by Pirate Irwin
Johns returned to the camp the next evening after enjoying the fruits of his secretary’s sexual graces and revelling in the success of his plan he had been at his most relaxed and demanding with her, whipping Astrid, as she was called and not Ingrid, into a frenzy of excitement and not a little bewilderment that a man of some 60 years of age could sustain such a pace and variety of lovemaking. His only regret was that he would have to leave her behind when he was moved on and he would surely have to return home to his tedious wife of 30 years’ standing and her ratlike dachshunds which had filled the void of a childless and rapidly loveless marriage. Still, he wiped those regrets away and prepared himself for the second layer of the plan: to eradicate the cell of escapees at the camp, which should prove less difficult than dealing with Sebastian. He had struck a far harder deal than he had envisaged, though he had not counted on his fealty to the von Preetzs nor the closeness of their relationship; he would far rather have had him shipped off to the brainless group that masqueraded under the name of the British Free Corps. Corps was a bit of a joke as Johns well knew, having played a part in their assembly, as they didn’t number more than a 100 and were made up of petty criminals, ne’er-do-wells and fanatics, whose military reliability could be cast at less than 10 per cent effectiveness and as a propaganda tool had fallen well below what Goebbels and his inferiors had desired. They were in stark contrast to the French, Dutch and Scandinavian volunteers, who were professional, brave and more than the equal of Germany’s ally Romania’s pitiful army. Still, the successful capture of Sebastian would do him good back in Berlin, even if he was to be known under a different name and fight in the real Wehrmacht, and that was of great import to him after the slights he had experienced under the Imperial Army where his information had always been top rate. However, because he was not of good solid Prussian stock it had always been rubbished by his stupid superior; at least the Nazis recognized talent when they saw it, he preened contentedly to himself.
The morning after his return he went to the all too familiar hut to see Grosvenor, Reilly and Oates to explain why he was on his own, where Sebastian was and to hand over the information they had gleaned from their expedition. Grosvenor looked increasingly harassed every time he saw him, which pleased him and made him believe that he was ready to act whatever the implications of the intelligence he had accrued and therefore fall neatly into the honey trap.
“So, Stuart did a bunk. Well, as I said, there was always the risk he would do so. Just hope he takes account of his actions later on,” moaned Grosvenor.
“Quite. Though I doubt he will even pause for thought at leaving you in the lurch,” Johns said.
‘No, I suppose not. I guess it was too attractive an option not to take it. But I don’t understand why you came back, Johns, and didn’t go with him?” Grosvenor asked.
“I find your company more attractive and to have thought I would have to spend several weeks’ optimum travelling with Stuart and his arrogant manner was enough to persuade me I would rather go out with you. Besides, he did carry out part of the deal by relaying to me exactly the time of the train we should take and which carries less risk of being searched repeatedly,” preferred Johns smoothly.
“Ah, so there was some decency in the man. Let’s have it then,” demanded Grosvenor, and from that moment Johns realized that part two was a success and the epilogue for a traditional happy ending would be the news that Sebastian had come to a nasty end out in the wastelands of the eastern front.
Johns had organized with Dietrich and most importantly the brutish and over zealous Maier that the escape should be allowed to proceed and he would take care of matters once the group reached Cottbus. Dietrich demanded that Johns sign a paper indicating as much, for he wasn’t willing to take the blame for failure to round them all up while Maier’s bloodlust was assuaged by the thought that several of them would be shot while trying to escape from their supposed sanctuary once they arrived in Cottbus. Indeed, Johns had assured him that he would be allowed to take part and further stoked the far from intelligent sergeant’s hatred by revealing he had discovered Grosvenor, Reilly and Oates had been responsible for the murder of Liebenberg, whom had been held low in regard by Maier but nevertheless he was a fellow German and his spilt blood would be avenged.
Three weeks later they were ready to go, though a reduced group of 10, as Johns had also implored Grosvenor to downsize the number, as a score would be far easier to sweep up. Grosvenor had readily agreed as he did with most things. Johns was put forward, and aside from him, the Colonel and his two lieutenants, the other 16 putative escapees had to draw lots to see which six were to accompany them with the promise that, should some in their number fall sick or worse, the fugitives were to be recaptured, and that the ones left behind would have priority the next time. Johns was easily the oldest, while the remainder were a mix of majors and had an average age of 29. Everything went smoothly and it was with some mounting anxiety that Johns guided them through the streets of Cottbus towards the station after they had taken a good three days to get to the town, with the old colonel worrying from time to time they would come across a patrol that wasn’t aware of the plan or indeed of his part in it. They had 90 minutes to wait until the 2200 train from Berlin en route to Munich arrived, so Johns advised they split up into groups of two and he took Grosvenor as his drinking companion, though habits being as they were Reilly and Oates were never far away while Johns ensured he kept the remaining six in his vision.
Fortunately Grosvenor succumbed to the pressure of the occasion and remained largely silent while Johns pretended to read the newspaper, the Volkischer Beobachter, which was just a badly written propaganda rag for the Nazis but was still fondly read by the earliest party members as it had been the first such publication to promote it and its values.
“Do you think we’ll make it, Colonel?” asked Grosvenor earnestly.
Johns settled the paper on his lap and observed that Grosvenor’s manner was beginning to betray itself as he chain-smoked, lighting one off the other, while twiddling his hair or stroking the felt of his homburg hat.
“You won’t, if you keep smoking like that. You’ll choke before you even get on the train, though if you do make it onto the train the guards won’t be able to tell whether we are white or black, such will be the fog in the carriage!” the Colonel smiled reassuringly at Grosvenor.
“I don’t know whether this is more nervewracking than the fighting in that last desperate rearguard action. At least then you still felt there was an outside chance, like some desperate punter betting on the outsider in the last at Brighton, of getting out and while you still had bullets in your gun it only reinforced that feeling. But this is so different when you are trying to get out of enemy territory, no gun, no possibility of communicating with your fellow soldiers for fear of being discovered and while we are 10 strong, I have never felt quite so alone,” he declared mournfully.
Johns empathized with the way he was feeling, but he shoved aside any feeling of sentiment as he noticed the clock was ticking away and there remained 10 minutes to the train arriving, which meant he had to start setting the final act into motion. He excused himself and wandered off ostensibly to relieve himself, but ducked to the left of the lavatories and entered the guard’s office where Sturmer, Wenzel and several uniformed policemen were awaiting him, along with Maier, who was positively licking his lips with anticipation of the slaughter about to take place. Johns confirmed the order of events but added they were only to be shot if they showed active resistance and tried to run. He then ordered them to proceed to the platform, which had been changed and in fact held a train that was going nowhere but would look as if it was the train they were to take, which meant risking Astrid. To make it look more normal there would have to be a couple on the carriage in question and her feminine charms should even be enough to calm Grosvenor’s fraying nerves. Satisfied everything was in place, he returned to Grosvenor, slapped him on the back and indicated it was time to go.
Their movements towards the platform gave the signal to the others to move and as usual Reilly and the one-eyed Oates took up position behind Grosvenor. Johns stood aside to let Grosvenor climb aboard first, declaring with a conspiratorial wink “beauty before age!” and performed the same service for the remaining eight. Once they were aboard, he observed Astrid tear herself away from her companion, Sturmer. He winced at the thought of that thug’s sweaty jowly cheeks even touching her soft skin, but she smiled enchantedly at Grosvenor, who had taken his place on the wooden bench alongside her leaving a space for Johns. He had primed her for what she had to say and like a good parrot of a secretary used to taking dictation she played the part perfectly.
“Cottbus is a beautiful town, no?” she asked sweetly and brushed his knee softly with her gloved hand.
Grosvenor nodded back and smiled, hoping the conversation wouldn’t develop, as his German was basic and wouldn’t stand up to strong examination. He didn’t like the look of her male companion, who looked the type prepared to battle out duels over his wife, girlfriend or mistress with his fists rather than rational discussion. Grosvenor glanced at his watch and noticed the train was late in leaving and just wished for the whistle to go, just as he used to when he was leading the rugby team back at school and they were winning by two points with the opposition near their line and threatening to score and you were imploring the referee to signal time up. However, there was no clanging of doors and no indication the train was ready to depart. Johns had by this stage taken his seat beside him and was once again perusing the paper while the pretty girl opposite him refused to let up in trying to get him to chat.
“Are you travelling the whole way to Munich, sir?”
“Yes,” drawled Grosvenor.
“You will like that even more than here. The beer, the weather is better and the mountains not so far away and the women, well they are like me, warm and hospitable, or so that’s what Herr Stuart told me,” she purred.
“Stuart told you!” Grosvenor blurted out and realized to his horror that they were not going anywhere. He looked desperately out of the window to see if there was any way of getting out and looked beseechingly at Johns for an answer to their predicament. However, it was way too late as Sturmer leant across and laid out Johns with a punch to the jaw blocking Grosvenor’s route, while the rest of his group, realizing that there was trouble, tried desperately to escape out of the trap but were blocked off by Maier and Wenzel at either end of the carriage. Grosvenor managed to lay one on Sturmer as the latter tried to restrain him but he tumbled over Johns’ prone body and felt the nuzzle of a pistol in the nape of his neck and the previously angelic tones of the woman passenger ordering him to stay still. The others were not so lucky as having tried to beat their way past Wenzel, two of them fell, fatally wounded, hit by bullets to the chest and heart; they managed to finally gain access to the platform but were met by a hail of withering gunfire as Maier jumped from his end of the carriage and let fly with his machine gun, taking down another couple and saving Reilly and Oates for last. Reilly had made it to safety behind a pillar while Oates jumped down and hid under the train but this wasn’t going to deter Maier, who did not want the uniformed police to arrive, as they had been ordered to once the shooting stopped to pick up the corpses or ensure those still alive were kept under guard. Maier circled round behind Reilly before yelling at him to get up. Reilly rose, placed his hands in the air and started mouthing the Hail Mary over and over again as the bullets hit him, first in the legs, then in the arms. One to the throat halted his rendition but to Maier’s pleasure didn’t kill him so the brute walked over to the gurgling blood-spattered Irishman writhing on the ground, stood over him spat in his face and laughed. Reilly spread his arms in a mock crucifixion pose and waited for the coup de grace. Maier dispatched him seconds later but that was to be the last bullet of his war as a horrified uniformed policeman dropped to one knee and let loose with his gun, taking out the sadistic sergeant. Oates struggled to his feet and heaved himself up from below the platform and handed himself over to the police – making the sign of the cross as he passed by Reilly’s corpse – while inside the carriage Grosvenor was hauled to his feet by Sturmer. Johns too was pulled roughly up by Astrid, and escorted out. As a final theatrical flourish, Astrid flounced over to Grosvenor, put her hand down between her legs and wiped his lips with her vaginal juice whispering in his ear: “There that is the last taste of a woman you will have for a very long time, Grosvenor. Just let’s say it is a present from Sebastian,” she laughed mockingly. Grosvenor, outraged at the betrayal of his group and the ensuing massacre, lost it completely and kneed her in the groin leaving her howling in agony on the platform while he was led off with Oates, Johns being taken away in a separate car. They were briefly reunited back at the uniformed police headquarters where the senior officer informed them that they were to be split up and sent to different camps. The officer added chillingly that any further attempt to escape would end in execution, to which Johns snorted contemptuously and received a dig in the ribs from the truncheon of one of the guards. They spent three final hours together in a holding cell as they awaited the arrival of their vehicles to take them to their new camps, though there was little conversation, each one harbouring his own thoughts on how and what had gone wrong while Grosvenor retreated deeper into a depression as he felt responsible for the deaths of the other seven. He could not fathom Sebastian’s role in the whole affair and his arch betrayal of them all when he had got clean away, or had he been after all another plant in the camp, hence his staunch defence of Macready and Liebenberg, and what about Johns, the smart intelligence officer? He was the one, after all, who had returned to give them the duff information and told them Sebastian had done a runner. But then again, the blonde bitch had said Sebastian’s name not once but twice, and that was as much a condemnation as any.
“Damn you, Grosvenor, I told you Stuart was a bad piece of work,” Johns mumbled.
Grosvenor shook his head, raised his hands to his face covering his eyes, leading an alarmed Oates to spring from his kneeling position to put his arm around his friend’s shoulders.
“Let it drop, Johns. Your part in the whole debacle isn’t exactly blemish free!” yelled Oates.
“So how was I to know that Stuart’s information was false? He was determined to do things on his own and not wanting to risk a full scale argument, I agreed,” replied Johns.
“Yeah. Well, it is funny how you failed to pick him as a plant when you had the other two picked out nice and quickly,” retorted Oates as he continued to rub Grosvenor’s back.
Johns sighed in exasperation and leant back against the dank wall, leaving the other two to console each other. They could think what they like and would have plenty of time to mull it over as they spent the rest of their lives in some rotten prison camp while he looked forward to the imminent reunion with Astrid that evening, though he hoped she was still in working order following Grosvenor’s most ungentlemanly intervention.
The tense atmosphere was eventually broken with the clank of the gaoler’s keys and a rough command for Grosvenor to come out, as his transport had arrived, and for the other two to prepare themselves, as it would not be long before their respective cars turned up. Grosvenor shook himself into some sort of order, embraced Oates and wished him good luck and said he hoped to see him at the end of the war, before brushing past Johns without a word. As the gate clanged shut, Johns called to Grosvenor.
“Listen, I am sorry for the mess, but in the end there is only one man who is responsible for the blood spilt and that is not you, or I, but Stuart.”
Grosvenor turned and Johns could see in the dim light of the damp basement, where their cell lay, that this one thought would keep the broken man in front of him alive for no matter how long it took to avenge what had happened.
“We’ll see, Johns. But for God’s sake, leave the intelligence work aside, you’re a busted flush old boy, it’s a young man’s game now. And as for Stua
rt, you can leave him to me, I will get even with him one day that you can be sure about. Turncoats like him usually do the same to the other side and I only hope he ends up in the camp I am being sent to. I’ll make sure his death is every bit as painful as that suffered by Reilly and the others.”
With that, Grosvenor was escorted along the corridor and up the stairs to his car while Johns retreated back into his dark corner, ecstatic at the 100 per cent result of his devious plan and the thought that in the unlikely event of Germany losing the war there would be no way back for Sebastian Stuart, Germanised name or not.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sebastian at that very moment couldn’t have cared less about events taking place thousands of miles away as he led his new patrol through some anonymous wheat field in the Ukraine, with the searing sun beating down on their backs making it increasingly uncomfortable to break into a run if they came under fire, or were told there was a unit of Soviet troops tucked away in a ruined farmhouse a few hundred yards away and they were to attack and take at all costs.
It was the latter target they were now moving towards, 25 men under Lieutenant Rupert Murat, as Sebastian had decided on for his pseudonym somewhat to the consternation of the commanding officer General Hugo von Pressner until he elaborated and explained his two favourite military figures in history were the cavalry commanders Prince Rupert, the impetuous leader of King Charles I’s horsemen in the English Civil War, and Napoleon’s equally flamboyant master of horse Joachim Murat.
“Hmm,” mused von Pressner. “We are not a cavalry regiment, Lieutenant. Furthermore, both of those gentlemen ended up on the losing side, which I find a little alarming in your choice of name. But I like your humour and perhaps this time the name will be synonymous with victory, though I would prefer that unlike Rupert you do not carry a puppy dog onto the field of battle!” laughed the General, who had welcomed Sebastian warmly as he was an old friend of the elder von Preetz and had been delighted that Eric had chosen his regiment when he had joined up. The week Sebastian had spent in Berlin had been a bizarre experience as he returned under vastly different circumstances to those under which he left. He had, he decided, crossed the line in choosing his life instead of a firing squad by joining the enemy and he did not know what the reaction from his friends he had left behind in Germany would be. Indeed, the first reaction he met with was astonishment when he arrived at the von Preetz household accompanied by Sturmer and Wenzel. While they had been told to expect him, they had not really prepared themselves for the Sebastian that alighted from the car, shrugging off the grip of his two guards and ringing the doorbell as if he had never been away and things were what they had been before the war. Same old butler and same old maids greeted him before he was led into the drawing room, holding the same odour of Victoria’s scent, fresh flowers, cigar smoke and polish, which Sebastian found very alluring. While Eric, who was dressed in the uniform of a captain, embraced him fondly as did Henrietta, Victoria was strangely aloof; he had expected a clinging kiss, particularly as he had come over to her side, while the Baron, who had aged considerably since their final meeting in his study when he had pressed the case for English help in a putsch, shook his hand stiffly. He had wanted to apologize for his failure in his mission but thought better of it as Victoria’s loyalties were well known while Eric may also have been unaware of their meeting so he didn’t bring it up. He did pardon himself for having imposed himself on them once again and explained that because of his recent conversion to the cause there would be a guard outside for the week he was there, keeping an eye on him, though his warning was really for the Baron’s benefit just in case he was still involved in intrigue against the regime.
