by Thomas Wood
I was filled with a contentment that I never thought possible. For some reason the fear, the pain that I had gone through, was what I had come to enjoy. It was in these moments, in the immediate aftermath that I took most of my gratification. I felt more alive than ever before.
I relaxed significantly when I saw the front door of Jules’ house, even more so when I saw that there was a light on in the front room. I resisted the urge to put my head in my hands there and then and to break down into tears.
I knew in that moment that I needed to stop, at least for a little while, and that vague light that was on somewhere in the house was the only sign that I needed to confirm that I was going to get that.
Ecstasy began to surge through my muscles as I leapt towards the door, a beaming smile hard to conceal.
As normal, I went to push the door open, expecting it to be unlocked as it had been hundreds of time before. But instead, I was met with resistance. The door was still locked.
I presumed that Jules and the others were merely being extra vigilant and, as I wearily flung the door knocker about two or three times, I felt as though I would be crawling through the door on my hands and knees. I withstood the temptation, and instead stood up tall and proud, to make sure that no one could perceive me as weak when they answered the door.
I heard the locks behind the door slide and clunk into place, before it was slowly opened with nothing more than a soft squeak.
But the face that answered the door was not Jules’, nor was it Mikes’. At first, I thought that I did not recognise it at all, but after a second or two, I realised who it was. The initial thought that went through my mind was one of hopefulness; I hoped that he hadn’t noticed the moment that I had recalled his face.
It was pointed, vermin-like and the chin was all but non-existent. His mouth was small and looked as though he wouldn’t have even been able to get a pea into it without being inconvenienced. His eyes were dark and soulless, and the moles that ran down one side of his face were curiously in line with his brows, his nostrils and his lips.
It was a face that I had seen before, and one that I had repulsed the first time around.
It was Murky. SS Obersturmbannführer Franz Mökhen.
He looked odd dressed in his civvies, quite as if he had been a man that had spent so many years in uniform that he had forgotten how to hold himself the second that he stepped back out into the normal man’s world. His lips curled and unfurled at the rate of four times a minute.
There was a moment shared between us of perhaps ten to fifteen seconds as we both quietly hid our looks of surprise. The German officer was shorter than me, quite considerably, to the point where his pistol, raised at his own midriff height, had a better chance of hitting me in the crown jewels than anywhere else.
“Monsieur Hameur?”
“Non,” I answered truthfully. “Pelletier.”
“Inside please, Monsieur…Pelletier,” he growled, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
I knew that the game that I had played so well for so long was almost up. I had little choice but to do as he had said.
As I stepped inside, the pistol following my every move, I gave myself an internal dressing down at having been such an incompetent fool. The locked door should have served as every indicator that I had needed to have run as far away from Jules’ home as I dared, but I had been too exhausted, too arrogant to have done so. I wondered how many others had made it to the door, only for them to turn around and walk away.
“Would you mind,” I asked politely and submissively, “putting that thing away? It’s terribly dangerous to wave those things about, you know.”
I tried to play the obliging and innocent civilian, one who had merely popped round to see his friend and instead was being held at gunpoint.
He glared at me, his eyes widening as he produced a card, which I duly took.
“Ah, I do apologise, Obersturmbannführer. What can I do for you?”
I already knew that I was faced with an SS officer but seeing his identity card seemed to make my stomach sink further than it already had been. Nevertheless, I tried to buoy myself with the knowledge that he could have already buried a load of rounds through my heart.
While I was still breathing, I should remain upbeat.
“Monsieur Hameur was arrested last night. He was caught just outside the town with weapons on his possession. Would you happen to know anything about that?”
“No, not at all, I am afraid. I was just passing and thought I would see my old friend. I had heard his wife had died and—”
“Alright. Alright,” Murky said, waving his arms around and lowering the pistol, motioning me to enter the living room.
I did so, with a cursory glance up the staircase, half expecting to see the petrified little eyes of Georges looking down towards me. I hoped to the heavens that the little boy had more sense than me and had managed to escape this house with his freedom intact.
I could hear no noise from upstairs. I had to take it as a good sign.
Murky continued to talk to me, as if he had been quite taken in by the story that I was just a passing friend. He asked me questions about how long I had known Jules, how we had met and all the other kind of questions an investigating officer would ask, if someone had just turned up on the doorstep of a criminal.
I passed all the tests and, in a moment of silence where he was thinking of his next question, I decided to take a little more of a handle on the situation and grip it tighter.
I got up from my chair, pointing towards the glasses and bottles that ran along the top shelf of Jules’ cabinet.
“Mind if I have a drink? I’m parched.”
“No. Go ahead.”
“Would you like one? It is not every day that someone like me gets to share a drink with an SS officer,” I projected with a playful chuckle.
“No. Not for me thank you. I hope you understand but owing to the situation, and the timings, I would like for you to accompany me back to my headquarters for an…interview.”
“Of course.”
I felt his eyes shuffle around hastily as I got to the shelf behind him, his body swivelling just to make sure that I wasn’t about to make a run for it. His finger twitched towards his pistol once again.
I made a variety of noises, picking up a glass and pretending to peruse the selection of wines that Jules had stored in the cabinet.
I stared myself in the eyes as they came to rest on one bottle in particular. My eyes were heavy and, even in the darkness of the bottle, I could tell how bloodshot they were.
This is your last chance. One final throw of the dice.
Anything you do would be better than being taken in for interrogation.
I thought I made out the swish of fabric as he turned back to face his front, as the scratching nib of his pencil on paper continued to waggle away as he made more notes.
Now was my chance.
I spun, as hard as my aching legs would allow, the bruises threatening to burst and spray blood all over the floor.
I gripped the neck of the bottle so hard that I thought it would smash, as I pulled it high above my head, allowing the fury and rage to course through my veins.
The bottle connected with the back of the German’s head spectacularly, the bottle shattering, its red liquid disseminating wonderfully all over the place.
Murky tumbled forward, falling from his chair and onto his knees, stunned at what had happened. But I had messed up.
The force with which I had brought the bottle down on his head was not enough to kill him, it was not even enough to knock the fellow out.
Within moments, he was already scrabbling to his feet and pointing his pistol towards me.
I lunged at him, the jagged neck of the bottle still in my grip and the only thing that I had that resembled any sort of a threat to the German. I watched as his pistol erupted and kicked back six, maybe seven times as I threw myself over the chair towards him.
The gunshots shocked
my body, causing me to lose grip on the bottle neck, and I could have almost given up as I heard it tinker to the ground and roll under a chair.
I wondered for a fleeting moment who had taught him to shoot, as every single round missed me by a mile, despite the fact that it would have been harder than to hit me. The sound of glass shattering as more wine bottles were pierced and hunks of plaster were ripped from the walls began to shout all around me, until Murky’s weapon jammed, just at the right moment.
He looked down at his weapon, before looking back up to me. That brief glance was all I needed, flying at him shoulder first and bundling him to the ground.
He began to strike me over and over again with the grip of his pistol, as if the headache that I was already battling was not bad enough. But the pain was secondary, the only thing that I could focus on was getting out of the clutches of the German.
He rolled on top of me, striking me so fiercely that I felt my jaw crack and a few teeth become dislodged. I spat them back at him into his face, the blood-infused spittle clinging to his face as he started growling at me.
Suddenly, his weight lifted, as he pulled me up by my neck, the back of my head burying into his snarling mouth as he forcefully applied the pressure.
I lost all control of my body as I fought for breath, my natural reaction of pulling his forearm away from my throat doing nothing to help me to survive. My legs bucked and kicked, but not in the way that I had told them to, as the stars began to burst in my eyes and the room suddenly darkened terrifically.
He knew he was winning, and he began to laugh a manic howl as he smelt the stench of urine as I completely lost control of my bowels. It wasn’t fear that had made me do it, just a complete focus on doing one thing to the neglect of everything else; breathing.
The more that Murky began to laugh, the more I could feel the sun setting on my life. I knew that I had one last chance to make it out of this situation alive.
Thankfully, my mind still functioned as it always had done, and I could think back to Arisaig. I was able to think back to my training.
I closed my eyes, saving the one final sense that seemed to be working and reinvesting my energy elsewhere. Instead of the natural urge to get the pressure off my throat, I allowed him to continue, keeping my head as still as possible to let him think that he was winning.
I stretched my arms out below my waist, flattening my palm to make the antithesis of a fist and tensing every bone in my hand ready for impact.
Without giving it much more thought, more because I was running critically low on time than any other factor, I began to work through the one thing that I had learned that I wished I would never have to implement.
I lurched to one side, without much effect other than a tightening around my neck, but it didn’t matter all that much now anyway. I was dead regardless, and a tighter grip meant that I could expect death quicker.
But my movement had displaced the German and had opened up his stomach just an inch or two, and that was all that I now needed.
Spinning with all my might, I thrust the heel of my hand into his stomach hard, just under where I imagined his ribs to be, and pushed upwards, as hard as I possibly could. The aim was to apply such a force to his internal organs that he would be in such an excruciating pain that he would simply have to release his grip.
It was dirty fighting, but the Germans had become the masters of it.
There was a satisfying sucking noise as the German tried desperately to provide his battered organs with as much oxygen as possible to make sure that he stayed alive. Unfortunately, he was able to maintain his consciousness.
However, he staggered backwards, clattering into the cabinet and knocking a host of glasses and plates all over the floor with a great noise.
His eyes had rolled into the back of his head and he clutched earnestly at his stomach, clearly in a great pain. He was completely bewildered.
I thought for a moment about finishing him off there and then, but realised that his weapon was jammed, and I could spend longer looking for a weapon of my own than I could really care for.
I was in a bad way too and needed to get out of the situation as soon as possible.
We both gasped for the shared oxygen around us, both bodies demanding for it in order to stay alive.
“Sortez. Sortez…” he gasped hopelessly, as he caught sight of me staggering around and wondering what to do with him.
I decided that I did not need to be prompted again. I stumbled to the back door, my feet crunching on broken glass and china, Jules’ living room a complete state, but I doubted that he would be spending too much time in there in the coming days.
I made it to the back door where, by leaping over a fence in the garden, I could traverse across the fields and find the river that would lead me to the next village.
Coughing and spluttering, I staggered across the field, ever conscious that a certain German may have suddenly been able to clear his pistol.
34
The mud had been churned to a sticky mess by the deluge that had started to pour down upon me, making it near enough impossible for my tired and weary legs to lift the extra foot or so to get proper clearance as I staggered.
My squelching footsteps were unprogressively slow and on more than one occasion I nearly sacrificed my boots to the sucking mud that seemed intent on slowing me down even further. Every ounce of energy that I possessed went into making sure that I continued to move, but I knew that if anyone had been able to give chase, it would take them a matter of seconds until they were drawing up close to me.
It was hard work, but something inside was driving me on.
I wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but I kept my head up as much as I could and, before too long and through the slight haze that the pouring rain was creating, I could just about make out the ripples landing spectacularly on the otherwise slow-moving river. Just beyond that, on the other side of the bank, would be the vague outlines of buildings.
I knew that if I was able to get there, a feat in itself, then someone would be able to take me in, hide me and take care of me until I could muster up the energy to move on elsewhere.
My confidence, however, was sapped, as well as my energy, and the thought of simply giving up was one that I was constantly battling against.
I had no idea how any of the others had fared, or where they even were. If I was to make it to the next village, there was no guarantee that my contact would be able to help me to the extent that I needed. We had no wireless set, no way of communicating with London to let them know that I was alive, and one of the most senior SS officers in the area had been able to get a good long look at my face.
My prospects of a safe return home after the war had dwindled drastically.
I focused my attention on simply making sure that one foot plunged into the sopping mud after the other, which somehow had the effect of keeping my mind somewhat buoyant considering my situation. It was when I tried to think ahead, to guess at what might come next, that the clouds above me seemed to darken and poured even more rainwater on the excruciating pain inside my head.
Despite the prospect of clean clothes and a nice warm bed, I was aware that my pace was slowing, to the point where even a snail would more than likely beat me to the river. I grunted and grimaced as the aches and pains of my muscles really began to get the better of me, and I slowly realised that exhaustion could be the end of me.
I tried to shout, in the hope that an angler or farmer would hear and take pity on me, but nothing more than a dry-throated rasp would come from my mouth. I suddenly wished that instead of thrashing the bottle over the German’s head that I had simply taken a sip of the delicious liquid within.
The rain began to attack me horizontally, its cold and bitter manner seeping through the fibres of my clothes rapidly. To determine whether it was making its way through to my skin, I lifted my shirt gently and dabbed at my stomach.
It was getting through. I needed to get to my contact, other
wise, I could die from the elements now.
But, as I withdrew my palm from under my shirt, I realised that it wasn’t just the elements that could kill me. It was the bleeding that had been dripping from somewhere for the entire time that I had been staggering through the field.
As I further inspected the source of the blood, desperately hoping that it was the wine that had somehow splashed over me, I realised that the German officer hadn’t been such a bad shot after all.
He had missed on at least three attempts from what I could make out. But at least two rounds had found their intended target; me.
My head suddenly began to loll from one side to the other as I berated myself for not noticing the wound sooner.
My hands flapped around urgently, as I stripped myself of my clothes to find my wounds.
From what I could see, which wasn’t much on account of the volume of blood, was that I had one wound in my left hip, the other in the fleshy part of my side. It was a quick and easy explanation as to why I was finding it so difficult to traverse across the field.
It was only as I registered my wounds that the pain truly set in. I felt the colour drain from my face, my cheeks chilling, as did the tips of my fingers and toes. I felt like a ghost as I continued to move as much as I could, in order to prove to myself that I was still alive more than anything else.
But the pain was tremendous, and I fell down into the mud with a splash, simply allowing the pain to get the better of me. I let it fester for a moment or two, my body adjusting to the new kind of pain, before pulling myself along in the field, my left leg not working in perfect unison with my right any longer, managing only a few paces before I repeated the entire process again.
It was this process that I continued to repeat, over and over again, until I could smell that I was at the water’s edge.
I closed my eyes, the pain subsiding ever so slightly, as I grew more and more content with the eternal sound of the gushing water, just inches away from my head.
