Black Camp 21

by Bill Jones

  There was a soft, small hand now on his arm, tugging impatiently at his filthy jacket. ‘It’s you. I remember you. Wake up.’

  Not a dream. He could smell clean, soapy skin, something glorious.

  ‘You wanted paper and a pencil. You gave me bacon. It’s you. I know it is.’

  Alice.

  Hartmann snapped forward, wincing at the stiffness in his neck. He’d known they were near that farm. It was her. The girl he’d met on the work party. Dark curls and strawberry red lips.

  Alice.

  ‘You still got a sausage in your pocket for me, soldier?’

  She was kneeling on the car’s muddy running board. The door was half open.

  ‘You looked like a couple just now. That one had his arm round you. I thought it was a girl you were writing to. Not a fella.’

  Hartman swivelled to look at Koenig. His eyes were already blinking slowly awake, blearily readjusting to the light.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘It’s all right. I know who she is.’ Hartmann returned his gaze to the girl. ‘I don’t think she’s a danger to us.’

  Koenig would kill her if she was. Sadly, he knew that. And so he told him the story.

  ‘If she’s such a good friend, maybe she can get us some food. Maybe some cigarettes?’

  ‘Can you?’ Hartmann translated.

  The girl nodded and grinned. ‘Of course I can. This is a farm. In the country we don’t go short.’ She stood up then, and smoothed her dress – the same dress, the same impartial body language. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  ‘How did you know we were here, by the way?’ Hartmann asked.

  ‘I didn’t. My dog did.’

  It was there now, fidgeting at her feet, licking her outstretched hand, the black-patched Jack Russell he’d fed in the rain.

  ‘That other time, when you didn’t come, I tucked the letter under its collar.’

  ‘I know. I found it. It’s gone. Just like I told you. Is he SS too?’

  ‘Does he look as if he is?’

  ‘I’ll go and see what I can find.’

  There was a narrow gap in the bales. Hartmann watched closely as she sucked in her waist, turned sideways and rustled through. They’d been better than lucky.

  ‘What were you two talking about?’ Koenig sounded curt, unhappy again.

  ‘Nothing. Food. She’s bringing us something to eat.’

  ‘You trust her. You’re quite sure that’s all?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’ He’d met her twice and she’d never even asked his name. Of course he wasn’t sure.

  ‘If this is a farm, there’ll be petrol.’

  Sometimes it was the way Koenig said ordinary things that scared him. Until they were gone, no one on this farm would be safe. ‘We’ll eat, see what we can find, and then leave after dark.’

  It was well over an hour before she came back. By the time she did, they were jumpy. Beyond their wall of bales, they’d heard military transports: a convoy of some sort, followed by the heavy thump of marching boots. Twice, there’d been planes overhead sweeping low in the direction they’d been driving.

  As they waited, the daylight had begun to weaken, stirring their doubts and sharpening their impatience. Food would be good, but they needed to go, and the night was closing back in fast. When she finally returned, the girl said little, sensing their unease.

  ‘I’ve brought what I could.’ There was a chicken leg each, half a loaf, and a few biscuits. ‘No ciggies. Sorry.’

  While they ate, she stood and watched. In among the towers of hay, it was almost dark and a cockerel had started up in a neighbouring field.

  ‘We need petrol,’ Hartmann told her. ‘Not much. A gallon, maybe.’

  ‘You’ll get me killed.’

  ‘We’ll be gone then. You won’t see us again. I promise.’

  When she left this time, both men followed. Clear of the barn, the light was stronger and a little colour was still in the sky. Checking to see they were behind her, the girl skirted around the barn and across a wooden stile into a wide farmyard fringed by crumbling outhouses.

  Hartmann followed the sway of her hips. In the middle was a water pump, dripping into a chipped enamel bucket. On one side they could make out the farm itself, solid and ancient with a cracked oak front door and smoke rising from two spiral chimneys. Directly opposite was an open-fronted garage. Inside it, they could see a blue tractor and a small black car.

  ‘It’s my grandfather’s,’ whispered the girl. ‘He hasn’t used it since the war started.’

  She was bouncing from one foot to the other, tugging at her hair and casting nervous glances back to the farm.

  ‘I’m not helping you any more now. I have to go.’

  Koenig was already over at the car. It was another Austin. Hartmann could see him rooting around for a fuel can and a rubber pipe.

  ‘Will you tell anyone?’

  ‘Never,’ she said.

  He stepped towards her, took her chin in both hands, and kissed her lips.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  But she was already gone, sprinting across the yard, and heaving on the huge brass ring of the farm door. As it opened, she didn’t look back. When it banged tight behind her, Hartmann was still standing in the space she’d vacated, although the girl’s sweet cloud was gone with her.

  ‘Phsst. I need you.’ Koenig was brandishing an empty can. A length of filthy black hosepipe was already hanging from the fuel tank of the Austin. ‘Get your lips around something useful for a change. You suck. I’ll hold.’

  Wearily, Hartmann bent to the task. After the first foul mouthfuls, a steady purple trickle began to flow. As the can filled, they could hear its ascending note, and within a few minutes it was bubbling freely from the cap. Beyond the shelter of the garage, a fine rain was greasing the courtyard and, apart from one upstairs window, every room in the house was dark.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Max. But you’re married. And tonight you’re with me.’

  Uneasily, they stepped out of the shadows and walked quickly back to the barn. Once the petrol was in the tank, Koenig tried the ignition. Underneath the bonnet, the battery lurched weakly. Unless the fuel pumped through quickly it would die. A couple more tries. That would be it. He tried again. Nothing. He thumped the wheel in frustration. ‘Fucking fucking British engineering.’

  One more time. Still nothing, and the battery almost dead.

  ‘Shit. The choke.’ He’d forgotten the choke.

  Koenig yanked out the black knob, pulled the ignition and held his breath. The fuel seemed to explode under his feet. Oily black exhaust poured into the car, making him retch. Around the back, he could hear Hartmann heaving back the bales. Dizzily, he slipped the Austin into reverse and eased away from their hideout. If he stalled it, they were finished, but the engine held steady, and Hartmann jumped in alongside.

  ‘Nicely done. We’d better park it on a hill next time.’

  If anything, the headlamps were more feeble than before. To save the battery, the men drove on in darkness, and whenever the road split they stopped for Hartmann to look for clues.

  Soon they would hit the northern artery they’d seen from the hill. He was certain of it.

  Whenever the road rose, he caught glimpses of movement crossing the landscape ahead: telltale flickers and sounds, search parties returning home and troops moving towards the coast.

  An hour later, they’d found it; a wide metalled highway running at right angles to their junction. There were no lights, and while they waited and watched, there were no vehicles. The only sound was the steady thump of an engine they no longer dared to switch off.

  ‘We turn left here,’ said Hartmann eventually. ‘If I’m right, we should hit another road running west in about four miles. After that, we start looking for the airfield.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I don’t. It’s a feeling. And if I’m wrong, we’re fucked.’

  �
�Makes no difference, Max. We’re fucked either way.’

  They turned left, and crept slowly north, only dimly aware of the flinty hills reaching out on either side. Even in warm sunlight, the ancient dykes and standing stones would have been invisible to them. Each man had his eyes on the road, and only twice did Hartmann discern the shadows of older times; three smooth tumuli rising over a wet ditch and a lone cock-eyed Roman milestone.

  Nothing passed them. Nothing came towards them. At the bottom of a long, straight incline, there was a second junction. And less than a minute after that – on the north side of the road – they could make out aircraft hangars, huts, and the end of a short, grassy runway.

  After cruising past it twice in both directions, Koenig veered left up a steep, stony track and brought the car to a halt. ‘Is that it?’

  Hartmann didn’t answer. Something wasn’t right. Outside, he could hear the exposed tail of the exhaust pipe hissing in the rain.

  ‘I was expecting bombers, fighter planes. Spitfires. There’s nothing there. Max?’

  ‘We don’t know that yet. We don’t know what’s down there.’ He could feel Koenig’s impatience like a bad smell in the car. ‘Switch the engine off and get some sleep. We’re knackered. We’ll see things more clearly in the morning.’

  30

  All the following day, they watched.

  Once again, their run of good fortune had held. Through the front windscreen, the dawn rose warm over ploughed fields broken by grassy knolls. Ahead of them, a natural screen of sapling ash provided cover. Behind them, an empty expanse of heathland rose in folds to a ridge lined with stooped hawthorn trees. There were no barns, no houses and no buildings.

  Less than a half-mile away, once the light had strengthened, they had an uninterrupted view of the RAF camp as it stirred.

  From a row of pale-grey hangars, small planes were being wheeled into neat lines by boiler-suited mechanics. One by one, they took off, usually with a crew of three – two sitting up front, one behind, and each flier dressed in a grey uniform.

  By mid-morning, around thirty planes were in the air and ten more were being readied for take-off at the end of a long grass strip running parallel to the road.

  ‘Trainee pilots,’ said Hartmann. As he spoke, one of the aircraft slewed skywards, clipping the outer branches of a large oak tree. ‘And not very good ones either. Trainee wireless operators, too. No other reason why there’d be three in each plane.’

  ‘They’re not just planes. They’re Percival Proctors. If you’d paid more attention at your briefings, you’d have known. You’d also know they’re not fitted with any weapons.’

  ‘Fucking bravo. I’m impressed. Can you fly as well?’

  ‘Two lessons in a glider once. I’d give it a go.’

  ‘I might just take you up on that,’ said Hartmann.

  By nightfall, they were ready.

  Although they both felt weak, the prospect of action seemed to stir them. For almost twenty-four hours, they’d hidden inside their metal box. They were filthy, they stank and they were bored.

  As the pair edged slowly down towards the camp, their military habits returned. Without discussion Koenig led, gliding smoothly across the ground in a low crouch and gesturing with sharp signals when he needed Hartmann to stop or follow.

  Just a few minutes before, they’d been warm and dry. Here they were soldiers again, electrified by instincts which informed every movement they made.

  At the side of the main road, they dived face-first into a wet ditch and listened. Three unmarked army lorries passed, travelling west in a slow convoy followed by one solitary motorcycle.

  After that, nothing.

  ‘Five more minutes,’ Koenig whispered.

  Still nothing.

  Each could feel the wet ground soaking up into their clothes. Neither of them cared. A few seconds would see them across the tarmac. Koenig’s mouth formed a word, soundlessly. NOW. And again. NOW.

  He was up then, running doubled over, with Hartmann on his heels, crashing into the bushes which had taken root around the fence before dropping down to his haunches, spit and foam around the broad moon of his grin.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ whispered Hartmann, crouching alongside.

  ‘You’ve grown a beard,’ said Koenig, reaching out to stroke the black stubble around his friend’s face. ‘I hadn’t noticed before.’

  From the fence onwards, the older man took the lead. Keeping low, the two followed the perimeter fence anticlockwise away from the main gate. Through the mesh they could make out a jumble of huts and four huge hangars, but there were no guard towers, and from what they could see, no guards either.

  ‘This is hilarious.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘It’s only three days since we were breaking out of a place like this. Now we’re breaking back in.’

  And still not a shot aimed in their direction.

  ‘What are we looking for, Max?’

  ‘A way in. A gap. A bit of loose wire. Anything.’

  At a right angle in the fence, by the edge of the runway, they found it. A fallen branch – knocked down by a hapless, and probably dead, learner pilot – had crashed through the wire, ripping a hole big enough to walk through. On the other side, the base appeared to be sleeping.

  They stepped through.

  This time, they followed the fence on the inside, feeling the way with their fingers until they were both standing at the rear of the first hangar. Over their heads, the back wall rose forty feet into a starlit sky. In front of them was a green-painted metal door. At a nod from Hartmann, Koenig stepped forward and turned the handle. It was unlocked.

  ‘We’ve hit the jackpot, Max. First trucks, now this.’

  Plane after plane stretched out in perfect drill-square lines. On the fuselage behind their open cockpits they could see the RAF roundel and every single one had been painted in camouflage stripes.

  ‘Close, but not quite,’ muttered Hartmann.

  There were no fighters, no transport planes, no bombers. Whatever Goltz had been hoping for, he doubted this would be it.

  ‘What do you think their range is?’ He was running his hand over the glossy black cone of a propeller. Without waiting for an answer, he stepped up on to the back of the starboard wing, and clambered in behind the joystick.

  Luminous dials and switches seemed to be swimming in the darkness. There were straps and cables, and the awful sweet smell of polish. Through the tilted front window he could see the sky, framed by the gaping open doors of the hangar. In his hand, the joystick felt stiff and cold. He had little idea what it did, and no idea how to use it.

  The compass, he noticed, was pointing south-east.

  ‘Four, maybe five hundred miles on a full tank.’ Koenig had climbed up the other wing, and slipped in beside him. ‘This is cosy.’

  He reached forward and grasped the co-pilot’s stick.

  ‘Germany is that way.’ Hartmann pointed straight forward.

  ‘We wouldn’t make it. We’d come down somewhere in the Baltic Sea.’

  ‘We could get to Holland. Antwerp. Brussels.’

  ‘We don’t know how to fly it.’

  Hartmann felt the smooth leather of the crash bar. All day they’d watched these things come and go. They were training planes, stripped down and simple. It couldn’t be that difficult. A few knobs, a few levers. If they could just get it off the ground.

  ‘You said you’d flown gliders. We could try.’

  ‘We’d get blown out of the sky.’

  ‘I could try, then.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation. No more than a heartbeat, but Hartmann had felt it.

  ‘Fuck, Max. No. No. You’re in a war. You’re still in a war. You can’t fly. What the fuck is wrong with you?’

  Koenig never got his answer.

  From the back of the plane, both men heard the bolt being drawn back, allowing a brass cartridge to slip into the oiled breech. When the bolt slammed back down, they
heard the man – very English, very hesitant and seemingly alone with his rifle.

  ‘Put your hands up now and get slowly out of the plane.’

  Koenig glanced across at Hartmann, who was already standing up with his hands over his head and stepping down and out of the plane. From the wing they could see the outline of the guard. He looked old – older than them – but his gun was pointing straight at their bellies and as they clambered on to the hangar floor it stayed that way.

  ‘Over there.’ There was a tremble in his voice. ‘Over by the doors where I can see your faces.’

  As they walked ahead of him, Hartmann ran through their options. It wasn’t all bad. They were alive. There were no signs of any other guards. There were two of them, one of him. They were in civilian clothing, and he might not link them to the escape. And Hartmann could speak good English.

  If Koenig followed his lead, they might get through. But Koenig was an unknown quantity. And silent fortitude wasn’t one of his virtues.

  ‘What the fucking hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Play it humble, thought Hartmann. Talk very quietly.

  ‘It looks bad, I know. We were looking for petrol.’

  His English – to his own ears – sounded wretched and implausible. The words felt as though they were knotted in his throat.

  ‘Petrol?’

  ‘Our car. It’s back there on the main road. We ran out. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘Where’s your petrol can then? And where are you from? Not you. Him. The quiet one.’

  ‘Listen to me. The can’s back there. We just sat in the plane for a laugh. Bad idea. Really sorry.’

  ‘Not you. I want to hear him.’

  But all he heard was his own breath driven from his lungs by the charging shape of the silent German. As Koenig smashed into him, the guard felt his own chest collapse and sensed his rifle clattering across the concrete floor. Something rank and feral was overpowering him.

  He could smell its evil desperation in the bony fists breaking his nose and cracking his teeth. He could hear it in the grunting stab of words that made no sense and the hatred which was sinking him deep and deeper, and he knew he should have gone back for help or killed the pair of them while he could.