"God in heaven! Whats this?" A swarthy man in a black beret shouted in surprise when he saw rising, from the top of the stack, Jons red head and crumpled shoulders all covered in straw. Jon sensed his anxiety. Flighty emerged along side him. Both escapees raised their hands. The farmer speaking in a local dialect, chattered and gesticulated. Jon and Flighty slid down the stack and stood waiting, still with arms raised.
"English. Prisoners. Run away," Jon touched his uniform, and then stepped hesitantly forward with his hand outstretched.
"Ah, Engleesh'. Soldiers? Cum, Cum. Quick." The man in the black beret thrust his strawcutting knife into the ground, and led Flighty and Jon into the nearest farmstead. He took them into a large airy barn a little way off from the house.
Communication was difficult, but with Jons knowledge of German, and the smattering of English that the local man knew, a few facts were soon collected. It transpired that indeed the country they were imprisoned in was Poland and the main camp was near Thorun. The Germans had occupied the surrounding land, and commandeered the farm. The local family was allowed to farm their small holding just enough for their immediate needs, but were under constant surveillance. The farmer seemed nervous and in a hurry, so he hid the escapees behind some stacked potatoes and put his hand to his lips, and signalled them to sit down.
"Funny situation," whispered Flighty. "We're totally in his hands. God, I'm famished. Would like to scrounge some fruit from that orchard we just went through."
"Dont be so damn silly," retorted Jon. "We've got to trust him. There's nothing else we can do. Forgetting how to trust, we are, in the life weve led. Gotta good feeling about him. You could do with food, I need a smoke, so were quits." Warm, but anxious, they sat waiting.
"Someones coming," whispered Flighty.
The farmer arrived. He carried a dirty bag, but inside the bag appeared what seemed magic to the escapees. There was a flask of hot coffee, some bread and some slices of sausage meat and cheese. There was also a stiff drink of home brewed 'alcholol' that tasted like fire-water, but once swallowed burned in the belly comfortably. Tears swelled up in the farmers eyes when he saw the way the food was grabbed and swallowed. When everything was eaten and drunk he signalled the two men to sit and wait again.
"Best meal of my life," whispered Jon. "Now I'm game to face the future. Will try and get a chat with the fella somehow. Get some information."
"Feel a bit safer now," agreed Flighty. "You were right, think we can trust him." Both men fell into a troubled sleep, and the suns rays soon fell lower and lower through the cracks in the wooden wall. When it was dark they heard the familiar tread of the farmers footsteps. This time he carried a sack. Inside the sack was a double set of clothing, more food, some tobacco, paper, and matches. Jon made the farmer sit beside them, and with urgent whispering, many gesticulations, some humour, and some sorrow, and German language interspersed with the signs, Jon found out much about the local situation. It appeared that the farmer had lost his own son a year before in a local skirmish with the occupying forces. Food was scarce, and all movement monitored. The farmer expressed his sorrow that he could not entertain them with his wife and family, but, he explained, he dare not take the risk that the farm workers might see the strangers and report them. He urged the two men to change their clothes and be on their way as quickly as they could. He muttered the word Stettin over and over again. The longer the farmer stayed the more nervous he became.
"Best we go quick. While its still dark. The old chap is getting anxious. He sure has been wonderful, risking everything to help us." While talking Jon and Flighty sorted out and changed into the civilian clothing. The farmer took their prison gear and indicated that he would burn the stuff.
Emotions overtook both younger men and the old farmer when the time came for departure. Tears streamed down the old mans face and he patted them on the shoulder. Flighty looked away, but Jon felt his eyes smarting. When Jon tried to express his thanks the farmer shook his head and turned the two round as if to speed them away. It was still dark, the stars shone brightly, the dogs were silent, and the two men started on their second day of freedom.
"Lady Lucks been our ally, so far," laughed Jon.
"Wonder whats happening at camp? They must have alerted everyone local. Hope that chap covers up our tracks," forever anxious Flighty voiced his concerns.
"What now?" continued Flighty.
"Move west by night, and hide up by day. can't do anything else. Were still too conspicious to travel by public transport, and weve no money. Gotta bit of food." Jon assessed the plans.
"Wouldnt mind doing a bit o stealing," added Flighty.
"O.K, but just dont get caught. Thats the most important thing. Could do with something fresh myself." Then Jon remembered that while on the booth they had stopped once by a river, and Jock had showed him how to tickle trout. "Next river we come to, well have a go at catching fish. Never done it by moonlight, but its worth a try."
Tempers were fraying by the third night. There was water in abundance, but the food the farmer had given them was rapidly diminishing. Walking without a stop for the eight hours of darkness was tiring and stressful. No maps, always on the outlook for untoward noises, uncertainty. Jon felt Flightys unease, and Flighty blamed him for organising such a hairbrained scheme. On the third night they found a river, scampering over shallow rocks and with deep pools but well away from farmland, roads and habitation.
"Going to waste time? Trying to catch a fish without bait?" Flighty was uncooperative and aggressive. Jon took no notice, but lay on the bank with his hand in the water, quite still. He soon felt the quiver of water over his wrists and knew that something was disturbing the flow. Slowly he followed the current with his hand, then felt the fish's body. Instantly he flicked his hand and wrist, and a fat troutlike fish landed on the land.
"Bravo," whispered Flighty. "Sorry what I said. I'll try to start a fire back in the woods." Successful with a second fish, Jon found that Flighty had managed to get a small fire started with one of the precious matches left, and shortly with the fish pierced on twigs the welcome smell of grilling flesh pervaded the area.
"My mouths dribbling like the Pavlova dog," laughed Jon. "I could eat a whale."
"Havent got time, matches, or wood," said Flighty, his mood lowering once again. "Scoff this lot, then we must get on with it."
For three more nights they negotiated the countryside adjoining the river. "I'm pretty sure were heading west, but feel we should be going a bit north too. That place, Stettin, the farmer kept on saying, is more north and on the coast. This damn river seems to wander where it wants. Its in no hurry. Wonderful to be in no hurry."
"Too true that is," Flighty insisted on seeing the dark side of a situation. "I'm feeling lousy - tired out. Think that diptheria is still hanging around. Why we ever started on... "
"The further we go, the further we get from that camp. Be positive, Flighty. Maybe we can get a boat, maybe we can..." Jon interrupted not wishing to be at the whip end of Flightys tongue again.
"Thats all wishful thinking, and you know it," Flighty growled.
"Well, thats not wishful thinking," Jon said with laughter in his voice. They had turned another bend in the river and before them lay another small holding which seemed isolated. "Lets explore and may be luck will be on our side again. There's light enough to see by and soon dawn will be with us."
They walked slowly towards the biggest of the residences, situated on the edge of a group of similar simple wooden homes. A very old lady, dressed in black and wearing heavy boots on her feet, called out to them. She was heading for the water pump in the open area in the middle of the houses, She was smiled and waved. Jon could not understand the language, but on hearing voices a younger woman appeared with a school aged boy at her side. The two men stood still, and let the woman approach them. She looked friendly and interested. The word English was again a passport to communication. This young woman had both a smattering of German and a very little English. When she understood they were escapees she became very excited, and ushered them into her humble abode, and made them sit at the large wooden table. She fanned the fire in the old range, and soon she was frying bacon, and eggs, and then dipped bread in batter and fried it and then sprinkled the batter with sugar.
Reminds me of old Ma White. Two lovely women. I'll write an ode to them when my mind is clear Jon felt a wave of sadness at the memory of the Whites and his boxing days, but he covered his feelings with a smile of gratitude to this generous woman.
Feasting over, Jon and Flighty tried to share out their last pinch of tobacco. The woman watched fascinated by the care they were taking.
"More?" she asked with a smile.
In a mixture of languages and gestures Jon tried to convey to her not to worry. Nevertheless the woman called the boy, her son, and Jon could hear her telling him to go to fetch some replenishment from the nearest store.
"Difficult?" asked Jon. "Germans there?"
"Yes," the woman replied simply, "but I tell him be careful."
For two hours the very old woman and the younger one sat in front of the fire talking to the escapees in their strange ways of communication. Again and again fear crossed the womens faces. The master of the house, Jon found out, the son of the old woman, and husband of the younger was conscripted to fight the Russians. His return was not expected as conditions on that front were so terrible. Soon the boy returned, flushed and nervous. He had the tobacco in his pocket. He put his head on his mothers shoulder and cried.
"You did well, you did well," the woman said reassuringly in her dialect. Turning to Jon and Flighty she indicated that it was very very dangerous, and that they must go to the barn and sleep there. The family would pretend that they had no idea of their presence, but the young woman promised that all being well she would appear in the morning. She packed them off and put a parcel with bread and meat into Jons pocket. She also supplied matches and papers for the tobacco, and a can of water. The barn was warm and smelled sweetly of straw and warm animals. At the door she turned to go but first she made eye contact with Jon and held it for seconds. In those seconds Jon saw a sense of longing, of urgency, but then she shrugged her shoulders in an act of resignation and turned to close the door.
"Brave woman," said Jon. "Think what a position weve put her in. And that son of hers. Going all that way for tobacco. Wonder what upset him?"
"Its all because you..."Flighty started.
"Give over," said Jon, not in the mood for a sermon. "We're doing alright. Someday you may even thank me, Yes?"
No answer came from Flighty. Exhausted he had fallen asleep lying comfortably against the straw. Jon lay beside him and tried to sleep. But there was no way he could lie still. He tossed and turned as rats, mice, spiders and ants all seemed interested in him. Why in the hell arent they interested in Flighty? As a defence mechanism he was forced to sit high up on a broad beam for the rest of the night, and though sleep evaded him the rodent world left him alone. In the dim light he rolled cigarette after cigarette, smoking them in his cupped hands to avoid the glow being seen. In the aloneness of the moment thoughts and words flashed by and he etched them indelibly on his mind.
We talk of things and write upon the wall and speak of earnest options in a world long mad, a world so full of hurt by heavens call since time began dissecting all to prove it was so.
We dare to send vain messages in space, through time, to galaxies thankfully too far behind the pale of fail. Yet we do pretend to search for help. We have within our grasp the remedy, Our cannons roar at every Holy Grail if talk we must and what therefrom results to make a tomorrow where recognising the time at which we are from this admitted now to make sure of sanctity for evermore just for humanitys sake.
What do we know of tomorrow? To-days bad enough. Will we ever learn to help each other? Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to think. In the morning he found his hands burnt and sore from shielding the burning end from prying eyes. He realised too that the rats had been after the bread in his pocket making his night disturbed. Flighty slept like a baby, snoring gently.
As full daylight broke the younger woman called them again into the house. The two women had been talking through the night and with an anxious look on her face the young mother tried to make Jon and Flighty understand the plan.
"Very sorry," she said in a mixture of languages. "Cant keep two men. One man alright. Can help with work. No man here now. Need man. One man could be cousin. Two men no good." All the time Jon felt her eyes boring into his, blatantly offering him her hospitality, not Flighty. Jon looked away. Temptation to stay flashed through his mind, then he thought of the dangers, of Flighty on his own, of the diptheria that might still be lingering in their throats. Flighty was nervous and fidgeted.
Jon answered quickly, thanking her profusely for all she had done, and refusing her kind offer in the gentlest way possible with the language restrictions.
The young mother lowered her eyes, and said in an undertone that only Jon could hear. "Sad, sad, I need a man. I am a woman. No man in bed for year." She looked up blushing.
"I understand," replied Jon, putting his hand under her chin so she had to look into his face. "I'm a man. I need a woman." Then he paused and said in a louder voice for the older woman and Flighty to hear, "But we must go now. We must go," and he added, "soon. Both of us. Its too dangerous for you." Flighty breathed more easily. After a heavy silence Jon added, "You've got a brave son. Take care of him. War finished, maybe we come back." It was the smallest, but hopeless, crumb of comfort he could offer. Realising that the two men were determined to set off, the women started to prepare food, and packed spare socks, old caps, and anything useful that they could find, but that wouldnt give their own whereabouts away. Each man left looking like a farm worker carrying a dirty sack over their shoulders. Jon had his cap pulled well down over his ears. They rubbed soil over their faces for their skins were pale from their illness. More tearful farewells took place, and Jon knew from that moment that he would never forget those brave and helpful people.
For four more days and nights Jon and Flighty moved quietly, slept peacefully, and wondered at the luxuries of freedom. With the food supplied by the women they had not yet had to resort to stealing. On the fifth evening, over confidence was their undoing as they sat in a gully eating some food before starting on their nighttime walking marathon. Jon cut up some sausage meat, and as he raised it to his mouth to eat, so did he raise his eyes.
He saw in front of him a pair of highly polished jack boots. Fear froze his hand on the way to his mouth. With a look of disciplined unconcern he slowly allowed his eyes to extend upwards to the person that filled the boots. What he saw instinctively told him that the enemy was before him. Flighty went rigid, pale and silent. No one spoke for moments. The stranger, a tall heavily built flaxen-haired man with cold blue eyes, clean shaven features and slavonic high cheek bones, broke the silence, standing arrogantly with his hands in the pockets of his black riding breeches. He spoke in the local dialect, but the polished boots and breeches indicated to Jon that he must be an enlisted collaborator working for Germany. Jon ignored the remark so the stranger spoke in German, and asked them who they were.
"We are escaped British prisoners of war," Jon replied nonchalantly, realising that they would find out sooner or later.
On hearing this the stranger produced a heavy revolver and pointing it dangerously ordered them to get to their feet. At that moment another man arrived dressed in the same semi-official rig. They consulted together, the revolver still pointed at Jon. Both men seem pleased with themselves to have had a part in the capture of escapees. Jon and Flighty were taken to a nearby police headquarters, where they were stripped and searched, and then thrown into another dirty and foul smelling cell where they waited till morning.
"Now look what weve come to," Flighty started to moan. "Dont think I could take a roughing up. Leave me out of things next time you do anything foolish."
"We've not been beaten yet, and they dont seem to have cottoned on to our helpers. Both good points. Look on the bright side, Flighty. Give the lads a boost when we get back. We did it, they may think they can do it too, and weve made the Germans have to look for us. O.K, I Won't get involved with you next time, though, mark you, therell be a next time." Jon tried to keep their spirits up.
"Dont know whats in store for us. Maybe you Won't say that if..." the cell door opened and stopped Flightys roam into uncertainty.
Real German soldiers, with two wolf hounds, dragged them out of the cell, handcuffed them and took them to a train. In the wooden seated carriage, still glared at by the hounds, Flighty and Jon travelled all that day to return to their camp. The guards ate and drank, but offered nothing to the prisoners. Journeys to the toilet were escorted by the guard and a hound. Nothing was left to chance, and nothing was done to make the journey comfortable. Thirst and the lack of sleep were two common enemies to be dealt with.
They had to walk the last bit of their journey from the train to their familiar camp , still accompanied by their escorts. By now their thirst was intolerable, but all this was forgotten when they heard the tremendous ovation that greeted them. All the prisoners had turned out to wave and cheer at the first escape attempt to have been made from the camp.
"Bit embarrassing this," muttered Flighty.
"Never mind," Jon replied. "Enjoy it. We must have travelled some distance if we took a whole day to return by train." Jon smiled and waved back with his free hand.
They were marched to the German Commandants office. One of the guards had a sobering effect when he said, "You Won't be laughing in a few minutes.
That statement was too true. A phoney interrogation proceeded. Then they were put into the hands of military thugs who themselves had been reprimanded for allowing prisoners to escape. Each question was accompanied with a blow, either with the boot in the balls, or a butt on the head, the Germans laughing all the time. Both Flighty and Jon were soon bleeding profusely.
"They want us to squeal like pigs," called Jon to Flighty when he could. "Just squeal, Flighty. Dont be brave. Squeal."
But Flighty just absorbed the heavy punishment with dull grunts of pain. Jon squealed and shrieked, making the Germans laugh louder. All the experience he had learned on the boxing booth came into force as he covered his ribs to avoid serious damge, at the same time he held his face with his hands, smearing the blood around to make the damage look worse. Flighty was given the more severe punishment for he wouldnt give the guards the pleasure of hearing him feel the hurts.
Battered and bleeding they were taken back to the punishment cells past the prisoners compound, clearly as example of what happened to returned escapees, and as a deterrent to further attempts. All the while they were being kicked along with the heavily studded boots. Both men were caught on the base of their spines, causing much damage and pain. They were in separate cells, so Jon was unable to know how Flighty was faring and if his back was mending.
Damn these agonising limbs. But thatll pass. My spirits are the highest since capture, so why worry about a few bruises. Wonderful wonderful freedom. Now I can respect myself as an individual and as a soldier. At least I helped to keep the Germans busy. In spite of pain, and the terrible punishment cell conditions Jon felt elated. The M.O came to swab his throat again, and it was found to be clear. The M.O told him that Flighty was to go back to the isolation ward as he was still infectious.
"But what about those people who helped us?" Jon asked anxiously. "Will they be likely to pick it up. One was only a lad?"
The M.O didnt give a direct answer. "Thats one of the responsibilities you have to think about when you do things like escaping."
That solemn statement worried Jon. But the conditions in the cell were so harsh that it took all his mental abilities to deal with his own situation. There was a minimum of ninety days solitary confinement ahead of him, likely to be extended at the whim of the guards.
After a week Jon took stock of his situation. "Two hundred and fifty calories a day. Thats nothing. I'm already skin and bone. And no tobacco. Get used to that though, thats just a discipline. Wish I could talk to someone. Can hear the others shouting but I'm too far away. And these damned lice. can't stop scratching. I'll bite my nails so that I can't hurt myself when I itch. Someone told me that old people about to die developed lice. I dont feel ready to die. Got to keep going. Get too dizzy walking backwards and forwards now. Wonder what I can do? Got to keep my morale up.
The decor of this cell was grim, mediaeval. There were hand and foot irons, now rusty, fixed into the wall. The dates of previous prisoners scratched on the mildewed wall were barely visible, but Jon found one still readable that went back two centuries. The stench from the moat crept through the small grid. Jon added to this stench daily by emptying his bucket into the moat straight out of the window at the end of the dark corridor, the only time he was allowed out of his cell. Weeks passed and Jon became light headed. He gobbled up the brownish black slice of bread bound in sawdust, and slugged down the warm acorn coffee. Neither assuaged his hunger or thirst, neither helped him to sleep in the cold with the lice sucking away at his blood.
One night after the ritual of bedding down, using every scrap of material for warmth Jon looked at the direction of the door and was mesmerised. A gaunt figure of a grey faced soldier appeared. He was dressed in military uniform of khaki coloured material, but of a style and cut of previous centuries. Jon saw the hollow deep-set eyes, filled with a sense of pain and horror at his own plight. These eyes searched Jons beseechingly. The figure went closer and closer to the bed. Petrified for his sanity, Jon could no longer face the man. He pulled the blanket over his head for protection. Jon waited, hidden but with heart pounding. Am I going mad? Am I hallucinating? God I'm scared. Come on. Pull yourself together. With all the bravery he could muster, Jon peeped from underneath the blanket.