by Bill Jones
Someone was coughing violently. Only the air around the fire was warm. Away from it, the damp seemed to drip from the hut’s iron bones.
‘You make it sound like a surprise . . .’ Goltz had heaved himself to his feet again. ‘But it isn’t. Not to me. None of this is an accident. We’re in this shithole because the Führer wanted us to be here. Here. In this exact place. We didn’t lose back there in France. We let them think they’d won. It was always part of his plan . . . let the British sail us to Britain. Let the British heal our wounds and feed our bellies. Let the British keep us warm.’
In the centre of the group, the stove was cooling quickly. Pulling his crate closer, Goltz sat down once more and wrapped both hands around the lukewarm pipe. His voice, which had started strongly, had fallen to a murmur.
‘We are merely instruments in a plan of absolute genius, two sides of a brilliant trap. On one side, we have strong men all over England. On the other, we have our armies hidden in France and Germany and Belgium. Every one of them – like us – is growing stronger every day. And, my friends, guess who’s caught in the middle?’
Goltz unlocked his stare on the gathering. Every glowing face was entranced. A beatific warmth seemed to have enveloped the entire frozen huddle. As if by magic, meaning had been miraculously pulled back into their lives.
Hitler had delivered. Hitler had everything under control.
Goltz is insane, thought Hartmann. They are all fucking insane. On a bunk by the door, a lone voice was singing ‘Deutschland, Deutschland Über Alles’.
Goltz raised his right arm over his head, put a finger to his lips. The singing stopped.
‘An army in a cage cannot fight. We need to get out. We need every prisoner in every camp to get out. Not in ones and twos but all at once – everywhere. And then what happens? Then what happens?’ This time he didn’t halt the singing or the stamping of feet. ‘Then together we march on London.’
In the swirl of euphoria which followed, Goltz made his way to Hartmann’s side. ‘We need to talk, Max. You and me.’
Outside, they crouched around a single cigarette. There were noises over by the wire; stifled curses and awkward breathing. Sieber’s body was on its way back home.
‘The pair shot yesterday. They weren’t ours. They were Luftwaffe and we knew nothing about their tunnel.’
‘But you had two men in there. How come they didn’t know?’
‘Maybe we’re not as popular as we thought.’
Hartmann hesitated before he spoke. ‘What you said in there. Do you truly believe all that or is it just bollocks?’
‘Think of the carnage if we can get out.’
‘Apart from you – apart from us – no one wants to get out.’
‘In a few hours, the guards will find that tunnel and destroy it. I want you and your lover-boy to go through it before that happens.’
‘We’re on a bloody island. Where are you expecting us to go?’
‘You’re a bastard, Hartmann.’
‘It’s a fair question.’
‘I want you to find out what’s round here. Planes. Runways.
Vehicles. Weapons. Troops. Tanks. I want to know where we are. I want a map inside your head. And when you’ve done all that, I want you back here. Alive and in one piece.’
‘So we break out, and then break back in again? Brilliant.’
‘Like I said, Max, you’re a bastard.’ Goltz flicked the stub of the cigarette away into the darkness. ‘But now just do what you’re told.’
Order of the Day No. 1*
Men of the Freedom Movement
The hour of liberation has approached and it is the duty of every German to fight once more, arms in hand, against World Jewry.
I demand of every German man to fight for his Fatherland without hesitation.
It is the duty of every leader of the Freedom Movement to fight as a German and not wage the fight like a plunderer and murderer.
I call upon and demand all men to stand by their colours faithfully and bravely.
*Circular discovered in a routine search of the Devizes Wehrmacht compound, October 1944.
25
Hartmann’s candle had yellowed back into life.
‘I think we’d better go, Max,’ said Koenig.
Everything in the previous hour had happened in such a rush.
After a few fraternal hugs, they’d slipped back into the darkness, half-running between the walls of wire until whispered voices guided them through a hole into the airmen’s compound. Someone – he guessed it was Rosterg – had prepared the ground well. In the murk of the night, black silhouettes had helped them to their feet and steered them to the tunnel entrance.
Now they were alone. Nowhere to go except forward.
‘Are you listening? I think we should go.’
In the creeping half-light, Hartmann felt in his pocket. With his fingers he could clearly trace the monogram. WR. A handkerchief. Rosterg’s secret parting gift had been a handkerchief.
‘It’s time.’ An unfamiliar voice again. One of the Luftwaffe prisoners – urgent, scared. Hartmann’s wits snapped back into shape.
‘How long to get through? What’s on the other side?’
‘Not long. It comes out inside one of their sheds. There are clothes there. Now go.’
Down at his feet, Koenig had already dropped into the gulley, and was holding his own candle into the darkness ahead. Protecting the flame against the flow of air, he crawled forward until there was room for Hartmann to clamber in behind.
As their eyes adjusted, they noted the carefully crafted staves and the hessian walls: skilful, expert work. The airmen had built their tunnel well.
From the latrines they could hear running water and toilet seats slamming down. Even the British wouldn’t be in a hurry to look into this place. Tapping Koenig on his boot, Hartmann shuffled quickly after him towards the icy source of the draught.
It wasn’t easy to stay quiet. In the confined darkness, every breath seemed to explode and every thrust of their bodies seemed to echo like an avalanche. After two minutes they were sweat-drenched and exhausted. After two more, Koenig stopped and stretched up into a wide vertical shaft, pine-scented and roofed with faint bars of early light.
‘It’s a fucking dead end,’ he spat.
Loose dirt was cascading over Hartmann’s blackened face. Brushing it away, he wriggled awkwardly into the space until the two were standing face to face.
‘You should take a look in a mirror,’ said Koenig.
‘And you should keep fucking still.’
He needed to think. He didn’t need Koenig’s oddly timed sense of fun. On his secret night-time excursions he’d covered most of the camp, and although it was incomplete he’d a rudimentary picture of the entire place in his head.
If it was right, they’d passed beneath the fence and were under a firewood store. If it was wrong, they could be anywhere. Holding his breath, he pushed both hands hard up against the wooden ceiling. Nothing moved, and the noise sounded hellish. He tried again, this time with Koenig’s muscle backing him up.
‘What the fuck are we dealing with here?’
‘It’s a trapdoor.’ Hartmann was trying desperately to synchronise their efforts. ‘Whoever built the tunnel cut this door out of the floorboards. I think someone’s piled logs on top of it.’
Finally, it was lifting. Enough space had opened up for Koenig to scrabble through and clear away the timber. Seconds later, Hartmann heaved himself into the confines of the woodshed.
From the far reaches of the camp they could hear bugles. Soon the counting would begin. And soon after that, all hell would break loose, or at least the worst kind of hell this ramshackle place could muster.
‘We’ve an hour at most. After that it will be too light to move.’
Koenig nodded. Already he was feeling his way around the hut, delicately pulling back resin-sticky logs, looking for anything they could use.
‘I can smell rats,’ he mutt
ered. ‘I hate fucking rats.’
Hartmann could smell them too, the rotten acid of leaking vermin.
‘Just keep looking. They told us there were clothes. We’re going nowhere dressed like this. After that we need to cover the trapdoor again with wood.’
In the seam of light around the hut door, he was unfolding Rosterg’s handkerchief. A whiff of cologne spilled from its pressed creases and the cotton blazed white against his filthy hands. With Koenig’s back turned, he pressed its softness to his face and drew the sweet smell of orange into his lungs.
When he pulled his hands away, he saw it, black and clear. Rosterg’s gift wasn’t just a scented gateway to a lost world. Rosterg’s handkerchief was a lifeline.
‘I’ve found it. I’ve got the stuff.’ Koenig was emptying a sack on the floor between them. The Luftwaffe had been thorough. Several pairs of worn workman’s trousers, a selection of collarless shirts, woollen jackets, lace-up boots and caps.
‘And I’ve got our way out of here,’ said Hartmann, tilting the fabric until the image of a simple map was clear, traced carefully in black ink. Alongside a sketch of their hut were the words: Change here. Wood collected twice a day.
Rosterg’s handiwork was meticulous, precise and unambiguous.
Apart from a couple of warehouses and a narrow military road, there was absolutely nothing between them and what – rendered in Rosterg’s steady hand – appeared to be a vast swathe of trees. In the top right-hand corner of the cloth was an arrow marking north and the words Pass auf.
‘Don’t worry,’ Hartmann muttered. ‘We’ll watch out all right. Take a good sniff of that, Koenig.’ He tossed over the scented handkerchief. ‘And choose yourself an outfit.’
They looked credible in their clothes. From a distance, they would pass.
Back home, pre-pubescent farm workers were being bundled off to die at the front. Here in England, agricultural labour was still sheltered from the fighting, and no one would wonder why two scrawny young labourers were out walking through the fields.
To vanquish his lice, Koenig’s flaxen curls had been sacrificed to the stove, and the returning stubble appeared grey. Few would have guessed he was blond, and with luck no one would get close enough to see the blue pools in his eyes.
In the event that they did, Hartmann’s linguistic skills would be their first line of defence. And if that let them down, Koenig’s temper would be their second.
There was a large wooden latch on the inside of the door. Hartmann lifted it gently and squinted through the widening gap. Two jeeps were crunching slowly down the gravelled road clearly visible on their map. Each was full of soldiers. As a faint morning mist dispersed the beam from their headlights, the men’s voices drifted to the wood store. American voices, talking about girls.
‘Losers,’ mouthed Koenig.
As the sound of the jeeps receded, Hartmann eased out of the door and scanned both ways. Nothing. The camp’s familiar rhythms had already been dislocated. No one would be worried about replenishing the wood baskets. Not when the search parties came looking.
‘You ready?’
Koenig was grinning. Hartmann took that as a yes.
In a few strides, they were over the track, pelting between the two huge storage buildings. Looking back, Hartmann could see the outline of a large wooden barn, standing tall against the outer fence of the camp. They’d done well. The door of the wood store was closed, and Koenig had covered the false floor with lumber. If they were lucky, it would never be found. Now only teamwork would keep them ahead of the search.
A few yards ahead of him, Koenig was stretching out towards the wood. When he pulled up for breath, Hartmann whistled and waved him back.
‘We go together, and we do our job. Understand?’
‘Yes, boss. Sorry.’
‘We need to know what’s in these.’ Hartmann gestured to the windowless warehouses. ‘You take that one. I’ll go in this.’
The doors were on rollers; immense sliding plates which ran from ground to roof. Leaning his weight against one end he pushed, hearing the low rumble of the wheels as they ground heavily in their tracks.
A crack of blackness opened, wide enough for a man to wriggle through. Hartmann stopped. There was a tic pulsing in the corner of his left eye. No one was coming. Neither the whistle nor the quake of the door had done any damage. With a final glance around, he stepped inside.
Quickly, the shapes began to make sense. Army trucks, brand new, parked nose to nose and receding deep into the shadows on either side. Under his fingers, he felt the smooth green paint above the nearest wheel arch, noticing the white star on each door and the unsullied bulk of the tyres.
A familiar smell – that of damp canvas – hung in the cavernous space, reminding him of youth camps and night rallies. Feeling his way carefully forward, he entered the gap between the flat-fronted radiators and started counting. By the time he reached the far wall, he’d counted twenty five-ton trucks. Every lorry door that he tested was unlocked. And when he kicked against the fuel tanks, they sounded full.
‘Good news, Max.’
Hartmann spun. His palms were prickling with terror. There’d been no noise. He’d heard no footsteps.
‘Fuck me, Koenig, you prick. I could have killed you.’
‘Relax. It’s exactly the same in the other warehouse. A whole load of mint American trucks ready to go.’
‘Maybe Goltz isn’t as dumb as he looks.’
‘Not a bad start. We’ve only been out five minutes.’
Less than that, reckoned Hartmann, and already it was feeling like the longest day in his life. Judging by the light, the sun was up but hidden behind a drape of weak cloud. From the warehouse door, they could see the ragged fingers of the treeline, a half-mile away at worst.
One dogged sprint and they’d be there. No turning back after that.
On his shoulder, he could sense Koenig’s puppy-like straining. Somehow Hartmann would get him through this. For a last few seconds, they listened. No more jeeps. No noises at all. After easing shut the sliding door, they were off, zig-zagging through long grass before diving into the soggy mounds of leaf-drift beyond the dark edge of the wood.
At first, all they could hear was the thudding of their own blood. Months of inertia had left them unfit, and their lungs rattled with phlegm. Lying side by side, they fixed their eyes on the twiggy lattice of the forest canopy. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes passed. Neither man moved.
As their discomfort eased, woody noises drifted down on pale folds of sunlight: falling leaves and the gargle of startled pigeons; and from somewhere unseen, the piping of a lone curlew criss-crossing the glossy brown ingots of the ploughed autumn fields.
‘Listen. Over there. Beyond those bushes.’
Something was moving nearby. They could hear footfall and the crackle of dry leaves. A gunshot – then another – echoed through the undergrowth. Above them, a flock of pigeons launched themselves in a panic of clapping wings. A light-brown shape was moving towards them, its edges softened by the thick tangle of undergrowth. Suddenly Koenig was on his feet and laughing.
‘It’s a deer.’
The shape sprang back on its hind legs and froze. A young female, wide-eyed and terrified.
‘We’re going to have to eat, Max.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Hartmann stood up. The deer bolted and the forest fell still.
‘What about the gunshots?’
‘Farmers. Shooting rabbits. Or pheasants maybe.’
‘I think we need a plan, Max.’
‘I think we do,’ said Hartmann.
26
All that day, they familiarised themselves with their hiding place.
Within a few hours, they had mapped the forest perimeter, found natural springs and constructed a simple shelter on its western fringe. If they could evade capture till nightfall, then their chances would improve, just a little.
Even from the wood’s deep cover, they could sense
the hue and cry. The entire army was probably looking for them. Or what was left of it. Every church tower was ringing its bells, and when the wind swung they could discern the crooning of hounds and the urgent growl of military traffic.
If they possessed any tactical advantage, it was the madness of their instructions. Most escapees in their position would be heading for the English Channel. They, on the other hand, were still rooted within earshot of the camp. No one would be expecting them to stay so near.
The forest felt huge. It was also the safest place to be. Along the northern edge, a country road ran steeply up from a sleepy village of soft yellow stone. There, they’d seen mossy-thatched roofs and smoking chimney pots, and beyond them the lonely contours of the North Downs, tracked by sheep and riven with prehistoric workings.
In every direction they’d seen lorries ferrying search parties, and further around, where the trees stood along a sharp, grassy scar, they’d looked across fields to isolated farms, sensing the northern outskirts of Devizes beyond, and remembering their walk through the rain from the railway station.
Two girls, the glow of a public house, and Goltz in his socks.
‘How long is it since you were captured?’
Hartmann had to think hard. For the first time that day, the sun had broken loose. In a few moments, it would be gone and already there was a pepper-dust of stars.
‘It was my birthday. However long ago that was. Years, months, I don’t know. Maybe two months.’
A mile away to their left, clusters of subdued house lights were popping on. Now that Goering’s bombers had stopped coming, the blackout was relaxing and the sirens had mostly fallen silent. As a precaution, people kept their lights low – dim-out, they called it – but no one really expected the Heinkels to be back.
For the British – in the skies, at least – the war was almost finished, along with the enforced darkness of the Blitz. From their hideout, Hartmann wondered if these islanders were right, or whether Goltz’s apocalyptic babble had some awful seed of truth.