Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

The men were gathering on the broad terrace at the back of Stapley Hall, chatting, yawning, lighting the first cigarette of the day, some in civvies, some in air-force or navy blue, most in a mixture of the two. It was cool in the shade of the house, even on a bright August morning, with a hint of vapour when they spoke. The prisoners were falling through habit into ragged lines, watched by the sentries at the wire and in the towers at the corners of the terrace.

‘There seem to be more guards than usual, Herr Kap’tän.’

A tousled-looking Fischer was standing on the steps behind him.

‘Perhaps the camp commander is going to pay us a visit.’

There were forty soldiers at least, twice the regular complement, and a good number of unfamiliar faces.

As they watched, a party of ten men under the command of Sergeant Harrison began marching along the wire to the gate. It opened and Harrison gave a sharp blast on his whistle, the signal for the parade to come to order. Mohr dropped his cigarette and walked round the prisoners — their lines orderly now — to stand at their head, Brand, the Luftwaffe major, to his right and Fischer to his left. The guards took up positions in front of him, bayonets fixed, backs to the wire, then on a command from Harrison the headcount began, a corporal and two men walking through the lines. Mohr glanced at his watch. It would be over in five minutes; everyone would be present and correct enough for the British and then he would breakfast in his room.

But Sergeant Harrison did not blow his whistle or bellow a shrill parade-ground ‘Dismissed’. He put the piece of paper he had used to tot up the prisoners in his pocket and marched back to the gate. There was a rumble of surprise in the ranks and a Luftwaffe clown shouted something about breakfast that Mohr did not catch. He reached into his jacket for his cigarettes, to find there were only two left; he would buy more from the NAAFI at lunch-time. He took one and stroked it; half the cigarette, then he would dismiss the men himself. But as Fischer bent to light it for him, he saw out of the corner of his eye some British officers approaching the gate at the east end of the terrace.

‘Thank you, Fischer.’

Four officers in khaki led by Benson with his — what was it they called it in the movies? — his ‘posse’ of guards. They took up positions at the gate, rifles at the ready. Benson and the other officers marched on towards him.

‘Good morning, Captain.’ There was a chilliness in the Major’s voice Mohr had not heard before. ‘This is Lieutenant Cox from the Military Police. He will be leading your escort. You and a number of your men are being taken to another camp.’

No, Benson could not say where, there were no further details and there would be no time to pack.

‘I have the list here. Read it out, Harrison, would you.’

The sergeant took out his notepad, cleared his throat nervously, then began to read the names.

‘May I?’ Mohr asked with a dry smile and he took the pad. His name was at the top of the list, then Fischer, the officers of the 112 and the 500 and of course the propaganda reporter, Lange. No, they were not going to let it go.

‘I’m sure it will only be a temporary arrangement,’ said Benson uncomfortably.

Fischer read out the ten names to the parade. There was a murmur of concern as they stepped forward to be escorted to the gate.

‘Dismissed.’

The other men stood at the wire to watch as their officers were led under close escort round the east wing and under the great monkey puzzle tree to the carriageway. A green military bus was waiting in front of the Hall, its engine grumbling, the windows painted black. As they approached the bus door, Mohr caught a glimpse of navy-blue uniform through the windscreen and his pulse beat faster.

‘Wait here.’ Cox left them there and crunched round the front of the bus but he was back a minute later with Lindsay at his side. They were together only a moment but there was something in his movements, in his face, his smile, that Mohr had not seen before, a stillness, a quiet assurance, and it was unnerving: ‘You’ve come to escort us.’

Lindsay looked at him curiously for a few seconds and Mohr wondered if the composure in his voice had sounded a little studied.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked in German this time.

Still no reply. Then a guard prodded him sharply in the back with his rifle, forcing him to stumble on to the steps of the bus.

Mohr was woken by the cursing of the driver as the old military bus kangarooed to a halt. He yawned and glanced at his watch — they had been travelling for at least eight hours, with one brief stop for the lavatory and no food and now it was late evening. The military policeman opposite was sleeping, his rifle resting carelessly against the seat in front. Beyond the security partition he could hear someone climbing the steps and issuing orders to the driver. Fischer was snoring heartily across the aisle. Then the engine roared again and the bus began to roll forwards. He pressed his eye to a crack in the blackout paint on the window and hazy summer green seemed to flash by in the fading light, as if they were in a wood or a park. After a few minutes they began to slow down and then to crawl and there were more muffled orders before the driver lifted the heavy clutch and the bus shot forward, to stop seconds later. This time the engine coughed and died. The military policeman jerked upright and his gun clattered to the floor.

‘I won’t tell,’ and Mohr gave him his sweetest smile.

The soldier blushed the colour of his cap badge and got stiffly to his feet. Boots clattered on the bus steps and the screen door slid back with a screech.

‘All right, at the double.’

Another British sergeant stood squarely in the frame. The bus was close to the wire and it was a few seconds before Mohr realised with a start that it was parked in front of another great house, a finer house, its old bricks warm pink in the evening sunshine. It was elegant, handsome in an understated way, familiar — but it gave him no pleasure.

It was the same second-floor room at Trent Park he had shared with Heine three months before. That was deliberate, of course, and crude, but strangely affecting. And Helmut Lange had taken the same bed, the one on the right-hand side as you looked from door to barred window. There was a neat pile of brown blankets at the bottom of the other bed and the bucket with the broken handle they had been obliged to share. On the dirty white wall beyond it the tangled shadow of the cedar, just as he remembered it, twisting and turning interminably in even a light breeze. And his thoughts drifted with it to home, as they had before, but opaque, brittle memories and when he closed his eyes it was the kitchen at the camp that swam into focus and the swollen face of the little engineer. More than once he had tried to say his prayers but he could not shape the words, the old words of home, ‘forgiveness’, ‘hope’, ‘salvation’, empty and hollow in this place. And in the silent early hours he tried to bury the thought, no, the feeling, that they would never have meaning, never, unless he found the courage to do what he knew in the fibre of his being to be right.

They left him alone on the first day and he tried to prepare. He had lost control last time. This time he would say he had seen nothing, he knew nothing, he could say nothing more, nothing. Fischer had been sent to talk to him again at Stapley, a gentle reminder to keep his mouth shut. Bruns and Schmidt had visited too: no blows, only the thinly veiled threat of their broad shoulders and rolled-up sleeves. But he had known the matter would not rest. Lieutenant Lindsay was not going to let it rest.