The Restless Sea, page 46
‘Don’t go back to Stoog,’ says Jack. ‘We’re your family now.’
She nods and huddles against him like she used to as a child on Drummond Road.
Suddenly, all leave is cancelled. Jack and Olivia are both called to Portsmouth, into the ten-mile-deep restricted coastal zone that stretches from the Wash in East Anglia all the way to Land’s End in Cornwall. Jack stays up talking to Betsy before they leave, convincing her he will return and support her, making her promise she will not run away. He clasps Alfie in his arms, remembering the last goodbye from his own father, the smell of Woodbines, the safety of that broad chest. He persuades Carl to come and stay, to make sure she doesn’t slip again. Carl grasps his hand and says, ‘We’ll be fine. You just make sure you come back safe.’
Mid-summer storms lash the southern coast. The sky is oppressive, heavy clouds pressing down over the darkened world below. Olivia and Jack journey south together along roads jammed with vehicles, a river of military green threading its way beneath trees sagging with rain. Troops and tanks, trucks and medical supplies, aeroplanes and warships, amphibious craft, rations and artillery are amassing on the cliffs and shores, in the harbours and inlets. Jack and Olivia drive in silence. Closer to the coast, the roadsides and fields are dotted with tents and vehicles. There are men sleeping in hedgerows and in gardens. The ports are full. Americans, Canadians, and British men throng the seashores, the docks, the pubs, the houses and – of course – the ships.
Olivia and Jack part in Portsmouth – Jack to find his ship, Olivia to the Wrens’ headquarters. They barely dare look at each other because their eyes say it all in a fleeting clash of pale blue and black. Jack does not trust himself to speak. There is a swift embrace. Around them, the streets throng with people behaving in the same way, button-lipped, stifling their emotions, all drowning in the same thought – that something momentous is about to happen that could mean the end for all of them.
For the first time, Jack is on a ship carrying live cargo: soldiers – hundreds of them – pale and anxious, cluster along the guardrails three- and four-deep. Their wet tin hats glisten like the guns and the ambulances that are lashed alongside them on the rain-drenched deck. The water beneath them is a mass of smaller boats, delivering messages and ferrying troops and cargo. Jack strains to see if any of the Wrens at their helms are Olivia, but it is hard to see anything beyond the shoulders of the soldiers crammed like cargo into every space.
The wind picks up, moaning through the waiting guns. The clouds are still thick and low. The ships roll from side to side, pulling and rattling at their anchors. New sealed orders are delivered. Rain trickles down Jack’s face as he escorts the Wren boarding officer to the bridge. She has checked their guns, and now she needs to talk to his master. Jack oversees the delivery of the supplies that she has brought: for the final push each soldier is given a box of matches, some anti-seasick pills, a few francs, a map of France, a life jacket, a razor blade, socks, sweets, cigarettes – and, most important of all, sick bags. The day of the attack is put back by twenty-four hours. More sick bags are distributed.
The Lancasters head out just before midnight, their thunderous drone reverberating across the sky. The other RAF bombers follow, with their real and dummy parachutists. In the sea below, the ships are so densely packed that Jack could almost jump from one to the next. They groan and heave on the water, waiting, waiting. Jack is on duty when the first ships weigh anchor in the morning darkness. The minesweepers have already gone on ahead, to clear a safe passage. Above them, dawn breaks across the wingtips of hundreds of British and American planes, here to offer support and to drop airborne divisions into enemy territory. The confusion of the last few days slips away, and Jack is in control again.
As daylight tries to pierce the thick cloud, a ghostly morning light turns the water slate grey laced with foaming white. Jack screws up his eyes against the spray, spitting the salt water from his mouth and wiping his hand across his drenched face. There are ships as far as the eye can see – thousands of them – frothing and churning across the Channel. Barrage balloons are attached to some of them, as though a protective herd has broken free from the coast to follow the convoy.
Any spare space is packed with ammunition. Jack knows what that means – he has seen what happens to a ship that ignites when carrying explosive cargo. He looks along the deck to the gathered men. They are bracing themselves against the swell of this foreign world. Their faces are set, their jaws are clenched, their eyes are fixed ahead. He knows they are thinking not of what they are about to face, but of who they are facing it for: mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, friends, home, country. The ship forges on, and some of the men turn their eyes to Jack. He feels a pang as he realises many of them are younger than he is now. They are looking to him for guidance, for a curt nod, a confident smile. As the ship surges and the wind wails, he pulls himself up tall: this is his world.
Jack stands like that even as the first ships hit the first mines; almighty explosions render the air, joined by a barrage from the beach. He walks purposefully among the troops, barking directions, operating machinery, helping the men off the ship, issuing a brief word, a slap on the back. Inside, his stomach churns, but not with seasickness.
Men pour into the first landing craft, struggling ashore. Some have their limbs blown off by the mines in the sand. Jack can’t help flinching as a warship opens fire behind him, the sixteen-inch guns pounding into action over their heads. In front of them, the Germans retaliate, firing mortars and guns. The shore is alive with flame and smoke, flashes of orange and billows of white, and the men are caught in the middle. The noise rings in his ears, and the gunpowder burns his nostrils. The tide is coming in faster than the injured can drag themselves up the beach, reaching out for them with deathly grey fingers that turn red with blood.
Still more men are taken to the beaches. They crouch in their boats, trying to avoid the spray of water and bullets, praying that the filthy, flat bottom of this boat won’t be the last thing they remember. Strong currents drag the craft sideways. Some run aground on sandbanks. Men abandon ship to wade through deep water. Amphibious tanks sink before they can rumble ashore to help. Boat after boat unloads on the beach, now overrun with men clambering across the fallen bodies of their comrades. Those still breathing are dragged back by the unarmed medics into the landing craft and hoisted on to the empty, waiting ships. Above them the barrage balloons bob to deter the enemy aircraft; they are not always successful. In the distance, the RAF lay a smokescreen to shield the Allies from enemy guns further along the coast.
Jack helps to haul bodies on board, laying them carefully on deck when there is no more space below, ordering the new apprentices to bring them water, to attend to the worst, to calm the whimpering and to cover the dead. He does not let them stop and think for a moment.
They ferry the injured back across the Channel, delivering them to the safety of Portsmouth. The boom of gunfire along the French coast is so loud that it can still be heard from the British harbour. He orders his men to scrub the blood from the decks as they pack more troops, more ammunition, into the holds. The ship creaks and strains, hard ahead to reach the French beaches once more.
The new troops bear the same expression as the last lot: they are ready to do their duty. Jack wonders what happened to the world. They have run out of sick bags, and the soldiers vomit into their helmets. Jack walks among them, offering words of encouragement and comfort, anything he can think of. But nothing he says can prevent the men from trembling as they draw near the thundering warships and the death-strewn beach. Puffs of black smoke turn day into night. Again, they offload the troops, collect the injured, and return them to their home, where a fresh batch waits to take their place. They carry on like that, back and forth, for days.
CHAPTER 32
Charlie
Charlie has lost count of the grooves he has scraped into the wall of the cooler. When the guard comes to release him, the light falling through the open door picks out the scratches, making them look as if a wild creature has tried to claw its way out of the tiny room. The short, fat guard with receding hair – who looks as if he would be more at home behind a banker’s desk than in a Luftwaffe uniform – escorts Charlie back to the hut and indicates that he must collect what few possessions he has. John is there, his own things already packed.
‘Any idea where we’re going?’ says Charlie.
John shrugs. ‘They say they’re splitting the troublemakers up.’
The guards hurry them out across the windblown yard. A truck is idling in the shadow of the main watchtower. Charlie stops, eyeing it suspiciously, reluctant to leave the safety of the place that has become home. ‘Where are you taking us?’ he says.
‘You find out when we get there,’ says the guard with the receding hair.
The men all fear they are being moved to one of the camps they have heard rumours about, one of the camps from which no one returns. They refuse to climb up, but the dogs snap and bite at their heels, straining at their collars, and the German rifles form an impenetrable barrier. There is no choice but to clamber in, shuffling up against each other, drawing what crumbs of comfort they can from each other’s warmth.
The guard with receding hair and another guard with a flat nose that must once have been broken accompany the prisoners, sitting straight-backed at the rear opening of the truck, rifles between their legs. The great gates are opened, the Germans call out their curt goodbyes, and the truck growls off into the unknown.
They drive through the night, the fear clenching at their stomachs. The guards hush anyone who tries to speak. The prisoners attempt to settle into the journey, avoiding each other’s eyes in case the fear is infectious. They doze, each lost in his own thoughts. The fat guard appears to nod off, his head bouncing, jowls wobbling as the vehicle knocks and bumps along the road. Only Charlie and the guard with the broken nose, who is seated next to him, do not sleep.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Charlie asks.
The guard says nothing, just stares resolutely at his boots.
‘You must know you are bound to protect us,’ says Charlie. ‘You can’t just dispose of prisoners-of-war because it suits you.’
The guard sighs. ‘We are not disposing of you,’ he says. ‘You have nothing to fear.’
‘Nothing to fear from men who murder their own?’
The man’s deep-set eyes flicker briefly across at his fellow guard, but the German is still asleep. ‘You refer to Oberleutnant Schafer?’ he says, his voice low and quiet.
‘And the rest …’
‘The death of Oberleutnant Schafer was not something I would wish. He was a good man.’
Charlie snorts with contempt.
The German turns his head to gaze at Charlie. Charlie can see there is sadness and resignation there. ‘You must know, if you were truly friends with Hans,’ he says, ‘that we are not all of us the same.’ Charlie looks away. The man sighs again and shifts on the uncomfortable bench. ‘I am Otto,’ he says. ‘And I tell you, you have nothing to fear.’
The truck hits another pothole and the other guard is jolted awake. He pulls himself upright, glaring at Charlie, re-strengthening his grip on the rifle between his feet. Otto stares at his boots once more.
The truck eventually rolls in through a new set of gates strung with barbed wire. To the men’s relief, it seems to be just another prisoner-of-war camp, with the same low huts and looming watchtowers. The wind still whistles across the bleak yard; the men still have boredom and disappointment stamped on their faces; the dogs still strain at their collars.
Charlie and John slot easily into camp life, Charlie to his raids on supplies, John on the eternal quest for new ways to escape. News that Charlie is a troublemaker has followed him here, and the guards are wary of him, but he does not care. He plots and plans with the others, takes risks that he shouldn’t. He has nothing to lose, now that his dignity is gone. He lies on his bunk, staring up at where the mattress above bulges between the missing slats, despising himself for his weakness. He always thought he was a better man than most. It turns out he is worse. How could Jack forgive him for what he has done? How could Olivia? And to have taken advantage of Betsy … He is morally reprehensible. The only blessing is that his parents will never know.
The German officers grow increasingly edgy, agitated. One by one they disappear, until only a skeleton staff of older men remains, including the two guards from their previous camp. John – whose German is almost fluent, although he does not let on to their captors – picks up snippets of conversation between the officers, which the British men discuss later in the flickering candlelight of the hut: ‘At last the Allies must be advancing. All the fit Germans are being recalled. The Führer needs every man fighting for him.’
Their suspicions are corroborated when news of D-Day filters in via an illegal radio that one of the prisoners has hidden inside his mattress. More good news follows with the liberation of Paris. The Germans are retreating, as well as fighting on two fronts – caught between the Russians and the rest of the Allies. Surely the end is in sight. Charlie and John encourage each prisoner to save whatever they can, mindful of Hans’s warning to make provisions in case they are moved on again. The men work hard to prepare rations, building stores of kriegy cake, a mixture of margarine and biscuits, but secretly, none of them believes they will be going anywhere. Surely the Allies will come marching through the gates at any moment to rescue them.
The weeks slip past. Charlie’s second Christmas in captivity comes and goes. Europe is in the grip of a particularly harsh winter. Snow blankets the huts, the water is always frozen, and the men struggle to keep warm, burning tables and chairs piece by piece. The coal sheds are almost empty. The sick quarters are full.
And then the order comes.
There is a biting wind, and snow is falling again. The Germans bark at the prisoners, telling them to pack and be ready to move out that night: the Soviets are advancing. The prisoners want to wait, but the guards get angry, shouting at them in broken English. Otto is called to explain; he is often used to translate, as the camp’s translators have long since been recalled, and his English is the best. ‘Please, Charlie,’ he says. ‘You must explain to your friends. We have our orders. We are to come with you. There is nothing any of us can do about this.’
Charlie dresses in as many layers as possible: two vests, three pairs of socks, two jerseys, a greatcoat, and a cap. It is clear that he will not be able to carry all the rations he has stored. He abandons the shaving kit for a sleeping bag, and eats as much of the spare food as he can stomach.
Outside the huts, the prisoners are assembling: two hundred and eighty of them heading off into a swirling blizzard. The guards walk alongside, their boots padding silently in the snow. Otto moves among them, strength in his purposeful strides. Men from the sickbay who are too ill to walk are hauled along in wagons by their fellow prisoners. Some of the men have made makeshift sledges to pull their extra supplies, but they soon abandon most of these as they grow heavy with the falling snow, and their arms start to ache.
Charlie knows he must pace himself. He conserves his energy, walking steadily as if he were walking up into the hills at Loch Ewe. On they tramp, a column of prisoners, past empty fields, abandoned vehicles, through silent villages, dragging the ill and frail behind them. The men in the wagons shiver and cannot get warm. Behind them, snowflakes settle in the footprints and in the wheel ruts.
When the men pulling the wagons start to stumble, they swap with those who still have enough energy. When those men also start to trip, the guards indicate they can stop for the night. Two hundred and eighty men cram into an old barn. Half of its roof is missing, the tiles lie broken and crushed on the floor, the rafters are bare like naked ribs against the heavy sky. The German guards huddle in a small group on the sheltered side of the barn. The prisoners-of-war try to do the same, drawing what scant warmth they can from each other’s bodies, but they cannot all fit, and the unlucky ones lie beneath the open roof as the snow twirls down on to their tired limbs.
The next morning they march on, through another seemingly deserted village. The occupants hide behind twitching curtains, apart from a small boy who runs out into the street, stones clenched in his mittened hands. He shouts something and launches his missiles, which rain down on the prisoners’ bony arms as they pass. Charlie feels the sting, but, compared to the bite of the cold, it is nothing. Most of the German guards ignore the boy; only Otto calls out, crossing the road to place a hand on the boy’s skinny shoulder, but the child yells back, pointing at his enemies, indoctrinated to the last. Otto shakes his head sadly as they move on.
The supplies are dwindling. The German guards are hungry. The prisoners mix snow with bully beef. Those that have hoarded rations hide them deep in their pockets. The men in the wagons start to die. The guards encourage the men to offload the cold, rigid bodies, but the prisoners will not abandon their friends to the foxes and rats that leave their telltale signs in the snow and in the chewed flesh of the dead. The prisoners drag the wagons on, trying to ignore the stiffening corpses, hoping they might find somewhere soft enough to dig graves later. They do not. Otto helps to lay the corpses on the side of the road, lifting the bodies gently in his strong arms, removing their RAF dog tags and the photographs from their pockets, trying to keep a note of where they lie. Then they cover the bodies with cut branches until the guards urge them to hurry on.
At the next village, the locals take pity and come out with warm drinks. Charlie could weep as he feels the hot liquid trickle down his sore throat and spread fire through his limbs. Otto thanks the villagers. The prisoners rest for a while. When it is time to move on, Charlie swaps with John to pull a wagon, digging his tired, frozen feet into the icy ground, gritting his teeth as the strap cuts into his bad shoulder. The guards urge them on: glancing backwards, as if they expect the American or Russian tanks to appear at any moment.
She nods and huddles against him like she used to as a child on Drummond Road.
Suddenly, all leave is cancelled. Jack and Olivia are both called to Portsmouth, into the ten-mile-deep restricted coastal zone that stretches from the Wash in East Anglia all the way to Land’s End in Cornwall. Jack stays up talking to Betsy before they leave, convincing her he will return and support her, making her promise she will not run away. He clasps Alfie in his arms, remembering the last goodbye from his own father, the smell of Woodbines, the safety of that broad chest. He persuades Carl to come and stay, to make sure she doesn’t slip again. Carl grasps his hand and says, ‘We’ll be fine. You just make sure you come back safe.’
Mid-summer storms lash the southern coast. The sky is oppressive, heavy clouds pressing down over the darkened world below. Olivia and Jack journey south together along roads jammed with vehicles, a river of military green threading its way beneath trees sagging with rain. Troops and tanks, trucks and medical supplies, aeroplanes and warships, amphibious craft, rations and artillery are amassing on the cliffs and shores, in the harbours and inlets. Jack and Olivia drive in silence. Closer to the coast, the roadsides and fields are dotted with tents and vehicles. There are men sleeping in hedgerows and in gardens. The ports are full. Americans, Canadians, and British men throng the seashores, the docks, the pubs, the houses and – of course – the ships.
Olivia and Jack part in Portsmouth – Jack to find his ship, Olivia to the Wrens’ headquarters. They barely dare look at each other because their eyes say it all in a fleeting clash of pale blue and black. Jack does not trust himself to speak. There is a swift embrace. Around them, the streets throng with people behaving in the same way, button-lipped, stifling their emotions, all drowning in the same thought – that something momentous is about to happen that could mean the end for all of them.
For the first time, Jack is on a ship carrying live cargo: soldiers – hundreds of them – pale and anxious, cluster along the guardrails three- and four-deep. Their wet tin hats glisten like the guns and the ambulances that are lashed alongside them on the rain-drenched deck. The water beneath them is a mass of smaller boats, delivering messages and ferrying troops and cargo. Jack strains to see if any of the Wrens at their helms are Olivia, but it is hard to see anything beyond the shoulders of the soldiers crammed like cargo into every space.
The wind picks up, moaning through the waiting guns. The clouds are still thick and low. The ships roll from side to side, pulling and rattling at their anchors. New sealed orders are delivered. Rain trickles down Jack’s face as he escorts the Wren boarding officer to the bridge. She has checked their guns, and now she needs to talk to his master. Jack oversees the delivery of the supplies that she has brought: for the final push each soldier is given a box of matches, some anti-seasick pills, a few francs, a map of France, a life jacket, a razor blade, socks, sweets, cigarettes – and, most important of all, sick bags. The day of the attack is put back by twenty-four hours. More sick bags are distributed.
The Lancasters head out just before midnight, their thunderous drone reverberating across the sky. The other RAF bombers follow, with their real and dummy parachutists. In the sea below, the ships are so densely packed that Jack could almost jump from one to the next. They groan and heave on the water, waiting, waiting. Jack is on duty when the first ships weigh anchor in the morning darkness. The minesweepers have already gone on ahead, to clear a safe passage. Above them, dawn breaks across the wingtips of hundreds of British and American planes, here to offer support and to drop airborne divisions into enemy territory. The confusion of the last few days slips away, and Jack is in control again.
As daylight tries to pierce the thick cloud, a ghostly morning light turns the water slate grey laced with foaming white. Jack screws up his eyes against the spray, spitting the salt water from his mouth and wiping his hand across his drenched face. There are ships as far as the eye can see – thousands of them – frothing and churning across the Channel. Barrage balloons are attached to some of them, as though a protective herd has broken free from the coast to follow the convoy.
Any spare space is packed with ammunition. Jack knows what that means – he has seen what happens to a ship that ignites when carrying explosive cargo. He looks along the deck to the gathered men. They are bracing themselves against the swell of this foreign world. Their faces are set, their jaws are clenched, their eyes are fixed ahead. He knows they are thinking not of what they are about to face, but of who they are facing it for: mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, friends, home, country. The ship forges on, and some of the men turn their eyes to Jack. He feels a pang as he realises many of them are younger than he is now. They are looking to him for guidance, for a curt nod, a confident smile. As the ship surges and the wind wails, he pulls himself up tall: this is his world.
Jack stands like that even as the first ships hit the first mines; almighty explosions render the air, joined by a barrage from the beach. He walks purposefully among the troops, barking directions, operating machinery, helping the men off the ship, issuing a brief word, a slap on the back. Inside, his stomach churns, but not with seasickness.
Men pour into the first landing craft, struggling ashore. Some have their limbs blown off by the mines in the sand. Jack can’t help flinching as a warship opens fire behind him, the sixteen-inch guns pounding into action over their heads. In front of them, the Germans retaliate, firing mortars and guns. The shore is alive with flame and smoke, flashes of orange and billows of white, and the men are caught in the middle. The noise rings in his ears, and the gunpowder burns his nostrils. The tide is coming in faster than the injured can drag themselves up the beach, reaching out for them with deathly grey fingers that turn red with blood.
Still more men are taken to the beaches. They crouch in their boats, trying to avoid the spray of water and bullets, praying that the filthy, flat bottom of this boat won’t be the last thing they remember. Strong currents drag the craft sideways. Some run aground on sandbanks. Men abandon ship to wade through deep water. Amphibious tanks sink before they can rumble ashore to help. Boat after boat unloads on the beach, now overrun with men clambering across the fallen bodies of their comrades. Those still breathing are dragged back by the unarmed medics into the landing craft and hoisted on to the empty, waiting ships. Above them the barrage balloons bob to deter the enemy aircraft; they are not always successful. In the distance, the RAF lay a smokescreen to shield the Allies from enemy guns further along the coast.
Jack helps to haul bodies on board, laying them carefully on deck when there is no more space below, ordering the new apprentices to bring them water, to attend to the worst, to calm the whimpering and to cover the dead. He does not let them stop and think for a moment.
They ferry the injured back across the Channel, delivering them to the safety of Portsmouth. The boom of gunfire along the French coast is so loud that it can still be heard from the British harbour. He orders his men to scrub the blood from the decks as they pack more troops, more ammunition, into the holds. The ship creaks and strains, hard ahead to reach the French beaches once more.
The new troops bear the same expression as the last lot: they are ready to do their duty. Jack wonders what happened to the world. They have run out of sick bags, and the soldiers vomit into their helmets. Jack walks among them, offering words of encouragement and comfort, anything he can think of. But nothing he says can prevent the men from trembling as they draw near the thundering warships and the death-strewn beach. Puffs of black smoke turn day into night. Again, they offload the troops, collect the injured, and return them to their home, where a fresh batch waits to take their place. They carry on like that, back and forth, for days.
CHAPTER 32
Charlie
Charlie has lost count of the grooves he has scraped into the wall of the cooler. When the guard comes to release him, the light falling through the open door picks out the scratches, making them look as if a wild creature has tried to claw its way out of the tiny room. The short, fat guard with receding hair – who looks as if he would be more at home behind a banker’s desk than in a Luftwaffe uniform – escorts Charlie back to the hut and indicates that he must collect what few possessions he has. John is there, his own things already packed.
‘Any idea where we’re going?’ says Charlie.
John shrugs. ‘They say they’re splitting the troublemakers up.’
The guards hurry them out across the windblown yard. A truck is idling in the shadow of the main watchtower. Charlie stops, eyeing it suspiciously, reluctant to leave the safety of the place that has become home. ‘Where are you taking us?’ he says.
‘You find out when we get there,’ says the guard with the receding hair.
The men all fear they are being moved to one of the camps they have heard rumours about, one of the camps from which no one returns. They refuse to climb up, but the dogs snap and bite at their heels, straining at their collars, and the German rifles form an impenetrable barrier. There is no choice but to clamber in, shuffling up against each other, drawing what crumbs of comfort they can from each other’s warmth.
The guard with receding hair and another guard with a flat nose that must once have been broken accompany the prisoners, sitting straight-backed at the rear opening of the truck, rifles between their legs. The great gates are opened, the Germans call out their curt goodbyes, and the truck growls off into the unknown.
They drive through the night, the fear clenching at their stomachs. The guards hush anyone who tries to speak. The prisoners attempt to settle into the journey, avoiding each other’s eyes in case the fear is infectious. They doze, each lost in his own thoughts. The fat guard appears to nod off, his head bouncing, jowls wobbling as the vehicle knocks and bumps along the road. Only Charlie and the guard with the broken nose, who is seated next to him, do not sleep.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Charlie asks.
The guard says nothing, just stares resolutely at his boots.
‘You must know you are bound to protect us,’ says Charlie. ‘You can’t just dispose of prisoners-of-war because it suits you.’
The guard sighs. ‘We are not disposing of you,’ he says. ‘You have nothing to fear.’
‘Nothing to fear from men who murder their own?’
The man’s deep-set eyes flicker briefly across at his fellow guard, but the German is still asleep. ‘You refer to Oberleutnant Schafer?’ he says, his voice low and quiet.
‘And the rest …’
‘The death of Oberleutnant Schafer was not something I would wish. He was a good man.’
Charlie snorts with contempt.
The German turns his head to gaze at Charlie. Charlie can see there is sadness and resignation there. ‘You must know, if you were truly friends with Hans,’ he says, ‘that we are not all of us the same.’ Charlie looks away. The man sighs again and shifts on the uncomfortable bench. ‘I am Otto,’ he says. ‘And I tell you, you have nothing to fear.’
The truck hits another pothole and the other guard is jolted awake. He pulls himself upright, glaring at Charlie, re-strengthening his grip on the rifle between his feet. Otto stares at his boots once more.
The truck eventually rolls in through a new set of gates strung with barbed wire. To the men’s relief, it seems to be just another prisoner-of-war camp, with the same low huts and looming watchtowers. The wind still whistles across the bleak yard; the men still have boredom and disappointment stamped on their faces; the dogs still strain at their collars.
Charlie and John slot easily into camp life, Charlie to his raids on supplies, John on the eternal quest for new ways to escape. News that Charlie is a troublemaker has followed him here, and the guards are wary of him, but he does not care. He plots and plans with the others, takes risks that he shouldn’t. He has nothing to lose, now that his dignity is gone. He lies on his bunk, staring up at where the mattress above bulges between the missing slats, despising himself for his weakness. He always thought he was a better man than most. It turns out he is worse. How could Jack forgive him for what he has done? How could Olivia? And to have taken advantage of Betsy … He is morally reprehensible. The only blessing is that his parents will never know.
The German officers grow increasingly edgy, agitated. One by one they disappear, until only a skeleton staff of older men remains, including the two guards from their previous camp. John – whose German is almost fluent, although he does not let on to their captors – picks up snippets of conversation between the officers, which the British men discuss later in the flickering candlelight of the hut: ‘At last the Allies must be advancing. All the fit Germans are being recalled. The Führer needs every man fighting for him.’
Their suspicions are corroborated when news of D-Day filters in via an illegal radio that one of the prisoners has hidden inside his mattress. More good news follows with the liberation of Paris. The Germans are retreating, as well as fighting on two fronts – caught between the Russians and the rest of the Allies. Surely the end is in sight. Charlie and John encourage each prisoner to save whatever they can, mindful of Hans’s warning to make provisions in case they are moved on again. The men work hard to prepare rations, building stores of kriegy cake, a mixture of margarine and biscuits, but secretly, none of them believes they will be going anywhere. Surely the Allies will come marching through the gates at any moment to rescue them.
The weeks slip past. Charlie’s second Christmas in captivity comes and goes. Europe is in the grip of a particularly harsh winter. Snow blankets the huts, the water is always frozen, and the men struggle to keep warm, burning tables and chairs piece by piece. The coal sheds are almost empty. The sick quarters are full.
And then the order comes.
There is a biting wind, and snow is falling again. The Germans bark at the prisoners, telling them to pack and be ready to move out that night: the Soviets are advancing. The prisoners want to wait, but the guards get angry, shouting at them in broken English. Otto is called to explain; he is often used to translate, as the camp’s translators have long since been recalled, and his English is the best. ‘Please, Charlie,’ he says. ‘You must explain to your friends. We have our orders. We are to come with you. There is nothing any of us can do about this.’
Charlie dresses in as many layers as possible: two vests, three pairs of socks, two jerseys, a greatcoat, and a cap. It is clear that he will not be able to carry all the rations he has stored. He abandons the shaving kit for a sleeping bag, and eats as much of the spare food as he can stomach.
Outside the huts, the prisoners are assembling: two hundred and eighty of them heading off into a swirling blizzard. The guards walk alongside, their boots padding silently in the snow. Otto moves among them, strength in his purposeful strides. Men from the sickbay who are too ill to walk are hauled along in wagons by their fellow prisoners. Some of the men have made makeshift sledges to pull their extra supplies, but they soon abandon most of these as they grow heavy with the falling snow, and their arms start to ache.
Charlie knows he must pace himself. He conserves his energy, walking steadily as if he were walking up into the hills at Loch Ewe. On they tramp, a column of prisoners, past empty fields, abandoned vehicles, through silent villages, dragging the ill and frail behind them. The men in the wagons shiver and cannot get warm. Behind them, snowflakes settle in the footprints and in the wheel ruts.
When the men pulling the wagons start to stumble, they swap with those who still have enough energy. When those men also start to trip, the guards indicate they can stop for the night. Two hundred and eighty men cram into an old barn. Half of its roof is missing, the tiles lie broken and crushed on the floor, the rafters are bare like naked ribs against the heavy sky. The German guards huddle in a small group on the sheltered side of the barn. The prisoners-of-war try to do the same, drawing what scant warmth they can from each other’s bodies, but they cannot all fit, and the unlucky ones lie beneath the open roof as the snow twirls down on to their tired limbs.
The next morning they march on, through another seemingly deserted village. The occupants hide behind twitching curtains, apart from a small boy who runs out into the street, stones clenched in his mittened hands. He shouts something and launches his missiles, which rain down on the prisoners’ bony arms as they pass. Charlie feels the sting, but, compared to the bite of the cold, it is nothing. Most of the German guards ignore the boy; only Otto calls out, crossing the road to place a hand on the boy’s skinny shoulder, but the child yells back, pointing at his enemies, indoctrinated to the last. Otto shakes his head sadly as they move on.
The supplies are dwindling. The German guards are hungry. The prisoners mix snow with bully beef. Those that have hoarded rations hide them deep in their pockets. The men in the wagons start to die. The guards encourage the men to offload the cold, rigid bodies, but the prisoners will not abandon their friends to the foxes and rats that leave their telltale signs in the snow and in the chewed flesh of the dead. The prisoners drag the wagons on, trying to ignore the stiffening corpses, hoping they might find somewhere soft enough to dig graves later. They do not. Otto helps to lay the corpses on the side of the road, lifting the bodies gently in his strong arms, removing their RAF dog tags and the photographs from their pockets, trying to keep a note of where they lie. Then they cover the bodies with cut branches until the guards urge them to hurry on.
At the next village, the locals take pity and come out with warm drinks. Charlie could weep as he feels the hot liquid trickle down his sore throat and spread fire through his limbs. Otto thanks the villagers. The prisoners rest for a while. When it is time to move on, Charlie swaps with John to pull a wagon, digging his tired, frozen feet into the icy ground, gritting his teeth as the strap cuts into his bad shoulder. The guards urge them on: glancing backwards, as if they expect the American or Russian tanks to appear at any moment.
