The truth was, most of the interned civilians were average sorts—cobblers, stonemasons, chefs, physicians, butchers and bankers, just normal people—and most of them could not fight their way out of a wet paper bag. But not all.
Through the window of his barracks, Hinrich Vlass watched as hundreds of new P.O.W.s disembarked. For months now, the French had been depositing captured soldiers there, with the other P.O.W. camps filled to overflowing.
Vlass saw Lieutenant Colonel Gehrig—a prisoner of some two months—stride out to meet and address the arrivals. It was well known that Gehrig’s swift rise through the ranks had been due to the influence of his rich industrialist father, and was in spite of his glaring deficiencies as a leader and soldier. The fact he had been captured was proof enough of that.
After Gehrig said his piece, Alder Brahms could be seen scurrying around, grasping the hands of sullen-faced men and personally greeting as many individuals as he could. Alder did this with all new arrivals.
One day Vlass had asked him about the little ritual. Alder responded that it was a small gesture, something that he thought could help ward off the malaise before it set in. He recognized how alienating it must be to be dumped on a population that has nothing, yet is expected to share everything. Whenever those gates were opened to yet another convoy, resentment and imposition weighed heavy in the air. Alder was about as good an antidote to that as could be hoped for, under the circumstances.
Vlass could see Alder was right. To a point, he even respected Alder for the way he helped lead the men of the camp, the way he tended them like a chaplain might tend his flock. They were all German, and that meant a great deal to Alder, just as it did to Vlass. But Vlass also saw weakness in Alder’s compassion, and thought ill of it.
If Alder had been strong enough to let those who were weak suffer, then some would grow hard and perhaps, eventually, find a strength in themselves they did not know existed. It was the coward who ran from pain, and the coward who sheltered others from pain.
No one at Vitrimont knew more about pain than Vlass. But his fellow prisoners were oblivious to that. Here, Vlass was just another prisoner, and his appearance made it especially easy to underestimate him.
His body was thin and wiry. A pair of eyeglasses suggested bookishness, and a pronounced limp could have been from a minor case of polio or some other childhood infirmity. Vlass wore a suit, each night going through the ritual of cleaning and hanging the trousers, jacket and vest, and that added to it. He was, for all intents and purposes, Vlass the Meek.
And so he was forgotten, until the arrival of Major Hirsch.
♦
Major Hirsch was surprised by the lax security. The difference between thrall and liberty was just a single hinged gate manned by a few bored French guards. There were watchtowers in each corner of the camp, three of them stationed by guards armed with a rifle, a fourth housing a mounted machinegun. That was the real worry: a machinegun could cut through every surging man before a single body breached the outer gates. It would have to be dealt with.
There were other guards, all of them armed, but in Major Hirsch’s opinion not one of them was fit to be a soldier. Too old. Too young. Too fat, arthritic or infirm. Hirsch had taken all this in within minutes of disembarking. He noticed something else, too. The internees moved with freedom throughout the compound. His captors just did not seem to care. It was like a summer camp.
There were three vegetable gardens, two on the east side of the camp, one on the west. There was a coop on the west side for the hens and guinea fowl Hirsch could see roaming the grounds. Hirsch hated guinea fowl, for they were noisy, uncooperative and unpleasant in appearance. He noticed one such creature perched atop an outer fence. It tilted over, looked at the ground, then pushed off in a graceless flurry of wing-flapping.
On the eastern side, beyond the outer fence, there was another clearing carved out of the forest. Though Hirsch was no farmer, it looked to him like the yellowing leaves of tobacco plants. What next, he silently scorned, a smoking parlor?
The prisoners ran the wood-fired kitchen, which was the largest of the buildings apart from the administrative block and guards’ quarters. A work detail of volunteers collected firewood each day under a light guard. Wood dominated the compound: the buildings were wood, they were everywhere surrounded by trees and they burned inordinate volumes of firewood to cook their food, boil their water and stave off the cold.
The only bricks and mortar were in the walls of the water well, located in front of the guard’s tower on the south-western side. With the camp expanding, a second well had been sunk outside the fences on the eastern side, but it had been abandoned when an old mine shaft was struck. It was covered with planks, just tempting some idiot to fall in. A new well was being dug outside the western fence. If they struck good water in stable ground, they would just move the fence, which they would have to do eventually if the camp continued to swell and the war refused to end.
All up, Major Hirsch saw half a dozen viable prospects for escape. The way the French ran the place, he could probably just walk out the front gate. But, of course, Hirsch was not going anywhere. Hinrich Vlass was.
♦
“Major, if there is anything I can do for you and your men, please let me know. I’ve been here three years now—a lifetime it seems—so when it comes to what is possible and what is not possible, I have a fairly good grasp. And you would be surprised what is!”
“Thank you, Mr. Brahms. And am I correct in thinking the men here look to you as their mayor, if you will?”
“You flatter me, major. No, Colonel Gehrig is the leader of this camp. I just help where I can.”
“I know who Colonel Gehrig is, Mr. Brahms. I have seen him in the field. He leads no one. Perhaps men to their deaths, that is all.”
“Oh, ah … I don’t know about any of that, major.”
“No, of course you don’t.”
“No.”
“And?”
“Well, I should keep moving, major.” Alder extended his hand for the second time and the major met his grip. “I know no one wants to be here, but welcome to Vitrimont.”
Alder made to move on, but as he relaxed his grip Hirsch tightened his, stopping him from moving.
“You never answered my question, Mr. Brahms. Do you lead these men, or not?”
“I …” Alder faltered. False humility was his standard response to compliments, but the major was not the man for false anything. “Well, in a way, yes. Yes, I suppose you could say I do.”
Major Hirsch released Alder’s hand and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Brahms. I’m pleased to know that. Well, you had best continue.”
“Yes.” Alder turned, relieved.
“Oh, Mr. Brahms, I almost forgot.”
“Yes?”
“I think an old family friend might be among the population. Hinrich Vlass. Do you know him?”
“Yes, Mr. Vlass, of course. I can take you to him right now if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary. Just tell me where I might find him.”
“I expect he is in the barracks. It’s building twelve. You can see it down there, further along from the mess hall. They’re all numbered above the doorway. Mr. Vlass writes of a morning, so you should find him there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brahms. I’ll be sure to call on you if there is anything else.”
“Yes. Please do,” Alder said, and finally moved on, visibly relieved that his little ordeal was over.
With the guards seemingly uninterested in what was going on, and with fellow prisoners delegated the task of showing the new arrivals to their quarters, the major was free to move as he pleased.
♦
Major Hirsch opened the door to building twelve and stepped in. A stove burned, even though it was not particularly cold outside. Warm air smothered his face and Hirsch’s lip twitched in disgust. His countrymen were as soft as the dumb French guards.
The building housed three bunks to the left, th
ree to the right, a stove in the middle and another six bunks beyond that. Hirsch moved forward, his footfalls sharp retorts on the wooden floor.
Click–click.
Click–click.
Hirsch stopped just before the stove. The middle-aged man with a pronounced bald patch—the man who had to be Vlass—sat a mere five yards from him, ensconced in his writing. He was ostensibly oblivious to the major.
But this man is feeble, thought Hirsch. He was barely bigger than the chair in which he sat. The frame of his glasses was visible. Fine, almost delicate, fingers held a pencil that scribbled furiously across a page, even while his arm stayed quite still.
It was certainly not the man Hirsch had expected. But what had he expected? An old soldier rather than an old librarian would have been a start. A man perhaps thick and gnarled, or at least weathered in some way that suggested he could endure, could get difficult things done, for many difficult things would be required. Yet the man at the desk who occasionally raised his gaze from the paper to face the wall in seemingly absent thought appeared to be trying his best to have no presence at all. Trying—and failing. What else could be said of someone so comfortable in ignorance of others?
Major Hirsch took a further step forward and announced himself with a heavy footfall. “Colonel Kranz,” said Hirsch.
The man’s hand faltered ever so slightly, but then he continued without lifting lead from page. He finished writing and put his pencil down, collected together three pages covered with dense scribblings, aligned their edges and tore the sheets in half. He made a single pile of the torn pages, then tore them in half a second and third time. He stood, went to the stove, opened the iron door and threw his words into the fire.
He turned. The movement was so swift and efficient that Major Hirsch’s arms still dangled by his side by the time Kranz’s blade, seemingly materialized from nowhere, pressed against the weathered flesh of his throat.
The feeble scrivener had vanished. In his place stood a killer. How was it possible? This man was taller, broader. And his eyes—there was so much hatred and fury in them. When Kranz spoke, he spoke slow and hard, like he was stopping fire erupting from his throat.
“So—” the razor-sharp shiv did not move from the major’s throat while Kranz turned his head and glanced at the rank insignia on his shoulder “—major. You are the man they send for me. I have been waiting. All these years, just waiting. What a surprise today brings.”
Hirsch swallowed. The movement of his Adam’s apple rubbed against the blade, but there was no blood. Not yet.
“The question is, did they send you to finally kill me, or have they realized they need me? Because I’m afraid, major, if you have come to kill me, I am very much inclined to stay alive. And as you may appreciate, your life is not worth nearly so much to me as my own.”
“Colonel. I am Major Werner Hirsch. With all respect, if I was intending to kill you, I would not be standing to your attention. I am here to serve, colonel. I am here to deliver instructions, and help you escape.”
“Escape! You flatter yourself. I’m locked in this camp because I let them lock me in. I choose to stay. Just like I will choose whether you live or die. What do you think, Major Hirsch, should I kill you?”
“No, colonel. It would be a mistake. I am willing to give my life for our country, but I cannot serve it, or you, if I am dead.”
“Such a good soldier, major. So brave. And what if your real mission is to make sure I never leave this camp? Perhaps I have an unfortunate accident. Perhaps I die in my sleep. Or perhaps one of your men takes offense at something I do and a fight ends badly for me. Who sent you? Oursler? I suggest you only speak the truth now. I will know if you are lying to me.”
Hirsch believed it. The blade pressed a little harder against his throat.
“General Oursler is retired, colonel. He is unwell. He may already be dead. I was sent by General von Eisman.”
Kranz’s forehead raised a little. His eyes, still furious, flickered.
“Perhaps now you can lower the knife, colonel. This would be very difficult to explain if someone walked in.”
Kranz thought for a second.
“You are right, major. We wouldn’t want our countrymen to suspect there is a war being fought.”
He whipped the blade from Hirsch’s neck and returned it to his pocket. Major Hirsch, who had been involuntarily holding his chest full of air, exhaled a long breath of relief.
Kranz’s entire countenance changed. Whereas a moment earlier he had been ready to kill, he now transformed into the insignificant persona of Hinrich Vlass: his size reduced with his posture, his face mellowed into a modest smile and a veil fell across the eyes that had been brimming with energy and violence. Once again, he was a middle-aged nobody who might comfortably pass for an accountant.
“So, major, you have instructions for me? You know, of course, that I am no longer an officer of the Imperial German Army, so I am under no obligation to follow these …” Kranz paused, adding a baleful tone, “orders.”
“My information is that you were retired, colonel.”
“Retired? An interesting way of putting it. There’s no need to be coy, major, seeing as we both know better.” Kranz stood facing the stove, casually warming his hands. “Court-martialed.”
He let the words hang in the air.
“Court-martialed in absentia, and sentenced to death by firing squad,” Kranz said impassively, his earlier anger replaced by a note of irony. “But I’m not dead, major, am I?”
“No, colonel.”
“And did they tell you the grisly details of my court martial, major?”
“Colonel, I was told that you were retired, and that is all.”
Kranz turned. “Then you don’t know much, major, do you? You’re just a messenger boy.”
“Yes, colonel, perhaps I am. Nevertheless,” said the major, pausing, his even tone fraying at the insult, “the message was important enough for one hundred and eighty of my men to surrender their freedom. So would you like to hear the message?”
“One hundred and eighty men, major? Interesting. I will give you a number. Eighteen. That’s the number of men last under my command. Eighteen, a denominator of one hundred and eighty, though I suppose that thought had already occurred to you.”
“As I have told you, colonel, I know nothing of your circumstances.”
“Still, an interesting coincidence. And do you know what happened to my eighteen, major? To my denomination?”
“No, colonel.”
“Would you like to know?”
“If you think it is important.”
“General Oursler thought it was important.” Kranz paused for effect, before continuing: “Dead. That’s what happened to my men. They are all dead. What do you think of that? Important?”
“War is war, colonel.”
“But major,” began Kranz, turning to fully face Hirsch, “they did not die during war. They died in peace-time. There was no war, not for my men.”
“Pardon me, colonel, but I disagree.”
“Oh? Then tell me, major.”
“Well, peace is an illusion. Such a thing has never existed. Not in modern times. Somedays there’s fighting, somedays there’s waiting. The committed soldier, though, he understands. Every day is part of the war, one way or another.”
Kranz looked at Hirsch. They were more alike than either cared to admit: two old soldiers committed to the cause at any cost.
“You’d best tell me everything you know, major. It will be lunch soon. We have twenty minutes, at most half an hour, before men start coming back. Everything. Leave out no detail.”
“Colonel, the British were shelling St Mihiel. All our squads had been ordered into retreat. I received a telegram issuing me with secret orders. My unit was to return to St Mihiel to intercept the advancing British before they reached our defensive perimeter on the outskirts of town. We were to surrender ourselves without engaging the enemy. That led to my unit being
transported here. At Vitrimont, my instructions were to find Colonel Wolfgang Kranz, a retired specialist with the civilian identity of Hinrich Vlass.
“Colonel, my unit is to be placed at your disposal to affect an escape. Loss of life is not a factor. You are to reach the city of Oraon, located on the River Meuse, forty-five miles east from here. On the south side of the river, around three miles east of the central township, you will find a large multi-purpose compound. It produces explosives and assembles munitions on-site. It is distinguished by the three smoke-stacks of the on-site smelter. You will have to be careful, colonel, as there is estimated to be up to five hundred reservists stationed in and around Oraon.
“The armaments factory itself is fenced. It is patrolled. You are to locate the factory and, using any means suitable, destroy it on the night of March thirty-one. That is just four days away, colonel, and the date is firm.”
Kranz mulled the information before speaking.
“Why this date, major? Why this particular night? And why just a few days of notice, when an operation like this would have been months in the planning?”
“I do not know the answers to those questions, colonel.”
Both men knew there had to be more at play than divulged in the telegram. The short notice and the sheer ambition of the plot suggested some other plan may have been compromised. It did not matter now.
“And what of me, Major Hirsch? What happens to me?”
“Colonel, there was one more message for you in the telegram. I believe I can quote the exact words: ‘Kranz’s discharge is rescinded and he is reinstated to the rank of full colonel.’ ”
♦
Colonel Kranz stood there for a moment. There was a lot to take in, starting with the final message.
Officially reinstated. Discharge rescinded. That was von Eisman telling him the court martial had been wiped from the record; that they wanted him back, that they knew they had made a mistake.
He had tried to tell them. He knew they would need him eventually, that he was valuable. But General Oursler—that weak Jew bastard, a peace-loving coward—had thought him barbaric. Had contrived to have him court-martialed. Had disbanded his chemical weapons research laboratory and stopped his ground-breaking development of sulfur mustard gas. He had been just weeks from perfecting it when they shut him down, all because of a few necessary deaths. If only other men had shared his understanding of the greater good.
No Trench To Rest (The French Bastard Book 1) Page 2
