Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Yes, somewhere...” Conway fumbled in his raincoat and produced a packet of Lucky Strikes along with his silver cigarette case. The brand revealed a good deal to the police officer.

  “Thanks....” Hunloke breathed out an expansive plume of smoke. “The corvette my brother went down in was built down there?”

  “I’m sorry to hear that...”

  “Sorry his ship was made in Bristol? ‘Ship shape and Bristol fashion’ goes the saying... Why aren’t you in uniform?” The accusation took Conway by surprise. It wasn’t the first time such a charge had been levelled against the twenty-six year old. Hunloke continued before Conway could answer. “It’s alright; I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I assume there’s a reason for you being in mufti and accosting me at this splendid example of Victorian engineering.”

  “Yes, Mr Hunloke, there is indeed.” Conway’s reply was whispered into the air. He looked down the 300 or so feet into the Avon Gorge and examined with distaste the muddy banks of the empty tidal river.

  “‘Mister Hunloke’? I haven’t been addressed as such for a long time. It used to be ‘captain’ or latterly ‘inspector’.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, that was not my intention,” stuttered Conway.

  “We seem to be very good at apologising. I think it’s about time you introduced yourself, don’t you? I'm smoking one of your ciggies after all...”

  Conway paused to gather his thoughts and launched into the prearranged preamble he had been mulling over in his mind throughout the journey from Paddington to Temple Meads. “My name is Conway. Lieutenant Brian Conway. I’ve been sent to solicit your help.”

  “‘Solicit my help’? We use the term ‘soliciting’ to refer to the act of seeking a prostitute. Is that how you see me, lieutenant?” smirked Hunloke.

  “No, sir... I mean...”

  “And quite what do I have to offer you, lieutenant?”

  “We believe you might be able to help us in a certain matter, sir.”

  “So I’m ‘sir’ now am I? I doubt I can help you very much, lieutenant. Who are you, Military Intelligence?”

  “I work with the CSDIC.”

  “And what the hell might that be?”

  “Combined Services Detailed Interrogation Centre.”

  “And what the hell is that?”

  “We work for the War Office, investigating and interviewing selected POW’s.”

  “You must have been busy since June...,” commented Hunloke wryly, referring to the influx of prisoners of war who had arrived in the country following the invasion of occupied Europe.

  “Indeed that is the case, sir. There is also a concern that some prisoners may have slipped through the net.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You lost them?” There was an acerbic, disrespectful tone to Hunloke’s voiced question.

  “The Allies are keen to bring perpetrators of war crimes to trial.”

  “Rather a presumptuous statement, lieutenant. The war is far from over.”

  “The Germans are broken in the West and the Russians are pressing from the East. The war could well be over by Christmas.”

  “Why has Christmas always been so significant a date for the cessation of hostilities? Only by those at home, I suspect. And what exactly are ‘war crimes’? Surely the very nature of war is a crime?” challenged Hunloke.

  “You must believe that war should not mean the abandonment of civil behaviour?”

  The scar-faced man grinned lopsidedly and tossed his smoked cigarette butt over the parapet. “Have you ever bayoneted a man, lieutenant? It isn’t very ‘civil’ at all.”

  “Are you suggesting that soldiers should be allowed to massacre civilians or shoot captured troops?”

  Hunloke felt a surge of rising anger, which took several seconds and a few deep breaths to suppress. Examples of brutality from Allied troops came to mind, not to mention the bombing of German cities. “I’m not suggesting anything, lieutenant. I was just wondering if such a high-handed stance of pronouncing war crimes was a new prerogative of the victor. I don’t remember Napoleon being accused of war crimes. Just bundled off to obscurity in St Helena.”

  “The world has moved on. We must ensure that when peace comes the perpetrators of this heinous war are held accountable. Do you disagree?”

  “Hold on, son. I’ve not given the matter a single thought until you just mentioned it, so don’t go all sanctimonious on me. I suggest you fuck off now and leave me alone!”

  Conway took a step backwards, taken aback by the man’s swingeing verbal assault. He knew Hunloke had the reputation for being difficult but no mention had been made during his briefing about Hunloke being verbally or physically violent. He lit a cigarette, allowing him time to compose his thoughts, and ran over Hunloke's CV.

  Thaddeus Hunloke. Thirty-one years of age. Pre-war regular, infantry captain prior to being invalided out of The Buffs in 1941. Had spent time with the Military Police prior to transferring to combat duties at the outbreak of hostilities. Holder of the Military Cross for actions in France 1940. Joined the police service in London and eventually a role at Scotland Yard where he led a special team involved in breaking organised crime rings. The unit, never popular with fellow officers, was closed down following an illegal incident involving a police sergeant in his unit. Hunloke was subsequently placed in a backwater police station where he could do little harm. His German born wife had been killed in a V1 attack back in August and he had been on enforced leave after a period of drunken lassitude, the police force apparently only too happy to have Hunloke sidelined and out of the way.

  “We think your experience might help us in one particular instance, sir,” continued Conway.

  Hunloke had regained his composure. “And tell me what that might be?”

  “We want someone with combat experience to visit a POW camp in Derbyshire where we believe members of the Waffen-SS may have passed themselves off as Wehrmacht troops to avoid our attention.”

  “And the significance of your statement?”

  “Given the number of troops that have surrendered, we have relatively few Waffen-SS POW’s.”

  “Inference?”

  “That they were killed in combat or have succeeded in passing themselves off as Wehrmacht troops.”

  “And why would they want to do that?” demanded Hunloke.

  “Waffen-SS POW’s are kept separate from Wehrmacht prisoners, they are deemed ideologically dangerous.”

  “There is another possible reason for their rarity,” suggested the apparently disinterested policeman.

  “And what might that be?”

  “That they are not given the chance to surrender but are shot.”

  “Are you suggesting our troops shoot prisoners of war?” asked Conway indignantly.

  Hunloke gazed at Conway. The younger man looked handsomely assured of himself. A public schoolboy or a product of the Grammar School system. He was perhaps typical of the thousands of his type who died leading men in the Great War. He was the possessor of that youthful earnestness that compelled his like to lead by example, command his men from the front, and take the disproportionately high casualty rate as a consequence.

  “Grow up, son... Come and talk to me when you have something useful to say...” He turned his back on the officer and walked slowly towards his hotel. His limp was particularly pronounced that morning.

  Conway was stung by Hunloke’s putdown but reacted with commendable calm. He shouted after the retreating man. “There is another situation of a more delicate nature that requires attention...”

  Something about Conway’s statement halted Hunloke in his tracks. “And what might that be, lieutenant?”

  Conway walked quickly to stand beside Hunloke. To a casual observer, the two men might have been discussing the weather. “I’m not sure how familiar you are with the set up of POW camps. It’s quite a complex state of affairs. Under the Geneva Convention of 1929, a neutral government may be appointed by a belli
gerent to look after the interests of its POW’s in enemy territory until the restoration of normal diplomatic relations. Delegates are permitted to visit the camps and investigate complaints. So too are the Red Cross. This particular camp in Derbyshire has received such a complaint.”

  “Are you telling me the Germans are complaining about conditions at the camp? That sounds crazy!” exclaimed Hunloke. “We’re at bloody war, doing our best to kill each other.”

  “That may be so. But as I said, the end of the war is in sight. The powers-that-be want to press for charges of war crimes. Before they do so, certain parties want to make sure our own house is in order.” It was a calculated move by Conway, appealing to Hunloke’s loathing for corruption, be it in the police force or armed services.

  “Look, lieutenant. I’ll be blunt with you. I have just lost my wife. I’ve already lost a son. I really don’t give a monkey’s about the welfare of POW’s. Now I suggest you return to London and find someone who actually cares.”

  “Inspector Hunloke, I take on board your concerns. However, I perhaps should have made my intentions clearer. The police have already agreed to your release. As of midnight tonight, you will be a commissioned officer in His Majesty’s Armed Forces with your old rank of captain. You are to report midday tomorrow to the London District Cage at Kensington Palace Gardens. I suggest we travel to London together in the morning.”

  Hunloke was given time for the news to sink in. He initially portrayed a resentful demeanour, aggrieved by the manner of the approach whilst he was on leave. However, his annoyance quickly subsided. The truth of the matter was he was excited at the prospect of his return to khaki.

  The death of his wife had shaken him. He was ravaged with guilt by his lack of genuine grief. Had Elsa died during the Blitz then he might have sincerely mourned her loss. The death of their only child had effectively destroyed their marriage. His heartache was for the loss of a way of life that had died a long time ago. His sojourn in Bristol had left him directionless. He had been rejected by the army, sidelined by the police force. What future was there for him? Then out of the blue, Lieutenant Conway appears.

  That same evening, Conaway and Hunloke sat together in a quiet corner of the Gorge Hotel bar. Hunloke was full of questions. “So how exactly does the POW system work?”

  “Until mid 1943 it wasn’t much of an issue. We only really had Luftwaffe crew and boys from the Kriegsmarine, and to be honest, we didn’t have that many. Shipped most of ‘em to Canada, which didn’t please the submariners. They thought they might get sunk by their own U-boats.” Conway laughed, seeing the humorous side of his assertion. “We had only two camps initially, one for officers and one for other ranks. After the victories in North Africa and now in Normandy, well, our camps are beginning to fill up.”

  “So what happens now to POW’s?”

  “The system is changing all the time in subtle ways, but here’s how it works in a nutshell. The blighters are shipped back across the channel to the main channel ports. Here we delouse them and stick ‘em on board trains to one of the several command cages. They are interrogated by the Prisoner of War Interrogation Section, the PWIS. We establish name, rank, unit, check over their papers. We establish their loyalty to the Nazi Regime and grade them with a coloured patch on their uniform. White means no loyalty, grey means no particular loyalty. Black is for the hard-core boys. We classify all Waffen-SS as black, as well as most of the Fallschirmjägers and U-boat boys. Most of them come out grey oddly enough. The black patch bastards we keep separately, normally in the wilds of Scotland.” Again, Conway grinned. “Anyway, anyone the PWIS consider worthy of further investigation gets sent on to us at the CSDIC.”

  “How can you differentiate the Waffen-SS troops from the Wehrmacht boys?”

  “Well, naturally if they retain their uniforms, as some proudly do, it’s pretty straightforward. Trouble is, uniforms can be destroyed by delousing and some slippery bastards take the uniforms off the Wehrmacht guys. So we generally go by their tattoo.”

  “Tattoo?”

  “Yes, we use the SS blood type tattoo. It’s a small ink job on the underside of their left arms, inscribed during basic training. Admittedly, not all of them have it, like the Johnnies who transferred in at a later date, or those absent on the day the tattoo was issued. There seems to be some conflicting evidence that Wehrmacht guys have been given a tattoo if they were treated in an SS hospital.” Hunloke nodded, diligently taking in what Conway had to say. “From the cages, the POW’s are sent to various camps around the country, officers and other ranks kept apart, naturally. And that is basically it.”

  Chapter 3 - The Red Lion.

  November 1944.

  An implicit gloom lay at the heart of the British war effort. The population were exhausted after five years of conflict. Unlike during the Great War when the civilian population was for the most part unmolested by the enemy, the war now seemed to seep and nurture an insidious mendacity into everyday life.

  The Allied advance had stalled following the heady days of the breakout from the Normandy bridgehead. Paris had been liberated and the troops had been pushing hard for the German border. And then came the issues with supplies and the disaster at Arnhem. The Germans appeared far from beaten and the war showed every likelihood of creeping on into 1945.

  Britain was exhausted. As a fighting force, its powers were diminishing with every day the war went on. The country now watched the Americans and Russians take the ascendancy in the Allied partnership. With the insistence of ‘Unconditional Surrender’, no one could truly calculate the propaganda value exploited by Goebbels when telling the Deutsche Volk that they could expect no better treatment from the West than they could from the East.

  Thaddeus Hunloke settled into his new role with the CSDIC. To be fair, settling in was a euphemism for enforced lethargy. On the whole, he was ignored by the War Office department. With the exception of several calls from Brian Conway, who was now technically his junior, he was left alone to while away the days drinking in a small London hotel. Most of his time had been taken up with his re-absorption into the Army.

  It had been agreed by persons unknown that Hunloke should be commissioned as an officer in the 2nd Battalion Royal East Kent Regiment, the unit in which he served in 1940 as a company commander. That the 2nd Battalion was serving overseas in places unknown did not seem an issue to anyone concerned.

  Many days went by before he re-acclimatised to the wearing of a uniform. The emotional assault prompted by the donning of a military dress shook him and it took all his reserves of resolve not to be swamped by the ghosts of the past. After only one week, he abandoned the service dress uniform he had purchased along with the brown Sam Brown belt. It felt anachronistic and uncomfortable. He replaced the uniform with battledress, preferring the austerity of the uniform’s short blouse.

  The one conceit from his service days he allowed himself was the now somewhat battered officer’s cap with its badge of the clawing dragon emblazoned with the word ‘The Buffs’. The headgear, along with his service revolver, had been stored in an old metal hatbox and was one of the few items he had recovered from his destroyed house.

  Hunloke and Conway arranged to meet at St Pancras railway station. The station was a hive of transience, people on the move, exhibiting that restless energy that comes with travel. The rail network was stretched to breaking point. Unprecedented strain had been placed upon the under-invested industry. Even the locomotives in their black wartime livery looked stressed and careworn. The station was suffused with the satanic, sulphurous stains of fossil fuels that belched into the vast glass canopy roof and the very fabric of the grimy Victorian brickwork.

  That the train due to take them north was fifteen minutes late came as no surprise to anyone. Conway had reserved a first class compartment solely for their private use. Hunloke had never travelled first class and could not remember the last time he had a compartment all to himself.

  “What did you make of Bergman
?” asked Conway when the train had cleared the capital’s conurbations. The silent, brooding Hunloke unsettled him. He found himself focusing upon the captain’s garish scar, speculating upon how he had been so wounded but fearing to ask.

  “The Swede? More like turnip... Actually, a radish would be a better call, judging by the colour of his face. Fat bastard... I bet he’s never seen a ration book in his life!”

  The lieutenant instantly regretted instigating the conversation concerning the Swedish diplomat. “He was only doing his job. We had to get his agreement to interrogate prisoners.”

  “That’s a bloody joke! How many prisoners have the bloody neutral Swedes taken? How many tonnes of iron ore have they shipped to the Hun? And what was all that shit about ensuring the Jerries got their post? Do I look like I give a toss it comes via Portugal?”

  “You didn’t have to be so rude...”

  “I wasn’t bloody...” Hunloke caught himself in time and took a deep breath. He realised he had probably spoken out of turn but was damned if he was going to apologise. “So what do we know about this POW camp, Mr Conway.”

  “The camp adjutant is Major Charles Beevor,” declared Brian Conway, relieved that Hunloke appeared to have simmered down. “Fifty-one year old veteran of the Great War. He commands a small company of three platoons, each of thirty men plus NCO’s. Each platoon does a twenty-four hour guard duty in rotation. There is an ancillary medical team plus a small civilian staff that coordinates work details.”

  “Work details?” asked Hunloke.

  “Yes, the majority of men work.”

  “Forced labour?”

  “Oh no, many choose to work, helps pass the time. Even some officers, who are not bound to work under the rules of the Geneva Convention, choose to work. They are paid Lagergeld, paid the going rates any civvy would receive. Well, full rates are paid, that doesn’t mean the POW’s receive the full amount. It’s a complicated set up.”