The escape game, p.3
The Escape Game, page 3
Although they’d been told not to wear the Eagle Squadron patch showing their American origins during combat, Kenneth had stubbornly refused to obey the order because he was so proud of his squadron. Now he would really be in trouble for allowing the enemy to identify him. As he tested his legs on deck, shivering from cold, his teeth chattering, he thought he might pass out. He glanced at the officer in charge.
“May I have a blanket, please?” Kenneth said, using his arms to show what he meant.
The officer nodded and spoke to one of the men in German who scurried away, then returned soon with a blanket, throwing it over Kenneth’s shoulders. “Thank you,” he said, making eye contact with the tall blond officer. Now, if he just had a cup of coffee, he might survive. Why not? “Coffee?” He pantomimed drinking from a cup.
“You are American,” the German officer said.
“How did you guess?” Kenneth said.
“The English do not ask for coffee.”
“You speak good English,” Kenneth ventured.
“I lived in the United States until der Füehrer asked us to come home.”
“So, what happens next?” Would they line him up against a wall and shoot him?
“You will be fine. You will go to a POW camp.”
The officer made it sound like Kenneth was going to summer camp and shouldn’t be concerned. Kenneth sure hoped they observed the rules of the Geneva Convention for the short time he planned to stay.
When the boat docked, Kenneth glanced around, trying to determine where they were. His guess was the French harbor town of Boulogne, at the mouth of the Liane River. The odor of fish hit him as they neared the docks, and he glanced down the shoreline at fishing boats tied up. Poor suckers. How could they fish with all these Germans, not to mention mines, in the way? From the boat, he was escorted along the dock by gun-toting Nazis in khaki uniforms to a waiting truck and forced to climb into the canvas-covered rear.
Boy, did he want to get out of these wet clothes. Would they give him some dry ones? Surely they wouldn’t give him Nazi clothes. The truck traveled to a stop in front of a tan stucco building with carved ornate pediments over the door. The building looked like it had been a former government building for the French before the Nazis took it over. Here he was forced to exit the truck before being marshaled into the place. Inside he was taken to a windowless room where barking guards ordered him to strip down to his wet long johns before they shoved him around and searched him. He frowned as his navigator’s watch and black onyx ring were taken from him. But he hated it even more when they took the ivory-handled pocketknife he always carried that had belonged to his grandfather.
For the next half hour, he sat on a cold metal chair while a German officer interrogated him. At one point, the officer showed him the eagle patch on his uniform, asking about it in German. Kenneth shrugged and repeated the necessary information. “In accordance with the Geneva Convention, I am required to give only name, rank, and service number.”
Would he get any of his things back? If they followed the rules of the convention, he was supposed to. Right now he wanted his clothes. Would they let him have them again? And if they did, would they still be wet? Maybe he could request the use of the laundry. He suppressed a chuckle but failed to stifle a smile. His interrogator kicked him in the shin. Kenneth grimaced. The guy had no sense of humor.
When the interrogator got tired of getting no more information, Kenneth was taken out of the room where he was handed his damp uniform. His captors gave him a minute to put it back on, then shoved him back outside and onto another truck, which contained three other prisoners. When the guard riding in back with him looked the other way, Kenneth reached into the leg pocket of his flight suit. Yep, they’d taken his compass too.
The truck bumped over an uneven road while Kenneth tried to figure out what direction he was going. Although the canvas canopy over the bed of the truck hid the sun, he guessed from the angle of the light and shadow that they were headed east. He recalled the code of conduct the RAF had drilled into him during basic training, that as a member of the air force, he was expected to escape if captured and assist others trying to escape as well. Now he had to find the opportunity to do so.
When the truck stopped again, Kenneth was able to look below the canopy and see what appeared to be a town square. Racking his brain to remember the French map they’d studied before their flights and assuming they’d started in Boulogne, this must be Calais. Nazi soldiers appeared to be the only residents. Bet the locals weren’t too happy about their new neighbors.
The aroma of baking bread wafted through the air, and his stomach growled, reminding him of how long it’d been since his last meal. As he glanced outside, the guards pushed two more captives toward the truck. From the looks of these guys, their interrogation wasn’t as easy as his. One had a swollen right eye and the other a cut on the lip and bruised cheek. Now would not be a good time to try to escape.
Before the truck started moving again, a black Mercedes limousine pulled up behind them. A couple of higher-ranking Nazis stepped out of the car. Another truck pulling a trailer stopped behind the Mercedes. The prisoners were ordered out and marched to the trailer. On the trailer lay the scorched remains of a Spitfire. Whose plane? Which group? One of the German officers dangled two charred dog tags in front of him. “Your friend?”
Kenneth recognized Frank’s name and bit back revulsion. His gut tightened at the sight, but he wouldn’t let the Nazi know he knew the owner of the tags. He owed that much to Frank. The officer snapped them in his hand and dropped them into his pocket. Kenneth wanted to punch him, but he thought instead of Frank’s wife, Beth, and how devoted he was to her. Maybe someday, Kenneth could go see her and tell her what a swell guy Frank was. First, he had to get back to England somehow.
The men were ordered back into the truck, and it proceeded on its bumpy journey. Kenneth wanted to talk to the other prisoners, but the guard’s presence kept all of them quiet. The other flight suits were unfamiliar, but they could have been RAF too, since there weren’t many regulation uniforms among the pilots. Some wore overalls, others leather jackets over their standard military shirts and trousers. He also wouldn’t know them because he was at an airfield with only Brits and Americans. They could have been from other Commonwealth countries.
At the next stop, the truck took on more prisoners until they were wedged in tight on each side. Some of the men had visible injuries, some limped, at least one had a broken arm, and a few had burns. Kenneth hoped their captors had enough humanity to treat the injured. As the day dragged on, his hunger and thirst became almost unbearable, but he kept swallowing to keep his mouth from being dry. Since he was one of the lucky ones with no injuries, he figured he could tolerate being hungry and thirsty. He sure had no reason to feel sorry for himself. Why he had been so lucky to survive without injuries, he had no idea.
CHAPTER 3
Leeds, England
June 1941
“Mum, I spoke to Mrs. Findlay. She’s coming by to collect you and take you to the knitting circle at church,” Beryl said as she entered the kitchen.
Stirring her porridge absentmindedly, Mum looked up. “I can knit here.”
“Yes, I know you can, but Mrs. Findlay wants you to see what the other ladies are making for the war effort.” Actually, the idea was all Beryl’s, but she thought it would sound better if it were Mrs. Findlay’s idea. Whatever it took to get Mum out of the house was more important. If only Mrs. Findlay would hurry up and get here before Beryl had to leave for work so she could be sure her plan was carried out.
“Here. Mrs. Sutton brought over some of her good raspberry jam.” Beryl handed Mum a piece of toast slathered with her favorite jam, ignoring the government command to be more thrifty with food. Mum took the toast and bit into it while Beryl waited for her usual response, the moaning over its good taste like she used to, but Mum didn’t respond. However, she did eat the toast, which was one thing to celebrate. Mum barely ate anything anymore, and her loose clothes looked like they belonged to someone else, someone larger like she used to be. Beryl poured more hot tea into Mum’s cup, then checked the time. Where was Mrs. Findlay?
Taking her dirty dishes to the sink, Beryl washed them and put them on the drain mat to dry. Come on! she thought as loudly as she could, hoping she could silently hurry Mrs. Findlay.
“Hellooo,” Edith Findlay’s voice greeted as she came through the front door. The busty woman appeared in the kitchen, her purse over her arm and her hat pinned securely over her brownish-gray curls. She smiled at Mum. “Are you ready, Sheila?”
“I’ll get her things,” Beryl said, hurrying to retrieve Mum’s hat, purse, and knitting bag. She handed them to her mother and helped pin on her hat.
Mrs. Findlay took Mum by the arm. “Come on, luv. The ladies are waiting, and they’ll be very pleased to see you!” She turned toward Beryl. “You go on to work, dearie. We’ll take good care of her, I promise!”
Beryl offered a smile. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Findlay laid a hand on Beryl’s shoulder. “Glad to help, Beryl. You’ve got too much on your shoulders already.”
Beryl glanced at Mum’s face. She looked resigned to comply and didn’t protest as Mrs. Findlay led her out the door. Did Mrs. Findlay’s comment bother her mother? After all, part of Beryl’s extra work was taking care of Mum. She loved her Mum and wanted to help her, but Beryl didn’t feel qualified to be a parent yet. After all, she was only twenty-two years old, for pity’s sake. How she wished Mum would get back to being her old self.
Exhaling a sigh, she gathered her things for work. She closed up the house and hopped on her bike, throwing her lunch box and gas mask into the basket for the three-mile ride to Waddingtons. Much as she wanted to take a different route, that option took longer, and she didn’t have time. She’d have to pass by some of the places that had been bombed, a constant reminder of the pervading tragedies they had all suffered. As she approached the dreaded area, she steeled herself, gripping the handlebars. Just ahead stood half a building. The building was a semi-attached house, which meant the missing part had housed a family. A family that had all been killed in the March bombing raids.
The adjacent house had broken windows with curtains blowing out and a flower bed in front where pretty blue forget-me-nots bloomed. The irony of the lovely flowers in such a dismal setting made her shake her head in disbelief. Just like her, those flowers continued to live as if nothing tragic had happened so close by. Those who survived had to continue, had to live despite the trauma, or the enemy would have truly won.
She rode around a large crater in the road, which men were working to refill. With a shudder, she remembered the horror of the night when a bomb blew open the road, a tragedy made even greater when an ambulance had fallen into the hole moments later, killing the driver. Near the construction area, a mobile canteen run by the Women’s Voluntary Service was parked, and a line of people waited to buy tea and sandwiches. Mum had expressed interest in serving with the WVS at one point, before Dad was killed. Now, she didn’t want to leave the house. At least she was helping by knitting. The Home Offense had asked all knitters to help supply socks and sweaters to the soldiers, as well as items for the refugees who had left the more heavily bombed places in Britain.
Thousands of people from the southern part of the country had streamed into Yorkshire seeking safety and a roof over their heads. Townspeople had been asked to billet the refugees. Some of the locals had sympathized with their plight while others balked at the idea of strangers in their homes. Beryl would have offered room in their home, but she didn’t think it would be a good idea to bring in a stranger while Mum was in her present state of mind. If Mum were her old self, she would have readily agreed.
Most of Yorkshire had been spared the frequent bombings that cities like London, Birmingham, Coventry, and Liverpool had endured, but there was no guarantee they wouldn’t still be hit. Practically every town in the country had a factory that changed its production to provide war materials. Leeds had a few as well but not as many. And although their town hadn’t been hit as hard or as often, the planes could be heard passing over on their way to their targets. In fact, even a tractor factory in the Dales had been bombed. How unthinkable that someone would bomb that lovely area. When would the war end? It had already been going on close to two years. Would England ever be the same again?
Ahead, a man waved a flag. “Careful, miss. Keep your distance. Unexploded bomb over there.” Every time the bombs fell, some didn’t explode, waiting like wild animals ready to pounce on an unfortunate person who happened upon them. The Sappers, the Corps of Royal Engineers, stayed busy searching for these bombs, hoping to find them first and disarm them. Beryl kept a wide berth of the area, her bicycle bouncing over uneven earth and pavement.
Past the site, she glanced up at the clear blue sky dotted with big silver barrage balloons. Just how effective were those things? They looked like blimps, about sixty feet long with three fins on the back. The RAF was convinced they interfered with enemy planes, keeping the planes from flying too low, making it difficult for them to hit their targets while at the same time making it easier for the antiaircraft guns to hit them. But other folks argued that when the balloons were placed over important places like factories, they served as targets to show the enemy where to drop their bombs.
It was true that if a plane flew too low and hit one of the cables supporting the balloons, the plane would tear apart and crash. But the hydrogen-filled balloons could explode too, another danger to civilians, and required special handling. And now women in the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force were being trained to operate the balloons. Beryl had considered joining the WAAF as well, like some of her school chums had done. But doing so would require her to leave Mum alone for longer periods of time while she trained. And she just couldn’t do that now.
Beryl arrived at Waddingtons, three-story red brick building and parked her bike. As she entered the front door, red-haired Margaret Dewberry called out from behind her desk in the reception area. “Mr. Watson is looking for you. Better get to your desk hastily.”
What now? She felt like she’d been trying to get to work all morning, but would Mr. Watson care to hear her saga? She hurriedly removed her hat and gloves, placing them on the table behind her small desk, then picked up a tablet of paper and a pencil and knocked on her employer’s closed door.
“Who is it?” Mr. Watson’s gruff voice demanded on the other side.
“It’s Beryl Clarke, Mr. Watson.”
“Come in.”
She took a deep breath, then opened the door and entered. Mr. Watson, his silver hair combed straight back as usual, sat in a padded leather chair behind his wide walnut desk. Behind him was a credenza and a multipaned, arched window that overlooked the factory. He pointed to the chair in front of the desk.
“You’re late.”
She remained standing and glanced at the clock. Nine o’clock. Technically, she wasn’t late, but since she was normally early, he apparently expected her earlier.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I had to detour around bomb damage.”
He huffed, peering down at his desk. “Was it bad?”
“It was old damage, sir, farther out Wakefield Drive. They’re repairing the blown-up street.”
A grunt. “Yes, well, we must allow for those things, mustn’t we?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but he continued, his mood much more serious than normal.
“I have special guests coming today. You are not to interrupt, and make sure no one else is allowed to come in while they are here.” Mr. Watson tapped the cigar lying in the ashtray before him, its smoke curling up between them.
“Yes, sir. And how will I know who they are?”
He stared at her as if he doubted her intelligence. “You will know when I tell you. Do you understand?” Why was the man acting so strangely?
“Yes, sir. You will not need me to take notes?”
“No. I will take my own notes.”
He would? How unusual. She didn’t know he was capable, as she wrote all his correspondence for him. What kind of guests was he expecting?
“I see, sir. And tea?”
“Right. You bring us tea, then close the door behind you.” He glanced up at her. “That is all for now.”
She nodded, then retreated to her own desk. As she readied her desk to work on her daily tasks, she tried to figure out who might be coming to see Mr. Watson. Was he in some type of trouble? The phone on her desk rang.
“Beryl Clarke, Mr. Watson’s secretary.”
“Beryl, it’s Mr. Watson. I’ll take some tea now.”
She frowned. “Yes, sir.” Sometimes the menial tasks of her job were such a bore. Would she have had to make tea if she’d been able to finish at university? She hoped not.
After delivering Mr. Watson’s tea to him, she settled into her daily routine of typing and filing. For the next two hours, she became engrossed in her duties and did not notice the two men who approached her desk until one of them cleared his throat. Startled, she looked up.
The men wore long black overcoats and hats pulled low over their brows. Neither of them smiled. She felt her cheeks flush at her lack of attention.
“May I help you, gentlemen?”
The vein in one man’s neck bulged as he spoke. “We’re here to see Mr. Watson.”
Realization hit her. These were the special guests he was expecting. She picked up her phone and dialed him. “Mr. Watson, your guests are here.”
“I’ll be right there.”
How unusual. Normally it was her job to escort visitors into his office. She stood. “He’s coming to fetch you.”
The man nodded as Mr. Watson’s door opened and her employer stepped out, hand extended. The men shook his hand, then walked into his office. Before closing the door, Mr. Watson glanced at Beryl. “You remember our conversation.”
