The escape game, p.4
The Escape Game, page 4
“Yes, sir. I’ll get the tea right away.”
He closed the door, and she hurried to gather the teapot from the hot plate, along with cups, saucers, spoons, sugar cubes, and milk. She put them all on the tray and balanced it carefully as she knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
She carried the tray inside and placed it on the credenza behind Mr. Watson’s desk, then lifted a cup and glanced at the men. The heavier man said, “Two sugars for me.”
“Just cream for me,” said the man with the sharp features.
She prepared their tea, then refilled Mr. Watson’s cup before handing it to him.
One of the company’s Monopoly games sat on the desk in front of Mr. Watson as if he was about to explain the game to his guests.
“That will be all,” Mr. Watson said, his forehead pinched as he looked at her.
She nodded and hurried out.
Those men seemed far too serious to be interested in playing a board game.
At lunch Beryl took her lunch box and sat at one of the benches outside. Margaret came out of the building and hurried over to sit next to Beryl.
“So, who were those mysterious men who came to see Mr. Watson today?”
Beryl unwrapped her jam sandwich and took a bite, shrugging. “I have no idea. They didn’t give any company name.”
“Freddie thinks they’re with the government, maybe working for Churchill.”
Beryl rolled her eyes. “Freddie would. He’s suspicious of everyone and everything.”
“Well, how do you know they weren’t?”
“What would British Intelligence want with Mr. Watson, a toy maker? If they want him to be a spy, who is he going to spy on? His employees?”
“What if they think there’s a spy working here at Waddingtons?”
“But who? I mean, we’re all locals.” Beryl had known most of the people who worked at Waddingtons for years before she ever worked there herself.
“You know, we do have a couple of evacuees that work here.”
Beryl considered a moment. “Mrs. Stout and Mr. Bridges? Why, the woman only cleans the place, and Mr. Bridges is too old to be a spy.”
Margaret leaned in and lowered her voice. “What if it’s just an act? Maybe they’re just pretending to be who they are, but they’re really Nazi spies!”
“Don’t be daft, Margaret. Do you really believe that? That’s sheer nonsense, and you don’t need to be spreading any rumors and getting things stirred up. Poor people, they’ve had enough to deal with, losing their homes and everything in Birmingham.”
“I guess you’re right.” Margaret bit off a piece of biscuit, then glanced around. “Don’t look now, but Freddie’s coming this way, and he’s got you in his sights.”
Beryl cringed. Freddie wouldn’t leave her alone. Every chance he got, he sidled up to her and suggested they go on out on a date. He wasn’t a bad sort, just not her cup of tea. Besides, even if he were, she didn’t have time.
The pale-skinned, slight young man stopped in front of her. He sucked in a puff from his cigarette, then blew out a cloud of smoke in her direction. “Beryl! It’s so good to see you today!”
She averted her face and waved the smoke away, never fond of the habit. Freddie looked ridiculous toting the thing around, puffing like a steam engine, but she had a feeling he thought it made him look mature.
“Hello, Freddie. How are you today?”
He pushed up his wire-rim glasses. “Splendid!” he replied, then drew in another drag of his cigarette.
“And how are things in the playing cards area?” she asked, referring to the section of the factory where he worked.
“Quite exciting, you know, what with all that royalty in there.” He laughed in a rather snorting fashion at his effort to be humorous.
“Lots of queens and kings, I suppose,” she replied with her usual response to his ongoing joke.
“And jacks. Don’t forget the jacks. You know they’re the princes.”
“I didn’t know that. I always thought of them as palace guards.”
“Why, what a clever idea! You are quite the smart one, Beryl!”
Beryl checked her watch. “Better get back to work. Mr. Watson will be very unhappy if I’m late.” She grabbed her lunch box and stood, then turned back toward the building. “See you later, Margaret,” she said.
Margaret smiled and gave a slight wave of her hand. Freddie fell in step alongside Beryl. “I hear Mr. Watson had some secret guests today.”
“He had guests, that’s correct, and no, I don’t know who they were. They didn’t speak to me.”
“I think they’re with the government intelligence agency.”
Beryl stopped and looked him square in the eye. “Freddie, don’t go around spreading rumors. You don’t have any idea who those men were, and you could imagine all kinds of things, but none of them will do you any good. You need to just let it be. Remember what Mr. Churchill said: ‘Careless talk costs lives.’”
Freddie’s gaze fell to the ground, and he paused. “All right, if you say so.”
She proceeded to walk back to the building, thinking she’d been able to disengage herself from Freddie, when he caught up with her. “Say, Beryl, there’s a new picture at the cinema. What say we go see it together?” He reminded her of a carefree puppy who never gave up following its master and wagging its tail in the process.
“Freddie, that’s very sweet of you to ask, but you know I have too much to do, what with both my jobs and my mum to care for. I’m sure one of the other girls here would like to go with you, though. Have you thought of asking Helen?”
“No, maybe I will. You know I like you better.” He inclined his head and winked. “So, if you should have some extra time, just let me know, all right?”
“Of course, Freddie.” She pulled open the door to the building and went inside. Extra time would not be in her future anytime soon.
CHAPTER 4
Somewhere in France
June 1941
As night approached, Kenneth heard the familiar drone of planes overhead. RAF bombers headed to targets in France. And where was he now? France. What if he ended up getting bombed by the good guys? Wouldn’t that be ironic? Would that be the end of him? He considered jumping out of the truck but knew he’d be shot instantly. Besides, now the adrenaline he’d survived on so far had worn off and fatigue was setting in, but sleep was out of the question. The fact that he was a prisoner of war, a POW of the Third Reich, finally registered. And so were all these men in the truck with him. He’d learned that some were British, and some, based on the insignia on their uniforms, were Polish pilots that flew for the RAF. Darn good pilots, from what he’d heard, and quite motivated to join forces with England after Germany overran their country.
Kenneth didn’t know exactly where he and his fellow prisoners were now, but he knew they were headed for a Nazi prison camp somewhere, probably someplace in Germany, and that was one place he had no intention of staying. His military training had taught him that there was a better chance of escaping before they reached their final destination. Chances were the other prisoners were thinking the same thing. But how could they escape? Overpower the guards? Take their weapons and run for it?
He didn’t even know how many guards there were, but they were probably outnumbered. They were deep inside German-occupied France by now and miles from non-Nazi-held lines. Just yesterday he’d flown a mission over enemy territory, picked up a little flak, then returned back to a clean bunk in a warm hut with decent food. He should have appreciated that small luxury when he had it.
Hours passed before the truck stopped again, this time in front of a sprawling stone building. Other trucks stopped behind theirs, and prisoners began emptying from them. Walking toward the building, Kenneth and his fellow prisoners straightened their aching backs and stretched their legs, tolerating their injuries to march with some semblance of soldiers. Inside, the prisoners were counted and recounted before being led to a mess hall where long tables ran the length of the room. After all the prisoners shuffled in and made their way to the benches beside the tables, a Nazi officer flanked by two other uniformed men took his position in front of the room, hands behind his back in a parade rest position.
“You are at Dulag Luft. We are the reception camp for air force prisoners. I am Commandant Major Rumpel,” he said in amazingly good English. “Here you will stay a short while before you reach your final camp. We will have the opportunity to speak to each of you privately and get to know each other.” He scanned the group of prisoners and affected a smile. “We abide by the rules of the Geneva Convention and will treat you well.” He paused, his expression darkening. “That is, as long as you behave like the gentlemen I’m sure you are.” His smile returned. “Enjoy your meal and relax. We will call for you afterward.” He nodded and snapped his heels together before marching away.
Finally, food appeared in the form of a bowl of thin potato soup and a small piece of black bread. It wasn’t much, but after a day without anything, the food tasted like a gourmet delicacy. Just that little bit of sustenance served to restore Kenneth’s strength and hope of survival. He glanced at the men sitting around him, then muttered under his breath. “Can’t wait to get to know the commandant, can you?”
A low chuckle came from the other prisoners within hearing distance.
Nazi soldiers lined the room, eyeing the prisoners’ every move. As soon as they were finished eating, the prisoners were marched out of that building and into one of the other two long wooden barracks in the camp. This one had plain bunk beds lined up against each wall. Most of the men found a bed and lay down on it, exhausted from their ordeal. But their hosts had no intention of letting them get much rest as, one by one, the men were taken out and interrogated. Kenneth walked throughout the barracks, looking at windows and checking to see if they could be opened. He wasn’t sure where this place was, nor what the countryside was like around it, but he was willing to find out if he got an opportunity. His search gave him no clues or ideas about getting out, and guards stood beside the doors.
When they came to get him for interrogation, the commandant was waiting in a small room with two wooden chairs. “Have a seat.” The commandant motioned to the chair. “So, you are American?”
Kenneth considered standing in defiance, but reluctantly obliged. He sat and responded. “Kenneth Bordelon, lieutenant, 81727.”
“But that is a British number, and I can tell you are not British. You are one of the Americans called the Royal Eagle Squadron. How does America feel about you participating in a war they have not joined?”
The man was working hard to get answers, but Kenneth wasn’t planning to help him.
He repeated his name, rank, and serial number.
The commandant sat in the opposite chair and crossed one leg over his knee, affecting a casual position. “Now, Lieutenant Bordelon, we are fellow officers, fellow pilots, are we not? You must be very frustrated that you cannot fly for the United States.”
“The United States is not at war,” Kenneth said.
Commandant Rumpel smiled. “They are not? What about the Lend-Lease measure your country passed? Are they not supplying England?”
Kenneth let that comment pass without responding.
“Those Spitfires are pretty good planes, yes? Not a match for our Messerschmitt 109s, of course.”
Kenneth glanced at him and decided to use a conversation tactic of his own. “Since you’re a pilot too, you must have you flown both planes, so you can tell the difference.”
The commandant smiled and stroked his chin. “Ah. I must admit I have not flown the Spitfire. However, based on the number we have shot down, I can tell our planes are superior.”
“I personally like the Spitfire.”
“It does not float well, though, does it, Lieutenant?” the man said with a smirk.
So the man knew he had ditched in the channel. “Not very. But then, it wasn’t built to be a boat.”
The commandant chuckled. “Perhaps you should have joined the navy, yes?”
“No, sir. I prefer flying.”
“It’s too bad you won’t be flying for quite some time now.”
Kenneth wanted to tell the man he wasn’t finished flying and that as soon as he got a chance, he’d be back up there shooting down the 109s again. He changed the subject.
“Your English is almost as good as mine, Major Rumpel. Did you ever live in the States?” Two could play the interrogation game.
Smiling, the man studied him a minute before answering. “You are very observant. Yes, I lived in New Jersey.”
“I didn’t notice a New Jersey accent.”
“And you, Lieutenant, what state are you from?”
“Hard to say, since I’ve lived all over.”
“I see.” The commandant stood. “Our time here is finished. You will be sent to Stalag Luft I where the other captured pilots are for now. We don’t have many American companions for you yet, but I’m sure there will be some more soon.”
Kenneth stood. The interrogation had gone easier than he’d expected. He’d noticed that some prisoners were treated worse than others, shoved around and disrespected. However, he had heard that POWs who were airmen were treated better than other prisoners. Maybe there was some unwritten code of respect between Luftwaffe pilots and their adversary counterparts. Good thing he was a pilot.
He was sent back to the barracks and tried to sleep while other prisoners were taken out at all hours of the night. Every time the door opened and he heard the footsteps of the guard, he wondered if he might be called back again and interrogated another time less politely. But somehow he managed to get a few winks before a German voice shouted for everyone to get up and form a line. It was barely dawn as they were forced to stand outside and be counted before being marched back to the mess hall.
For breakfast they were given some kind of hot gruel and another piece of black bread before being loaded onto trucks again. Kenneth was working on a plan to escape the truck by overpowering the guard sitting in the back with the prisoners when the trucks stopped again. They were ordered to get out, and he found that they were at a railroad station. Here they were forced onto a train and crowded into small passenger compartments. The train rumbled along the tracks for at least an hour before stopping. Peering through the small window, Kenneth determined they were in a rail yard. The German soldiers locked them inside the train and left. When a few minutes had passed, Kenneth and a few other men ran to the doors and tried to open them, but it was no use.
The men exchanged questioning glances. Why would the Germans leave the train like that? Was this a test to see if anyone would try to escape so they had an excuse to shoot them? Then he heard it—the hum of planes overhead. The train was a sitting duck, a perfect target for fighters flown by the same people he was trying to help. The knowing look on the other prisoners’ faces conveyed the same understanding as they waited for the bombs to fall and wipe them out. But once again luck was on his side as the planes flew on to other targets. While they waited for their captors’ return, one of the prisoners, a little guy, managed to squeeze through a small bathroom window and escape. Kenneth wished him well. Too bad Kenneth was too big to fit through, or he’d try it himself. The guy must have succeeded because no shots were heard. Lucky duck.
The guards came back, and the train started again before stopping hours later. Through the window, he saw a sign hanging on the train station that read BARTH. Kenneth vaguely recollected hearing of this prison camp on the shores of the Baltic Sea. As they departed from the train, the guards forced the prisoners to line up and start marching. As prisoners before them had done, they marched in loose formation through the stone arch leading into the town while men, women, and children glared. Kenneth glanced around the small town, similar in size to his hometown back in Louisiana, and figured the townspeople weren’t too happy about having these enemies in such close proximity. Some muttered comments he assumed were uncomplimentary as they passed by.
As they marched down the road, Kenneth eyed the area around them, ready to run. German soldiers marched in front, behind, and alongside the prisoners, effectively boxing them in and giving little opportunity to make a break for it. After trudging almost an hour, Kenneth spotted their destination, a series of long gray and brown wooden barracks inside a double-barbed-wire fence, an unwelcome contrast to the green forest beyond. A flag with a Nazi swastika floated in the breeze above the headquarters at the entrance. Fifteen-foot-high towers were placed some two hundred yards apart along the double-wire fences, with coiled barbed wire filling the space between. Each tower had a sentry armed with a machine gun pointed toward the camp.
The camp was divided into two areas, the West Compound and the North Compound, as he would later learn. The Germans’ quarters where the guards stayed were between the two compounds.
As Kenneth and his fellow prisoners approached, the current POWs of the camp stood in the barren dirt yard on the other side of the fence, straining to see the new prisoners as they entered. Occasionally there were shouts of recognition as the “old” prisoners spotted friends in the newcomer group.
“There’s Charles! Where have you been?”
“If it isn’t Ronald Bristow! Hey, Ronald!”
Kenneth didn’t see anyone he knew, nor did he expect to, since there were so few Americans participating in the war. But he might know some British pilots who were there. Once they were all inside the fence, the incoming prisoners were lined up and counted, then marched through another inspection where they were once again searched, frisked, and issued a blanket and a crude dog-tag-type POW identification number. Kenneth’s number was 1515, a number he didn’t care to remember.
At this time, they gave him back his watch and ring, but unfortunately, not his grandpa’s pocketknife. He was assigned to the North Compound and entered the main camp with the others through a double-gated enclosure. As the guard padlocked the gate behind them, he said in broken English, “For you, da var is over.”
