9: Smell Onions, Smell Death

Colemore awoke with a start and a consciousness of having slept too long; the late Lieutenant Vegelt's watch told him the time was nearly half-past seven and he rolled hastily off the bunk. Five hours, much too long. Not that the Dutchmen would mind in the least, but precious time had been wasted when he might have been talking to them. He realized suddenly that he had awakened with a new idea full-grown in his mind; to persuade them to cut loose the barges and proceed direct to England. Now, in an hour it would be daylight.

He went up on deck. It was still almost dark but the darkness was becoming less opaque. The tug was labouring steadily along, the wire hawser from the samson-post still stretched tautly aft into obscurity. The sky seemed so low as almost to touch the head of the stumpy mast, and a few large flakes of snow whirled past and began to settle. He shivered, walked along the deck and climbed the ladder to the bridge, a tiny space already overcrowded with the three men in it; the captain, another man, and a seaman at the wheel, his creased intent face showing up in the light from the binnacle.

"Good morning, captain," said Colemore. "Nasty morning."

"Good morning," said the Dutchman gruffly, and stared at him. Colemore wondering how to begin a delicate negotiation, moved across to look over the steerman's shoulder at the compass; what he saw surprised him. The course was north of east, not south of it as it should have been; they were not making for Ostend at all, but for--he thought for a moment--probably Harwich. No persuasion appeared to be needed. He looked up and met the Skipper's eyes, and the expression in them was not friendly.

"One would almost think," said Colemore, "that you were making for England."

"So," said the captain heavily, and the third man moved closer to Colemore. The atmosphere was full of menace and the steersman edged a few inches away.

"I am glad," said Colemore bluntly. "I also wish to go to England." A little lacking in finesse, he felt, but it seemed to be a moment for plain speaking.

"I am not taking you to England," said the skipper, and added thoughtfully, "Verdomte Boche."

"Verdomte Boche," said the third man like an echo.

"I am not," said Colemore. "I will convince the English that I am not."

"That is precisely what I am afraid of," said the captain. "The British are trustful and kindhearted. They do not know the Boche as we do, who have lived with him for nearly three years."

"I have friends in England," said Colemore.

"No doubt. No doubt at all. I repeat, the British lack education in these matters."

"I am an escaped British prisoner-of-war and the Gestapo are after me," began Colemore, but was interrupted by a bellow of laughter from the skipper.

"That is you Germans all over," he spluttered. "You think everyone but yourselves so stupid that any childish story will do. Escaping from the Gestapo!" He roared with laughter again.

Colemore put his hand in his pocket but the German officer's revolver had gone, the third man had neatly removed it.

"All clear, sir," he said to the skipper.

"Good. Now----"

The Skipper stopped suddenly and the mate said, "Listen!" Away to the south a cloud was suddenly illuminated, and the sound came to their ears of a series of heavy thuds.

"Gunfire," began Colemore.

"Cast off that hawser," yelled the skipper, and the third man made one jump off the bridge ladder and ran aft. "You---" added the Dutchman to Colemore, "get off my bridge."

Colemore obeyed instantly and ran down the ladder. The argument about his destination could be resumed later, the middle of a naval battle was no place for it. As he reached the narrow deck it seemed to fill with men as the crew came up, it seemed that the Jan Houys of Rotterdam carried quite a company of passengers for England. The gunfire came rapidly nearer, gun-flashes and star-shells lit up the lowering sky. He heard the whistle in the engine-room of the voice-tube from the bridge, and the skipper's voice above him howling to somebody to "Whack her up." The tug seemed to leap suddenly forward, and Colemore guessed that the mate had cast off the towing hawser and left the barges behind. There was a deep roar from the southward and a dull red glow which flickered and increased.

"Something hit," said Anthony, his teeth chattering with excitement, "please God, it isn't one of ours----"

The mate appeared beside him and shouted up to the bridge. "Hawser cast off, sir." The engine revolutions increased rapidly, Colemore glanced up to see a shower of sparks coming from the funnel.

"Good," said the skipper's voice just above his head, he must have been standing at the top of the ladder. "Now throw that"--something--"German overboard."

Colemore ducked, somebody caught him by the collar of his overcoat which fortunately was not buttoned, and he slipped out of it. But there was no room to dodge, the darkness seemed full of strong arms clutching at him. He clung to a hand-rail on the side of the deck-house and yelled, "Stop it, you fools. I'm British, I tell you----"

He was plucked from his hold as though he were a child, flung against the bulwarks and pitched overboard by the ankles. His keenest terror as the cold sea closed over him was for the screw---must keep clear of the screw----

He rose, choking and spluttering, in the wake of the tug, and an eddy spun him round to show him the Jan Houys as a black lump against the sky with a red glow at the funnel, going like a bat out of Hades. The next moment it was gone.

"The important thing," said Colemore aloud, "is to keep one's head. Now, where are those infernal barges?"

He trod water for a few moments, turning to decide the most hopeful direction, and then settled down to swim. The water was intensely cold, already he could feel his muscles beginning to stiffen. If he could not reach those barges in ten minutes, or fifteen at most, he was done for. He rose on the crest of a wave and tried to pick them out, but the star-shells had ceased, and the long low barges would be difficult to see in this grey murk. Probably he was going the wrong way, and his body seemed to be getting heavier. Another ten minutes, and then, "Of his bones were coral made, they are pearls which were his eyes"---ugh!

He felt a throbbing sensation which at first he took to be a sort of shivering in his limbs, then he realized that it was vibration from a ship's propellers. There was a ship near at hand, going fast.

There followed a blinding flash which illuminated for a second every detail of a large destroyer which appeared to be leaping like a salmon from the water and parting into pieces. Clearly visible also, nearer at hand, was the cement barge, swung broadside on to the explosion and rolling over, then the sea rose violently with him and the blast and roar of the explosion stunned and overwhelmed him. In point of fact the German destroyer, escaping at extreme speed from the British naval forces with which she had been engaged, had run straight upon the barge loaded with explosives and the whole consignment had blown up.

Colemore recovered a measure of consciousness to find himself lying half in and half out of water on a raft, a contrivance like a large plate with a fat sausage-like rim and wooden battens filling the circle. There were other men there, talking German. One of them asked who he was, and another replied that he must be the new lieutenant who joined the ship yesterday, just before she sailed. The speaker could not remember the name, but a third voice supplied it, Beisegel. "I saw it on the list," he said, in a tired sing-song voice. "I suppose the other officers are all gone."

"Beisegel," repeated Colemore to himself. "Beisegel. Beisegel. Mustn't forget that. My name's Beisegel." He slipped into unconsciousness again.

He was aroused by being heaved about and dragged uncomfortably upwards in the bight of a rope. It was broad daylight, and he was being hoisted up the side of a grey ship, upon which were men in uniform of the Royal Navy. He was hauled over the rail and stood on the deck, and immediately his legs collapsed under him.

"Here's an officer," said somebody, and made a hasty examination of him. "Doesn't seem to be wounded. Take him down to the wardroom and hop some whisky into him. I'll interview him presently. You there," continued the voice in painstaking German, "what ship are you from?"

"Destroyer," said one of the German survivors. "The Dhunn. Ran on a mine and blew up."

"When?"

But Colemore heard no more. He was conducted below, supported into the wardroom and dropped into a padded armchair. The place was warm and the chair comfortable, he lay still and watched pools of water forming round his feet. What a beastly mess and what a lot of sea-water clothes can retain. He was given a tumbler and assisted to drink the contents, his mind began to work again.

"You stay put," said the Sub-Lieutenant who was ministering to him. "Restez ici. Requiescat in pace. Sorry I don't know any German. Can you speak English?"

Colemore thought it safest to stare blankly, and the boy made signs that he was to stay where he was. Anthony, who felt he never wished to move again, nodded, and the Sub-Lieutenant went out of the room, leaving him alone.

"Beisegel," said Colemore, suddenly remembering. "That's my name, but I haven't got any papers. Vegelt's were in the overcoat. By gosh, but I have, though, there's that special pass. They mustn't find that."

He pulled it out of an inner pocket, still inside the oilskin tobacco pouch he had put it in for safety when he was on the tug--the late Vegelt's tobacco pouch. "Thought it might get wet," he murmured, and giggled weakly. "Bit damp round the edges, that's all. Where the hell can I put it?"

He looked anxiously about but the sound of approaching footsteps left him no time. He pushed the packet firmly down inside the chair between the padding of the arm and the seat just as the Surgeon-Lieutenant entered and took him firmly by the arm. "You look a bit less corpse-like," he remarked cheerfully. "Come along and let's get these wet slops off you."

The destroyer Commander's interview with his prisoner proved to be completely unsatisfactory. The Herr Leutnant Beisegel of the German Navy gave his own name and the name of his ship, but refused any other information whatever. The port from which his ship had sailed, her date of sailing, the name of her Captain, the number of her company--even Leutnant Beisegel's own home address--all these were met with a stubborn shake of the head and the reiterated reply, "I do not speak."

"It's not really important," said the Commander, losing his patience. "We have most of the information we want from your crew."

"Then why bother me?" asked the prisoner wearily, and was removed in custody.

"Obstinate devil," said the Commander. "Well, if he doesn't want his people notified of his fate, it won't keep me awake o' nights. It's their vorry, ain't it? They to have brought him up better should."

Actually Colemore realized for the first time what a tangle he was in. He could not say he was Major Brampton because the first relative who turned up to greet him would blow the gaff on that. To say that he was Anthony Colemore would merely reopen the gates of Maidstone Jail. Exhausted and depressed, he thought that if he asked to see a British Intelligence agent he would simply be removed in a plain van to the nearest mental home. This scheme, which had seemed such a jape when it started, now appeared the height of idiocy, so he squared his jaw and repeated, "I do not speak," like a good Nazi-trained parrot. After all, there was nothing much he could say.

He was landed in England, transferred to a prisoner-of-war camp, and interviewed all over again. By this time he was feeling a good deal better, he would yet make something of this job, by heck he would.

"I've been lucky so far," he told himself. "I've been garlanded with horse-shoes. I wasn't caught in Germany, shot in Holland, or drowned in the North Sea. If I don't choose to talk they won't make me--not in England. I'll just have a short rest-cure in camp and then get going again."

So, although this interviewer was more experienced and a great deal more subtle than the destroyer Commander, he got no more out of Leutnant Beisegel than the Navy man had done.

"Close as a blinking oyster," said the interviewer. "I wish I were quite sure he's as stupid as he chooses to look. Well, he's behind barbed-wire now, so that's that."

The prisoner-of-war camp could not be described as the height of luxury. It was situated on a vast expanse of moorland, colourless and bleak in those January days. Wooden huts in orderly rows contained German officers of all services and ranks who each reacted to confinement according to his temperament, and formed themselves into separate cliques according to seniority, degree of devotion to the Nazi party, social standing, family connections and so forth. The Bavarians patronized the Saxons and glared at the Prussians who sneered at both. In fact the Prussians formed the closest and most dissociated clique of all, being at once the haughtiest and the least devoted to the Party. They were the Ancient Military Regime, they were, and their authority far pre-dated the rise of the upstart Nazis. Furthermore, they all appeared to be each others' cousins and had known all about each other from their nursery days. They had no use for a mere naval lieutenant, a vonless Beisegel, and Colemore avoided them.

He cultivated the Nazis fanatics who heil-Hitlered each other all day long and exuded racial superiority from every pore. Anthony found them intensely boring but such contacts might be useful; besides, he did not mean to remain for long in their company. Two or three weeks in which to rest and make a few plans, and then he would leave. After all, he'd got out of Maidstone Jail, and out of Germany also.

The camp was very full and almost daily fresh consignments arrived from North Africa, sunburnt men from Rommel's forces who shivered in the north-east wind. More huts were erected within the barbed-wire perimeter, and still more outside it later to be included in a still larger ring-fence.

"This place is becoming uncomfortably overcrowded," said Colemore, and the elderly naval officer, to whom he was talking agreed.

"It won't last, though," he said.

"The flow of prisoners?" said Colemore. "Of course not."

The navy man shrugged his shoulders and echoed, "of course not," in a faintly sarcastic tone. "What I really meant," he added, "was that this is only a transit camp. They dump us here to wait for passage to Canada, that's all. One of the guards told me so the other day when I asked how many more they were going to bring in. I gather it won't be long now."

"Canada," said Colemore, and hoped he did not look as horrified as he felt. "What, all of us?"

"Why not? They can get quite a lot on a big passenger liner if they really try, you know. I expect they're a bit short of shipping at the moment on account of the North African campaign. But there's certain to be some 'returned empties' available soon."

This meant that Colemore's rest-cure must be brought to a close at the earliest possible moment, and he went for a thoughtful walk round the camp to gather, if possible, some germ of a fruitful idea. He was joined almost at once by Leutnant Leonhard von Rohde.

Von Rohde was a chinless youth with a fair skin and colourless flaxen hair brushed flat on a narrow head. He had been gathered in from the coast of France during one of the numerous unadvertised Commando raids which took place with such distressing frequency. Von Rohde told Colemore that he had arrived at his post on the West Wall direct from his Officer Cadet College at Bensberg, a very new chum, nervous, conscientious, and inexperienced. There came a wet moonless night, windy and full of noises, trees rustling and creaking, shutters rattling and doors clapping in every draught. They were all assembled at headquarters, nine officers together and he the youngest, talking by the fire and expecting only the mess-sergeant announcing dinner, when the door opened quietly and terrible men, armed to the teeth, rushed in. They wore brown woollen caps on their heads, their faces were blackened and their eyeballs and teeth glittered horribly. They yelled, they fired, they attacked "with knives, fists and teeth, and dear Beisegel, believe me."

"Not really?" murmured Colemore, inwardly rejoicing, for this was the first he had heard of the Commandos. "Not teeth, surely. Don't tell me they rushed in and bit you, my dear Von Rohde."

"Well, not me, actually, but the Mess-Sergeant was howling that somebody had bitten his ear. I took cover behind a chair and was just drawing my automatic when one of these appalling savages picked me up bodily, squeezed the breath out of me, threw me over his shoulder like a sack, and rushed out into the night. My head hit the doorpost going out and I lost consciousness for a time. When I recovered I was in a boat, my Captain was also there. We were on the sea and it was terribly rough, the boat was pitching and rolling most violently. My Captain and I were completely overcome, but those terrible men only laughed. One of them sat quite close to me eating onions. Onions. Whenever I think of death I seem to smell onions."

For some reason Von Rohde attached himself to Colemore and followed him about everywhere, talking all the time about "my father the General," his mother, who was some relation of Baldur von Schirach's, and his seven sisters, all older than himself. "When I was a kid," was the opening phrase of most of his stories, and Colemore received a clear picture of the darling pampered only son considered rather delicate, surrounded by petticoats and sheltered from the harsh world until he was pitchforked into Bensberg College and expected to stand on his own feet for the first time in his life. He had not been happy at Bensberg, and if he had not been equally unhappy in the army it was only because he had not been in it long enough to find out what it was really like. More clematis than cactus, in short.

Von Rohde emerged round a corner and joined Colemore as soon as he had parted from the naval officer who had talked to him about Canada.

"Where are you going?"

"Oh, just for a walk round," said Colemore. "Coming?"

"Yes, please. Is there any news?"

"Nothing definite."

"Oh," said Von Rohde. "I thought you looked as though your officer had told you something interesting. Forgive me if I appear curious, it may of course have had reference to your private affairs. But there is so little that is of any interest in this place. My father the General always says that wherever men are gathered together there must be always something of interest to hear or see. But he was never in a prisoner-of-war camp."

"He was lucky," said Colemore with feeling. "That fellow I was talking to said that he understood we should shortly be sent over to Canada."

"Canada!" exclaimed von Rohde in tones of horror, and stopped short in mid-stride. "How terrible."

"Why terrible? No worse than here. In fact, probably better, because this camp is only for temporary detention en route, that's why it's so uncomfortable. I've no doubt the quarters in Canada will be much better."

"I daresay," said von Rohde disconsolately, "but it's so far from home." His face grew red and he turned his head away to conceal his emotion.

"It is rather," agreed Colemore. "In fact, I think it's too far."

"Couldn't we escape?" said von Rohde in a whisper, glancing round him to make sure they were not overheard.

Colemore was almost startled, one did not expect daring suggestions from such as Leonhard von Rohde.

"But we are on an island," he began.

"We make our way to the coast and steal a boat," said von Rohde. "You are a naval officer and I've done a lot of small-boat sailing. If we had a boat and a compass and some food and water it could be done."

"I thought you didn't like the sea. You told me that when you were brought across----"

"But there's a lot of difference between a sailing boat and a high-powered motor launch smashing along at full speed," objected von Rohde. "You know that, yourself. I'm all right in sailing boats--at least, I always have been," he added humbly.

"I'll think it over," said Colemore, and spent several hours in doing so. It seemed at first sight completely foolish to saddle himself with this amiable goof. On the other hand, one of his problems, hitherto insoluble, was how to attain contact with German Intelligence circles in England. If by any miracle von Rohde did get across, he could take a message to the right quarter and see that it was received; after all, one isn't a nephew-by-marriage of Baldur von Schirach's for nothing, however rabbit-like in temperament one may be. There were doubtless plenty of other men in the camp who would do the job equally as well or better, but Colemore did not feel inclined to trust any of them. Besides, the more capable the man, the less desirable it was to release him; but nobody could imagine much damage recoiling upon the British Empire by the return of Leonhard von Rohde to the Wehrmacht. Definitely one of nature's white mice. Very well, if he could get out von Rohde should come too.