The Twisted Patriot Page 13

  Sebastian smiled sympathetically at his Marx-reading corporal and got down on his haunches so his badly wounded comrade would not have to expend the effort at standing up himself.

  “Peete, I’m going to find somebody we can surrender to because there is no way we can go on living as we are, and the men, not to mention yourself, require serious medical treatment.”

  Peete glared back at Sebastian in defiance and mustered a supreme effort to grasp his rifle and cock it so that it was ready to fire. Sebastian was surprised at the ferocity of the reaction but tried to dismiss it with a laugh, though it was more of a cackle and pained his lips which were now just two scabrous lines below his nose.

  “Listen, Peete. There is no sense in holding out for any longer. We’ve done our job and pretty well too, I would think, but there is a moment when one has to take responsibility for oneself and the men around you. I have reflected deeply on it but there is no point in one last foolhardy gesture of defiance. It is for the others out there to take care of that now.

  “Thus I am going to look for any one who can take us back to their lines and look after us and while I realize that there is a risk attached to it after what happened to the two boys I can see no alternative. So what I suggest is that you stay here in charge and I will go off and bring back somebody. Of course, if I don’t come back then you can fear the worst and it will be up to you as to your next step.”

  “How do I know you’re not just going to run out on us, sir?” frowned Peete and swept his right arm dramatically in the direction of the rest of the platoon, who were for the most part still slumbering.

  Sebastian was the one to get angry now; his patience had snapped with Peete’s egalitarian politics that those above would not be serving the best interests of their men but solely to look after themselves, which was in Sebastian’s view a very narrow and thoroughly unmerited argument.

  “You can think what you want to, Corporal, but it has less to do with me and the man you know than your ridiculous political beliefs. I am hardly in a state to run out on you and secondly, I would never do it. I sincerely hope that when I return you will have reflected long and hard on the dishonesty of what you just said and that your lack of trust in somebody who has led you, for the past few weeks, through thick and thin without the slightest thought for his own personal safety is not a very good commentary on your comportment,” fumed Sebastian.

  Peete lowered his eyes, shrugged, and uttered no other comment than just a dismissive flick of his hand. Sebastian toured the rest of the men, assuring them that he was not deserting and would be back with food and help as soon as he came upon it. As a parting gesture he issued a tot of cognac for the survivors. Gordon was now beyond salvation and pleaded with Sebastian for a drop, which under normal circumstances he would not have allowed given his stomach wound but with it unlikely the poor fellow would be alive when he returned, he permitted him a farewell gift. Sebastian made his way gingerly through the flattened wheat fields, though he tried to keep to the perimeter where there was more cover despite scores of the trees bearing the evidence of shellfire. He prayed that soon enough he would reach the salvation of a German unit, remarking bitterly that his war had reached such a climax in searching for men in field grey to help his beleaguered unit – so much for the vaunted might of the British Empire and its erstwhile French ally who had arrogantly thought those Jerries would be no match for the descendants of Wellington and Napoleon. They had conveniently forgotten past glories counted for nowt and in any case wasn’t it the late arrival of the Prussians under Field Marshal Blücher that had saved the day for Wellington at Waterloo and not the scum of the earth, as the ever charming English general had remarked of his own men. Now the scum of the earth dressed in khaki instead of the brilliant red uniform of that era lay scattered across the fields of France for the second time in less than 30 Years. Dead for what exactly – some without firing a shot – Sebastian mused and once again let down by those above who wielded the power of life and death like some divine spirit and yet were far from godlike in their dispensation of justice. It almost made one agree with Peete and his accursed Communist ideology of first among equals, but then again his great leader Josef Stalin had only gone and thrown those fine ideals away by allying himself with Hitler. It had left Sebastian even more sceptical of demagogue-style politics where the only thing that mattered was staying in power and fuck the policy or the beliefs. Leave the little men to fight it out on the battlefield and whoever comes out on top so be it, so long as we can make peace and above all remain in charge perhaps in more straitened circumstances but still dictator of the country.

  “Halt, put your arms in the air!” rasped a German voice behind him stopping him in his tracks. Sebastian’s arms shot up, relief pouring through his aching body and for the first time in days his depression was replaced by a sense of elation.

  “Turn around very slowly and keep your arms up,” ordered his faceless captor. Sebastian did just as he was commanded to, though the effort at keeping his arms above his head took a mammoth effort. However self-preservation had an extraordinary effect on the willpower of a man and Sebastian knew the slightest sagging of his shoulders could mean the difference between life and death. He turned and saw he was facing a young lance corporal – he could tell because of the one stripe on the soldier’s shoulder – and was also relieved to see he was alone which for him signalled he would be taken in, whereas a larger group might just have shot him there and then. He smiled at his young enemy in an effort to communicate he had no intention of causing him trouble and thankful for his fluent German tried to engage him in conversation.

  “I wish to be taken to your commanding officer as I have other men who wish to surrender,” he said. The German eyed him suspiciously, bemused at the English officer in front of him being able to converse with him in his native tongue and it suddenly dawned on Sebastian speaking in German may not have been such a good idea at all, as he may be mistaken for a spy, albeit dressed in army uniform.

  The young German didn’t respond, simply shaking his rifle in the direction behind him indicating to Sebastian to pass him and lead the way back to his unit. Sebastian obliged walking past him, and felt assuaged that the lance corporal, despite being the man in charge, smelt as bad as his prisoner so there was a level playing field of sorts, he smirked, though only at the basest level. He began brushing aside the branches remaining on the trees aside but ensuring that they did not spring back and hit his companion, for the slightest implied provocation would spell disaster for him, particularly as he sensed his captor was in a state of high nervosity.

  They must have walked for a good 15 minutes with Sebastian trying to recall certain landmarks which would make it easier for him to lead them back to his platoon, there was certainly no distraction from his German fellow traveller as he made not the slightest effort to talk to him and Sebastian thought it wiser not to break the silence. There had certainly been some fierce fighting around this part of the wood as they passed bodies and body parts of both German and British soldiers, their bodies strewn throughout the foliage, some blown so high they lay distorted in the trees, some just lying as if peacefully asleep on the ground and others lying in gruesome positions as if they had sprung from a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Ah, how well that Bosch fits in with the word the French give the Germans, Boche, thought Sebastian – but one thing was clear – the Germans had eventually come through victorious in this skirmish as they had done all over the battlefield. Eventually they appeared to be closing in on a clearing and from the grunt that came from behind him he took it to mean this was where the Germans had set up camp. True enough, as they came closer, a German sentry’s voice rang out, demanding the password and in receiving the correct response his captor prodded him with his rifle to indicate he should proceed. Sebastian passed the sentry, who looked at him in a patronizing manner that only Sebastian imagined victors do to their beaten foes, and emerged out of the dark world of the wood into the brightly sunlit
opening where the main body of this man’s unit were resting up yards away from the slaughterhouse that he had just traversed.

  The guard ushered him along past groups of helmetless soldiers sitting smoking and laughing while others walked around the temporary camp looking purposeful and he contrasted their swagger with the stooped shoulders of those at Drew’s wreck of a headquarters only weeks before – this lot knew they were winning and closing in on perhaps the final blow of the war. While Drew’s men had tried to show an urgency, theirs was only in a deceptive bid to look like they were working towards something other than a humiliating retreat, these lads had the same urgency about them. The difference was that they were 100 per cent convincing because they knew what their objective was and it was a positive one – if one could ever really suggest that killing thousands of people was a positive step – and they were well on their way to bringing it to a conclusion. Finally another prod in the back, this time two, suggested to Sebastian he was to come to a halt which he duly did in front of a smartly uniformed body of officers surrounding what he took to be the strategy table where numerous maps were laid out neatly on the table and by which stood another table with hot steaming food in metal containers, a pot of what he thought must be coffee and a mandatory bottle of cognac. The officers were laughing heartily as the guard approached them and saluted one of their group, who nodded curtly at him and told him to stand to one side. The officer gestured at Stuart to come forward and gave a perfunctory salute which his captive wearily returned.

  “So Lieutenant, for that is despite your tattered appearance what you look like, you wish to tell me where the rest of your men are?” So, no niceties then, appraised Sebastian, but looking into the officer’s eyes neither did he think this ageing soldier looked the type to mete out summary executions – he looked the career type Wehrmacht officer and was less likely to be imbued with the fanaticism which evidently the executioner, who had been the younger of his two men, had in spades.

  “I and my men wish to surrender, Major,” Sebastian replied softly. The major looked him up and down, nodded and smiled back at him, though it was not with the condescending air of the sentry more one of pity. “Actually you should address me as Colonel, Colonel Werner von Schondorff to be precise, but when you are winning sometimes you get so far ahead of the supplies wagon that your new uniform takes days to get to you!” and he smiled again, though this time his grey eyes carried a warmth which proved a fillip to Sebastian’s morale as he thought he saw a man of equal background and stature to von Preetz senior and his cohorts. Von Schondorff waved away the guard and walked over to the table holding the food and drinks and filled a plate and a cup before offering them to a slightly taken aback Sebastian. He wolfed down the warm stew, mixed in with real potatoes, and drank the coffee in one go before accepting a glass of cognac while his audience looked on in amazement at the famished young officer in their midst. Finally having dispensed with the welcome nourishment and replacing the plate on the table, Sebastian turned to his benign captor and thanked him before addressing the issue of his men whom he had left behind hours ago and who must be wondering whether he had really run out on them, certainly it was a notion that Peete would be helping to implement in their minds. “Could you remember where they are, Lieutenant?” the colonel asked him. Sebastian nodded, leaving the Colonel to ponder whether he could really afford to send a patrol out with this officer, who could well be enticing them into a trap. “How can you prove to us that this is not a ruse?” he enquired. Sebastian smiled weakly and gestured at his pathetic state of affairs, “If I were to say to you that the reason why I was on my own was because I was the fittest member of the platoon, then I think you can safely assume, Colonel, that there is no hidden agenda. Besides, what is the point in taking out six or seven of your men when there is only certain death for us and we, to be honest with you, are beyond fighting, our war is over. All I want is for me and my men to be taken care of, given proper medical attention and sent off to a prisoner of war camp or if you are to emerge totally victorious, released back to our families in colonized England,” Sebastian added sardonically. The Colonel smarted at the final comment but after reflecting for a couple of minutes gave his assent to sending out the search party, though he added there was a time limit of 80 minutes and if they were not discovered by then, then they would have to be left to their own devices and the mercy of the unit that did come across them. Prior to leaving with the group of 10 men, Sebastian was taken aside once more by von Schondorff, who patted him on the shoulder and said: “One thing, Lieutenant, I didn’t think the British were renowned for their languages but you speak fluent German. Surely you would have been better off in the intelligence services?” Sebastian knew this was a trick question but fortunately the food had given his fatigued brain some much-needed energy and besides he had nothing to hide. “I forsook such a career opportunity to hit you where it hurts; unfortunately you have proved you are rather better at it than we are!” His opposite number smiled thinly and waved him away, reminding him that the time limit stood and leaving him under no illusion that the slightest sign of trouble and he would be the next recipient of a German bullet.

  Unfortunately for Sebastian, the time limit was pointless anyway because by the time they did find them there was nothing but corpses to be buried, for while Gordon had indeed died shortly after being issued with the cognac, his screams from the pain had alerted a nearby unit and they had dispatched everyone with a bullet to the head. All that is apart from the resourceful Peete, who had dragged himself unnoticed into the thickest undergrowth and lain there cursing Sebastian for his treachery. The SS had no such qualms at dealing with wounded enemy soldiers and had little time to waste in sending them back through the lines if they were to press on and claim the final victory and land one also on the Wehrmacht, who looked down on them as mere bully boys with no military ability. Sebastian wept on seeing the remnants of his once proud and brave platoon splayed out in their last moment of agony, while the soldiers with him muttered under their breath curses at the behaviour by the thugs dressed up as elite soldiers who they could only imagine got off on such barbarous actions. For Sebastian, though, they were virtually all the same despite the different uniform but his tears of grief also made the watching Peete even angrier and he would have shot him if he had had a gun to hand, even more so when the German officer leading the unit went over and put his arm round the former platoon leader’s shoulders. Sebastian noticed that Peete was not among them but felt it was useless to go looking for him, surmising that either he had crawled off to die or else he was best left to go it alone. It was an error of judgement that Sebastian was to live to regret.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Got a cigarette, Sebastian?”

  Sebastian inhaled and let out a steady stream of cheap tobacco to indicate the stupidity of the question posed by Macready, a lieutenant in the Scots Guards, and declined to honour the query with a verbal response. Macready was one of many in the prisoner of war camp for officers who he didn’t have much regard for, believing them to be stupid and felt it wasn’t any surprise that the front had folded as it had done with an officer corps of such dullards. It had been six months since his capture but it hadn’t taken long for him to cast his own assessment of his fellow prisoners, who had been steadily arriving since the evacuation of Dunkirk, and there were few among them that he regarded as being worth mixing with. However, with the camp full to bursting there was little option but to put up with people who ordinarily one would cross over to the other side of the street to avoid – Good Samaritan he was not but with each wooden hut overflowing with the detritus of the defeat one had to make do with what one had. He was in Hut C – which he thought stood for Cretin, for most of those held within and Macready was high on that list – and the only consolation was he had the top bunk so he didn’t have to put up with someone treading on him during the night as they went off to relieve themselves in the woeful latrines. The winter had been freezing and a rea
l trial for the morale as not only had one got to get used to the humiliation of defeat and being captured but the sub-zero temperatures added to the depressing aura round the camp. Several of the officers opted to give up completely by taking their own lives, which sadly didn’t make for any extra space, for there was always another body to fill the bunk vacated by the dead. What was more, for those dedicated to trying to escape, the ground was too hard to even try and create a tunnel so they were left to mope around, though at least they had a target to live for which was the warmer weather to come and the softening of the ground. Quite what these lads would do once they had built it was anyone’s guess, surmised Sebastian, as they had no earthly idea where they were, although there was always the loose tongue of their guards to give them some information which could build a picture of how big their task was once they escaped of regaining some neutral territory and thence onwards to England. The guards for the large part were middle-aged, deemed too old for frontline service or had been wounded during the Polish and French campaigns and were considered unfit for any further frontline fighting. While the former group treated the prisoners with some respect and were not rough handed, the latter lot were far more unpredictable either because they resented the fact they were no longer considered to be men in the absurd Aryan terminology of Heinrich Himmler and his genealogical cronies, or because they felt that their prisoners were somehow personally responsible for the premature ending of their war. Thus they would launch into any unfortunate officer who made the slightest transgression in the strict regulations – one sergeant in particular, Maier, was a brute and probably would have been even if he hadn’t received a serious chest wound during the mopping up operation of Warsaw.

  Stocky in build, with a rotund face accentuated by piggy eyes and thin lips, Maier had been responsible for three deaths by setting the dogs on two of the men and beating and kicking another one into a coma.