Night Crossing

by Robert Ryan

  ‘There is a Major present. He outranks you.’

  ‘He has been relieved of command. The Führer has decreed that an SS officer outranks any Wehrmacht officer. Especially one who has not created a proper command system nor—’ Schuller clenched a fist in frustration—‘instigated an escape committee.’

  ‘An escape committee?’ asked Erich in disbelief. ‘Where the hell are you going to escape to round here?’

  Hetz put a hand on one of the uprights and began shaking it loose.

  ‘Hey,’ said Dietrich in alarm. As he stepped forward to protest his way was blocked by Bauert.

  ‘You know that officers are not required to work,’ explained Schuller. ‘Here I find them gardening and building for the British. You will stop this at once.’ Hetz tore the two-by-four from its housing and threw it to the ground.

  ‘It’s for us, not for them,’ explained Erich as reasonably as he could.

  Kroll finally spoke. ‘By doing this you are helping make the German PoW population docile and pliable.’

  ‘And our duty is to be exactly the opposite of that,’ finished Schuller. ‘Take it down.’

  ‘Or what?’ asked Erich.

  ‘There is a new addition to the camp’s roster. Every Friday night, there is a court of inquiry to consider complaints about un-German activities.’ Schuller pointed at the half-built hut. ‘Take it down.’

  After they had gone, Dietrich looked at him, his expression anxious. ‘What do we do?’

  Erich gathered his jacket and started back to his berth. ‘If he wants it taken down, he can do it himself.’

  It took all Ross’s powers of persuasion and a solemn promise to pay in full for the unused room to get Mr Boyce to prepare a tray so he could take Uli breakfast in bed. Toast, jam, a precious boiled egg, cornflakes and tea—not bad at all. She was sitting up in bed, watching the gulls whirl outside the window, and she smiled as he came in.

  ‘Luxury,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  They helped themselves in silence while Ross fussed around, pouring the tea, buttering the toast, enjoying the warm self-satisfied glow inside. He remembered the last time he had felt this way, with Emma, and felt a twinge of sadness.

  ‘What shall we do today?’ he asked.

  ‘Stay here?’

  He kissed her. ‘I’d second that. But we’re not allowed. House rules. Out by nine, no return until four-thirty. It’s the norm at the British seaside.’

  ‘What if it’s raining?’

  ‘No exceptions. And it isn’t raining.’

  ‘How strange. Well, we’ll see the sights, have lunch, cinema, tea—’ she began.

  ‘All right, all right. We won’t be bored.’

  ‘Oh, so there’s a chance I might become boring?’ Uli teased. ‘So soon after giving myself? You Englishmen. It’s true what they say.’

  ‘What do they say?’ Ross asked, sliding under the blankets, ignoring the crash of the crockery as the tray slid off the bed onto the carpet.

  ‘Oh, all sorts of things.’

  ‘I love you, you know.’

  She cupped his face in her hands and stared into it, lest there be any doubt. ‘I know, Cam. I know.’

  Erich was in his bunk, reading an English detective novel, when he felt every person in the hut tense. He knew what it was. One or more of the Rollkommando, the new internal police force. The SS had been at Stanhope camp for two weeks, and already they had bent the entire place to their will. There had been two beatings when some of the men had refused to sign a new oath to the Führer, a kind of get-well-soon card after the Stauffenberg conspirators’ attempt on his life, to be sent over to Germany via the Red Cross. Erich had signed. He knew that it wouldn’t get past Carlisle, the Camp Intelligence Officer, and his team of censors.

  He was startled when Schuller walked over to him. ‘Hinkel.’

  Erich put the book down slowly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like a word. About the new hut that is, I see, still standing.’

  Erich checked whether Hetz, Kroll or Bauert, Schuller’s faithful bruisers, were behind him, but they were nowhere in sight. That didn’t mean they weren’t waiting outside the door to teach him a lesson, though. Erich hadn’t touched the recreation hut since Schuller had warned him about it, but the SS man would see his failure actually to tear it down as gross insubordination.

  Schuller walked over to Dietrich, who was reading Die Wochenpost, the PoWs’ newspaper, and tore it from his hands. ‘Why are you reading these filthy lies?’ Schuller asked.

  ‘I like the crossword,’ protested Dietrich.

  Before Schuller could answer, Erich swung his legs off his bed, grabbed his ex-British Army jacket and walked outside. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked over his shoulder. Schuller threw the newspaper to the floor and followed.

  As Erich passed into the fresh air he flinched, ready for a blow, but none came. Schuller ushered him across the open ground, past the latrine and shower block, to where the skeleton of the new building stood.

  ‘This hut,’ said Schuller.

  ‘You want it down, get your goons to take it down,’ Erich replied, with as much insolence as he dared.

  ‘I don’t want it down. I want it built. It’s an excellent idea, Hinkel. An excellent idea.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The thing is, I want a few modifications.’ From his pocket Schuller fetched a folded piece of paper. Erich spread it out and examined it. It showed rough drawings for the recreation hut, but with new dimensions, and some additions that he couldn’t follow.

  He turned to see Dietrich staring at them. Good old Dietrich, watching Erich’s back, even if he was as scared of Schuller’s mob as the rest of them. Erich beckoned him over. He saw the look on Schuller’s face and said: ‘He’ll be doing half the work.’

  Erich passed the plan across to Dietrich, who also looked puzzled. ‘These walls are all about a metre deep. Why?’

  ‘Well, we’ll tell the British it is for insulation. Autumn will be here soon, the stoves we have are inadequate.’ He looked at Dietrich and said: ‘You seem quite friendly with Carlisle. He’ll believe you.’

  ‘Not friendly—’ protested Dietrich.

  ‘What are they really for?’ interrupted Erich, already suspecting the answer. The walls, he now appreciated, were to be so full of cavities as to be almost hollow.

  ‘To hide the soil.’

  Dietrich fell for it and asked, ‘What soil?’

  Schuller slapped him on the back and grinned as if delivering a surprise Christmas gift to a child. ‘The soil from the tunnel that we’ll be digging.’

  Thirty

  WILTON HOUSE IN the Victoria area was one of the many grand London homes that had been requisitioned at the beginning of the war. Originally it had housed Free French officers, then for most of 1943–4 it became part of the Operation Overlord—D-Day—planning nexus that stretched across the British capital. The logistics of supplying beachheads were pioneered in this anonymous stuccoed mansion.

  In August 1944, after the Second Front had been opened, it was turned over to the Combined Services Detailed Interrogation Centre, an organisation struggling for space and resources as thousands of German PoWs were shipped across the Channel in special secure barges. It was to Wilton House, in September 1944, that Colonel Ross was summoned for a meeting.

  He showed his papers to the sentry on the door and was ushered through to the rear, where two men sat in the conservatory overlooking a sadly neglected garden. Lieutenant Colonel Debenham leapt to his feet and held out a hand. This was to be an informal meeting, clearly. ‘Donald. Thank you so much for coming. May I introduce Major Wayne Lillyman?’

  ‘Pleasure.’ The American was a tall, handsome man in his early forties, with that strange growth of velvet across his scalp that passed for a haircut in the US Army. Colonel Ross took the man’s hand and made sure he didn’t wince when his fingers were crushed.

  ‘Major Lillyman is with the Office of Strategic Ser
vices. The OSS.’ The Colonel nodded. His old friend Claude Dansey had helped set up that outfit back in the 1930s. ‘Now, what can we get you? Tea?’

  ‘Tea would be fine. Milk, no sugar.’

  An aide was quickly dispatched and Debenham sat down and indicated to the others to be seated. ‘I hope you don’t mind me summoning you over here. A bit less public than the Cage in some ways.’

  ‘It’s fine. I don’t have much time, though, John.’

  ‘No. Well, let’s get down to it.’

  ‘Colonel Ross—’ the American began. But he was silenced by a glance from Debenham.

  ‘Donald. You have done a grand job over at the Cage. JACI are very pleased with the preliminary reports and recommendations.’

  ‘Very pleased,’ interjected Lillyman.

  ‘But?’

  ‘No “buts”, Donald. That stands. Ah, tea.’

  The conversation was halted while cups were poured and even Lillyman took one. ‘The tea’s not exactly to my taste, but at least it’s not toxic like the damned coffee over here.’ He smiled.

  ‘So, Donald. As I was saying, fine work, fine work. However, there are some worrying aspects.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Your health.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘Well, that’s not what we hear. Guards and stenographers talk, you know. Canteen whispers.’

  ‘Since when have we dealt in canteen whispers?’ asked the Colonel.

  ‘Pretty much always.’ Lillyman grinned. ‘That’s our job, isn’t it?’

  Ross had to admit that he was right. Rumour and innuendo were the intelligence services’ stocks in trade. He’d heard from Dansey that one of the first things that MI6 had done upon learning of the 20 July bomb plot against Hitler had been to start a whispering campaign about the vast number of Wehrmacht officers involved, thus ensuring that numerous competent officers—innocent of the charges—were taken out of the German command structure. The number of arrests had reached more than four thousand, including Admiral Canaris who had clearly continued his opposition to Hitler. Now they were hearing sickening rumours about how some of those men had died.

  ‘I’ll take a medical,’ said the Colonel. ‘If you have any doubts. I’m younger than Claude Dansey, y’know.’

  ‘Well, there is more to it than that,’ said Lillyman. ‘The box on the desk with the lights.’

  ‘Is this more canteen whispers?’

  ‘You have to admit, Donald, it is a bit unorthodox. It’s like … witchcraft.’

  ‘Now hold on. You just told me that my reports were fine.’

  ‘They are, Donald.’

  ‘But now you are saying that I’m sick and batty?’

  ‘What we are saying, Colonel Ross,’ said Lillyman, his patience running out, ‘is that the time has come to rationalise the whole service. John and I have had a good look, top to tail, and, while we appreciate what you have achieved, we feel that this is perhaps the best time for you to step aside. We will be recommending the instigation of two-man Anglo-American interrogation teams, using some of your methods—’

  ‘But not the box,’ said Debenham, smiling.

  ‘The box isn’t what it seems …’

  ‘We know about the girl, Colonel,’ said Lillyman. ‘And we intend to subject her to rigorous scientific tests to ascertain exactly what tricks she was using to fool you. If we find that she is a fraud, she will be prosecuted. If she is a spy …’ He spread his hands wide, to indicate that hanging would be regrettable but necessary.

  The Colonel didn’t answer. He was concerned now that he would lose the thread. The cup in his hand was shaking and he put it down quickly. Heightened emotion increased the frequency and duration of his lapses. He had to stay calm.

  ‘When would you like all this to happen?’

  ‘We make a verbal report to the Swinton Committee on Thursday,’ said Debenham. ‘If they agree, they can have detailed proposals one week from then. The fact is, Donald, once these recommendations are accepted—and they will be—things will move apace.’

  ‘So I should clear my desk now?’

  ‘I would make a start, yes. Don’t worry, we’ll find something for you to do.’

  ‘And my son?’

  ‘He’s a copper, isn’t he?’ Ross nodded. ‘Well, there is always that for him to fall back on. But we’ll be happy to find him a position in the reorganisation if he wishes to remain. We need German-speakers. I suspect, though, that once we check the girl out, he might find things difficult …’ Debenham had already made up his mind about her, of course.

  ‘Do I have a right of appeal, John?’

  ‘No,’ said the American flatly.

  ‘I understand.’ Ross stood, and said quietly, ‘Thanks for the tea, gentlemen.’

  When the recreation hut was finished, it had to be inspected by a representative of the Ministry of Works. ‘Can’t have it collapsing and killing all you Germans, now, can we?’ joked Carlisle. Once the papers were signed and a power cable had been run in, Erich and Deitrich were told that they were free to bring in the furniture. It took eight of them to get the billiard table across from Stanhope House itself, and Erich pulled a muscle in his back. They subsequently discovered that the slate was cracked, but Dietrich was sure he could re-cover it in such a way that it wouldn’t matter. One of the tankmen offered to make new pockets, and a sapper was given the task of renovating the motley collection of cues.

  It was early September now, still warm, and the war showed no sign of coming to a conclusion. Once a week BBC propaganda was broadcast over the loudspeakers. Paris had been liberated. Soon the Allies would be moving across into Germany. Americans and British on the one side, Russians on the other. Erich’s country was about to be squeezed to death, unless it tried for a negotiated peace.

  Shortly after morning roll-call, Erich went inside the hut to examine his handiwork. The quality of the materials left a lot to be desired, but considering it was reclaimed timber, the structure was good and sturdy. It even had cavities in which to hide the earth when Schuller started digging his escape tunnel. The mad bastard had thought of everything, including a pumping system made from old milk cans to deliver fresh air to the tunnellers.

  Every time Erich thought about the tunnel, he felt the steel bands constrict around his chest. It was Blechkoller, the submariner’s fear, only instead of tonnes of water crushing down on him, it was dozens of cubic metres of earth. Erich wanted nothing to do with burrowing.

  He rubbed out the list of tasks on the scoring blackboard next to the dartboard one by one. All done. The last had been the ceiling. He hesitated, looked up and noticed that Dietrich had nailed one of the ceiling strips very badly. It ran out of true and ruined the effect. He was OK, was Dietrich, but his work suffered from sloppy finishing. Erich slid on the heavy canvas work gloves that he had managed to wheedle from the British, fetched one of the sawhorses they had used for cutting the timber and stood on it, using a screwdriver to lever off the rogue piece of panelling. As it came free he saw the wire. It was grey and metallic, not like the striped electrical wire with its fabric covering that they had run to the central light.

  He tore off the next strip of wood, then the next, following the wire across the roof space. It terminated next to the central ceiling lamp at a flat green disc, like a shrunken landmine, with a diaphragm in the middle, protected by a fine mesh cage. He had seen dozens of these in his house as a boy. Not exactly the same, and mostly much larger, but he knew that it was a microphone.

  He felt a tugging at his trouser leg and looked down. It was Schuller. He put a finger to his lips and pointed at the bugging device. Schuller nodded and retreated outside. Erich quickly put the ceiling strips back in place and followed.

  When they were well away from the hut, Schuller spun around. ‘What is it?’

  Erich hesitated. ‘I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Take a wild guess.’

  ‘A recording device.’

&nb
sp; ‘Shit.’ He poked Erich’s chest. ‘And you put it in for them?’

  ‘No. That’s why they did a building inspection. As a cover. I was just realigning one of the wooden slats. They put one back badly. I thought it was Werner who’d nailed it up.’

  Schuller rubbed his chin, pressing his fingers into his flesh. ‘Are they in every hut?’

  ‘I don’t know. It wouldn’t surprise me. It explains a few things, though.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘How they managed to break up the black-market trading that Sachsen had going with some of the civilian workers.’

  ‘Shit,’ Schuller repeated. ‘Would they hear us digging?’

  Erich stroked his chin. ‘I don’t know. You’d have to be very quiet. It’s possible. There is something else to worry about, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They could have buried microphones. It can be done. To listen for tunnels. Like the hydrophones we used on the U-boats.’

  Erich held his breath while Schuller began to pace in a circle. The truth was, Erich had no idea whether buried listening devices would work, nor if the British had planted any. Much as he wanted to get away and start the search for Uli, he had no desire to be buried alive in the process.

  Eventually the SS man stopped and turned. ‘Then we think again. You were on the U-boats, Hinkel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cipher officer?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You know the island code?’

  ‘I do.’ It was a way of inserting messages into apparently innocuous text. ‘How do you know about it?’

  ‘I was a policeman, Hinkel. We had to read people’s mail.’

  ‘They read the mail here.’

  ‘Then come up with a decent variation on the code.’

  Erich nodded. He doubted they would spot the U-boat version of island code. Not if he was careful. But did he want to be? ‘So what’s the idea?’

  ‘I want every man to write a letter home. I need you to formulate several of them with island messages inserted. And especially one to your home.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  Schuller repeated some of the information that Skorzeny had given him. ‘All incoming mail from PoWs should be checked for messages by the security services at home. It isn’t always. But Dönitz insists that it is always done for the submarine branch. Dönitz is absolutely loyal to the Führer.’ Then Prinz was right about him being a fool, thought Erich. ‘You will place a request into a letter and ask for information back.’