Two Women Went to War

by L E Pembroke

  It went like clockwork: the wire cut, a quick whispered ‘good luck’, a short wait for the guard to pass by the garden once again and turn down the left side of the camp. We carried our boots slung over our shoulders, pushed through the gap in the wire and took off flying like silent winged creatures past the guardhouse, then across the broad clearing to the welcome dark shadows of a small pine forest close to the camp.

  *

  We didn’t pause for a second until we reached the thick of the woods; there, fighting for breath, we flung ourselves on to the damp bracken and took stock of our situation. After taking a moment to congratulate one another on our luck, skill and speed, we began to change into our disguises. With our uniforms buried and ourselves transformed into a convincing peasant and Hausfrau, we began walking towards Goslar. I carried in a rucksack a compass, sufficient money for emergencies, black bread and a water bottle.

  Our destination was Dusseldorf. The escape committee planned our route thoroughly. A train would pass through Goslar at 0030 hours. Three hours should see us in the town with plenty of time to make our way to the station. Tense and wary, we spoke little while hastening through the icy blackness. Our minds were alert, bodies pumped adrenaline, eyes roved ceaselessly. We knew we must not become complacent because of the comparative ease of our breakout. We believed the greatest danger would be when we reached western Germany, where we knew we would be most vulnerable.

  Dusseldorf, the city that stretched across the Rhine, was tantalisingly close to the Allied forces. What action to take when we reached it? Reconnoitre the area and try to cross the Dutch border? Gareth preferred that option. The alternative was to travel on some vessel down the river until we reached the safety of Switzerland.

  One thing at a time; first get safely aboard the train. Gareth began to sing softly as we strode along. I remember – will never forget – that he sang ‘Men of Harlech’. In the future I would never hear that stirring Welsh battle song without feeling a most terrible sadness, but it was inappropriate in our present situation. I complained irritably and said something like, ‘For God’s sake give it a rest. What if there are poachers about or troops on night exercises? They won’t be as dim-witted as our guards, you can be sure of that.’

  By the time we reached the town it was only forty minutes to train departure time so we clapped on the pace. I hadn’t noticed before, but now I could see that Gareth didn’t look in the least like a woman. He was striding along like an officer on parade. ‘Walk like a woman,’ I hissed.

  ‘Precisely how do you mean?’ He too was becoming irritated.

  I didn’t know; I only knew that he didn’t look like a woman.

  Patently the tension was getting to us. I stopped complaining, and he began taking smaller, more hurried steps. At the railway station he sat quietly in a corner while I bought the tickets, once again going through a bad minute or so when I noticed how smooth my hand was as I passed over the ticket money. Fortunately the ticket collector wasn’t observant. Who is at that hour of the morning? I quickly stuck my hands into my pockets and left them there for the following hours.

  Nothing untoward happened. The train arrived on time. We found a compartment with only one other occupant and sat close to the door in case we had to make a quick exit. At Dortmund the train filled with German soldiers headed for Belgium or France, but they were young and brash and showed no interest in the peasant couple who appeared to be sleeping soundly. I recall glancing at Gareth and noticing that he was in need of a shave. I indicated this by stroking my chin; he immediately covered his face with his headscarf as if he was shielding his eyes from the dim light.

  At Dusseldorf we alighted without incident and at a nearby pub purchased bread, sausage and beer, which we shoved into the rucksack. Gareth believed that it was damn stupid to go down the Rhine; it would be so much shorter to cut through Holland and get over to the Hook. He thought we would easily find some Dutch fisherman who would take us across the Channel. So that became Plan A. Despite our tension, we forced ourselves just to trudge through the crowded streets. We finally crossed a bridge over the Rhine. On a road in open country a column of troops soon overtook us. We slowed our pace. Our disguises proved effective once again. How much longer would our luck hold?

  The country leading westwards was flat with little cover, thus being highly unsuitable as an escape route, and the closer we drew towards Holland, the thicker the countryside became with German troops. They had to be assembling for an offensive, and it became obvious we would never make it home that way. We estimated that we were within five miles of the border, but it might as well have been five hundred – that way was barred to us.

  Four in the afternoon, almost as black as night, freezing cold and hungry, we took shelter in a small grove of trees and polished off our food supply. We scooped out hip holes in the soft damp earth, then poor Gareth went through the agony of attempting to shave with a small lump of coarse soap, cold water and the cut-throat razor I carried.

  *

  At first light, eager to get going, we rapidly began retracing our steps towards Dusseldorf where, in the anonymity of a busy city, we would plan our next move.

  ‘Oh, well, I always fancied a cruise down the Rhine,’ Gareth chortled.

  What a genial companion he was. The more I saw of him, the more I liked him. ‘If we ever get out of this, mate, I’ll sing at your wedding.’

  ‘No need for that,’ he said, looking alarmed as well he might because I was totally tone deaf. ‘But I hope you will stand up for me?’

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ I replied.

  Famished, we recrossed the river at midday. We purchased more heavy dark bread and fatty sausage, which filled us. We had enough left over to see us through the following twenty-four hours.

  We hung about the loading area for barges. I think we looked convincingly like a couple of pumpkin-heads, but all the time we observed intently the activity on board the barges. They were loaded to the gunwales with military equipment probably destined for Heidelberg or Mannheim, both cities strategically placed for an offensive.

  After two or three hours we approached a middle-aged barge master. He looked amiable enough. I said we were the Grubers and asked if he would consider taking us as passengers. Then Gareth began whining, very convincingly, about having been to ‘her’ mother’s funeral and needing to get home as soon as possible to our cows, pigs and so on. The barge master shrugged dismissively; didn’t want to know our wretched family history. Clearly, he often earned a few extra marks taking passengers, prepared to accept a rough berth, south to one of the major stopping places on the river. I handed him fifty marks.

  ‘I have no accommodation for women,’ he growled in a take it or leave it fashion. We took it.

  We left Dusseldorf at 1600 hours. We sat on a scrap of empty deck at the stern of the barge, huddled together to escape the piercing cold of early winter. After a few hours we were as stiff and miserable as we could possibly be. I stood up, stretched and walked to the side of the barge to relieve my bladder. For Gareth this was a problem; he couldn’t risk being seen urinating in the same manner. So in the cringing, repulsive way he had adopted for portrayal of a Hausfrau, he begged Mueller, the master, for a bucket on which he could squat. Mueller must have felt sorry for him and suggested we might be warmer in the cab of one of the lorries. Gratefully we scrambled up into the vehicle: it wasn’t exactly comfortable but infinitely better than the deck.

  We slept fitfully, neither able to stretch and both constantly aware of the other tossing and turning. Just before dawn I heard Gareth grumbling sleepily. I felt him untangling his legs and realised he was climbing out of the cab, no doubt to urinate. Perhaps I should have reminded him of his role as a woman as he was still half-asleep, but then so was I. Gareth forgot about the bucket. Habit of a lifetime took over. He walked to the side of the barge, lifted his skirts, then stood urinating into the swirling river.

  Herr Mueller was up and about. I can imagine his eyes wid
ening with shock as he observed the actions of Frau Gruber. Of course he said nothing. It would have been easy for him to deduce just who his passengers were and why they were heading south towards Switzerland.

  Meanwhile, blissfully ignorant of what was in store for us, we sat in the cabin of the lorry hoping that a cup of coffee would soon be coming our way and trying to decide where we would disembark. Zurich seemed like the safest idea, and from there, if we were lucky, we hoped to disappear into the Alps.

  At 0900 hours Mueller moored at Bonn and prepared to disembark. We had not the slightest idea our hours of freedom were numbered. He mumbled to us something about having the bills of lading stamped, and suggested we go to the galley and get ourselves a mug of coffee. Eagerly, we climbed down from the lorry and headed for the galley and some sustenance.

  Fifteen minutes later Mueller returned accompanied by three armed policemen. We were drinking coffee and tucking into a round or two of sausage when the axe fell. There was nothing we could do. The German police, with typical efficiency, had circulated widely details of our escape from Clausthal. We guessed we would be in for an extremely difficult time during the following months or years. Sick with disappointment, we held out our arms to be handcuffed. In silence we were led from the barge. Throughout our journey east Gareth apologised profusely and continuously. He railed vehemently about his own stupidity and about the fate that had Mueller passing by at the crucial moment, and blamed his God for permitting this to happen.

  I was wondering what the chances were of getting out of this next prison. I guessed it would be years before I met up with my comrades again. And Jen – what about our nascent love affair? I suppose Gareth was having similar depressing thoughts about his Gwen. We were bundled unceremoniously on to a train. Next day we found ourselves in a maximum-security officer prison for escaped POWs and trouble-makers.

  CHAPTER 15

  After our capture on the barge Gareth and I were sent to Bavaria. Fortress 9 was one of a ring of forts surrounding the city of Ingolstadt. It was considered escape proof.

  An earth and brick rampart, twenty metres high, along which sentries patrolled, formed the outer defences of the fort. Within the fortress and close to the rampart more sentries were posted along a narrow path that encircled the prison building. Adjacent to that path was a fifteen-metre-wide moat, crossed by a footbridge and also encircling the main central building, which loomed grey and forbidding in front of us. Even more sentries patrolled along another narrow path on the inner side of the moat adjacent to the gaol. How could anyone make his escape through these lines of sentries? Simple – they couldn’t. No one had ever escaped from Fort 9. Despondent and wondering how long we would be incarcerated within these massive walls, we entered through the iron door into the dimly lit abode of one hundred and fifty Allied trouble-makers.

  Some cells were below ground level; they were dark and always damp. Each cell held four prisoners, and access to them was by means of stone steps leading to narrow, stone-walled corridors. We used a small inner courtyard as an exercise area.

  The guards were mostly Bavarians, some of whom had been sent back from service in France for disciplinary reasons to serve their sentences in military prisons; subsequently they were posted to prisoner-of-war duties. Others, unfit for active service, had been allocated to serve as prison guards from the beginning. On the whole they were a vicious lot, many of those originally rejected for active service being large, lumbering, slow-witted oafs whose boorish behaviour and unkempt appearance disgusted the prisoners. One of the worst was Heinrich Schmidt. Schmidt was an obscenity, shunned not only by prisoners but also by many guards. What cravings passed through that elephantine body? What actions would give such a one physical pleasure? We could only guess at the prurient thoughts of such a creature.

  Every detail of 18 February 1918 is etched permanently in my memory. The day began as any other at Fort 9. I had no prescient feeling of doom, rather the reverse. The sun shone bleakly as we gathered together for morning roll-call in the inner exercise yard. We kept ourselves amused with our customary boyish pranks – slipping nimbly from one rank to another as our dim-witted guards repeatedly attempted to count our number. This was a game we played at irregular intervals and one that drove the Huns to distraction. But we rarely tried their patience to breaking point, knowing full well how the extreme frustration of these moronic Bavarians could lead, at the very least, to a rifle butt in the mouth.

  The day before, some of us were given a parcel from the Red Cross. They gave me one destined for a British squadron leader who had died the previous week following an asthma attack. It contained a tin of fruit, cigarettes, a bar of chocolate and a large bottle of Watney’s Ale. I had not encountered any representative of the Red Cross since becoming a prisoner of war and assumed that the German officials who ran Fortress 9 would notify them of my presence there. In fact, I later learned that this was not so and that my family and comrades assumed that I was killed on the night of the raid.

  Anyway, 18 February 1918 was the twenty-fifth birthday of Peterson, one of my British friends, and he was having a small party. Gareth and I were invited to join him and his cellmates for an hour or so, before lights out. We had potato soup and bread as usual at 1700 hours; I then went off to join an exercise class before picking up my contribution (the bottle of Watney’s Ale and chocolate) and going to Peterson’s birthday get-together.

  I can only imagine the precise details of the depraved actions that occurred in that dimly lit underground corridor at around 1900 hours. I came on the scene a couple of minutes later.

  Schmidt would have been patrolling the area. Most likely he would have been slouched against a wall smoking. When Gareth appeared on the steps leading to the corridor off which was Peterson’s cell, he would have been surprised but not apprehensive as Schmidt lumbered towards him. It would have been only when the ox dropped his rifle to free his meaty arms that my friend would have felt alarm.

  Gareth was a small chap, neat and fastidious. Was that why that creature lusted after him? No, I think not. My friend just had the terrible misfortune to be the person who happened along at the time that this deviant was sexually aroused. The grunts and snorts of frenzied brutality came to my ears before I rounded the steps. The body, over which the creature was mounted, was inert. Had he been flung against the wall or felled by a massive blow?

  I tore down the steps two and three at a time, not knowing it was my friend who lay prone and unconscious. Schmidt’s trousers were crumpled around his thighs, limiting his ability to fend off an attack. Blood poured from the back of the victim’s skull, which was shattered like a piece of fine china that had been dropped on to a hard floor.

  I dropped the food and crashed the bottle of ale against the stone wall. With only one thought in my mind: to stop the bleeding, I shoved the jagged glass into the lower face and neck of the assailant. Schmidt screamed. He rolled to his side, arms flailing around his head. Blood surged from the gaping hole of his former mouth and spurted from his carotid artery. I saw the victim fully for the first time. I shouted for help.

  Prisoners and guards came running. I sat on the floor cradling Gareth’s head making futile attempts to sop up the blood, although I knew he was dead. There is nothing more still than a dead man. They took him away on a stretcher and hurtled me into solitary. Civilian police then took me away.

  *

  My crime was not a matter for military jurisdiction: I was tried for murder in the civilian criminal court in nearby Nuremberg. In the hands of the German criminal justice system I lost all the protection afforded by international conventions covering prisoners of war. My defence counsel said that Gareth’s death would mitigate my sentence. But murder was a hanging offence. How could I expect a naturally inimical jury to accept a plea of not guilty?

  After a lengthy trial I was sentenced to ten years gaol –could have been worse, although I wasn’t feeling philosophical at the time. The judge pointed out to the jury that mine had
been a desperate reaction to critical circumstances – but nevertheless murder. I was placed in solitary confinement, alone for twenty-two hours each day, for my own protection, being the only officer of the Allied forces in that German gaol.

  Determined to keep mentally alert and as physically fit as possible, I began to plan a routine that would keep me from falling into depression during my incarceration. I tried to be positive about the future. Feeling sorry for myself was not an option. The one thing I had was time to think and time to improve my ability to write poetry and try my hand at sketching. I requested paper and pencil and also attempted to write short stories.

  During the first weeks in prison I frequently thought about those closest to me – my mother, my sisters and others in my family. What were they doing now? Were they told I was dead or missing presumed killed? Would they ever hear the truth from fellow prisoners at Fort 9? I recalled my confused thoughts on leaving Calais. Had I met the woman I would come to love? There was not much sense in thinking along those lines. With no communication between us the nascent feeling of attraction that passed between Jen and me would be stillborn. She would go down a different path and eventually, after my release, so would I.

  It’s not healthy to think too deeply about loved ones while in solitary confinement. That can be the road to depression and desperation. I reverted to thoughts about the present. Again and again I conjectured about how much longer it would be before the end of the war. Would I stay in prison for months or for the full term of ten years? When would the bloody war end?

  My cell was small; the narrow bed comprised a wooden frame with a wire mattress. There were two worn, hard blankets in which, fully clothed, I wrapped myself each night. The nights seemed never-ending as I turned from one flexed position to another in a vain attempt to shut out some of the cold within my thick-walled, always sunless cell. There was a bucket but no lavatory. There was a small, roughly hewn table on which, once a day, they placed a dish of water for my ablutions and at which I sat on a stool to eat my meals, write and sketch.