A Dangerous Game

by John Wilson

  He pulls out his pocket watch and squints at it. “Quarter to three,” he informs me.

  “Perfect. Let’s move back to a safer spot. We’ll have no trouble hearing the guns at Zeebrugge.”

  We move back and find a deep archway where someone will have to stumble over us to discover us. We wait…and wait.

  By three-thirty, Albert is moving into the moonlight every few minutes to check his watch. We’ve heard the occasional distant drone of aircraft but not a single sound of gunfire from Zeebrugge.

  “What’s happened?” Albert asks. “Has something gone wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, wondering what we will do if the raid has been cancelled and there is no bombing of the docks. Will the plane still arrive to pick us up?

  At 3:45, we finally hear a distant drone. Searchlights begin to scan the sky. The sound of the approaching planes grows and anti-aircraft guns open up. At 3:55, the first bomb falls with a thunderous crash.

  “I don’t know what happened at Zeebrugge,” Albert says, “but we need to see what’s happening here. Come on.” He leads the way back into the alley and down to the corner where we can see the dockyard.

  It’s the raid on Gontrode magnified by ten, a medieval vision of hell. The intense beams of a dozen searchlights knife upward, sweeping back and forth as if trying to scour the bombers from the sky. Vivid explosions—red, green and white—blossom everywhere, illuminating the puffy black clouds left from previous detonations. It’s hard to believe that any plane can survive in this sky, but they do. Swept by the moving searchlights—and occasionally trapped in a cone of two or three lights—are the new Handley Page twin-engined bombers.

  Tiny planes dart between the lights and the bombers, but I can’t tell whether they are German or British. Certainly, the bombers are doing their job. The ground is shaking from explosions within the dockyards and the orange glow of raging fires is reflected in the growing clouds of smoke. An explosion erupts to our right, and pieces of shrapnel and masonry scatter along the cobbled street in front of us.

  “This is our chance,” Albert says, stepping away from the wall and taking off Florien’s coat. “Help me across the road.”

  He drapes his left arm around my shoulder. I grab him around the waist, and we set off at a staggering, stumbling run across the road. The dockyard gates are open and figures are running in and out.

  A guard with a rifle steps forward and asks, “Where are you going?”

  “This officer was wounded by a bomb,” I say. “He needs urgent attention.”

  The guard stares hard at Albert, who is doing a wonderful job of looking dazed and babbling unconnected German words. The guard seems satisfied and doesn’t even ask for our identification. “The aid station is that way,” he says, pointing to the right. “Be careful.”

  “Thank you.”

  Albert and I stumble off in the direction indicated. As soon as we’re out of sight of the gate, he straightens and says, “Well, we’re in. I hope the rest of the night goes as well.”

  As if to deny his hope, the building directly in front of us explodes and collapses in a pile of rubble. We change direction and race between two long warehouses, giving up all pretense of Albert being wounded. From what I saw of the docks before the war and with snippets of information that Florien has let slip, I have a vague map of the area in my head. The trouble is that it bears little relation to what we are moving through. Everything seems to be in motion, as if we’re trapped in a spinning kaleidoscope of sound, vibrations and color. I’m completely lost, but we have to go on.

  We burst out into an open square where an anti-aircraft gun is hurling shells into the sky. Brass cartridge cases clang onto the cobbles and skitter past our running feet, but the gun crew pays us no attention. In the next alley we enter, there’s a destroyed water wagon, the dead horses still in harness and the driver on the ground beside them.

  We run for what seems like an age, changing direction to avoid explosions and German gun emplacements. Sailors and Belgian civilians run all around us or cower against walls. Everyone is too wrapped up in their own work or fear to pay us any attention. Eventually, we slide around a corner and almost fall into a wide expanse of black water.

  I know that the Bruges dockyard consists of four long tongues of water that stick out from the end of the major canal that runs to the sea at Zeebrugge. I have no idea which tongue we are looking at, however, as it looks nothing like the peaceful commercial dock I remember from before the war. Destroyers and torpedo boats are moored wherever there is space. Most of the dock to our left is taken up by what look like several cavernous pens. There’s a reinforced concrete roof supported by rows of squat pillars. I see what must be the noses of a number of U-boats sticking out of the darkness of the pens. Any open space left is occupied by either a searchlight or an anti-aircraft battery.

  To our right, a long concrete and metal roof shields the dock and overhangs the water. It’s impossible to see what it covers because the whole structure is draped in green-and-brown camouflage netting. I count the pens on the left—four, but others are under construction beside them. I count the destroyers and smaller ships—three and fifteen, respectively. I count the thundering anti-aircraft batteries around the dock—thirteen. I count the searchlights—four.

  U-BOAT PENS IN THE HARBOR

  I try to fix the scene in my mind: the docked ships, the running figures, the blazing guns, the exploding bombs. I take out the camera, set as long an exposure as I can and snap several pictures. I have no idea if any of them will come out, but I hope the moonlight, the searchlights, the glow of the nearby fires, and the flashes of the guns and bombs will create enough light to record something of use to London.

  I work efficiently and without fear. It’s as if I am separate from all the chaos around me, a detached observer. Even when a hot piece of metal falls painfully on my shoulder, I merely brush it off and continue photographing.

  “What’s under there?” Albert says pointing at the camouflage netting. He has to shout to make himself heard above the noise of the raid.

  “Let’s go and see,” I say without hesitation.

  We’ve taken only a couple of steps when a bomb explodes on the roof of the overhang, hurling several pieces of concrete into the water and shredding a long section of netting. Almost immediately, dozens of civilian workers who must have been sheltering under the overhang stream out. Albert and I push through them and haul a section of netting aside.

  My heart leaps as I take in the scene before us. All my training as a spy and my desire to make a difference in the war effort has led to this moment. This is the heart of the dockyard and the center of the attempt to starve Britain into submission.

  Powerful lights hang from the roof to allow for nighttime work. Several are broken and others flicker uncertainly, but enough are working to let us see the sleek, dark shapes of twenty U-boats tied up beside the dock. They look like lurking, malignant sea monsters, their narrow decks only just breaking the black surface of the water. One even has red, staring eyes painted on the curved bow.

  I hear Albert gasp beside me. A bomb explodes nearby, more lights flicker and small pieces of concrete drop around us. Workers are still streaming up from the depths of the dock. I take more photographs as surreptitiously as possible.

  “Manon? What are you doing here?”

  My heart is pounding as I turn to see Florien coming toward us. He stares at me and then notices Albert in his bloodstained officer’s uniform. His brow furrows in puzzlement.

  “Are you wounded, sir?” he asks.

  “Yes,” Albert replies in his heavily accented German. “It was a bomb.”

  Florien continues to look confused. “Why are you here?” he asks turning his gaze back on me. “In the middle of an air raid?”

  Albert steps forward, but his shaky command of German deserts him and he looks over at me helplessly.

  Realization slowly dawns on Florien’s face. “You’re not a German off
icer,” he says. He turns to me, eyes wide in shock. “You’re a spy, like that woman at the hospital.”

  “Amelie,” I say. “That’s her name. You beat her up.”

  “I didn’t,” Florien says defensively.

  “You didn’t help her when your friends beat her,” I say. “That amounts to the same thing.”

  “I told them to stop, but they wouldn’t listen.” His voice takes on a pleading tone. “Anyway, she’s a spy.”

  “Yes, like me,” I say angrily. “And not a spy—a patriot. Amelie is risking death for her country and what she believes in. What are you doing, bowing and scraping to the enemy?” In the midst of the bombing, I’m letting what I’ve long wanted to say to Florien flood out. “You would see us all enslaved rather than stand up for what is right. You want to let the Germans take everything good and worthwhile from us and break up our country.”

  “The Germans are going to win the war,” Florien says weakly.

  “Look!” I order, sweeping my arm around to encompass the bombers in the air and the explosions on the ground nearby. “Your precious U-boats don’t stand a chance, and with America in the war, Germany is doomed. It won’t be this year, but the Germans cannot win. Just as those thugs you call friends won’t achieve anything by beating up a defenseless woman.”

  “You ran away and deserted me,” Florien says, his old anger flashing back. “Those thugs, as you call them, were the only friends I had. Mama was a wreck, you were gone and Papa…”

  He sags as if he’s been deflated and his gaze slides to the ground at his feet. Awareness of the world around me returns. The flow of people out of the U-boat pen has slowed and the bombing has almost stopped.

  Albert is watching us, looking worried. “We have to go,” he says urgently.

  “What about Papa?” I ask Florien.

  My brother looks up, tears glistening in the flickering firelight. He opens his mouth to say something, but a harsh voice interrupts.

  “What is going on here?”

  I spin round to see a German officer approaching. He’s holding a pistol casually in his right hand.

  “You shouldn’t be here. This area is restricted.”

  Albert steps forward. “We came here in the bombing…safety,” he says in awkward German, waving vaguely at the roof.

  “He was wounded by a bomb,” I say. “In the head. I brought him here for safety. I’ll take him to the hospital now.”

  “And you?” The officer directs his pistol at Florien.

  “I was on the night shift in here,” Florien explains. “I was coming out after the bomb hit when I saw my sister.” He nods toward me.

  The officer stares hard at each of us in turn. “And why,” he says, raising his pistol and pointing it at me, “would a nurse helping a wounded officer be carrying a camera?”

  I almost collapse when I realize I still have the camera dangling from my left hand.

  “I think maybe you are spying on us,” the officer says. “Take that silly bandage off your head, please,” he asks, swinging the gun round to point at Albert. Albert hesitates, although it’s obvious from his gestures what the officer means. “I can shoot this young lady if you do not do as you are told.”

  Albert unwraps the bandage to show the almost healed wound from the raid on Gontrode.

  “You heal very quickly,” the officer says.

  “She has nothing to do with it,” Albert replies in English. “The camera is mine. I forced her to bring me in here. Don’t shoot her.”

  “Very noble,” the officer replies in broken English. “But I have no intention of shooting her. She probably has a wealth of useful information in that pretty head. You, on the other hand, are posing as a German officer. I will happily shoot you.”

  “No!” I yell, launching myself at the German. I intend to grab the gun, but the officer swings his arm back and the pistol catches me a stinging blow on the temple, knocking me to the ground.

  I’m vaguely aware of a figure jumping over me and the sounds of a scuffle, followed by a gunshot. There’s some shouting, more scuffling and a second gunshot, then Albert is leaning over me.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “Dizzy,” I say, blinking my eyes and swallowing hard. “What happened?”

  Albert helps me sit up. “You have to focus. Your brother attacked the German officer. He’s wounded. He needs help.”

  At first, I think Albert means the German officer, but I look around to see Florien sitting on the dock with his right hand clutched over his chest. Dark blood is oozing between his fingers.

  “Florien.” I crawl over to my brother. The German officer is lying beside him, his eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.

  Florien’s breathing is shallow and there’s a lot of blood on his overalls. “The gun went off,” he says.

  “Keep still. We’ll get you to the hospital.”

  “I’m tired,” Florien says, leaning against me.

  I cradle his head on my lap. “You have to get up,” I urge, tears running down my cheeks. “We have to go to the hospital.”

  But Florien makes no attempt to move.

  “You were very brave,” I say. “You stopped that German shooting us.”

  “Where is he?” Florien asks.

  “I took his gun and shot him,” Albert explains.

  Florien nods. “I couldn’t allow him to hurt my big sister,” he says with a smile. Suddenly, he’s my little brother, being the knight in shining armor in the games we used to play in the forest. He coughs, a deep, gurgling sound. “There’s something I have to tell you,” he says when the fit passes.

  “You can tell me later,” I say through my tears. “Just rest now.”

  Florien shakes his head weakly. “I have to tell you now. It’s important.” Another cough rattles his body and a grimace crosses his face. “I killed Papa.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I say. “The Germans killed Papa.”

  “When the Germans first came to our town, everyone was so unhappy. I wanted to do something to make them go home.”

  He closes his eyes and struggles for breath. I can sense Albert’s nervousness as he crouches beside me, but I ignore him.

  “I found Papa’s old hunting rifle,” Florien goes on to say when he’s recovered a bit. “I saw the German soldier at the end of our street and shot at him. I didn’t aim to kill him. I just wanted to scare him and make him go home.”

  I blink hard and stare at my little brother. “It was you who shot at the soldier?”

  “Yes. After they took Papa, I was too scared to give myself up. I convinced myself that they wouldn’t shoot the hostages, but they did. I killed Papa.”

  The effort of his long admission exhausts Florien and he closes his eyes. The shock of what he’s told me has stopped my tears. His childish attempt to scare the entire German army into going home led to Papa’s death and flooded him in guilt—and then I deserted him. While I was traveling to exotic places and believing that it’s easy to tell good from bad, Florien was back here struggling with horrific guilt and crushing loneliness. My refuge was escape, while his was the only friends he could find—the thugs who admire German power and believe that Belgium should be split in two. Suddenly Florien’s anger, drinking and extreme politics make sense. They are all attempts to hide from himself and what he has to live with.

  “I’m cold,” he murmurs.

  “He’s going into shock,” Albert says, draping his uniform jacket over him.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, stroking my brother’s forehead. It feels cold. “You didn’t know what you were doing. It was the Germans who killed Papa.”

  Florien opens his eyes and looks up at me. “Was it?” he asks.

  “Of course it was. You didn’t even mean to hurt the soldier. It was the Germans who took the hostages and killed them. You are innocent.”

  A broad smile forms on his face, making him look years younger. “Thank you,” he says and closes his eyes.

  “
Now we really have to go,” Albert says. He drags the body of the German officer across the dock and pushes it off the edge into the water. Several Belgian workers are standing some distance away in the shadows, but they don’t interfere.

  “He’s still alive,” I say, feeling Florien’s pulse. The bloodstain on his chest isn’t getting any larger, so I think the bleeding’s slowed. “We have to get him out.”

  “It’s not long until dawn and the plane won’t wait,” Albert says.

  I think he’s about to suggest we leave Florien, so I give him a look that makes it obvious that’s not an option. Albert steps forward and lifts Florien onto his back as gently as possible.

  We stagger away from the dock, but I know there’s no way we can walk to Koolkerke in time. Already a narrow strip of pale sky is showing along the eastern horizon, and Koolkerke is about a twenty-minute walk—even without Albert carrying Florien.

  One of the watching Belgian workers moves tentatively toward us. I hope he’s not going to try to stop us. I don’t think I have the energy left to fight.

  “Where are you going?” the man asks.

  “Koolkerke,” I reply.

  He takes a long look at Albert with Florien on his back, turns and runs into a nearby building. He returns moments later pushing a flat two-wheeled cart. “Put him on this,” he says. “It will be faster.”

  Albert lays Florien on the cart, takes up the handles and heads off.

  “Thank you,” I say to the man, before I follow Albert.

  Leaving the dockyard is easy. A number of walking wounded are heading for the hospital, so we just join the crowd. My nurse’s uniform helps us blend in, and no one stops us. Once we’re out the gate, we take the road to Koolkerke and leave the others behind.

  Flashes begin to appear in the dark sky to the north, and the deep rumble of heavy guns signals the beginning of the naval attack on the Zeebrugge lock.

  “That’s the navy for you,” Albert says. “Late as usual.”

  We haven’t gone more than a few hundred yards before I see a cyclist coming toward us.