The bell rang in the grey half-world that was always his just before dawn, at the edge of consciousness when memories and images form and shift and dissipate like clouds at a front. An uncomfortable but familiar place, a rattling place, a place Jurgen Mohr could smell and taste in his sleep, and the faces always the same. Sometimes they were smiling, more often wide-eyed with fear and screaming, and then that tight grey world shuddered until it was lost in an impenetrable blackness. But at such times he was calm, he was careless, he knew that darkness so well, knew its deep, deep emptiness. Perhaps one day he would be caught and it would hold him for ever. Twice now he had been drawn from it by a small red light. Groping towards it, clutching at nothing, he had found himself between the smoking engines of his boat. And Heine’s slight frame was bent over the starboard diesel with an oil can. He had reached out to touch his shoulder. The engineer had turned with a smile of recognition and pleasure. But his face was the beaten face of Lindsay’s photograph, one eye closed, his cheeks purple and the weal about his neck scarlet and black. And then the roll-call bell had rung in the hall below, as it was ringing now, and there was the comfort of boots on the boards outside the room and the sharp knock of his batman at the door.
The men were gathering on the broad terrace at the back of Stapley Hall, chatting, yawning, lighting the first cigarette of the day, some in civvies, some in air-force or navy blue, most in a mixture of the two. It was cool in the shade of the house, even on a bright August morning, with a hint of vapour when they spoke. The prisoners were falling through habit into ragged lines, watched by the sentries at the wire and in the towers at the corners of the terrace.
‘There seem to be more guards than usual, Herr Kap’tan.’
A tousled-looking Fischer was standing on the steps behind him.
‘Perhaps the camp commander is going to pay us a visit.’
There were forty soldiers at least, twice the regular complement, and a good number of unfamiliar faces.
As they watched, a party of ten men under the command of Sergeant Harrison began marching along the wire to the gate. It opened and Harrison gave a sharp blast on his whistle, the signal for the parade to come to order. Mohr dropped his cigarette and walked round the prisoners — their lines orderly now — to stand at their head, Brand, the Luftwaffe major, to his right and Fischer to his left. The guards took up positions in front of him, bayonets fixed, backs to the wire, then on a command from Harrison the headcount began, a corporal and two men walking through the lines. Mohr glanced at his watch. It would be over in five minutes; everyone would be present and correct enough for the British and then he would breakfast in his room.
But Sergeant Harrison did not blow his whistle or bellow a shrill parade-ground ‘Dismissed’. He put the piece of paper he had used to tot up the prisoners in his pocket and marched back to the gate. There was a rumble of surprise in the ranks and a Luftwaffe clown shouted something about breakfast that Mohr did not catch. He reached into his jacket for his cigarettes, to find there were only two left; he would buy more from the NAAFI at lunch-time. He took one and stroked it; half the cigarette, then he would dismiss the men himself. But as Fischer bent to light it for him, he saw out of the corner of his eye some British officers approaching the gate at the east end of the terrace.
‘Thank you, Fischer.’
Four officers in khaki led by Benson with his — what was it they called it in the movies? — his ‘posse’ of guards. They took up positions at the gate, rifles at the ready. Benson and the other officers marched on towards him.
‘Good morning, Captain.’ There was a chilliness in the Major’s voice Mohr had not heard before. ‘This is Lieutenant Cox from the Military Police. He will be leading your escort. You and a number of your men are being taken to another camp.’
No, Benson could not say where, there were no further details and there would be no time to pack.
‘I have the list here. Read it out, Harrison, would you.’
The sergeant took out his notepad, cleared his throat nervously, then began to read the names.
‘May I?’ Mohr asked with a dry smile and he took the pad. His name was at the top of the list, then Fischer, the officers of the 112 and the 500 and of course the propaganda reporter, Lange. No, they were not going to let it go.
‘I’m sure it will only be a temporary arrangement,’ said Benson uncomfortably.
Fischer read out the ten names to the parade. There was a murmur of concern as they stepped forward to be escorted to the gate.
‘Dismissed.’
The other men stood at the wire to watch as their officers were led under close escort round the east wing and under the great monkey puzzle tree to the carriageway. A green military bus was waiting in front of the Hall, its engine grumbling, the windows painted black. As they approached the bus door, Mohr caught a glimpse of navy-blue uniform through the windscreen and his pulse beat faster.
‘Wait here.’ Cox left them there and crunched round the front of the bus but he was back a minute later with Lindsay at his side. They were together only a moment but there was something in his movements, in his face, his smile, that Mohr had not seen before, a stillness, a quiet assurance, and it was unnerving: ‘You’ve come to escort us.’
Lindsay looked at him curiously for a few seconds and Mohr wondered if the composure in his voice had sounded a little studied.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked in German this time.
Still no reply. Then a guard prodded him sharply in the back with his rifle, forcing him to stumble on to the steps of the bus.
Mohr was woken by the cursing of the driver as the old military bus kangarooed to a halt. He yawned and glanced at his watch — they had been travelling for at least eight hours, with one brief stop for the lavatory and no food and now it was late evening. The military policeman opposite was sleeping, his rifle resting carelessly against the seat in front. Beyond the security partition he could hear someone climbing the steps and issuing orders to the driver. Fischer was snoring heartily across the aisle. Then the engine roared again and the bus began to roll forwards. He pressed his eye to a crack in the blackout paint on the window and hazy summer green seemed to flash by in the fading light, as if they were in a wood or a park. After a few minutes they began to slow down and then to crawl and there were more muffled orders before the driver lifted the heavy clutch and the bus shot forward, to stop seconds later. This time the engine coughed and died. The military policeman jerked upright and his gun clattered to the floor.
‘I won’t tell,’ and Mohr gave him his sweetest smile.
The soldier blushed the colour of his cap badge and got stiffly to his feet. Boots clattered on the bus steps and the screen door slid back with a screech.
‘All right, at the double.’
Another British sergeant stood squarely in the frame. The bus was close to the wire and it was a few seconds before Mohr realised with a start that it was parked in front of another great house, a finer house, its old bricks warm pink in the evening sunshine. It was elegant, handsome in an understated way, familiar — but it gave him no pleasure.