CHAPTER 1
The weather had stayed dry for a few days, so Natasha didn’t have to worry quite so much about the dry cough Jim had developed. They had managed to find a few shrivelled roots in one of the burnt-out farm sheds they had passed three days ago, and there was still a little remnant of the black bread and sausage the four Soviet soldiers on horseback had given them the day before that.
Jim had managed to find a dryish spot in a small stand of trees, breaking off a couple of branches and laying smaller ones over one side of the rough framework he fashioned. It wouldn’t keep rain out for long, but it broke the wind that was sighing across the open fields. They had slept cuddled into each other, wrapped in what he called a gas cape, the night stretching out to an eternity as he snuffled and coughed beside her. When morning came, they had debated lighting a fire, as a haze lay over the sweep of the gentle slope they were crossing. Before they had made a final decision, she had spotted the movement at the edge of the treeline about a kilometre away.
Four odd shapes had emerged in line, the pale sunlight flashing for a second from the top of the first, and all of a sudden, the objects had made sense, as a party of cavalry troopers, one with a pair of binoculars. That one had made some gestures to either side, and the three others had turned aside to space the group out before advancing slowly across the open ground. Jim had sworn, then coughed once more.
“Sorry, love. Looks like we’re right up shit creek”
As the troopers had approached, she had seen them unsling weapons, three of them shorter ones that looked like sub-machine guns, the other a much longer rifle. That one had pulled up, dismounting and pointing his weapon their way. The ither three had paused, while the one with the binoculars she could now see slung round his neck had shouted across to the two of them in a mixture of German and Russian.
“Hender hock, fucking fascist pizda!”
Natasha had called back as loudly as she could manage, in Russian.
“We are not fascists! We have no weapons!”
“Huh? Fucking shlyukha?”
A couple of sharp instructions to two of his men, the third remaining a little distance away, rifle unwaveringly pointed at the two of them, and then the three mounted soldiers had approached slowly, still spread out, three dark muzzles ready for use.
The oldest, with the binoculars, and who had a heavy Georgian accent, had looked her up and down.
“Where are you from, girl? You’re no fucking Pole or Czech!”
“I’m from Moscow, Comrade Junior Sergeant”
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“The… I was a student in Kyiv. The Fascists made me work”
The soldier’s gaze had gone directly to her breasts, and she shook her head, the word he had called her still hurting her pride.
“No! Not like that! I was studying foreign languages!”
His blond friend, who sounded like a Muscovite, had laughed out loud, showing several missing teeth.
“What the fuck for? Russian not good enough for you?”
The third had grunted.
“Best have a good answer for that one, girly, for when the Cheka ask you. And who the fuck is that? What sort of uniform is that supposed to be?”
The first soldier had held up a hand.
“Shut it, you two. Girly, we aren’t those bastards, so give an honest answer, right? And what uniform is that? Wrong colour for a fascist pizda”
Jim was looking worried, but he had caught some of the meaning behind the questions, and pulled himself to his feet, all four weapons turning towards him as he rose and answered in English.
“Allen, James Robson, Sergeant, Royal Northumberland Fusiliers”, followed by a string of numbers.
Natasha had waved him to sit back down, as he swayed in a parody of ‘attention’.
“Sir, Comrade Junior Sergeant, he is a British man the fascists held as a prisoner. That was my role, as an interpreter. Nothing more”
“What is he doing here?”
“They moved many of their prisoners to their East, Comrade Junior Sergeant. All he wants to do is go home. We are following the front as it moves forward, but it is hard”
The muscovite had laughed once more.
“No more front now, girly! Not unless the Americans are stupid”
The Junior Sergeant had muttered something in his own language, not realising it was one she understood until he caught the slight widening of her eyes, and then he had given her a very slight head shake: ‘Don’t’. He had then drawn a long breath, then let it out slowly as he calmed himself once again.
“Fascists have surrendered, girly. All over, and that fucking bollockless bastard and his shlyukha are dead. Shot themselves, yes? Lads in Berlin are busy at the moment, with so many lamp posts to decorate. Running out of rope, they are. Do you know where you are?”
“Not sure. I know it’s not Poland, and I don’t think we’ve reached Germany. Czechia?”
A sharp nod, and a wave of his arm.
“Pilsen is over there. Fascists call it Budweiss or something. It’s all shit, written in Roman, of course. I’d stay well away. Three, four days that way, small town. Americans are there”
He had shaken his head, almost in resignation.
“Don’t let the fucking Cheka catch you. NKVD will not believe you, girly”
Another braying laugh from the blond.
“Oh, they’ll believe her, all right, but that won’t mean a fucking thing! They’ll still send you to the Gulag, if they don’t just waste a couple of bullets in the backs of your heads. Here!”
A couple of links of dried sausage and a heel of black bread had come out of his knapsack, and the smile from the blond had been far softer.
“We can see what you’re hoping for, girly. Don’t get caught”
They had turned their horses, weapons slung once more, and ridden off to the South, Jim’s eyes following them as they left.
“What was all that about, love?”
“Ah, we were just being very, very lucky”
“That corporal, he said something under his breath, but it wasn’t in Russian, was it?”
“No. That was in Georgian”
“What did he say?”
A careful look around, just in case there were any other eavesdroppers, even though the land was so open she would have spotted them a couple of kilometres away. Old habits, from painful lessons.
“He said the war was over, that Hitler and the others are dead”
“And the rest?”
“Ah, that he hoped a little man from his own Soviet Republic had enough sense not to start all over again with the Americans. They are four days further, that way, the allies”
Another worrying cough.
“Soonest started, soonest finished, then!”
Three days later, the bread and sausage eked out by the dried but unidentifiable roots, and they were still some way from any obvious front line, peaceful or otherwise. A night in the shelter of a small hedge ended badly, Jim shaking her awake as the memories savaged her dreaming mind. Herr Doktor Messner was always first to invade her sleep, his associate the Hauptsturmführer, Ganz, and it was ever the same words, as Ganz smiled, blowing cigarette smoke into her face.
“I don’t care how loud it is, Natalya Ivanova. Just the words. You don’t need to translate any other sounds they may make”
Those sounds, though, were always the worst part, but the screaming was an inevitable human reaction, to things, acts, which were abhuman. The others… Messner had days when he liked to play with finer tools, almost those of a jeweller or watchmaker, but on others it was bolt-croppers and meat cleavers. Those were the sounds that would never leave her.
Jim held her until she could speak again, as he did most nights, even when she could no longer find words, but that night was one of the rarer ones where she could actually speak about parts of it. Only parts, though.
“Jim, it was all so useless! There was nothing they could tell them, no information, no intelligence about troops or tanks. And most of what they asked was about buried gold”
He grunted, hugging her closer, and she rambled on for a few moments more, until his rattly breathing eased a little, and she knew he was asleep once more.
Three and a half years of sounds…
The Germans had made a new religion out of old hatred, and ended up believing the lies they had used as foundations. All Jews were rich, even if they were poor, and because of the first premise, the second could never be true, which meant that the poorest of the poor must have hidden wealth. Her days had alternated between translating for prisoner interrogation, which was not quite as brutal, and being used by Ganz for his own personal treasure hunt. The Germans classed her as what they called a HiWi, a civilian collaborator, but with an uplift in status due to her utility. She didn’t sleep in some broken building in the city, like the other HiWis, as the Germans had set up a wired compound for people like her, those the Germans valued enough to do a little to avoid the risk of someone cutting their throats as traitors. The little fortress, or maybe prison, also housed several of the German officers’ girlfriends, and it was where she had met Jim.
Non-Soviet prisoners were housed in an adjoining compound, with that strange German inconsistency in treatment between what they did to the Untermensch and what was delivered to those deemed to be racially or politically superior. She had seen what happened to Soviet captives, and when she had first encountered the British and American prisoners, she had been astonished at how well-fed they had looked, how cheerful many were. A couple of days after the British prisoners arrived, she found Valentina, one of the ‘girlfriends’, at her shoulder as she stared at the young men in the dirt-coloured clothing.
“Ah, Natasha, they’ll all be gone in a while”
Natasha had jerked at the words, Valentina placing a hand on each shoulder.
“No, girl! Not like that! Not unless any of them is a Yid, of course. Anyway, Heinzl tells me they use gas now, not bullets. More humane, he tells me. And cheaper, more efficient. He’s working with the English, now. Got a special job”
One of the men in brown was staring at the two women, and as Natasha watched, he had given a little wave and smile, and automatically she had returned the gesture, as Valentina had giggled.
“You like that one? If he has sense, you might get to meet him properly. And I mean…”
A very rude gesture had followed, with another bout of giggles.
“Not in the same clothes, though! That’s the special job Heinzl has”
“What special job?”
“It’s the Waffen-SS, Natasha. They are expanding. Heinzl says that there are Aryans outside Germany, not just the Volksdeutsche. They’ve got the Danish and the Dutch joining now, and he’s going around the camps looking for British recruits. For a Free Corps. Like Vlasov, yes?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah, it’s a common enemy, Heinzl says. Bolsheviks, Russians. We just need to make the Amis understand, then we can let them come straight through, smash the Bolsheviks and the Yids. Save civilisation. And he tells me the Führer’s got new weapons, amazing ones”
Natasha had stared at the other woman until she had snapped back a quick “What?”
A pause for breath, and then Valentina had been off on her usual obsession. Always the same thing, the hatred of the Soviets for what a Georgian thug had done to her grandparents, her parents, her cousins, her friends and their families. Pointless to argue, because Valentina was actually right in everything she said about the Reds, apart from that single small error: the Germans were no different, not in any meaningful way at all. Not for the first time, Natasha had wondered how Valentina might react if she ever saw ‘Heinzl’ at his real work, to which role Natasha herself was a regular witness. He wasn’t more than a moderately proficient torturer, lacking the subtlety and imagination of the true sadists such as Messner, or the utter inhumanity of Ganz, but ‘Heinzl’ managed more than adequately.
Three days later, Heinz had come for Natasha.
WESTERN WAYS 2
“Good morning, Natalya Ivanova! We have a busy day, and I have arranged a meal for midday. Best get started”
Heinz was almost bouncing on his toes, and as Natasha packed a small shoulder bag with a few things she might need, such as the heel of the salami she had shared with Valentina the evening before, he was chattering happily about the day’s work. Heinz was a true believer in the crusade against Jewish Bolshevism, a soldier in the fight to save civilisation, the precious Aryan blood, and so on. She had her doubts as to whether he had ever actually faced an enemy that wasn’t disarmed and caged, but he looked the part in his grey-green service uniform, collar lace gleaming with the SS rank pips on one tab and a grinning skull and crossbones on the other.
They walked out of the secure compound, four men with assault rifles falling in behind them, and made their way round to the entrance to the prison cage, where the duty guards almost levitated in their effort to throw the smartest salute and loudest heel click possible. Heinz looked insufferably smug getting such deference from much older men, and Natasha asked herself what reputation he had amongst his own troops.
“Little Hitler”, she thought, then had to hide her grin with a forced cough as they entered the wire enclosure.
“You are perhaps unwell, Natalya Ivanova?”
“I am fine, Herr Obersturmführer. A little winter cough; it will pass”
“Try to stay silent, then, when not interpreting. This is important work, work of the highest importance possible. Race survival!”
He strode forward, giving a hand signal to one of the guards, and that man set a bell ringing, bellowing out “Appel! Appel!”. Prisoners surged out of the wooden huts onto the central open space, forming ranks that began raggedly but were rapidly shuffled into decently straight lines. The head guard stepped forward, shouting in passable English.
“You will listen here! This officer, he is like your Leutnant. He has important words to hear. You will listen!”
He turned to Heinz.
“You want me to say it in French as well?”
Heinz looked as if he could spit with disgust.
“No! I want Aryans, not those pansies. Now, Natalya Ivanova, repeat what I say, in English. Exactly as I say it”
He strutted forward to take a wide legged stance in front of the brown-uniformed ranks as his men stepped to either side of him, weapons held down but ready, and Natasha took her place beside him, repeating as clearly and loudly as she could what became a mixture of snivelling plea and bombastic rant.
“Soldiers of the British Empire and the United States. I am Obersturmführer Ehrlich. I am from the Waffen SS and I come with an invitation for all true Aryans who tire of captivity. I offer you not only freedom, but honour!”
He droned on at some length, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet as he detailed the Holy Crusade that the Keepers of True Aryan Culture were engaged on, against the Jew and the Bolshevik and the African and Slavic subhumans; she could hear the capital letters in his intonation and emphasis.
“American friends, why are you here, when the Negro is in your house, defiling your wives and daughters and sisters, when the Jew is sitting on the money he stole from you, from your fathers and grandfathers, safely in his lair in America while you fight for his race? You don’t have to sit uselessly, for you have an opportunity to fight, fight for blood, and honour! The Jew and the Bolshevik must be stopped, and stopped here, so that our race can attain its destiny! We have established a Free Corps, a body for all true Englishmen. We will feed you, train you, arm you, and be your faithful comrades against the Jew and the Bolshevik, until death or victory!”
She was watching the tanks of men as she translated Heinz’s words, and caught a couple of stage whispers but couldn’t spot their sources. The first was a murmured “We’re not all English, you thick fucking kraut bastard”; the second, in what sounded like an American accent, “I’ll hold the rope for you, cunt”
As she scanned the faces, with absolutely no intention of reporting anyone she might spot, she saw her man from the other day, who gave her a very slow wink. Heinz hadn’t finished, though.
“The guards have papers for you, agreements that you will sign to pledge your service to our just course. My honour is called faithfulness! Heil Hitler!”
He turned to Natasha, after his jerky salute.
“Now, you will stay here and attend to any questions. My men will see to your safety; Bauer here can answer simpler questions, but does not speak English. BAUER! Come here and do as I told you”
“Jawohl, Herr Obersturmführer”
“Till later, Natalya Ivanova. You will dine with Valentina and myself tonight, a thank you for your excellent work”
He turned on his heel, two of his men flanking him as far as the gate before turning back to her, and as he left, the gate guards were setting up a small table in a hut entrance, some chairs placed around it. ‘Bauer’ gave her a formal bow.
“Please, take a seat. This normally starts slowly”
She settled into one of the chairs, as a guard brought her a cup of hot ersatz ‘coffee’, and waited to see if any of the prisoners would approach her. It was nearly half an hour before the first came, one who had a strange round hat on with a ball on top. He nodded, and Bauer pointed to one of the other chairs before offering the little man a mug of the hot brown liquid. Natasha looked him over, and he grinned, showing really bad teeth, before saying something she could almost understand.
“Sorry?”
Another grin, and he spoke again, clearly trying to make his words clearer.
“I said, that little prick of a boss of yours needs to know that we’re not all English here, Miss. What are you getting out of all this palaver? That your boyfriend?”
Bauer rose, looking for a refill of the ‘coffee’, and she took her chance, the first of many that day.
“No. I am also a prisoner. I come from Moscow. I was a language student”
“Well, save the recruiting shite. I wouldn’t pish on those cunts if they were on fire”
He rose, grinning once more.
“But I got a hot drink out of it! Good luck, hen”
As he walked away, she followed his rolling walk for a while, until she realised that another soldier had taken his place. This time, it was the young man from the other day, the one who had winked at her from the ranks.
“You got Jock smiling, pet. Takes a bit to do that. Why are you here?”
Once again, that question, and she gave him the same answer, just as Bauer returned with his fresh mug. The Mann smirked.
“That funny-looking dwarf not enthusiastic, then? Tough”
She gave him a searching look, and then decided to risk a little probe.
“You aren’t sounding that hopeful, Herr Bauer”
“Gerd, Miss. At least while MEHT isn’t about”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Meine Ehre heisst Treue. Our motto. What with his name and everything. Anyway, that dwarf, he’s a poison one, I think”
“Please?”
“Poison dwarves, we call them. Scotlanders. Nasty little bastards to go up against. What’s this one?”
“Don’t know yet”
“I’ll do duty with drinks, then. The other boys are within reach. And I heard what that Americaner said, by the way. About holding the rope for MEHT. If you can sign that lad up, that would be good, Just as long as he isn’t a Yid or a wop or a Polack, of course. Hey, English? Coffee?”
He made an obvious drinking gesture, and the Englishman nodded, turning to Natasha as the SS Mann walked off.
“Hi. I’m Jim Allen. What do they call you?”
“I am Natalya Ivanova Lebed”
“Long name”
“My middle name is my father’s… Jim. It is normal in Russia to put that in between the personal name and the family one”
“Ah. My middle name, well, where I come from we have our Christian name, and our surname, and one in between, which is normally the name our mother had before she married. My mother was a Robson, which is a riding surname, one of the reiver graynes”
She realised with a shock that while she understood most of the words as words, their sense had flown straight past her. Gerd was back then, with another mug, which he handed to ‘Jim Allen’.
“This one talking more sense, Miss?”
“I think so, Gerd. Do you have a form?”
“Here”
She looked across the table at the English soldier, noticing odd things about him, such as a small mole on his left cheek, hazel eyes, reddish-blonde hair… It had been a long, long time since she had been able to see a man as a man, rather than a uniform, or simply a thing that screamed, and she had to admit that Jim wasn’t that difficult to look at. She dragged herself back to reality, and pushed the form across the little table.
“I am supposed to be explaining this to you, about the crusade against the Yids and the Bolsheviks…”
From the corner of her eye, she caught Gerd’s smirk as he picked up on the key words, as she had intended. Jim was nodding.
“But you don’t actually believe in it, do you?”
She nodded.
“I am unconvinced as to the veracity of the scheme, with particular reference to our eavesdropper, and my name is normally… I am Natasha to friends”
“Hello, Natasha. Nice to meet you properly at last”
“It is a mutual thing. Now, what is a grayne?”
Five minutes later, and she was enthralled, as he spoke about border raiders, the Riding Surnames and their sections, the graynes, and the sweep of the wild lands he came from.
“Ah, Jim, not for me, not anywhere so wild. I am a girl from the big city. My friend Valentina, you saw her with me, I think, her family were farmers”
Natasha had a wave of inspiration; she could talk openly about that Georgian bastard, and whatever Gerd understood would be fully in keeping with what she was actually supposed to be doing.
“They were kulaks, farmers, here in the Ukraine. Mostly dead now. Stalin wanted them on bigger farms, so they simply went on strike, didn’t grow any more than they needed. Stalin…”
Once more, she felt Gerd’s attention and focus on her words. She needed a few words close to German.
“So Stalin, the swine, he just came down, he and his Bolshevik bastards, and he took everything they had grown, everything they needed for themselves and their families. And left them to starve. Bolshevik bastards”
Jim looked puzzled.
“Don’t remember hearing about that. Just here, this area?”
“Ukraine, yes, mostly. If the Germans had used that, they would have had an extra Army, an extra Freikorps”
Gerd was leaning over the table now, clearly approving of the apparent course of their conversation. She pushed it a bit more, just in case.
“But the Germans, they didn’t care, because there were Yids here as well as Bolsheviks, and they could both be wiped out”
She drew a finger across her throat in an obvious gesture, as Jim nodded in agreement, and Gerd rose with a beaming grin.
“This one is listening well, Miss! I think we have some stew on the stove. Does the English man want some?”
She nodded her thanks and agreed that yes, a couple of blows of stew might just hit the spot, and Gerd was almost swaggering as he left them. Jim leant in a little closer.
“Natasha, I have been in their camps long enough to have a bit of German, but, well--- are they all such complete bastards?”
She thought for a few seconds only before nodding in agreement.
“All the ones I have met, yes. Complete bastards, And worse, much, much worse”
Jim smiled, and it was a beautiful one.
“Want to come with me when we leave this shithole?”
WESTERN WAYS 3
Jim’s third stripe had only come through a fortnight before, but that stripe was all the runner needed to see.
“Boss says he’s going to throw the towel in, Sarge. Stand ready to disable weapons and break cover, but at his command only”
Dinger Bell was the first to speak, as always.
“Fucking Nora, why?”
The runner shrugged.
“Sent a few lads out on a shufty, and they say the Krauts have got round the back of us with some of their armoured cars. No way round them. Pass it on, Sarge; I’ve got to go”
Jim looked down the line of shell scrapes that followed the north/east bank of the canal. The sappers were supposed to have blown all the bridges, so how had the buggers got armour round behind them?
“Pass the word along the line, Dinger. Keep it down, though. Boss might change his mind”
A Spandau fired at something, the sound like tearing paper rather than the rattle of a Bren, and it was indeed coming from behind them. Jim winced, shrinking down into his scrape as the machine gun was followed by a rapid series of crumping explosions as a mortar barrage struck, once again from behind. Bollocks. Two minutes later, a white flag went up down the line to Jim’s left, and the shouts came: “Cease fire! Pass the word!”
The sudden silence felt eerie, until it was broken by his officer’s plummy tones, shouting something in French, and then in German. A group of the enemy rose from behind the ruins of a small building about thirty yards beyond the canal, as two of Jim’s bosses walked slowly forward to the edge of the water. A German officer, from his peaked cap, walked out with the first group and called across to Mister Neville.
“I thank you for your attempt at my language and appreciate your courtesy, but perhaps it will be easier to arrange things in English? What are you offering, sir?”
“I need your assurances first, sir. That my men will be treated properly in accordance with the terms of the Geneva Convention. We are aware that such has not always been the case”
The German officer shrugged, and while his reply was pleasant in tone, there was still a little edge to it, something unsaid that Jim knew he was missing.
“Whom am I addressing? I will stress that the Wehrmacht is honourable in all things”
“I am the Officer commanding this unit. Captain Benjamin Neville”
“Thank you, Captain Neville. I am Hauptmann Albach, so we are of similar rank, No dishonour to you. I am grateful for your offer, as it will avoid more needless death and injury. You are aware that we have motorised units to your rear; they will come forward shortly. Please tell your men to relax in the meantime—perhaps brew a cuppa char?”
The German saluted in the conventional way before turning and walking back to cover, seeming unconcerned at the risk of being shot. Mister Neville sagged, almost as if someone had cut his strings, before turning to his own side, clearly doing his best to show similar bravado.
“All men are to spike their weapons!”
He muttered something else to his attendants, and once more the message came by runner: burn everything apart from personal effects and AB64. Jim turned to his boys, feeling more than a little lost.
“You heard him! Get a brew on, burn any maps or anything else to fuel it. Pull your bolts from your bundooks and toss them in the canal. If you can manage it, smack something in the muzzle or the breech. Don’t leave anything for the Jerries. And thanks, lads. You’ve done well today”
There were mutters, mostly obscene, that they obviously hadn’t done well enough, but the tea was welcome, along with the bully and biscuit burgoo the lads pulled together from the last of their rations, expecting that jerry would take anything left in their packs. Along with a couple of the others, Jim managed to smash the stock of his rifle against the stone of the towpath, the bolt already at the bottom of the canal. As the last of the stew went down, there was a roar of engines and a clatter of tracks: the Germans were there.
There were two armoured cars, huge six-wheeled things in a dark slate-grey with a large frame aerial over the top, plus three tanks, the first Jim had actually seen close up. They looked pathetic, not that much bigger than a carrier, and he almost laughed at them before remembering what he had done to his weapon. Jerry wasn’t the one waving the white flag, after all. In response to Mister Neville’s commands, the whole unit paraded in two ranks, and that was when Jim understood why Neville had made his choice, for around a quarter of their original number were missing. Neville had a quiet conversation with his new German friend, and after a sharp nod, the man walked over to one of the armoured cars, whose commander was leaning out of the top, all in black with silver skulls on his collar. Neville turned back to the men.
“Captain Albach has called for stretchers to be brought forward, as well as transport. We will need bearers for those wounded who cannot walk. W.O. 2 Kerr will tell off men after the Germans have finished…”
Mister Neville looked lost, but after a quick shake of his head, he continued.
“The Germans will now search you. This will not be resisted. They will also take your AB64 pay books. I am assured that this is only for formal registration via the Red Cross as prisoners of war under the rules of the Geneva Convention, and that they will be returned after interrogation. That is all, apart from my own words: I am sorry, boys. You have made me a proud man today, proud to serve with you. True fusiliers all. My hopes go with you all: see you back home when this is all over”
He turned away, still doing his best to keep his head up, and two of the black-uniformed men started to go through his pockets. While a couple of motorcycle combinations and several infantrymen covered the squaddies with their weapons, other Germans moved forward to search the lads. As one of them went through Jim’s pockets, taking his AB64, he suddenly jumped back, swinging his Schmeisser to point at his chest. There was a click as he cocked it, and then he was yelling.
“MESSER! MESSER! GIB MIR MESSER!”
“What are you jabbering about?”
“MESSER!”
Dinger called across.
“Keep it slow, Sarge. You forget your gully!”
Jim felt his heart almost stop, as he placed both hands carefully on top of his head, turning slightly so that the enemy soldier could reach his right hip. He could almost smell the weapon so close to his head, but the German simply snatched out the bayonet before stepping quickly backwards, breathing rapidly. Jim nodded, as a German NCO put a calming hand on his man’s soldier, muttering something in German. Albach walked quickly over, clearly sensing trouble.
“Was passiert hier?”
The NCO launched into rapid German, showing Albach the bayonet, all eighteen inches of it, and the Captain laughed out loud before saying something that left the two soldiers snorting. He then turned to Jim.
“I have pointed out, Sergeant, that an item nearly half a metre in length that was hanging from your belt is not exactly ‘concealed’. Please be so good as to advise your comrades, who may have forgotten such minor items as ammunition, grenades…”
He turned the weapon in his hands, appraisingly.
“Or bayonets. My man may wish this as a keepsake. Your orders, please.”
Jim drew a breath, choosing his words with care, then called as loudly as he could manage without blurring his words.
“Just nearly got shot, lads. I forgot my bayonet. If you have yours on you, or anything such as spare rounds, Mills bombs, whatever, put it on the ground and step back three paces. Now!”
There was a shuffle, as several other bayonets clattered to the ground, along with some clips of .303 rounds. No grenades, thank God. His heart was still pounding, though, even as they finally formed column of twos and marched off to captivity after the told off bearers had loaded the more seriously wounded into the lorries. It was a long march, back over the canal by way of one of two well-made temporary bridges, the other one with nose to tail German traffic. Mister Neville had been absolutely right to give in, Jim realised.
Their destination was in the edge of a wood, clearly a plantation from the regular spacing of the trees, where a wired enclosure had been set up. They settled down on the ground, many falling fast asleep immediately, exhaustion finally prevailing over fear. Jim found a tree to sit against, and despite his situation, he found hie eyelids dropping.
“ALLEN, JAMES ROBSON!”
He jerked awake, only then realising sleep had claimed him, and looked around in confusion. A Jerry was standing by the entrance to their enclosure, waving a pay book. Once more, he called out Jim’s name, and he stumbled to his feet.
“Komm mit!”
Dinger shouted to him a she went.
“If they shoot you, Sarge, bagsy your boots!”
“Oh, fuck off, lad!”
He followed the German soldier to a tent, another walking behind with one of the ubiquitous Schmeissers, and the first one waved him in, after saluting and heel-clicking to the officer seated inside. Captain Albach, yet again.
“Ah! Sergeant Allen? Good. Do take a seat, do. Tea? Not the best, I am afraid, as my tross is only just getting established again”
“Tross?”
“Um… Baggage train? Support units?”
“Oh, aye. Tea, if you have it”
Albach handed him his AB64, with a smile, calling out instructions to an orderly.
“I had my man arrange these in alphabetical order, Sergeant. After all, we Germans are rather well-known for our love of order and structure in things. Tell me, do you know Durham City at all well?”
“I’m sorry? Um, name, rank, serial number, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, Sergeant. Ah, your tea is here. Yes, the Convention specifies those three, but I am a civilised man, and it would be nice to converse in more pleasant ways than those that involve high explosives or bullets. So, are you familiar with the City?”
Jim sipped from the tin mug, and the tea was a little sweet for him, but not that bad. Albach continued chatting.
“I was a Divine, Sergeant. I studied theology at St Chad’s in that city. Your regiment is from the neighbouring county, and I am simply curious as to how things are since I answered the call of my own country. I remember we would gather in the Shakespeare, on Saddler Street, hoping to see some of the ghosts”
He laughed, with clearly happy memories.
“Some of—No! MANY of my fellow students had a greater interest in the other sort of spirits. Gaudeamus igitur, Sergeant, iuvenes dum sumus”
“Sorry? I only speak English, sir”
“Latin, Sergeant. Let us therefore rejoice, while we are young”
He carried on in a similar manner for some time, which puzzled Jim, but he didn’t seem pushy, so he dared to ask a question of his own.
“No offence meant, Captain, but I don’t see the point of this chat”
“None taken, my friend. It is simply that it helps my English remain current, as well as allowing me to reminisce about happier times. I hope to return there one day, once this unpleasantness is over. Our countries are not natural enemies, after all. Besides…”
He grinned, and was suddenly a decade younger.
“One of your comrades might be indiscreet!”
Jim was escorted back to the compound, as the next name was called, feeling absolutely confused by his treatment. What had been the point of it all?
A few days later, he was feeling more comfortable, as things started to move in ways more to his expectation. Five days of marching had brought the unit to a railhead, where a long train of cattle wagons was waiting, obviously for them and a large number of other British and French soldiers. There was straw on the wooden floorboards, three buckets for sanitary use, and shortly after Jim’s arrival, the train was chuffing to the East, thirty men to a wagon.
CHAPTER 4
The weather was holding fine and warm, but there was a cooling breeze coming by way of the gaps around the wagon’s sliding door. Despite the number of men, there was plenty of space to stretch out, but it was clear that nobody at all was looking forward to using the buckets. Dinger had already worked out that he could get his John Thomas out between the edge of the door and the side of the wagon, and demonstrated the practicality of his technique in a way that was extremely copious, as well as deeply satisfying, judging from the sounds he was making as he pissed. Jonty Charlton laughed loudly at the sight.
“How, Dinger!”
“Aye, lad?”
“Try and save it up next time. Wait for a Jerry troop train to go past!”
“No, man. Saving my number twos for that”
“You’ll never get a log out through that crack”
“Jonty, marrer, I have had sufficient practice involving the hote kweezeen of that Doris in that caff by the drill hall, and am accordingly well-trained in the theory and proper military practice of shitting through the eye of a needle. Anyway, I’d rather see my dump out there than smell it in here”
Dinger finished his business before buttoning up his battledress trousers, and slumped on the floor beside Jim.
“Think they’ll feed us, Sarge?”
“They’re supposed to, that’s what the Geneva Convention says”
“I might need that bucket later, then. What did that smarmy Jerry captain ask you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, all sorts. What I did before the war, pubs in Durham City, that sort of thing”
“Did he make some stupid joke about spirits in a pub?”
“Aye, he did”
“Thought so. Got a bloody script, he has. I bet if you ask the lads, he said the same shite to all of us”
“You’re probably right, Bell. Out of curiosity, and you don’t have to answer, what did you do before all this kicked off? You’re not ‘hostilities only’ or a Terrier, I know that”
“Honest? I was a pitman. In Ashington”
“I thought that was a reserved occupation”
“It is. Few of us had a natter, once we saw where this was going. Knew there was going to be a war, we did. Didn’t fancy spending it where we were, so we joined up before they started asking”
“You volunteered to get shot at?”
“You ever been down a pit, Sarge?”
“No, I worked for my Dad. With him, more like. He’s a keeper, out by Rothbury”
“Then you won’t understand. I could tell you all about black lung, choke damp, bloody fire damp, working a shift in nowt but boots, hoggers and a dut with a shiny light on, though some of the lads didn’t even bother with hoggers, left their arses bare, and then there’s falls of stones, not seeing any sun for weeks on end, but that’s just the special bonus things. No, we could see the bloody coal owners would make an absolute fortune out of us, and we’d get no say at all. We jumped first”
He shook his head, looking away for a few seconds before turning back to Jim.
“Shite topic to chat about. What was your, er, game?”
“Exactly that. Game. Had some pheasant about, but mainly it was red grouse. Got a few visitors for shooting roe as well. Stalking, that is. Dad and me, our job was mainly vermin control. Crow, hawks, buzzards, foxes, even moles out by the Big House. I started with a gun when I was just about big enough to pick one up. Other thing was… no false modesty, Bell, but I know what I’m doing with groups of lads”
“Aye, sarge. I’ll give you that. Had a lot worse in NCOs”
“Thank you very much, Colonel Bell! No, what I meant was that Dad and me, we used to recruit the beaters every August. Grouse season starts on the twelfth, aye? Ours were driven shoots, not like the roe stalking. Needed to find the right sort of beater, someone who can manage a fair bit of a tramp through the heather, with sense enough not to stick themselves down range. There are some bloody daft bastards about”
Dinger shook his head.
“Aye, same as in this game. Don’t stay daft for long, though, do they?”
“You aren’t wrong there. Anyway, got a bit fed up with the whole thing after a few years, if you take my point”
“What? Too much shooting? Bit daft signing up for this lot, then”
“No, lad. It was the guns, as we called them, but not what you mean. The shooters. More money than sense, and not a drop of that last bit between them. Nobs, gentry, whatever you call them. Everything on a plate for them, even got the bloody grouse driven past in front of their guns. Called it ‘hunting’, while sat on their fat arses, rest of us doing all the work. I got a few too many ‘Boy, do this, do that!’, I decided I wanted a different life. Rest you know. I do miss the dogs, though”
“What, hounds?”
“No, spaniels and terriers. Fox hounds are too stupid to come in out of the rain; one of Dad’s mates saw to that”
“What do you mean?”
“Point of riding to hounds is the ride. Hounds are supposed to follow the quarry, so any dog that tried to outthink the fox, cut it off, that sort of thing? It got shot, so it wouldn’t spoil the fun for the toffs”
“Bugger a hell! Was that something you did as well? Red jacket and silly hat?”
“Like hell, lad! We got rid of foxes the proper way, the one that works. Beagles, terriers, spades and guns. Find the bugger, dig it out and kill it quick”
They carried on like that for hours, several other soldiers joining in with their own reminiscences of civvy life, until Dinger started the conversation along another track, mostly concerning a number of Dorises and whether they did or didn’t, which was followed by Jonty’s considered opinion on strategy and tactics for converting a Doris That Didn’t into a Doris That Did.
The train spent time in sidings as more warlike transport rolled past them to the West, and it was during one of those stops that Dinger’s question was answered, as the chains securing the sliding doors were unlatched and the wagons opened. There were several German soldiers outside, one of them with a silvery crescent of metal hanging from his collar, and for a few minutes the main sound was of German voices shouting “RAUS! RAUS!”. He spoke some English, and under his direction the various filled buckets were removed from the wagons and tipped down a nearby embankment. Unarmed soldiers were soon running up with large metal canisters, and the crescent-wearing German was calling to Jim.
“You! Sergeant! Your men, in a schlang, ja? A line!”
Each wagon’s men was formed into a column, and then each column was marched down to a line of trucks, where the men were handed a mess kit and a gas cape of shelter quarter, along with one rough grey blanket. Once the issue was done, it was back to their wagon, where the metal canisters were opened, releasing the smell of hot food. There were sacks of black bread, each man receiving a mess tin of stew, a chunk of black bread and a refill of their water bottle. Jim stepped a little away from his men in order to keep an eye on the whole group, and was joined by the crescent-wearer.
“We feed you, Sergeant, yes? But we do not say what it is you eat!”
There was a twinkle to his eye that relaxed Jim, and he shrugged, trying to match the older man’s tone.
“It is food, and it is hot. I don’t ask for more, considering where I am. We are grateful. Thank you”
“Is nothing. Cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke, I have none”
The big man burst out laughing., before taking a cigarette from a tin in his breast pocket and lighting it.
“I know! My comrades, yes? They search you? Cigarettes would be gone, whoosh. I ask, you want a cigarette? I do not have for all men. But you not raucher, smoking. From London?”
“No, we are… here, see my shoulder? Northumberland. North. No, not Scottish!”
“Ah. Where you make ships and coals, yes?”
Jim nodded, then pointed at the silver crescent.
“You are right. What is the metal thing?”
“This? Landser call me Kettenhund, a chain dog, for this here, yes? It is my badge. I am Feldgendarmerie. You say… army police?”
He laughed once more, and pointed to one of the now-empty canisters as a German orderly carried it away.
“Chain dog, they call me. I am not a dog. Your meal, ha, I am not as sure there is no dog there. Now, please to tell your men they can scheiss before they are in their wagon again. Then you go”
“Are you able to tell me where we are being sent”
Another chuckle from the MP was followed by a shake of his head.
“No, not to tell. Two days, yes? Two days you find out. Back to train, Tommy. Next year, maybe, we drink beer together”
Jim found himself laughing at the idea of Albach and the big policeman with pints of Scotch in the Shakespeare, or had the man meant a German bar?
“Where will we have this drink, my friend?”
“Ach, your king, he will surrender soon, and then we fight together, as comrades again. You show me good English pubs, maybe I show you Sankt Pauli! Good luck, Tommy”
He slapped Jim on the shoulder before pushing him gently towards the waiting wagon. The doors were closed and locked, before the train shambled off once more.
It was three days in the end, rather than two, and at about four n the morning, as each man slept in their blanket and waterproof, or tried to, they were ‘RAUSed’ from their little patches of straw, formed into columns and marched to what was clearly their prison camp. Yet another jackbooted officer shouted at them, in German this time, while another German called out a translation. In summary, they were in a camp for other ranks, the officers having their own, and as per the terms of the Geneva Convention, ‘other ranks’ would be required to work.
As the officer announced where the camp was located, Jim heard Dinger swear, a couple of places to his left, and realised he needed to stop him speaking again before the guards heard.
“Shut it, Bell”, he whispered, catching a sharp nod in response. The two Germans droned on about rules and camp facilities, such as they were, and then each group of men was told off to a wooden hut. As soon as the door was slammed and locked, Jim turned to Dinger.
“What on Earth was that about, lad? Don’t annoy the bastards, for God’s sake!”
The man was shaking his head, mouth twisted.
“Sorry, Sarge! It’s just what that jerry in the shiny boots shouted, about where we are. Uncle Ned, he was a pit deputy, aye? Full of all that rubbish about self-improvement, and he only studies bloody coalmining, doesn’t he? As if he didn’t get enough of it at work, poor old sod”
“And?”
“Fucking work, Jerry says. That snide bastard over in France, conniving sneaky bugger with all those questions. We’re in Silesia, Sarge”
“Get to the point?”
“Silesia. What do you think they do for work here? I’m going back down a bloody pit!”
CHAPTER 5
Dinger was absolutely right in his guess. Two days after their arrival, as they were just starting to make their huts their own places rather than a temporary shelter, the Germans split the morning Appel. The same jackboots-and-peaked cap officer was on his platform with the interpreter, but this time they were accompanied by a small group of men in civilian jackets and baggy trousers. Bell’s whisper was just loud enough for Jim to catch.
“Them’s fucking deppities, or I’m a Mackem”
Jim just nodded, as the popinjay shouted on and on, and then the interpreter took the lead.
“Look to your left! There are wagons! If your name is called, you will go to them, immediately. If you do not hear your name, remain at your stand. Do not pretend. We will make sure of all names”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jim caught Dinger’s head drop, and just as predicted, that man’s name was one of the first to be called. About a fifth of the prisoners were left after the others had been called out, and Jim realised that if nothing was done, there would be panic. He drew a deep breath, then gave the command.
“Close up those ranks! Smartly, now. You think you’re bloody mobile baths unit or something?”
As the men hurried into position, he deliberately turned his attention forward, where the man he was thinking of as the Popinjay stared hard at him before offering the slightest nod of recognition, then saying something to his interpreter. Before anything else could happen, the customary shouting came from the left, as the chosen many were yelled onto the trucks. Dinger’s ‘Deputies’ climbed into a couple of the odd German military cars, the ones that looked to Jim as if they were made from cast-off tin roofing material, and then a convoy of vehicles left the compound.
He had a moment of dread, of wondering if he would see the lads again, but the little bantam cock bastard was drawing himself up again, ready for more words, and Jim found himself wondering if the hoit could ever manage a word in a normal speaking voice. The interpreter was standing easy, though, waiting until the camp gates were firmly shut once more. As the last fastening was dropped into place, he looked down at his feet for an instant as he drew breath, and then started another speech, this time without referring to the more senior man.
“Your friends, they will return later. This day, it is to make them familiar. Tomorrow the same, then it is work. You work well, you work fairly, we feed you well, fairly. You are not making a holiday here!”
Another breath of preparation.
“Those on the next list will move to left on hearing a name! Armstrong!”
Before he could move on, a voice called out from behind Jim.
“Which fucking one, Jerry?”
Bracing himself for the backlash, Jim was astonished to see the young officer laughing.
“Yes, yes! Is funny! I make it easy, no? Armstrong, every one, all six, to your left”
Jim relaxed again as the roll call continued, right up to the point where he realised that the only man left with him was Noel Wardle, a lance corporal from another company, and:
“Wardle, Noel!”
Jim let his head turn to stare at the body of men that a number of German guards were shoving into a column of fours, and then turned back to the little stage, only to see the interpreter and the popinjay crossing the parade ground towards him. What had he done? As the column of men were marched out of the gate, the two officers reached him, stamping to a halt and snapping a Hitler-style salute. Jim stamped to his own position of ‘attention’ and kept his eyes fixed forward as the senior man muttered once more to the mouthpiece, who asked, in a puzzled voice, “You do not give a salute?”
“SIR I HAVE NO HAT SIR!”
“Ah. This is the English way, then”
He said something in German to the little man, who nodded in understanding before saying something else. The younger man actually clicked his heels and bowed his head in reply, then visibly relaxed.
“The Oberst asks what is your species? Oh, please stand at the easy, Sergeant. Is that the right word?”
“Sir stand at ease and stand easy are different sir”
“Then please to the easier one, the relax. Your species?”
“Sir I do not understand sir. Permission to ask a question sir?”
“Ah. Your men? We have some coal places for the men with wagons, and the others, we have fields, food to gather. A farming, yes? Your species?”
“I am a man, sir. Human”
The little man started to laugh, and as he did so, Jim noticed the crinkles around his face. The surgery had been good, but as the skin stretched, the scars were evident. It looked like some splinters had caught the man in the face, and as Jim watched, he realised that one eye was not moving, and a slightly different colour to the other. The ‘Oberst’ was quick to say something else to his minion, and the man almost blushed before making his question clearer.
“No! Not what you are. Your papers, they say you are a man who keeps animals for sporting. Are you for dogs, or for swine, or for the birds?”
“Oh! Grouse, pheasant and deer. Sir!”
“Not the swine, then? The wild one?”
Suddenly, Jim understood that the older man was sounding him out as a possible gamekeeper. They had cleared out all the miners, and the rest of the boys had been marched off for what was probably agricultural labour, but Jim had been kept back, and the only possible meaning for ‘papers’ was whatever that two-faced snake Albach had prepared. He forced himself to relax. They might be officers, but he had done enough stamping and bracing for the day, and they weren’t his officers, but the enemy.
“No, sir. We call them wild boar. Not in England. Grouse and pheasant, for shooting parties, and I would lead clients in stalking roe”
“Bitte?”
“Roe. Small deer, antlers like this”
He used his hands to mimic a roebuck, and the scarred man nodded.
“Ja! Reh”
Now that he had made a link, Jim found himself wanting to give more info, to cooperate, and he made an effort to pull himself back. That had been Albach’s skill.
“I went to Scotland with Dad, my father, a few times. We went with the Owner, helped him with some red deer stalking”
The Oberst looked pleased at that.
“Rothirsch?”
“Pardon, sir?”
The interpreter confirmed that yes, they all meant red deer. Once more, the scarred man said something to his companion, and then both laughed out loud, the interpreter explaining with a grin.
“Herr Oberst Ritter von Lechau said that he has a use for you, especially if you know the ways of unwanted animals… your word is? Foxes, crows, martins?”
“Vermin, we call them, sir”
“Vermin, yes. But he says that you do not expect we give you a gun for the work!”
Once more, there was a grin, and Jim realised he actually liked the two men, especially when the interpreter added the final enticing comment.
“And if it is good meat we are hunting, then the English saying, yes? Do not bind the mouths of kine that tread corn. Kine, that is?”
“Kie, we say. Er, cows. Cattle”
“Cattle, or those who work for the hunt, yes. Not to bind the mouths. You may go, Sergeant—no. One thing more. Littmann!”
A soldier trotted across with a cardboard document case, stamping to attention in front of the three of them in what was becoming a boringly repetitive way for Jim.
“Ja, Herr Hauptmann!”
The officer took the folder, raising an eyebrow to Jim.
“I am Hauptmann—Captain, you say---Weber. Until we receive more under-officers, you will be camp leader. These are the rules for you, in English. We have the Red Cross to watch for us, and they will receive briefs---letters from your men. They will also deliver extra supplies. That may include gifts of your men families. In return, you will examine the letters. You will remove what we say. We will confirm you do it right. You do right, we let your men’s parcels come. That is all”
Jim snapped back into ‘attention’, the hint clear, and the two officers saluted him, this time in the normal military style, before strolling off back towards the Command hut. Jim made his way to his own bunk, and began working down a surprisingly long list of prohibited words, phrases and revelations. The lads were going to love him.
He didn’t realise he had been asleep until the sound of boot nails on the concrete steps outside his hut jerked him awake, along with the mutter of Northumbrian accents. Dinger was one of the first into the long bunk-filled space.
“Fucking Jerry bastard fucking shithole! Call that shit fucking COALS?”
He was clearly part way through a long rant, and Jim guessed it had stalled only for want of the fresh audience he was now offering.
“BELL! SHUT IT!”
Pause for breath to allow the man to think, then soften it.
“Gently, lad. The Jerries will be listening, remember”
“Sorry Sarge”
“Not to worry, lad. Explain?”
“Ah, shite, just what I expected. Pits, aye? But they’re shite, and what they call coal, I’ve wiped better stuff off me boots at the dog track. They took us down, showed us what they wanted, and it’s going to be hewing. That’s all they want us for, and it’s not even like there’s a good seam anywhere to cut, it’s all soft stuff. Lads are after some planks and that, make some crackets to keep our arses dry. Aye, not the driest of places, either. What happened to the rest of you after we went?”
“Ah, everyone else is off to pick vegetables in fields or something”
“And, er, Sarge? You?”
“I have to do the admin here. We’re promised mail, they say, and parcels, through the Red Cross”
That brought a loud cheer from the whole hut, and Dinger was shaking his head happily.
“Bugger a hell, Sergeant Allen, but didn’t we need some fucking good news at last! What about you? All camp work?”
“Er, no. That Albach was a sneaky sod”
“I know that!”
“Yes, you do. And you were absolutely right”
Dinger stared at him, Jonty behind him nodding slowly before he added his own comment.
“It’s that banty cock with the shiny boots, isn’t it? Got some land somewhere he’s stolen from some Polish Tsar or whatever they call them?”
Jim nodded.
“He sounds as if he’s a keen shooter. Probably going to be deer, but no idea as yet. Hinted that I might pick up some extra treats from any bag I help with. If I do, I share”
Dinger laughed the loudest, and then echoed the Colonel and Captain.
“I bet they don’t let you have a bloody gun, though!”
CHAPTER 6
Jim pushed the bundle of lists to one side, and settled back into his seat, hoping that it would take the sting out of his next words.
“We will have the Red Cross coming in for a visit, or the Jerries will send them a list of names. Not sure about that, but apparently the Swedes or Swiss or whoever give us parcels. We are also to be allowed mail from home, which can include parcels. That is on certain conditions. One of them is what we already do, or rather our Officers do, but it’s down to me right here and now. I have to read and censor your letters”
There was some muttering, But Dinger, taking the lead as usual, waved a hand to shut the others up before they could get started.
“How! We’ve always had that on active service, aye? Sergeant Allen’s one of our own, am I right? Sarge, there’s more, isn’t there?”
Jim nodded.
“Thanks, lad. Aye, there’s more. First, when our own boss did it, it was always with a witness, so there was what they call check and balance. This is just going to be me, unless we get another senior NCO into the camp. The other thing is that it’s not just the usual stuff; they’ve given us this”
He waved the lists at them, shaking his head to show how he felt.
“If we slip up, we lose our letters and parcels. I am asking you--- aye, asking--- to be sensible. I am going to let you all have a read of the rules, and ask that you do your best to keep onside. And please: remember that I have to read this, so no NORWICH or BIBWYLO stuff from any of you”
Jonty looked puzzled.
“I’ve never been there, Sarge”
Dinger and Jim shared a look, before the former nodded.
“I’ll explain it to him later. Aye, makes sense. When does this all start?”
“No idea, lad. I mean, we haven’t even got any paper right now, but I’m hoping there’ll be something in the parcels we can use”
One of the Armstrongs was next.
“Don’t you know, Sarge?”
Jim forced a laugh, just in case.
“Not a clue, young’un. I wasn’t exactly planning on being a POW, was I? Now, must be time we get fed. I fancy steak pie and chips, me!”
It came in big dixies, like the ones they had been served from on the train journey, and it was what would probably have been called mutton stew, but was actually mostly water and sliced potatoes, with a few pieces of stringy reddish meat and a few small pieces of bone. Served with it were chunks of dark and solid bread, and a dark and bitter hot drink that Jim assumed was meant to be coffee, but wasn’t.
The lights went on around the fence at about eight o’clock, as dusk was taking hold, and for once the men were quiet, absorbed in their own world, whether of fear for their future or of simple relief at having survived, that far at least. Jim settled into his bunk as the night drew in, and to his surprise, he slept through until he woke to the sound of guards shouting something that sounded like ‘Rowse! App-ell!’.
They were formed up in front of the huts for what was clearly a roll-call, and that set the pattern for each subsequent day. Up early, stand in ranks while names were called, a row of Opel trucks waiting. The first morning, it was clear that the ‘sightseeing visit’ to the coal mines had been all the preparation the lads would be allowed before their work began, and as they were driven away, the rest of the boys were formed into a column and marched off for their own labour in the fields.
Emotions surged in Jim’s mind, alone in so many ways now, only Germans as company. He decided to head back to the hut, but there was a shout behind him.
“Sergeant! You will come this way!”
The interpreter, Weber, was standing outside the admin hut, and as Jim turned to face him, the man beckoned him over.
“Now, the Oberst wishes an assessment, yes? Come to the Kubelwagen. You will ride with me”
He indicated the rear bench seat of the tin-roof car, a driver already in place wearing his uniform side-cap rather than one of the coal scuttle helmets. As Weber settled himself next to Kim, the other German took off his little cap, tucking it under a shoulder strap, started the engine and pulled onto the road away from the camp. The canvas top of the car was folded away, and Jim felt almost free as the wind moved his hair around, as they followed a series of small lanes. The countryside was green and rolling, and the openness and big skies reminded Jim of parts of Northumberland. There were dark woods in the middle distance, but not as forbidding as he had expected. As the car turned off onto yet another country road, they skirted some of the woodland, Jim had expected some sort of primeval jungle of firs, but the trees were mostly broad-leaved, and he spotted alder and birch, larch and a type of skinny oak. Definitely roebuck country.
“You enjoy the country, Sergeant?”
“Sorry? Sir?”
“This is good land here, away from the coal places. We have much of animals here, from the wild swine to the---roe, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Roe deer”
“We are not in the South of this land, so the---vermin? Yes, your word. They are small. In the South, there is bear and luchs”
“Bloody hell! Bears? Sir?”
“Ja, and the luchs also. You do not have in England, no?”
“Bears, none. Don’t know what a luchs is, sir”
“It is a very big cat, Sergeant”
“How big is that, sir?”
“They hunt the reh, the roe deer. Sometimes they hunt the wild swine”
Jim’s stomach lurched. A cat that would take a roebuck, or a wild boar? A CAT?”
“That’s a very big cat indeed, sir”
“Ah, they are only in the mountains to the South, with the bears. Our vermin is smaller, got sigh dankt. Ah! Here is the place”
There were gates, with a drop-bar next to a striped sentry box, where a German soldier, this one wearing his helmet, stamped to attention as the car drew up, his rifle at the ‘present’. It didn’t distract Jim’s attention from the well-concealed machine-gun emplacement set up in some bushes a little way up what was now clearly a drive. The building they were heading for initially seemed featureless, red tiles roofing what looked like a long, curving agricultural building. They followed its wall to another gate, then into a courtyard facing a bulkier building with a square tower to each side, all roofed, once again, with red pantiles. Suddenly, the arrangement made sense: the ‘long barn’ was actually an outer defensive wall, and this was the keep. Everything was covered in whitewashed plaster or some sort of rendering, but in a few places Jim could see the underlying massive stone blocks that formed the wall.
Weber stepped out of the odd little car, waving for Jim to follow, and headed for a door to the left of the main building.
“We will probe this way of working, sergeant. This was the place for the vermin man, before”
He flung open the door to reveal a typical countryman’s office, a small pot stove to one side and a selection of mole and gin traps hanging on one wall. Mattocks and spades were piled in the corner behind the door, along with two axes, a couple of hatchets and some saws, but what caught Jim’s eye was the ledger and pens on the desk. Paper. Something to take back for the lads and their letters.
Weber coughed for attention.
“What is on the desk that holds you, Sergeant?”
Now way out.
“My men would write letters, sir. They have nothing to write with, or on”
“Ah. I will address that for you. Can you see what you are requiring for your work?”
“Ummmm… Aye, sir, mostly. I’d need some posts for the gins, though, and perhaps some poison”
He grinned at the officer, feeling a little better at his offer. He mimed firing two barrels in sequence.
“I could do with a twelve-bore, but you’ve already said no! May I ask a question, sir?”
“Of course”
“An estate like this, surely there would be a gamekeeper--- a vermin controller, aye? Surely there would be one here already?”
“Ah. The Oberst, his man was taken for the lendser, the infantery. And this is a new home for him. We are in Mehren here. Moravia, you say. The man who had this office is elsewhere now also. This is our living room, our space. It is not as… In Poland, we have the general government for them, and it will soon be clean again, but there are so, so many Jews there. This, this is a good place. Please, now, to make a list of the things we must gather”
CHAPTER 7
The next few months were as routine as anything could be when held as a prisoner. Jim had a degree of freedom he had never expected the day he had been marched away from a Flanders canalside. Two days in the camp would be followed by five in the castle, largely outdoors. A couple of the Fritzes spoke some English, and they served two purposes. The first was the obvious one, passing on Jim’s instructions to the small group of labourers that he led, while the second was something he should really have expected.
The message was there in the tone the soldiers used to the underkeepers: yes, yes, we know he’s the enemy, but just for now, you will do as he says. And we are the ones with the guns.
There was a massive amount of work to be done, as whoever had occupied the position before Jim was pushed into it had either been incredibly lacking, or simply not there, which was the conclusion that Jim was steadily settling on. Weber’s words had troubled him more than a little, especially his use of the word ‘clean’.
Jim didn’t really mind Jews, as long as they kept to themselves, the funny-dressed ones, that is. He knew Shields was full of sand-dancers, but you could hardly tell they weren’t proper Tynesiders most of the time. The hat-and-cloak Jews, the ones with the funny haircuts, they all stayed up by Coatsworth Road, in Gateshead, so unless you went looking for them you’d never know they were there. Out of sight, out of mind, but that one word was a niggle.
‘Clean’.
The work was absorbing, though, and that niggle gradually slipped from his mind as the jobs took front row seats. There were an awful lot of vermin nests to break up, and not just crows but also a lot of buzzards and harriers. He found and destroyed two goshawk nests as well as those of more familiar pests, and once he had sited and baited a few pole traps, the gins became very productive. Partridge were plentiful, and he had real hopes that they would become more so now that he had eradicated the harriers. The next year should be a good season for shooting.
He did encounter several pigs, and they were nothing like the ones he was used to at home. His own gissies were more like sausages in shape, round at front and rear and level along the back, whereas the creatures his underkeepers took care not to disturb were very different, high shoulders sloping down to their scut, and bristling with hair. The young piglets were striped, and would scamper off when disturbed, but the adults, many of them with a fearsome set of tusks, would just stand and stare back in a very worrying absence of any obvious fear.
And there were bloody cats that hunted them…
The days and months gradually piled up, with occasional bursts of activity. The Red Cross were as good as their word, parcels and letters coming more regularly than Jim had expected, while his own men seemed to have taken him at his own word, and his censorship duties were never onerous. Every couple of weeks, the ‘Oberst’ would visit his new estate, and Jim would lead him on a stalk. There were a couple of meadows in particular where the roe would gather to graze, and Jim had prepared a couple of shooting blinds for the older man. On a few occasions, after a particularly productive day, Weber would load some sacks into the little car’s boot before Jim’s return to the camp, filled with cooked venison.
Jim had asked, but he already knew what the answer was likely to be.
“Why not just take a couple of carcasses for our kitchen, sir?”
Weber had laughed out loud at the suggestion.
“Who do you think it would be cooked for, Sergeant? You would see none of it at all! This way, your men get a treat. They will not be living the easiness of your life here, and it is as the Bible tells us, not to tie up the mouths of the animals that work our mills. The kie, as you say. My man will collect you again on Monday. Veeder zayn!”
Winter came on schedule, and it was a hard one. The lads were given an allowance of the coal they had been cutting, and Jim found that Dinger had been absolutely accurate, if not even a little complimentary, in his description of said ‘coal’. It gave out a lot of smoke, but it did burn slower and hotter than the offcuts of wood they had used through the Autumn. Weber or one of his staff had found Jim a pair of wellies as well as a sheepskin jacket, so he would be able to keep on top of his labours without freezing, but as the wind drove the snow in swirling flurries across the flat landscape, all Jim could think was how doomed any escape attempt would be. For such seemingly benign terrain, the place could clearly be brutal. He found himself dreading his two nights of shivering in the camp, thin blankets and smoky stove, before hauling those thoughts back.
Institutionalised, like a long-term jailbird: was that what was happening to him? How long would he be kept caged? Nothing seemed to be happening in the war, as far as he could tell. A trickle of other prisoners had arrived, from North and East Africa, which clearly led to problems in the increasingly bitter winter, as their uniforms were far from being as warm as those Dinger and the lads still wore. All told, however, the war seemed distant and horribly static. Keep the routine going, Allen; stay as warm as you can, eat the occasional treat from the Oberst’s stalking sessions (including a couple carried out wrapped in white suits) and survive.
The Spring thaw took him by surprise, especially with its savagery. Everything was wet, everything was muddy, and many of the roads and tracks became rivers of mud rather than any useful route for transport, so Jim spent a few weeks indoors, repairing and preparing pole traps and, to his surprise, shotguns and hunting rifles. There was never a chance of ammunition for them, but it meant several comfortable days in his well-heated office with oil, pull-through and instrument screwdrivers. The weapons were a mixture of types, from some almost antique side-by-side German and Italian pieces to one far more modern over-and-under American beast. They were all fine firearms, and the fettling was absolutely absorbing.
It was with some shock that he realised that ten months had gone by since their surrender to Albach, and that was rammed home by another influx of prisoners, including a CSM from the King’s, which meant Jim was no longer the senior NCO. He was in camp when the new chums arrived, and there was a knock on his door from Dinger, which was hardly his usual style.
“Sarge, got a new intake from Greece. Sergeant Mahor Rumens, Sarn’t Allen”
Jim nodded to the lad, before pulling some professionalism beck to himself and rising from his seat.
“Thanks, Bell; could you grab another chair for us? I will take things from there. Sarn’t Major!”
The newcomer waved at the desk as dinger produced the second chair.
“This your little world apart, Sergeant? Please: take the pew. I will need some time to settle. It’s been a pretty collection of balls-ups so far, and, well, I am rather worn down at the moment. As well as brassed off, of course. What have you been told?”
Jim shrugged, just as there was another rap at the door. Dinger again, with two mugs.
“Beg pardon, gents, but Jonty had some real tea left over, from his Mam, so he donated a bit. Got no sugar, sorry, Sarn’t Major”
The newcomer’s smile was wan, but at least it was there.
“Thank you so much, Corporal. That is just what I need. If you can spare anything for the rest of my lads, it would be appreciated”
“I’ll see what I can do, Sarn’t Major”
“Thanks, Corp. Sergeant? Your tale of woe?2
Jim shrugged.
“Nothing much to tell, really. Dunkirk rearguard. No choice but to chuck it in. Got shipped out here once the Fritzes realised how many of my boys were collier lads. Northumberland Fusiliers, aye?”
Rumens nodded, eyes a little distant, then sipped his tea.
“That, Sergeant Allen, is exactly what I needed. My sorry tale? We were cut off north of the Canal. Bridge blown. Several of my lads had copped it from splinters, and my….”
He paused for a few seconds, and Jim asked the question that had risen straight away.
“Which canal, Sarn’t Major? Not THE Canal?”
A twisted smile.
“Oh, call me Keith”
“Jim, Keith, if you like”
“Thanks, Jim. No, not Suez, if that’s what you meant. Corinth. The bastards have taken Greece, all of it by now, I suppose. Most of my lot had scarpered—on orders, Jim, not just run off--- but we had wounded, so I stayed with the MO’s orderly. My Staff Sergeant, Dicky Dawes, he actually made himself laugh. Me too. He said ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers’, pardon my French, and then he laughed and said, ‘Yes, exactly! Fuck this game of soldiers for a fucking game of soldiers!’, and then he managed to get the rest of the boys away. Navy will be doing the rest, I hope. Fucking paratroops”
Another sip.
“Sorry I couldn’t bring better news, but at least it’ll be getting warmer here. Didn’t exactly pack a lot when I came away. Bit of a rush, Jim”
“I gathered that, Keith. What’s the rest of the news?”
“Lots of bad news, I’m afraid. Rather save that for now. Just one good bit, and that is the Eyeties. They don’t do too well. Had a go at Egypt”
There was something in Keith’s eyes that was almost gleeful, so Jim risked a smile.
“How did they get on?”
“Oh, we pushed them back and took a few prisoners”
Another sip, before a grin broke out properly.
“About a hundred and forty thousand of them”
“Fucking hell! Sorry, Keith, but, well, fucking hell!”
The CSM shrugged.
“Would have been even more, but loads of us got pulled back out and sent off to Greece and, well, here we are. Word came that Jerry has sent some reinforcement to Africa to bail out Musso”
Jim nodded, taking a mouthful of his own tea, so much more welcome than the roasted acorn based sludge they were given by the Germans.
“And home? What about home?”
Keith’s grin faded.
“Not do good. The RAF fought the Jerries off in daylight, but they’re now coming over at night. Not going to talk about that. How is morale? I’d like some idea before I risk ruining it”
“Not that bad. Think they’re mostly resigned to it, really, though the lads who joined up to get out of the pit are hardly chuffed at being sent down into another one. Coal mining area here”
“The Corporal tells me you have a cushier billet”
“Aye, I suppose if could be seen like that. Snide bastard that bagged us, right at the start, he worked out want we all do, and I was a keeper, so I spend the week clearing vermin from some senior officer’s estate”
“How senior?”
“Oberst von something and something”
“Full colonel, then. Any perks?”
Jim shrugged.
“Warm office, when I’m in it. And they’re generous when we get a decent bag, and I get to bring a load of cooked game back for the lads. Roe deer, partridge, quail, wild boar. Not had a day out for weeks, though; Oberst has been away for a while”
“Really? I wonder if… No. Not today. Formality now, Jim: you are hereby relieved of command. Please don’t feel bad about that”
Jim laughed.
“You have no idea! Can I make a suggestion?”
“A helpful one?”
“I think so. Censoring letters. Divvy up the work between us?”
A much warmer smile at last.
“I will never, ever object to sharing that burden. Thank you. Now, tea is gone. Do you have time to walk me around the place?”
The next morning was actually Spring-like for the first time, rather than not-quite-out-of-Winter, and as the shouts of ‘Rowse! App-ell!’ rang out, Jim ambled down to his usual place in the ranks for roll call, this time with Keith appearing at his right. The roll was called, and that was when the Germans went berserk, as the head count came up two men short and two names went unanswered.
Bell, David and Armstrong, Arthur.