Black Camp 21 Read online

  For the second time in that long day, Hartmann awaited his turn.

  ‘We can’t stay together. Not for much longer. Understand?’

  Wirz nodded. The bandage around his chin was red with blood.

  Driven by the guards, the prisoners waded thigh-deep towards the craft. As each one filled, its watertight door rose, and the engines screamed into reverse. Inside, the men groaned disapproval. There was nowhere to sit, they could not see out, and there was no cover over their heads.

  Backing into the heaving water, the vessels pitched fiercely, and a rising wind tossed spray over and into the hold. Boat after boat was quickly loaded and dispatched. No one was ticking off names. Segregation had been abandoned. Black, grey or white, suddenly all that mattered was getting these people off this beach and away from the war.

  One craft was left; one more metal box to fill. Hartmann looked around. A few hundred prisoners were left at the water’s edge. It felt good to stride into the waves, feeling with his feet for the hard edge of the ramp. Behind him, Wirz splashed his wounds and gasped sharply as the salt bit into the exposed flesh. Hartmann leaned back, offered his arm and pulled the injured man up on to the warm steel plates of the deck. When the last prisoner had stumbled in, the hydraulic door closed and the throttle roared.

  ‘We can’t be going all the way to England in this, surely,’ shouted Wirz.

  Every wave sent the luckless passengers lurching, first one way, then the other. And since there was no room to sit, each clung on to his neighbour. Only when the craft had turned, and was navigating away from the shoreline, did the motion settle. Then, through slit holes in each side, they could make out the other vessels, their engines straining against the wind and the current.

  ‘Not to England. Not in these,’ said Hartmann. ‘To transport ships.’

  Almost every trace of daylight had drained away. Black shapes shifting on the water were the only things left: the tell-tale outline of a funnel; the tapered barrels of immense guns. From what little he could see, the water was choked with ships of every size. And as the engines slowed, he found his gaze climbing up the inky flanks of one of them. Looking back down was a line of curious faces.

  Somewhere a horn was sounding. Ropes were snaking out of the night on to the deck of their landing craft. Invisible hands were securing warps, and the front ramp was clanking down on to a wooden pontoon.

  Now everything made sense. Lashed to the transport ship, the floating raft provided a makeshift jetty for the flotilla which had steamed from the beach. Draped down the side of the transport ship was a wide rope net. Already it was crawling with prisoners from the first boats, feebly hauling themselves to the top.

  As the carrier boat rocked in the swell, the net slid sickeningly from side to side. Only a handful of men were moving quickly. Among the sure-footed prisoners, Hartmann had already spotted Zuhlsdorff, climbing fast and doggedly hooking the hemp rungs in his left elbow to protect his ruined hand. Wirz had seen him too.

  ‘You people are indestructible. You’re like syphilis.’

  Away from the shore, the night was bitterly cold. Nothing mattered now but the net and soon it would be his turn. Around him, the last batch of prisoners stepped on to the floating pontoon and tottered to the side of the ship. Up above, they could hear curses and see the desperate scuffling shapes of exhausted men. For the first time in days, Hartmann’s broken ribs thumped with pain. One step at a time, he thought. No heroics. Wherever this ends, it cannot be here.

  As a space opened up on the rigging, Hartmann hauled himself forward. He’d eaten well at the camp and felt strong. He was also buoyed by a surge of unexpected vigour. Somewhere, he felt certain, Alize was alive and well. His war was over and an adventure was unfolding which he fully expected to survive.

  Grimacing, but moving strongly, he powered upwards and flopped over on to the deck, where soot was falling from the smokestack like black snow. Somewhere deep beneath his feet, a battery of pistons trembled. Snaking across the foredeck, an anchor chain slid weed-glistening from the sea and coiled itself around a giant winch.

  Alien voices and bells rang out, and the ship eased away from its mooring. As it wheeled, Hartmann caught one last sight of the beach and then they were building speed towards England. A series of deep shudders rattled from bow to stern, and a stiff breeze began to blow.

  Quietly, each prisoner had found himself somewhere to sit. Sailors with blankets were passing among them. Others were dispensing water and biscuits. Every square inch of the deck was covered by the grey-green serge of a foreign army, huddled around lifeboats or clinging to the stays. If Wirz had got any sense, he’d have hidden himself away. Very soon, no one would be in a fit state to look for him anyway. As the ship wallowed, men had already begun pushing towards the rail to be sick and a hideous lump was rising fast from Hartmann’s belly.

  When he bent forward to retch, a mutilated hand tapped his arm. Zuhlsdorff.

  ‘You should be with us.’

  Hartmann straightened. The boy seemed to live in his shadow.

  ‘We’re over there. We should stick together.’

  He could see them now: a dark scrum of grey uniforms, standing in deferential orbit around the bloodless spectre of Goltz. Hard eyes turned his way to watch as Zuhlsdorff steered him between the sleeping bodies of soldiers.

  ‘Look who I’ve found.’

  Goltz stepped half a pace forward. The red glow from a steaming light high on the mast slanted across his face. ‘Max Hartmann. You choose unlikely friends.’

  ‘To be honest, they tend to choose me.’

  Goltz smiled and leaned forward to poke the lightning insignia on Hartmann’s tunic. ‘See this? It’s not sensible to get too attached to anything else.’

  Without warning, the ship lurched sharply to port. A deep groan rose from the darkness and Goltz plunged forward into Hartmann’s arms.

  For a second, their faces were almost touching. Each man could smell the other’s breath. Through the rags of his uniform, Hartmann could feel the eerie weakness in Goltz’s body.

  ‘Sleep tight, Max,’ whispered Goltz as the two men pulled apart.

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ said Hartmann.

  By the following morning, almost every prisoner on board had been sick. The few of them who had seen the sea before had never been on a boat, not in waves like this. Only a handful of prisoners appeared immune – survivors pulled from sinking German ships. The rest had endured a frightful night of clammy disorientation.

  If he sat down, Hartmann felt certain that he would die. Even in the faint morning light, hours after puking away the last dregs of his stomach, he was still retching foul air. Along the edge of the boat, his weakened fingers clutched a cold metal rail. With a furious heave he pulled himself forward until his stomach was tight against the bulwark and he could look down on to the gunmetal-grey sea and feel the cooling bow-spray on his bruised face.

  When the ship corkscrewed violently, Hartmann’s mouth opened, diesel fumes flooded his nostrils and his empty stomach heaved rotten gas into the wind. He wasn’t alone. In every direction – bow to stern, port and starboard – the guard rail was jammed tight with the sorry spectacle of retching prisoners. Whenever the boat pitched, a foul-smelling slick slid from one side to the other which no one made any attempt to avoid. All the men craved now was a sight of land, any land. After so many hours at sea, the will to live had gone overboard with everything they’d ever eaten, and when the British guards circulated with fresh water, no one refused.

  ‘Here. Drink this.’

  With an effort, Hartmann turned his shivering gaze from the sea, and took the mug from Zuhlsdorff’s outstretched hand. Old blood was scabbing across the bandages. ‘Have you pissed in it?’

  ‘I thought about it.’

  Hartmann looked away. These past few weeks had thrown them together, but it was an accident, no more. Hopefully England would soon throw all of them apart. Zuhlsdorff’s orthodoxy made him far too dangerous.
r />   Under a brightening sky, visibility was improving. From a distant brown smudge, the English coastline was finally filling out with detail. He could make out farms and hedgerows, and the faint pulse of a lighthouse.

  As the shoreline drew closer, the swell steadied. Two vertical shafts of sunlight struck the sea either side of their boat, illuminating more ships jammed with ashen-faced men. Beyond that, and behind them, Hartmann knew there were more: a vast flotilla of steel buckets awash with vomit; the same buckets that had carried an invading army south just two months before.

  ‘We’re the lucky ones really,’ he muttered, turning back to Zuhlsdorff. But Zuhlsdorff had gone, and Rosterg had taken his place. He looked rested, and freshly washed.

  ‘Yes, I agree, Max. Although I’m not sure that’s a sentiment it would be wise to share with your new chums.’

  The two men looked out across the eastern shoreline of the Isle of Wight. In the morning light, the cliffs shone like new teeth.

  ‘We’ll be in the Solent soon. I went sailing there once. Nineteen thirty-six. Took a boat out down the coast to Penzance. Rotten seas. Ended up catching the slow train back all along the south coast.’

  A bad knot was tightening rapidly in Hartmann’s stomach. Something was wrong. ‘Just now. Where did Zuhlsdorff go?’

  ‘You’re interested? I rather thought you loathed him.’

  ‘Something’s happening, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Max.’

  Wirz. It could only be Wirz. Shit. Hartmann turned his back on the sea and swept his eyes across the foredeck. Nothing.

  ‘Looking for anyone special?’

  ‘Fuck you, Rosterg. Fuck you.’

  ‘He should have been more careful where he pissed, Max. That’s a lesson for us all.’

  He had to find him. He had to be somewhere. The previous night, he’d watched him climb the net. After that, they’d kept apart. Wirz had known why. Getting back, getting out. That was all that mattered now.

  If he could get off the boat, Wirz might just have a chance. On it, he was doomed. But he couldn’t hide for long. His face was too mashed. And he was unfinished business. Where had he gone? Dimly, Hartmann remembered that the soldier had headed right from the top of the net, towards the back of the boat. Fewer people there. More places to disappear. In the darkness, Hartmann had turned left, back into the company of Goltz.

  Where the fuck was he?

  Down each side of the ship, dozing men cursed when he lifted the blankets from their faces. Others simply watched, bemused. Under the fast-warming sun, the deck had begun to steam. The long night was over. Ashen-faced soldiers were heaving themselves up to see the chalky coves and emerald fields. No one wanted to know what the wild-eyed man in the SS tunic was doing. Or why he was muscling them furiously out of his way.

  Between him and the stern, there was just one last bundle of men. A few paces ahead, he could see the Royal Ensign snapping on its pole. From each corner of the flag, frayed ends streamed out over the sea. As the ship turned into the wind, the cloth suddenly sagged and then stiffened with a crack. Like a bullet. Every head turned, and Hartmann pushed on. Now only two men were ahead of him.

  ‘Just in time, Max,’ said Zuhlsdorff.

  Wirz had been bound at the wrists, slung across the rail and hung out over the end of the ship. Only his face and arms were still visible, but there was no sign of life. Either he was unconscious or he was already dead. Stuffed in what was left of his mouth was a black felt beret.

  From his bloodied wrists, a long rope ran three times around a thick steel winch and then back into the hands of a soldier Hartmann had never seen before. As he took in the scene, the soldier flicked the line, momentarily relieving the friction on the drum.

  Wirz’s body yanked downwards and a scream curled back over the side of the ship. He was alive. Just two coils remained.

  ‘Who is he, Zuhlsdorff? Make him stop.’

  ‘That’s not going to be easy, Max. Your friend pissed on the face of his dead brother.’

  Somewhere far beneath Wirz’s dangling legs, the propellers surged hungrily. The soldier twitched the warp again. One coil was left and the only part of Wirz still visible was his mangled arms.

  ‘I don’t know your name, but I’m asking you to stop. You can end this now. No one has to die.’

  The stranger nodded and released the end of his rope.

  For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, gathering speed quickly, the rope’s friction relinquished its grip on the winch. With a vicious lash, the last few feet broke free and followed the tumbling body of Heinz Wirz down over the edge.

  By the time Hartmann could look over, there was absolutely nothing to see. Nothing but the seagulls and the line of foamy wake which seemed to be pointing all the way back to Germany.

  Confidential: 3/9/44

  Ref: 456921GH/lkj

  From:

  Directorate of Prisoners of War

  To:

  Home Office (various)

  There has been a lot of speculation. These are the somewhat alarming facts.

  If you recall, General Montgomery’s 21st Army Group expected to take 1,000 prisoners a day by D+10. The actual figure by just D+3 was 6,000 a day; a number that has been swamped by a further 47,000 in June, 36,000 in July and 150,000 in August. Furthermore, in the wake of current engagements, in particular around the so-called Falaise ‘pocket’, we are anticipating a further 300,000 men to fall into Allied hands by the end of September.

  Given the staggering volume, it is perhaps no surprise that satisfactory segregation of these prisoners is proving difficult. Recent captives have included significant numbers of highly motivated young SS fighters whose capacity – and wish – to perpetuate their struggle should not be underestimated. SS infiltration of German army groups is common, and there have been countless reports of punishment beatings. We conclude, therefore, that the risk of more serious, sustained episodes of organised resistance is high and growing.

  There is now an urgent need to review our vetting/interrogation procedures, while accelerating the construction of appropriate secure accommodation in both Great Britain and the United States. Detailed plans for both those needs are attached for discussion in today’s working party.

  8

  Late August, 1944

  Portsmouth to London

  Hartmann stared out across the empty sea.

  It would be hours – maybe days – before anyone realised Wirz had disappeared. There’d be no urgency to ask many questions. And without any witnesses, his family could be told anything. Missing in action; believed drowned; shot while trying to escape? Whatever half-truths trickled back, it would come to the same thing. The boy should have been at school, thought Hartmann. Or lying in a field chewing grass. Not a meal for fish in an ocean the colour of gruel.

  Apart from himself, no one seemed to have noticed. All over the boat, the mood was lifting. Zuhlsdorff had vanished and two military policemen were shovelling their human cargo into some semblance of order. Hartmann took one final futile look seawards, and followed.

  Immense warps were being uncoiled, and a hum of anticipation was building among the drab throng of men. For the first time in twelve hours, the swell had relented. Between the broad banks of the Solent, the waters were flat, and the dark mass of a busy port was closing in on both sides. From every possible vantage point, prisoners jostled for a view; an invading army without a single weapon between them.

  Hartmann, like all of them, was astonished. Hadn’t the Luftwaffe reduced England’s great cities to smoking dust and bones? And yet here, for mile after mile, the riverside thrummed with activity and purpose. Alongside immense destroyers, dense ranks of American merchant ships waited patiently while cranes swung back and forth over holds bursting with cargo. Line after line of windowless warehouses reached back from the quay, and everywhere they looked, lorries and trucks buzzed with ferocious purpose. How many lies had they been fed?

  He r
emembered Koenig telling him about storage sheds full of American butter that had burned outside Portsmouth for days, and how the city’s streets had supposedly run with golden fat. He remembered a headline, too; something Goering had said about bombing Britain back to the Middle Ages. Goering or one of those other fat greasy fucks. Whoever, whenever, it hadn’t happened. All lies. Fucking lies. Just a few rubble-ringed craters where buildings had been. From this distance, under a perfect morning sky, the place looked unscathed.

  Hartmann scrutinised the ruins of his uniform. Unlike us. We won’t be quite what they expected either.

  ‘Have you noticed?’ Rosterg’s arm had slid around his waist. ‘None of us ever asks what’s happening next. Or where we’re going. Or who we’re going with. All they have to do is bellow at us and point.’

  As the ship drew alongside its mooring, a deep tremor passed through the vessel, and the funnel disgorged one final cloud of filth.

  ‘What did you expect? We lost. It’s over. Now we do what they tell us.’

  ‘No, Max. You’re quite wrong. It isn’t over at all.’

  It was always the same with this man; every word he uttered felt like an examination. With men like Goltz, you knew where things stood. Rosterg, on the other hand, slithered around this new world like a bad smell. Even his face was a mystery. Behind the distorting lenses of his spectacles, Rosterg’s eyes often appeared misshapen, offering no discernible expression Hartmann could usefully interpret.

  ‘They didn’t have to kill him. He’d got the message.’

  But Rosterg was no longer listening. With clockwork efficiency, the ship had been made fast to the wharf and a gangplank was being wheeled to the rail. Down on the quayside a mustachioed officer with a polished stick was screaming instructions.

  ‘You see what I mean, Max. They point. We go. Welcome to the great British empire.’