When the water failed to subside the Germans screamed and demanded they work faster, until eventually the inevitable occurred. A slightly-built man from Alice Springs swayed and collapsed with fatigue. Beaten half to death with gun butts, he lost the will to live and passed away quietly during the night in the cold hut. Thomas had tried to intervene – flinging a German to one side he sent him head first into the clinging mud, slipping and cursing he got to his feet, pointing his rifle at Thomas’s stomach.
“Go on, shoot, you German bastard!” Thomas roared at him. “Go on, finish it.”
If the German didn’t understand English he quickly got the gist of the remark, and his finger tightened on the trigger. Thomas leaned forward, a sneer ripped across his face only inches from the German.
“You fucking cunt, you haven’t got the fucking guts!” he screamed, hurling a mouthful of phlegm in the German’s face.
“Halt!” the German officer called. “Lucky for you, we don’t shoot prisoners-of-war,” he said flatly. “Curb your tongue, Englander, or maybe you will become the exception.”
“Fuck off,” Thomas sneered.
From that moment on the Germans stepped up their reign of brutality and singled him out at the slightest pretence, he was beaten and degraded at every opportunity. Slowly but surely his hatred deepened beyond the bounds of reality for the Germans, devouring every cell of his existence for revenge until it finally overtook the gargantuan desire for his own death. The day would surely come when he would wreak his revenge tenfold, even if he needed to rise from the grave.
Months passed and in the course of time the weather eased and the driving sweep of snow and sleet turned to heavy rain. Now mixed with a rise in temperature, the countryside turned into a morass of slime and mud, impossible to move artillery and horses the fighting became sporadic and all but ground to a halt.
“Soon, you are to be moved to a camp in Germany, where perhaps the conditions will be better. If it were left to me, I would shoot you all,” the sergeant sneered.
Sure enough, two days later they were informed they were to be transferred to a camp called Giessen, inside Germany. Thomas’s heart plummeted. No matter who won or lost the war, should he survive, he would, in all probability, be returned to England and his regiment. The blackness hovered in his mind for a moment, but clamping his eyes shut he failed to block out the image of standing in the dock at the Old Bailey, with Archie’s grinning face peering over the judge’s shoulder.
Over the following days the British shelling increased and spirits in the cold hut were considerably raised at the prospect of an early release.
“I reckon the allies are building up for a big push, I can feel it in the air,” Digger said.
“Oh yeah, well while you’re up there in the air, see if you can find me a sexy little blonde, you bladdy drongo. Sit down and keep quiet,” Ned grunted.
“Might be better to sit the bladdy war out, not our bladdy fight anyway,” someone remarked. “I’ve got a missus and kid at home.”
“I wouldn’t be too cock sure about that, mate, bladdy good chance these bastards will kill the lot of us if they think they’re going to lose the war,” another argued.
Quickly, the discussion became heated with the promise of turning into a free for all.
“All right, all right, settle down,” Digger called out. “The way I see it, we don’t have much choice in the mat…”
His words were cut short as a loud explosion rocked the hut. Beneath them the ground shook and heaved with bursting shells and the chimney crashed from the roof in a shower of hot sparks sending clouds of choking black dust billowing from the rafters. The prisoners lay on the floor with their hands locked over their heads for protection, waiting hopefully for the hut to collapse. Thomas lunged and tugged vainly with all his might at the door handle, forcing the tips of his fingers under the door he wrenched with all his might. The door held firm and with his guts twisting into knots he cursed and blasphemed with every expletive he could lay his tongue to. Still the door held and outside the stillness returned.
“Chrissake, that was bladdy close; almost turned me underpants inside out!” Digger muttered.
“Yeah, I reckon you’re right, we might be out of here any minute if Fritz has done a runner,” Ned answered, turning his attention to Thomas inching closer to the fire. “Get away from the bladdy fire, you bladdy Pom, you know the rules. Nobody hogs the fire.”
Thomas rubbed his hands together and moved away.
As still as a ship on a painted canvas they waited expectantly, shivering in silence in the forlorn hope that someone might arrive to release them, take them somewhere they could bathe in hot water and eat a hot meal. No one came, and with sad reflective smiles on their tired faces, they shuffled patiently back to their beds and lay staring morosely up at the damaged rafters. Less than an hour later their hearts dropped as the hut door swung open, the bullying sergeant stepped inside scowling and scanned the faces glaring back at him through hostile eyes. Thomas sighed. The event he dreaded most was about to happen, he felt the slip of hope drift away and be replaced by cold despair.
“Aus, Aus, schnell.”
Reluctantly, he climbed into the rear of the first lorry of two and found himself next to the bullying sergeant sitting by the tailgate. Knowing how long the journey might take, he knew at some stage they would have to stop, when the opportunity arose, however slight, he would make his bid to escape, or die trying.
Hours passed and day crumbled away to dusk. Shivering in their thin uniforms, and with all hope washed from their eyes they approached the lights of a French village. Thomas listened to the driver grate the gears and the vehicle slowed to negotiate the narrow cobblestone streets. Bright candlelight danced and flickered, masked by delicate white lace curtains from scattered windows. With his throat as dry as a limekiln and his nerves tingling on edge, he tensed and waited, his mind made up. By the roadside next to a drinking trough lay a dead horse with its front legs hacked off, bloated and swollen with one side chewed away by the hungry dogs that scavenged the countryside in search of food. No doubt the villagers would have taken their share.
For some reason known only to him the sergeant leaned out and bellowed with laughter at the sight. His grip on his rifle momentarily relaxed. Thomas seized his opportunity and, snatching the rifle from the sergeant’s hands, threw himself from the back of the lorry, narrowly missing being crushed by the one following. He ran, crouching between the houses and dipped down behind a burned-out car, red with rust and full of roosting hens next to a wooden barn. The drizzle ceased, replaced by a light breeze whipping up small ripples over deep puddles reflecting the distorted lights from the nearby houses. To prevent his warm breath vaporising in the chilled air and revealing his position, he held his hands over his mouth and waited. If they wanted him they would have to take him dead, but this night he would not die alone.
In a disorganised melee, panicking guards leapt from the vehicles shouting and screaming orders, each aware an escaped prisoner meant a death sentence, or worse, a transfer to the sub-temperatures of the freezing Russian front. The Germans would show him no mercy; only his death would satisfy them. They were not far behind him and he possessed little strength for a fight. When he glanced up, one by one the glowing candles from the windows were extinguished and the houses resembled ghostly shadows under the waning moonlight. Behind him the staccato yapping of dogs excited by the sudden commotion echoed through the narrow streets, a dart of apprehension rippled through his body. If they were loose, they might find him and give away his position.
His body tensed and he squinted against the darkness. The sound of crunching boots grew nearer and his finger tightened on the trigger. Elation filled his mind and a quiet courage gripped his heart, he was ready for the men who had treated him worse than an animal. The first German guard came, bent and stooped, making his way cautiously towards the burned-out car. His eyes wary and alert, swivelling first left and then right, slowly he
withdrew his bayonet and snapped it onto the muzzle of the rifle. The click resounded through the village like a warning of impending death and Thomas swallowed. He waited, ready, his teeth bared in a snarl. For a split second the guard hesitated, unsure of himself. Slowly he moved closer until Thomas could see his frightened blue eyes below a helmet too large to sit squarely on his head. With the rifle tucked securely into his shoulder and his cheek resting on the butt, Thomas squeezed the trigger. The German stopped in his tracks as though frozen in time and surprise flooded his eyes; in astonishment he looked at the blood pumping from his chest and crumpled to the ground.
Thomas sprinted across to the body, snatched up the German’s rifle and entered the barn. Now he had extra ammunition, and stuffed the spare magazine into his pocket. The convoy consisted of six guards and two drivers. Unless they killed him first, they were about to meet their maker.
And so he lay concealed from view beneath a thin layer of straw facing the entrance to the barn. The smell of the old hay and fresh manure revived memories of his childhood. From across the farmyard he heard the sound of music from a radio and he frowned. Then they came, as he knew they would, in a crouch, one slightly ahead of the other, their eyes hesitant with fear at the unexpected turn of events. He smiled with joy at the coarse face beneath the helmet leading the way: the bullying sergeant, his beady eyes flickering and snotty streamers hanging loose from his nose.
The bullet entered his mouth, blowing out the back of his neck sending a scarlet mist of blood splattering over his companion’s face. The companion stepped back, dropped his rifle and, screaming with fright, attempted to wipe away the blood. A snarl of naked hatred twisted and contorted Thomas’s face. All thoughts of tiredness evaporated from his mind and he remembered the small Australian beaten and worked to death in the German trenches.
The man’s large waxed ginger moustache caked with blood twitched below crazed eyes. Thomas pointed the muzzle at the man’s right eye and pulled the trigger. In the background the dogs barking turned to bloodcurdling howls echoing into the night. Three down, five to go. Automatically he remembered his sniper training and slipped from the barn searching for a new position to resume his destruction of the enemy.
His blood ran cold at the sound of a chilling scream reverberating through the night air, followed by another. The third scream sent such a torrent of fear through him his legs weakened and buckled, and he slid down behind a pile of weathered logs chopped and ready for burning. His hands trembled, he couldn’t hold the rifle still.
Suddenly a German darted across the yard and disappeared behind a rotting outhouse. Sucking in air, he steadied his nerves and gripped the rifle, then cautiously worked his way round to the other side of the building. He halted and listened to the German labouring to catch his breath, mumbling in a low, incoherent voice.
The wind altered direction and the cold stench of the decaying horse pushed its way into his nostrils; he turned his head. Rage stoked through his body like a blazing bush. He wanted the German to suffer; he wanted them all to suffer the same way they had made him suffer, without pity or remorse. He saw the German kneeling with his hands clasped together, muttering in prayer. He stared, unable to believe his eyes. How dare a German pray like a Christian in the same manner he did in the small village church? His tempered ignited into fury. Gripping the rifle by the barrel and with all the force he could muster, he darted over, swung the butt at the praying man’s head. The German’s head struck the outhouse wall, splintering the rotting wood and sending his helmet spinning into the air. With a low groan he slumped down on the wet grass. Thomas disconnected the bayonet from the rifle and sat astride him, pinning his arms down with his knees. With his teeth bared like a wild animal he stared down into the German’s face, stretched long and ugly with protruding stained front teeth. He neither screamed with fear nor roared with anger, but wailed like a hungry baby, plaintive and heartrending. Yet still he was a German. When he broke wind and filled his trousers, Thomas retched at the smell and pushed the tip of the bayonet slowly into the man’s throat. The German’s legs kicked and jerked, and Thomas watched with a contented smile until he lay still.
For too long he stared at the dead German, and a great whoosh of disgust devoured his body and numbed his mind. He felt lonelier than at any other time in his life. For a moment, he sat still, digesting what he’d done, and from the darkness the image of Archie loomed into his subconscious, leering, mocking and waving the inevitable noose. He didn’t care: fuck you, Archie, fuck the Germans and fuck the war. The sword of justice is double-edged and, for the time being, he would wield the sharp edge.
“Monsieur, come quickly, please,” a voice called from out of the darkness.
He spun round and saw a Frenchman jogging across the grass towards him. The sleeves of his striped collarless shirt were rolled up to his elbows; on his head perched a flat cap and his bootlaces were untied. In one hand he held an unlit clay pipe, in the other a butcher’s cleaver with fresh blood staining the blade.
“Monsieur, you are in great danger. The German drivers are dead and one guard has escaped. We must hide the two vehicles. German patrols will be along shortly and we must hurry.”
Thomas approached the two vehicles standing unattended by the roadside and pulled back the canvas flaps, surprised at the sight of the Australian prisoners waiting patiently for a turn of events. He grimaced and thought perhaps they might have shown a little more imagination.
“You waiting here for the Germans or going home?”
“Crikey, you’re a bladdy handful, you are,” Ned said, climbing from the back of the lorry and getting in the cab. “Right, all of you in the back, let’s get out of here.”
Thomas smiled and slipped away unnoticed, waiting for the lorry to disappear into the night. The thought of desertion and the repercussions still held the sway of his mind, as did the death of the Germans. He was in no mood to return just yet.
Egged on by the gnawing fear of recapture, Ned gunned the lorry forward until dawn fought the darkness turning night into day. Two hours of skidding and sliding on the treacherous wet roads while he grappled with the steering wheel caused his aching arms to feel as though they were in danger of being wrenched from their sockets. At the sound of gunfire he twisted his head round as the windscreen exploded, hurling shards of flying glass into his face. In panic he let go of the wheel, and throwing his body beneath the dashboard he waited for the lorry to come to a halt.
“Right, let’s be having you, out you get, you Fritz bastards!”
Ned wound down the window and pushed his head out.
“You bladdy drongos blind,” he hollered. “We’re bladdy Aussies, escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp. Got a load more in the back. Take a look if you don’t believe me.”
The nearest two British Tommies hesitated then cautiously made their way to the rear of the vehicle, ripped the canvas to one side and ordered the occupants out.
“Who’s in charge?” a thickset corporal asked lowering his rifle.
“I suppose he is, he’s the one who got us out,” Ned said, looking around for Thomas and then frowning. “Where is he? I thought he was in the back with you.”
“We thought he was up front with you,” Digger said. “Bladdy hell, he’s as slippery as a billabong full of eels. He can’t have disappeared into thin air; he’s the one who set us free, for Chrissake. He ought to get the biggest bladdy medal you lot can muster, if the Germans haven’t already got him.”
“Give me his name and regiment. We’ll keep an eye out for him,” a sergeant said.
“Says his names Archie, that’s all we know about him. Yorkshire Rifles, he said, a sniper. Germans brought him in alone, in a bad way he were, no one else with him though. He’s a plucky little sod, I’ll tell you. Looks like he might be twelve years old next birthday, he does. Don’t suppose they feed ‘em right in England. The Germans worked him over good and proper. He wouldn’t let them break him though. Fair dinkum lad, I reckon, what
do you reckon, Ned?”
“Yeah, reckon you’re about right there, Digger, ain’t seen many better, not outside of Australia anyway.”
“Yeah, well, it took an Englishman to rescue you bunch of thick kangaroo shaggers, didn’t it?” a soldier prodded, working the bolt on his rifle.
Assisted by the villagers Thomas threw the dead Germans into a disused ditch and covered them with soil and rotting branches. The remaining German trying to escape was quickly caught frothing at the mouth. He clasped his hands over his ears and fell to his knees screaming for mercy. The Frenchman raised the cleaver and sliced open his neck.
“The Bosch, they are shit. They rape our women and steal our food and anything else they can get their filthy evil hands on. Then scream for mercy when we do the same to them,” the Frenchman said offering his hand. “My name is Paul. You are a brave man, mon ami, welcome to our village.”
The villagers cautiously left their homes and, gathering round, stared at him in puzzlement, taking in his wild-eyed stare and emaciated body under the prisoner’s threadbare uniform. They asked no questions. Content with their brief encounter and victory over the hated Bosch, they shrugged their shoulders in the Gallic way and boiled water. Alone at last he eased his body into the tub of hot water and for the first time in months took a hot bath. Wincing with pain he washed the filth from the cuts and bruises that covered his body. Later they burned the prison uniform and he smiled at the soft feel of ordinary clean clothes nestling against his stretched skin.
Like a man who hadn’t eaten for months he threw himself into a meal of freshly cooked pork and hunks of black bread, and anything else he might stuff into his mouth. Politely he refused the wine, and stayed with clear spring water. Satisfied he’d eaten his fill, he sat hunched like an old man rocking on his haunches before a warm fire.
An elderly woman called Fleur gently bathed the sores on his head and wiped away the congealed pus before applying a soothing cream from a green bottle. Maybe she never had been an attractive woman: black hairs sprouted from a wart on the side of her nose and her lips were thick and cracked, like those of a hooked trout. Yet she possessed the touch of an angel, and her murmuring, combined with the cool cream, soothed away his pain. In a moment of unguarded weakness, her kindness nestled in a corner of his youthful heart and he loved her like a boy might love his mother. Before she left, she brought hot water and a shaving razor and, placing the back of her wrinkled hand against his cheek, she spoke words he didn’t understand. With a warm, comforting smile, she left him alone.
Coming Home Page 11
