He woke up gradually, his eyes half lidded, unable to focus. They felt like
they’d been washed in sand. He moved his head slowly from side to side, a
pain shooting through his neck. His throat was raw, and his mouth was
parched, like an arid desert. His tongue felt swollen, a tight fit in its allotted
space. He could hear himself moan but could do nothing to prevent the
sound leaving his cracked lips. My God, he was still alive. How could he be
alive? Maybe the rope had snapped.
Rudi prodded his sluggish brain into action. It made the pain in his head
worse and he winced. He bit his tongue, tasted blood in his mouth. The very
last thing he recalled was being hauled off with a hood over his head and
his fear of a hanging.
But the hood was gone. And there had been no hanging. Not that he
could remember. And, surely, your brain would keep check on something
like that? But then maybe it had been so horrific that he had blocked it from
his mind.
He raised his arms to touch his neck. His arms were fine, both in good
working order. And his neck – it seemed okay, no rope burns or groove
where one might have bitten in, no broken skin. But moving it sent a
sickening jolt of pain through his body.
He let his head sink back. Noticed that it rested against something soft.
A high-backed chair, maybe. He was certainly sitting down in a chair, for
his legs were pressed against it. But his stupid, addled brain refused to
cooperate. Gave him no more information, other than the pain and the fact
that his eyes didn’t seem to be working normally.
He heard a door close nearby. And Rudi’s brain finally sprang into
action from the ancient caveman instinct that was attuned to danger. His
eyes opened fully, and his body jolted upright with the adrenalin surge that
pulsed through his system.
More pain. But more information too, although it only added to his
confusion. His brain fished for some memory. No, he had never been in this
place before. This was not the barracks: no lines of bunks, no wooden floor.
No pencil drawings on the walls. Not the mess hall either. And definitely
not the shower block.
It looked more like someone’s front room. Drapes hung at a window,
and the high-backed chair that he sat on had a twin in another corner of the
room. There was a heavy wooden desk at one end with a seat behind it. And
a low table in front of him. A painting hung on the wall. Bringing in the
harvest, he thought, incongruously. It showed a young couple sitting on a
hay wagon, their faces wearing happy smiles. A picnic of some sort sat
beside them. And a hayrick was in the background. A friendly, country
scene.
The door opened and a man in uniform stepped inside. Rudi lumbered
to his feet. His head reeled with the sudden movement and a shower of
coloured lights passed in front of his eyes. He held onto the chair-back to
steady himself. There was only so far adrenalin could take you, it seemed.
‘Sit!’ The man in front of him ordered. ‘Before you fall down, old
chap.’
‘What? Who…?’
‘Yes, I know, old man. Confusing, eh?’
‘Where am I?’ asked Rudi. ‘And who are you?’
‘So many questions. I have some as well – obviously,’ the officer said
politely, and smiled. ‘But I don’t see why we can’t do a little horse-trading,
as they say. One for you and one for me. Right, I’ll go first. My name is
Major Arnold Dunstan – Military Intelligence.’
The major was a specialist from the War Office. He belonged to a small
but elite group of men called MI19 set up by the Directorate of Military
Intelligence for one reason only: to obtain information from enemy
prisoners of war.
Arnold Dunstan was proud of his role, a cross between an intelligence
boffin and an actor. In peacetime he had pursued his interest in amateur
dramatics and found that his skills came in useful during the war.
‘Your turn, I believe,’ he said now. ‘Why were you going to the
administration building in Compound B?’
Rudi swallowed hard. ‘Some water…’ he said. ‘My throat…’ His voice
cracked.
‘Yes, of course.’ Major Dunstan went to the desk, poured water from a
jug and handed it across. ‘Sorry for the drama, the hood and the rough
stuff,’ he said. ‘But speed was of the essence. I’m sure you’ll understand.’
‘I don’t understand anything,’ said Rudi. ‘You did this? The British? I
thought it was…’ He stopped before he said anything more.
‘Confusing, yes. As I said, we had to get to you quickly before any of
your friends saw.’
‘My friends? They’re not my friends,’ said Rudi, and he gave a
mirthless laugh.
‘Yes, we know, old chap. But we couldn’t let you carry on. You’d have
mucked the whole thing up,’ replied the major.
‘Mucked up? What’s that?’
‘Compromised an operation. Something we’ve put a lot of time and
effort into.’
‘I thought you were them,’ said Rudi. ‘I thought I’d be dead by now.’
‘Ah, yes. A trip to the showers. A fatal slip on the wet floor. A broken
neck.’
‘Or a hanging,’ said Rudi.
‘It’s been done before. That’s why I’m here, Herr Fischer. I want to
save you from all that.’
‘That’s kind,’ said Rudi, sarcastically. ‘But why?’ He hadn’t missed the
major’s emphasis on ‘Herr’, as if Rudi was no longer Obergefreiter Fischer
of the Luftwaffe, but had been stripped of all military standing.
‘For us, as much as for your sake.’
‘For me?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Yes, you people are real
humanitarians. Especially perimeter guards who use us for target practice.’
‘That was unfortunate,’ said the major. ‘We don’t encourage that sort of
thing. But it’s wartime. Bad things happen. Men get overzealous. The guard
has been removed.’
Rudi said nothing. But his brain was working overtime, trying to catch
up. He thought about the perimeter guard. He hadn’t seen the soldier for a
long time, so maybe it was true that the man really had been removed, and
this intelligence officer was telling the truth.
‘Look, I know this may sound a little unlikely to you, but we don’t want
to find you – or anyone else, for that matter – hanging in the shower. Surely
that much is obvious?’
‘Nothing about this is obvious, not to me,’ said Rudi.
Arnold Dunstan meticulously brushed an invisible speck from his
uniform. Rudi suspected he was only pretending to be distracted, to buy
himself thinking time.
‘Number one, I know about your little coup.’ The major held a finger
up, then added a second. ‘And number two, I believe you were coming
today to warn us.’
‘What are you – psychic?’
‘More or less. We have ways of keeping tabs on you chaps in there
behind the wire. Intelligence methods.’
‘What ways?’ asked Rudi. ‘What kind of intelligence? No one is
talking, as far as I know.’
‘’Fraid I can’t tell you that, Herr Fischer. You’re an enemy prisoner. But
if you don’t go ahead with your part in this little coup d’état tomorrow, you
will have ruined a whole intelligence operation. And that would not only be
bad for me and my operatives, but would not play out well for your own
future health.’
‘So?’
‘So, what I need from you, old chap, is to just go back as if nothing had
happened here and when tomorrow comes, you are to play along and do
exactly as they ask.’
‘But why?’ asked Rudi, even more confused.
‘Because I need to find the men behind this little venture. I know that
it’s happening. I know when. I know where. But I need the ringleaders…
need to root them out.’
‘Ringleaders?’ said Rudi.
‘Names, Herr Fischer, I want names. But if you were prepared to give
them to me…’
‘I can’t do that. I won’t do that. I can’t give you names. No matter how
much I disagree with them. I’m not a traitor.’
‘No?’ The major raised an eyebrow, fixed Rudi with a stare. ‘Maybe.
Maybe not. You know what I think?’
Rudi said nothing.
‘You’re not like the rest of them. The warden tells me you tried to get
transferred from Compound B. And I think you don’t want any more
bloodshed. That’s why you’re prepared to warn your enemy but not
prepared to give up any names. Not a traitor, you say. And if what you say
is true, that makes you a conflicted man. Maybe even an honourable man.
Am I right, Obergefreiter Fischer? Are you an honourable man?’
‘I try to be,’ said Rudi. ‘I never asked to fight a war, but you can still be
a human being.’
‘Quite so,’ said Major Dunstan. ‘And that’s why we need to get you
back right now, before anyone knows you’ve tried to warn us. Things must
go ahead tomorrow as planned. Otherwise, you could have a whole lot more
blood on your conscience.’
Two men appeared and replaced the hood. They took him back to a spot
behind the shower block. Left him there as if nothing had happened.
Once Rudi had left the office, Major Dunstan removed a cigarette from the
silver case that had been his father’s. A souvenir, passed on by his father’s
regiment. His father had been a professional soldier, and a man of honour.
The major read the inscription once again and thought about the man
who had had it inscribed ‘Country first. Family Second. Self last. God can
take care of Himself’. He wasn’t sure if his father believed in any kind of
god. Probably just hedging his bets with that inscription.
In some ways, Rudi Fischer reminded him of the father who had died on
the Flanders Fields in World War One, fighting alongside his men. Being
honourable. He hoped he wasn’t wrong about Obergefreiter Fischer and that
he too would do the right thing. That he would go along tomorrow as if
nothing had happened. That he wouldn’t warn the others.
This attempted coup must be allowed to take place. Otherwise, the
months of painstaking intelligence gathering, the preparation of the
expensive listening equipment and the hours of transcribing prisoners’
conversations would all have been in vain. But the Germans had been
careful, hadn’t used each other’s names. And he needed those names,
needed to bag the ringleaders. Take them away from this place to
somewhere they couldn’t infect others with their fanaticism. Throw away
the key.
Major Arnold Dunstan had to do all that without the Krauts knowing
how he did it. His pressure microphones, the miles of wiring and the hours
of listeners in the basement keeping a watch; it only worked if the
surveillance went undiscovered. He believed secret surveillance and
eavesdropping would play an important role in intelligence-gathering in the
future. He hoped this exercise of his would finally persuade the powers that
be of that. He knew he could gain useful information from the POWs, but
only if the Germans felt secure enough to speak freely – both now and in
the future.
The prisoners must suspect nothing. And if that meant this chap Fischer
was injured in tomorrow’s violence, then so be it. Although it would be a
pity, for the German seemed like a decent sort – for an enemy, that was.
Yes, it would be a bonus if Obergefreiter Fischer came out of this alive for
he might prove useful in the future. But for that to happen, the gods would
need to be on Rudi Fischer’s side. Ready to hand out miracles.
But so far in Major Dunstan’s experience of war, miracles were thin on
the ground.
