Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  The typewriter clacked intermittently. The clerk was distracted by the chain smoking former camp commander dressed in what appeared to be his battledress trousers beneath his damp greatcoat and grey fedora hat. Hunloke was pacing nervously up and down, impatiently waiting. Waiting for what, the clerk had no idea. The pointless ambling stopped when the guardroom door sprang ajar and the duty corporal escorted in a short, wiry man whom the clerk recognised as Private Bird.

  Bird marched smartly across the guardroom floor and halted in front of Hunloke. He stood with exaggerated preciseness to attention, his right knee hovering in the air for an eternity before his right boot stomped assertively against the wooden deck. His salute was equally as extravagant and only delayed by a few seconds as he took in the captain’s odd choice of headwear. Hunloke returned the salute.

  “Bird?” asked Hunloke.

  “Yessir.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Have you ever fired a Sten gun?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Excellent! Okay, stand easy...”

  That was the extent of Hunloke’s conversation with the busted NCO. Minutes elapsed before Donovan returned with Günter Grass and a lean man in the uniform of a Panzer Grenadier.

  “Is it true about Mr Conway?” asked Grass after the formalities of salutes.

  “Yes, Günter. I need your help to spare the lives of the camp guards and civilians. I hope you interpreted my message about your companion correctly.”

  “Unterfeldwebel König is my aide,” declared Grass. Hunloke looked the sergeant over. He had the face of an aesthete. “I don’t keep him just for his good looks, Herr Hauptmann, he is an able soldier,” smiled Grass, reading Hunloke’s doubting look.

  “I’m sure he is, Günter...,” grimaced Hunloke before turning his attention to Sergeant Donovan. “Sergeant, I’m taking these three men off camp for an hour or two. Do you require me to sign any papers?”

  Donovan scratched his bristly chin. “I don’t think that will be necessary, sir. Just kindly bring ‘em back in one piece... walking preferably.”

  Hunloke slapped Donovan gratefully on his arm. “Oh, one more thing, sergeant.”

  “Sir?”

  “I want Corporal Baldwin to remain here. She doesn’t know about Lieutenant Conway yet. I’d rather tell her later, given the opportunity. She won’t take the order to stay here from me, so I’d be grateful if you gave it to her.”

  “I understand, sir. And good luck.”

  “Oh, sergeant...,” said Hunloke absently. “There actually is one last thing. You’d better get onto regional command. Ask them to send reinforcements to Flash Village.”

  Donovan went out to fetch Christine Baldwin. Hunloke gave the sergeant a minute or so before leading his motley team out of the guardroom. He watched Christine predictably arguing with the sergeant beside the abandoned staff car and cowardly avoided approaching the quarrelling couple. He was reminded of a domestic incident outside a pub on a Saturday night.

  Poppy Gray had climbed out of the Snipe and stood shivering in her duffle coat, watching Christine arguing with the khaki-clad NCO. She might have felt cold and frightened but remained astute enough to predict Hunloke’s likely course of action. When she noticed Hunloke emerging from the guardroom, she dashed for the staff car. She was sat defiantly in the Austin, clutching the steering wheel, when Hunloke leant over and tapped the side window. With her eyes fixed rebelliously ahead, she opened the window a fraction.

  “So you think you’re driving?” asked Hunloke. Poppy clenched the wheel even tighter. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d rather have you where I know where you are...,” he confessed with a grim smile.

  Poppy Gray may have had many idiosyncrasies, including a curiosity that bordered on an obsession. Be that as it may, the nineteen-year-old passed no comment when three unknown soldiers squeezed into the back of the unfamiliar staff car. However, she found it hard not to mention that she found the personal hygiene of at least one of the men left much to be desired.

  “To the chapel, Mrs Gray,” ordered Hunloke.

  Poppy fired up the Austin. “Too late if you want to marry me, major, someone has beaten you to it,” commented Poppy with forced bravado.

  “Inspector, I’m an inspector...”

  “Whatever you say, Commissioner, a rose by any other name...”

  The car lurched and stalled. Hunloke was the first one to make a remark. “This is a ministry Austin, Mrs Gray, not a civilian toy. You’ll have to use more right boot to get this lump moving.”

  Poppy drove far too fast for the prevailing conditions but it suited Hunloke. She pulled up abruptly by the monkey-puzzle tree allowing the gang of four to pour out of the vehicle. “Turn around, Poppy, were off to the village next,” was Hunloke’s final whispered instruction before leading the men off towards the chapel.

  Hunloke hailed his presence long before he came into view of the four men guarding the chapel entrance door. He ordered Private Bird and the two Germans down into the bunker to collect weapons, leaving Bird to decide what they needed. Hunloke’s involvement in the procurement of weapons would only have held them up. With the arms haul complete, Hunloke’s troupe hurried back to the Austin. From the inspector’s perspective, they were taking too long. He conceded that was his fault entirely, it was why he had been pensioned off in 1941.

  “To the village, Poppy, but take it easy, I know I’m in a hurry but we have to reach it in one piece...” Hunloke’s discourse was punctuated by his gasping breaths.

  “I thought soldiers were supposed to be fit,” chided Poppy once the Austin was underway. “You sound awful.”

  “It’s been a while since I did much running around.”

  “Perhaps you ought to follow the examples of the gentlemen in the back. They don’t appear to be suffering as much as you. You smoke too much; Daddy says smoking is bad for one.”

  “Poppy...” shouted Hunloke irascibly.

  “Yes, major?”

  “Shut up!”

  Hunloke briefed the three men in the rear of the vehicle as best he could on the way to the village. It was a multitasking exercise for the two Germans, who were being shown how to operate the crude but highly effective Sten submachine gun by Private ‘Dickie’ Bird.

  “Are you expecting us to fight?” asked Grass.

  “No Günter, I’m hoping you can talk some sense into your comrades if we get the chance to talk to them,” responded Hunloke.

  “I think it might be easier to fight,” declared Grass. “You know I am a Panzer man, not a Grenadier?”

  “I don’t care if you were a toilet attendant. Your job is to prevent any more bloodshed,” countered Hunloke.

  “What’s my job, sir?” asked Bird. He found the situation of being flanked by two armed POW’s highly amusing. The yarn would earn him plenty of kudos back at barracks later.

  “Your job will be to shoot the Jerry bastards if they don’t listen to the Lagerführer.”

  “Won’t the new commandant be in charge of things?” asked Grass.

  “Technically..., I might have to be persuasive with him.”

  “And risk whatever future you might have?”

  Hunloke had no answer to that question.

  Chapter 29 - The Schoolhouse.

  Tuesday, 5th December 1944.

  “Sir, we’ve searched the farm, there’s no sign of Jerry here!” The lance corporal’s excitement riled Major Harold Fakir.

  The major had been standing in the morass that constituted the farmyard at Flash Farm for almost half an hour. He calculated that had the POW’s been travelling fast on foot they should have reached the farmstead long ago. He had placed his men to cover the approaches to the farm so that he could intercept the Germans. The fog wasn’t helping but even so, unless the POW’s were ghosts, someone should have seen or heard something.

  He cursed Thaddeus Hunloke for giving him false intelligence and he berated himself for liste
ning to the deposed captain.

  When briefed about his new posting, Fakir was surprised at how quickly he had been expected to take over his new position. He was well aware that five POW’s had escaped from the camp. Most of the country was attentive to the fact. It wasn’t the first ever escape but that two men remained at large was certainly unusual. Most POW’s were recaptured after only a day or so. There was no resistance network in Britain assisting escapees, hence their chances of reaching the coast and a boat to carry them to occupied Europe or neutral Ireland was slim at best.

  Hunloke was not what he had expected. A picture of a dissolute officer had been vividly painted during his admittedly short briefing. However, Hunloke certainly didn’t appear to be that man so described. The camp personnel appeared to like Hunloke well enough, although that wasn’t necessarily a good recommendation in the judicious eyes of Harold Fakir.

  Fakir had a lot to prove. As a liberated POW from the North African Campaign, some bureaucrat had decided that Fakir’s experience rendered him suitable material for guarding POW’s at home. The analyst was incorrect. Fakir’s incarceration had left him emotionally scarred and embittered, flavouring his opinion towards his POW charges.

  Far from having any compassion for the enemy POW’s, his encounter with the enemy had engendered hatred. In his eyes, it was a wholly rational sentiment. If he had his way, he’d shoot every prisoner in his care. Better than that, he would conceive of a far more efficient way of disposing of them.

  The tinkling of a bicycle bell attracted Fakir. From the fog morphed the shape of a woman wearing a red woollen overcoat and matching beret, riding carefully to avoid the ruts. He watched her long woollen clad legs admiringly as they forcefully peddled their way towards him. She looked fetchingly pretty perched upon the saddle. It was only when she was almost upon him that his opinion changed.

  Her left profile was indeed pretty enough. Alas, the right hand side was anything but. He made no attempt to hide the look of consternation that crossed his face when he took in the ill-disguised disfigurement around her right eye and the obscene white eyeball provocatively displayed in its socket. For God sake, the hideous woman should be made to wear an eye patch at least.

  Carey Gladwin stepped breathlessly over the frame of the bicycle to stand next to the murine Army officer and the reporting lance corporal.

  “Thank God!” gasped Carey, “someone said that they had seen an Army truck heading this way...”

  “What do you want?” asked Fakir bluntly.

  Carey composed herself before replying. “Two armed men have taken over the school!”

  “They have, have they...?”

  Fakir’s hanging reply surprised Carey. He actually looked pleased rather than horrified. He turned his back on her to address the NCO. “Corporal, do you know where the school is?”

  “Yessir!”

  “Then round up the men, quick as you can. And don’t dawdle, man!” spat Fakir. He reluctantly returned his attention to the hideous woman. “Does anyone else know about this?” he smoothed his neatly trimmed moustache after enunciating his question.

  “The minister sent me to contact you; the postmistress has rang for the police.”

  “This is a military matter, miss, not an occasion for the police. Who is the minister?”

  “Mr Rogers, the Methodist Minister.”

  “Methodist, eh...?” His scorn was only too apparent.

  Carey watched the Bedford truck bounce and disappear down the potholed track towards the main road. Her heart lay in the pit of her stomach. She had no idea who the Army officer was. She had expected to see Thaddeus Hunloke when she heard about the truck visiting the farm. Events had clearly taken a turn that she had not anticipated.

  It was Carey’s turn to curse. She should have remained at Flash House to keep abreast of developments instead of assuming that the low-key approach would continue to pay dividends. Frustratedly, she cycled off in pursuit of the lorry.

  The village schoolhouse had been built in 1896, a philanthropic endowment by the Gray family, built to educate the village children of the parents who predominantly worked for them in various guises. As High Anglicans, the Grays were not keen supporters of Methodism but saw the spiritual value of the movement as far as meeting the simplistic needs of the villagers. Hence the new Methodist chapel and schoolhouse were built at the same time. Neither building was Sir Gervais Montclair’s finest work.

  With a viewpoint from the roadside, the school stood to the right of the chapel behind a sturdy stone wall enclosing a playground. The building itself was a brawny gritstone creation with two long windows sitting symmetrically aside a central door.

  When the troop lorry pulled up outside the school, a gaggle of concerned parents were already gathered by the school gate as though waiting for the bell in the miniature clock tower sitting astride the roof to toll the end of the school day.

  Major Fakir leapt with surprising athleticism from the cab whilst his section of eight men spilled hesitantly but noisily from the rear. From the centre of the crowd stepped Richard Rogers, flanked by Miss Claxon, the postmistress. Fakir eyed the minister suspiciously.

  “Good morning, major,” declared Rogers calmly. Like Carey, he too had expected to see Thaddeus Hunloke. Fakir was surprised a minister would recognise the crown on his shoulder that signified his rank.

  “What can you tell me?” asked Fakir without preamble.

  “Two men are holding the children and the two teachers as hostages. They released Mrs Puckle, the cook, to tell me what has happened.”

  “Sure it’s only two men?” asked Fakir.

  “Yes, major.”

  “Well, two Jerries with a pistol shouldn’t present too much of a problem.”

  “I’ve phoned for the police, aren’t you going to wait for them?” queried Rogers.

  “No need, we’ll have this sorted in a jiffy,” scoffed Fakir. The major turned towards his men, beckoned them forward to gather around him, and outlined his intentions. “Simple plan of attack, men. We form line abreast in the front yard. Four men will train their rifles at the door to offer covering fire if necessary whilst the other four storm the front door with me. We’ll burst in and I will disarm the Nazi with the gun. Clear?”

  The men looked at each other and finally to the lance corporal. No one had the nerve to speak up to question the gaping holes in the major’s proposal, least of all, how Fakir intended to disarm a man armed with a pistol, a man who had already killed Lieutenant Conway.

  In single file, the guards filtered through the school gate and formed up in a raggedy line, Fakir in the centre with his pistol drawn. The men stared nervously towards the schoolhouse.

  “Prepare to fix bayonets!” The shouted order astounded the soldiers. “Fix... bayonets!” bellowed Fakir. If the men had hoped to take the Germans by surprise, there was little hope of doing so now. “On my order men, we will charge the door,” shouted Fakir. “Be ready with supporting fire.” There was a pause of several seconds before Fakir shouted the fateful order.

  “Charge...!”

  Not one man had taken a step before the misty morning air was rent by the thumping beat of two Sten guns firing in short bursts of up to eight rounds per second. The shots emerged from the open panels of the high window to the soldiers’ left.

  Within five seconds, the eight men section and Major Fakir lay bleeding and scattered upon the playground. Four men were already dead. Five men, including Fakir were seriously wounded and groaned in shocked agony.

  With the firing concluded, only the sounds of screaming mothers and caws of carrion were audible in the dismayed village of Flash.

  “Stop, Poppy!”

  Violet Gray slowed the Austin and each occupant of the staff car listened to the unmistakable overpowering rattle of the automatic weapons discharging in the distance, sufficiently loud to overwhelm the rattling vehicle’s engine.

  “Change of plan?” asked Poppy calmly.

  “No, we still
head for the farm,” decided Hunloke.

  “But that noise came from further up in the village,” argued Poppy.

  “The farm...,” reiterated Hunloke.

  “Be it on your own head...”

  The farm entrance was only ten yards ahead on the right and the Austin churned up plumes of brown water from the puddles inundating the track.

  “Slow down, woman, you’ll wreck the bloody thing!” shouted Hunloke.

  “I am not woman...,” muttered Poppy. However, she did arrest the Austin’s headlong charge.

  “Wait here with Mrs Gray, Bird,” ordered Hunloke once the car came to rest in the farmyard.

  “I’m coming with you,” she insisted.

  “You’ll bloody stay here! If I see you, I’ll shoot you myself!” blustered Hunloke.

  Hunloke, Grass and König stood side by side surveying the blurred outline of the farmstead and its surrounding buildings. The two Germans brandished their weapons with assumed familiarity whilst Hunloke strode towards the kitchen entrance. The door was ajar, which prompted all sorts of portents in the mind of Hunloke. He gently pushed at the opening and at that instant realised the two Alsatian dogs, normally prowling the yard, were conspicuous by their absence.

  The kitchen was empty save for the normal domestic clutter. He beckoned the two Germans into the house, each man listening intently for the telltale signs of occupation.

  The sound of two baying Alsatian dogs reached the kitchen.

  Hunloke tugged back the net curtain and watched in horror as the two hounds danced excitedly around the green Austin. He was hoping for the shout to call them off but it never came.

  “Günter, you and your friend make yourself scarce in the next room,” ordered Hunloke, thinking quickly on his feet. Grass exchanged looks with Hunloke before acceding to his command. “The timing of your entry might be important, Günter...,” smiled Hunloke sardonically.

  Grass nodded and vanished into the adjoining room with König. Alone in the kitchen, Hunloke grated back a kitchen chair and lowered himself behind the table where he carefully placed his Webley revolver. His bloodstained hands lay palm down upon the cluttered surface. A vision of his now destroyed home with Elsa sitting opposite him came to mind. His late wife was admonishing him for smoking at the breakfast table.