Black Camp 21

by Bill Jones

  ‘That isn’t what I asked.’

  Since their very first meeting, Hartmann had felt there was something wrong about Bruling; something ill-fitting. His mousy hair was too thin, his brain was too big, and however hard he tried to conceal it, he always came across like a scholar.

  ‘You and I are together on the night,’ Bruling said, ignoring his questions. ‘We’re leading the raid on your trucks. Hopefully you can remember where they were.’

  ‘You’re nuts. Do you know that? None of this is real. It’s a fantasy.’

  The door at the end of the hut had been flung open. No one was listening to their conversation.

  ‘Out there, they just want to sing their carols, whittle some crappy presents, and have a quiet Christmas. They want letters from home, not fucking machine guns. You haven’t shared a hut with them the way I have. They won’t do what you say. They don’t want to be vaporised on some crazed march on London. They just don’t.’

  ‘That won’t happen. We’ll be safe from the air. The British would never fire on us. They won’t risk civilian casualties.’

  ‘And you know that for sure because of mathematics? Right?’

  ‘I don’t want to live in a world run by Jews, Max.’

  Hartmann’s response was his back. As he scrambled on to his mattress, he was doing some calculations of his own. If the meeting had gone past midnight, he was guessing it was December 10th.

  December 10th.

  Only two weeks left to Christmas Eve.

  War Diary/Army HQ

  Salisbury Plain and Dorset District

  Today (8 December) an interrogation team working at Devizes camp has discovered what is reputed to be a large-scale plot of the German POWs to break out. A POW named —— is the informer.

  The break is timed for Xmas Eve or New Year’s Eve when a relaxation on the part of the guards etc. is hoped for. In broad outline, the plot is to overpower all guards, seize all arms, including tanks and lorries, and proceed to a nearby training airfield. The first suitable aircraft are to be flown straight to Germany where two Airborne divs are to be mobilised in support of the prisoners.

  The whole is then to develop into an attack on London.

  It should be noted that many of the prisoners – notably the black prisoners – are given to extreme flights of fantasy, brought on by boredom and (more recently) by cold.

  Please advise what action if any.

  34

  Overnight, it snowed again.

  While the men slept, a sharp wind had driven spindrift under the eaves and around the window frames. In places, the snow had settled – on the damp blankets and the frames of the beds – and until they touched it the waking prisoners thought only that the wind had disturbed the ash in the stoves.

  A few hours later it was still there. Only when the evening’s coal ration had arrived would the hut be sufficiently warm to melt it, and even then a few wisps would linger on for days in the hidden corners.

  During the next twenty-four hours, though, no one thought much about the cold. For the first time since their capture, the occupants of the eight huts in Hartmann’s compound were back on a war footing, and the buzz of expectation had eliminated all other preoccupations.

  One by one, each prisoner in the SS compound had been told what he would be expected to do. No one was permitted to discuss his role with anyone apart from the ten-man section to which he’d been assigned. Even the company leaders – of whom Bruling was one – were ignorant of the identities of the others.

  Around the huts, where the men huddled to trade cigarettes, paranoia and curiosity cancelled each other out. Everyone had questions, but no one had the courage to ask them. Not even Hartmann could break through the steel wall of silence. Beyond Goltz, he imagined there would be other ringleaders whose identities he would never know, and the palpable air of mystery had merely amplified the men’s high expectations.

  Over breakfast, it had been an unexpected relief to see Bruling again, in the mess, sitting alone. Much as he despised him, the fellow’s company was intriguing, and as Hartmann weaved through the crowd of men towards him he was pleased to see a space where he could sit.

  ‘I was waiting for you. Eat up quickly and let’s go.’

  A few minutes later, the two men left together, crossing swiftly to the rear of the toilet block at the top end of the compound. As Hartmann looked on, Bruling slid away an iron manhole cover, reached down, and drew out a sack knotted with a string. Inside it were two sets of prison uniform. The roundels on them were yellow, not black, and they stank of wet earth and urine.

  ‘Septic tank. Not even the Tommies look in here. Swap your outfit. Quick. Quick.’

  Hartmann didn’t need telling. It was too cold for hanging about. ‘What the fuck are we doing?’

  ‘Our orders are to secure those trucks. We need to recce. Practise. Rehearse. We need to know how we’re going to do it.’

  Bruling was standing stark naked, hidden by the brick gable of the washroom. Without clothes he looked pitiful and fleshless, like a ghost.

  ‘Now that Koenig’s gone, you’re the only one here who’s actually seen them.’

  ‘We got to that warehouse through the Luftwaffe’s tunnel.’

  ‘And the tunnel was found, which is why we have to find another way out.’

  For a moment, they stood and examined each other in their outfits. Hartmann didn’t think he’d ever seen a man who looked less like a soldier than Bruling, or met a man more determined to prove that he was one.

  ‘Will you finish your studies when all this is over?’

  ‘We’ll have a whole continent to run by then. There won’t be time.’

  Seconds later, they were scurrying along the same trail he’d once broken alone in the dead of night. Nothing had changed. Whatever the British were doing to strengthen the perimeter had not been extended to the fencing which segregated the four groups of German prisoners from each other.

  Holes were evident everywhere, and the loose section he’d so meticulously concealed was flapping uselessly in the chill northerly wind. If anything, the gap had got markedly larger. A few weeks before, he’d still needed to crawl to get through. Now it required little more than a stoop. It seemed strange, as if their captors had pulled back to allow the prisoners free run of the entire place.

  ‘This feels wrong.’

  He was standing up, dusting the snow from his knees. Bruling was right behind him. Rabbit tracks ran away from them in every direction.

  ‘Surely they must know we’ve been moving around like this.’

  ‘Of course they do, but they don’t care. Maybe at the beginning they did. But this place is too big now. They haven’t the manpower to worry about what we do to each other. It suits them that we police ourselves.’ Bruling steered his gaze beyond no man’s land towards the rooftops of Devizes. ‘The outer fence is the only one that matters to them now.’

  ‘And that’s the one we’re going through on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Hartmann led on again, keeping low over the frozen ground. Away to his right, he could see the army compound. A cluster of prisoners was playing rounders outside Hut 19, his old hut. He could hear the thwack of a bat, and a ball was being chased towards the fence by a gaggle of overheated adolescents.

  ‘It’s all right,’ hissed Bruling.

  The ball had come to rest near the two men. When one of the boys spun on his heels, the rest followed, leaving the ball where it had fallen. Hartmann stretched his arm under the fence and picked it up. With a grunt he threw it high and saw it drop down within reach of his silent audience.

  ‘It’s as I told you,’ he said, turning back to Bruling. ‘They’re happy to watch the war finish from here. They don’t want any of this bollocks. They need to go back to school. Like you.’

  ‘That’s not how they’ll feel when we win, Max.’

  ‘But you can’t win without them.’

  ‘Since when did they have any c
hoice?’

  ‘We’re not in Germany any more. They can do what they want.’

  ‘Inside this wire, we’re in Germany.’

  Hartmann’s head ached, just as it always did when he talked to these people. In so many ways, he envied them. Choice was lonely. Choice was excruciating. In the beginning he’d tried so hard to believe in the Reich. He’d worn the clothes, he’d sung the songs, and he’d failed.

  Now the only certainty in his life was the uncertainty he felt about everything.

  ‘Not being sure is what distinguishes us from animals.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  Bruling wouldn’t understand. None of them would. Doubt was good. Choice was healthy. It was just a question of timing.

  A little further on, they reached the outside edge of the Luftwaffe compound. On the other side of the wire, three prisoners were already peeling back their own weakened section of fence. As they scrambled through, he noticed that one of the men had bolt-cutters, and that all of them had clearly met Bruling before.

  As he stood to one side, the four locked arms in a fraternal embrace. Schutzstaffel, he assumed, yet more of Goltz’s murderous undercover goon squad. No wonder the British were content to keep their distance.

  In full daylight, the compound looked huge; forty Nissen huts in perfect lines, maybe more, housing both air crew and Kriegsmarine prisoners. Across the open space between them, every inch was teeming with men, each one moving constantly to stay warm.

  ‘Over there, the two warehouses. Out towards the line of trees.’

  Hartmann was pointing. He could see the log store where he and Koenig had emerged. He could see the narrow track between the shed and the trucks, and now they were closer he remembered the foul smell of the tunnel and the sweet secret of Rosterg’s handkerchief.

  ‘What happened to the tunnel, Bruling?’

  ‘They found the far end when the wood supply ran out. Cold weather. There weren’t enough logs left in the shed to hide the hatch. Apparently they filled it with concrete.’

  ‘It would have run under our feet right here. I never realised how short it was.’

  The five men were standing in the narrow gap behind the latrines. Between them and the outside world stood the wire wall which isolated the Luftwaffe compound from the other three, and the double fence which now ran around the entire habitation.

  ‘We wouldn’t have used the tunnel even if it was still intact,’ said Bruling. ‘Far too slow for what we’ll need to do. We’ll have over a hundred men to deal with. Getting out in ones and twos wouldn’t work. We need numbers and surprise.’ He gestured towards their three silent escorts. ‘That’s what the cutters are for.’

  Hartmann scanned the space beyond the perimeter fence, trying hard to think like a soldier. Assuming it was cut in advance, it would still take five minutes to get all their men through. After that would come the lung-bursting sprint across horribly exposed ground to the warehouses, where they’d face the challenge of getting the trucks started. Assuming, that is, the trucks were still there.

  ‘Are you sure about all this, Bruling?’

  ‘I will be.’

  Even Hartmann was impressed by Bruling’s attention to detail. All around the camp, he assumed, there would be others similarly absorbed by the challenge Goltz had laid down. Some would be working out how to reach the weapons store; others how to activate unfamiliar American tanks.

  For the handful in the know, the camp was a whir of secret calculations. For everyone else, the only thing that mattered was Christmas.

  From almost every direction – at all times of the day – the sound of choirs could be heard. Every hut was planning its own carol concert, and the camp was a fever of letter-writing. Crude handmade cards were being dispatched to parents, girlfriends and wives. A handful of Christmas trees had been provided for the canteens, and a generous supply of holly was circulating everywhere except the SS compound, where the approaching festivities were regarded as both a distraction and an abject waste of time.

  The men who knew about the plot had reached a simple, practical conclusion.

  If it came off, the camp would be deserted on Christmas Day. If it didn’t, no one would be in the mood for a sing-song.

  Two days after their first recce, under night-time conditions, Hartmann and Bruling walked their route once again, moving much more quickly under the protection of darkness. Away to their right, they could heard the strains of ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Fails my heart, I know not how.

  How appropriate, thought Hartmann.

  By the time they reached the spot looking out towards the warehouses, they were breathing hard and chilly with sweat. Nothing beyond the double fence was moving. There were no passing vehicles, no dog patrols, and the camp’s big floodlights lacked the wattage to reach so far. Instead, there were electric lights bolted to each of the concrete posts, twenty feet apart and left on until dawn.

  ‘Fucking hell. It’s bright,’ whispered Hartmann. Bruling was wiping his brow with his cap. Even in the shadows, the top of his head was shining. ‘You’d better get that back on. You look like a lighthouse.’

  Bruling laughed quietly. Right now, they could walk an army out through the fence and no one would trouble them.

  ‘When will you have the wire cut?’

  ‘Not until we get here on the night. No point in risking it before.’

  ‘Three fences? The compound and the double perimeter wire?’

  ‘Another mathematician. Correct.’

  ‘You could make it easier. Get the men through the hole in the compound wire we came through. One less fence to cut.’

  ‘That hole’s too far from the warehouses. We need the shortest line to get everyone through quickly,’ said Hartmann. Bruling was right. The more time they spent moving across open ground, the more likely it would be they’d be killed. ‘Do you still think all this will work? Honestly?’

  ‘Do I think we can all get out? Yes. Do I know what will happen after that? No.’

  ‘What if the tanks don’t exist? What if they don’t find any weapons? We’ll all be shot. Have you thought about that? What if this is all just in Goltz’s head?’

  ‘Did you make up the trucks?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘So why would anyone else make up the tanks?’

  ‘To ingratiate themselves? To cover their tracks? Because they were afraid? All sorts of reasons.’

  ‘There’s nothing out there to fear. Rejects and geriatrics. Nothing else.’

  ‘No one else we can see,’ said Hartmann. ‘Not quite the same.’

  Ten minutes later, they were back at their own hut. After the snowfall of three days before, the weather had improved, and when they opened the door the place felt tolerably warm. The light was strong from the overhead bulbs and a rowdy game of poker had drawn a crowd of spectators around the stove.

  Battle fever, he guessed. Testosterone. The human body’s chemical alternative to schnapps. Only normal people went quiet before a battle.

  ‘Don’t get settled in.’ Rosterg was striding quickly out of the hut. He looked flustered, pale, and as he passed Hartmann he drew him back out under a salmon-coloured sky. ‘We need a quick conversation, I think.’

  Behind them, there was a huge roar. Someone had just won himself a month’s worth of extra meals.

  ‘He shouldn’t get too excited.’ Rosterg had lit two cigarettes and was passing one to Hartmann. ‘He’ll probably never get to eat them.’

  ‘What’s this all about? You’re making me more nervous than I already was.’

  A small group of prisoners had spilled noisily from one of the other huts. Everything felt charged, restless. Even the air seemed wrong, unseasonably mild, with every trace of winter momentarily in retreat. The pair moved out of sight, two dots of glowing ash suspended in the black shadow of the hut.

  ‘I hear things, Max. Idle chatter. The Lagerführer speaks no English and I’m allowed certain freedoms.
People forget that I’m there. And if they don’t, they certainly forget that I can understand them. Sometimes they even leave things lying about. Which, naturally, I read.’

  ‘I know all that, Rosterg. So what?’

  ‘I think we – that is, the German army – might be about to stop the invasion. Rather, I think that there’s a serious winter push coming soon. Could be tomorrow, the day after. Now, for all I know. But soon.’

  ‘Seriously? You believe that?’

  ‘Belgium. Luxembourg. France. The Allies have seen some significant troop build-ups apparently. Panzers. Lots of Panzers dug in around the forests. Aerial photographs. Some of the new prisoners have been boasting, too. All very vague, but the British are worried, which means things for us here have changed.’

  ‘Goltz doesn’t want to wait, does he?’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  Hartmann rocked back against the curved wall of the hut. The metal burned cold through his prison jacket. ‘How early?’

  ‘We’re going out after dark tomorrow. Goltz thinks everyone is ready. He’s calling it the war’s northern front. He’s convinced the Allies won’t know which way to turn.’

  Both their cigarettes were finished. Hartmann reached out hungrily for another. Sometimes it felt as if the war could be measured out in cigarettes.

  ‘We both know this is insane, don’t we?’ he said.

  ‘We do.’

  ‘What will we all do if we get out? Who’s going to feed us? Where are we going to sleep? It’s madness. It’s a game. It’s not been thought through. They’re not going to let us drive to London. We’ll be slaughtered. Wasted. No fucking guns. No fucking point. No one outside this stinking compound is interested.’

  ‘Rather too loud. Max. Unwise.’ Rosterg placed a hand on Hartmann’s shoulder. ‘You’re not going to stop this. You can’t pull out. Yes, he knows it’s a gamble. He also just happens to think it’s his duty. A strange notion, but there you have it.’

  Hartmann waved his arm vaguely towards the rest of the camp. ‘Everyone out there is looking forward to Christmas.’

  ‘They’ll be told tomorrow. They’ll have a few hours to acclimatise.’