yourself bring you back with arms funny and legs funny and head funny – and naked and screaming dead face screaming dead and throw you on to the pile for burning – pork burning I held my head in both hands to stop it splitting in two. I was made to bring them back from the woods one day. They picked me and two others to wheel the cart out the gates and into a little piece of woodland behind the camp. It was pretty: birds, grass and the smell of green. But you knew you weren’t there to pick bluebells.
We followed a track and found two guards stripped to the waist, their white skin gleaming, contrasting with their tanned faces. One was sitting on a fallen tree, smoking. The other stood behind him, massaging his shoulders in a leisurely way.
Around them was the evidence of their morning exercise. Three naked, nameless men hung from the branches of a chestnut tree. It was a fine tree with fruit forming all over it.
The hanging men had their arms tied behind their backs. A rope was round their wrists and they’d been pulled up in the air so that their own weight dragged their bodies down and tore out their shoulder muscles and joints. The guards had been inventive. They’d tied stones to the swinging men’s ankles to add a little to the pain. Their bodies were covered with welts and bloody lines where they’d been whipped till their flesh disintegrated. Finally they’d been used as target practice for the guards’ Lugers. It must have been hot work.
We hauled them down and laid them gently on the cart and prayed to the god none of us believed in any more to spare us from being the centrepiece of the next picnic. As we shoved our laden little cart back out of the clearing I looked behind. The seated guard had his head arched back into the stomach of his friend and had his arms stretched behind him, round the other’s legs, pulling him to him.
I closed the notebook. There were other scribbles and other memories. The gaps were closing, but there was nothing good worth remembering. Days of blood and hunger. Wills bent wholly towards surviving the next hour. You couldn’t plan beyond that. To last a day was a triumph. To last a week or a month was so unlikely as to be not worth thinking about.
But it still left me with time unaccounted for. Time when I wasn’t in the camp.
Time when I was taken to the camp. Time when I was dropped into France. The only man who could have helped me fill in some of the missing pieces was dead. So it left one option. Val’s crazy option. I’d have to be just as crazy to even think of trying it.
So I began planning.
ELEVEN
I could think of two ways of cracking the SOE records department. I could be a sneak-thief and break in through a window in the dead of night. Baker Street comprised a number of blank-faced buildings with back entrances for deliveries and despatch riders. So I could probably find my way round and in. The problem would be the noise of breaking glass and alerting the security guards.
The other approach was to brazen it out and march in though the front door during daylight hours. I’d find a hiding hole and wait till everyone had gone home. Pretty chancy and completely dependent on the doorman being dozy. And I’d still have to get out again. Unless I waited till the next day and slipped out through the crowds.
I took a morning stroll along Baker Street to remind myself of the layout and to see how well-manned the entrance was. It gave me a funny feeling walking past. I could see the younger version of me bounding in for the final briefing sessions.
Then nothing, until time restarted in an English hospital, like coming round from anaesthetic. I was half expecting my younger self to appear at any moment;
I could call out to him, tell him to watch out… but for what?
I was last here in September. The dark brown three-piece demob suit felt very new and rough on my skin. It even smelled new. From at least six feet away it looked smart enough. And to be fair, nobody looked any better dressed. With my new trench-coat and hat, and a good pair of shoes, I felt life could restart.
All I wanted was some information about the last year. I thought the chaps in SOE would be able to help.
I’d phoned ahead from the hospital and arranged to see Major Cassells who ran agent selection and training. I recognised the security man at the door.
“Hello, Stan. How are you, then? Still got back problems?”
“It’s this weather. It always… why, Captain McRae, isn’t it? Good to see you back, sir. I trust you’re well?” He squinted at my face sympathetically.
“Better than I was, Stan, and that’s for sure. I’m here to see Major Cassells.
Can you bell him?”
“Certainly, sir. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll send a lad along to his office?”
I sat down and waited. The hallway and little reception area were unchanged: grey lino and camouflage- green walls. The chairs were government issue wooden jobs with slippery seats and a right-angled back. There was no position that was comfortable except ramrod straight and hands in lap. Designed by drill sergeants. I leafed through some well-pawed Reader’s Digests. None was more recent than June ’44. I suppose they thought they wouldn’t need any more after D Day and could economise.
About twenty minutes later I heard army shoes chewing up the lino and saw the Major heading my way. Cassells was immediately familiar to me, though he was greyer and more lined. He looked harassed. He was in civvies apart from the shoes. His hand was outstretched from about ten paces out.
“Hello, old chap. You look well. Better than I expected, actually, from the hospital reports.” He laughed.
“I’m still a bit shaky, sir, but coming along. Good of you to see me.”
“No, no. It’s all right. And the name’s Gerald. We can drop all that rank stuff now. Glad to do what I can for our agents. Lost enough of them. Good to see the ones who got back, don’t you know.”
We walked back along the hall to his office. It was piled high with boxes. His desk was under inches of paper. He lifted a couple of crates off his spare chair and got me to sit down. He sat back in his own and steepled his hands under his chin. He looked pensive.
“Sorry about the state of things here, Daniel. We’re closing up shop in a few months. Disbanding. Pity, really. We were getting quite good as this. But who needs chaps like us in peace time, eh? So, what can we do for you?”
“You know about my memory loss?” He nodded. “Well, I’m trying to fill in some of the gaps. Like how I ended up in Dachau.”
Cassells was nodding his head off. “Absolutely, dear boy. Quite understand. Do the same myself.” He reached over to his packed in-tray and dug out a thick pink folder. “Got your file, here. Took a quick squiz the other day, eh?” He opened it and held it up like a book so I couldn’t read it upside down. He stopped on one of the first pages. He read it and glanced at me, then flicked on. There seemed to be a couple of envelopes as well as carbons and other documents. I had the impression he was already pretty familiar with it; the dumb show was for my benefit. He closed the file and sat back.
“You had a rough time of it, no mistake. A rough time. Don’t remember a thing, eh? No bad thing. Lot of jolly nasty stuff went on in these camps. Best to forget, eh?”
“I’m sure you’re right, Gerald. It’s just… “
“Course. Course. Not very complicated. May ’44 it says. Picked up by Gestapo.
Probably some local did it for money. Happened a lot. Sent you to Dachau. Bad show that.” He frowned, as though someone had tossed a low ball at cricket. That was it? “I’d thought I’d hear a little more detail than that, Gerald. I don’t particularly want to relive my camp experiences, but I do want to know what happened in France. What about my old boss, Major Caldwell?”
Cassells looked even more uncomfortable. He began tapping my folder with his index finger. I noticed how stained it was with nicotine. I always use a pumice.
“Demobbed, d’you see?”
“Is there a way of contacting him? Where does he live? I’d just like to have a chat with him.”
He was shaking his head. “’Fraid not, old chap. No forwarding address. Once chaps are out, they’re out. And we’re closing up shop,” he reminded me.
