened. When he opened them, the pale disc had swept harmlessly on. Five minutes later, Hartmann was still watching. This time, he would keep his eyes open. Behind him, the light over his own compound seemed to have packed up altogether. At its closest, this second beam fell yards short of the fence. Wherever the corridor went to, it was completely unguarded. Whatever he did, no one would see him.

  Squatting down in the long grass, Hartmann composed his thoughts. How long was it since he’d left the hut? Ten minutes? An hour? If anything, the sky had darkened. No trace of dawn yet. No need to head back. Tucking his cap into the wire as a marker, he turned left and walked quickly along the gap between the compounds.

  If nothing else, it was something to do.

  17

  After that, he went out every night. Sometimes he wandered. Sometimes he merely watched.

  Without his secret excursions, he would have been crushed by the routine, and by the bitterness which now polluted almost every exchange. On the rare occasions that they spoke, his conversations with Koenig were short and cold. Beyond the curtain of darkness, he was alone and Camp 23 was his to explore.

  Within a week, he’d drawn a clear mental map of not so much a prison, more a German city, spreading fast across the autumnal Wiltshire fields. By his own crude reckoning, six new huts were going up daily, most of them for the newly arrived Wehrmacht prisoners who whistled in cheerfully through the main gates every day around dusk. The smaller structures housed eighty men. The new ones were like massive warehouses, each providing shelter for six hundred, maybe more. After navigating the wire corridor which kept the groups of prisoners apart, Hartmann put the camp’s population at six thousand.

  Six thousand.

  Under the moonlight, around the fringes of their huts, groups of Wehrmacht prisoners kicked footballs listlessly until boredom drove them back to their bunks. Elsewhere, Hartmann hid and listened as a fledgling choir found its voice behind metal walls. During the nights that followed, it grew more confident, launching full-throated German hymns across the stillness of the camp. No one stepped in to interfere, and as each song reached its climax, muffled applause burst out all over the giant army compound.

  After a few trips, he was staying out longer and penetrating deeper. Inside the main perimeter wire, close to the main gates, was a deserted parade ground. On the other side of the wire were the brick-built quarters of the guards into which they retreated every night. Beyond that, he could follow the fitful shadows of night traffic, enjoying glimpses of the wooded countryside beyond.

  Apart from the desultory spotlights, and the 24-hour watch posted on each of the four compound gates, security seemed to evaporate soon after curfew. With familiarity came the realisation that escape would be easy, and once the idea had drawn breath, there was no shifting it from his thoughts.

  Inside the SS huts, the atmosphere was increasingly rank. Creeping back into his bed each night, Hartmann sensed the poison like a pressure shift in the air. With no news to sustain them and the inescapable joylessness of their days, morale had crashed. Even in their sleep, the men looked tense. Except for the daily name-checking, the relentless meals, there was nothing for them to do; nowhere for them to go. It was a hollow into which Goltz had poured himself with masterful aplomb.

  After displacing Bruling as the self-appointed leader of Hut No. 6, he’d wasted no time in asserting his total command over the occupants of the other seven huts. There’d been no formal coup; Bruling had merely deferred to the formidable cocktail of combat legend and mobster-in-chief with which Goltz charmed his new world. Even the listless Koenig had been impressed, and wherever their leader now wandered, he, Zuhlsdorff and Mertens were never far behind.

  At mealtimes, their arrival in the canteen guaranteed a dip in the luminous ch
atter. Away from it, they ensured that the continuance of the war – and victory – remained uppermost in every prisoner’s thoughts. If there was dissent, no one voiced it, and even Hartmann felt compelled to raise his arm during roll call. For whatever reason – despite the incident in the shower – Goltz had shown no hostility towards him. And for the sake of his health, Hartmann was determined to keep it that way.

  In the middle of the third week, the wind swung round to the south, lifting the mood with a soft surge of warm air and blue skies. Whenever they could, the men eased out into the sunshine, or shambled in groups around their pen.

  ‘You and Goltz seem close.’ It had been several days since Hartmann had sought Koenig out. There was an awkwardness between them neither had experienced before.

  ‘Do we? Maybe. I like him. He talks a lot of sense. Is that an issue?’

  ‘I’m still your best friend though. Right?’

  Koenig had nodded. ‘Sure.’

  The two of them had reached the fence behind the toilet block. Somewhere in the distance, sand and gravel were grinding around inside a cement mixer.

  ‘I need to tell you something,’ Hartmann had whispered. ‘I just need to know I can still trust you.’

  Koenig had smiled – his old smile – and slid his arm round Hartmann’s waist. ‘Charlie and his Orchestra. Of course you can.’

  ‘See here. Look.’ With his right foot, Hartmann had scraped away a small bowl of dirt, exposing the ragged bottom edge of the fence. ‘I go out every night. I know every inch of this place. I could get you out. Me and you. I’m talking about escape.’

  ‘You must be fucking joking.’ Koenig had stepped away, pulling his arm back.

  ‘Why would I be? This place stinks. We’re all slowly dying here. You know that.’

  ‘Because we’re stronger together, maybe? Because you’d get killed for nothing?’

  ‘I’ve a kid somewhere, Erich. I can’t wait.’

  ‘You were going to go without me.’

  ‘That’s not true. I’ve not even started to work this out.’

  The two friends had parted moments later. That night, bad weather stormed back again, penning all the men behind their iron walls.

  Koenig had made himself invisible, and for the first time in days Hartmann chose not to slip out of the compound after darkness. Not that night, nor the next three. Something felt wrong, something was stirring, and so he ticked off the hours playing endless games of patience, while forcing away memories of the violinist’s mangled face.

  Outside, drumrolls of squally sleet fed icy pools of slush.

  On the fourth night of rain, he watched nervously as Goltz swept into the canteen with his entourage. No queuing; no scruffy metal tokens either. Shaking the drops from their sodden uniforms, they’d strolled to the head of the line, filled their plates, and taken the table kept exclusively for them. Among the group, to Hartmann’s surprise, was the bookish face of Heinz Bruling. When their eyes eventually met, Bruling put down his knife and fork and walked cautiously across to where he was sitting.

  ‘I can’t join you, Max. I’m with them.’

  ‘Yes. I saw. I’ll be careful what I say.’ Hartmann paused to swallow a mouthful of cake. ‘I never had you down as Goltz’s type.’

  ‘He’s not so bad.’ Bruling laughed. ‘What else is there to do in this shithole anyway?’ He looked back to check his chair was still free, and dropped his voice. ‘Look at us. We could all go mad in here. Goltz might wake us up a bit.’

  Hartmann glanced away sharply. A bucketful of cutlery had crashed to the floor. As always, there’d be another mind-numbing wait while the guards counted the knives.

  ‘There’s a meeting later. Goltz wants you there.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me, Max. We’re Schutzstaffel, remember. We don’t ask questions.’

  When he left the canteen, the rain was coming harder, cascading between the corrugated ripples of the Nissen huts and backing up around the hastily laid concrete foundations. Inside, a line of rusty drips had surfaced along the seams of the roofs and bunks had been dragged aside to dodge the leaks.

  As he ran to Hut No. 6, Hartmann heaved his jacket up over his head. Either side of the door, the black windows stared at him like two rheumy eyes. Behind them, the block felt cold and damp. Apart from himself, there was only one man there.

  ‘You’re still wearing your uniform, Rosterg. How come?’

  Rosterg peered down at his tunic. Damp streaks were spreading out from his epaulettes. Drops of rain clung to the round metal buttons, and he was still wearing the soft calfskin boots he’d been captured in.

  ‘A welcome privilege, Max. That’s all.’

  ‘Which you earn for doing what exactly?’ Since their walk from Devizes Station, Hartmann had seen nothing of the older man.

  ‘You and I are lucky. We can speak English. Not everyone does. A place like this needs an interpreter. Let’s say I’ve made myself useful.’

  Hartmann grinned. The man was indestructible, forever sliding mysteriously between the cracks; no less sleek in the squalor of a transit camp than he had been in the baroque splendour of a London palace.

  ‘What’s this all about, Rosterg?’

  ‘Absolutely no idea. Some sort of lecture, perhaps?’

  Even here, with his spectacles misted over and his hair shining wet, the man’s composure seemed perfectly intact. With a wordless bow towards Hartmann, he busied himself with the task of drying his perennially wet glasses. When he was satisfied, he pushed them back along his nose, and sighed.

  ‘Blind as a bat without them, Max.’

  ‘So how do I make myself useful?’

  ‘That’s not so easy, I’m afraid.’ Rosterg inclined his head, indicating the black roundel on Hartmann’s leg and back. ‘I’m not SS. I’m a pen-pusher. I don’t represent the same threat to civilisation that you lot do.’

  ‘And if I was wearing a different badge, would that make me less of a threat?’

  ‘Quite possibly. But I’m not really sure how we find that out.’

  Outside, the wind was firing pellets of sleet against the windows and water was wriggling between their feet towards the door. Rosterg stepped carefully to one side and eased himself down on the lower half of a bunk.

  ‘Not what you’re used to?’ asked Hartmann. ‘Need to keep those nice boots dry?’

  ‘Oh, do stop bleating. As it happens, I slept the first night under canvas. And yes, I slept the next night in the officer hut, which is where I still am. So what? Someone has to work out the system. Someone has to be on the inside. You can’t fight what you don’t understand.’

  ‘So help me understand, you clever fucker.’

  Hartmann listened carefully. To ensure discipline, each of the four compounds had its own leader and management group. Above them all in the prison hierarchy was the Lagerführer – the self-appointed spokesman for the camp’s entire prisoner population.

  ‘He’s the one who talks to the British camp commandant when we’ve got any issues. Food, medical supplies, bedding, that sort of stuff. He’s the one who needed someone who spoke various languages, someone who knew British ways. Me, in other words; the perfect fit, as always.’

  ‘So you’re this Lagerführer person’s bumboy?’

  Rosterg sighed. ‘Whatever happens here, I know about it.’

  ‘And the Lagerführer. Is he SS?’

  ‘No. He’s army. A major. Walter Bultmann. Between you and me, he’s a little faggot – a pussy, a pushover.’

  ‘So where does Goltz fit in?’

  ‘There are five Wehrmacht soldiers to every one of you SS types. If all of them accepted that the war was truly lost, people like Goltz would be powerless. You’d be overwhelmed. It’s the faint possibility that Hitler might win that keeps them so afraid. I suspect Goltz wants to keep it that way.’

  ‘You’re saying doubt makes us – him – strong?’

  ‘Precisely. Nothing else.’


  In the gloom, something hard had torn loose on the roof. A line of bolts connecting two iron panels had sheared, and cold air was pouring in from a fading crescent of sky.

  ‘Still think you’ll get back to that wine cellar, Wolfgang?’

  ‘That’s all I think. What about you?’

  Hartmann didn’t answer. Beyond the walls, he could hear the stomping of puddled feet and the ringing laughter of Koenig. It was terrifying how quickly their relationship had deteriorated. Since their brief conversation by the fence, not a word had passed between them, and Koenig’s surrender to the compound’s darker elements seemed complete. Sitting down across from Rosterg, Hartmann watched the door peel back in a spatter of rain; Goltz first, then Bruling, Zuhlsdorff, Koenig and the impassive form of Josef Mertens closing the night out behind themselves and a few whose faces he didn’t know. No one else was coming, and Koenig was doing everything he could not to catch Hartmann’s eyes.

  ‘We need to sit,’ barked Goltz.

  A damp semicircle was hastily formed around a single empty chair, lit from overhead by an electric light. Behind them, Hartmann withdrew his face from its glow. With luck they might forget he was there. Beneath his backside, he could feel the misery of waterlogged bedding. A few poor souls wouldn’t be sleeping well tonight. Rain was running everywhere and the ends of his fingers were yellow with cold.

  For a few empty minutes, as the group settled, Goltz was the only thing moving. No one had yet occupied the empty chair and the only sounds were the drip-drip from the ceiling and the furious hissing of water on a hot bulb. From the far side of the hut Zuhlsdorff appeared to be staring furiously in his direction.

  ‘Someone seems to be missing. One of our guests.’ There was a mangled scraping of wood on concrete. The wet slap of Goltz’s footsteps had stopped. ‘Are you still with us back there, Max?’ His voice was as lifeless as his skin. ‘Is there anything you might like to share with us?’