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- Herausgeber: Hesperus Press Ltd.
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
A gripping, psychological war thriller from bestselling Jussi Adler-Olsen, author of the Department Q series. Germany, World War II. Two English pilots are shot down and crash land behind enemy lines. The area swarming with German troops, they have only minutes to crawl from the wreckage and make their escape. Boarding a train reserved for wounded SS men on the way home from the eastern front, they ditch their clothing and personal belongings and pose as German soldiers, hiding for days in soiled, bloody beds, feigning unconsciousness. But their act is too convincing and they find find themselves being transferred to Alphabet House, a mental hospital for those damaged by war. How will they escape? And for how long can you simulate insanity without going crazy for real? They are playing a dangerous game and it seems they might not be the only ones in Alphabet House hiding secrets... Alphabet House is a page-turning psychological thriller, containing the same panache and style fans will have come to know and love from Jussi-Adler Olsen's Department Q series and is a great introduction for those who are yet to discover this award-winning author.
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Alphabet House
Jussi Adler-Olsen
Translated from the Danish by Steve Schein
Author’s Introduction
This book is not a war novel.
Alphabet House is an elementary story about breaches that can arise in all types of personal relationships, from daily life in a marriage or at the workplace to extreme settings like the Korean War, the Boer War, the Iraqi-Iranian War, or in this case the Second World War.
There are several reasons why I chose this war to provide the novel’s framework. Primarily because I am the son of a psychiatrist and grew up in the surroundings of ‘lunatic asylums’, as they were called in Denmark in the late fifties and early sixties, and although my father was extremely progressive and a new thinker in his field, I couldn’t avoid witnessing first-hand how the mentally ill were treated in those days. Many of them had been in the system since the thirties and I was interested in the methods of treatment and the doctors and hospitals during that period, especially during the war. I got to know a few patients who – through the eyes of a naive, alert child – I suspected of simulating their mental illness.
One of these chronically mentally ill patients essentially coped with life in the hospitals by uttering only two sentences. ‘Yes, you’ve got a point there!’ was the one he used the most. He wasn’t sticking his neck out here. Then he could enhance and round off practically any situation with a sincerely relieved, ‘Oh, thank God!’ He was one of the patients I suspected of having retreated from society into the calm and peaceful world of medical treatment facilities by using some obscure form of simulation.
But is it possible to preserve oneself and one’s mind in a situation like this if one isn’t really ill? It’s hard to believe, especially considering some of the hefty methods of treatment used at the time. Wouldn’t our verbally limited patient become ill, sooner or later?
My father met the patient again after a period of many years. It was in the seventies, by which point the world had become freer in many ways. This had also had its effect on our man. He’d added a third sentence to his repertoire: ‘Up yours!’ He’d kept up with the times.
And again I found myself wondering, ‘Is he ill or is he healthy?’
My desire to combine these two objects of my fascination – the possibly mentally ill individual and the Second World War – was enhanced by a conversation I had with one of my mother’s friends named Karna Bruun. She had worked as a nurse in Bad Kreuchnach under Professor Sauerbruch and was able to confirm and expand upon some theories I had developed.
In the summer of 1987, under the starry Italian skies of Terracina, I outlined my fledgling story for my wife. Then, as now, I had the greatest admiration for authors for whom research and literary expertise were inseparable. She believed my story would be worth this kind of effort.
It took me almost eight years to realise.
In the course of this period I’ve been grateful to DetTreschowske Fideikommis for their assistance in the form of a travel grant to Freiburg im Breisgau where a large portion of the story unfolds, to the military library in Freiburg, and to Oberarchivrat Dr Ecker from Stadtarchiv Freiburg.
Since then, my wife, Hanne Aldler-Olsen, has been my tireless muse and critic, constantly nourishing my faithfulness to my original ambitions.
In the perusal of my manuscript by my capable and wise friends – Henning Kure, Jesper Helbo, Tomas Stender, Eddie Kiran, Carl Rosschou, and not least my sister, Elsebeth Wæhrens, and my mother, Karen-Margrethe Olsen – the story underwent a multilayered process that made it both shorter in length and more profound. All elements were assessed and pondered over until the story bore the expression for which I’d hoped.
Jussi Adler-Olsen
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
It wasn’t the best weather in the world.
Cold and windy, with poor visibility.
An exceptionally bleak January day, even for England.
The American crews had already been sitting on the landing strips for some time when the tall Englishman approached. He was still not quite awake.
Behind the group a shape rose halfway to its feet and waved to him. The Englishman waved back, yawning loudly. Functioning in daytime was difficult after such a long period of nothing but night raids.
It was going to be a long day.
At the far end of the airfield the planes were taxiing slowly towards the southern end of the landing strips. Soon the air would be full of them.
The feeling was both exhilarating and oppressive.
The orders regarding the mission came from Major General Lewis H. Brereton’s office in Sunninghill Park. He was requesting British assistance from Sir Arthur Harris, marshal in the Royal Air Force. The Americans were still impressed by the British Mosquitoes’ discovery, during their November night-time bombing of Berlin, of the Germans’ most closely guarded secret, the V-1 missile sites at Zemplin.
The choice of British personnel had been left to Group Captain Hadley-Jones, who entrusted the practical work to his next-in-command, Wing Commander John Wood.
The latter’s task was to select twelve British flight crews. Eight of them were to function as instructors and four as supporting crews with special photo-reconnaissance duties under the 8th and 9th American Air Forces.
Two-seater P-51D Mustang fighters had been equipped for this task with radar and sensitive optical instruments.
Only two weeks had passed since James Teasdale and Bryan Young had been chosen as the first crew to try out this equipment under so-called ‘normal conditions’.
In short, they could expect to go into action again.
The raid was planned for the 11th January 1944. The target was the aeroplane factories at Oschersleben, Braunschweig, Magdeburg and Halberstadt.
Both men had protested at having their Christmas leave curtailed. They were still suffering from combat fatigue.
‘Two weeks to figure out this bloody machine!’ Bryan shook his head. ‘I don’t know a thing about all those gadgets. Why doesn’t Uncle Sam do his own dirty work?’
John Wood was standing with his back to them both, bowed over the document files. ‘Because Uncle Sam wants you!’
‘That’s no argument, is it?’
‘You’ll live up to the Americans’ expectations and come out alive.’
‘Is that a guarantee?’
‘Yes!’
‘Say something, James!’ Bryan turned towards his friend.
James fingered his silk scarf and shrugged his shoulders. Bryan sat down heavily.
It was hopeless. They had to go.
The entire operation was calculated to take a good six hours. A total of about 650 four-engine bombers from the 8th American Air Force were to bomb aeroplane factories, escorted by the P-51 long-distance fighters.
Bryan and James were to break away from the formation during the attack.
During the past couple of months there had been persistent rumours of an increased influx of builders, engineers and highly specialized technicians – as well as hordes of Polish and Soviet slave labourers – into the region of Lauenstein, south of Dresden.
Intelligence had learned that some kind of construction was going on in the area, but not what kind. They had a hunch it might be factories for producing synthetic fuel. If this were the case, it would be a dangerous development that could lend impetus to new German V-bomb projects.
Bryan and James’ job, therefore, was to photograph and map out the area thoroughly, including the railway network around Dresden, so that the intelligence service could update its information. After completing their mission they were to rejoin the formation on its way back to England.
Many of the Americans who were to take part in the raid were already seasoned air warriors. Despite the cold and the impending take-off, they were lying half stretched out on the uneven, frostbitten earth some people might call a runway. Most of them were chatting away as though they were on their way to a dance, or relaxing at home on the family sofa. Here and there a few sat hugging their knees, staring dully into space. These were the new and inexperienced pilots who had not yet learned how to forget dreams and control anxiety.
The Englishman strode between the seated figures towards his partner, who lay stretched out on the ground with his arms behind his head.
Bryan gave a start when he felt the gentle kick in his side.
Snowflakes drifted above them, settling on nose and brow as the sky above became more and more overcast. This expedition would differ very little from one of their night raids.
Bryan’s seat vibrated gently under him.
The radar screen showed the surrounding airspace to be thick with signals from the planes in the formation. Each echo signalling a plane’s position was clearly distinguishable.
Several times during training they’d joked about painting over the windows and flying on instruments alone. The equipment was that precise. It was a joke they could just as well have taken seriously on this flight. According to James, the visibility was ‘as clear as a symphony by Béla Bartók’. The windscreen wipers and nose of the plane penetrating the snow clouds – that was all they could see.
They’d been arguing. Not about the crazy idea of changing duties and equipment at such short notice, but about John Wood’s motives. According to Wood they had been chosen because they were the best, which James was willing to accept.
But Bryan blamed his friend. There was scarcely any doubt in his mind that John Wood had picked them because James never protested while on active duty. And on this operation there had certainly been no time for questioning orders.
Bryan’s reproaches irritated James. There were worries enough already. It was a long trip and they were handling new equipment. The weather was terrible and there was no one to support them once they left the rest of the formation. If the intelligence services were correct in assuming that important factories were under construction, the target area would be very heavily guarded. Finally, it was going to be an extremely difficult task getting the photos back to England.
But James was right. Someone had to do it. Besides, it couldn’t be very different from the bombing raids on Berlin.
They’d made it this far.
Bryan sat silently in his seat behind James, doing his job irreproachably, as always. The vibrations gradually shook loose his combed-back hair. Bryan’s hairstyle was his most distinguishing feature. Freshly combed, he looked almost as tall as James.
Between Bryan’s map and measuring instruments hung the photo of a WAC by the name of Madge Donat. In her eyes, Bryan was an Adonis.
He’d stuck with her for a long time.
As if responding to the authoritative cue of a conductor’s baton, the Germans began greeting the arriving planes with an anti-aircraft overture. James had foreseen the barrage a few seconds previously and given Bryan the signal, so they managed to change course. From that moment on until some undefined time in the future, their fate was out of their hands.
Unprotected and on their own.
‘We’ll be scraping the bottom off this machine if you want us to fly any lower,’ Bryan grunted, twenty minutes later.
‘If we stay up at 200 feet your pictures won’t come out,’ came the reply.
James was right. It was snowing over the target area, but the wind was constantly forcing the flakes to whirl upwards, creating holes through which it was possible to photograph. Assuming they were close enough.
No one had been interested in their presence since they’d turned away from the barrage over Magdeburg. Apparently they hadn’t been observed. Bryan would do his utmost to ensure that they weren’t.
Many planes had crashed behind them. Far too many. In the midst of all the noise James shouted back to Bryan that he’d seen German fighters firing rocket-like things. A short flash followed by a totally devastating explosion.
‘The Luftwaffe isn’t worth shit,’ an American pilot had bellowed out the previous evening, a broad Kentucky grin on his face. Perhaps experience had taught him something different now.
‘And then 138 degrees to the south!’ Bryan was following the sea of snow beneath him. ‘You should be able to get a glimpse of the main road out of Heidenau. Can you see the crossroads now? Good. Then follow the turning towards the ridge.’
Their speed was down to scarcely 125 miles per hour, which in that weather made the entire fuselage complain audibly.
‘You’ve got to zigzag over the road here, James, but watch out! Some of the southern slopes could be steep. Can you see anything? You should have a good chance between here and Geising.’
‘All I can see is that the road seems quite wide. Why would that be, in such a deserted place?’
‘That’s what I was wondering. Can’t you swing southwards now? Look at those trees! Can you see how dense they are?’
‘Camouflage netting, you mean?’
‘Possibly.’ If there were any factories here, they must have been dug into the hillside. Bryan was in doubt. Once such a building was discovered, the earthworks wouldn’t provide sufficient protection against intense precision bombing. ‘This is a wild-goose chase, James! There’s nothing in the vicinity to suggest recent building.’
If possible, they were to follow the railway line northwards towards Heidenau, turn west towards Freital and follow the railway line to Chemnitz, then turn north and afterwards northeast along the railway line to Waldheim. The entire network was to be photographed in detail. By Russian request. Soviet troops were exerting heavy pressure near Leningrad and were threatening to roll up the entire German front. According to the Russians, the railway junction at Dresden was the Germans’ umbilical cord. Once severed, the German divisions on the Eastern Front would soon be lacking supplies. It was merely a question of how many cuts were necessary in order to be effective.
Bryan looked down at the railway line beneath him. There would be nothing to see in his photos but snow-covered rails.
The first explosion came without warning and with incredible force, only a foot behind Bryan’s seat. Before he could turn around, James was already forcing the plane into a fast perpendicular climb. Bryan fastened the snap hook in his seat and felt the cockpit’s tepid air being sucked out from under him.
The jagged hole in the fuselage was about the size of a fist, the exit hole in the roof like a dinner plate. A single round from a small-calibre anti-aircraft gun had hit them.
So there was something they’d overlooked, after all.
The engine screeched so loudly during the steep ascent that they couldn’t tell if they were still being shot at.
‘Is it serious back there?’ James screamed. He appeared satisfied with the answer. ‘Then here we go!’ Almost instantly James had looped the loop, tipped the plane on one side and put it into a vertical dive. After a few seconds the Mustang’s machine guns began ticking away. Several anti-aircraft muzzle flames pointed directly up at them, showing them the way.
In the midst of that deadly blaze there had to be something the Germans were extremely reluctant to have outsiders know about.
James swung the plane from side to side in order to confuse the enemy while the German gunners on the ground tried to get them in their sights. They never saw the guns, but there was no mistaking the sound. The Flakzwilling 40 made a bloodcurdling noise all of its own.
When they were close to the ground, James levelled the plane with a jerk. They would only have this one chance. The entire area was two to three miles wide. The camera needed a steady hand.
The landscape whipped along beneath them. Grey patches and white swirls alternated with treetops and buildings. Tall fences encircled the area they were flying over. Several watchtowers fired machine-gun salvos at them. Slave labourers were kept in camps like these. Tracer-bullet salvos from a forest thicket in front of them made James instinctively dive still lower, straight towards the trees. Several rounds from his machine gun made it past the tree trunks, silencing all resistance from that quarter. Then, grazing the tops of the fir trees, James flew the plane right over a gigantic greyish mass of camouflage netting, walls, railway carriages and scattered heaps of materials. Bryan had plenty to photograph. A few seconds later they again banked upwards, and away.
‘OK?’
Bryan nodded, patted James’ shoulder and prayed that the guns below them were their only opponents.
They weren’t.
‘Something funny’s going on here, Bryan! You can just see it if you sit up straight. It’s the engine cowling! Can you see it?’
It wasn’t difficult. A triangular bit of cowling was sticking straight up in the air. Whether it was caused by the dive, a hit, or blast waves, was immaterial. It wasn’t good under any circumstances.
‘We’re going to have to really reduce our speed, Bryan. There’s not much hope of getting back to the bomber formation now.’
‘Do what you think is best!’
‘We’ll follow the railway line. If they send fighters after us, they’re probably thinking we’ll make off due west. You keep an eye on the air around us, OK?’
The trip back was going to be interminable.
The countryside beneath them gradually became flatter. On a clear day they would have been able to see the horizon to all sides. Had it not been for the snowstorm they would have been audible miles away.
‘How the hell are we going to get home, James?’ asked Bryan quietly. Looking at the map was useless. Their chances were slim.
‘Just keep your eye on that little screen,’ came the reply. ‘You can’t do much else. I think the cowling will stay put as long as we stick to this marching pace.’
‘Then we’ll take the shortest way back.’
‘North of Chemnitz. Yes, please, Bryan!’
‘We must be crazy!’
‘Not us! The situation!’
The railway line below them was no minor branch line. Sooner or later an ammunition train or troop transport would turn up. Small, easily aimed twin cannons or Flak 38 20-millimetre anti-aircraft guns would be able to finish them off quickly. And then there were the Messerschmitts. For them, the Mustang was easy prey. Close combat. Shot down. That’s how brief the report would be.
Bryan thought of suggesting they land the plane before the enemy did it for them. His philosophy was simple and practical. Captivity was preferable to death.
He took hold of James’ upper arm and shook it slightly. ‘They’ve spotted us,’ he said quietly.
Without further comment James let the plane lose altitude.
‘Naundorf ahead. Here you go north of…’ Bryan saw the enemy only as a shadow above them. ‘There he is, James, straight above us!’ James tore the plane away from low altitude with a violent wrench of the controls.
The whole plane was vibrating with protest as he accelerated. During the sudden ascent the hole behind Bryan practically sucked the cabin empty of air. James’ machine guns started rattling even before Bryan had seen their target. A merciless salvo into its belly paralyzed the Messerschmitt instantly. The explosion that followed proved fatal. The pilot never knew what had hit him.
There were several bangs that Bryan couldn’t quite place, and suddenly they were lying level in the air. Bryan glanced at the back of James’ neck as if he expected to see it react in some special way. The draft blasting through the shattered front windscreen signalled that the triangular bit of cowling had been torn off during their brutal ascent.
James shook his head without making a sound.
Then he slumped forward with his face turned to one side.
The roar of the engine increased. All the aeroplane’s joints rattled in time with the fuselage’s descent through the air strata. Loosening his harness, Bryan threw himself over James, got hold of the control stick and forced it towards the lifeless body.
A delta of small bloodstreams trickled down James’ cheek, emanating from two long superficial gashes above and in front of his ear. The piece of metal had hit him in the temple, taking most of his earlobe with it.
Without warning, another piece of cowling came loose with a bang and tumbled over the left wing. Creaking sounds told Bryan there were more to come. Then he made a decision for them both and pulled James free.
The cockpit canopy almost exploded off, sucking Bryan out of his seat. In spite of the howling, icy wind, he grabbed James under the armpits and pulled him out onto the wing in the lacerating air. At the same moment the plane disappeared from under them. Jerked out into space, Bryan lost his grip on James, who plunged downward like dead weight, but he still felt the life-redeeming tug of James’ ripcord. For a second James lay poised in midair with arms hanging limp as a rag doll’s. Then his chute opened with a sudden jerk. His flapping arms made him look like a fledgling just out of the nest, tumbling through the air for the first time.
Bryan’s fingers were like ice as he tugged at his own parachute ripcord. He heard the crack of the chute opening above him as shots began rattling towards him from the ground, sending faint, treacherous flashes of light up through the snowy haze.
The plane banked and plunged slowly earthward behind them. Anyone searching for them would have to do a thorough job. Until then, Bryan had to make sure that James, the small fluttering grey ball, did not disappear from sight.
The ground rose to meet Bryan with unexpected brutality. Hard plough furrows were like concrete gutters in the severe frost. As he lay moaning, the wind filled his chute again and dragged him over the earthen ridges, ripping his flying suit to pieces. The powdery snow froze any bloody scrapes to ice before he could register the pain.
Bryan saw James hit the ground. It seemed violent, as if his body had been crushed from the waist down.
Contrary to all regulations Bryan let his chute blow away from him as he hobbled over the furrows. Isolated fenceposts marked an old corral. The horses were gone, slaughtered long ago. James’ parachute had wedged itself between the bark and wood of one of the posts. Bryan glanced around. There wasn’t a sound. Amid cascades of whirling newly fallen snow, he took hold of the dancing parachute with both hands and with even tugs guided himself along the seams and straps towards James.
It took three shoves before James slid onto his side. The zip of his flight jacket gave way reluctantly. Bryan’s icy fingertips dug down under the rough clothing. The warmth he found there was almost painful to the touch.
Bryan held his breath until he felt a faint pulse.
The wind finally subsided and the snow stopped drifting. All was quiet for the moment.
James began panting feebly as Bryan dragged him towards a thicket. Sky could be seen through the treetops. Alongside the trunks lay debris from generations of storms, offering shelter and cover.
‘With so much uncollected fuel around, there’s not much chance of anyone living here,’ Bryan said to himself.
‘What’d you say?’ came a voice from the limp body, as it was being dragged through the carpet of snow.
Bryan dropped to his knees and carefully pulled James’ head onto his lap.
‘James! What happened?’
‘Did something happen?’ His eyes were still not focusing. He stared up at Bryan, his gaze wandering the air above him. Then he turned his head and surveyed the black and white landscape. ‘Where are we?’
‘We crashed, James. Are you badly hurt?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you feel your legs?’
‘They’re cold as hell!’
‘But can you feel them, James?’
‘You bloody well bet I can. They’re cold as hell, I told you! What’s this godforsaken place you’ve dropped me?’
Chapter 2
The morning sky was deceptive. There was a starlit strip just above the horizon, but the heavens looked altogether threatening.
They could see around for several miles, but unfortunately that meant they also could be seen.
The remains of James’ parachute lay in the middle of a field so vast that its crops would be able to feed a whole village. Clear, dark drag marks led straight from the field to the thicket where they were hiding.
All this was starting to worry Bryan, now that he knew that James wasn’t in as bad shape as he could have been. The frost had stopped his ear from bleeding long ago and the cold had considerably reduced the swellings on his face and neck. They had been extraordinarily lucky.
Now it looked as if their luck had run out.
The frost that had cracked the corners of their mouths was gradually working its way further into their bodies. If they were to survive, they would have to find shelter.
James listened. If any planes had spotted them, the faded-green bloodhounds would soon appear.
‘As soon as we’ve gathered up the chutes I think it we ought to make for the hollow over there.’ James pointed northward at some dark grey patches, then looked back again. ‘If we go south, how far do you think it is to the nearest village?’
‘If we’re where I think we are, we’d be making straight for Naundorf. It’s probably a couple of miles away. But I’m not sure.’
‘Then the railway line is south of us?’
‘Yes, if I’m not mistaken. But I’m not certain.’ Bryan glanced around again. There were no landmarks. ‘I think we should do whatever you suggest,’ he said.
A good bit further along the first windbreak the snow lay in drifts, helping to conceal the two of them. They followed the row of trees for a few minutes until the first hole in a snowdrift appeared. James was gasping heavily for breath, and while Bryan tried to stuff the parachute through the hole and down into the ditch, James pressed his folded arms tight against his chest in a vain attempt to defeat the cold. Just as Bryan was about to ask him how he was doing, they both stopped instinctively to listen. The plane appeared a short distance behind them, dipping its wings slightly as it swept over the thicket they had just left. By then they were lying flat on the ground. Then it swung southward over the field and behind the trees. For a while the droning of the plane grew deeper, as though it were leaving again. James raised his head from the snow just enough to breathe.
A whistling sound had them instantly craning their necks. There were some small, dark patches of sky above the trees. Out of one of these, the plane turned up again, this time flying straight at them.
James threw himself on top of Bryan, forcing him down into the snowdrift.
‘I’m freezing my ass off,’ breathed Bryan indistinctly from under him, his face buried in the snow. He tried to smile. James looked down the length of Bryan’s back, pursing his lips at the sight of the lacerated flying suit and the cakes of snow slowly melting with the warmth of his body, then streaming down over his hips and thighs.
‘You just keep freezing for a while,’ he replied, tilting his head upwards. ‘If that guy has spotted us, it’ll be plenty hot soon enough!’
Just then the plane roared over them and disappeared.
‘Who was that clown? Could you see?’ asked Bryan, trying to get the snow off his back.
‘Possibly a Junkers. It seemed kind of flimsy. Do you think it spotted us?’
‘If it had, we wouldn’t be alive now. But it must have noticed our tracks.’
Bryan grabbed hold of James’ hand and pulled himself up-right. They both knew it could all be over soon. If they reached the village, they might have a chance. Hopefully the villagers would understand they weren’t a threat, which wouldn’t be the case if they were spotted by the plane or one of the patrols that had inevitably already been dispatched to ferret them out.
They simply wouldn’t have a chance.
They ran for some time without stopping. Their movements were clumsy. Every bootstep in the frozen earth sent a jolt up their spine. James didn’t look too good and he was deathly pale.
Far behind them came a gentle hum. They glanced at each other. From in front of them came another sound. A different sound, more like a heavily loaded train.
‘Did you say the railway line was to the south of us?’ panted James, pressing his ice-cold hands to his chest again.
‘God, James, I said I wasn’t sure!’
‘Some navigator you are!’
‘Should have spent ages poring over the map rather than heaving you out of that idiotic Yankee soup tin?’
James didn’t answer. Putting his hand on Bryan’s shoulder, he pointed towards the bottom of the greyish slope that stretched in both directions, and from which came the unmistakable pumping sound of a steam engine. ‘Maybe now you have a better idea where we are?’
A single nod from Bryan made him relax. Now that they knew where they were, the question was whether that would help them. They squatted down behind some bushes prickling with dry, dead branches. The straight stretch of track lay like thin stripes in the white landscape. The distance to the railway was about a quarter of a mile and the ground was fairly open.
So they had been south of the railway line all the time.
‘Are you OK?’ Bryan tugged gingerly at James’ fur collar, so he turned his head and faced him. James’ pale skin colour made the contours of his skull stand out more clearly. He shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back to the railway line. It was growing gradually lighter and the shadows in the hollow of the slope took on animated shapes. A magnificent yet terrifying sight. Small gusts of wind carried up to them the sound of the enormously long train. Carriage after carriage glided past like a deadly lifeline between front and fatherland. Snorting armoured engines, endless goods wagons protected by big guns, machine-gun nests hidden behind sandbags and greyish-brown troop carriages from which no light escaped through the rolled-down curtains. As soon as the train had passed, new sounds heralded another one on the way.
There were only a few minutes between each transport. In this short space of time, during which their knees were beginning to go to sleep beneath their doubled-up bodies, thousands of human lives must have passed by. Exhausted, battle-scarred veterans heading westwards, frightened and silent reserves heading eastwards. Just a few bombs on this stretch daily, and the Russians’ job on the hellish Eastern Front would be a bit easier.
Bryan felt a tug at his sleeve. James put his finger to his lips and sat perfectly still, listening. Now Bryan could hear it too. The sounds came from behind them on both sides.
‘Dogs?’
Bryan nodded. ‘But maybe only in the one group.’
James turned down his collar and straightened up a bit. ‘The other group is motorized. That was the humming sound we heard before. They must have got off their motorcycles where we crossed the ditches.’
‘Can you see them?’
‘No, but it won’t be long.’
‘What should we do?’
‘What the hell can we do?’ James squatted down again and rocked back and forth. ‘We’ve left tracks even a blind man could follow.’
‘We give ourselves up, then?’
‘Do we know what they do with shot-down pilots?’
‘You haven’t answered my question. Should we give ourselves up?’
‘We’ve got to go a bit out into the open so they can see us, otherwise they might think we’re up to no good.’
Bryan felt the treacherous slap of the wind as soon as started down the slope after James. It made his cheeks tingle.
A few rapid strides and they were out in the open. They stood waiting, facing their pursuers with their hands in the air.
Nothing happened to begin with. The sound of voices stopped and all movement in front of them ceased. James whispered softly that the soldiers might have passed behind them. He half dropped his arms.
That was when they started shooting.
The dull, greying winter darkness was to their advantage. Falling heavily to the ground they lay side by side, flat on their stomachs, staring at one another questioningly.
Bryan immediately began worming his way towards the railway line, glancing constantly over his shoulder at James, who was struggling on knees and elbows over the knolls and frozen branches with a wild look in his eyes. The wound beside his ear had opened up again and with every move, small red spots mixed with the whipped-up frosty snow.
Short rounds of machine gun fire ticked crisply, blasting the air above them to pieces. The soldiers were shouting as they fired.
‘They’re going to let the dogs loose,’ James panted, gripping Bryan’s ankle in front of him. ‘Are you ready to run?’
‘Where to, James?’ A wave of heat moved down Bryan’s diaphragm and his guts contracted spontaneously in panicky defence.
‘Over the railway line. There’s no train just now.’ Bryan raised his head and checked out the long, treacherous open slope. And then what?
James got up and grabbed hold of Bryan just as a long burst of machine-gun fire ceased. The slope was steep. It was extremely dangerous to charge down it in their stiff boots, not to mention their stiff, frozen feet that were incapable of feeling any unevenness in the ground. The bullets started whistling over their heads again.
Bryan reached some flatter ground a few hundred yards further on and glanced quickly behind him. James was running after him as if all his joints were frozen, fingers splayed and his head cocked backward. Behind him a torrent of soldiers poured softly over the hillside and slithered down the first steep incline on their backs as they approached.
This delayed the soldiers a bit and the shots ceased for some valuable seconds. When they started firing again they were off target. Maybe the bastards were already tired! Perhaps they would leave the rest of the work to the dogs.
Lithe and muscular, the barking killing machines broke rank without hesitation as they’d been taught.
When Bryan reached the bottom of the slope he could see a fair distance in both directions in the pale morning light.
In front of him two trains were approaching, one from each direction, thus preventing them from disappearing into the windbreaks on the other side of the tracks. A loud explosion made Bryan jump. James had managed to draw his Enfield revolver on the run. A sprawling black patch in the snow behind him confirmed that James had wounded an attacking dog.
The three remaining dogs made instinctively for the two men’s tracks and headed straight for James’ back.
In its thirst for blood, a German shepherd had torn itself away from its master so the chain entangled between its legs slowed it down somewhat compared to the two Dobermans.
The snow whirled around Bryan and James again. The scattered gunfire was sure to get them before long.
James fired again. Bryan fingered the flap of his revolver holster and took hold of the butt. Then he stepped to one side and took aim as James dashed past him.
For a fatal second the dog James had just wounded was distracted by Bryan’s manoeuvre, snapping in the air just as the shot rang out. The animal rolled over several times before lying still. Without hesitation the other dogs made instinctively for Bryan’s arms and chest. He was knocked over, managing to shoot one of them as it fell on him, but not wounding it seriously.
He struck a hard blow to the neck of the German shepherd on his left with his revolver butt. It fell beside him, lifeless. Jumping to his feet, he faced the first animal, which was already springing towards him.
The instant the dog seized hold of his arm, it began shaking its victim. It had no intention of letting go in this lifetime. A hard kick from Bryan lifted the cur off the ground, making it possible for him to turn his hand and fire his revolver. As the animal’s body hit the ground, he slid and dropped the revolver. Then the sub-machine guns began rattling again. There was no longer any danger of them hitting their dogs, since all three were now lying stretched out in the snow.
James was about a hundred feet ahead, stooping as he ran, his leather jacket hanging loosely on his shoulders. His whole body quaked every time his foot hit the ground.
Then, a few hundred feet further down the hollow to the east, another patrol came into view. Their aim was unsure but their very presence left Bryan and James no other alternative than to keep running straight down towards the railway line and the two trains that would soon block their path.
Bryan was out of breath, casting his head from side to side in an attempt to catch up with James. A crazy idea had struck him. If they were hit, which seemed inevitable now, it would nevertheless be better to die close to one another.
The first train to cross their path arrived from the east along the line nearest to them.
The engine crew watched passively as the patrols gained on them from behind and from the sides. One after another, the absurd sight of brown, wooden carriages with red crosses painted on them rumbled past in the barren white countryside. Not a single face was to be seen in the carriages’ few windows.
Next, two joined armoured engines pulling their grey-green string of carriages came snorting along the eastbound track and soon disappeared out of view behind the engine of the hospital train in the foreground. The soldiers on the roofs of the armoured train’s rear carriages had already caught sight of them and were making a move, but couldn’t fire at such an oblique angle for fear of hitting the hospital train.
Bryan took long strides forward, stepping in the bootprints James had made a moment before. James’ laboured breathing in front of him made a whistling sound. Bryan slowed down and looked back.
James reached the train just as two carriages were passing. He set up his pace and reached for the nearest handrail. In a flash, he was caught in a grip so far down the metal railing that it was impossible to swing his foot up on to the bottommost step. The sweat in his palm had instantly frozen to ice. He was just about to lose his balance and fall under the axles when Bryan caught up and tried to grab hold of him.
The hard shove forced James forward towards the nearest stepladder. Running awkwardly sideways, he swung his free arm round like a windmill so as not to lose his balance. After a few whirls he lost his Enfield as it was flung up over the train in a wide arc. Then he stumbled and was dragged along the railway sleepers for a moment, fastened to the carriage by his frozen hand. Every time a sleeper struck him, he swung dangerously close to the wheels. Then, with a superhuman effort, he kicked out one leg and regained his balance. Bryan took a few more running steps and sprang onto the front of the carriages, grasping the handrail so briefly that only a tiny piece of skin froze to it and was torn off.
‘I’ve got hold now!’ shouted James, hauling himself upward so violently that he was almost slung sideways into the metal steps.
Diagonally behind them, the advance guard of the first patrol came into sight, their faces blue with frost and far too tired to keep their balance in the gently drifting snow. One of the soldiers tried to grab the ladder to the roof of the last carriage, but he tumbled forward in the attempt, tripping along on his toes. Finally he stumbled, somersaulting heavily over the railway sleepers.
Then he lay still.
Meanwhile, the armoured train had passed them in the other direction and the hospital train was still accelerating.
Only then did their pursuers give up the chase.
Chapter 3
Faint, dancing silhouettes of naked trees appeared on the hilltops south of the rumbling train.
James had gradually recovered his breath and was patting his friend on the back. ‘Sit up, Bryan. You’ll catch pneumonia!’
Both men’s teeth were chattering.
‘We can’t stay out here,’ said Bryan, who lay flat on the platform of the icy carriage.
The track curved gently towards a row of hills, allowing them a brief view of where they were heading.
‘If we stay out here we’ll freeze to death or be picked off when we pass a station. We have to jump off as soon as we can.’
Bryan stared blankly in front of him as he listened to the accelerating thumping of the rail joints underneath him. ‘Awful business – all of it!’ he added quietly.
‘Are you hurt?’ James didn’t look at Bryan. ‘Can you get up?’
‘I don’t think I’m any more the worse for wear than you are,’ James replied.
‘At least it’s a good thing we wound up on a hospital train. We’ve got beds just inside that door.’
Neither of them laughed. James reached for the handle and wriggled it a bit with his fingertips. The door was locked.
Bryan shrugged his shoulders. The idea was crazy. ‘We’ll just get shot the instant we open the door. Who knows what’s behind there?’
James knew what he meant. No one trusted a red cross when it was painted on something German. They’d been misusing that sign of mercy for a long time, which was why Allied fighter pilots no longer spared transport trains like this one. James and Bryan knew this all too well.
And so what if it really was a hospital train? The Germans’ hatred of Allied pilots was understandable, just as he himself had good reason to hate the pilots in the Luftwaffe. They all had much too much on their conscience to find room for mercy. All of those who were taking part in this demented war.
A single glance from James drew a nod from Bryan. His eyes showed nothing but sadness.
Their good luck couldn’t be interminable.
The train rushed past a level crossing with a jolt. James stuck his head out cautiously and looked ahead. It was morning, but still dark. The countryside lay sleeping. There was no clue as to what the next curve, or the curve after that, might bring.
Sounds of movement were beginning to come from inside the car. Morning had arrived. Now the medical orderlies could start their work.
A quick tap on his woollen collar made James look up. Bryan had drawn himself in completely behind the door and signalled to James to do likewise.
A second afterwards the handle turned. A very young man stuck his head out, drew in a breath of fresh air and sighed contentedly. Thank God the wind was coming from the north, so the orderly had to step all the way to the edge of the platform with his back to them before unzipping his fly.
Bryan laid his hand on James’ arm as it started trembling nervously, but James withdrew it and transferred his weight onto the leg best situated for a sudden leap. The orderly bent his knees a little and farted. Then with satisfaction and relief he shook the last drops of urine out into the wind.
From Bryan’s position it looked as if James didn’t move until the orderly turned around. The blow fell mercilessly across the German’s dumbfounded face, and toppled him backwards. A dull thud and the body’s abrupt angles signified the orderly’s death against a naked elm trunk standing in solitary majesty on the embankment they’d just passed. The body continued its fall and disappeared behind some frosted scrub.
It would not be discovered for the time being.
Bryan was appalled. Never before had they stood face to face with the death they had so often occasioned others. James leaned against the vibrating end wall. ‘There was nothing else I could do, Bryan. It was him or us!’
Bryan laid his forehead against James’ cheek and sighed. ‘It won’t be easy to give ourselves up now, James!’
The chance of doing so had otherwise been perfect. The young medical orderly had been alone and unarmed. But it was too late for regrets. What was done was done. The tracks rushed past beneath them and the bumps from the rails ticked faster and faster.
If they jumped off now they would be pulverized in the fall.
James turned his head and put his ear to the door. All was quiet inside. Recent experience had taught him to dry his palms on his trousers before he gingerly took hold of the handle of the rattling door, put his finger to his lips and stuck his head halfway through the crack in the door.
Then he signalled for Bryan to follow.
The light was dim inside the carriage. A partition marked the transition to a larger compartment beyond, from which muffled sounds and a tiny chink of light reached them. Just below the roof were hung some shelves stuffed with jars, bottles, tubes and cardboard boxes of every conceivable size. In the corner was a footstool. This was the domain of the night orderly.
The kid whose life they had just taken.
James cautiously zipped open his jacket and signalled to Bryan to do likewise with his flying suit.
Soon they were wearing only shirts with torn sleeves and long underwear. James had flung the rest of their clothes off the carriage platform, out into the wind.
They were just hoping that anyone seeing them in such get-up wouldn’t immediately shoot them.
The sight behind the partition made them stop dead in their tracks. Scores of soldiers lay packed closely together in narrow steel beds or on grey-striped kapok mattresses jammed against one another on the floor. A narrow strip of bare wooden planks led down to the other end. It was the only way they could go. Several expressionless, sleepy faces turned towards them without any apparent reaction. Many of the shapes lying there were still in uniform. None were rank and file soldiers.
There was an oppressive stench of urine and faeces blended with the faint, sickly smells of camphor and chloroform. Many of the badly wounded men lay there making gurgling noises, jaws hanging. But none were complaining.
Walking slowly past with measured steps, James nodded at those in which he could see a bit of life. Thin, unwashed sheets were all that shielded them against the cold.
One man reached out weakly towards Bryan, who smiled weakly in return. James almost fell over a protruding foot. He put his hand to his mouth to stifle his cry of surprise and looked down at the soldier. The gaze that met him was cold and lifeless. The officer had presumably lain dead on the floor all night and was still lying there, clutching a gauze compress.
The gauze bandage was clean, but along the mattress were clotted crusts of the blood that suddenly and profusely must have left the poor devil.
James whisked the roll of gauze out of the dead man’s hand and put it up to his lacerated earlobe from which blood was streaming again. Just then they heard a rumbling and clanking sound from the end of the carriage from which they’d just come.
‘Let’s go!’ whispered James.
‘Mightn’t we just as well stay where we are?’ asked Bryan, as they stood in the passageway. Most of the floor here was covered with used surgical dressings that left a sickly stench.
‘Haven’t you got eyes in your head, Bryan?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The officers in this carriage are wearing SS insignias. All of them! What do you think will happen if it’s SS soldiers who discover us first, instead of the medical orderlies?’ He flashed Brian a dark smile. Then his lips tightened and his gaze hardened. ‘I promise I’ll get us out of this, if you just leave the decisions to me!’
Bryan was silent.
‘Is that OK?’ James’ expression became urgent.
‘Yep, that’s OK.’ Bryan attempted a smile. A bucket full of chrome-plated instruments jingled at his feet. An indeterminate dark liquid was splashed up its sides.
Everything seemed to indicate that this train’s main purpose was to take Germany’s sons home in – rather than to – German soil.
If this was a standard hospital train, the Eastern Front must be hell on earth.
The next carriage was not dark. Several light bulbs shone down over the two rows of beds that were packed together along the walls.
James stopped behind one of the beds to flip through the patient’s chart. Then he nodded to the patient, who was in another world, and went on to the next bed. At the sight of the next chart he stopped abruptly. Bryan walked cautiously up to him and glanced at the chart.
‘What’s it say?’ he whispered.
‘It says “Schwarz, Siegfried Anton. Born 10/10 /1907, Hauptsturmführer”.’
James let the chart fall and looked him straight in the eyes. ‘They’re all SS officers! This carriage, too, Bryan.’
One of the patients nearest them had already been dead for some hours. A resourceful orderly had secured the maimed arm to an overhead beam, so it was undisturbed by the sporadic jolting. James looked at the man’s armpit, started, and grabbed Bryan.
A scream from the carriage they’d just left aroused the man whose chart they had just studied. He looked at the two of them with saliva bubbling in the corners of his mouth.
Further along the train, where the carriages were coupled together with coarse, dark brown, concertina-pleated canvas, they sensed the next carriage was different. The sound of the rails was more subdued. The door handle was made of brass and the door slid open without creaking.
Here there was no partition. A few light bulbs shed their yellowish glow over ten beds placed in parallel rows so close together that the nursing staff could scarcely wedge themselves between them. Glass bottles containing life-sustaining liquids hung over the beds and clinked faintly against the metal stands. It was the only sound that came in that carriage. But voices could clearly be heard from the next.
James squeezed in between the first beds and bent over the nearest patient. He stood for a moment observing the sick man’s chest, which rose and sank almost imperceptibly. Then he turned round without a word and put his ear to the next patient in the region of his heart.
‘What the devil are you doing, James?’ protested Bryan, as quietly as he could.
‘Find one who’s dead – but hurry!’ said James, without looking at him as he swept past to listen to the next one.
‘You don’t intended us to lie in these beds, do you?’ Bryan didn’t believe this crazy notion for a moment.
The look James sent him as he briefly straightened up gave him no reason to think otherwise. ‘Got a better idea?’ was all his eyes seemed to say.
‘They’ll kill us, James! If not for the orderly, then for doing this.’
‘Shut up, Bryan. They’ll kill us anyway, on any pretext they can get away with. Be sure of that!’ James suddenly stood up from the next bed and shoved the body forward into a sitting position. Then he stripped the hospital shirt off over the man’s head and let him fall back again, arms dangling heavily and limply over the sides of the bed.
‘Help me with this,’ he ordered, as he pulled a hypodermic needle out of the dead man’s arm and whipped the blanket off him. A rotten stench made Bryan gasp.
Next, James pushed the body further forward, forcing Bryan to grab hold of it. The dead man’s skin was bruised and cool, but not cold. Waves of nausea made Bryan hold his breath and look away as James wrenched at the hasps of the nearest window, his knuckles hard and white.
The icy air from the half-open window made Bryan feel faint and almost fall. James pulled the body partly out of Bryan’s grasp, raised its left arm slightly, glanced underneath it and then at the soldier’s face. He was not much older than they were.
‘Help me now, Bryan!’ The corpse’s arms stuck limply up in the air as James got hold of it under the armpits. Bryan grasped the feet and pushed. Then James leaned as far back as he could to get the body off the bed, then he took a deep breath and pushed the soldier upward with all his might, resting the head momentarily on the narrow metal edge of the window frame. Not until Bryan released his grip and the body flapped passively through the air and plunged through the thin ice of a drainage canal did the truth dawn on him.
From here on there was no return to innocence.
James quickly moved to the other side of the bed and took the next patient’s pulse. Then he repeated the procedure, tipping the man forward.
Without a word, Bryan took hold of the body and tossed the blanket to the floor. This man was not bandaged and was slightly smaller and stockier than the previous one.
‘But he’s not dead,’ Bryan objected, hugging the warm body as James pushed the man’s arm back and up, staring at his armpit.
‘Blood type A-positive. Remember that, Bryan!’ Two faint markings in the armpit revealed the work of a tattooist.
‘What do you mean, James?’
‘That you resemble him more than I do, and that from now on you’re blood type A-positive. All SS officers have their blood group tattooed in their left armpit and most of them have the SS sign in the right one.’
Bryan stopped short. ‘You’re mad! They’ll discover us instantly!’
James didn’t react. He flipped up the two bed charts and studied them in turn. ‘Your name is Arno von der Leyen. You’re an oberführer. I’m Gerhart Peuckert. Remember that!’
Bryan stared at James incredulously.
‘Oberführer! Yes, you heard right.’ James looked serious. ‘And I’m a standartenführer. We’ve risen in the ranks, Bryan!’
A few moments after they’d undressed and let their clothes disappear the same way as the two soldiers, the sudden rushing sound of wind from a nearby house told them they had passed a level crossing.
‘Take it off,’ said James, pointing at the identity tag that had been hanging on Bryan’s chest for over four years.
Bryan hesitated. James tore the tag off with a quick jerk. Bryan had a sinking feeling as James flung the two tags out into emptiness and closed the window.
‘What about Jill’s scarf?’ said Bryan, pointing at the silk cloth with its embroidered heart that was still hanging around James’ neck. James didn’t reply. Instead, he pulled the hospital shirt he had taken off the dead man over his head.
Still expressionless, James flung one leg over the excrement-littered bed and lay down on top of it. Taking a deep breath, he collected himself, stared briefly at the ceiling and without turning his head, whispered, ‘OK. So far, so good. Now we lie here, get it? No one knows who we are and we’re not going to tell them. Whatever happens, remember to keep your bloody mouth shut! One single slip and it’ll be the end for both of us.’
‘You needn’t tell me that, dammit!’ Bryan looked with displeasure at the stained sheet. It felt damp as he lay down. ‘I’d rather you told me what you think the orderlies will say when they see us. We can’t fool them, James.’
‘If you just keep your mouth shut and pretend to be unconscious they won’t suspect anything, don’t worry. There are probably more than a thousand wounded men on this train.’
‘The ones in here seem to be special…’
A clanking metallic sound from the carriage in front made them stop short and shut their eyes. The sound of steps grew louder, passed them by and continued into the next carriage. Bryan opened his eyes a fraction and caught a glimpse of a uniform as the figure disappeared.
‘What about those needles?’ Bryan said quietly. James glanced over his shoulder. The rubber tubing hung limply beside the bed. ‘You won’t get me to stick one of those in my arm.’
The expression on James’ face sent shivers down his spine.
James was out of bed without a sound and grabbed hold of Bryan’s arm. Bryan stared wildly at him. ‘No, you don’t!’ he hissed, horrified. ‘We have no idea what was wrong with those soldiers. It might be dangerous!’ A second later, Bryan’s gasp told James that such deliberations were now superfluous. Bryan stared incredulously at the needle that was buried deep into the bend of his elbow, the rubber tube still swinging. James had thrown himself back into the neighbouring deathbed.
‘You needn’t be afraid, Bryan. Whatever the soldiers suffered from won’t kill us.’
‘How do you know? They didn’t have any wounds. They could have had terrible diseases.’
‘Would you rather be shot than take that chance?’ James looked down at his own arm and tightened his grip on the needle. He turned his head to one side and pressed the needle into a vein at random, making him almost pass out. Just then the rear door of the carriage opened.
Bryan felt his heart beating treacherously loud as the sound of footsteps merged with voices. He couldn’t understand the words. For him, they were merely sounds.
Scenes from happier times at Cambridge suddenly flashed through his mind. In those days, James had been too busy studying German, his main subject, to partake in typical college foolishness. Now he lay there reaping the benefits of being able to understand what was being said. Bryan was plagued
