Last Man to Die (10 page)

Churchill frowned disparagingly, making no attempt to hide his view of anybody who made himself available to journalists at home in the morning.

‘Talked of reports about a great POW escape in Yorkshire last week. The details were sketchy, but the ‘ole rotten camp got out, ‘e said.’ There was a slight pause while he considered how to frame the question before deciding, as he normally did, that bluntness was better than politeness. ‘What about it? What’s going on, Prime Minister? Is it true? What ’ave you been ’iding from us?’

It was too much for Churchill. He was tired, very tired, and despite his ministrations the pain in his shoulder was getting worse. He’d been looking for someone to lose his temper with all morning since Clemmie had started up again with her endless nagging about his ‘extravagance’ and worrying about how they were going to pay for everything from his cigars to the new drains at Chartwell. With his wife he had a lifetime’s practice of closing his ears and gritting his teeth; with Bevin he could find no cause for self-restraint. With alarming abruptness the PM’s fists beat upon the makeshift Cabinet table. His pen flew from the blotter and performed a full somersault,
while the lid of the red despatch box in front of him came down with a crash.

‘How on earth are we expected to run a war when we are bombarded with questions like that? Whose side is your reporter friend on, for God’s sake? Hasn’t Hitler made our lives difficult enough without half the American press corps snapping at our heels?’ Churchill’s shoulders were hunched and rounded, his solid forehead thrust forward like a bull about to charge, an impression made all the more acute as in the surge of excitement his glasses slid to the end of his nose to reveal furious red eyes.

There was not a sound from within the room beyond the exertions of the Old Man’s breathing. The Cabinet Secretary had stopped taking notes while most of the others in the room found things at the edges of their blotting pads which required their urgent attention. Only Bevin seemed unperturbed.

‘For the record, Prime Minister, the man’s a journalist, not the Gestapo. And I’d like an answer to my question. Seems simple enough to me. If any of what ‘e ‘ad to say is true I think the Cabinet ‘as a right to know.’ He returned the glare.

Churchill needed to play for time to recover his composure. It was all very well losing his temper, but only if it had a point and gave him an advantage. There was none in this.

‘Has anybody else picked up this sort of gossip?’ He made it sound as if he were making enquiries about a venereal disease. He glowered around the room, finding little response until he lit upon Beaverbrook, his close friend and Minister for Production, who was clearly agitated. Beaverbrook had tried urgently and unsuccessfully to catch him
before Cabinet but, as usual, Churchill had been late and in a rush – delayed by Clemmie’s damned nagging. Had Beaverbrook been trying to warn him? Beaverbrook knew all the gossip running around Fleet Street – hell, he owned half of it – and now he was nodding his head as if to confirm what Bevin had said. He looked forlorn, biting his bottom lip, implying that even with his immense grip on the media there was little chance of bottling this one up. But he remained silent and Churchill was grateful for that, at least; it helped give him a means of escape.

The Prime Minister coughed to break the awkward hush. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’m glad such inaccurate reports have not yet been widely circulated, because it gives me the opportunity to tell you the facts. This is a serious security matter, which is why it has not been included explicitly on the Cabinet agenda, although it had always been my intention to raise it today under “Any Other Business”.’ He shot a venomous glance at Bevin, daring him to challenge the lie, but all he got back was an inscrutable stare from behind pebble glasses.

‘There was indeed a large escape last week from a camp in Yorkshire,’ Churchill continued, the flush slowly disappearing from his cheeks, ‘not, I hasten to add, as large as the wild rumours we have just heard might indicate.’ He took from within his ministerial box the note which Cazolet had prepared for him on a daily basis since the break-out. Statistics. More damned statistics, but he was grateful for them now. ‘Ten days ago there was a mass escape from Camp 174B – a camp guarded by Canadians.’ Nice point that; colonials were to blame. ‘A total of two hundred and forty-seven Germans were involved.’

‘That’s the biggest blinkin’ break-out of the war …’ There was a gasp of astonishment from around the table as the scale of the fiasco sank in.

‘The Cabinet will appreciate, I am sure, what impact news of the event might have had in the wrong hands. It might have caused panic amongst the public and could have given succour only to the enemy. As it is’ – he scanned the note – ‘two hundred and eleven of the prisoners had been recaptured by seven o’clock this morning. The incident has been contained, almost snuffed out, and the damage it might have done has been avoided. Only thirty-six remain at liberty, by this evening that figure will be lower still.’

Only
thirty-six. The man had nerve. He made it sound like a triumph. At any other time the news of so many escaped POWs would have seemed like a national humiliation, heads would have rolled, but in Churchill’s hands and now, as victory approached …?

‘It is a glowing tribute to our security forces that the escapees have been rounded up so quickly. In spite of the initial misfortunes of our Canadian cousins, the incident has proved a testament to the success of the police, the armed services and, of course, this government in coping with these unique and unforeseen circumstances.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Beaverbrook growled, setting aside the temporary embarrassment of his Canadian birth.

‘So I was right,’ Bevin snapped, sniffing the air as if trying to scent the weakness in Churchill’s explanation. ‘Why didn’t you tell us right off about this? Why did we ’ave to smoke you out? You know what you’ve done? You’ve given ’em time to get away.’

‘It was merely a tactical security matter, nothing more.’

‘You call the largest POW escape of the war a “tactical security matter”?’

‘To the extent that there were any security implications involved I, as both Prime Minister and Minister of Defence, was kept constantly informed. The constitutional requirements have been fully satisfied.’

Churchill felt more relaxed, he was regaining control. He had always planned to make an announcement, but later, in his own time, when the figures of those still at liberty were even smaller and more manageable, less likely to create silly sensationalist headlines. And if it gave one or two escapees a little more time, well, it was a price he could live with. His hand had been forced, but once it was out in the open it wasn’t half as bad as he had feared. And Bevin had lost the floor; someone else was raising a question.

‘But what of the remaining thirty-six prisoners? And are we to allow the country to hear about this through CBS?’

Churchill smacked his hand decisively on the dark blue velvet of the Cabinet table. ‘I think you will all agree, gentlemen, that we have reached an entirely appropriate stage at which to seek the public’s assistance in rounding up the thirty-six strays and stragglers.’

‘So we’ll no longer ’ide it, we’ll make a full public announcement?’ Bevin pressed.

‘I agree with the Minister. It’s time the people heard about this most recent British success.’

There was a snort of ridicule from Bevin, but no more. It had been a close-run thing and Churchill
would dearly love to have the individual who leaked the news dangling by his balls from a bomb bay at 30,000 feet but that, for the moment, would have to wait. For now the chase was on in earnest.

When Hencke opened his eyes and lifted his head from the shotgun the old woman had gone. He’d fallen asleep, lost in his recurring nightmare of memories and pain as the cold, sluggish blood had drained into his exhausted muscles, denying his faculties. Asleep! Only for a moment or two, perhaps, but it had been enough. Maybe she had gone for another phone, the police might already be on their way. His mind was still numb, disorientated – how much time did he have; which way to run, was there any point?

Then he heard it again, that same noise, coming from the stairs. Turning, he found her descending, still dressed in the white cotton dressing gown, a large darkening lump above her left eye, her eyes filled with hate. And she was holding another shotgun.

‘This time, you bastard,’ she breathed in quavering voice and started to raise the gun to her shoulder.

Later Hencke would find many justifications and different crumbs of logic for what happened next. She intended to kill him, of that there was no doubt. Even if there had been doubt, he would never find another opportunity to escape. And the benefit of his succeeding far outweighed any cost. War was filled with such calamities. He even wondered, very privately in those dark spaces within, if it was because she reminded him too much of his aunt, that he had woken in the middle of a nightmare to see this old woman, shrivelled with hate, come back
to haunt him. He was not certain of the reason, only that he had no time to resolve uncertainties. As the barrels of the old woman’s shotgun rose inexorably towards him he felt the other shotgun beneath his hands, it was the work of a moment to swivel the stock around until the weapon was pointing in her direction, quell the doubts, ignore the screaming inside his head, pull the triggers. One barrel exploded and a damp, dark patch appeared on the woman’s dressing gown just by her left breast. The look of hate on her wizened face turned to surprise, a slow, stupid look, as she was plucked from her feet and deposited against the wall several steps above where she had been standing. The patch on the pure white cotton had turned to sticky crimson and the blood began to seep down the front of her body and through her inquisitive fingers to gather in a pool on her lap. She died where she fell.

Hencke remained still. He sat staring at the body, juggling the justifications, arguing with himself, contradicting, unable to move. His body felt distant, separate, as though it belonged elsewhere. A battle developed within his gut as the guilt and vomit fought against resolution and excuse, tangling his emotions and leaving his mouth soaked in bile. Then he stopped. He didn’t need alibis, even to himself, so he said. It had happened, an accident, unintended and unwanted, but it couldn’t be changed and there was no point in futile analysis. It was a fact of – a fact of death, like so many others in this war, and there was no time for grief or regret. He had learned in the ruins of his classroom that war leaves no neat divide between the warriors and the innocent, that no one could escape this game which others had begun. But he would finish it, if he could.

He rose and with great care mounted the stairs, stepping past the body with its arched, sightless stare of incomprehension, not daring to glance back. When he descended many minutes later he was clean and dressed in a complete change of men’s clothes found in a bedroom cupboard. And outside he had a bicycle, or perhaps even something better in the garage. He stopped beside the damp tangle of Canadian and POW uniforms which still steamed beside the stove. If they found them near the body there would be no place for mercy in the hunt, any more than they would show a rabid dog. They would know that at least one escaped German prisoner of war would stop at nothing to get back to the homeland. They would know it, the whole world would know it. And eventually they would know it was he.

Hencke stepped over the pile of clothing and closed the kitchen door gently behind him.

London was hell. When Hencke first arrived, by fortune he had found himself immersed and anonymous in a sea of humanity. The capital was teeming – with soldiers on leave, with homeless persons bombed on to the streets and scratching around for a place to shelter, with refugees from occupied Europe. None of them seemed to belong anywhere, none could be easily traced by the authorities and, most helpful of all, many of them were foreign. Hencke could slip between the folds, unnoticed. It had kept him going for several days while he tried to focus on what he should do next. He’d slept on the platform of Swiss Cottage underground station, crowded with others who had nowhere else to go or who were simply unwilling to risk the attentions of a V-1 or V-2 while sleeping in their own, unprotected beds. It had been like a tower of Babel built beside railway lines with a cocktail of foreign tongues stirred vigorously by European Jews, Poles, Greeks, Hungarians, even a sprinkling of Yugoslavs, alongside resident Londoners and itinerant Scots and Irish. He got little sleep in the fetid atmosphere but it had been warm and even welcoming; his strong accent was unlikely to arouse suspicion amongst the cosmopolitan crowd. There had also been food, queued for at the soup kitchens or begged off American GIs, all of whom seemed to have a pocket stuffed
full with oranges, chocolate and cigarettes and who were constantly surrounded by groups of youngsters clamouring for gum. As the war moved closer towards its end there were too many people wandering the streets of London with no background and no permanent residence for one more dishevelled foreigner to arouse much suspicion and, anyway, people were tired of suspicion. It had worn them out over all these years, and it was a relief to be able to relax, to let the guard down, to smile once more.

Then news of the escape had broken. And the hunt was on. At every street corner a newspaper billboard proclaimed it, in every soup kitchen queue people discussed it. Twenty-one still free! Within three days only a dozen left at large! Then but three! Hencke could feel eyes everywhere, probing, questioning, demanding to know who he was and why he had no money to buy food. It was his imagination, of course, but the sea of humanity in which he had been able to swim seemed to have become angry and full of menace, threatening to swallow him at any moment. He knew it was only a matter of time before his luck disappeared, before he was caught out, when someone asked an impossible question or his nerve broke and he gave himself away.

The day had come when the billboards screamed ‘One More To Go!’ He was the last one. He was on his own. There was no more time.

For the previous three days he had been keeping watch on the Spanish Embassy early in the morning, around lunchtime and again in the late afternoon, always from a different position, constantly on the move to avoid rousing the suspicions of the police guard, but studying everyone who entered and left. He was looking for the diplomatic staff, trying to
recognize those who passed through every day and guessing which of them could be trusted and might help. Spain was nominally neutral yet had been friendly towards the Axis ever since the fledgling Luftwaffe had helped Franco bomb Guernica and the Republican movement into rubble. In spite of their neutrality someone might remember, and might be willing to repay the debt. But which one? How to tell a man’s motivation from the way he dresses, from the turn of his collar or the crook of his nose? To distinguish a brave man from a coward, or a potential friend from somebody who wanted simply to play it by the rules? Yet Hencke had to try.

It had to be today. He had begun to take chances. His nerves were frayed and his hunger was beginning to burn in spite of the hand-outs, and the previous night he had fallen into conversation on the underground station with a married couple who had offered to share their thermos of coffee with him. What did he do? How long had he been in England? He reminded them of their son, whom they hadn’t seen in six months while he had been battling his way up the backbone of Italy. Why had Hencke been exempted from military service? Why wasn’t he out there fighting? Within five minutes he had contradicted himself twice and their generosity had turned to resentment and suspicion. They thought he was a draft-dodger, and it wouldn’t be long before someone came to the correct conclusion. So it had to be today.

The embassy was a square-built Victorian affair, solid rather than pretentious, tucked away in the corner of Belgrave Square. It had a large portico which seemed to be the only entrance and through which every visitor and staff member had to pass. Immediately outside stood the police guard, checking
credentials. It had been doubled since news of the escape had leaked. So Hencke walked around the square, sat on a park bench, read a newspaper and did his best not to look suspicious, all the time feeling as conspicuous as a boy scout in a convent. The man in the trilby and trenchcoat had entered the embassy shortly before eight o’clock and, if he followed the pattern of the previous two days, would be out for a stroll through nearby Hyde Park at twelve-thirty precisely. But what if he changed his plans? If he decided to take an early break? If he weren’t a diplomat after all? To curb his anxiety Hencke was back waiting on the corner near the embassy shortly after eleven a.m. He had to dispense with the newspaper; it was shaking too much in his unsteady hands. His impatience meant he risked the attentions of the duty policemen, but it was time for taking risks.

The man appeared precisely on time. His collar was up and the trilby pulled down firmly over his head against the squallish wind, but there was no mistake. Hencke hurried on ahead, taking the opposite route around the square and relieved to see the other man pacing along his accustomed route, briefcase tucked under his left arm. By habit he would stop at a bench overlooking the lake in the park and produce sandwiches from the briefcase, munching through them before throwing any remnants of crumbs and crust to the sparrows. He liked birds, perhaps that was why Hencke had decided to trust him. His own father had been an avid ornithologist, so his aunt had told him. That’s all he had of his father, a scrap of information about his hobbies and an even scrappier but greatly treasured photograph, taken a few days before he left for the trenches and
which had been lost in the charred ruins of the schoolhouse. So the Spaniard liked birds, too; perhaps it was an omen.

While the first sandwich was being extracted from the briefcase and consumed, Hencke took the opportunity to scout around the area of the park bench, checking whether there were any watchers hidden behind the bright spring foliage of the trees or bushes, trying to control his anxiety. By the time the second and final sandwich had appeared he knew he had to make his move.

Hencke sat down at the opposite end of the bench. ‘Please, do you have a cigarette?’

The Spaniard turned towards him. He was in his early thirties with dark skin and a long face from which protruded a sharp, aquiline nose. The expression behind it was not friendly. Hencke was by this time peculiarly dishevelled. He hadn’t shaved for four days, his once-glossy black hair was matted and the stolen suit of clothes had become grubby and unkempt. There was an unhealthy flush across his lean face and a wild look in his eyes; Hencke thought he was developing a fever. He probably smelled, too. The Spaniard stared, examined the crumpled man who had accosted him and, without offering a word, returned to his sandwich.

Hencke clenched his fists. Perhaps he had made a dreadful mistake after all. The diplomat proceeded to scatter crumbs on the ground and attract the attentions of sparrows and pigeons. Even the ducks on the lake were beginning to honk their appreciation and clamber out of the water towards him. Within seconds he was festooned with birds and in the distance Hencke could see two nannies with their broods of children advancing towards them
with the intention of joining in the fun. Soon he would be surrounded.

‘You’re from the Spanish Embassy, aren’t you? I must speak with you.’

The man turned to stare once again. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ he demanded aggressively.

Hencke drew a deep breath. The nannies were only yards away. It was now or never. ‘I’m German. The escaped prisoner of war. I need your help.’

The Spaniard turned pale beneath his olive skin and shot to his feet, standing erect as the last of the breadcrumbs were scattered on the ground. Feeding time was over and the birds fled; at least it had the advantage of deflecting the two advancing nannies.

‘You must be mad! Why on earth do you think I should help you? What on earth can I do?’ The diplomat looked around him anxiously, whether to guard against approaching danger or to summon the nearest policeman Hencke could only guess. ‘The whole country is looking for you. You’re the most wanted man in Britain, in God’s name why pick on me?’

At least he was not screaming at the top of his lungs for help, thought Hencke. He was just plain scared. ‘I picked on you because I have nowhere else to go. I must have your help.’

‘Don’t you realize there’s nothing I can do? Spain is neutral, it doesn’t get involved in this war.’

‘Germany got involved in your war. Or have you forgotten that already?’

‘That was nearly ten years ago. This is preposterous … I must be off.’ The Spaniard began to brush the final crumbs from his raincoat in order to depart. It was almost over for Hencke.

‘But you must help …’

‘No. I can do no such thing. Neutral. Don’t you understand?’ He glanced around him once more. ‘If you continue to pester me I shall call for the police. Look … I’m sorry, but you don’t realize.’ His tone softened slightly. The initial shock and panic had gone, but the deep unease remained. ‘You are the hottest target in the whole of London. You must understand. Every embassy is being watched, our telephones are being tapped, everyone is on the lookout for you. It’s impossible for anyone to help you and it would be madness for anyone to try.’ He reached into his pockets and pulled out a couple of crumpled notes and a handful of coins. ‘Here. Take some money; you look as if you could do with something to eat. But that’s all. There’s nothing more I can do.’

‘Wish me luck, eh …?’ Hencke muttered bitterly, glancing derisively at the few pounds in his hand. It was all going wrong.

‘Not even that. NEUTRAL. Don’t you understand?’ The Spaniard was. becoming agitated again, wondering whether he had already gone too far. He began striding away, wishing to put as much distance as possible between himself and this nightmare that had been thrust towards him.

Hencke made after him, but all he could see was the man’s back. ‘One other thing you can do for me? It won’t hurt …’ He began to raise his voice as the diplomat’s figure receded into the distance. ‘You have the means. Get a message back to Berlin for me. From Peter Hencke.’ He had to shout now. ‘Tell them I’m coming back!’

The diplomat didn’t falter in his stride. In a moment he was gone.

Hencke was left alone, defeated. His fever was getting
worse, he had nowhere to go. He looked ravenously at the complaining ducks.

‘I find it so difficult to believe, Willie.’

‘Seems little doubt, Prime Minister. A farmer’s widow, living on her own. They found her with half her chest missing, a shotgun on the kitchen table and a pile of prisoner’s clothes on the floor. And none of those we’ve recaptured seem to have been anywhere near the area. The one out there is our man.’ He looked quizzically at Churchill, who appeared more affected by this news than even by the initial reports of the mass escape. The Old Man sat brooding.

‘I suppose … I suppose I, too, might have killed. If necessary. To gain my own escape.’

‘Not a defenceless old widow, you wouldn’t. That’s sheer bloody murder.’

‘Murder? Self-defence? A casualty of war? Who knows, Willie, what each of us is capable of.’ He shrugged. ‘It will at least give us an excuse for hanging on to that division of troops.’

‘An excuse?’

‘A bargaining chip, perhaps. I’ll not hand them over until I can be sure I can send them to Berlin.’

‘I … don’t understand. You’re using the troops against the Americans. I thought they were supposed to be used against the POWs.’

‘We must make the appropriate noises over the escaped Germans, Willie, but they are as nothing compared with the opportunity of reaching Berlin. I would willingly set free a thousand Germans and, yes, sacrifice a thousand innocent widows if it would give us Berlin.’

‘But there is no connection …’

The Old Man sat silently, gazing through the window.

‘I fail to understand, damned if I do.’ The tone was angry, hurt. ‘All the way through you seem to have had’ – he picked the word with care – ‘almost a sympathy with these escapees. Almost as if you identified with them. Excused them.’ Even murder, he thought, but did not say so.

‘I was once on the run myself, remember?’

‘Even so. This one’s a murdering war-trained Nazi, you can’t possibly identify with him. I still don’t understand.’ Or care for this, his tone implied.

‘There are many things we don’t understand, yet which have their purpose.’ And after that he would say no more.

They were overhead again tonight, as they had been for nights innumerable and ceaseless, wave after wave of them on their way to Leipzig, perhaps, or Hanover, or most likely Berlin. Down in the tiny cellar it was impossible to tell if they were British Lancasters or American B-17S, since the throbbing of heavy bombers sounded much the same when you had buried yourself as deep beneath the ground as you could go, but the two elderly women held each other’s hands for comfort and hoped the planes were British. The Americans were more trigger-happy and careless – or was it just plain skittish? – and liable to unload their bombs anywhere. The small town of Friesenheim had for centuries nestled comfortably in the security of the valley carved through Westphalia by the headwaters of the Ruhr river, but the valley ran west to east from what was left of the industrial complexes concentrated along the Rhine and acted as a highway for Bomber Command right
into the heart of Germany. Friesenheim was on no one’s list of priority targets, but that hadn’t prevented it from being hit several times in the last month as bomber crews got into trouble, got into a panic, or simply got it wrong. In places like Friesenheim there was no such thing as the skill or the art of survival, it was nothing more than a matter of fortune. You crept into your shelters and stayed there for days on end until the weather was bad enough to keep the bombers away, not knowing how long your meagre food supplies were likely to last, sharing everything with the rats, your nerves shot to hell as the walls closed in and praying that you would be one of the lucky ones who wouldn’t die in this hole, or be buried alive, or be drowned as the sewers burst and flooded into your hiding place.