Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  Mills was almost reclining in a high-backed chair beside a small log fire, which burnt in a cast-iron grate. The room was lit only by an oil lamp perched upon a table at his side. The fire and lamp spotlighted the man against the sinister gloom of the reserved snug. He appeared to ignore the shuffling Hunloke, concentrating instead upon lighting the pipe clenched between his teeth. The crackle and spitting of the logs was augmented by a viscous sucking sound when Mills drew upon the stem. Hunloke decided the pipe did not suit him. He appeared as a young man attempting to look a good deal older and worldly-wise.

  With a sweeping gesture of his left hand, Mills pointed to the vacant chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “I would have liked to have met you in London before you left,” announced Mills to the fireplace.

  “Who are you?” Hunloke’s voice sounded matter of fact and lacked any taint of curiosity.

  “I would have thought you had far more pressing questions uppermost in your mind other than what my name might be. How did you win your Military Cross?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Were you impressed by your visit to the camp this morning?” Hunloke made no reply. One more question like that and he would get up and leave. “I’m pleased to see you’re not a chatterbox,” stated Mills equitably. “You’ll be surprised how many people are. Your companion, Lieutenant Conway, is a real gasbag. You know, the Germans love the sound of their own voices. I suppose that’s the problem with being the Master Race. They all seem to have an opinion they want to share with each other.” The man spoke in an educated, distracted fashion, as if his mind was absorbed with far more pressing matters.

  Hunloke remained silent. To appease his growing discomfort, he took a cigarette from inside his damp coat and pedantically tapped it upon the wooden arm of the chair to settle the tobacco before lighting it.

  “Have you not wondered why CSDIC seconded you into their ranks?” continued Mills. “No...? I don’t believe that for a moment. Allow me to tell you what I know. You were ‘rested’ by the Yard when your department trod on too may toes during your investigations into organised crime. The Yard doesn’t like being told it has corrupt officers. The fact that you were sidelined and not stitched up says much for someone’s influence.” Mills applied yet another struck match to the pipe’s dormant bowl before pressing on.

  “You escaped under the radar after Dunkirk. Well, there were a good many things going on in fairness... Then you raised your head above the parapet with your police investigations. Was that intentional?”

  “Intentional...?” Hunloke could not resist the question.

  “Yes, were you looking to draw attention to yourself?”

  “No, I was trying to do my job.”

  “But you were never really a policeman, captain. Admittedly, you were good at it, but the Yard would never take to you as one of their own. And when you started to make accusations about senior officers, well...”

  “Who are you?” pressed Hunloke.

  “Henry.”

  “And who do you work for?”

  “For you, in a manner of speaking... Directorate of Military Intelligence, section six. Technically, I hold the rank of major, but that just makes things too formal, Thaddeus. I’m sure you’ll see me in uniform when it suits me...” Mills smiled disingenuously. “I’m the man who is responsible for that uniform you are once again allowed to wear. I hope you’re grateful.” Mills smiled again. Hunloke considered it a smug, objectionable expression.

  “CSDIC, to whom you are co-opted, is a branch of Military Intelligence, section nineteen. They are responsible for the interrogation of POW’s, as you by now are well aware. Some of their methods at the London Cage aren’t very pretty. Does that bother you? Don’t answer that. What you’re probably not aware of is that MI19 also eavesdrops on POW’s, hence my reference to our chatty guests. We have transcripts of hundreds of conversations. You’d be shocked what Jerry talks about... However, we also have other means of intelligence. I’m not at liberty to tell you the means; it’s all very hush-hush, I’m afraid. The reason I have had you sent here is to make contact with the Lagerführer at Flash Camp.”

  “Why don’t you do it?”

  “Because I do not wish to compromise my identity.”

  “Then why not just interrogate him at the London Cage?”

  “Because we want him in his own environment, somewhere where he feels reasonably comfortable.”

  “Why can’t Lieutenant Conway talk to him?”

  “Because he is not a soldier. He will talk to you as a fellow soldier; he’ll respect your MC and your rank.”

  “Do you mean there have been no incidents of maltreatment at Flash Camp?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Herr Immelmann was a Pole we placed in the camp and later removed. He was the one who made the official complaint and hence a pretext to enter the camp without arousing suspicion.”

  “And what exactly am I supposed to ask the Lagerführer about?”

  “Nothing specifically at the moment, I want you to gain his trust. Just talk to him about ‘soldiery’ things, killing and blowing things up. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Only go by the camp intelligence records and the report supplied outlining Immelmann's allegations. Clear? Oh, and one more thing, Thaddeus. Not a word of this to Conway or Corporal Baldwin.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m telling you not to.”

  “But Brian is your man, I assume?”

  “Then you assume incorrectly. He, like you, is part of MI19. As I said, I’m MI6.”

  “So you’re calling the shots?”

  “Where you are concerned, yes, Thaddeus. I am calling the shots. I expect to be made aware of everything that takes place during your investigation.”

  Chapter 6 - Günter Grass.

  Saturday, 25th November 1944.

  It was a breezy day atop the Derbyshire escarpment. The air was seldom still and on this day, a cold easterly wind blew.

  Brian Conway was preparing to spend a second day sifting through the camp documentation, referencing the records against the ones obtained by PWIS initial screening. Conway had decided to utilise Christine’s time more effectively by having her assist him with his paper chase.

  Hunloke was free to interview the camp Lagerführer, Günter Grass. Despite the interview taking place in the guardroom, Hunloke wore his Webley Mk VI Service Revolver in his webbing holster. A cumbersome weapon, it nevertheless gave him a comforting feeling of reassurance as it lay heavily upon his hip.

  Having arrived at the camp early, they were treated to the spectacle of morning roll call. If they thought the camp had been noisy the previous day then they were in for a surprise. The camp had been roused at six o’clock and thereafter ensued the daily melee for ablutions and breakfast.

  The prisoner compound housed two ablution huts with each toilet facility shared between up to forty prisoners. The POW’s had themselves organised the use of the amenities. With breakfast complete, the POW’s lined up outside their huts. As a working camp, Flash only had two roll calls, one at the start of the day and the second when the work roster was complete.

  The cold morning prompted many of POW’s to wear overcoats of various descriptions, some British but many German, liberated by the Allies following their advance through Western Europe. The Eastern European contingent stood out from the native German soldiers by their lack of top coats. It was clear to Hunloke that the camp was divided into ghettos, the non-German troops forming their own distinctive cliques.

  The British guards were housed outside the wire and the morning roll call saw the entire company of 100 or so men on call before the duty platoon of that day took over guard duties.

  The conflicting number of languages used by the detainees was apparent to Hunloke. It was the Eastern European delegation who made the greatest volume of noise despite only representing a quarter of the camp’s population. They appeared incapable of doing anything
quietly and any instruction issued by the frustrated guards, attempting to conduct a headcount, was answered with questioning and abusive shouts despite the inmates having little idea what the guards were asking of them. Hunloke considered the sentries a sloppy bunch but he did not envy them their burdensome accounting obligations.

  With the roll call complete, the numerous section heads reported their various tallies to Sergeant Donovan. Again, Hunloke was surprised by the informality of the undertaking; he had somehow assumed that the process would be akin to some sort of formal morning parade with soldiers neatly lined up before Major Beevor. As it was, with the count satisfactorily completed, Sergeant Donovan beckoned over the Lagerführer, Günter Grass and gave him the nod to set the camp about the day’s duties. For a moment, the racket of competing chatter rose to a crescendo before slowly ebbing to a level of jarring irritation.

  Sergeant Donovan and his men moseyed through the gate from the prisoner compound into the adjacent administration area where the visitor’s had viewed the spectacle.

  “Grass will be with you shortly, captain. He just has a few issues to sort out with his boys,” stated Donovan. “I suggest you grab yourself a cup of char from the mess.”

  ‘Shortly’ turned out to be an hour. It was after ten o’clock when Hunloke heard the knock on the door of the small side office and the sturdy frame of Günter Grass ambled into the room. Hunloke stood and exchanged salutes with Grass.

  “Would you like a cigarette, Feldwebel?” asked Hunloke, brandishing his packet before him. The German eyed him suspiciously before taking one. He sniffed the cigarette approvingly before placing it carefully in his jacket pocket.

  Hunloke glanced down at the open file before him on the desk. “For the record, you are Feldwebel Günter Grass of the 21st Panzer Division?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you served in Poland, France, North Africa and Normandy. You were captured when your tank was destroyed on the 6th of June.”

  “Ja.”

  “Were you at Dunkirk?”

  “No, I was further south, fighting the French.”

  “That’s where I got this,” stated Hunloke pointing to the scar on his left cheek, “and the leg wound.”

  “An impressive scar, Herr Hauptmann. Worthy of a Heidelberg duelling smite.”

  “Hum, lucky not to lose my eye. And you have no wounds?”

  “A few scratches.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “I like to think I was good. In a Panzer IV, one usually remains in one piece or dead.”

  “Yes, I suppose so... Do you get much trouble in the camp?”

  “You mean from the guards? You want to know what I know about any allegations of brutality against the POW’s?”

  “Yes, that is why we are here, I suppose...”

  “I am unaware of any brutality against prisoners other than short rations, poor medical facilities, and the cold.”

  “You receive more rations than civilians.”

  “Then it is no wonder you are a miserable race.”

  “So you have no problems in the camp?”

  “Hauptmann, we have had our problems. We have a large population of Russian volunteers. Many of them are animals and once captured lost any sense of discipline they had acquired in the Wehrmacht. They will eat with their bare hands and attempt to barge to the front of the mess queues. The latrines are indescribable after they use them. We are required periodically to enforce discipline.”

  “And the guards allow you?”

  “The guards leave us alone as much as possible.”

  “Do you not have hut inspections?”

  “Occasionally, in name only.”

  “And what if someone was digging a tunnel to escape?”

  Grass laughed. “You really are new to this, aren’t you... The land to the north and east of the camp is bog. A tunnel would fill with water in a matter of minutes. And you forget, I could escape every time I leave the camp to work, as could every man.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “Because we choose not to.”

  “Isn’t it every soldier’s duty to escape?”

  “Maybe if there is a chance of regaining contact with one’s comrades. There is little chance of that here.”

  “Do you think you have lost the war?”

  “Winning the war has been unlikely since forty-three. But the Führer might have some secret up his sleeve.”

  “So you believe in Hitler?”

  “He is our Führer; we swore our oath to him as you did your King. Do you not take your oath seriously, Hauptmann?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then why shouldn’t I...?”

  “Because your Führer is a warmongering megalomaniac.”

  “And your ally Stalin isn’t? And your alcoholic pugilist of a Prime Minister is whiter than white?”

  “You speak excellent English, Feldwebel. Where did you learn it?”

  “I was a schoolmaster before the war in Dresden. I taught English.”

  “Really? I had you down as a career soldier.”

  “You mean like you?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Your rank and demeanour. You strike me as someone who enjoys the business of soldiering.”

  “I joined up as a fourteen year old. I received my commission before the war and earned a battlefield promotion to captain.”

  “And the Military Cross. How did you come by that?”

  “By taking out an MG38 when acting as rearguard for the evacuation.”

  “Is that when you were wounded?”

  “No, I was wounded on the beach prior to evacuation. I was invalided out. I have been a policeman for four years before being called back.”

  “And why should they call you back?”

  “Because I know a little of the German psyche, I suppose...”

  “And how should you know that?”

  “Because I spent time in Germany before the war.”

  “And because you visited Wehrmacht bases you suppose you are an expert on Germany?”

  “No, but my wife was German.”

  “Was...?”

  “She died in August, V1 attack.”

  “I’m sorry...”

  Hunloke offered a wry smile. “It’s odd, I usually say ‘Why? It’s not your fault’, but that doesn’t sit too well in your case.”

  “My wife and family live in Dresden; fortunately they have avoided the worst of the terror raids.”

  ‘Terror raids’. Hunloke had never before heard the Allied bombing campaign against Germany so described. Hunloke looked wistfully out through the dirty office window whilst he spoke. “My wife had been very unhappy for many years. She never felt comfortable with her nationality after the war broke out and after our son died...”

  “Hauptmann?”

  “Yes, Feldwebel?

  “I believe you are supposed to be interviewing me...”

  Hunloke was taken aback by Grass’s interruption. He silently cursed himself for being distracted from his brief given to him by Brian Conway. However, Henry Mills of MI6 would have been delighted by the quality of the conversation between the two men. Thaddeus Hunloke steered the interview back to the subject of Immelmann’s fabricated allegations.

  By the time the interview had concluded, Hunloke was shocked to see that over two hours had elapsed and that it was almost midday. With Günter Grass on his way back to the prisoner compound, Hunloke stiffly stood up and went in search of Conway and Christine.

  He found them ensconced in a small office in the guardroom surrounded by piles of papers and folders. He had little idea regarding Conway’s proficiency but the lieutenant certainly wasn’t a tidy administrator. The sight of Conway and Christine sitting side by side in the cramped room somehow amused Hunloke.

  “Seinfeld, J,” announced Conway reading from a slip of paper in his right hand. Christine industriously scanned down the sheet in front of her with her index finger, her tongue protr
uding through her clenched lips. Hunloke watched her eyes blink as she scanned each entry on the sheet for the declared name.

  “Got him!” she said with an excitement that bordered on the miraculous considering she had probably been performing the mundane task for the past two hours. “Grenadier, 352nd Infantry Division. Captured 28th July.”

  “Not disturbing anything am I?” announced Hunloke.

  Both Conway and Christine looked up in a startled fashion towards the Buffs captain. “No, sir!” declared Christine guiltily.

  “Hello, sir,” smiled Conway. He pushed back his chair and stretched in an exaggerated fashion to demonstrate his feigned ennui. Conway loved a paper trail. “How did it go with Grass?”

  “Well, I think... I quite liked him.”

  “Liked him? I don’t think we are here to like them, sir.”

  “Why not, Brian? They are prisoners of war, not convicted murders.”

  “Actually, some of them might be, sir, not convicted but certainly suspects.”

  “And have you found any of your Waffen-SS guys who have slipped through the net?”

  “A couple of possibles, sir. We’ll need to go through all the camp’s inmates first.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  “Possibly another day. Then we’ll sift through the possible candidates a little more closely before we interview them.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  “As long as it takes, sir. They’re not exactly going anywhere.”

  “I see... Well, I’ll leave you to it. Any chance of borrowing the car, corporal?”

  Christine gave the impression of being surprised by the request. “I suppose not...”

  “Where are you going, sir?” asked Conway.

  “Chesterfield.”

  “And why do you need to go into Chesterfield, sir?”

  “To see a man about a dog, Lieutenant Conway.” Hunloke tapped the side of his nose.