Weaver

by Stephen Baxter

  Ernst knew roughly where he was. Suffering from the attrition of the defenders’ assaults, vehicles failing one by one for lack of fuel, the dwindling column had managed to push on through the towns of Haywards Heath and Horsham. The countryside was becoming progressively easier, less intensively mined, lighter and sparser defences at the crossroads and bridges and rail junctions. Now they were only a few miles south of Guildford, their target for the day, though they were far behind schedule. And if only they could go just a little further, if only they could reach the line of the Thames, the country would be open before them.

  This was the crux. Ernst had the feeling that both sides were pouring all they had into this one conflict zone, that here was the spearhead, the assault that would make or break the German invasion of England.

  There was a loud explosion, directly above Ernst’s head. He flinched, grabbing his helmet. An English plane, a Hurricane by the look of it, had taken a strike. Its tail was gone, its right wing crushed, and it was heading straight for the ground, spinning like a corkscrew. Ernst saw the pilot struggle to get out of his cockpit, a tiny figure clambering desperately. The plane speared down, falling somewhere behind the German line, and an explosion rocked the ground.

  A shadow passed over Ernst’s face. He turned to look through the slit in the pillbox. Somebody was looking right back at him, not a foot away, through the thickness of the concrete. He had crept up while Ernst was distracted by the plane. The man’s hand was raised. He held a grenade.

  Kieser saw the same thing. ‘Oh, shit!’ His rifle cracked. A bullet ripped past Ernst’s ear and slammed into the Englishman’s hand, and one of his fingers burst in a shower of blood. He screamed.

  Kieser’s heavy hand slammed down on Ernst’s back. ‘Down, man!’

  The explosion made the pillbox shudder. Leaves and bits of dirt were thrown up and then rained down.

  On their bellies, they scrambled around the wall of the broken pillbox. The English soldier lay on his back, cradling a shattered hand. Kieser stuck the muzzle of his rifle in the man’s face. ‘Hello, goodbye,’ he said in his broken English.

  ‘Fuck you.’ The English laughed, though tears rolled down his cheek with the pain of his hand. ‘Fuck you for Peter’s Well. And Wisborough Green. And Rotherfield. And Bethersden. And—’

  Kieser’s fist slammed into his jaw. ‘And fuck you for Versailles.’

  ‘Pretty boys!’ They glanced over. Unteroffizier Fischer, crouching in the dirt, was waving. ‘Leave him for the mop-up units. We’re moving on.’

  They scrambled back towards him. The three of them huddled by the side of the road, crouching, flinching from the shell fire and the bursts of automatic fire that sporadically raked the column. But the column was forming up again, the tanks and trucks lumbering back onto the road.

  Kieser shouted, ‘Unteroffizier? Are you serious?’

  ‘That’s the order. Listen to me. The English have fielded everything they’ve got, but we’re still standing. And what’s left of the second wave is heading our way. Always reinforce success - isn’t that what the Fuhrer says? And we’re the spearhead. Let the English slice away at our rear, let us lose half our bloody vehicles for lack of fuel - what of it? Mobility, that has been the key to this war - our mobility. If Seventh Panzer can only get into Guildford, with us following up - it’s only a few more miles - if just a few of us can only get that far tonight, then we will have a chance of establishing a bridgehead. And tomorrow, when the English are exhausted, we can consolidate. Do you see?’ He grinned. ‘The order has come from Guderian himself, it is said. Berlin is sceptical, but Berlin is far away. What a man! Come on, get back into the truck.’

  So, with the air war screaming overhead and the English assault continuing furiously from the left, the column roared on towards Guildford, led by the remnants of Seventh Panzer. The English shells hailed all around, and one by one the trucks and tanks and field guns were knocked out, and others died from lack of fuel, yet the rest simply closed up and moved on. The English desperately tried to throw up road blocks, even shoving their own vehicles across the road, but the tanks simply smashed through.

  For Ernst this was a dash through hell. The men in the troop carriers could do nothing but cower, each of them waiting for the bit of shrapnel or the sniper bullet or the automatic-weapons burst from some English plane that would end his life. But they whooped and roared as the truck clattered over the pocked road, throwing them around like toys in a box, and Ernst found it impossible not to join in. This was madness. They wouldn’t have the fuel even to drive back to the coast. But maybe, just maybe, this bold stroke was going to work, the English defences would be scattered and the Battle of England won.

  But now they approached a crossroads. A mesh fence had been thrown across it, with barbed wire and a few tank traps. Ernst expected the Panzers simply to blast this lot out of the way and move on. He was astonished when the Panzers slowed with a grinding of their huge gears, and his own truck squealed to a stop.

  Ernst exchanged a look with Heinz Kieser. Kieser just shrugged.

  Unteroffizier Fischer jumped down to the road surface, and Ernst followed. The fence stretched to left and right across the road, and off into the fields beyond. A flag, a Stars and Stripes, flew boldly from a pole rising from beyond the fence. A single soldier armed with an automatic weapon stood right before the muzzle of the lead Panzer. He was short, burly, with belt and straps heavy with grenades and ammunition clips. His uniform looked crumpled. Apparently fearless, he was chewing gum.

  There was a sign fixed to the fence, neatly lettered. Ernst squinted to make it out:

  LUCKY STRIKE BASE

  SHALFORD

  US EIGHTH ARMY

  SOVEREIGN TERRITORY OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  DO NOT ENTER

  ‘Shit,’ said Unteroffizier Fischer. ‘We’re going to have to pass this back up the line. Even Guderian can’t declare war on America on his own initiative. Churchill. That wily bastard must have something to do with this. Shit, shit.’

  The American soldier grinned. In English he called, ‘Can I help you guys?’

  II

  PRISONER

  JUNE-DECEMBER 1941

  I

  23 June 1941

  The family were all at breakfast that Monday morning, Fred, Irma, Alfie, Viv, the four of them in the farmhouse kitchen working their way silently through toast and powdered egg, when Ernst walked in with his gift. He placed it on the table, an anonymous cardboard box stamped with swastikas.

  ‘Good morning, Obergefreiter,’ said Irma. She pushed her way out of her chair, leaning on the wooden table for support. ‘The usual? A bit of toast?’ In her forties, she was heavily pregnant, her eyes shadowed, her face drawn of blood. ‘The tea might be stewed.’

  Alfie’s eyes were on the gift. He chewed on rubbery toast, his legs swinging so that his whole body jerked about. He was fourteen but he looked younger, Ernst thought, skinny, always hungry-looking. ‘What’s in the box, Ernst?’

  ‘Let the poor man get his breakfast, Alfie.’ Irma went to the range.

  ‘I’ll get the tea,’ said Vivien, getting up brightly. She ran to the sink and rinsed out a tin mug. She was a year older than her brother. She wore a blouse and skirt for school today, with thick dark stockings and clumpy shoes. Her mother was a fair seamstress, but you could see the panels of parachute silk where she had let out the blouse as Viv had grown.

  Viv came over to Ernst with the tin mug. The drink was fairly repulsive, made from repeatedly stewed leaves and with lumps floating on the surface from the powdered milk. She leaned close enough to Ernst for a few strands of her strawberry blonde hair to brush against his face.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She said, in German, ‘It’s my pleasure.’

  Alfie laughed. ‘You’re a right tart, our Viv, you really are.’

  ‘Oh, leave her alone,’ Irma said tiredly, and she set a plate with a bit of toast and a heap of runny powdered eg
g before Ernst. ‘Is that enough, Obergefreiter?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Miller.’ He made a show of cutting off some toast and tucking it into his mouth. He turned to Viv. ‘But, you know, you need not have prepared for school. There will be no school today.’

  Fred glared. ‘How so?’

  ‘A holiday has been declared. It is the King’s birthday!’ Ernst smiled.

  Fred folded his arms. ‘Not my bloody king. I’m a subject of King George, not of his Nazi-loving ninny of a brother who should have stayed abdicated.’ He pronounced ‘Nazi’ the way Churchill always had, ‘Nar-zee’. The father of the family was a squat man, his farmer’s arms muscular, but his lower body was weaker, his wounded right leg withered, so that he had a rather unbalanced look. His greying hair was slicked back with Brylcreem, making his face angular, hawk-like. He wore his work coat, an old suit jacket from which the pockets had long been removed, leaving ghostly outlines of stitches.

  Irma sighed. ‘Oh, come on, Fred, have a bit of spirit. Edward’s not so bad. He’s got his job to do like everybody else. Binding the wounds, as they say. Although I hadn’t heard about the holiday, Obergefreiter.’

  ‘Well, we wouldn’t,’ Alfie said. ‘Dad won’t buy a newspaper. “Hoare and his bloody collaborators’ rag.’

  ‘Language, Alfie,’ said Irma sharply. ‘Mind you, we argue about that, Herr Obergefreiter. I mean, I can’t see what harm a bit of news does. And I do so miss my stars.’

  ‘Well, you are hearing about it now,’ Ernst said, keeping up his smile. ‘A day off for the whole of the protectorate, except for essential services.’

  ‘I’ll go and tell my cows I’m having a day off bloody milking them, shall I?’ Fred said.

  Irma looked concerned. ‘I’d been hoping to get into Hastings today to see if there’s any news about Jack and the prisoner release programme.’

  ‘There will be emergency cover at the town hall,’ Ernst assured her. He worked there himself, one of a number of soldiers with the necessary skills who had been seconded to supplement the civil servants brought across from Germany to run the protectorate. ‘I’m sure that if there is any news you will receive it.’

  ‘Don’t know how you’ll get down there, mind,’ Fred said. ‘Buses on holiday too, are they, Corporal?’

  ‘Well, somebody’s got to go,’ Irma said. ‘Viv, maybe you could come with me.’

  Viv’s anger flared up again. ‘Why me? What kind of a holiday is that?’

  ‘I’ll come, Mum,’ Alfie said.

  ‘You’re a good boy,’ Irma said.

  Fred grunted. ‘Good at getting out of his chores around the farm, little bleeder.’

  Ernst tapped his forefinger on his cardboard box. ‘You still don’t know what it is, this present I have brought for you.’

  ‘Let me open it,’ Alfie said.

  But Viv was too quick. ‘I don’t think so.’ She grabbed the box. She wore her nails long for a farmer’s daughter, and she used one forefinger nail to slice through the thick packing tape. Inside was a brick of Bakelite, with a speaker grill and a heavy tuning dial. Viv pulled it out eagerly, scattering bits of wrapping paper on the table.

  ‘Cor,’ Alfie said. ‘A wireless! Can we plug it in, Dad?’

  ‘Actually it runs off batteries,’ Ernst said. ‘They must be recharged, periodically.’

  ‘“Periodically.’ Viv giggled. ‘You do make me laugh, the way you talk.’

  Fred was dismissive. ‘It isn’t as good as my old wireless set that they took away with my fowling piece. That’s the trouble with you Nazis. Whatever you take away you always give something worse back.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so sour, Fred.’ Irma inspected the wireless and quickly found the ‘on’ switch. Music wafted from the wireless, a bit tinny.

  Viv squealed, ‘Music!’ She got up and started dancing around the room, arms wrapped around her body, making big sweeping steps.

  ‘I know that,’ Irma said. ‘What was it called, Fred? It was big just before the Germans came.’

  Fred said reluctantly, ‘“The World is Waiting for the Sunrise.’

  Irma said, ‘Gosh, we haven’t heard music for ever so long, not proper music, apart from Doreen on the piano in the church hall, the soldiers’ choir singing carols at Christmas.’ She began to sing softly: ‘Stille nacht, heilige nacht ...’

  Alfie was trying to turn the tuning knob. ‘It won’t turn. It’s stuck.’ He looked at Ernst. ‘Is it broken?’

  ‘No, no.’ Ernst felt faintly embarrassed. ‘It’s meant to be that way; the tuning is fixed.’

  The music ended, and a male voice with the stilted plumminess of the British upper classes intoned, ‘This is the Free Albion Broadcasting Service, coming to you twelve hours per day from the Ministry of Information in Canterbury. And now, at eight thirty a.m. precisely, the news ...’

  ‘Free bloody Albion,’ Fred said, and he laughed. ‘I bet old Joe could bugger it so it picks up the BBC.’

  ‘Language,’ Irma said automatically.

  ‘That would be forbidden,’ Ernst said. ‘Regretfully.’

  ‘You won’t, you know,’ Viv said to her father. ‘I’ve heard of this, the Promi wireless. One of the girls at school has it at home.’

  ‘It’s Propaganda from Hoare and his band of collaborators in Canterbury.’

  ‘Dad, it plays jazz and swing from America!’

  Fred said, ‘Never mind jazz. I wonder if ITMA is still on?’ He put on a comedy German accent, glancing at Ernst. ‘Funf! Funf! Heil Hitler!’

  ‘Oh, leave it out, Dad,’ Viv said. ‘You’re always picking on Ernst. You know he won’t report you or anything. Big man, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well.’ Ernst pushed the wireless towards the family. ‘Here is my gift, for King Edward’s day. And I have another. A joint of lamb. I must pick it up. Perhaps we could cook it for dinner this evening.’

  ‘Drool,’ said Alfie. ‘Lamb! I can’t even remember what it tastes like.’

  Fred snorted. ‘You take away my bloody sheep, and now you give a bit back and expect me to be grateful. Rabbit will do for me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s enough, Fred,’ Irma said. ‘Look, Obergefreiter, you are very generous. If you can get it to me by four I’ll have it in the oven. So is it a holiday for you too?’

  ‘I’m planning a drive up to the First Objective.’

  Fred grunted. ‘A fan of pillboxes, are you?’

  ‘My brother, who is a standartenfuhrer in the SS, has some business with the Halifax government. Prisoner repatriations and that sort of thing. I said I would accompany him; I would like to see the country again, where I fought.’

  Viv clapped her hands. ‘Oh, let me come with you.’ She looked at her mother. ‘I’m off school, aren’t I? I could practise my German.’

  Her father said, ‘I’ve told you, in the stalag in the last lot we only needed four words of bloody German. Kartoffel. Arbeit. Geld. Verboten. Spud, work, money, forbidden.’

  Viv ignored him. ‘It’s a lovely day. A ride in a car! I haven’t been in a car since before the war. I could take a picnic. Mum—’

  ‘No,’ said Fred.

  ‘Mum!’

  Irma looked terribly tired. ‘Oh, I can’t be bothered fighting. It’s up to the obergefreiter.’