Michael Dobbs - Last Man to Die

‘There’s been a POW break-out.’

‘From where?’

‘Yorkshire. Camp 174B. It’s just north of …’

‘Yes. I know it,’ Churchill interrupted, the tea temporarily forgotten. There was a gleam – a twinkle, even – in the Old Man’s eye. ‘Some men never seem to know when they’re beaten. How many?’

‘Nearly two hundred and fifty.’

Churchill jumped. The tea slopped into the saucer and began dripping onto the sheet.

‘Nearly two hundred and fifty,’ Cazolet repeated. ‘Several thousand troops are being sent to the area, but as always they’re in the wrong place, waiting on the south coast to embark for Europe. To fill the gap we’ve activated detachments of the local Home Guard to man road blocks around the camp.’

He was good, Cazolet, damned good. No undue emotion or unnecessary hyperbole, measuring out the details so as to inform rather than to incite. After a late night out the Old Man could be like an unexploded bomb which required the most delicate of handling, yet he seemed to be taking all this in his stride.

‘There’s something else. I’ve instructed the Chief Constable in charge of co-ordinating the operation that news of the break-out must be treated on a strictly need-to-know basis, that on no account must the numbers involved be released. He complained that this makes it very much more difficult for his men; not knowing the full facts ties their hands behind their backs.’

‘Did you manage to persuade him?’

‘Not until I reminded him that the war coming to an end and the next Honours List would be bound to include many civilians who had been particularly helpful on the home front. I think he saw the point.’

‘But the news is bound to get out eventually,’ Churchill mused. ‘It will be the best news Herr Hitler will have heard in months.’ His tea was momentarily forgotten, the cup stranded halfway between saucer and chin.

‘But not before most of the escapees have been rounded up. By then it can be treated as a success story and not used by our enemies to undermine you.’

‘My goodness, William. You have been busy guarding my back. Commendable!’

‘Not really.’ Cazolet’s tone was impish. ‘Pure self interest. Prime Ministers are not brought down without creating waves. In your case it would be a veritable tidal wave, which would quite swamp small boats such as mine …’

‘Then may I wish you many long years of carefree sailing.’

There was an almost familial informality between the two born of a meeting of intellects and emotions, more like father and son than the formal courtesies demanded between master and civil servant. Anyway, it was difficult to be left in excessive awe of a man propped up in bed, swathed in three yards of pale pink pyjama silk and already puffing away at a huge cigar between mouthfuls of tea.

‘The local police stations are being inundated with reports of suspicious characters; several have already been apprehended.’ Cazolet glanced at his notebook. ‘Two men were caught as they rode a stolen bicycle in full Luftwaffe uniform the wrong way down the village High Street. Apparently they would have been caught earlier, except for the misfortune that the bike they stole belonged to the local police constable.’

‘Remind me of that when I call to congratulate the Chief Constable and thank him for his co-operation …’

‘Four others were found early this morning, dead drunk behind the bar of a local pub. Seems they never had any intention of escaping further than the nearest drink. I suspect that most of them will be rounded up very quickly.’

‘I’m sure you are right. But as we know, most of them don’t matter; it’s the one or two slipping through the net who carve their names in the history books, who light a fire across a whole continent.’ He paused. ‘Keep me well advised, William. A great deal may ride on such an escape, I want to know everything that happens on this one.’

Cazolet stood at the end of the bed, waiting. ‘Any further instructions?’

The Old Man looked up, his expression serious. ‘This may be a difficult day, which calls for unusual measures.’ There was a frown of concentration. ‘I shall have two eggs with my bacon and toast. And another cup of tea.’

Cazolet turned and left. For the first time in several days he was laughing out loud.

Hencke counted the barrels of eight Lee Enfields, all of which were pointing straight at him from a distance of less than ten feet. He could try to run them down, of course, but by the time he had slipped the clutch and moved no further than a few inches he reckoned that at least six of the eight bullets would have found him. Not much of an option, that. Neither was surrender, but what was the alternative? Already he could see the tips of the barrels dancing nervously and could sense the fingers tightening around the triggers. As he throttled back and put the gears in neutral, Hencke’s hand went to his throat, checking that the uniform he was wearing was properly buttoned. No surrender. Never that. There was too much at stake. He would try to bluff it out.

‘Sergeant Cheval, Fourth Royal Quebec,’ he snapped. God, could they really take his accent for a French Canadian? But don’t wait and see – grab the initiative! ‘Who’s in charge?’

The rifles were still pointing at him, but some were beginning to waver in uncertainty. He began to study the men behind the muzzles; only two were in uniform, the rest were in an assortment of crumpled civilian clothing with nothing more than armbands for identification. Behind them, strewn amongst the hedgerows, lay several pedal cycles which apart from the battered tractor were their only apparent means of transportation. What luck! He had run into Dad’s Army dragged out of their beds. Perhaps there was a chance, after all …

From behind the line of rifles stepped a man in his sixties armed with a Webley pistol, a fierce look in his eye and a carefully trimmed white moustache. He was the only one wearing a military cap. His uniform was smartly pressed and his boots were immaculate. A veteran, and a man who wore his lieutenant’s shoulder pips with pride, Hencke decided. Still astride the motorcycle, he came to a salute.

‘Lieutenant, I am Sergeant Cheval of the Fourth Quebec,’ he repeated the introduction. ‘My regiment is guarding the camp.’

The Webley was still pointing straight at him and there was a bead of nervous perspiration across the bridge of the lieutenant’s nose, but to the officer’s rear Hencke could see the barrels of several rifles beginning to droop towards the ground.

‘Less than two miles down the road there are thirty escaped Germans,’ Hencke continued, waving behind him in the general direction of the north of England. The look of ferocity in the officer’s eye had changed to one of suspicion and he was about to aim a flood of questions which Hencke knew he had no chance of withstanding. ‘Many of them are armed. They’ve already killed several of my company!’

At this point the rifle barrels were raised once more in anxiety; this time they were pointing not at Hencke but back down the road. The lieutenant’s lips were working away in agitation beneath his moustache. He was being overwhelmed by Hencke’s news and the responsibility which had suddenly been thrust upon him after so many years of waiting, like the fishes, for an invasion which had never come. He had the rank but he couldn’t match the experience suggested by Hencke’s regular army uniform. He had a thousand questions to ask but could find the words for none of them.

‘Lieutenant, the Germans are headed in this direction, they’re not far behind. You must maintain your position here and be ready while I go and warn headquarters.’ It was all so ludicrously makeshift. He hadn’t the slightest idea where headquarters were located, but he supposed they must lie somewhere to the other side of the road block. That was enough. He began gently to rev the bike engine, testing the officer’s resolve. ‘And remember. They’re dangerous!’