Maddie looked over at Captain Andrews. The officer was having an
animated discussion with the camp commander, an army major with a
piratical patch over one eye and high blood pressure (if the alarmingly red
face was anything to go by). Captain Andrews was tall and thin, and the
major had to look up at him. Both men seemed to be arguing, although she
couldn’t hear their conversation. But their exaggerated body language was
like watching a silent pantomime. Maddie forced herself not to smile.
It looked as if things weren’t going well for Captain Andrews. He kept
twisting his handlebar moustache, something she’d noticed him do before
when he was agitated. The furrowed brow and the small lines of stress on
his face told their own story. At least to Maddie, who seemed to have the
knack of reading people; it was a gift that had developed over the years. Not
one she was aware of. But her friends in the barracks had told her she was
easy to talk to and often got right to the root of their problems.
She liked people. Liked talking to them, hearing about their families.
Maybe it was a way to forget about her own family, who knew nothing
about the real Maddie: what made her laugh or cry; her hopes for the future.
None of them had ever asked.
Instead, they had tried to mould her into this perfect creature: a boarding
school education, an exclusive finishing school and elocution lessons that
made some of her ATS pals describe her as posh. Fit to marry the best in
the land. That was the ludicrous phrase that fell repeatedly from her
mother’s lips. Sometimes Maddie felt as if there’d been a mix-up at birth
and the hospital had handed her over to the wrong family, by mistake. She’d
always felt out of place.
When she’d first joined the ATS, her mother and brother had discussed
her enlistment like she was a troublesome item on their agenda. Something
that needed to be fixed. They’d lectured her: she was wasting her life,
throwing away her education. She was one of the elite, they claimed. If she
had to be in the army, why a damn private? Why not an officer?
But Maddie had no interest in being an officer. Or even in becoming an
NCO. A non-commissioned officer wasn’t the same as an officer – they
came up through the ranks – but they could still bark orders. She didn’t
want to do that. She was happy being one of the many, enjoyed the spirit of
camaraderie. The feeling of being part of a sisterhood. In the barracks, there
was mutual support. You looked out for each other.
She watched the camp commander walk away, and went across to
Captain Andrews, throwing him a smart, regulation salute. Officially, she
was only meant to salute her own ATS officers, but for Maddie, it was a
matter of courtesy: he was in the army and so was she.
Captain Andrews’ salute was returned in an off-hand way, lacking
enthusiasm, not crisp like hers. And his eyes didn’t connect with her but
lingered on her cap badge. Fair enough, you saluted the cap, not the person.
Respect for the cap badge and all it represented. That was the way of the
British Army. Not like the Americans: they liked throwing salutes right, left
and centre, even when servicemen weren’t wearing their caps.
Her eyes went to the captain’s face. Yes, she’d been right. The man
seemed distracted. And there were small red veins of stress standing out
against the whites of his eyes. Things not going well, maybe.
She waited for him to speak, wondering what was next on his list of
errands for her.
‘Back so soon, Private?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She came to attention.
‘Mission accomplished, I take it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And my packages?’
‘In the car, sir. I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to leave them there, or…’
‘Leave them? Good grief, girl. Why would I want you to do that?’
What was she? A mind reader? And girl? She wasn’t a girl. She was a
woman.
‘So…’
‘Take them to my billet. When you’ve done that, come and find me. The
commander has given me the use of his office. Somewhere down by the
water tower, I believe. I’m sure even you can find it.’ The captain smirked
like he’d made an excellent joke and walked away, leaving Maddie with her
mouth open.
That was unfair. She’d only got them lost once on the way there, and it
had hardly been her fault as the diversion hadn’t been properly signposted.
And they’d made it in the end.
Some people just weren’t very nice, were they? You’d think with the
war and the need to pull together that it would make people kind. Most of
the officers she ferried around were real gentlemen. Had been gracious,
treated her like a fellow human, an equal, despite the difference in rank.
Still – she wouldn’t let it get to her, for Maddie Brady recognised
sarcasm when she met it. It was a favourite weapon of her mother’s, and
Maddie always managed to come out on top when those two sparred. But
this Captain Andrews had her at a disadvantage. She couldn’t bite back at a
superior officer, especially one like this chap. She suspected that he
wouldn’t think twice about getting her into trouble with her own officer. He
didn’t strike her as a happy man, a man content in his work.
The captain’s billet wasn’t hard to find: a tiny room in a two-storey house
set back from the main gate. She wondered who had been thrown out of the
place to make room for the bombastic captain.
After she’d left his parcels on the small bunk bed, Maddie went outside
into the garden. It was well kept, the lawn neat and with some sort of small
shrubs growing at regular intervals around the perimeter of the grass. Their
scent was heady. She had no idea what kind of bushes they were.
Gardening, agriculture, it wasn’t an area she was familiar with.
A massive, sculpted eagle, its wings spread, wide stood in the middle of
the lawn, mounted on a tall stone plinth. She wondered who might have
made it and put it there – in the middle of a garden, in a prisoner-of-war
camp. But then maybe this place hadn’t always been a prison camp.
She might ask Corporal Williams about it. He was a man who seemed to
have his finger on the pulse of camp life. And he hadn’t just dismissed her,
like some of the regular army did to ATS women, as if they were a joke and
not part of the real army. He’d taken her seriously, given her respect.
Maddie turned her back on the gatehouse and headed towards the tall
brick water tower in the distance. The camp was large, with row after row
of neat concrete huts. Hard to say how many men would fit into each
separate hut, but one of the guards had told her they could house up to a
thousand prisoners in the place.
She’d seen some of them earlier that morning before heading off to
Newquay. A thin, ragged bunch of men. They’d been gathered in groups
around the front of the huts chatting, some of them smoking. Some even
laughing. That had surprised her. How could you be captured, be a prisoner– and still be cheerful? Maybe some of them were glad to be out of the
fighting. She guessed they’d been about to line up for some sort of roll call.
A roll call in the morning and another last thing at night. To make sure none
of them tried an escape.
But this was a low-risk camp, as far as escapes went. There had never
been any, at least according to Corporal Williams. He’d reckoned this lot
were a bunch of Jerries who weren’t all that partial to Herr-bleedin’-Hitler
and maybe they didn’t wish him and his bleedin’ Nazis any luck. But most
of the prisoners didn’t wish him any harm, either. Fence-sitters, that’s what
Corporal Williams had reckoned they were, what he’d told Maddie. They’d
been interrogated by intelligence chaps at a holding camp in London, most
of them; and some army big wigs had decided these prisoners were neutral.
Safe enough to be let out to work on some of the surrounding Cornish
farms. And still come back to the camp at night.
How strange! That’s what Maddie thought, at any rate. Even if you had
armed guards taking you to work in the fields, and bringing you back… if
there were a lot of you, wouldn’t you try to overpower them, try to escape?
It was a prisoner of war’s duty to escape. To make the enemy use lots of
resources and manpower in trying to recapture you.
She passed a flat piece of ground with two sets of makeshift goal posts
there and a few men kicking a ball around. A football pitch. The POWs had
built a pitch; maybe there was even some kind of league. It was beginning
to look more like a holiday camp. No! That was wrong of her. None of
these thin, scruffy men looked as if they were on holiday. And the clothes
they wore marked them out as prisoners. Those and the white patches on
their backs.
Maddie moved on quickly, heard the noisy cheers as one of the
prisoners scored a goal. Humanity, with all its faults and quirks, never
ceased to amaze her. How the human spirit could rise above trials and find
triumph in small things.
Next to the football pitch was a long, low building with a thin, metal
chimney on the roof, pumping out steam. A cookhouse. The size surprised
her, for it stretched all the way across to the far side of the camp and the
perimeter fence. On the other side of the fence there was a railway line.
Strange to see that – right out here in the middle of nowhere. So far, she
hadn’t heard or seen any trains.
The camp was neat and well laid out. Not just a collection of mud
walkways and huts. Proper concrete pathways connected the long, low
buildings and some of the prisoners’ barracks even had small patches of
cultivated ground out in front of them. No grass here, though, or fancy
shrubs. Perhaps they’d been allowed to grow vegetables for themselves.
That would make sense.
Growing your own food was important. Not just for these prisoners but
for everybody in the country. It saved precious wartime resources. And
helped in a time of hard rationing. Dig for victory! That’s what the posters
said. In the pub, you’d hear a different slogan: Dig for a bad back. But
despite the odd grumble, people still did it, saw it as their patriotic duty to
get out into the allotment and get stuck in. Every available piece of dirt in
the country had been turned over and used for growing food.
Maddie smiled as she remembered walking through Kensington
Gardens last month, and the bizarre sight of the famous Albert Memorial
surrounded by allotments of cabbages, leeks, potatoes, carrots. She felt sure
Prince Albert wouldn’t have complained if he’d been alive. The prince had
been a practical man; he’d have understood. He might even have chuckled
that the Tower of London also had the best of veg growing in its moat.
That was all fine, of course – if you liked veg. Maddie wasn’t too partial
to it. But it was supposed to be good for you, so she’d forced down the
limp, overcooked cabbage that they served up in the mess, and the
disgusting sprouts.
‘Fine day for a walk, miss. Doing some exploring, is it, now?’
The loud voice made Maddie jump, and dragged her out of her head.
‘Corporal Williams! Just getting my bearings. It’s a big place,’ she said.
‘That it is. About an ’undred and twenty-odd acres. But we’ve got a fair
few prisoners here. Germans right now, but we used to have Italians till they
moved ’em out. They built that fancy chapel over there.’ Corporal Williams
pointed to a small, whitewashed building some distance away. ‘And that
grand-looking eagle out front,’ he said.
‘Ah. I was wondering about that,’ said Maddie. ‘Impressive.’
‘Artistic bunch, the I-ties were. And always singing, they were. And
smilin’.’ The corporal himself was smiling then.
‘You’d wonder they had anything to sing about,’ said Maddie.
‘Aye, that you would. Lovely choir they had, though. The drop of a hat,
the buggers – ’scuse me, miss – would break into song. Bit like the Welsh.’
Corporal Williams winked at her: he was Welsh himself.
Maddie gave him a smile in return. The man was friendly, had made her
feel welcome.
‘I’m looking for the commander’s office,’ she said. ‘Seems like Captain
Andrews has commandeered it for the time being.’
‘That so?’ The corporal grinned. ‘And you’d be looking for it in this
direction, is it?’
‘Down by the water tower, that’s what the captain said.’
‘You’ll be after the Glory Hole then. Least, that’s what the lads call it,’
said Corporal Williams.
‘Glory Hole?’
‘That’s the only thing you’ll find down there. Tiny, pokey place. Storage
room, no bigger than a cupboard. Reckon you’d get a desk and chair in
there – at a push, mind.’
‘Captain Andrews seems to think he’s been given the commander’s
office.’
‘Does he now? Well, he’ll be tamping then. When he finds out, like.’
‘Tamping?’ Maddie queried.
‘What you English call “browned-off”. Angry, like. Very angry.’
‘Ah.’ Maddie had seen Captain Andrews upset on the journey down.
When he’d been disappointed with their progress. She didn’t fancy seeing
him when he was angry
