too-'
An SS officer came storming down the line. The marching men stopped in confusion; there were shouts. With a gloved hand the SS man grabbed Stubbs by the hair, dragged him out of the line and made him kneel. He pressed the muzzle of his Luger to Stubbs's temple.
Danny Adams was there immediately. He tried to stand between Stubbs and the German. 'Don't shoot! Schiessen Sie nicht!'
The SS man glared at the SBO. Then he raised his Luger and slammed the butt down on the crown of Stubbs's head. There was a crunch, like the shell of a boiled egg cracking. Stubbs crumpled face forward to the ground. Two Wehrmacht guards, regulars from the camp, hurried forward, picked him up and carried him to one of the trucks.
Adams faced the SS man, his face black. 'After the war, Standartenfuhrer Trojan. Nach dem fucking krieg.'
The SS man just grinned. He wiped the butt of the Luger on the grass, and holstered it. 'As may be. Tonight – no more of this.'
The SBO turned to his men. 'Let's just get through this ruddy business without any more dramas. Form up. Attention!…'
The men, shocked, angry, subdued, marched on into the night.
Gary heard the murmur of the crowd even before they got to Richborough itself. The area inside the old Roman defences was a pool of light, illuminated by searchlights; in the shadows generators chugged. Somewhere off in the glare a band played, some sentimental German waltz.
The prisoners with their escort were marched to one corner of the compound. Other groups had already formed up in the space around the monument; Gary saw units of the Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe and SS, including a group with the distinctive armbands of the Legion of St George, the British element of the SS. There were even formations of the Landwacht and the Hitler Jugend, all standing proudly under Nazi banners. The flag of Albion flew, the cross of Saint George with a swastika roundel at the centre.
The centrepiece of it all was the monument. Only a fraction of it had been completed, but tonight immense Nazi flags had been draped from the scaffolding. Powerful searchlights had been set up in a ring around the base of the four legs, so that their beams made an arch of light in the sky, a dream of the finished monument that might one day exist.
Now more spotlights picked out a limousine, a Rolls Royce, gliding into the compound. SS troopers jogged alongside, automatic arms ready. The band hurriedly switched to an SS marching song. A ripple of excitement passed through the massed ranks.
'Who the fuck?' the British murmured.
An SS officer stood before the stalag prisoners, and began calling names. As they were called, men stepped forward. Gary was shocked to hear his own name called.
'Wooler. Corporal Wooler, G. Step forward, please.' A man nudged Gary in the back, and he stepped out of the line.
He found himself posted to a row of maybe a dozen others – one of them Willis Farjeon. The SS man and the SBO stood before them, the SBO sombre and angry, the SS man grinning. He was the same man who had clubbed Stubbs earlier, Gary saw.
Willis said out of the corner of his mouth, 'Quite a show, eh?'
The SS man overheard, and stepped over. Willis was taller than he was, and the SS man had to look up. 'Oh, better than that,' he said in fair English. 'Wait and see! What a treat is in store for you fellows!'
Danny Adams said, 'I'd appreciate it if you'd speak to my men through me, Standartenfuhrer Trojan.'
'Yes, yes,' Trojan said dismissively.
The limousine had pulled up at the base of the monument. A trooper opened the passenger door. Various senior officers approached the new arrival, saluting him.
And then the newcomer came walking towards the British prisoners. Standartenfuhrer Trojan stood erect before the line of Gary and the others, and pulled his jacket straight. He looked immensely proud. Yet the man approaching was not prepossessing, despite the gaudy medals he wore. His body looked weak, his feet were pigeon-toed, his face round, his hair dark, his chin receding. He wore heavy round glasses that emphasised the softness of his face.
Willis murmured, 'That's the Reichsfuhrer-SS. That's bloody Himmler. What's he doing here? No wonder these SS thugs look so pleased with themselves, Himmler himself coming all the way to this shithole.'
Himmler, trailed by his entourage, shook hands with Trojan, who bowed, beaming. He waved his gloved hand to indicate the row of prisoners, and spoke rapidly in German. Willis murmured a hasty translation. ''A great honour Reichsfuhrer, welcome to our poor effort at a monument Reichsfuhrer, and blah blah, let me kiss your arse Reichsfuhrer…'
'How do you know German, Farjeon?'
'Learned it when I joined the RAF. Useful if I ever got shot down, I thought. Wait… 'Here are the men we have selected from among the Prominente prisoners for the Fountain of Life programme.''
''Fountain of Life?''
'The word is Lebensborn. Fine Nordic types all, says Trojan! That's us, I guess. Bloody hell. Good Aryan stock!'
'I don't want to be 'good Aryan stock,'' Gary murmured.
'Don't think you have a choice right now, old boy,' said Willis. 'And as we're standing ten feet from the Reichsfuhrer I'd advise you to hold your peace… We're to be a symbol of the unity of Nordic races globally, and a demonstration of the theory that Nordic qualities rise to the top, even among prisoners and other riffraff… Now he's saying something else. Can't quite get it. Something about a loom? A tapestry? That Standartenfuhrer – Trojan? – says he's finally tracked down the one missing component, and the weapon that will cement Aryan supremacy for all future and all past is at hand… Even for the Nazis this sounds a lot of guff. But look at old Himmler's piggy eyes gleaming behind those glasses. Whatever this rubbish is, he loves it.'
'What component?'
'Him, I think,' said Willis.
Two beefy SS guards dragged forward Ben Kamen. He stood trembling before a laughing Himmler.
X
14 October
Mary woke up to music from the Promi. The Nazi propaganda station was proving a furtive hit, even in free England. The announcer said that today was Hastings Day, yet another of the Nazis' endless memorials – and another day off for the lucky denizens of the protectorate. Lying in bed, Mary wondered if Gary was allowed to listen to the Promi.
Reluctantly she got up, to start another day without her son. But she had a faint hope that today might bring her that little bit closer to him.
Her journey to Birdoswald on this October Tuesday, organised by Tom Mackie, was hopefully going to be relatively civilised. A WAAF driver picked her up from her lodgings in Colchester to drive her all the way to Cambridge, where she would take the main east coast train line up to Newcastle. And from there she would be driven further, along the line of Hadrian's Wall to Birdoswald, where Mackie had his office.
The car journey itself was a novelty. You hardly drove anywhere these days, such was the shortage of fuel. They passed lorries and a few packed buses in Colchester itself, but in the open country they saw few vehicles. There were plenty of road blocks though, barriers and barbed wire and pillboxes, manned by nervous-looking Home Guard types. After ten miles or so the WAAF had to stop to show her identification. She took it cheerfully. 'More Home Guard on the road than traffic these days!' she said brightly to Mary. She was rather jolly-hockey-sticks, very English.
And as they set off again a squadron of planes, perhaps Hurricanes, came screaming overhead, flying low, heading south.
