Weaver (15 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh, how formal,’ the woman said.

George blinked. ‘You’re English,’ he said to the woman.

‘As you are,’ said Trojan, ‘but rather brighter, as she is fighting on the right side in this unnecessary war. So tell me, this is the centre of your town government? Your mayor is here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I shall need to speak to him. We have much to discuss, the details of the occupation, and so forth.’

‘I’ll call him for you—’

‘No.’ Trojan held up a hand. ‘Not yet. You will do for now. I think I rather like you, Constable Tanner! Now tell me - who is left in this town? It’s pretty much deserted, isn’t it?’

‘We’ve tried to move out the bulk of the population, yes, sir. But there are a few who couldn’t be moved - or wouldn’t. The hospital is pretty full, what with the air raids and the land battles. The nurses and some of the doctors have stayed on for that. The mayor’s essential staff are here, as are units of the police.’

‘Very good. But why are you here, Constable Tanner? Why aren’t you in the hills taking pot-shots at our tanks? Are you going to prove a useful collaborator?’

Fiveash laughed.

George stiffened. ‘I have my orders. I’m here for the benefit of the remaining civilian population. Not to collaborate.’

Trojan nodded. ‘No doubt that will be a fine distinction to make in the coming months.’

‘I imagine it will, sir.’

‘Well, we will have orders for you to implement. A census to be taken. Identity cards to be issued. Wireless sets to be collected from the population. Soon we will be arranging the delivery of food, and so forth. We will get your pretty little town functioning again, Constable!’

George said, ‘What about clean-up?’

‘Clean-up?’

George gestured. ‘The bomb damage.’ Buildings reduced to heaps of bricks and beams were visible even from here, and the air was still stained by the smoke of the fires.

‘Oh, I don’t think we’re terribly interested in that. As long as you all have roofs over your heads - yes? Now’ - he studied George - ‘do you know where “Battle is, man?’

‘Of course I know. Sir.’

‘I intend to drive there later this evening.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Another hour or two should see the place secured. This Wehrmacht fellow of mine is rather an oaf, and a clumsy driver. We are in England; it would be appropriate for me to have an English bobby as my driver, don’t you think?’

Fiveash laughed. ‘Oh, what a spiffing idea! But, mind, Constable, the Germans will insist on your driving on the right, continental style.’

George kept his voice steady. ‘If you order me to come with you to Battle, I’ll do it, sir. But I won’t drive for you.’

‘Ah, that fine distinction already! Even knowing that I could have you shot in a second if you refuse my requests?’

George said nothing; he stared back at Trojan, unblinking.

Trojan turned away. ‘It would be a pity to waste such a promising character so quickly. And besides, I need to give these Wehrmacht chaps something to do while the SS gets the country sorted out. Very well, then - ride with me, Constable. Now then, where is that mayor of yours?’

So, at about eight p.m. that Sunday evening, George found himself gazing at the back of a Wehrmacht soldier’s crisply shaven neck as he was driven in Standartenfuhrer Trojan’s Bentley at speed along the road to Battle. The mayor had to content himself with a ride in a Kubelwagen following on behind. Of course this was a not very subtle slight, but Harry Burdon had shrugged. ‘We’ll have to put up with a lot worse before this wretched business is over, George.’

There were still refugees from the day’s earlier flight limping up the road, lumps of misery and humiliation, some of them heading back to the town. Trojan insisted that the driver stick to the right, and men, women and children had to scramble out of the way; George was only glad that they got through the journey without anyone being run down.

At Battle more refugees lined up in the streets of the tiny old town, sitting on the pavements, hundreds of them controlled by a handful of strutting German soldiers. Remarkably a couple of officers were making their way through the crowd, asking questions, jotting down notes. Always methodical, the Germans, it seemed. The town itself showed signs of war damage - blown-out windows, the tarmac chewed up by tank tracks.

The car pulled up outside the Abbey gatehouse. The standartenfuhrer looked around curiously. ‘So this is Battle; this is the Abbey - commissioned by William the Conqueror to commemorate his famous victory, am I correct?’

‘Yes, sir,’ George said uneasily. ‘It’s now a school ... Look, Standartenfuhrer Trojan - the refugees - there are old people. Children. The ill. Some of them are wounded from the strafing. A night without shelter will be harsh. I mean, the most fragile could be taken into the Abbey.’

‘Ah, but I need the Abbey as a billet for my soldiers.’

Julia grinned. ‘The Germans have a name for such people, Constable Tanner. Useless mouths!’

George flared at her. ‘They are English, madam, as you are.’

Julia made to snap back, but Trojan touched her arm. ‘No, my dear, let it go. And besides, we have no wish to appear callous to the British, a people with whom we have no genuine quarrel, none at all. Constable, I’ll see to it that something is done for the neediest. You may advise, if you wish.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Well, well,’ came a familiar voice from the crowd. ‘Just where I’d expect to find you, George - in harm’s way.’

‘Mary?’ He turned around. She was walking towards him, limping a bit, and her hair was still grimy from the raids. But she was healthy enough. George took her hands. ‘I wish I could say it’s good to see you.’

‘Yeah. Well, so much for fleeing; I didn’t get very far.’

He forced a laugh. ‘You should have stayed with me and hitched a ride in a Bentley. Listen,’ he whispered, ‘never mind these posturing arseholes. The invasion’s not won yet ...’

‘Is that an American accent?’ Trojan approached, with Fiveash at his heel.

George took a breath. ‘Standartenfuhrer Trojan, this is Mrs Mary Wooler. She’s a friend of mine, from Hastings. And, yes, she’s an American citizen.’

‘Ah. Then you have no need to hide amongst this rabble, Mrs Wooler. You are a foreign neutral, and your rights will of course be respected. Tell me, what brings you to Britain?’

‘Long story. I’m a historian by profession. Since war broke out I’ve been working as a correspondent.’

He puzzled over the word. ‘You mean a reporter? For which newspaper?’

‘The
Boston Traveller.’

‘Really? Then I am very happy indeed to have met you, Mrs Wooler, at this propitious moment.’

Tired, grubby, she was wary. ‘Propitious?’

‘Come, please.’ He offered her his arm.

Mary stared back. ‘I’ll come with you. But I won’t take your SS-UNIFORMED arm, Standartenfuhrer Trojan.’

‘Very well. But remember, I am not your enemy. Constable,
would you lead the way?’

So they walked through the gatehouse and into the grounds of the Abbey, and past the abbot’s hall and the cloister. George looked out from the terrace over the shadowed hillside where once Saxons and Normans had fought over the destiny of England; now German voices echoed there. Then George led the party back through the grounds, past the ruin of the old dormitory, to the site of the Abbey’s first church. It was long demolished, but there was a particular point on the ground that Trojan wanted to see.

‘Mrs Wooler, you are the historian - it is here that Harold fell?’

‘As best anybody knows. I mean, William wanted his church consecrated here, with the high altar right on that spot, even though it wasn’t a too convenient place for an abbey. It has no water supply; it needed a hell of a lot of terracing. So here it must be that Harold fell; there’s no reason to have built here otherwise.’

The SS officer walked around the unremarkable piece of ground. ‘How astonishing.’ He smiled, at Julia, George, Mary, the soldiers who discreetly shadowed them. ‘Then on this spot I give you my pledge. I want you t
o write this down, Mrs Wooler, so that it may be transmitted to the world, and to posterity.’

Mary stared at him. Then she fumbled in her pockets for a pen and a bit of paper.

Trojan declaimed, ‘We of the SS have come here not for conquest. We come to liberate England, a nation with proud Aryan roots, from the subjugation of the Latin conquerors. And we come to avenge the illegal murder of King Harold. I, Josef Trojan, swear by my mother’s life that I will not rest until that historic catastrophe is put right, and the Aryan destiny of England restored.’ He glanced at Mary. ‘Did you get that? Was my English adequate?’

‘You Nazis really are as crazy as they say, aren’t you?’

George held his breath.

But Trojan just laughed. ‘Oh, not crazy, Mrs Wooler. I mean my promise to be taken literally - and it will be fulfilled, literally. You will see.’ He snapped his fingers, and to George’s astonishment the Wehrmacht driver produced a bunch of flowers, late roses, purloined who knew how. Trojan scattered the flowers on the spot where the last English king had fallen. ‘For Harold Godwineson!’ He shouted the name, and it rang through the English dusk.

By Sunday night the POWs reached Bexhill, from where they were to be moved on by truck.

They were crammed into the trucks, some German military stock and others purloined farm wagons, maybe fifty men to a vehicle. There was no room to sit or lie down. Ben was stuck somewhere in the middle of the truck, surrounded by a forest of greatcoats that stank of cordite and mud and blood.

The truck swayed as it drove, and he was thrown against the bodies of the others, and they against him. In the night it was pitch dark. There wasn’t even a glimmer of headlights to be seen; the Germans seemed to be operating under blackout rules. The prisoners had no food, no water. And of course there was no toilet. You just went where you stood, and after a while the floor of the truck swam with piss and shit and a few pools of vomit.

He thought he slept a little. It was hard to tell. The journey had the quality of a nightmare.

Once Ben slipped on a puddle of something, and would have fallen. But a beefy hand caught him under the arm, and hauled him back upright.

‘There you go, mate.’

‘Say, thanks, I was nearly down in the dirty stuff there.’

‘You’re all right. What accent’s that? Canadian?’

It was the man who had tried to help him during the march. Ben could barely understand him, and couldn’t see the man’s face. ‘Um, I spent a few years in America. But I came from Austria originally.’

To his surprise the man understood. ‘You a refugee from the Nazis, then? I saw plenty of them in France.’

‘You were with the BEF?’

‘Yep. Barely got out of that without my arse being blown up by Stuka bombers, and after five minutes over here I’ve been jugged. Not having a good year, am I?’

‘I guess not. I don’t recognise your accent. Are you Scottish?’

‘Not likely. I’m Scouse. From Liverpool. Used to be a house painter before the war.’

‘So did Hitler,’ someone said, and there was a rumble of weary laughter.

‘Danny,’ the Liverpudlian said. ‘Danny Adams.’

‘I’m Ben.’

‘You just hold on, Ben, you’ll be all right.’

‘Yeah.’

When the dawn came the trucks jolted to a halt, and Ben was shaken awake. The backs of the trucks were opened up, and to German shouts the men jumped down to the ground. They were clumsy and stiff, and many fell, after a night spent standing up. But they helped each other, the fifty or so men in Ben’s truck. Within a few minutes they were all standing in a rough huddle, surrounded by German troopers with rifles, and dogs, three big Alsatians, on leads.

‘Bad news, lads,’ someone called on seeing the dogs. ‘They’ve shipped their girlfriends over.’ That was met with a snarl in German. ‘All right, Funf, keep your helmet on.’

By the dawn light Ben tried to see what kind of place he had been brought to. He was in what seemed to be an open field, coated with green grass, on a raised rectangular scrap of ground. Truck wheels had churned the turf. The earth was cut up by grassy ditches, and the whole space was enclosed by a ruined wall. At the heart of the site Ben made out a concrete platform with the remains of a kind of cross structure embedded in it. Two Germans in the black uniform of the SS were strutting about this centrepiece, pointing at it with swagger sticks and gazing around at the site.

The air was fresh; he could smell the sea. ‘Where the hell are we?’

A murmur went around the men. One of them, a local, recognised the place. This was Richborough, at the very eastern extremity of Kent. Another old Roman ruin, now in the hands of the Nazis.

A party of Germans came forward, laden with shovels. One of their officers put his hands on his hips and shouted at the POWs: ‘Welcome to your holiday camp, gentlemen. We must ask you to pay for your deposits by digging out your latrines.’ The soldiers threw the shovels on the floor.

‘Oh, good,’ said Danny Adams. ‘A German comedian. I feel better already.’

The men moved forward, grumbling.

Mary was woken by a smart rap at the door, a German voice.

A crack in the blackout curtains let her see her watch; it was six a.m. Oddly she remembered what day it was, a Monday. But not for the first time recently she had trouble remembering where she was.

As an American, Standartenfuhrer Trojan had made it clear, she was an honoured guest. So on the Sunday night the Germans had given Mary this billet, a kind of store room in the school that had been built into Battle Abbey, a box with a few mops, a stink of bleach, and no furniture but a heap of English army blankets. But the power was on, and there was a bathroom nearby, with running water, thanks to the efficiency of the German engineers who had already restored the supply. Mary had been racked with guilt at the thought of the people she’d walked with, who were going to be spending the night out on the street. But there was nothing she could do for them, and, by God, she needed sleep. Now she washed quickly, used the toilet, and dressed and gathered up her shabby possessions.