Dogfight

by Craig Simpson

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He’s safe,’ I replied.

  ‘Good. But where is he? I have to know.’

  A voice inside me was telling me to be careful.

  ‘Quickly, boy. People will be arriving for morning service any minute now. And I have to take care of other business first,’ he said, gesturing to the family, who were still staring at me.

  The suitcases! ‘You’re helping them get to the border, aren’t you? To Sweden,’ I said.

  He grew impatient and tutted. ‘None of your business. You never saw them. As far as you’re concerned they were never here. Right? Now, where is Bald Eagle?’

  I spotted something move in the shadows. Or were my eyes being deceived? Was it just the trickery of flickering candles? One thing I was sure of, however, was that I had arrived at the church at a most inconvenient time. And something didn’t seem quite right. I felt sure someone else was there. My mind spun. What to do? What to say? If only I hadn’t been so dog-tired, I would’ve had my wits about me. I opened my mouth and was about to tell him everything when I realized there was a problem. A huge problem. Members of the Resistance were always referred to by their code names. And these frequently changed. I didn’t know what Heimar’s was. He had forgotten to tell me his blasted code name! So how could I tell Father Amundsen that Bald Eagle was at Heimar’s house. To use Heimar’s real name was out of the question. It would put him in far too much danger. Panic surged inside me. Father Amundsen sensed it. He stepped back, suddenly appearing uncertain as to my motives.

  ‘He’s the other side of the fjord,’ I said quickly. Still muddled, I blurted on. ‘Bald Eagle’s at Idur Svalbad’s place.’ The idea had flashed into my head from nowhere, but it was the perfect answer. A doctor would be sent to Idur’s, and would soon find his way to Heimar’s place, as Idur would know what was happening after Freya’s night-time visit to borrow his training sled. But should the mission be compromised, only Idur’s name had been mentioned. Heimar and Freya would be safe. ‘You know him?’ I asked.

  ‘Of him,’ he replied. ‘I’ll deal with it. You be off now.’

  I turned to go.

  ‘Wait!’ he said. ‘Is there a message for the Penguin or the Telescope?’

  ‘The what?’

  He looked disappointed. ‘Never mind. I’ll inform them.’

  ‘Inform who?’ I asked.

  ‘Forget I said anything.’

  I took one last look at the four people sitting patiently in the pew. ‘Good luck,’ I said, offering them a smile.

  Keen to be rid of me, Father Amundsen guided me towards the door of the church. ‘They’ll need more than just luck, boy,’ he whispered. ‘Pray for them. Pray hard that they have a safe journey.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I will.’

  I grabbed my bike and hurried off. In the short while I’d been in the church, the city had come alive. Troops outnumbered us local folk. Groups of soldiers, with rifles slung over their shoulders and cigarettes dangling from their lips, scuffed along lazily towards the large square opposite the cathedral. It had become a ritual. Every Sunday morning they’d assemble, then parade through the streets under the watchful eyes of their superiors. Fritz loved to march, to stomp, to stamp his boots, to tread all over us. It was a frightening sight, and a reminder of what we were up against – overwhelming force. It struck me as odd, though, that even more troops than usual were up bright and early.

  I headed in the opposite direction, but almost immediately ground to a halt. I heard the sound of marching, or rather shuffling. Then round a corner came a column of men. But they weren’t German soldiers. They were men dressed in ragged uniforms, stained with blood, sweat and tears, and with oil and grease. Many wore bandages about their heads and limbs. They walked slowly, four abreast. Some struggled on crutches; others had their arms draped round the shoulders of friends for support. There must have been nearly two hundred of them. It was a truly wretched, pitiful sight. They were guided by German soldiers flanking the column, their rifle butts offering jabs of encouragement. I was frozen to the spot. I just gazed as they shuffled slowly past. The sight of bloody wounds and burned skin sickened me. A strange smell filled the air. I guessed it was the smell of death.

  Intent on making my escape, I turned my bike round. My heart sank further. Strolling towards me was Dieter Braun and one of his fellow airmen. It was the last thing I needed. He spotted me and called out. ‘Finn! What are you doing in town?’ His Norwegian was coming along well, all thanks to Anna.

  There was no escape. I was trapped. I swallowed hard and put on my most innocent face. I tried to smile but didn’t really manage to conceal my anxiety. ‘Just out for a ride,’ I replied.

  ‘Thought you might have come to watch the parade,’ he said.

  ‘No.’ My face was blank. ‘You call this a parade?’ I asked, gesturing to the group of men.

  Dieter changed the subject. ‘Here, you’ve not met Hans Tauber, have you?’ He turned to his friend and introduced me. ‘This is Anna’s brother.’

  Hans smiled and held out a hand for me to shake. I did so limply and without enthusiasm.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, not wanting to let them off so lightly.

  Dieter stared grimly at the procession. ‘Captured sailors,’ he admitted. ‘From what’s left of their uniforms I’d say a mix of merchant seamen and British Royal Navy. They arrived during the night on one of our support vessels. Our U-boats intercepted an Allied convoy and sank five ships. They’re all that’s left. Over six hundred men killed or drowned, apparently.’

  ‘My God,’ I said.

  ‘Still, they’re the lucky ones,’ said Hans. ‘Their war is over.’

  ‘Where are they going?’ I asked.

  ‘To the station, and then by train to camps.’

  We stood and watched them a while.

  ‘So are you a pilot too?’ I asked Hans.

  ‘Navigator,’ he replied. His Norwegian wasn’t bad either. I supposed he probably had a local girlfriend too.

  ‘Finn here knows a lot about aircraft. His father used to fly,’ said Dieter.

  ‘Ah!’ said Hans. ‘Then he’s one of us. What sort of plane?’

  ‘A Junkers fifty-two,’ I said, wanting to add that no way was I one of them, although what he probably meant was that aviators were a breed apart. Father always thought so too. He said that men who flew possessed a pioneering spirit, and that it bound them together into a sort of unofficial club.

  Hans looked impressed. ‘Ever been up?’ He pointed to the sky, I guess in case I’d not understood him.

  ‘Yes. Lots of times.’

  ‘So you’re an old hand then.’

  I nodded. In truth I was rather fearful. Questions had to be handled very carefully. I knew that Anna had talked to Dieter about Father, because she’d discussed it with Mother and me beforehand. She persuaded us that it was easier to be convincing telling the enemy half-truths than telling downright lies. So, together, we concocted a story that we’d all stick to. Yes, Father flew. Yes, he’d flown to England a year ago, about six months before Germany invaded. And, yes, he was dead. Crashed his plane. That’s what Dieter had been told. That’s the story we had to tell the world.

  Hans and Dieter exchanged glances.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hans thoughtfully, ‘you would like to come and see our seaplane sometime.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I replied, equally thoughtfully. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go. Chores to do at home. Chopping firewood. That sort of thing.’ I was conscious that every minute I spent in conversation with the enemy, the more likely it was that good Norwegians would spot me. That would only entrench their belief that I was all nice and cosy with Fritz; that I was keen to fraternize.

  ‘Give my regards to Anna,’ said Dieter.

  ‘Of course.’ I put my foot back on the pedal. ‘By the way, thanks for giving Anna those apples. Mother will really appreciate them.’

  I set off, following behind the slowly moving column of prisoners.
I’d gone barely twenty yards when I spotted something happening in front of me. The orderly column of men suddenly grew ragged and there was shouting and scuffling. Then, from amid the mayhem, a tall boy emerged, running blindly at full tilt, his arms pumping, his stride as long as a professional sprinter’s. It was Ned, and he looked scared to death.

  He ran straight towards me, his eyes wild, as if he was running for his life. In his hand he clutched a small satchel. I stopped. I think he suddenly recognized me because a grin broke out on his face. It all happened so fast. As he flashed past me, he thrust the satchel into my hands. Instinctively I seized it. He did not stop.

  ‘Thanks, Finn. I’d get a move on if I were you,’ he yelled. I turned and watched as he dipped into a side street and disappeared. I looked down at the satchel. What on earth was going on? Then I looked up and saw soldiers charging through the broken column of prisoners, their rifles and machine guns clutched ready for action. They were heading straight towards me, just like Ned had moments before.

  I swung my bike round and put my foot on the pedal. Too late. Dragging me roughly from my bike, the soldiers snatched the satchel from my grasp and threw me up against a wall. I banged my head and briefly saw a billion sparkling stars in front of me before a rifle barrel was jammed hard into the small of my back. They forced me to spread out my arms and then kicked my legs apart. I cried out. ‘Stop! What’s going on? I’ve done nothing.’

  They began searching me. A soldier unfastened the straps of the satchel and peered inside. Then he slipped a hand in and withdrew a wad of papers – I realized immediately what they were and the shock stole what little breath I had left. They were underground newsletters. I was in big trouble. Big, big trouble.

  Grabbing my shoulder, they spun me round and pushed me hard up against the wall. Their grim, angry faces peered into mine. They fired questions at me, shouting in German, far too quickly for me to understand. I couldn’t breathe. I panicked. I struggled. I struck out. I kicked. A rifle butt slammed into my belly, forcing the air from my lungs. I crumpled to my knees in agony. I could sense passers-by stopping to stare. They were Norwegians, my people, but they did nothing. They didn’t want to get involved. The pain in my guts wouldn’t go away. I thought I was going to throw up. Hands grabbed my shoulders and hauled me to my feet, but my legs had turned to jelly.

  Dieter and Hans had seen everything from a distance and quickly arrived on the scene. They tried to calm the situation. Dieter, as an Oberleutnant, outranked the soldiers, but I quickly got the feeling that no love was lost between the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe. He argued heatedly and at length with a short, tubby soldier, who I took to be in charge of the mob intent on ruining my life. I didn’t catch everything they said, but I got the drift. I’d been caught with illegal material. I was under arrest.

  ‘It’s a set-up!’ I shouted. ‘It was Ned Gri—’ Before I could finish, a soldier’s fist landed on my jaw. I felt light-headed, woozy. A sharp, metallic taste filled my mouth. I spat out blood.

  Dieter pushed the soldiers aside. ‘Listen, Finn, this is serious. They won’t listen to reason. You’ll have to go with them.’

  I slowly came to my senses. ‘Where?’

  ‘To the fortress, the SS and Gestapo Headquarters.’

  ‘No! It wasn’t me, Dieter. Honest. That satchel isn’t mine.’

  ‘I know, I saw it happen. Listen to me, Finn. Don’t put up a fight. It’ll only make matters worse. I’ll let your mother know where you are. And I’ll put in a good word. Sit tight and I’m sure we’ll get everything sorted in a few days.’

  ‘Days!?’

  ‘You have to trust me on this. Try not to worry. Is there any special message I can give to your mother?’

  ‘No … Yes! Tell her that the dog in the woodshed is mine, and that his name is Oslo. Oh, and there’s food for him in my rucksack.’

  He gave me a truly puzzled look.

  ‘Tell her I’ll explain everything later.’

  A black Mercedes drew up at the kerbside. Bundled into the back of the car, I ended up squeezed between two soldiers. They stank of sweat, stale beer and damp leather. They said nothing, although one filled the car with choking cigarette smoke. As we climbed the hill, the narrow roads proved scary. The young man at the wheel looked barely older than me. His driving was erratic and we swerved violently at every sharp bend. He was going way too fast. I didn’t dare look out of the window. The drop to my left was steep and there was nothing at the side of the road to prevent us from careering over the edge. I protested my innocence, but it fell on deaf ears.

  Ned! I thought. What have you done? This time he’d gone way too far. How was I ever going to explain this one? I recalled Ned’s parting words by the shore of the fjord: You’re a dead man, Finn, he’d said. Now I believed him.

  The bumpy, bone-rattling fifteen-minute drive delivered me to the entrance of the bleak Kristiansten Fortress. The main building, positioned on top of the hill, was basically a rectangular stone house under a sloping tiled roof. Several rows of small, deeply set windows indicated just how thick and impenetrable the walls were. Surrounding it stood a tall, stone-clad earth embankment with several entrances passing through it. We stopped outside the main one, and the driver got out. While he spoke to the guards, my eyes were drawn through the windscreen. The two huge wooden gates were armoured with plates of iron. Each bore the dents of past wars. The fortress had been built in the late seventeenth century, after the great city fire. It played an important role in repelling the invasion by our neighbours, the Swedes. It looked and had proved indestructible. My heart sank. If nothing could breach its defences, it was highly likely that nothing, or no one, could escape either. And now our enemy had taken possession of it. Our flag no longer flew there.

  The driver returned, the gates swung open and we sped through. We screeched to a halt again outside the main entrance. I was ordered out of the car and dragged inside. There I was told to stand silently in front of a large wooden desk, behind which sat an elderly soldier with heavy glasses. I couldn’t stop my knees from trembling. I desperately wanted to appear strong, defiant, courageous even, but it was hard. The man behind the desk looked up, shook his head and clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. He seized a very official-looking form and began filling it in. I surrendered my identity card and he wrote down my name and address, then asked for the names of my family. Either side of me stood soldiers, one gripping my arm tightly in case I suddenly had the urge to make a dash for it. Recounting the charges, one of the soldiers then gave a brief summary of my capture. Apparently I’d resisted arrest too, and assaulted a soldier.

  ‘What about me?’ I complained. ‘What about the rifle butt in my belly? What about banging me up against that wall? I’ve got the cuts and bruises to prove it.’ The SS and Gestapo weren’t interested in what I had to say. Instead, I received a sharp cuff across the back of my head. I knew it was time to shut up. The satchel and its contents were produced as evidence. Having written everything down, the elderly man picked up an official stamp and hammered it down onto each piece of paper in turn. He then flicked his head to one side, as if he suffered from a nervous tic. A signal. He was all done. Now I could be roughly dragged to my prison cell.

  A door to my right suddenly burst open and I heard laughter. Two men emerged. One was Colonel Heinrich Hauptmann. His gaze met mine and he frowned. He asked the man at the desk what was happening, and the story of my arrest was recounted to him in German. His eyes narrowed. He walked up to me and shoved his face into mine. ‘Kennen wir uns nicht von irgendwoher?’ he barked.

  I looked blankly at him, pretending I didn’t understand. But I did. He was asking if we’d met before.

  ‘Hmm.’ He rubbed his chin. He was trying to place my face. He switched to poor Norwegian. ‘I’m sure our paths have crossed before.’

  I shrugged and tried to appear bemused. I prayed he wouldn’t remember me from outside Albert’s café, when the rotten eggs had splattered acros
s his chest. At least he thought Ned was responsible for that. I found myself peering at his gleaming medals and buttons, and searching for stains on his tunic.

  He held me in his stare a moment and then grunted. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken,’ he snorted, straightening up. ‘OK. Take him away.’

  Shoved down curved stone steps and along dimly lit corridors with semicircular, arched brick ceilings, I was manhandled into a small cell, about ten-feet square, windowless, and furnished with a narrow wooden bunk, a blanket and a bucket. A single naked bulb dangling from the curved ceiling provided the only light. The steel door slammed shut. I was suddenly alone. Slumping down on my bunk, I tried to take it all in. Less than half an hour ago I’d been minding my own business, cycling home to feed Oslo and to introduce him to the rest of the family. I couldn’t quite believe it.

  At any minute I supposed one of two things would happen, both of which would begin with the door of my cell crashing open. Either I’d be taken for questioning, or I’d be marched upstairs and into the waiting arms of a tearful mother and sister. But neither occurred. No one came for me. Now and again I heard footsteps outside, but they didn’t stop at my cell.

  As the hours passed, I went over all that had happened again and again, getting more and more confused. Ned had been in possession of underground newspapers. Ned was being chased by the Germans. But Ned was a fascist. Wasn’t he? It didn’t add up. Unless … What if Ned wasn’t like his stepfather? What if Ned hated the Germans as much as I did? What if he decided to do his bit and help distribute the newsletters? Of course. It all clicked into place. That was why he was always picking on me: he thought Mother and Anna were collaborators and assumed I was too. ‘Hah!’ I shouted aloud. We’d been at each other’s throats all this time, not realizing that we were on the same side. My brain was buzzing.

  At six o’clock a metal flap near the bottom of the door opened, and a metal tray was slid through. There was a bowl of cold, thin potato soup, a small chunk of stale bread and a mug of brackish-tasting water. An hour later, the empty mug and bowl were removed.