Hunting the Hangman

by Howard Linskey

  George maintained that hearing her voice would bring him closer to his only son David, a member of the Desert Army whose morale was temporarily lifted each week by Introducing Anne on the BBC. Kubiš suspected his motives were not entirely paternal, however. ‘They say she still sings in her school uniform,’ George confided to Jan.

  From the garden, the whistling would occasionally peter out, replaced by a breathy gasp of exertion that could mean only one thing – George was digging for victory. He grunted as his spade turned over yet another sod from the lawn that had once been his pride and joy, before the need to turn every piece of trivial garden into working land. England was now a patchwork of arable plots, every lawn an allotment, and middle-aged men the land over were taking an obsessive pride in vegetable patches and compost heaps.

  There was silence for a moment. Perhaps George was allowing his not inconsiderable bulk to rest against the handle of the shovel for a while. Now he would be quietly surveying his handiwork, with the assurance of an Englishman who knows he is doing his bit to combat the U-boat threat. The North Atlantic convoys might be decimated by Hitler’s cowardly, torpedo launching assassins but there would still be potato pie on George’s plate. Then he would know the pride of the farmer at harvest time.

  George let out a racking cough, caused by more than twenty years’ consumption of cigarettes, and sent another shovelful of earth against the side of the Anderson shelter. Kubiš could easily picture George, though unable to see him from his prone position on the hard little bed. He would be sweating now, visible droplets of moisture clinging to a forehead entirely unencumbered by hair. His receding pate would glow red, as it always did during physical exercise, shining like the copper-bottomed pans that were the pride of Victoria Watson’s spotless kitchen.

  On a different day Jan would have jumped to his feet and gone downstairs to help George with his labours, mindful of the debt of gratitude he owed for the shelter of the Watsons’ neat, little home. He had been staying with them for longer than expected while he was on the parachute course because it had been delayed for some reason no one had bothered to explain to him. That was the army for you; soldiers were always either rushing somewhere frantically or hanging about for hours waiting for someone to tell them what to do next. The parachute course was the next stage of their training following their successful completion of the commando course at Mallaig. The delay meant much of the recent work in the garden was a joint effort – with Jan providing some youthful muscle to augment the middle-aged man’s hours of careful, strategic planning. Together they had dug up flower beds and planted vegetable plots, tied saplings with second hand string and nurtured the fruits of their labour assiduously, taking tips on horticulture from slim government manuals.

  The project occupied George’s mind, keeping it from brooding concern for his son. For Jan there was a chance to make recompense for the fact that he now occupied young David’s bed, for a while at least. When he was able to put his commando-trained physique into physical labour, he would be encouraged with hearty cries of, ‘That’s it, Jan, give it the old heave ho. Good man!’ and he would feel less the interloper.

  But, even though they had volunteered to take him in, exhibiting great pride in this small contribution to the war effort, he would still feel the, almost subconscious, resentment of David’s mother. He instinctively knew her occasionally sharp, maternal utterances of ‘Make sure you take your boots off, Jan’ or ‘Don’t go letting your meal get cold now, Jan, there’s many would be grateful for a plate of something hot tonight’, were her way of exercising frustration at the stranger in her house, occupying her son’s bed while young David was risking life and limb on a different continent. Meanwhile Jan merely spent interminable months ‘training’, risking nothing more serious than splintered fingers in George’s garden. Mrs Watson viewed him suspiciously, this artful cuckoo, dropped suddenly into her ordered, red-brick, gable-end world.

  Even if she did not think that way, Jan felt she surely ought to, which amounted to the same thing. He burned with shame as he walked the streets of this small Cheshire town – while all the local men his age were away doing their bit – the longing to see action fast becoming obsession.

  Today though, things were different. As he lay on the bed he was gripped by an overwhelming lethargy that precluded even the removal of his boots. They may have been scrupulously clean, sporting a reflective shine, but he would never have kept them on normally while he lay on top of the eiderdown on David’s bed. If Victoria Watson, named appropriately after the long dead, humourless monarch, saw him like this, even an Anderson Shelter would not have been enough to save him. Her fastidiousness was legendary and George Watson, fearless in defiance of the Nazis, spent his days in a state of cowed submission he seemed only partially aware of. Victoria swept up around him, cleared the newspaper away as soon as it left his fingers, and perpetually shooed him out of the door with a dismissive ‘Why don’t you do something useful instead of getting under my feet all the time?’

  ‘Right-ho Jan, let’s take the dog for a walk, eh?’ George would say with a forced cheerfulness, and he would wink exaggeratedly, as if to imply he was still the master in his own house, his wife’s manner just a little feminine eccentricity that did not concern him – though Jan could sense his mild humiliation. Once outside they would walk away along the cobbled streets together, with George always cracking the very same joke.

  ‘Come on Rover, keep up boy,’ he’d say jovially to the invisible dog that he did not own as they walked instead to the pub. He had used the same weak gag on so many occasions Jan could practically see the damned animal. He’d be a black and white, droop-eared mongrel, like the pet Kubiš had when he was a small boy in Třebíč – a profoundly disobedient creature that showed no interest in chasing after sticks, sitting on command, or playing dead for the amusement of his childhood friends. Jan loved the lazy animal nonetheless.

  And so it became a regular practice for George, Jan and the invisible dog to saunter the few streets to the Dun Cow, for three pints of the dark mild Kubiš was almost developing a taste for.

  Not tonight though. If George asked Jan to go out and walk the dog he would make an excuse. He was not feeling well, he had an early start the next day, he had damaged an ankle in parachute training that very afternoon. Jan had no real idea what he would say but no longer cared if he sounded convincing. His totally consuming depression left him apathetic to all concerns, even the importance of keeping on the right side of the Watsons. So, his boots stayed on the eiderdown and his head remained rooted to the pillow, even as George continued to toil alone outside. For Kubiš had lost a friend.

  The day had seemed full of possibilities when he reported, in good order, to the Tatton Park mansion that housed the parachute course. This was Jan’s third jump and he had almost overcome the sheer mind-rushing terror of throwing himself out of an aircraft at eight hundred feet. The first time had been by far the worst. Only fear of failing the course had been stronger than all his instincts as they screamed at him not to launch himself from the plane.

  By now he was beginning to get used to the jumps. As the fields rushed up to meet him Jan even remembered to keep his feet together, then bend the knees sharply at the point of impact. As soon as he hit the ground his body pitched forward hard and he tumbled onto his left side, in a shuddering collision that knocked the wind from his body. He lay motionless for a second before catching his breath, then realised that, aside from a little light bruising, he was in all other respects unharmed. That was all it took for the euphoria of adrenalin to kick in. He had done it. Jan had forced himself from a speeding aircraft, not once but three times now, throwing himself at the ground in an irrational dive that defied the gods. And he had lived.

  The fourth jump, later that same morning, was even less traumatic. He took great care to concentrate on the mechanics of the act, checking his chute, securing the helmet a second time, and listening
hard to any advice or word of warning from the NCO who travelled with them. Then he hurled himself into the air.

  Even the landing was smoother, and he managed to touch the ground more than once with his feet, before stumbling head first again and scraping his face as the chute dragged him along the terrain, powered by a crosswind.

  Jan climbed to his feet, folded the chute, draping it clumsily across an arm, and walked slowly back to the muster point. His smile was broad and his mood that of the invincible. If four parachute jumps from eight hundred feet could not kill him, what could?

  When Kubiš reached the truck that would return them to the debriefing, he was aware of a preoccupation among the little band of men who had made the jump. He had expected smiles and congratulatory slaps on the back, while everyone spoke breathlessly of their own specific and personal adventure among the clouds. Instead there was quiet and, surprisingly, the soldiers were allowed a moment’s breather. They slouched on the ground around the truck, sharing cigarettes no less –unheard of until they were dismissed for the day. What could have prompted this suspension of formality? Not an accident – please God.

  Kubiš looked beyond the truck for a clue and his eyes came to rest on a second vehicle – a regimental staff car parked a short distance away. There was an officer to one side of it, a young major, with slicked back, dark hair and a no nonsense demeanour, and he was earnestly addressing two of Kubiš’ comrades. As Jan drew nearer he recognised one as Svoboda and the other as his good friend Gabčík.

  Moments later, while Jan puffed distractedly at a cigarette, his two comrades left separately and without a word of farewell, leaving no clue to their destination. Everyone behaved as if this were entirely normal.

  By the time Kubiš called at Gabčík’s billet that evening, the house of a sour, silver haired widow named Mary Bramley, he already knew his friend would be long gone.

  ‘He’s been called away,’ it was enunciated suspiciously, as if Jan were a known German spy. ‘I don’t know where, I’m sure,’ Mary concluded primly and she eyed Jan dubiously, despite having seen him in Gabčík’s company on several occasions. In response, he turned his back on her without comment and trudged gloomily away before she had time to close the door in his face.

  So Jan has lost his best friend Gabčík, who may as well be dead with his location secret and his mission even more so. Kubiš scolded himself – to think a so-called soldier could become forlorn because he was unable to say goodbye to a comrade, in a world where hundreds were dying every day.

  Then he reproached himself further – for not being selected. What had Josef and Anton shown his instructors that he was unable to? Had he not tried hard enough? He was a good soldier, decorated in combat, so that was all it could be. Jan had missed his chance, the opportunity to go back to his homeland, fight the Germans and, of course, see Anna once more.

  Anna Malinová – possessor of the sweetest smile; Anna, whose tender nature left him entirely selfless in her company, so that all he craved was her happiness, her wellbeing. Only Anna could leave him feeling like a tongue-tied, nervous young boy again. Anna whom he missed to the point of physical pain – an ache somewhere deep in his stomach that returned every time he thought of her. God preserve her until they could be together once more. But perhaps that day would never come, he ruminated sulkily, alternately blaming himself, his instructors and the two chosen men whom he couldn’t help but envy even though they were his friends.

  This was no use. He would have to pull himself out of his listless state. He could not blame everyone else, and should not blame himself. Perhaps it just came down to luck. Somewhere deep within him he knew he was as good a man as Josef, as fine a soldier as Anton. Yet he could not rid himself of the black mood that engulfed him, and he was unable to climb to his feet just yet. So he remained motionless on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, remembering the soft yielding of Anna’s kiss and trying to ignore George as he now whistled The Band Played On entirely without harmony.

  And Jan did endeavour not to think of her that afternoon, expelling sentimental remembrances of Anna from his mind as soon as they appeared but, in these quieter, reflective moments, the thoughts he has tried so hard to banish return to him.

  8

  ‘Whether other nations live in prosperity or perish through hunger only interests me in so far as we can use them as slaves for our civilisation’

  SS Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler

  Gabčík sat in the back of the battered American jeep, gripping its open sides tightly as it sped over the grass. The jeep was part of a recently arrived consignment of equipment from Roosevelt that had survived the treacherous Atlantic crossing. Churchill was going through his ‘Give us the tools and we will finish the job’ phase. Day by day he’d lobby, beg and cajole the Americans for more support. More ships, more gold and more guns – enough to wage a war on Hitler, enough to save his beloved empire from the Nazis. If the Americans could not yet actually fight the Germans themselves they could do so by proxy, with sizeable grants, loans and the use of second-generation equipment that would otherwise be consigned to their breakers’ yards. And so it was that this Czech soldier found himself careering across the English countryside in a neutral American jeep.

  Gabčík was the only passenger, for Svoboda had gone missing. There was little cause for alarm. The British sergeant overseeing the night drops had previously explained there were crosswinds. So Gabčík was despatched back to the requisitioned stately home that served as a temporary HQ while the British soldiers continued to look for the unfortunate Svoboda. Gabčík smiled to himself in the back of the jeep. Poor Anton, he’s probably stuck up a tree – dangling helplessly from his parachute, wondering if they will ever find him. It shouldn’t be too long now though. They would be aided considerably by the dawn beginning to break all around them, and Svoboda would be thankful the second night jump had been delayed and they had finally parachuted down during the last remaining moments of pitch darkness. Even now Anton was probably slowly trudging across the damp grass, lugging the unwieldy folds of parachute silk in his arms and cursing his misfortune.

  Now the sky was lightening, turning the fields around them into a silver grey landscape, and they could begin to pick out individual landmarks where earlier there had been an impenetrable black mass.

  There had been little time for reflection since Gabčík had been chosen for Operation Anthropoid, whatever that was. Strankmüller promised all would be revealed as soon as they had completed the hastily arranged night drops that were to be an integral part of the mission. Gabčík contented himself with the thought that he could at last consider himself of use. He was in a far better state than his former comrades, who restlessly endured the endless wait for an assignment.

  Gabčík’s training with the SOE usually left him exhausted each evening, with little time to question things. But lately, just lately, he has begun to wonder. Gabčík is twenty-nine, single and, until recently, proud of the fact, particularly when he has watched the lovelorn Jan, as he disappears within himself at the very mention of the girl he left behind in Prague. But Josef has survived combat, with its near misses and arbitrary destruction of friend and foe alike, and it has affected him. He asks himself if he will survive the war and who would mourn him if he did not? There are no wife and children waiting by his fireside that’s for sure and perhaps, if he is lucky enough to get out of this unholy mess unscathed, he will turn his sights towards a nice, young Czech girl who will make him feel welcome when he returns home each night.

  When they arrived back at the stately home Gabčík was surprised to see Strankmüller waiting for them. He climbed out of the jeep, which immediately sped away, and walked towards the major.

  ‘Sergeant Carter just radioed in. They found Svoboda.’ And something in his tone made Gabčík fear the worst. ‘He’s alive but landed heavily. Anton took quite a bang on the head. Apparently he’s “spark out” acco
rding to Carter.’ And he laughed grimly before mimicking the British sergeant further. ‘Of course, I’m no doctor but he won’t be jumping out of any more planes for a good while.’ And Strankmüller said it with such ill will that Gabčík felt the unconscious Svoboda was being blamed for his own misfortune.

  Strankmüller launched his cigarette butt into the roses. ‘Looks like we are going to need another man, Josef, and quickly.’

  9

  ‘It is not the job of the party leadership to appoint leaders…

  if you are stronger than your enemies then you’ll win…

  if you aren’t and you lose, then that’s simply

  the way it should be’

  Max Amann, Editor of Nazi newspaper Völkischer Beobachter, writing on behalf of Hitler

  Heydrich sat opposite the unsmiling, lightly pockmarked face of Rochus Misch, Hitler’s bodyguard. Misch stared straight ahead into the middle distance as he stood gravely to attention, guarding the door that kept the outside world from his beloved Führer.

  Heydrich had seen the man before, of course, during the regular briefings from Hitler or the hastily summoned meetings the leader called with Reichsführer Himmler, Reichsmarschall Göring or, his favourite little lapdog, the revolting Martin Bormann. Usually Heydrich would not have given the fellow a moment’s thought but he had been waiting in the anteroom at Hitler’s Rastenburg bunker for hours now and had little else to occupy his mind.