Authors: Robert Ryan
‘Oh, no longer. Although we did discover a Jones on my father’s side, which smoothed my tenure. But I had to return to Germany ten years ago. My wife hated it there. And she wanted
my boys brought up in the German way.’ He looked wistful for a moment.
‘Are they well?’ Watson asked with some hesitation, only too aware that Germany’s sons, like Britain’s, had paid the highest price for this war. ‘The
boys?’
‘Yes, thank you. They are fifteen and twelve, so have not been part of this dreadful business. I know what you are thinking. What is an old man doing with such sprats? My wife is younger
than I, Major. I came back to Germany one long vac and found we had delightful new neighbours, who had an equally delightful daughter . . .’
He handed over a glass of the port to Watson and raised a toast. ‘To the swift end to this nonsense between our countries.’
Watson couldn’t disagree with that. ‘To peace. May we both live long enough to enjoy it.’
He sipped, enjoying the once-familiar warmth and the rich, fruity overtones of the port. Now, relaxed, he felt the terrible import of what he had done descend on him, like a shroud of thick
chain mail. His shoulders slumped.
‘This is some business, Major,’ said Halbricht, his tone suddenly glum. ‘You are sure nothing is broken?’
‘Bruises. A little ringing in the ears. This eye aches. And I am sure my torso is an interesting colour. My orderly, Sayer, strapped up my ribs. Did a good job.’
‘You must let him spoil you, Major. A good orderly is invaluable. You are not as young as you once were, when you were running around London with Mr Holmes all those years ago.’
‘You don’t have to remind me of that.’ Except it seemed like centuries, not decades ago. A different life altogether. He supposed it was. London would never be the same again,
for better or worse, even when the conflict was over. The people returning from this abominable war would see to that.
‘I really have to thank you.’ Halbricht offered Watson a cigarette and, when it was accepted, lit it from a sturdy silver desk lighter. ‘It was a brave, honourable thing to
do.’
‘It doesn’t feel like it,’ Watson said gloomily.
‘You gave your word—’ Halbricht began.
‘Perhaps Hanson was right. Perhaps such words are meaningless in war.’
Halbricht shook his head. ‘The man was deranged. You know he wouldn’t have got very far. The villagers would have flushed him out in a second. He would only have brought down
retribution on his fellow Englishmen. Even I have to be seen to play by the rules. Lose a man for even twenty-four hours and the local army command wants to know how and why and who is going to
pay. Too many escapes and then you can look forward to a new job as foreman of a slate mine. Like most of the men in the camp, I am just biding my time here, waiting for the war to end.’
‘And yet poor Hanson is dead,’ Watson reminded the commandant.
‘And this is not your fault.’
‘Not technically. Morally, perhaps.’
The Englishmen’s voices during the argument and subsequent tussle had carried through the trees, drifting over to the camp. The moon-faced guard with the Mauser had gone along to
investigate and arrived just in time to see Hanson about to dash Watson’s brains out with a stone. He had shot Hanson in the chest, killing him instantly.
‘What will the report say?’ Watson asked.
‘That Hanson was shot while trying to escape. No mention will be made of the exact circumstances. His family will be satisfied he was doing his duty as an officer. My superiors will be
pleased that I prevented a hue and cry for a POW. And you . . .’
The pause grew.
‘You can take some comfort in being an officer and a gentleman who is as good as his word.’
Watson threw back his drink. To his surprise, Halbricht topped him up. He didn’t refuse, despite his unease at the fraternization. ‘It’s scant comfort.’
‘It was the devil and the deep blue sea,’ said Halbricht. ‘And I face the same dilemma.’
Something in the tone halted Watson’s slide into self-pity. The cosy room, the port, the cigarette. He was being softened up for an announcement of some description. He pushed himself
upright in the chair. ‘What is it,
Hauptmann
?’
The man looked pained, as if he were the one who had suffered a beating. ‘There is no easy way to break this news. I was hoping the drink might help. But it has made it more difficult,
this moment of . . . camaraderie.’
‘We’re not comrades. Not yet. I am still an enemy officer. I am afraid no amount of port will alter that.’
Halbricht nodded, his expression hangdog. ‘You are right, of course.’ He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the blow he was about to deliver. ‘Major Watson, I regret to
inform you that you have been refused a place on the repatriation list.’
It was only at that moment that Watson appreciated how much he had been banking on getting out of Krefeld. Perhaps that was why he had been so adamant about stopping Hanson, he had been –
subconsciously – worried it might jeopardize his own release. And now this. It made him all the more wretched. He felt a crack zigzag across the dam that was holding back the waters of
despair. He struggled to keep his voice even. ‘And was any reason given?’
‘They don’t have to give explanations, Major. “Request denied” and a rubber stamp is all they require.’
‘You could ask why,’ said Watson. ‘And put in an appeal. You could also petition the Red Cross.’
As the
Hauptmann
nodded his features collapsed into what looked like pity. ‘The devil and the deep blue sea, as I said, Major. I could object, kick up a fuss, as you say. But I know
there are those in the Army Group that runs this sector who consider me too soft. Too considerate. To be a lover of all things British. I am tainted, in their eyes, by my years in Oxford. My sense
of honour, such as it is, tells me I should try my damnedest to get a man like you out of here. My sense of survival tells me not to rock the boat. Unlike you, Major Watson, I am not a brave
man.’
‘Brave? Me? I think not. The brave thing to do might have been to go along with Hanson.’
‘And then I suspect I would be drinking alone, perhaps a toast to two fallen men.’
Watson raised the glass. ‘To the fallen, all of them. And those left behind to mourn.’ He took a slug of the port, quickly so as not to betray his shaking hands. He placed the glass
on the desk before him and made to rise but the expression on Halbricht’s face pulled him up short. He sat back down again. ‘And,
Hauptmann
? There is something else, I
feel.’
Now the Anglophile wouldn’t catch his eye. The commandant examined his port as if he had spotted something floating on the surface. He licked dry lips before he spoke. ‘You are to be
transferred from here. There is a
Lager
with no British medical personnel to speak of. You have been ordered there.’
‘Which camp?’
‘You understand that these orders are from Tenth Army Corps, from the office of Von Knobelsdorf himself.’
Watson doubted the head of the Tenth Army concerned himself with one elderly prison doctor. ‘Which camp am I being transferred to,
Hauptmann
?’
The word came out like a hound clearing its throat. ‘Harzgrund.’
Watson nodded. He had heard of it. Everybody in the system had. It was also known as The Worst Camp in Germany. If the rumours were true, Major John H. Watson of the Royal Army Medical Corps had
just been handed a death sentence.
There wasn’t much to pack in his canvas kitbag. Watson carefully folded his underwear and spare shirts and placed them in the bottom, followed by the
‘comfort’ requisites he had received in parcels, a few precious jars of food and an English copy of
The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
, which he had managed
to pick up in hospital.
Sayer, his wiry, jockey-sized orderly – he had served in one of the Birkenhead ‘Bantam’ regiments, created from the pool of willing men who were less than regulation height
– was inconsolable when he heard the news and fussed around Watson as he packed that morning. He had made certain Watson had filled up at breakfast, even pushing him to two cups of the acorn
coffee. It might be a long day ahead, he counselled.
‘The thing is, Major Watson, most of the others treat me like the lowest footman. Make the tea, wash the crockery, make my bed, wipe my arse, there’s a good chap.’ Watson
laughed at his faux-plummy voice. Sayer might be crude, but he was always entertaining. ‘For them, ’tain’t no different to being at school. With you, at least I got a break now
and then and a bit of respect. I’ll miss you, sir. Where they sendin’ you again?’
He repeated the name. It didn’t sound any less unpleasant than when the commandant said it.
Harzgrund.
It was like a Teutonic gargle.
‘Where is it, exactly?’
‘Harz Mountains, I believe. Further into Germany, at any rate.’
‘That’s a cruelty, that is, you ask me. If you’d been going to Holland, I’d’ve been glad for you, but this . . .’
Watson put a hand on the little man’s shoulder. ‘I know, Sayer. But we sometimes have to bear the unbearable, don’t we?’ Sayer nodded. ‘I’ve left you some
cigarettes and tobacco and a pipe over there. No, it’s fine; I am trying to smoke less.’ Watson thumped his chest and winced at the flash of pain from one of his many bruises.
‘Find it affects my wind these days.’
‘Not as much as that bloody cabbage soup,’ said Sayer.
‘Not that kind of win—’ he began before he caught Sayer’s wink.
‘And I’d like you to have these, sir,’ said Sayer, producing a pair of thick-knit socks from under his tattered tunic.
‘I can’t, Sayer. Good socks like that, worth their weight in real coffee.’
‘My mother knits them, sir. I can get plenty more. Please. I haven’t worn them. Well, not more than once or twice. And I washed them.’
‘Thank you, Sayer. I appreciate it. Now, there are two things I’d like you to do for me. One is post my letters. I’m stretching my allowance, but I’m sure they’ll
pass it this once.’
‘Right you are, sir. And the other?’
‘Tell the Red Cross where I have gone, so the parcels are redirected.’
‘A pleasure.’
The door to the billet opened. A sombre-faced Feldwebel Krebs stepped in. ‘It is time, Major,’ he said. ‘The truck is here.’
‘How long is the journey?’ Watson asked.
Krebs screwed up his face at the thought of what lay ahead for the prisoner. ‘Seven hours, perhaps more.’
‘And it’s a truck?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not, I assume, fitted with Pullman recliners.’ Watson scooped up the straw-filled pillow off his bed and tucked it under his arm. ‘I am sure you can scrounge another for
whoever takes my bunk,’ he said to Sayer.
‘Leave it to me, sir. Here, let me carry that.’
Krebs looked puzzled. ‘Just one case?’
‘Yes.’
He looked at Sayer. ‘Your things too?’
‘No, chummy. I’m staying here.’
Krebs shook his head. ‘No. Hauptmann Halbricht was most insistent. Major Watson needs to be looked after, Private Sayer. You are going with him.’
The lorry, a wheezing Horch with loosely secured canvas sides that did little to keep out the wind, left Krefeld II just after midday and struck east. Sayer tried to put a
brave face on the
fait accompli
of his involvement in the transfer; Watson had complained vociferously and demanded to see Halbricht but was informed that, as in any army, orders were
orders. Sayer would accompany him to Harzgrund. In manacles, if need be.
From the open rear of the vehicle, beyond where their two escorts sat smoking, Watson could see the meagre traffic on the road consisted mainly of horse-drawn vehicles with, as always, skeletal
nags between the shafts. The people, too, looked grey and wan, in need of a substantial feed of protein, he thought. Only a motorcycle rider who roared past them, leather coat flapping, looked to
be in decent health.
‘Bit posh, all this, isn’t it?’ said Sayer as he carefully rolled a cigarette.
‘What’s that?’ Watson asked.
‘A truck all to ourselves. Luxury, that is.’
Watson nodded. Prisoners were normally transported by train, third class if they were lucky, cattle if not. With the shortage of fuel across Germany, he too was surprised at the extravagance of
personalized transport. He hoped it was simply a kind gesture by Hauptmann Halbricht. If so, it was, like his dispatching of Sayer, a misguided one. The solid tyres and the rutted roads meant
Watson’s ribs, still tender from his forest tussle with poor deluded Hanson, were giving him trouble. Sayer noticed the series of grimaces that accompanied each jolt.
‘You want me to restrap you up, sir?’
‘No, Sayer. Perhaps when we stop.’ Watson raised his voice. ‘I assume we will stop at some point.’ He looked over at the guards, but the pair, one of whom was too old for
the front line, the other a young man missing several fingers, either didn’t understand or ignored him. The grizzled one had lung problems, his breathing audibly damp even over the sound of
the Horch’s engine, but Watson reckoned him too elderly to have picked up gas damage at the front. Some kind of industrial emphysema was most likely.
The truck grumbled on. Watson accepted a roll-up about as thick as a pipe cleaner from Sayer and tried to get comfortable on his purloined pillow. To pass the time, he mentally composed more of
the story he had begun to tell Hanson on their walk, ‘The Girl and the Gold Watches’, as he now titled it.
He must have nodded off because the squeal of the brakes sent him sprawling along the metal bench towards the cab. Only Sayer’s swift handiwork prevented him ending up in a bundle on the
floor. The guards dropped the tailgate, hopped out and indicated the prisoners should do the same.
‘Exercise. Stretch legs,’ wheezed the older of the pair.
‘Where are we?’ asked Watson, blinking away sleep and trying to focus through watering eyes.
‘Middle of bleedin’ nowhere,’ muttered Sayer. ‘We turned off the main road about half an hour ago. At a place called Haaren.’