Last Man to Die by Michael Dobbs
‘Three “Fs”?’ enquired the commander wearily.
‘Er, “Food”, “Freedom” and …“Females”, sir,’ one of his subordinates leaned over to advise him.
‘Forget the females. I’d sell my mother for a tin of corned beef,’ a voice volunteered from out of the shadows to general approval.
‘Tell me, Hencke,’ the commander continued. ‘I share your frustration. But what on earth can we do? This is a prison camp, for God’s sake.’
Hencke delayed his reply, giving them time to silence their shuffling, giving him command of the stage. When he resumed his tone was once again harsh. ‘What can we do? Why, we can roll over and let the guards kick us whenever they feel bored. We can continue to scrabble around in the mud for the scraps of food they choose to throw at us, hoping they’ll get so tired of all this that one day they will simply throw open the gates and let us struggle back home. “One day. Some day. Never”,’ he mimicked the words of a song of lost love popular in Germany. ‘In the meantime what are we left with? “Wag your tail” – “Lick my boots” – “Sit up and beg” – “Bend over”.’ He was moving around the circle, inviting contradiction as he threw the guards’ taunts at them. None came. ‘Or we can remind our captors that we are still German soldiers, that simply because they wish to treat us like dogs there’s no need for us to act like dogs. Show them that we’re not garbage, that we’re not here just for them to piss on whenever they feel like a bit of fun. OK, they may have captured us, but for God’s sake don’t allow them to crush us. Let’s show that we’re still men!’
‘How? In Heaven’s name, how can we resist in here?’ The commander’s voice was plaintive as he swung his cane around to indicate the barbed wire surrounding them.
‘Not in here, sir. Out there.’
‘What? You mean …’
‘Escape.’
‘But that’s preposterous, Hencke. No German has managed to escape from Britain back to Germany through the course of this entire war. Not a single one! And you are willing to risk your life gambling against odds like that?’
‘It’s better than staying here to have a finger shoved up my ass. Sir.’
‘I cannot allow you to escape, Hencke. It would be folly.’
‘I’m not suggesting that I escape, sir. I’m suggesting we all do.’
His words hit the assembly like ice water, and the men began to shake themselves as if to get rid of an unwelcome drenching.
‘Think about it, just for a second,’ Hencke continued, anxious not to lose their attention as he resumed his walk, cat-like, around the circle. ‘It’s because no one’s ever escaped that it makes such sense. The guards are pig-lazy and idle, the last thing they expect is trouble. And if we all get out, the confusion will be huge, there’ll be a far greater chance of at least one of us making it back.’
‘It’s worth a shot,’ someone prompted.
‘That’s all you’re likely to get – shot!’ retorted the commander, wiping spittle from his lips. He had seen so much unnecessary death, his conscience couldn’t take responsibility for permitting still more.
‘Sir, when did you ever hear of a German POW being shot after trying to escape? These British are sticklers for the rules. Twenty-eight days’ solitary is the maximum they’re allowed to throw at us.’
‘Yes, but these Canadians don’t play by the rule book …’
‘This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for to get our own back. What the hell are the Canadians going to do if they lose an entire campful of prisoners? More to the point, what are the British going to do to the Canadians? It’s our chance to get our own back, to catch them with their trousers down!’
‘Oh, yes. It’d screw the verdammten Canadians rigid,’ a prisoner applauded. ‘I’d just like to see Pilsudski’s face the morning after. I’d risk anything for that.’
‘But what purpose would it achieve?’ the commander began, lacking the strength to join in the enthusiasm that was beginning to bloom around him.
‘It would show our loved ones back home that, whatever they are about to go through, we have not forgotten them,’ Hencke responded quietly, his words massaging away the doubts. ‘That we remembered our duty to them. That we share the burden of their suffering. That we are still their men. Anyway, what’s the alternative? Staying behind for more of this!’ He stuck his middle finger in the air, imitating the gesture Pilsudski had thrown at the commander, and a shiver of fury cut through the assembly.
The commanding officer could sense the change of mood and motivation amongst his men. A chance to revenge the humiliation, to end the despair, no longer to be Pilsudski’s catamites. To become whole men once again. It was his duty to stop it, of course; it was folly. But he no longer had the energy to resist. He sat, head resting in exhaustion on the top of his cane, unable to find any further protest while those around him began to chatter away with more animation and spirit than they had found since entering Camp 174B.
Hencke smiled grimly. The escape was on. His mission had begun.
Churchill attempted to wipe the dribble of rich gravy from his waistcoat with a crisp linen napkin, but all his effort served only to impregnate the grease more firmly into the fibre. He gave up the unequal struggle; the stain wouldn’t be noticed, anyway, amongst all the rest. Perhaps he should have felt a prick of conscience surrounded by so much good food while most of the country were struggling on a weekly meat ration that looked no more appetizing than a Trafalgar Square pigeon and eating breakfasts concocted from powdered egg that had the consistency of fast-drying concrete and much the same impact on the digestive system. Still, he could no more stand the pace on an empty stomach than he could run a war without shedding blood. Conscience often had to go into cold storage. So he would enjoy his food and his bathtime and continue to exhort others to use no more than five inches of water.
The Old Man was content. A few close friends, their wives glittering in all their pre-war finery, made an attentive audience. The ten diners had just finished demolishing a haunch of venison shot a few days previously on the Scottish estate of the host, Sir William Muirhead, and ferried down to London for the occasion. Runner beans from the hot-houses of Cornwall had also been served, bought off-ration but at lavish price, and washed down with a splendid claret. The war had played merry hell with current French vintages, but the best stock had been well preserved, stored deep in cellars, far out of reach of the Luftwaffe. All part of God’s great plan, mused Churchill as he finished another glass.
‘Seems that the flood of American soldiers through London is playing havoc with prices in the West End,’ chirped Sir William’s wife. That afternoon she had come back from an expedition to Fortnum’s, bemoaning the fact that not only had their prices for afternoon tea gone up but, far worse, she’d had to queue for more than ten minutes behind a group of GIs before getting a table. They had even left their tip, not discreetly under the plate but on top, right out for everyone to see. So vulgar.
‘Makes a change from the Free French, I suppose,’ Churchill pouted through a lopsided, indulgent grin.
Lady Muirhead failed to notice the glint in his eye. ‘I’m sorry, Winston?’
‘Prices in the West End. The Free French. Apparently every street-walker in London claims to belong to the Free French. Although scarcely any of them are French. And none of them, so I’m told, are free!’
There was general laughter as the PM relaxed amongst old friends, only the long-suffering Clemmie showing little appreciation. She’d heard it all before.
Another of the wives joined in. ‘Do you know, I heard the other day that a bus full of schoolchildren had been brought into the West End to see the lights turned on, now the blackout has been lifted. Seems they were all terrified. Never seen anything like it before. Burst into tears and demanded to be taken back home.’
The laughter was less genuine, and Churchill chose not to join in. The comment had been silly and insensitive. What was there to laugh about with a generation of chil
His host noticed the faraway look beginning to creep into Churchill’s eye and decided to intervene. ‘Winston, I think it’s time for a toast,’ he said, refilling the Old Man’s glass. ‘I sometimes wondered whether we would ever reach this point, but at last it seems as if the war is almost over. We’ve won – no, you’ve won the war, Winston. I know those Yankee interlopers have come in for the finish, just like they did last time, and will no doubt claim much of the credit …’
‘Just like they did last time!’ someone added.
‘But it wouldn’t have happened, couldn’t have happened without you and what you’ve done. I know there will be many more toasts in the weeks and months ahead, but as an old friend it would do me great honour if this could be the first.’ He raised his glass. ‘To you, Winston. With our thanks for winning the war.’
It was a genuine accolade, made all the more poignant because as an old friend there was no need for Muirhead to have made the gesture. There was a mutter of appreciation from around the table as the others joined in, and already Churchill’s eyes were brimming with tears. He wiped the trickle away with the flat of his hand.
‘Not quite over yet, you know. Still all to play for,’ was the only response he seemed able to mount as Clemmie reached over to pat her own tribute.
‘Still all to play for’, Churchill heard the echo in his mind. Was it so? Eisenhower’s response to his telegram, received that afternoon, had been blunt. ‘Keeping all options open,’ it had said. ‘Review the situation on an ongoing basis … No rush to judgement.’ All the cliches at which an American military mind could clutch. But in the event, Eisenhower’s unwillingness to impair his authority over military matters had been clear and uncompromising. The hard facts were inescapable.
‘I have not won this war, Bill,’ Churchill continued, in a tone that dampened the reverie around the table. He waved down the polite protest of his host. ‘Perhaps historians will be kind and maybe it will be said that I prevented us from losing the war, after Dunkirk. But look around us. Look not just at the West End of London, but across the battlefields of Europe. This war is now an American war, fought with American guns, American money and American lives. Today they have more troops engaged in combat than the whole of the British Empire. It is the Americans who will win this war, eventually. And, to my everlasting regret, it is they who will be largely responsible for the peace.’
As his host picked up the conversation, Churchill could not but remember the words of Eisenhower’s response. Far from pouring through the bridgehead at Remagen, the Supreme Allied Commander was being cautious, blaming the fragile state of the bridge, stating that it would take several days before it was clear whether the bridgehead would hold. So British troops in the north who were ready to advance on Berlin would have to continue sitting on their backsides while Eisenhower’s penpushers dithered about whether US troops had enough prophylactics and nylons for the battle ahead. Damn the man! The war wasn’t over yet and he wasn’t ready to watch American generosity give away everything he had fought for. As he poured himself a brandy, Churchill resolved once more: He wasn’t going to let go, there was too much at stake. While Eisenhower prevaricated, the peace was being lost. The Americans would have to be persuaded or pushed into changing their plans, to set aside their fears of an Alpine Redoubt. Not for the first time he cursed the shortsightedness of others; once again, as at Dunkirk, he was fighting alone. But fighting he was. By one means or another, they would get to Berlin first!
Dinner that night at Camp 174B had been a quiet affair. Not that a mixture of sausage, canned herring and white bread eaten out of an empty corned beef tin and washed down with a mug of tea ever excited great enthusiasm, but the guards were grateful it had been finished rapidly. It left more time for a game of cards and a quiet cigarette.
It was shortly before dusk when one of the Canadian captors’ attention had been attracted by a soldier beckoning in his direction from the shadows of a tent. As he approached he saw the prisoner held a watch in his hand; it was to be a trade. Another Kraut who wanted extra rations or a dry pair of boots.
They moved behind the tent to put themselves away from the general body of prisoners. Illicit trading like this went on all the time, but it paid to be cautious. You didn’t want the whole world to know that you were getting a genuine Swiss watch with twelve diamonds in the movement for the price of a couple of packs of cigarettes. Yet this deal was proving tricky. It was an excellent watch, one of the best the guard had seen in the camp, but the prisoner was demanding a ridiculous price.
It was as they were bent over in heated discussion, the guard wondering whether he should just confiscate the thing anyway, that he felt the cold touch of steel on the back of his neck.
‘Don’t try to be a hero. Just do as you’re told, friend,’ a voice said in heavily accented English. ‘Put down your rifle slowly.’
He tried to turn round but the steel jabbed into his neck. ‘I’ll blow your head off if you try anything stupid.’
‘You can’t have got a gun – even if you had you wouldn’t dare use it,’ the Canadian protested, the uncertainty flooding through.
‘You’re going to gamble your life on it?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Your rifle laid on the ground, very slowly.’
‘Or else?’
‘Or else you die, my friend.’
Shit, why did it have to be him? The war nearly over, soon back to the farm outside Calgary with lots of silly stories to impress the girls about how he personally beat Hitler and won the war. And there would be no damn medals for getting his balls blown off in this God-forsaken part of Britain, a million miles from the front. Slowly, very slowly, he bent down and placed his rifle on the ground.
‘Wise move, soldier.’
The guard didn’t even have time to stand erect. No sooner was his hand away from the trigger than he was hit from behind with the heavy metal bracket that had been wrenched from a camp bed and held against his neck. It wasn’t a very good imitation gun, but now it didn’t matter. They had a real one, and a guard’s uniform. All the tools they hoped they would need …
The brandy was flowing, and Churchill was once again in excellent humour. The women had withdrawn to another room, leaving the men to their own devices. In the absence of the ladies it had been confirmed that prices in the West End had indeed soared, and the only thing the whores were offering free was abuse.
‘It was the same during the last war,’ Muirhead confirmed, to the amusement of his guests. ‘Nothing changes.’
‘My dear sir, but it does,’ Churchill interjected forcefully, wagging his cigar across the table and scattering ash everywhere. ‘How well I remember, when I had returned from the Boer War, I received several very encouraging propositions from such ladies who made it abundantly clear that there would be no charge. I can only ascribe the present unhappy bout of inflation in the West End to a sad decline in values.’ He chortled along with the rest, enjoying his own joke.
‘That was rather special,’ Muirhead chided. ‘You had just escaped from a Boer prison camp and been chased across half of Africa by their army.’
This was why the Old Man enjoyed Muirhead’s dinners; the host always made a point of giving him plenty of scope for relating some of his favourite stories.
‘Why bother to escape, Winston? What drove you to it?’ enquired one of the guests.
And with scarcely time for a perfunctory cough of modesty, he was off. ‘The Boer’ – he pronounced it ‘Booa’, as if to emphasize the race’s reputation for thick-skinned stubbo
‘“Winston Churchill: Dead or Alive”,’ Sir William offered.
‘If only the British electorate had wanted me as passionately as the Boers!’
While the other guests chuckled, Churchill paused to scratch his crotch with a total lack of self-consciousness. His table manners were atrocious. He had long ago ceased to bother about such trivial things, and when Clemmie had forcefully reprimanded him he had justified his behaviour as the self-indulgence of an old man. Anyway, he countered, it hadn’t caused any slackening in the flood of dinner invitations.
‘Seriously, Winston. If you had been captured you most certainly would have been shot, if only to discourage others. Why risk your life? Was it really that important?’
‘I never realized how important until I returned home, where I found that my escape had been the focus of the newspapers’ attention for weeks. Unwittingly I had become a hero, a symbol of national resistance, and my escape had succeeded in bolstering the determination of the entire country to continue with the war until victory. It is a matter of morale, and you cannot fight a war without morale. As one editor kindly wrote, “One man, by his actions and example, can so inspire a nation that he will light a fire across a whole continent”.’
There was an appreciative silence around the room and a look of sheer wickedness crept into the Old Man’s eye. ‘And, as I discovered, you can get a good discount into the bargain!’
The camp was in darkness. There were no lights along the perimeter fence and the only illumination came from within the old football changing rooms, which now served as a guard hut, and from the bright moon. But it was a blustery night with clouds scudding across the sky. Had any of the guards bothered to look they would have found shadowy figures flitting between the tents, playing hide-and-seek in the sporadic moonlight, but most of the Canadians were relaxing in the guard hut. There were just four guards on the main gate into the compound, and two patrolling the walkway between the double perimeter fence. Guard duty was a pain; there had never been any trouble and no prisoner in his right mind would want to escape back to the hell pit they’d just left in Europe. They were all, prisoners and guards alike, marking time till the fighting was over.