POW CAMP 115, WHITE CROSS, ST COLUMB MAJOR,
CORNWALL
Rudi Fischer had been a prisoner of war for almost six months now,
although sometimes it was hard to judge the passage of time. One of the
first things his British captors had done was to take his watch. He’d tried to
hide it in his boot, but an English Tommy had found it. Any other time,
Rudi might have called it stealing, but he was a realist. The wedding rings
and the watches, the money that had been taken away from them all for
‘safekeeping’ had never been returned. It had been confiscated, along with
the cap badges, regimental insignia and the swastika pins. The booty of war.
Rudi had quickly understood that some of the British Tommies saw these
things as souvenirs, something they had a right to take from their defeated
German enemies.
It had been hard at first. He’d been cold, hungry, frightened. Unsure of
his future or how cruel his British captors would be. He’d been part of a
bomber crew, after all, a waist gunner in a Heinkel. If you bombed their
cities, you couldn’t expect to be welcomed with open arms.
But, although he’d been subjected to some initial interrogation, and de
humanised as he was stripped naked for a cold shower and his uniform
fumigated, there had been no violence, no real cruelty. His captors had even
fixed his broken leg.
There had been hundreds of them at the prisoners’ reception centre at
Kempton Park – a famous racecourse, he’d heard later, although Rudi had
no idea where he was. He was grateful that his father had taught him to
speak English. But he knew little about Britain, its geography, or its people,
other than the propaganda fed to him at home: about how useless and
inferior the British were, not anything like as competent as his own
countrymen. Still, he’d been grudgingly impressed by the way his enemies
had swiftly processed the milling horde of prisoners.
A prisoner of war. Hard to take in, when all he’d felt was numb. And
bone weary. He’d been lucky to survive the crash. Only two of their flight
crew had: him and the haughty Berliner, Oberleutnant Karl Hoffmann.
Hoffmann was the navigator, an officer and fanatical Nazi sympathiser who,
it was rumoured, had been destined for great things in the Nazi Party.
Now that Rudi was in this new, permanent work camp in Cornwall, he’d
been allocated clothes and boots that finally fitted. The clothes were a
uniform of sorts. An old, worn British RAF battledress, but not royal blue:
it was dyed black for prisoners. But it was the miracle of the boots that had
put a smile on his face. His own uniform boots had always been far too
small for his large feet. He was tall. Big feet came with the package. But
when he’d first been issued with his uniform and complained about the
boots, they’d all laughed. Germans didn’t complain. They were stoic. You
were in the Luftwaffe. You took what they gave you, and tight boots were
better than no boots at all.
These new boots weren’t actually new, of course. Probably from some
dead British soldier. They were scuffed and worn, but at least they didn’t let
water in. And no more blisters. It was bliss.
And this permanent camp meant they finally knew when their next
meals were coming. Two a day, regular as clockwork. Not luxurious meals.
One hot, one cold. He was skinny, wouldn’t get fat on what they were fed
there, but then neither would the guards, for they ate the same thing as their
German prisoners.
One of the guards, a Scotsman, was even quite friendly, and had taken a
photograph of Rudi outside his hut.
And the camp regime wasn’t too harsh. You did what they told you and
you got by. It was a boring, monotonous existence, but it was better than
facing the flak in the skies, night after night.
He hadn’t been keen on fighting a war in the first place. Hadn’t joined
the Hitler Youth like some of the other young men in his small Alpine
village. Rudi had longed to be an engineer, to use his head and his hands
like his father, but sometimes you had no choice. And joining the Luftwaffe
had been better than fighting in the infantry, plus the food was better.
And now? He’d tried to be philosophical. Here, in the middle of the
Cornish countryside, he would wait the outcome of the war. And his captors
had been reasonable, had even allowed Rudi to set up the camp newspaper,
Die Wochenpost.
He’d also organised a small, informal group of fellow prisoners who
wanted to learn English. Rudi had never imagined himself to be any kind of
teacher but found that he enjoyed it and it was a focus, something to hold
onto in the boredom of captivity.
There were no guard towers here in Camp 115, no spotlights or coils of
barbed wire, no fierce guard dogs – just a perimeter fence and regular
patrols. Some of his fellow prisoners even got to go outside the gates, in
work parties to help local farmers; or as labourers, working with the locals,
fixing potholes in the roads.
But suddenly everything changed, and Rudi Fischer awoke each day
now with a gut- wrenching fear. Not a fear brought on by the British, by his
captors. No. The fear had come from his own side.
He knew something important about another prisoner that could get him
killed.
Rudi thought back to when his plane had crashed in Kent. How he’d
watched Oberleutnant Karl Hoffmann do something strange. The man had
changed clothes with the young dorsal gunner, callously stripping the poor
dead bugger of his uniform.
At first, Rudi had been confused. But not anymore. That bastard
Hoffmann had changed identity, turned himself into an enlisted man,
someone who wouldn’t be sent to the special interrogation centres reserved
for officers and hardliners with Nazi sympathies.
And now, life had changed dramatically for Rudi. It happened the
moment he had threatened Hoffmann. Threatened to tell the British who the
man really was. He had done it because Hoffmann had been bullying
younger prisoners. Beating some. If only Rudi had kept his mouth shut,
things might have been fine. Instead, he had warned that swine Hoffmann.
Stop the bullying or I go to the British. Tell them everything I know.
The footsteps behind him were loud and menacing, and a large, meaty
hand spun him viciously around. The eyes that stared at Rudi were full of
hate, and the broad, brutish face spoke only of vengeance and spite.
‘So, I find you here, skulking,’ said Hoffmann.
‘Skulking? Why should I skulk?’ asked Rudi.
‘Hiding in the shadows like a frightened rabbit.’
‘Now I’m a rabbit? You should write fairy tales, Hoffmann. Something
we Germans are good at.’
‘A friendly warning, my dear Obergefreiter Fischer.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘This camp can be a dangerous place. There are many hazards.’
‘I see. Like what?’ asked Rudi. But he figured he knew exactly what
they were.
‘After lights out, many traps can wait in the darkness. And a trip to the
showers – a man could easily become careless, could slip. A broken neck.
A man should remain vigilant, accidents happen.’
‘My thanks, Oberleutnant Hoffmann,’ said Rudi.
‘For what?’ asked Hoffmann.
‘Your concern for my welfare. I’ll be sure to stay vigilant. Keep my
eyes open for hazards.’
With that, Rudi Fischer walked away. He whistled as he left, stuffed his
hands in his pockets in a nonchalant, carefree pose. But it was a lie. His
hands were shaking, for he had seen the evil in Hoffmann’s eyes.
There was no way back now. Escape was the only answer.
Rudi went to the camp chapel, and he prayed. He wasn’t a religious
man, but he tried to be honourable. Even in war, a man could still have
honour and some kind of humanity.
He felt better after he’d prayed, even though he didn’t believe in a
higher power, in any kind of god.
But, considering the eventual outcome, it would seem that God believed
in him.
