D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

Rainer shook his head vigorously, his brow knitted in a deep frown. “The safest place is where a shell has already struck.”

Rainer pointed to a large crater and the two of them crawled on their bellies until they reached the edge of the shell hole, then dove in.

“Welcome to Man’s folly, Major White,” Rainer said, as another explosion shook the earth, throwing clods of dirt on them.

The shelling went on for another half an hour before it petered out to an occasional lob that ended as dusk fell. Thorley and Rainer crawled out from the crater and surveyed the devastation. Five of the dozen buildings were destroyed, and four others looked as if they would need extensive repairs. Prefabricated to begin with, they wouldn’t take long to rebuild. Fortunately, the Mess Hall had mostly been spared, and everyone gathered there to lick their wounds. By eight o’clock that evening, the camp cook, a stocky Bavarian with a perpetual smile had cobbled a meal of potato soup, boiled cabbage, black bread and ersatz coffee from what hadn’t been blown up or incinerated. Everyone, including Thorley ate their portion greedily, remarking to themselves and to each other that nothing had ever tasted so grand.

After the meal, Thorley accompanied Rainer back to his quarters, a cramped six-by-ten-foot room with bunk beds, a footlocker, and a shadeless window that looked out onto the quadrangle. Pale moonlight filtered in, casting ghostly shadows that made the austere little room feel like a monk’s cell. None of this made much of an impression on Thorley, who felt as if he might collapse from the weight of the day’s events. “Which bunk is mine?” he said, his voice drained of emotion.

Rainer pointed to the bottom bunk. The mattress was a moth-eaten affair that looked as lumpy as the Alps, and was covered with a field-gray blanket woven from a rough, homespun fabric. As uncomfortable as it looked, it beckoned. Thorley pulled off his boots, let them clatter to the floor, and crawled onto the bunk, feeling his muscles ache in protest as the mattress, true to its appearance, dug into his lower back. He grimaced at the musty odor of mildew and forced himself to ignore it. In moments his fatigue overcame everything, and he was fast asleep.

It was the light that woke him: a gray and featureless day swathed in wreaths of morning mist, overcast and dreary. A light rain pattered against the window. White noise that both soothed and grated. Sitting up in the bunk, Thorley’s head throbbed, a leftover gift from the Akvavit.

I’ve got to stop drinking, he thought. I can’t bloody take it.

But that was not what was bothering him. He’d dreamed of the bodies, the eyeless faces staring at him, accusing him, saying, “You’re to blame, too....”

Blame for what, though? For casting his vote for Tory instead of Labour—for supporting a government that had sent these men to their deaths? War was war, he understood it instinctively, yet these poor sods had been here prior to Germany’s invasion.

Why?

He wanted to ask Sir Basil and the others that very question. Why then was he suddenly more afraid of going home than being in the lion’s den itself? Rainer seemed to be an honest chap, but could he really trust him? After all, they were still enemies. Common cause or not.

Above him, Rainer shifted his weight and the bunk creaked softly while he settled into his new position. It was just after dawn. Reveille, or whatever passed for that here, would be sounding at any moment.

Boots clattered in the hallway and the door burst open. A wild-eyed private barreled into the room.

“Herr Hauptmann, Herr Hauptmann!”

Rainer bolted awake, instantly alert. “Yes, what is it?”

“We’ve just received word that Obersturmbannführer Müller is approaching the camp.”

This news galvanized Rainer. “How far away?”

“Two miles, sir.”

“Get back to your post.” The private saluted and beat a hasty retreat, slamming the flimsy door behind him. Rainer hopped onto the floor and began throwing on his uniform, his movements quick and practiced, as if he’d had to do it this way many times before. “Get up,” he said. “We must leave immediately.”

Alarmed, Thorley jumped to his feet and began pulling on his boots. Fate had lent him a helping hand: he’d slept in his uniform. “I don’t understand, what’s wrong?”

Rainer snapped his collar closed and began buttoning his tunic. “Perhaps you didn’t hear the man. The SS are coming.”

“Christ.”

“We have to get you back to the plane. I just hope those Luftwaffe boys are on their toes. If Müller finds you here everything is lost.”

“Wait a minute. I’m just one among hundreds. For this man to notice me would be a minor miracle. And even if he does, my papers are flawless, and I speak German like a native.”

“The man was born suspicious, my friend. He knows when the slightest thing is amiss. He’ll smell you. And when he finds you, he will make you talk. And I can’t risk that. There’s too much at stake. Let’s go.”

Rainer led the way out of the room and the building. Not surprisingly, the Kübelwagen awaited them just outside the door, exhaust billowing out of the tailpipe. The leather-faced sergeant sat hunched behind the wheel, his expression grim and wary, the stub of a cheroot clenched in his yellowed teeth.

Thorley was barely inside the vehicle when the sergeant tromped down on the accelerator and the Kübelwagen fishtailed, sending up plumes of mud from both tires as it sped toward the airstrip. When they crested the first rise, they saw a Maybach staff car flying SS pennants drive into the camp. It slowed for an instant, then sped up,