And so I was taken back to my cell to brood over the inevitable outcome that I should be recognized as the hunter who had attempted to send the holy Führer to the pit of hell reserved for him, whom von Lauen had tracked down from London to Dorset and then to the bestial hole in that deserted lane where at last I had killed him.
I have written how the raid on Rostock saved me and how it came about that I was prevented from joining the armed services of my country till it was too late. Therefore I was determined after my escape to enter the war alone, to kill alone and myself to receive death alone.
What had begun as a personal vendetta became my response to all those guilty of hurling a civilized world into war, of murdering political opponents, of enslaving defenceless workers, and above all of herding into slaughter-houses a helpless, warm-hearted, gifted people whose religion and customs slightly differed from the national norm. My use of arms was as justifiable as if I had been under military command.
2
When I walked away from the troop train into Stettin goods yard, leaving, so far as I knew, no clue or curiosity behind, I was very far from feeling the happy warrior. I was a badly wanted man in the heart of enemy country with no assets but a uniform and a headquarters pass with the wrong photograph on it. No strategy at all could be planned; tactics depended on the single weapon of Haase’s loaded pistol and a spare magazine.
The first of my difficulties was money. All I had was what I had recovered from Haase’s desk, plus the small sum taken from the Gestapo captain whom I had killed – enough for a week or so but hardly a war loan. A visit to my Berlin bank was impossible since Haase had confiscated my cheque book and made a note of it. I could eat for a while but dared not attempt to get free quarters in barracks or officers’ mess. As for hotels, I would have to find out very cautiously what privileges, if any, an officer of the SD enjoyed. On the credit side it seemed that bluff would secure me free travel. So the next task was to put as much distance as possible between Stettin and myself, disappearing into the confusion of Hitler’s Reich.
As I hesitated, lonely, lost and separated from all the military activity on the station, I saw a sergeant and corporal of the Gestapo hurrying down the line towards me and was seized by unreasoning panic. Shoot my way out or run? My hand was already on my holster. I had to remind myself that I was no longer Don Ernesto but the superior officer of these fellows, correctly uniformed and unquestionable. But it was not until they gave me a smart salute in coming abreast that I recovered self-confidence.
I stopped them and asked what their duties were. They took this as a rebuke and one of them said, ‘We thought it would be all right, sir, if we went over to the buffet for a bite when they told us that the train would be late.’
I longed to ask what train, but thought I ought to appear all-knowing.
‘You are travelling on duty?’
‘Escort, sir. Guards on the prisoners are changed here.’
‘That’s a job for the SS, not us,’ I said. ‘But I suppose they can’t take time off from running in Jewish girls.’
They dutifully laughed.
‘Well, sir, it’s not a convoy – just four dirty Poles being sent to do some honest work at Auschwitz. They won’t enjoy it, they won’t!’
‘Oh, those four! Yes, I was present when they were caught. That must be the reason why I am ordered to accompany you. Further interrogation probably.’
Safe, untraceable departure from Stettin was being offered to me on a plate and I accepted it. I had never heard of Auschwitz and returned to my arrival platform for a look at the map displayed there. It appeared to be the place the Poles called Oswiecim, which was a junction for several lines. The expected train probably went on to Cracow and so would I.
I drifted back to the wrong side of the troop train, where I could keep watch on the waiting escort and would be inconspicuous in case some officer turned up to inspect. In ten minutes the Cracow train came in and the guard on the prisoners was relieved. As soon as the new pair had entered the reserved compartment, I followed. Wishing them a good journey I went forward to the first class. I was so obviously connected with the movement of criminals that no one was impertinent enough to ask for my pass or ticket.
Of the four prisoners, two might be described as in comparatively good health after being entertained by the Gestapo. One of them was obviously in pain, doubled up with his forearms on his knees; the other had half his face so badly bruised that I suspected a broken cheekbone. The remaining two were spread out on the floor. Evidently the guard had been unwilling to share seats with such Schweinerei. They were also conveniently placed for kicks.
It was not only pity that compelled me to set them free. I needed them. If they were Poles and guilty of belonging to some underground organization or even of some quite mild resistance to the occupying power, they might be able to help me. Night was coming down. We had passed Breslau over an hour ago, and the train was gathering speed over a flat and melancholy plain with an occasional gleam of water.
The difficulty was how to dispose of the guards. I was still in those days legally minded – in the sense that my solitary war should obey the rules of public war. The guards were in enemy uniform and could therefore be killed. On the other hand they were not in action and I was in no danger from them. I decided that they should arrange their own decease. A touch of hypocrisy there, I think. The fact was that I dared not fire two shots in case the sound was heard before I had time to clear up.
When it was dark and window blinds drawn, I entered that closed and sinister compartment with a cheerful word. The two escorts jumped up. By this time I knew the Gestapo to the bottom of the sludge where their hearts had been.
‘I will now tell you why I am here,’ I said. ‘These prisoners are to have an accident while trying to escape. We will throw them out, taking care that they fall on their heads.’
Then, drawing my pistol, I told the poor devil with the broken face to stand up, ordered the sergeant to get those fellows off the floor and the corporal to open the door halfway and be careful he didn’t fall out.
They were startled and hesitated, but the orders had come smartly in succession and they had only time to obey and not to think. The attitude of the prisoners was also convincing. One of the Poles on the floor cried out in horror. The other three showed no fear but only proud, sullen acceptance.
The corporal opened the door and had some trouble controlling it against the wind with no firm grip. I slammed the butt of the pistol down on his head and kicked him out. Then I whipped round and covered the sergeant. I had not worked this move out. He had only to shout or pull up the blinds on the inner windows or show fight in any way. But hatred gave wings to the prisoner who was doubled up in pain. He undoubled himself, leaped at the sergeant and was intelligent enough to get an arm over his mouth. The rest of the walking wounded were on him in a flash, and he joined his partner on the permanent way head-first, so that I hoped for the best.
‘Don’t be afraid and shut the door!’ I said, covering them from the inner end of the compartment since I was not too sure that they might not be tempted to send a third uniformed criminal after the other two.
I let them know at once that I was British not German. Broken Face replied in English, which he spoke very well, and, when I told him so, he seemed satisfied with me, though for the moment nobody trusted anybody else.
I handed him my headquarters pass.
‘Look at that! Treat it with respect for we shall need it. Look at the photograph! Do you think I am Hauptmann Haase?’
He said something in Polish to the other three, who relaxed. Poor Doubled-Up collapsed in agony with the return of the pain which he had momentarily forgotten in action.
‘When shall we get off and disappear?’ I asked. ‘You know the country and I don’t. We are now about half an hour from Auschwitz, where you were going, so the Cracow train will stop th
ere. I can probably manage to have an emergency stop earlier. Can any of you say where we should have the best chance of getting clear away? Then, if you can find me a safe hide-out, civilian clothes and a bag to put this damned uniform and boots in, I will look after myself and not be an embarrassment to you and your friends.’
I was accepted. Broken Face, with Polish generosity, embraced and thanked me as a tear like a raindrop on black rock ran down his bruise.
They went into a huddle, talking together in swift, musical Polish – a language of which I had no experience and had always misjudged because of its outlandish spellings. Meanwhile I prepared for trouble. Our operation had been reasonably silent, allowing for the rattle of the wheels on worn track, but the corporal had let out a scream before he hit the ground.
Sure enough, the train guard came along and knocked at the door, which I half opened so that he could not see the whole compartment.
‘Everything all right, sir?’ he asked. ‘It has been reported to me that someone may have fallen from the train.’
‘Thank you. Everything is under control. One of these prisoners managed to open the outside door and shouted for help. He has been attended to. You can be sure he will not do it again.’
He shivered slightly, saluted and went away. They knew, they knew all right, what sort of a police force Himmler had trained.
Doubled-Up told us that Cracow was his home and everyone there knew that a concentration camp was being built at or near Auschwitz, so guards and transport would certainly be at the station to receive us. Broken Face added that he had once been duck shooting over the nearby marshes, that there was little cover and he doubted if we could reach forest before we were surrounded and caught. The two who had been on the floor were crushed and demoralized, suggesting that their case was hopeless and that they should all commit suicide before treatment for murdering guards.
That put some spirit into Broken Face, who snarled that he was damned if he would die by his own hand if there was still a chance of killing a German. He proposed that we should stay on the train till Cracow if at all possible. Then we could perhaps reach a telephone and get in touch with the underground.
I thought that there was little chance of being able to stay on the train, which would be thoroughly searched at Auschwitz when escort and prisoners never got off. Meanwhile the two bodies on the line might be discovered at any moment so that whatever we did must be done quickly. Our aim should certainly be Cracow. If we could be told a safe method of leaving the city, the Carpathian mountains were not far off and I had once known them well.
The committee of life and death agreed that I should not attempt to stop the train, drawing attention to ourselves by getting off in the middle of nowhere, stumbling a little through marshes and streams while the bodies were discovered and the whole military district alerted. We had better trust to luck and my uniform on arrival at Auschwitz. If I had been alone, I would rather have tried the marshes.
So could I go on pretending to be in charge of the prisoners and say that I had put the regular guard under arrest at Breslau for some crime or other and handed them over to an SS detachment? Ingenious, but it wouldn’t do. The reception party was bound to have a word with the train guard.
Another alternative we considered was to slide off the train as it slowed down to enter the station and scatter in the dark, perhaps boarding the train again as it pulled out and clinging to whatever handhold there was. Two objections to that. First, at least three of them were not fit enough – even if unhurt – to pick themselves up and run. Second, we could not know how brightly station and yard would be lit.
Broken Face, that gallant fellow, was more concerned for my safety than his own. If I kept up my pretence of being in sole charge of the prisoners, he said, I should be able to hand them over and disappear before my story of arresting the guards at Breslau was exposed as a lie.
I replied that I would rather open a battle, that I was a fine shot and would kill four or five of them before they got me.
‘That wouldn’t do any of us any good, sir,’ he said. ‘Now take my advice and have nothing to do with us. You are an officer of the Sicherheitsdienst travelling to Cracow on his own business. Keep out of the way! The chaps who are waiting for us will know in what compartment we are and may take us off straightaway without a word to the train guard.’
Doubled-Up, who had lived in Cracow, thought it was quite likely. Whatever was going on, the camp was dead secret and the public was not allowed to know anything.
‘But, if there was no guard on you at all, why didn’t you escape?’ I asked.
‘What was the use? We have no strength. And we knew the guards could not be far off. Their kit is still here.’
So it was decided. I was to be entirely detached from them and waiting for a chance to intervene if ever the situation allowed. It was the slenderest hope. They very movingly prayed for me and for themselves.
I returned to my first-class compartment and kept watch as we pulled in to Auschwitz. No Gestapo guard was waiting on the platform. I looked at the other side of the train. A sergeant and a private of the SS, both armed with machine pistols, were walking straight for the prisoners, who were ordered out with their hands behind their heads. There were sharp questions and answers. I presumed that one of the Poles was saying that he didn’t know where the guards were, probably somewhere up the train, because their kit was still in the compartment. The prisoners were marched away. Duty apparently came first, and the missing comrades would be routed out later.
The yards were largely in shadow. Beyond the limping prisoners there seemed to be a ramp on which a truck was standing. I walked quickly, and with the importance proper to an officer of the SD, round the back of the train and tucked myself in behind buffers, where I could see without being seen. The party of four was pushed – thrown would be a better word – into the closed truck and the rear door fastened with an iron bar. The sergeant then began to return to the station, leaving the other fellow standing by the truck. No one else was there, so he was the driver.
This seemed to be the end. There was not even the slenderest hope. As soon as the sergeant arrived, the train guard and station staff would start telephoning. The bodies would be discovered on the line and the SD officer exposed as a fraud. Inevitable. But out of my sense of utter failure came sudden inspiration. By God, if the bodies had not yet been discovered, let them be discovered now, when it suited me!
I met the sergeant on his way, as if appearing from the back of the train.
‘You there! Two bodies of our men have been seen on the line. Immediate investigation! Have you got any men with you?’
‘One, sir.’
‘Get him at once to help you. Search the compartment and report to me. Never mind your prisoners for the moment. They can’t get out.’
He called for his driver, who came running, and both climbed at once into the prisoners’ compartment. I made for the truck as fast as I could without actually running. It started sweetly and we were off. The Cracow road was marked. I reckoned we should have a useful lead while the sergeant was bullying the train guard, trying to find out whether the captain had really been in charge of the missing guards and whether he was the same captain who had ordered immediate investigation, and what the hell was going on.
My Poles had been quite right in their description of the locality. On foot and across country escape would have been hardly possible, nor was the Cracow road at all promising, since both ends of it could easily be blocked. Marsh, ponds and muddy streams were everywhere, crossed by causeways or small bridges. In the night our course over this maze of fenland appeared more confusing than it really was, owing to extensive drainage works. Banks of spoil loomed up in the headlights, together with the misty shapes of digging machines and bulldozers which might be on or off the road, and forced me to slow down. At the time I assumed that the enemy was building some sort of anti
-tank ditch to hold up a Russian advance. It never occurred to me – and how should it in a more or less Christian Europe? – that in these sparsely inhabited swamps they were building a hidden slaughter-house for human beings.
We had done about a third of the distance to Cracow when headlights winked and twisted far behind us but fast approaching. The pursuit was bound to overtake us, so there was nothing for it but to give battle, my first battle. I stopped on a narrow bridge for single-line traffic, threw open the rear doors of our truck so that the enemy could see there was no one inside it, and told my four to scatter and take whatever good cover they could find, being careful to keep dry in case we had to enter Cracow on foot.
Left alone, I tried to out-think the enemy. They would naturally assume that we had abandoned our transport on the bridge to delay pursuit, and that we ourselves had got away on foot. They would also assume that our party was unarmed, with a question mark over the SD officer who might be a traitor or might have been killed or kidnapped. In any case the only arm the fugitive possessed was his automatic.
On the right-hand side of the road was a hard shoulder where a vehicle could wait to allow another approaching from the opposite direction to cross the bridge. It was bounded by a bank of raw earth – an obvious point at which to post a piquet which could command the flat stretch of swamp beyond. On the left of the road were only rushes waving gently in the night breeze. A little exploration of the edge would be enough to show that any fugitive must be stuck in the mud and could be collected or used for target practice in the morning if he wasn’t drowned meanwhile.
There was no cover on the roadside or the hard shoulder, so I took position on the reverse side of the earth bank. There I was too far from the road to open fire with any chance of success, but I reckoned that orthodox military would never resist the temptation to occupy the bank – though the all-round view from the top would be worthless in the dark – and would choose speed rather than caution.
Rogue Justice Page 4
