Christopher Priest - The Separation

‘I think I’d rather be flying, Mr Churchill.’

‘Well, I must say I’m with you there, Group Captain. I respect your decision, but if you should change your mind, let my office know. We’ll arrange something.’ We had started speaking in the centre of the room, but now he led me across to one side, away from the others. ‘Before you return to your squadron, there’s one more job I’d like you to carry out for me. I don’t want to make it sound more dramatic than it is, but I’ve come to the conclusion that the less you know about it in advance, the better you will be able to come to a sensible conclusion about what you find.’

‘All right, sir.’

‘Speak English as much as you can while you’re there, but your German will be invaluable. A car will pick you up from here after breakfast. All I ask you to do is make up your own mind about what happens, then provide me with a full written report as soon as you can. Spare no details. Say what you think, no matter what. I am eager to soak up intelligence from you, no matter how trivial it might seem to you. Are you clear on that? Time is of the essence, so I should like to read your report by the end of the week, if possible.’

‘Yes, sir,’ I said, but in the second or two it took me to draw breath and utter those two syllables, Mr Churchill had turned away from me and was crossing the room towards an inner door on the far side.

The next morning, when I was still feeling stiff and half asleep, and weighted down by a stodgy breakfast of yellow powder concocted into something that only faintly resembled scrambled eggs, I was in the back of another Air Ministry car being driven along the leafy Oxfordshire roads. I opened the window and breathed in the air thankfully. It was a misty morning, one that would later turn into a hot day, but the early coolness was a foretaste of autumn, now not many weeks away. I was thinking about what Mr Churchill had said about returning to ops, wondering what the winter would bring, where I might be sent, whether I would live to see the end of it. Winter nights were the open season for bombers and their antagonists: extended flights across German territory were possible in the long hours of darkness, with night fighters to contend with most of the way. The thought of the risk was like sniffing a dangerous intoxicant. Death remained an ever-present prospect but one that usually felt acceptably distant. I wanted to live, wanted no more injuries, but I was also desperate to return to the work I had chosen: the planes, the rest of the crew, the tracer bullets, the horrifying sight of an enemy city in inferno a few thousand feet beneath me. While the war went on, everything else was secondary.

We drove for about an hour after leaving Ditchley Park. I was not paying close attention to the route, absorbed in the thoughts of my other concerns. Other than the codename of my destination - "Camp Z’, which was typed on my new identity card, valid for the next ninety-six hours -- I had no idea where I was being taken. I calculated from the position of the sun that we must be heading generally back in the direction of London, if by a southerly route.

We were passing through wooded countryside, with tall conifers shading the road, when I noticed that the driver was peering from side to side as she drove, as if trying to find a landmark she had been told to watch out for. The car slowed. We passed down a short village street, one with cottages and shops, a car-repair workshop, a pub, a church. The name of the proprietors was painted on the overhead sign of the general store, A. Norbury & Sons, while underneath the words Mytchett Post Office and Stores were written in smaller letters. If Mytchett was the name of the village, it meant nothing to me, but in a moment we arrived at an unfenced driveway where the words Mytchett Place were dimly visible in faded paint on a brick gatepost.

Beyond was the now familiar guard post, although in this case there were high metal gates, surmounted by coils of barbed wire. Sturdy fences, with dense tangles of more barbed wire, ran off in both directions into the surrounding trees and shrubbery.

I handed my papers to the sergeant, together with the sealed envelope I had been given by a member of Mr Churchill’s staff before I left Ditchley Park that morning. The sergeant took the envelope unopened to the guard post and I saw him speaking on a telephone.

The driver and I sat in the car, the engine idling smoothly.

After about five more minutes I saw a young Guards officer walking briskly down the driveway towards us. He glanced in the direction of my car, saluted quickly but courteously, then joined his sergeant inside the guard post. He emerged a moment or two later, holding a sheet of paper and the envelope it had been in.

He came to the car, saluted again, then leaned down towards me.

‘Group Captain Sawyer?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Good morning. We have been expecting you. Captain Alistair Parkes, Brigade of Guards.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Captain Parkes.’

I reached through the open window of the car and we shook hands. I opened the door and climbed out.

‘Let’s walk across to the house,’ said Captain Parkes. ‘Your driver can wait for you there. Gives us a chance for a brief chat before we take you in.’ He slipped my letter of accreditation into his pocket and set off along an earthen path that ran through the trees, roughly parallel with the main drive. Once we had walked far enough for the guard post to be out of hearing, he said, ‘[Do you speak German, my gentleman?]’

‘[Yes, I do,]’I said.

‘[We speak English to the prisoner, partly as a matter of principle but also because we have reason to believe he understands more English than he admits to. It won’t hurt him to learn a bit more, since he’s likely to be with us for some time. But he sometimes insists on speaking German only, so it’s useful to have some.]’

‘[I’m fluent in German,]’ I said and explained about my mother.

Captain Parkes seemed to assume that I knew as much as he did about the German-speaking prisoner, because he added no more information. He said, ’[In my own case, I was sent to school in Berlin because my father was military attaché at the embassy. Another language comes more easily when you’re a child. I never thought it might be an advantage one day. How about you?]’

We chatted for a while in German about growing up bilingually, then slipped back naturally into English. On the way through the woods we passed a defensive position consisting of slit trenches, a small concrete pillbox and a lot of camouflage netting. There was also a sophisticated system of telephone communications, with wires strung high between the trees.

We emerged at last into sight of the house, which was an unprepossessing building. My life recently seemed to have become a progress from one large country residence to another. Many of the great English estates had been requisitioned and made over to war use for the duration; this one, Mytchett Place, was a Victorian manor house built of pale brick with a red-tile roof. One wing looked as if it was in need of renovation, although the main part of the house was in good repair. The grounds had not been tended properly for some time and long grass and weeds grew in profusion. Untidy creeper spread over most of the walls that I could see, covering some of the lower windows of the neglected wing. A number of temporary buildings had been erected in the grounds and around them visible efforts had been made at tidying up and instituting the customary sense of military order. I saw several soldiers on guard duty.

‘We have two or three unique problems here,’ said Captain Parkes. ‘It is technically a prisoner-of-war camp, so naturally we have to be sure we can keep the prisoner locked up inside. At the same time, in this particular case we think there’s a reasonable chance someone might get it into their head to try to push their way in and snatch him, so we have to be ready for that too. There are other special features, as well.’