“The Commandant’s here,” announced Miss Dance.
“So he is,” said Travers, and grabbed the pile of urgent correspondence. “If I’m late you might see if Quartermaster-Sergeant Mafferty has finished that fuel return, and then get on with the B.158’s.”
He entered the Commandant’s office to be greeted with a grunt and a look of thunder.
“I think you might have let me know that prisoners were coming?”
“When I spoke to you on the ’phone, sir, I didn’t know they were coming. Everything’s gone perfectly smoothly.”
“That isn’t to say something mightn’t have gone wrong.”
“Nothing did go wrong,” said Travers curtly. “I told you on the ’phone that we could handle any situation—”
Stirrop rapped the table with his knuckles—a trick that always infuriated Travers.
“I’m not talking about that. What I say is that if prisoners are coming again, I’m to be informed at once. What’s all that you’ve got there?”
“Various things for attention and signature.”
Stirrop waved them impatiently aside.
“I don’t want to see that damn’ rubbish now. How many prisoners are there?”
Travers made a full report as far as interruptions allowed. Stirrop grunted.
“Who’s the Orderly Officer?”
“Dowling.”
“And who’s Orderly Provost?”
“Stamp.”
He grunted again, just the least bit more irritated because he had not caught Travers out. Then he got to his feet and reached for his British warm.
“I’d better go along and see them. Do they speak English?”
“Some of the officers do, and all the passengers,” Travers said. “The crew speak it very little.”
Outside the Commandant slipped up on a frozen path and but for Travers’s quick hand would have taken a purler. That was more than enough for an outburst.
“Why the hell hasn’t Ramble had these paths cindered? Would you believe it, and I told him myself. .. . And what’s that man doing over there. Look how he’s holding his bloody rifle! Did you ever see such a lot of bloody fools to send here as guard. Where’s Byron?”
“He may be in the main building,” Travers said.
But Byron wasn’t there, and Stirrop forgot that particular indignation at the sight of the busy hall. Winter and his clerk were preparing a questioning table, and Stirrop went across to him.
“What’s this for?”
“For interrogation, sir.”
“You mean to say you haven’t begun interrogating yet?”
“The men are being re-sorted and some haven’t finished fatigues,” broke in Travers.
“Then they damn-well ought to have done. Damn’ bad staff work. Damn-bad.”
Travers kept a stiff upper lip and said nothing. Winter, from whom a straight left would have sent Stirrop for six, was taking it lying down, and the passivity infuriated Stirrop still more.
“Well, haven’t you anything to say?”
A look came into Winter’s eves which Travers had never seen before. Then it went.
“If you say what you want done, sir, then I’ll do it.”
“Want done! Good God, man, haven’t you got any ears!” He shook his little head in a mad, childish sort of rage. “My God, you’d drive me into an asylum. Where’s the Captain?”
“Captain Friedemann?”
“Who the hell else should I mean?”
“He’s in Room 5,” said Winter evenly.
“Τhen I’ll speak to him.” He tossed himself about again, then changed his mind. “I’ll see him in my room. This blasted place is like an ice-house. Why the devil doesn’t Mafferty see it’s kept warm?”
Off he went at a furious pace, so that Travers’s long legs could hardly keep up with him. But no sooner were the two in the Commandant’s room than Travers’s fingers went to his glasses.
“There’s something I must say to you, sir.”
“Well, what is it?”
Travers’s anger was beginning to rise.
“This, sir. That if Captain Winter cared to report that you’d spoken to him as you did just now in front of N.C.O.s and men, there might be trouble.”
Stirrop shot him a look, then turned away.
“I don’t need your advice as to how to keep discipline, Captain Travers.”
When he turned, that crafty look was in his eyes, and he spoke with an exaggerated slowness which was evidently meant to convey some irony.
“Somehow I don’t think we shall be troubled with our friend Winter very long.” Then he broke off as if he had said too much. “Better let me look at those papers before that blasted Bosche gets here.”
And yet, when Captain Friedemann did come in with Ramble, even in front of him Stirrop had to pose. With much ceremony he introduced Travers as if he and his Adjutant were the warmest and closest of collaborators.
“I shan’t need you, Sergeant-Major,” he said to Ramble. “I’ll bring Captain Friedemann along when we’ve finished our talk.’
“Tell Captain Winter I’ll be with him in exactly ten minutes,” Travers said to Ramble, and then went on to his office. Already in the Commandant’s room yet another stranger—and more than a stranger—was about to hear the Story of My Life.
Officers, and even high-up brass hats, often remarked to Travers that prisoners in their estimation were too well treated. One particularly bloodthirsty specimen of the latter class said that if he had his way the whole of the misbegotten unmentionables would be put up against a blue-pencil wall and ruddy well shot.
Now since this story depends largely on the doings of prisoners as well as of camp personnel, you should know in broad outline how No. 54 Prisoner of War Camp was run. First of all, the camp was really a clearing station, and not a standing camp, but main principles still held good. They were based on this incontrovertible fact. Prisoners of war of all belligerents in all countries must be subject to universal rules as agreed at Geneva. The British abide by those rules and expect the enemy to abide by them too. If we did not, then the enemy would have a pretext for ill-treatment of our men, which is something we wish above all to avoid. As for our safeguards—well, there are a good few. Officials of the Red Cross have access to camps in all countries, and prisoners may write letters of complaint to specified neutral embassies or legations.
No. 54 Camp catered for all ranks. Officers were better fed and slept on real beds with a chair for each. As there were ten of them in camp, they just occupied one large room, which was handy for administration. They were liable for no fatigues, but were expected to help with the discipline of other ranks.
All other prisoners were given the regulation ration, which is less in quantity than that of British troops, though if heavy fatigues were done, then extra food was allowed for. Prisoners had right of access to the Commandant, right of reasonable recreation and exercise, and were allowed to write letters and receive them when duly censored.
Those are merely indications which just about touch the edge of the subject, but as such they will do. Now look at a daily routine card for January, copies of which in German were in all rooms.
CAMP TIME-TABLE
07.00 Reveille and Count.
07.15 Personal and Room Fatigues.
08.00 Breakfast (Officers).
08.15 Breakfast [Other Ranks).
09.00 Fatigues. Sick Parade.
12.00 Commandant’s Count.
13.00 Dinner (Officers).
13.15 Dinner (Other Ranks).
17.30. All Ranks.
18.15 Black-out.
20.30 Count.
21.30 Lights Out.
Now to see precisely what those orders mean. The first count was done by the Orderly Officer, accompanied by a provost-sergeant. Then prisoners cleaned out their bedrooms and removed the latrine buckets which had been in the locked rooms all night.
Officers had breakfast first because it was brought to them by th
eir batmen in a special room. After any meal there was dining-room fatigue and squads in rotation swept corridors and cleaned other rooms which prisoners used. As for sick parade, it was held under Dulling in the main hall, after which time—once the prisoners had settled down—the hall was used as a recreation-, reading-, and writing-room for all ranks, though prisoners still had access to their bedrooms, which were left open all day.
At 20.15 at night, the Provost cleared the hall and all prisoners went to their rooms, where the Orderly Officer again took the count. In the rooms the prisoners remained, but at 21.30 lights were turned off and all rooms locked. Since the Orderly Provost and his runner occupied a central room all night, they were available if a prisoner was taken sick, or if suspicious sounds were heard. All round the building the modified lighting gave sentries sufficient view of the wire, and from Lights Out the camp would be in silence, except at changes of guard. One exception in guard-mounting should be pointed out. At night no sentry patrolled in front of the main building, which was particularly strongly wired, and, moreover, Stirrop objected most vehemently to being disturbed in the night by changes of guard.
Naturally, on the morning after the arrival of prisoners, things could not go according to the timetable. Profiting, however, by the mistakes of the camp’s first experience, the staff had worked out a routine which was calculated to make the delay as short as possible. When Travers got back to the main building that morning everything—thanks to Stirrop’s being safely in his room—was going as smoothly as could be.
Every enemy alien had a large official card—ultimately to be made out in quadruplicate—embodying the information which is primarily required. Dulling took over first, weighing prisoners, recording height, weight, and description, and giving any special medical history. From him they went to Winter. He once more checked names and numbers, and articles which had been confiscated temporarily, and he made sure each man knew camp rules.
Then came Travers. He checked money, told prisoners how they would be allowed to spend it, and, if they had only foreign currency, obtained their written authority to change it at prevailing rates. Each prisoner was then given a cash card—a kind of summarised Bank Pass Book—which he signed.
Ramble next took over. Every article in a prisoner’s heavy luggage was checked in his presence, and the prisoner was allowed to remove necessary clothing and comforts. Then Ramble used his judgment as to what warmer clothes he was likely to need, and gave him a written chit which would be handed to Mafferty and his storeman. In the store, then, the prisoner was fitted out, and having signed a receipt would make his way to his room, arms full of new and old belongings. When the check was made it turned out that no less than forty-two prisoners were given complete outfits.
Travers settled down to his own particular job with a couple of assistants. It was a job of work that he very much liked, for it gave him a personal contact with every prisoner. Later, of course, Winter’s researches would divide prisoners into three rough categories—fanatical Nazis, pro-Nazis, and not so very pro, and Travers was always interested to see how his own judgments, unbacked by official evidence, would coincide with Winter’s groupings. Nearly always he was wrong. The Hun is a peculiar creature. The most dangerous can be the most suave and amenable and grateful, while apparent surliness or even obstruction may simply be due to nervousness—and that not only of guards and staff, but even more of the prisoner’s Gestapo-minded companions in confinement.
A runner suddenly appeared in front of Travers’s table.
“The Commandant’s compliments, sir, and will you take the count for him, as he’s busy.”
Travers looked at the clock and saw that it was well after midday. Another quarter of an hour and all prisoners were in their rooms, and accompanied by Ramble and the Orderly Provost, Travers took the count. Nine officers—correct, provided that Captain Friedemann was still with the Commandant, and a runner confirmed that he was. Fifty-eight other ranks in rooms and five in hospital—correct. Grand total for the count book, duly signatured—seventy-three.
It was too late to resume work before lunch, but at 13.30 a fresh start would be made, and it was confidently expected that everything would be finished by tea-time. Travers nipped back to his office to see what had been happening. The Commandant was seen making his way back in camp with Friedemann, voice never ceasing while he was in earshot. Winter came in and Travers told Miss Dance she might as well get away to lunch.
“I wish to heaven the Commandant wouldn’t make himself so cheap with people like Friedemann,” Winter said. “It lowers everybody’s discipline, and not only that, you never know what privileges he’s been giving him which we’ll never hear about till something happens.”
“Why don’t you have it out with the Commandant yourself?” Travers said, and smiled somewhat drily. “A hefty bloke like yourself ought to start off with some pretty good advantages if the argument got a bit warm.”
“Life’s too short,” Winter said. Then, as an afterthought, “Besides, what sort of version would he give if there was a stand-up row? Army discipline’s a queer thing, you know. He might charge me with the devil knows what, and then swear black was white to support it.”
“You must know,” Travers said, and then suddenly made up his mind to speak. “By the way, did you say anything about chucking this job?”
“No,” said Winter, surprised. “Why?”
“Only that the Commandant made a very cryptic remark this morning after that little fracas in the hall. He hinted you mightn’t be here much longer—then he shut up.”
Winter’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh, did he? He may be right and he may be wrong. I shall be the one to decide that.”
“Got any good friends?”
“Plenty,” Winter said. “I don’t want to boast, but when my application went in it was backed by Lord Stroude.”
“Sounds good.” Travers said, as the two made their way towards lunch. And yet he wondered. Stroude was the perfect Blimp—a product of the dear old school who had been found jobs by pals in many ministries. Somehow Travers could hardly see him rolling up his shirt sleeves and wading into a scrap on behalf of Winter. At the first sign of trouble Stroude would be far more likely to disown his protégé entirely, and make for the nearest long grass.
At 13.30 work began again. Stirrop expressed a desire to lend a hand, and attached himself to Ramble, where he held up proceedings by engaging in protracted talk to such prisoners as could speak English.
Travers was getting on well, with no queue waiting at his table. Sometimes, indeed, he had a minute or two to wait, which gave time for a quick smoke and a look at other people. In that none too certain light at the hall he couldn’t help noticing for the first time how much Dulling had of the Teutonic in his appearance. Then he thought he must be wrong, and it was only that Dulling’s confidences were making him imagine things. After all, a good many people had something German in their make-up. Winter often looked like a Hun, and he had the trick—of which he was quite unaware—of making an occasional bow from the waist up. And what about Stirrop? If ever there was a little Prussian bantam, it was Stirrop.
It was almost at the end of the job that Travers looked up from the table to survey the next man, and there was the gentleman with the wink. He had not yet received an issue of warm clothing, and he was looking none too clean and his beard would have done with a trim.
“You speak English?” Travers asked.
Beckner—the card showed his name—shook his head in a rather stolid way.
“A leedle I spik,” he said very slowly.
“Never mind,” said Travers. “Do you speak French?”
His face lighted. “Oui, m’sieur. Un p’tit peu.”
“Well, it’ll be better than my German,” Travers told him amiably, “so we’ll stick to French.”
Beckner’s money was in French and Belgian francs, and he readily signed the authority to change. Everything else was in order, and Travers waved
a friendly hand to indicate that he might go. But Beckner gave a quick look—first round the room and then at Travers’s two clerks—and then quick as lightning had put an envelope on the table under Travers’s nose.
“What’s this?” Travers said. “I can’t receive any letters or petitions now.”
Beckner shook his head violently. Then, to Travers’s complete stupefaction, the left eye—farthest from the clerk—closed itself in two deliberate and ornate winks!
Travers’s fingers went to his glasses, then fell. When he looked again, Beckner had moved on as he had seen others do, in the direction of Ramble. Travers picked up the envelope, felt that there was a document of sorts inside, and then with a shrug of the shoulders put it into his tunic pocket.
But for the fact that he went to the office before tea, he might have told the whole Mess about the peculiarities of Beckner; as it was, he remembered the letter and opened it when Miss Dance had just gone. A glance at the signature and his eyes popped out of his head. A frantic polish of his glasses, and then he was reading:
DEAR TRAVERS,
Burn this when you have read it. I wonder if you will recognise me, I hope not. At the moment I would rather you said nothing to a soul. I have been given a free hand and would rather your Commandant knew nothing—at present.
Please see I have key to open prisoners’ rooms, and to get out of the main building, as a situation might arise when I have to leave hurriedly. Will find excuse to-morrow for private interview.
MAURICE LADING
The Case of the Murdered Major: A Ludovic Travers Mystery Page 7
