Avenging Steel 5: The Man From Camp X

by Hall, Ian

  The ruse made sense. “He looked taken in, Henry.” I refrained from giving my name.

  The man nodded, grinning widely. “Oh, hook, line and sinker! Let’s get under way; we’ve got a few miles to get under the bows before we hand you over.”

  Before he hands me over. “Where am I going next?”

  “H.M.S. Tribune.”

  “A ship?”

  Henry shook his head. “Submarine.”

  A day of firsts, then; I’d deceived my family about my destination and my itinerary for the next eight weeks, I’d got on a boat, and now hours later, I was to be transferred to a submarine. Two crewmen untied the lines to the wharf and with the engines thrumming below my feet, we eased out into the harbour.

  Once out on the water, the scenery couldn’t have been more beautiful if I’d been in heaven and picked it myself. The low sun to our bows made dark shadows of Mull as we passed, and the most picturesque castle by the shore that I’d ever seen.

  “Duart Castle,” Henry pointed as we passed its short peninsular. Unusually, it flew a British flag. “We’re too far out here for Fritz to check that stuff.” Henry laughed. We waved to small figures on land, who returned the friendly gesture.

  The sight of its austere ramparts made me misty-eyed to leave, but as we broke into choppier, open water, the sentiment soon disappeared and I gripped my handhold tighter.

  As dusk settled, we stopped between Mull and the smaller island of Coll, the small boat bobbing in the water. The two men of the crew busied themselves with nets, ready to go fishing after dropping me off.

  Suddenly there was a bubbling to one side, and Henry roared ‘Brace yoursel’s!’ to everyone. The boat rocked as the submarine surfaced, just feet away. A long black line in the water, large curved bows, low conning tower.

  Sailors emerged from the sub, and The Flycatcher threw lines which soon drew us together.

  Oh, boy, I’ll never forget that first transfer. The ships bobbed together, but there was a dark void between the two that seemed to call to me.

  Shaking in fear, I stepped down a short rope-ladder towards the black maw. I felt hands grab me, my clothes, then arms, legs pulling me off the fishing boat’s side. It seemed to take ages, but moments later I stood on board a submarine. I’d never breathed a heavier sigh of relief.

  I was pushed/guided up the conning tower steps. “Come on, old chap.” I guessed the commander’s voice from above. “We’re like a worm on a pavement up here.”

  Once in the conning tower, I was wrestled down the hatch and into its belly.

  When the Commander gave the order, “Dive, all speed ahead!” I just swallowed hard.

  A day of firsts, indeed.

  Canada, Land of the Free

  Once inside, with the floor sloping sharply, the Commander introduced himself as ‘Hinchcliffe’, and I was shown forward to a small room. Four bunks, three rather dejected men in civilian dress sat or lay inside. The room was so cramped I swear if we all stood up, we’d be intimate; the closet back home was bigger.

  Mark, Clive and Roger all had English accents, and announced they had been on board the Tribune for a day or so. We were all going to Canada.

  The only thing I really remember about the submarine was the lack of space. The ceilings were high enough to stand up, but every doorway was a step-over and duck effort, every meal was eaten in shifts because of the size of the galley. Apart from our time in the ‘head’, the four of us were together every second of every day, and we soon became pretty well acquainted. However, despite the novelty of the ride, I detested every second. Although I was only aboard the submarine for two days, the smell inside the vessel by the end of the second day was so overpowering, I gasped the clean sea air once the hatches were opened.

  The rendezvous with the large merchant ship happened out of the blue, and I’m kind of glad they never told us anything about it until it took place. I’m not sure I could have taken the pressure inside the submarine with the added expectation of transfer. The long climb up the ship’s side scared the living bejesus out of me.

  The freighter had three large ‘flying boat’ aeroplanes fastened to her decks, and a large crane to lift them down onto the water. The down-side was we had to wait three days for the sea to calm down enough to allow the aircraft to take off. So, not wasting time, we cruised westward, getting nearer our new continent, while the four of us got to know each other, and probably started to stink pretty badly.

  Trust me; taking turns washing naked on deck in an improvised cold salt water shower in was no picnic. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t raise any suds from the thick red bar of soap.

  When we got winched off the side the next morning onto the small boat that took us to the Catalina airplane, I was overjoyed.

  That is, until the propellers started, and we began the half-mile long trek to flying speed. We got buffeted on our seats so badly I felt new bruises form on the new lumps on my backside. Thank God for seatbelts.

  As the aircraft rose above the waves, I experienced the smooth ride for the first time in five days. Okay the noise was deafening, but it was smooth. The deck under our feet didn’t move, didn’t pitch with the waves, or slope up and down when we dived and surfaced. I guess I didn’t like being on the sea; it’s my only real bad memory of my journey to Canada.

  That and we were travelling at hundreds of miles per hour rather than just ten.

  Ten hours of flying brought us to a small coastal ‘place’ called Cartwright, where we re-fueled. I hesitate to call it a town, as I only saw three or four buildings. I’d never been in an airplane before, and although the ride was better than any boat, I sure coddled every minute my feet were back on the ground; stomping my feet, trying to get some warmth into my now frail body.

  The pilot also brought us four greatcoats, which we gratefully received, thanking him like a doctor that had just saved our lives. When we set off again, we were far warmer than before; four more hours of flying over terrain so barren, we didn’t see a man-made anything for hours.

  When darkness fell, we trusted the pilot knew what he was doing and where he was headed. Looking out the windows to utter darkness, we were back to the submarine days, seeing nothing.

  I tried to sleep, but with the noise from the engines, I got little shut-eye.

  As the plane slowed down and began to drop to the ground, I sensed the end of our journey was in sight.

  Well, not ground, water.

  “We’re on Lake Ontario,” The co-pilot announced on a rare walk from the flight deck. “This is the end of the line boys.”

  The plane taxied for a while, then abruptly, it ran aground.

  We suddenly understood what the co-pilot had said. We were at our destination.

  The side door opened from the outside, and I looked down onto two feet of black water. “Come on, look lively,” an English voice. I jumped past him, and was shocked by the temperature of the water, splashing up chilling me, soaking my trousers. I saw a torch on the shore, sweeping back and forth, and headed towards it.

  Once on the beach we were led up a narrow path, then across a rough field, then onto a gravel walkway. The torches our ‘welcomers’ wielded gave me fleeting glimpses of their attire; khaki green, proper British issue. I guessed we had landed at an army base of some kind. My eyes soon adjusted to the low light and found cream colored shapes, low rectangular buildings, lots of them. It came as no surprise when we were led inside one.

  The corridor was spotless, the building obviously newly made. “Follow me, chaps,” the accent was English, but the man wore no rank or badges on his tunic. Leading each of us to their own door, he showed me inside a small bedroom.

  My new digs were maybe ten foot square, but at least I didn’t need to share. There was little more than enough space to house the furniture; a single bunk, a dresser, a desk and wooden chair. It was all fine, but of course, at this stage I had nothing to put in the drawers.

  “This is your new issue, sonny; one overal
l, you will wear it until tomorrow when you will receive your kit. All other clothing, cards, personal items go here.” He pointed to a hessian sack on the floor.

  I nodded. “Yes, sir,”

  “No ‘sir’s’ here sonny, nowhere on the camp. Just me and you.” And off he went to the next room, where Mark would be billeted.

  “How about a wedding ring?” I heard Mark ask, I knew he immediately regretted it.

  “Didn’t you listen?” The man’s tone changed in a heartbeat; from welcoming smile to sergeant-major growl. “No items to be left on your person, wedding rings, nothing. There’s a shower, last door on the left, use it, there’s no dirty scroats allowed here, then change into your overalls.”

  “Overalls?”

  “They’re on the bloody bed, sunshine! MOVE!” As he left the building, he bawled for all to hear. “Get some shut-eye, reveille is at seven o’clock, breakfast is in the center hut. Get there quick, you don’t get a second chance.”

  I decided there and then to follow instructions. I stripped, put everything I owned into the hessian bag, even my watch, gave thanks to Ivanhoe for his confiscation of my wedding ring, and walked gingerly out into the corridor, naked as I’d been born.

  Thankfully the man had left, and I saw Roger’s similarly stripped form at his door. “We just walk naked to the shower?” he asked.

  I shrugged, I mean, we’d seen each other naked before on the freighter’s deck. “No point in putting the overalls on for a ten yard walk, is there?”

  I have to say, having hot water to shower under is wonderful, one of the headiest treats of my life. But having soap that rose to suds was even better. I washed myself from head to toe, and then back again. I may have lingered in that precious place for an hour.

  Four khaki green towels lay on a bench in the shower room, I took one, wrapped it round my middle and walked back to my room.

  Once in my overalls I felt like a million dollars.

  A welcome sheet now lay on my desk. I sat on my bed, lay back, and began reading.

  The pamphlet was Spartan, but if you read between the lines, it gave information.

  Camp Arrangements

  It appeared we would be issued with battle-dress, and expected to wear it at all times. The phrase “it is considered advisable for the military appearance of the camp to be consistently maintained.” I had no idea what that meant. Slowly the idea of me meeting Churchill, and being knighted for my work on The Tree of Liberty, slid from my mind.

  Ah, there was a bar, and we had three opening times. I allowed myself a grin, reading that part with some distrust, considering the shortage of spirits back in Britain. It also seemed we’d be given four meals per day, not bad, although we were warned about tardiness for meals; seems that would not be tolerated.

  There were details of leave, and a P.O. Box to which our incoming mail should be addressed to.

  I read the pamphlet many times, then settled back onto my pillow.

  I think I fell asleep in seconds.

  Reveille hit me like my head had just touched the pillow. “Damn,” I swung my legs off the bed and looked outside into the misty daylight. All I could see were more huts of the same, and a few uniformed men. We had no need to gather, the four of us met up in the hallway, overalls and bare feet. “Fancy breakfast?”

  Other men in overalls joined us in the corridor, and I nodded to them. “Just in?” one asked.

  “Aye, late last night. You?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.” I thought I caught a hint of Welsh in his accent.

  We followed the direction of the throng outside to the mess hut. It was set up like a huge café, and already hundreds of men sat inside, a huge wave of conversation hit me, and not all in English; I recognized French and German, and there were other languages too. Since we were the only ones not in proper uniform, we stuck out like sore thumbs, garnering a fair bit of attention from the diners, yet mostly being ignored. We joined the queue and shuffled forward quickly.

  I took a plate, and walked along the line of men dishing food. Not once did I refuse an item, I found a table where three other overalled men had gathered, almost like outcasts. I joined them and tucked in like I’d not seen food in months.

  Sausage, bacon, fried egg, bread, baked beans, fried mushroom, fried tomato, black pudding.

  Each table sat ten men, and there were nine of us in overalls.

  “Looks like there’s no rationing over here,” Roger exclaimed through a full mouth. I couldn’t answer, my senses reeling from the variety and quantity of food so long forgotten in Britain. I finished my pate, and cleaned the bean juice and fat with my bread. I don’t think I’d had so much to eat in ages.

  Looking up, I recognized the angry man from last night as he approached. “Watch out.”

  “My name’s Digby.” He stopped at our table. “Once you’re all finished, report to the Quartermaster; it’s signposted.” And off he went, no rancor, hardly an attitude at all, maybe even the inkling of a smile.

  The Quartermaster, who again wore no badges of rank and introduced himself as ‘Bushy’, gave us a kitbag, and two of everything else; underwear, shirts, trousers, jacket, and greatcoat. The clothing was all freshly laundered, and it was difficult to tell if it were new or used. He gave us one pair of second hand boots, and sent us back to our rooms to change into our ‘new kit’.

  On the way I could see groups of men, some being instructed in one thing or another, some just standing around. Others, out in the surrounding fields were walking very strangely, no pattern to their stride, almost no direction either; they looked drunk. Looking around, there must have been fifteen huts, maybe more.

  Once dressed, Digby walked the nine of us to the central hut, I imagined administration, and I wasn’t wrong. Most of the group came to attention when led into what could only be described as the commanding officer, but he waved them down. “At ease, chaps, there’s no standing to attention here. Not now, not ever” He had a bunch of folders open on his desk, I assumed they described us. “No salutes either.” He smiled. He wore a Scottish diced glengarry, kilt, the whole nine yards, a dark green jumper covered a khaki shirt and tie. “I’m the Camp Commander, Arthur’s the name,” I recognized his name from the welcome pamphlet. It was signed Arthur T. Roper-Caldbeck, Lieut-Colonel, Officer Commanding.

  I’d just met him… a Lieutenant Colonel, and he wanted me to call him Arthur. I wondered what the heck I’d been thrown into.

  “Welcome to Camp STS103. The locals call us Camp X. You chaps are about to be pushed through the most difficult and grueling training regime in the world. You’ll have six weeks to learn everything we can teach you. You’ll study in class, you’ll learn by rote, and when you leave you’ll be the best there is.”

  He paused as if he’d shone light on our new position, where, to me, he’d just clouded the waters.

  I could hold back no longer. “Excuse me… Arthur… I may speak for the others, but what are we going to be trained to do?”

  “Ah, you’re the fellow Scot, then?” he smiled, shuffling the folders until he found one, probably mine. “Lads, it’s kind of simple; we’re going to teach you a million different ways to kill Jerry.”

  Special Training Camp 103

  One thing I hadn’t been prepared for was a 6 week course in killing.

  I walked away, slightly disturbed by the notion that I’d placed so much emphasis on the Tree of Liberty part, that I’d missed all other possibilities of the reason of my trip to Canada.

  Then the classes started, and I had no time to think, never mind let my mind wander on now inconsequential matter.

  I got a name on a piece of paper pinned on my tunic; Eric.

  “This will be your name for the next six weeks, you will get used to hearing it, you will answer to it without delay.”

  Eric.

  There were ten desks in the room, two rows of five, and with nine of us in the classroom I couldn’t help but wonder if one of us hadn’t made it through. We’d
just got seated, and been introduced to our orientation teacher, Charles, when the door opened, and two men burst in, both waving pistols. Shots were fired in our direction; I ducked below the desk, wondering how these men could have broken through the base security.

  Then the room went quiet, the smell of cordite heavy in the air. My ears still rang with the din. I didn’t see the men run away, but they’d gone as quickly as they’d arrived.

  “You will now take this written test…” Charles’ voice remained the same tone as before as he placed a single sheet on our desks. I got up rather sheepishly, I mean, I’d ducked right? Charles’ face was impassive.

  1. How many men burst into the room?

  2. Describe the first man, height, weight, dress, characteristics? Left or right handed?

  3. What kind of pistol did he have?

  Oh man, I’d hit the floor so quickly. I looked to either side to see just the same expressions of panic that I felt.

  For a moment, I couldn’t think of anything to write, each question illuminating my shortcomings, my lack of observation. Then I closed my eyes and went through the whole thing in my head.

  The first man, he’d been the smaller of the two. And the gun had been a Mauser, a 32 maybe. He’d worn brown boots, I could still remember looking under the desk at them, and they were dirty.

  Some questions were out of the blue.

  7. What flags fly at the Camp Commander’s Hut?

  12. How many cooks were dishing out food?

  17. Name the men in your group?

  When Charles gathered in the papers, he spoke in flawless German. “Wie viele von Ihnen sprechen Deutsch?”

  How many of us spoke German? I looked to either side, and started to raise my hand.