The Restless Sea, page 43
CHAPTER 29
Charlie
After meeting Hans, the next few days of solitary are not so bad for Charlie. The thin, watery soup is supplemented with chewy meat; once a wrinkled apple appears that tastes of England in the autumn, and there are a couple of cigarettes and some matches. Every week there are coincidences in the camps – men meeting who were at school together – even an American who recognises a German guard as the butcher from his village – but the fact that this is a German who has been to Scotland – and met Olivia … It is astonishing. He allows the images of her and of Taigh Mor to flood his mind, replacing the horrors that have lurked there.
Hans insists he interview the prisoner twice a day, on the pretence he is battering him for information. Charlie begins to look forward to their meetings. The German has been well-educated, and the two men have much in common. Sitting in the bland interrogation cell, sharing a cigarette with Hans, Charlie likes to imagine they are old friends having a drink in the pub back home.
Hans likes to talk about his future architect’s practice, which he plans to set up to help rebuild the damage of the last years. Charlie jokes that he will run the London office, since there will be strong demand in both countries for construction projects. They both agree that the sooner they leave the camp, the better.
‘I suppose we must focus on the good side of being here,’ says Hans. ‘At least I won’t get shot down again by one of your men …’
‘Nor I by one of yours …’
‘I was lucky I met Olivia. You were not so lucky that you met Hauptmann Richter.’
Charlie laughs and stubs out his cigarette. ‘I suppose we’re all doing a job.’
Hans is serious again. ‘I cannot do my job any more.’
‘Your eye?’
Hans nods, downcast. ‘It has not improved in these last two years. This is why I am stuck here in the camp.’
‘I’ll take you up. After the war.’
‘That would be a very good thing.’
They grin at each other, each imagining life after the war. It is all either of them has to look forward to now that their fighting days are over.
‘I can’t imagine never being able to fly again,’ says Charlie.
‘Why did you choose to be a pilot?’
‘My father. He took me up before I could walk. He was in the Royal Naval Air Service, but carried on flying after the war. He got the bug.’
‘He was a hero of your country?’
Charlie nods. ‘He flew a Sopwith Camel over the trenches.’
‘Ah. The Sopwith Camel. Very effective against us on the Western Front.’
‘Bloody nightmare to fly, apparently. They used to say it gave you the choice between a wooden cross, the Red Cross, or the Victoria Cross …’
‘You should try flying an Arado 66, one of our training planes …’
‘I love a go in anything.’
‘I forgot you British are old-fashioned.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You will not embrace technology. To think you enjoyed flying that bi-plane …’
‘The Fairey Swordfish is a dream. The perfect plane …’
‘The son of a man who flew the Sopwith Camel would say that.’
They are both relaxed, leaning back in their chairs, blowing smoke into the space above their heads.
‘You know they flew without parachutes?’ says Charlie.
‘That would have been the end of both of us.’ They both laugh.
‘I’m glad you survived,’ says Charlie.
‘And I you.’
‘I couldn’t believe it when Olivia told me she had saved a German. I thought it was the most idiotic and dangerous thing I had ever heard …’
‘I understand. We are told to hate each other. Otherwise how would we be able to murder each other?’
‘I don’t like to think about how many lives I’m responsible for.’ An image of the stricken German battleship frothing in circles flashes in his mind.
Hans shrugs. ‘It is war. You have to do what you have to do.’
‘Do you have conchies in Germany?’
‘Conchies?’
‘Conscientious objectors. People who take a stand against fighting?’
‘Oh no. This is not allowed in my country. You will disappear. They have turned us against each other. They use children to spy on their parents. My brother is only fifteen, and they are making him fly a bomber in his training for the Hitlerjugend. How can they make him do this? A child? What does he know of war?’
‘Perhaps he’s trying to be like his big brother?’
‘We are not allowed to be like anyone but the ideal …’
‘What made you choose the Luftwaffe?’
‘I like to see the world mapped out beneath me. I like to see how we choose to build our homes next to a river or in the shelter of a mountain. Scatterings of humans across the land. I like to imagine how these few houses will grow into a village or a town.’
‘I know what you mean. But it’s not just that for me … It’s the feeling it gives me …’
‘Freedom?’
‘That. And – strangely – grounding. It reminds me of my father. Sitting in that cockpit is my earliest memory.’
‘My father is the opposite. He is under the sea.’
‘U-boats?’
Hans nods. ‘And is your father fighting in this war?’
‘No. He died when I was six. Car crash. With my mother.’
‘I am so sorry. That is very sad. After all that fighting. Not to have a chance to appreciate the peace.’
They are silent for a moment. Then Hans peers at Charlie and says, ‘You know, he would have been very proud to see his son now.’ And Charlie is embarrassed to feel tears prick at his eyes.
One day, the greatest joy of all: Hans passes Charlie a handful of letters. ‘I am sorry,’ he says. ‘It seems the guards have been keeping them from you for some time. Extra punishment. I will leave you to enjoy them alone.’
Charlie lays the envelopes out on the table, touching them as if they are rare treasures. He removes each letter slowly, dividing them into date order, savouring the sight of Olivia’s spidery writing spilling out of the envelopes. He begins to read.
But the letters do not bring joy. Charlie does not take in the depictions of the grey seals singing their mournful song in the early evening near his secret beach. Or how the forget-me-nots have showered the garden with pale blue. Instead he reads of the terrible news of Betsy’s pregnancy. He reads it over and over, but the words do not change. He is stunned and horrified and embarrassed. He cannot see how he will ever be able to face anyone again. He remembers that night, of fumbling gratification, so exhilarating at the time, so degrading now.
Self-hatred floods his body. His hands shake. He cannot read the letters again. He shoves them to one side, clutching at them, crumpling them into a messy pile. He feels his heart burn. When Hans returns, his face folds in concern. He bends over Charlie, placing a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. ‘What is it? What has happened? It is bad news? Has something happened to Olivia?’
Charlie shakes his head. He cannot speak.
‘May I?’
Hans touches the letters, but Charlie slaps his hand away. ‘No!’ Hans reels back. It is the first disagreement they have had. Charlie gathers the letters into his chest, holding them there like something that might explode at any moment. ‘Take me back,’ he says, without meeting Hans’s eyes. ‘I need to go back to the cooler. I want to go back.’
That night Charlie’s nightmares return. He is all alone, as he was when he was torn from his squadron by Captain Pearce and sent to help the RAF. In the tiny cell, he can smell the aviation fuel dripping from damaged planes. See their dusty, marked frames patched together, littering the runway wherever they had been abandoned by their exhausted pilots. He closes his eyes and sees the RAF pilots, shattered and hopeless after weeks of bombardment and flying without a break. Men who fell asleep where they ate, their shoulders in a half-eaten plate of food, or huddled against the walls of the hangars, or falling unconscious to the runway before their planes had taxied to a stop. Their faces tell of the loss of countless friends; their eyes are bottomless pits, like the one he falls into every time he tries to sleep.
His face twitches, an uncontrollable spasm that happens every few minutes. His eyes flicker open. He is back in the cooler, the walls pressing in on him. He feels disabled. Emasculated. He is a pilot without a squadron. He is a pilot without a plane. He is worse than that. He is a prisoner without a future.
The letters sit in an accusing pile, a testament to his shame and degradation. How can he ever hold his head high and look anyone in the eye again? He does not want the bastard child of a prostitute. He disgusts himself. Now there will be another child like him growing up without a father. The crumple of letters is luminous in the thin light. He shouts until his throat is sore. He punches the wall, and his knuckles bleed. He bashes his shoulder against the bed frame, feels the old injury tear and burn. He throws the letters to the floor, stamps on them, shreds them. He sets fire to the torn pieces of paper, watches his future burn brightly for a second before smouldering to a dribble of smoke.
Hans tries to talk to him, but Charlie will not tell him what has happened. How could he tell this gentle man what he has done? How can he admit that his enemy is a better man than he is? He makes a promise. As soon as he makes it, he feels relief. Whatever happens, he will not return. He will find work in Germany. In France. But he will never go back to England.
‘Tell me about the Hurricanes,’ says Hans. Charlie knows the German is trying to get him to remember the good things. To find the peace he used to find in the cockpit. But he cannot. However hard he tries. ‘This is more like a real plane than those Swordfish? More responsive?’ Hans presses him.
Charlie nods. The Hurricanes were more powerful than his beloved Swordfish. With their metal wings, they could dive faster; they could turn better than a Spitfire, particularly at low altitude. He tries to imagine himself back in the single cockpit, to feel the power as the plane lifts into the air. But instead he remembers the Messerschmidts, buzzing angrily, and sees the white trails of tracer fire fizzling through the air like a tangle of ribbons. And he hears the dreaded Stuka dive bombers flinging themselves out of the sky, their stubby legs sticking out beneath them, their sirens screeching. Smoke billows out of somewhere, and, in the flash of yellow flame, he can’t tell whether someone is firing or someone is on fire and all the time his finger is on the button firing back. He feels the knock in the tail as he’s hit, and he drops her into a corkscrew dive. She plummets down, away from the planes, away from the Polish squadron, and where is Mole? Gone. He is alone. He buries his twitching face in his clammy hands. Even the cockpit is no longer his sanctuary: he will never escape the shame.
In the darkness Charlie thinks about his parents, so full of hope for their only child; he thinks of Olivia, so brave over her pregnancy; he thinks of Jack, so lucky to have Olivia’s love and respect – and so much more deserving than he will ever be. He can never go back, but perhaps he can salvage something by trying to be the hero he has so far failed to be. He scratches another line into the wall and blows the burnt remains of Olivia’s letters into the dust.
Charlie is returned to his hut. Hans continues to bring news, visiting Charlie whenever he can. The men shutter the windows so that the other guards can’t see. Sometimes Hans brings extra provisions – toothpaste, matches. On one occasion, he pulls a dead rabbit from inside his trousers. More importantly, he helps with information about timetables and official documents for the forgers to copy.
The men are busy planning their biggest break-out yet. Banks has come up with the idea to dig not one, but three long tunnels at the same time, the idea being that the Germans might find one, but wouldn’t expect there to be three. It is a highly ambitious plan, and will take months to complete. ‘We’re going to get two hundred of you out,’ says Banks. ‘Although we’ll need more than three times that to help with the construction.’ There is no shortage of volunteers: one man’s victory would be enough for all of them.
Life at the camp becomes more focused. The prisoners need to be vigilant to spot the spies before the Germans spot them. Charlie keeps lookout. Mattresses, pillows, and sheets disappear to line the tunnels. Forks and spoons are used to dig. Water carriers and cans remove the sand and soil. Ropes and electric cable are stolen to pull trolleys. The strange-smelling soil is dispersed around the camp, hidden in towels, washing, mugs. Charlie shuffles across the dusty ground, dribbling sand from his bulging trousers. Beds collapse because their wooden planks have been used to prop up the tunnels. The German ferrets search for telltale yellow sand, or lie beneath the huts, eavesdropping on the prisoners: they know the men are up to something, but they cannot discover what.
Hans tells the prisoners to keep a lookout for signs that the Allies are advancing. ‘If the Führer is struggling,’ he says, ‘he will recall as many men as possible to fight. If that happens, stock up on as much food as you can, for you may be moved on too.’
Charlie is happy to talk to Hans when they are among the other men, but he does his best to avoid a one-to-one. He does not want to tell the German what he has learnt. He tries to bury the shame deep by taking the most dangerous tasks for himself, sneaking through the shadows to raid the German food supplies, spying on the guards, eavesdropping beneath their barracks’ windows, trying to glean any information about what they plan, what they know.
The months pass. The men dig, hiding more soil in the theatre, the library, across the hockey pitch, anywhere that has not already been filled. John copies and duplicates passes and documents, scratching away through the night. Finally, the time is right. The sky is inky black: there is no moon or stars. The snow lies thick on the ground outside the camp. The only sounds are the patrol dogs panting, pulling on their chains, and hundreds of men’s hearts racing. Time scrapes slowly by. A door is frozen stuck. A tunnel collapses. Less than one hundred men manage to barge and scrape their way out before the alert is sounded – a shrill whistle followed by the searchlights snapping on and the guards shouting and stomping through the compound, trying to discover the entrance to the tunnels. Charlie lies in wait for the guards, tripping them over, trying to divert them, until he is dragged by the hair and smashed in the side of the head by a rifle butt. He sprawls on the ground, feels the dirt crunch between his teeth. He prays that some of the men will have got away, beyond the camp to their trains, or anywhere safe.
From where he lies, he can see there are guards in the woods now, lights flickering among the trees, dogs barking. They have found the exits, marked by footsteps in the snow. There are guards in the tunnels. Men who were halfway out scrabble, panting, back into the hut, covered in sand and dust. The guards shout and prod him with their rifles again. Charlie is dragged back to the cooler. He does not care. He scratches another line, another day into the wall with a stone.
In the end, seventy-six men make it out, but seventy-three of those are recaptured. After all that effort, all that digging and shoring up tunnels and pumping in fresh air and removing sand and hiding from the guards and forging and pretending. For three men. But each of them would do it again.
Usually, the escapees are brought back, and the whole charade starts again. But not this time. This time, Hitler wants to make an example, not just of the prisoners, but of the German architect who designed the camp, the security guards, and the duty guards. He sends his feared Gestapo, who come tramping in with their dark shiny boots, their swastika armbands, and their cold eyes. Charlie spits on the ground as they pass, but they do not even look at him. They march on, to where the captured men have been held, to the cooler that Charlie knows so well.
Charlie never sees Geordie again; his tenth attempt is his last, but not in the way he had hoped: he is executed, along with forty-nine others – men from Britain, America, Canada, Poland, South Africa, Lithuania, New Zealand, Australia, and Norway, men who are fathers, brothers, sons and lovers – the Gestapo are not picky. One by one they fall, ‘shot while trying to escape’.
The men are fashioning black armbands from anything they can find – socks, paper, bedding – to wear in memory of their fallen brothers. A new guard who they do not recognise enters the room. The prisoners turn their backs, refusing to look at him.
‘You are to pack your things,’ he says. ‘Take only whatever you can carry. You’ – he prods John in the back with his rifle until he turns to face the German – ‘you tell them they must pack. We leave soon.’
‘Where are we going?’ says John.
‘That will be decided by us.’
‘When?’
‘You will be ready.’
Charlie also turns to look at the guard. ‘Where is Hans?’ he asks.
‘Oberleutnant Schafer is a traitor,’ says the guard.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oberleutnant Schafer is to be executed.’
Charlie steps towards the guard, his face drained of colour. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘He is to be killed. For his part in helping you prisoners. The Gestapo do not tolerate such behaviour.’
‘You bastards,’ says Charlie, and everyone is taken by surprise as he launches himself at the guard. The men turn and try to pull him back, but Charlie is so full of rage that he shakes them off and grabs hold of the German, knocking off his cap and grasping a handful of his hair so that the German begins to shout. But Charlie is shouting too: ‘How could you let that happen? He was a decent man. He did nothing wrong but have a bit of compassion. You utter bastard …’
Already there are more guards bursting through the door. Charlie lashes out at each of them, shying away from their hands, tearing the makeshift curtains down, ripping the sheets from the bunks, kicking over the table, throwing the food across the floor, swinging the chairs across the room, until four guards have hold of him and haul him kicking and screaming across the courtyard, back to solitary confinement.
