Alphabet House (20 page)

All the other advantages were Lankau’s.

A web of remarkable liana vines rustled above Bryan’s head. Long, thin roots in the tangled branches. Lifelines searching downward for nourishment and a foothold. Right in front of his face they had twisted into a spongy Gordian knot. The soft ground delayed Bryan’s take-off, but it affected Lankau’s forward leap as well.

Bryan was above his assailant in only three grasps up the vine, ready to fall on him. Lankau’s neck made a cracking sound as Bryan’s full weight crashed into the man’s raised head. Lankau’s entire body collapsed like a rag doll. Bryan felt no resistance. Only passive, soft flesh that slid under the water and remained there.

The fight was over before it had begun. Bryan took a couple of steps backwards and let himself tumble heavily onto the slope as he watched the eddies of water gradually subside above Lankau’s body. The surrounding landscape was slowly taking
on more detail. It was scarcely an hour till sunrise. His mind went blank for a couple of seconds. When he began wondering why there were no more bubbles rising from Lankau’s body, it was too late.

The broad-faced man had already opened his eyes before he popped up to the surface. His eyelashes were muddied and the expression on the mask-like face was maniacal.

The knife was still in his hand and his grip was firm. Bryan was on his feet before Lankau managed to complete his deadly mission.

In a weary reflex Bryan struck out with his left arm and received a deep and painful cut from Lankau’s knife. With the knife buried to the handle just above the elbow, Bryan withdrew his arm so violently that Lankau stumbled forward. It was the broad-faced man’s own massive weight that did the work when Bryan stuck his fingers in his eyes.

The scream of pain came instantly. Lankau fell backwards onto the bank, pressing his hands to his face. He lay defenceless in the mud, kicking his legs and howling, half-covered by the filthy, churned-up water. A burst of machine-gun fire came from quite close by. Bryan made his way up the embankment without looking back, leaving his enemy to his fate.

Not until he’d passed the last windbreak before the dyke did he throw himself to his knees, exhausted. He drew the knife out cautiously. The wound beside his elbow wasn’t bleeding as much as he’d feared. It had been a clean and lucky stab.

For lack of anything better he tore some strips off his outer dressing gown for a temporary bandage. It was damned cold. So cold that the perilous waters flowing past him didn’t seem so forbidding. He simply couldn’t be any colder than he was. And yet the view that met him on the edge of the dyke was both frightful and baffling.

Further down the bank of the dyke an armoured vehicle was approaching. Several barrier gates were standing open alongside
the wheel tracks, allowing free passage for the convoys heading northward with their supplies.

Bryan pressed himself flat to the ground. He had to get away. There was no cover on the dyke. On the other side of the waterway he could just make out the dark shoreline that stretched a few hundred yards to the north, whereupon it disappeared into a wider body of water. So he was lying by a long shoal, covered with vegetation, which divided the Rhine in two.

This lucky coincidence meant Bryan could take on the current in two rounds. A short pause on the shoal would allow him to catch his breath. By the time the lorry’s headlights lit up the piles of peat a few yards from him, he’d already rolled the rest of the way down into the water that was to lead him back to life.

Bryan had been mistaken. The water was colder than death. So cold that his dressing gown was an advantage, despite its weight and resistance. His body was nearing a critical state of hypothermia. Bryan knew the danger signals. He’d seen severely chilled paratroopers plop defencelessly to the ground, unable to brace themselves for the impact. That kind of cold came stealthily and relentlessly, regardless of the will to live.

The organism simply came to a halt.

And then there was the current. Though impossible, it felt as if the melted ice-water season was in full swing. Since he could do little else, Bryan let himself drift with the current. He saw the shoal glide backwards past him and disappear.

The Rhine was broad here. Bryan couldn’t tell how wide, since he was lying so low in the water, but at least wide enough to make it impossible for his alternately floating, swimming figure to be spotted from either shore in the semi-darkness. Unless he was caught in the beams of light that swept over the river from time to time.

Two dead bodies popped up, seemingly out of nowhere, and lay still in the middle of the river. Bloated as they were, they must have been in the water for some time. One soldier’s face was
already splitting open in spite of the cold. The other corpse lay so low in the water that Bryan could scarcely see it.

The exchange of fire on the western bank was now almost constant. Bryan held onto the second body as he tried to determine whether there were any signs of life on the shore. His body temperature was so low that he would have to make for the shore within a few minutes, whatever the cost. The first bridge rose a few hundred yards in front of him. Faint lights further northward indicated another high bridge. Between them the engineer corps could have handily laid out a number of pontoon bridges. The need for lifelines over the river was considerable that night.

Flashes from mortar shelling came almost without pause and the din made the air quiver. Occasionally Bryan heard screams.

The dead soldier rolled onto his back, pitching gently as Bryan let go of him. Only then did Bryan see why he hadn’t floated further down river. Thin, parallel, vertical stripes slowly appeared out of the darkness of the water, tracing a pattern. The corpse had been caught in a grating. It may have been a coincidence, but in that spot it seemed as if the grating ran lengthwise along the entire river, dividing it in two. As the day grew lighter, more and more tiny ripples appeared on the surface around snagged branches and rubbish.

The grating meant he would be visible from the shore during the brief moment it would take to crawl over it. The eastern shore was calm, but the western shore could easily be harbouring his assassin. Bryan had only his sight to rely on. No human sounds would be able to penetrate the cacophony of artillery fire.

Bryan took firm hold of the barrier on the far side of the eroded spikes and plopped down backwards on the redeeming side. Breathing heavily, he clung to the grating and inspected the shore.

He would attempt to reach land precisely at that spot. Clumps of trees were waving in the breeze. The vegetation seemed
dense and protective. There he would try to get warm before proceeding further.

Only an animal would have sensed the danger. Bryan was as unprepared for the iron grip on his arm as an old man struck with a sudden heart attack.

The feeling that something had risen from the dead in order to take possession of him was nothing compared with what Bryan felt when he looked into Lankau’s half-obliterated bestial face. Bryan could only utter a choked scream. The grip on his neck drew him down until the water closed over him. So this was where he was to end his life. His adversary willed it so.

In a last feeble, stubborn attempt, Bryan found his footing on the grating’s crossbar and pushed. Lankau had no intention of letting go and bellowed with pain when his underarm got stuck in the mesh that separated them. It was Bryan’s salvation.

The shots from the shore came from behind and made the broad-faced man roar even louder. Then he grew silent and relaxed his grip. Finally he let go. He looked quite mortal and vulnerable as he clung to the spikes, watching Bryan swim towards land. The burst of gunfire ceased as suddenly as it had begun.

The German soldiers on the shore had other things to do.

Still some way from shore, Bryan had to give up. His limbs could function no longer. The current in the shallow water was not strong enough to keep him afloat. Bryan had to let his legs drop, even though the shore of salvation was right in front of him. Another couple of eddies of the current swept him around in the water. And then he sank.

Bryan later recalled that he’d begun to laugh. Then, just before the water engulfed him, his feet touched bottom.

His final wading steps ashore were accompanied by the cool embrace of daylight. Now the rattle of small arms was coming from the south. Despite the sporadic density of the vegetation,
the shore bore witness to the fact that the night’s skirmishes had taken their toll. Bryan shuddered when he saw the uniform.

The countryside was flat. The American soldier had been taken unawares by the sudden clearing in the thicket. He still looked surprised. Bryan lay down next to the corpse and rubbed his frostbitten blue fingers.

The soldier’s clothing would provide his body with some encouraging warmth.

Bryan looked around. The shoal in the middle of the river lay far behind, with several barges decorating its point. Another barge was tethered a bit further up the river’s western shore. It was heavily loaded with manure. The stench reached all the way down to him, reminding him of tranquil days gone by. Then explosions to the north brought him back to reality.

Lankau’s broad face was just a speck out in the river.

‘Can you tell me about this
obergruppenführer
again? Was he being guarded? Was he locked up? Was he insane? Do you know anything for sure?’ The intelligence officer named Wilkens had bright yellow fingertips. He lit yet another cigarette. Presumably his colleagues had warned him. Bryan Underwood Scott Young was not particularly communicative.

Bryan wrinkled his nose as the smoke reached his nostrils. ‘I don’t know, sir! I think he was mad. But I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.’

‘You spent over ten months in that hospital. You must have formed an opinion as to who was ill and who was not.’

‘Do you really think so?’ Bryan closed his eyes again. He was tired. Captain Wilkens had asked him the same questions over and over again. He was seeking simple explanations. Again he inhaled deeply and studied Bryan a long while before exhaling. With the cigarette stuck between the base of his fingers, he suddenly raised his hand and waved it abruptly at Bryan as if to draw some kind of response. The ash landed on the edge of Bryan’s bed. ‘I’ve stated several times that the general was insane! I think he was, in any case.’ Bryan looked down at the floor and continued tonelessly. ‘Yes, I’m convinced he was.’

‘How’s it going here?’ The army surgeon had entered the room without anyone noticing. ‘We must be making progress, Mr Young.’ Bryan shrugged his shoulders. Wilkens leaned back in his chair. His irritation at being interrupted was well concealed.

‘I don’t like having to talk. My tongue still feels wrong.’

‘Not so strange, is it?’ The army surgeon smiled and nodded at the captain, who was already gathering up his notes.

Bryan laid his head back on the pillow. Since the American infantrymen had picked him up nearly three weeks earlier he’d had enough of his native tongue. He had been questioned for an eternity. The many months in linguistic isolation had made
him overly sensitive to questions. The answers seemed of no consequence.

Even though the doctors had assured him repeatedly that he would suffer no permanent harm from his stay in the mental hospital, he knew it couldn’t be true. Perhaps the scars on his body would contract, perhaps his incomprehensible moodiness would gradually fade away and his brain tissue be restored after the shock treatment. Maybe his constant fear of losing his life would release its nightmarish grip on him. But the real wound, the feeling of having let someone down, became deeper every day. They couldn’t heal that, nor did they even try.

The nights were long.

Even when he was still in the American field hospital in Strasbourg there were reports that the centre of Freiburg had been reduced to rubble. ‘In less than twenty minutes,’ it was proudly stated. Since then, James had been on his mind day and night.

He and James had been listed as missing ever since they were shot down. For months their families had been inconsolable. His most difficult task would be having to look the Teasdales in the face. They would never see their son again. Bryan felt sure of it. Everything else seemed uncertain.

‘Wait and see. Your tongue won’t give you any more problems. It’s just a matter of training. But it would probably go a bit quicker if you spoke a little more during these sessions. You must force yourself to talk, Mr Young. It’s the only thing that will help.’ Snow flurries had given way to rain and the fogged-up windows made it impossible for the doctor to see out. He often stood with his back to Bryan, wiping off the windowpane as he spoke.

‘You have been recommended a medal for bravery. I hear you intend to refuse it. Is that so?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it that story about your friend that still haunts you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you realise you’ll have to cooperate with the intelligence officers if you expect to have a chance of seeing your friend again?’

Bryan frowned.

‘All right, then. But I have decided to keep you at the hospital a while longer. Your body wounds will probably be healed within a couple of weeks. I’m convinced the tendons in your arm aren’t so badly damaged after all. All in all, your wounds are healing very well.’ The surgeon general’s somewhat superficial smile made his bushy eyebrows meet. ‘But your mind has to have a chance to keep pace with it, am I right?’

‘Then send me home.’

‘But if we did that, we wouldn’t get answers to our questions, would we, Mr Young? Besides, it’s pretty early yet, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Maybe…’ Bryan looked towards the window. The panes were misted up again. ‘But I haven’t any more to say. I’ve told you everything I know.’

A tall, young girl turned away from the bed opposite, where her badly wounded brother lay. An ordinary Welsh girl with thick hair and a bun in the back. She inspired confidence and calm. Her smile reflected optimism.

A few days after New Year they began to indicate that Bryan would soon be sent home. Christmas had been lonely. The desire to recover in the company of his loved ones had become urgent.

The Welsh girl was the only person he would miss.

The questioning ceased two weeks into the new year. Bryan was allowed to get out of bed. He had nothing more to tell them.

Intelligence officer Wilkens’ final visit was on a Tuesday. The previous evening he had told Bryan he could expect to be discharged at 1200 hours the following day, 16 January 1945, and that he would be expected to report to base in Gravely at 1400 hours on 2nd February. The remaining instructions would be sent direct from Castle Hill House to his home in Canterbury.

Bryan answered the questions mechanically. The thought of having to fly again didn’t appeal to him at all. He doubted whether he could.

‘We want to make sure of the hospital’s position just once more, Mr Young.’

‘Why? I’ve told you at least ten times.’ Bryan looked around. The officer was puffing on a stub of cigarette so close to his fingernails that Bryan turned his back on him, feeling nauseated, and stepped out into the corridor. Here there was plenty of activity. It was hard to say where there were more patients, in the rooms or in the corridors. A broad staircase led directly to the floor below where there was yet another row of beds, packed so close together that it was almost impossible to tell one from the other.

‘Why do we want to know this, Mr Young?’ Wilkens followed behind Bryan. ‘Because we’d like to feel completely certain that we’ve wiped out that viper’s nest!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Bryan spun around and was caught by the cold eyes that met him.

‘By that I mean, yesterday Freiburg im Breisgau was bombed by 107 B-17s. They dropped 269 tons of bombs, which doesn’t mean a thing to me, but apparently it’s a lot. And while we’re at it, Mr Young, I can also tell you that a couple of these tons were earmarked for your old hospital. So I don’t think we need be afraid of that loony bin hatching any more pigs for frontline slaughter, do we?’

Later, even Bryan himself couldn’t say whether or not it had been deliberate. All the young Welsh girl could relate was that Bryan had simply fallen backwards down the stairs at that precise moment. The doctors thought he’d broken a bone for every stair he hit.

In his file it was reported to have been an accident.