Cummings said, ‘Meet Henk. He’s the Pastor here. The Dutch Unitarian Church.’
I said, ‘They’re Lutherans, I think,’ and our new friend said, ‘That’s right. I am very pleased to meet you. I’m Henk Lammers.’
He held out his right hand for a brotherly clasp. When we shook hands his fingers wrapped around me like small pythons. He wore the dress black cassock of a French Abbé – which didn’t look terribly Unitarian to me. Doug and Cummings were smoking his cigarettes. They said that they’d found him in the church, asleep on a pew near the door. His English was very good – better than Doug’s come to that – and I asked him about it. He paused before saying, ‘Cambridge. Then I went to a church school in Wales. Do you know it?’
I said, ‘No: not even the Welsh know Wales. It’s not knowable.’
At least he was bright enough to recognize a joke when he heard one. Either that or he was a halfwit: because he smiled. Every time you spoke to him there was a small deliberate pause before he answered. Then he smiled.
Cummings asked the question.
‘What happened here?’
The Pastor drew deeply on his cigarette, exhaled, then ground his cigarette butt out on the church step before replying. He said, ‘I don’t know.’
I asked him, ‘All the people? Their animals?’
Pause.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Their vehicles? Their furniture?’
Pause.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you know?’
Pause.
‘Nothing. I arrived yesterday. It was like this.’
Cummings tried again. He was a more sympathetic interlocutor than I. He spoke gently. ‘Where did you come from, Father?’
Pause.
‘Den Haag. My Bishop sent me. He didn’t say that all of the people had left. I came by bus and walking. It was a long journey. Last night I waited, but nobody came, except the Americans. Did you see the four Americans?’
Cummings said, ‘Yes, we saw them.’
Pause.
‘They wouldn’t speak to me.’
‘They wouldn’t speak to us either. So no one came back last night?’
Pause.
‘No. This morning I knew that I would have to decide what to do next. I was hungry. So I slept – I get a better decision from a rested mind. Then you came.’
Doug had moved into the church. When he came out he said that it looked untouched, but empty. He brought out three suitcases tied up with string. Two were those nice leather travelling jobs that moved all over the Continent when people still travelled for pleasure. The third was smaller. I’d seen one like that before. Doug dropped them at our feet on the church steps. I was standing slightly behind Cummings facing the big Dutchman. I gave Cummings a small dig in the back before I spoke.
‘Sergeant, I think that the Pastor should come back with us to the squadron, don’t you? It’s not safe for him here.’
Lammers asked, ‘Squadron? You have aircraft near here?’ For the first time he hadn’t paused.
Cummings didn’t want me to answer, but I said, ‘No. Tanks. We can take care of you there.’
Lammers had taken a pace away, which put him a step above us, with Doug to his right on the same level. He replied, ‘Thank you, but no. I should wait for my people to return.’
I spoke softly, ‘I am afraid that I will insist.’
He said, avoiding eye contact this time, ‘It is not possible. I cannot come with you,’ and as he spoke his right hand dropped slowly. Maybe he was going to cry, and was going for his handkerchief. I got an eyelock on Doug, and dropped my glance to the pastor’s hand. Doug was bright enough to pick up on it. He let the hand almost disappear into the pocket before he casually swung the .303 he carried. Casual, but fast, and with some force. The brutal impact noise made me wince. Flesh and bone against metal. Doug said, ‘Sorry, sir. My mistake.’
The Dutchman screamed. That’s just the sort of noise I’d make if a clumsy Tommy had just crushed two of my fingers between the barrel of his rifle and my own gun. Doug’s hand dived into the pocket, and came out with a small pistol. He said, ‘How very naughty,’ and then, ‘Nice job. German Walther .30. Good souvenir.’
The churchman held one hand in the other. Blood dripped between his fingers. Cummings had drawn his own pistol by now. I’d once seen what an American Colt could do up close. He was refreshingly formal when he said, ‘I’m taking you into custody, Mr Lammers. My Captain will want to talk to you. If you answer his questions satisfactorily I’m sure that you will be allowed to return.’
The Dutchman looked at Doug and his .303, then looked steadily at Sergeant Cummings and his Colt pistol, then looked at me. He lifted a lip in a sneer, and spat on the step between us.
‘Piss off, yer gouk,’ he told one of us. I never worked out which one.
Before we left, Cummings asked me, ‘Would you mind going into the church, and saying a few words for those Yanks, sir? Don’t worry about chummy here. I’ll drop him if he so much as twitches.’
The church was dark and cool. They had left nothing but the pews. The altar was now just an uneven block of stone. I walked up to it, put my hand on it aware of a hundred years of prayer in this place, and silently asked the forgiveness of a being I didn’t believe in, for four American soldiers whom I didn’t believe I had seen. The sudden move into the sunlight out of the church made my eyes water.
Outside, Lammers had a bruise starting to show around his right eye. He was prodded off in front of us carrying his large cases. I took the smallest one because I didn’t want to let it out of my sight. It
