by Bill Jones
At the front door, they handed him a thick grey coat and a woollen hat. Everyone was being given the same. No one needed to ask why.
After a final look around, he stepped on board. Only one seat was left and the first bus was already moving out. Towards the back he could see Rosterg and Zuhlsdorff, staring emptily at the indifferent streets. On previous journeys, he’d heard defiance and black humour. Today there were no patriotic songs, and the face of every man seemed disconcertingly blank.
By the time they reached the station, Hartmann was feeling sick. For over an hour, the buses had been crawling painfully through the choking traffic. Even the guards looked ill, and when they arrived at King’s Cross Station there was a desperate rush to get out.
‘They pulled you in too, Rosterg? Why am I not surprised?’
‘I knew you’d all miss me. I’m here just for you.’
‘And Eschner? What happened to Eschner?’
‘He got patched up and sent back to his hut.’
‘Do I thank you?’
‘Thank the British.’
Both men were bent over the edge of the pavement. A shiny cord of drool was hanging from the older man’s mouth and there was fresh vomit in the gutter. As Rosterg straightened up, he looked up at the huge clock on the central tower. It was 8.16 a.m.
‘I can’t say I’m looking forward to this.’
‘The train, or what’s at the end of it?’
‘I’m afraid your man Goltz is in rather a bad frame of mind.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Humiliated? Incandescent? Desperate to find someone to blame?’
‘You could have stayed away. You didn’t have to be here.’
‘Rather sadly, Max, I think I did.’
There wasn’t time for more. Londoners were flowing towards the station’s two soaring glass-fronted arches. A thick line of black taxis was shunting steadily past them, and their two empty buses were already nudging back into the torrent along the Euston Road. Across the soft brown brick of the façade, Hartmann read London & North Eastern Railway in giant white letters.
Beyond the station entrance, he could see ringlets of steam wrapped around handcarts loaded with tea chests and worn leather cases. There were porters and policemen, schoolgirls and sailors, and in his entire life Hartmann doubted whether he’d ever seen so much headwear.
Londoners seemed obsessed with hats. Trilbies and battered caps for the men; purple felt and chinchilla pillboxes for the women; green tin helmets for the detachment of soldiers now steering them out along platform two, beneath the glorious sweep of the station’s glass roof.
Outside the station, the POWs had passed largely unnoticed. Here, there were growling looks and crude asides. Up ahead of him Hartmann could see the newly shaven head of Goltz, and wondered what was going on inside it. Just two days before, the man had been planning a march on London. Now he was dodging abuse from its commuters. Rosterg, as always, was probably right. The man was ticking down to an explosion.
At the far end of the platform, they stopped by a slick green locomotive broiling in its own white vapour. Behind the engine were a coal tender, a luggage wagon and six empty first class carriages. Taking a carriage in the middle, the men were divided equally between six cushioned compartments; five men in each and a handful of guards to watch the doors and patrol the corridor.
Taking a seat by a window, Hartmann watched glumly as the space filled around him. Goltz and Zuhlsdorff on one side, Bruling and Mertens on the other.
‘Like old times, Max,’ whispered Goltz, leaning forward to pat his knee.
An hour later, they were clear of the city and steaming north across endless watery fields. Hartmann was pleased he’d secured a seat by the window. One by one, the others had quickly lost interest and closed their eyes. No one seemed in the mood for conversation, and the whirl of flashing landscape revived him. With his face to the glass, it was easy to forget where they were going, and he was soothed by the vast sky and the grid of briar-black hedges beneath it.
They stopped for the first time at Peterborough where armed soldiers lined the platform while another batch of prisoners – category black, presumably – was dragooned into the empty carriages.
Hartmann did a few quick sums. If all the carriages were filled, by the time they got to Scotland the train would be ferrying the best part of two hundred high-risk captives, each one convinced that Hitler was riding to his rescue.
It didn’t bode well, and the heater had packed up. Hartmann sucked himself down into his coat.
During the wait, they’d been allowed supervised visits to the lavatory and refreshments had been relayed along the carriage: sweet tea and cheese sandwiches passed in through a window by an elderly volunteer in a brown pinafore.
‘They’re only humans like the rest of us,’ she’d said to one of their guards. ‘Look at the soft buggers. They’re just frozen kids.’
Further on, there were more stops and more prisoners – at Doncaster and York – and to Hartmann it seemed they were making quick progress. In fascinating increments, both the weather and the terrain were shifting. Throughout the day, the sun had swung low across the train, but now the clouds were darkening ominously from the east, and the air temperature was falling fast.
On a distant escarpment, he could see a huge white horse hacked into the rock, and on the higher hills beyond, the black edge where the winter’s first real snow met the night.
‘Does anyone know more than I do? Does this get there tonight? Wherever “there” is?’
Zuhlsdorff’s voice echoed in the carriage. No one had spoken for hours. All five of them were bathed in half-darkness.
‘It’s called Camp Twenty-one. Somewhere north of a place called Stirling. They’ll probably keep us there for years.’
Hartmann had forgotten how every word Mertens uttered had the heft of a prophecy. Hunched deep into the corner, he looked like a fallen tree.
‘How come you know all this stuff? You’re just a sheep-shagger from the country.’
The submariner shifted in his seat. Zuhlsdorff turned sharply away.
Two tungsten lamps in glass shades clicked on beneath the luggage racks.
Somewhere beneath him, the train’s wheels skidded angrily across a set of points, rolling the carriage from side to side. When it settled, all the men were awake, snatching greedily at the packs of cigarettes the guards had tossed into every compartment. Only Bruling had declined.
‘So what happened back there, Hartmann? What’s your explanation?’
‘For what?’
‘For the fuck-up.’
‘Why ask me? You were there.’
‘I’m interested. Isn’t that enough?’
‘We got through the wire and all fucking hell broke loose with guns everywhere and lights coming on. You know what happened.’
‘Just a spot of bad luck then, Max?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe not. You think they knew? Maybe they did. Anyone else feel the same?’
Hartmann’s mouth was dry. His fingers were trembling, too. If he sounded as scared as he felt, he was finished. He brought a hand up to his face, and drew furiously on the cigarette. The compartment was blotted with smoke and the men’s faces were fuzzy and grey.
‘It was the same for us.’
Mertens had opened up from the corner.
‘It was just like he said. We were assigned to get the tanks, but the perimeter wire was surrounded. None of us were convinced the tanks were really there. But we never got to find out. Someone had told them we were coming. No other explanation.’
The glass in the window shuddered again as they ran through a deep cutting.
‘There’s a rat on the train.’
‘That can’t be right. No one knew the whole plan,’ said Hartmann. ‘We only knew what we needed to know.’
‘You knew enough though, didn’t you, Max?’
‘Fuck off, Bruling. I was with you, remember. I could have been shot. Why would I
do that?’
From the end of the carriage, they could hear a British soldier singing ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’. He sounded drunk and happy.
‘You’re a good talker, Max. Really smooth.’ They were the first words Goltz had spoken since London. ‘But you’ve always seemed a bit doubtful, a bit detached.’
‘You picked me. I didn’t pick myself. Remember that.’
‘I let you back in, Max. Was that a mistake?’
‘I found the planes, the lorries. It was me who knew the camp. No one else.’
‘Yes, and look what fucking good it did us.’
Hartmann’s heart was bumping. It couldn’t end like this. With a thud, the train slammed into a tunnel, dimming the lights and crushing the air between his ears.
‘Maybe he’s got a point.’ Bruling was yelling to be heard above the roar. ‘I think we’re looking in the wrong place.’
‘It was this fucker. I know it.’
‘You’re wrong, Zuhlsdorff. What about that fat fuck, Bultmann? He knew everything, didn’t he? Our so-called Lagerführer. And so did Rosterg.’
Goltz sprang up straight, as if scalded. Out of nowhere, Hartmann had been tossed a lifeline.
‘Fucking Bultmann. A fucking Wehrmacht major. Not in a million years.’
‘He’s the only one who didn’t get rounded up.’
‘Except that’s not true,’ said Mertens.
‘What’s not true?’
‘Bultmann is on the train. They put him on board at Peterborough.’
38
By the time they pulled in to Newcastle, it was snowing heavily.
Through the struts of the Tyne railway bridge they had seen flakes spinning in the weak light cast by the train. Along the centre of the track drifts were already building against the sleepers, and a hard wind was blowing in off the sea.
According to the station clock it was 9.09 p.m., and the only life on the platforms was the shivering detachment of replacement guards which swarmed towards the train the moment it stopped.
Sensing an opportunity, the prisoners stood up, stretching out their cramp and sliding open their doors to survey the corridors. The British soldiers were pushing over each other to get in and out. A huge tea urn was being manhandled aboard, together with open crates packed with silver-wrapped cake and cheese.
For a few minutes, no one was counting, and no one was watching. There was still a long way to go, and the weather was deteriorating.
‘Find Bultmann,’ hissed Goltz.
Zuhlsdorff was already halfway out of the compartment.
‘You too, Hartmann. Quickly.’ Zuhlsdorff had turned right, so Hartmann moved left into the crush along the narrow corridor. Knotted groups of prisoners were talking excitedly. Obscene greetings were being bellowed along the length of the carriage.
Bultmann would be easy to find. Bultmann would be alone, and the only man in a uniform.
Under the sepia of the station lights, he could see British soldiers lounging on the platform. No one seemed in a hurry. Maybe there was a problem. Hartmann badly hoped that there was. If the train set off now, Goltz would have to call off the search. Bultmann would be safe.
In the half-lit wagon nearest to the engine, he found him, stretched out on a filthy mattress behind ration boxes in the luggage cage. Warm steam was blowing in through an open door. A rag-eared newspaper was on his lap.
‘Someone wants to talk to you. Get yourself up quickly.’
‘I give orders, I don’t take them. Who wants to talk to me, and about what?’ Bultmann was jabbing at the embroidered silver tabs on his shoulders. ‘See these? I have rank over every serving officer on this train.’
‘You’ve got rank but no power, and right now we’re all in the same boat, Major.’ Hartmann smiled. He was trying to make this easy. ‘We just need to figure a few things out, get ourselves organised for what might be coming.’
‘We do. That’s fine. Just a little more respect, please. Lead on.’
As the officer reached down to pick up his cap, the train lurched violently, throwing both of them against the door. A second engine was being joined to the front and a small contingent of men in blue overalls had gathered round to proffer advice. After a short conference, one of them took a lamp and disappeared underneath. Grabbing the major’s arm, Hartmann led him back down the train, squeezing between prisoners who stepped aside in silence.
Word had got round fast. Bultmann was doomed.
‘I’ve found him.’ Hartmann steered the major into the space left vacant between Mertens and Zuhlsdorff.
‘Blinds. Door,’ barked Goltz.
Hartmann complied, and sat down next to Bruling and Goltz. Across from them, the major had removed his cap and placed it on his knee. Under the overhead lights, he looked every one of his years.
Everything about him was depleted. The man was short, and his skin was puffy. His hair, like Bruling’s, had been stretched weakly from one ear to the other and his presumption of entitlement was melting away before their eyes.
‘Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening.’
Bultmann had broken the silence first. It was Goltz who responded.
‘We should be heading south, not north. Don’t you agree?’
‘I do, I do. Complete disaster.’
‘And why do you think that was?’
‘Your plan, not mine. I haven’t a clue. Perhaps we underestimated our enemy. Easy enough to do.’
‘Some of us think they knew we were coming.’
‘Yes, that’s very possible.’ The major appeared insensible of the outcome Goltz was leading him towards. ‘Secrets are hard to keep in prison, especially valuable ones. People who have nothing are susceptible to temptation. Quite so.’
‘But only a tiny number of people were in on the secret.’ Goltz took a deep breath. Everyone, except Bultmann, knew what was next. ‘And you were one of them.’
There was an instant, ghastly flash of awareness. Bruling had stood up to guard the door.
‘That’s preposterous.’
‘You never liked the idea of a break-out, did you, Major?’ Goltz was winding himself up, spitting out his words into Bultmann’s ghostly face.
‘That’s not true. It’s simply not true.’
‘All you wanted back there was a fat plateful of food three times a day and a fucking cushy life.’
‘Everyone in that camp knew something was happening. I promise you all, I’m not your leak.’
‘You and all that fucking yellow Wehrmacht scum hanging on to the good life until it’s time to go home.’
‘Calm down. Think it through.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘We were there at the gate. We nearly had it down. Not just your men. My men. Everyone.’
‘So tell me this, Major. Why weren’t you rounded up and hauled down to London? Why weren’t you on one of the buses? How come you joined us later?’
‘Does it matter? I’m on the train now.’ The major’s strength was coming back. He’d put his cap on, and there was authority in his voice. ‘For the last time, I am not your leak. Now if you’re all done . . .’
‘You weren’t on the buses.’
‘I was hiding. They found me after the buses had gone. You’re insane.’
It was too much for Zuhlsdorff. Raising his right arm to shoulder height, he twisted and drove the point of his elbow into Bultmann’s cheekbone. There was a cry, and the major sprang for the door, holding his face.
Before he could open it, Mertens hauled him down, simultaneously twisting him in the direction of Zuhlsdorff’s knotted fist. As it struck, the major moved his head, catching the blow flat on his right ear. For a second time, he lurched towards the door, stumbling across the men’s legs with hands snatching at his collar.
‘I didn’t do this. You’re all mad.’
Somehow, he had wriggled on to the floor. When he looked up at Hartmann, his hands were clasped penitentially across his chest and a pink flash of tears and blood was smeared
across his forehead. In another second, Zuhlsdorff and Mertens would be into him with their boots.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Hartmann could scarcely believe his own words. ‘He says he didn’t do it. What proof do you have that he did? You’ve already said it could have been any one of us. And that means you, me, anyone with half an inkling. This man is a German officer with an Iron Cross on his neck. You can’t treat him like this.’
Later, he would wonder what would have happened if the whistle hadn’t blown; if the doors hadn’t started to slam shut along the length of the train; if there’d been no warning knock on the window.
Along the length of the platform, the station was clearing. Prisoners were being marshalled back into their correct compartments. Names were being checked off against lists. Bultmann needed to be safely back where they’d found him.
‘We’ll finish this properly later. It’s not over.’ The rage had all drained from Goltz. ‘Take the fucker back.’
Already the train was gliding out of the station. Beneath its muted lights, the city had been transformed under the still-falling snow. Nothing was moving on the streets, and the hard edges of the roofs had been blunted by a thick white cushion.
Everyone could feel the extra power generated by their second locomotive. Everyone assumed it would be needed for the hills ahead, where the arctic conditions would soon be muffling the sound of their passage, and driving snow into the carriages around every withered seal.
‘Do I thank you, Herr Hartmann?’ asked the major.
‘No. You just give me that newspaper.’
If he was lucky, The Times might save him.
According to the front page, their much-derided German army – propelled by SS Panzer divisions – was fighting back in Belgium along an eighty-mile front. For once, even the British press had put a lid on its jingoism.
‘What’s the date on it?’ demanded Goltz. Hartmann’s curious outburst appeared entirely forgotten.
‘December nineteenth. Yesterday. Or near enough.’