CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Reversal.

Bloody hell. can't retreat. Thatd look odd. Couldnt have chosen a worse carriage. All alone with that shit. Got to brazen it out.

With a loud German "Good morning," Jon settled himself in the corner furthest away from the officer. As the train moved off he answered in monosyllables all the attempts that the officer made to start a conversation. The newspaper he had was a day old, and he felt it would look suspicious if he hid himself in out of date news. He feigned sleep. Peeping out of one eye he saw the Gestapo man had also dropped off and he snored gently. Relaxing somewhat, Jon shut his eyes again, but in the act of make-believe he actually fell into a deep sleep. He woke with a start when the officer nudged him on the knee, explaining that the train had arrived in Stettin.

Bemused, Jon said, "Whats the time?", a near fatal mistake. The astonished officer not understanding him asked him to repeat himself as he had not heard the question. This time Jon asked for the time in clear German. "Midnight," came the gruff reply. They both disembarked from the train without further dialogue. My! That was a close one. Wonder if the bastard will realise on reflection that it was English he heard. Must put some distance between him and me, make a screen of people. Feel a bit threatened.

Mistake number two took place soon after. The milling crowd slowly passed through the ticket barrier. Jon held his ready and the ticket collector took it without demur.

"Where is the left luggage?" Jon asked the ticket collector.

This sparked off a furious response rapidly fired in a coarse German dialect. "You fool," the collector screamed. "You idiot. Seven hundred Englishee bombers tonight. Everything broken. You want left luggage. Ha! platform good. Train good. Nothing else good. Damn Englishee bombers."

Jon touched his hat and shrank into the milling crowd. Whew, two mistakes in ten minutes. Won't last long like this. Nerves are getting bad. Must get away from the station. Will try and aim for the docks.

Fires burned brightly, and there was a sickly smell of charred flesh. The dead were still lying in grotesque shapes, statue like. Few people were about, no transport, just ambulances and fire engines. The full moon shone as if offering compensation to the lightless city.

My life Won't be worth much if I'm caught. All this devastation done by us. Feel a bit edgy, bit uncertain. I'll duck amongst the shadows of the ruins. Seems crazy in a suit and hat, but better than the streets. Whats this. A Goddarned enormous bridge. WOW! The harbour. AND the docks. Two boats. I can see two funnels. Quite biguns too. Wonderful target for the bombers. But There's not all that damage here. Couldve been worse. But where is every one? He turned passed a shed and looked across the harbour. In the moonlit skyline he could see a raging fire, sparks and flames curling up into the night. My, theyve copped it. Looks like gas works or maybe it was heavy industry. Difficult to make it out.

He came level to the first ship. The lowered gangway was guarded by a steel helmeted German corporal, armed with an automatic rifle. He walked purposefully on and passed the second and larger ship, similarly guarded. Suddenly he was halted by a barbed wire fence straddling rolls of barbed wire stretched across the road. What a shock! Without another option he retraced his steps. The silence round about was heavy, the crunch of his footsteps the only noise to be heard. Suddenly a car zoomed towards him and screeched to a halt. It was loaded with German military personnel, merry and high on alcholol.

"What is this street?" the driver leaned out of his window, laughing. "We want our quarters. Getting late." He spoke cultured German.

"Sorry, dont know. Dead end here. Better turn round. I've just arrived. Bit lost myself." Jon blessed his knowledge of German, and the time spent and the danger it had involved in its learning.

The driver turned round and sped away, cursing his bad luck. Jon breathed a sigh of relief. This narrow shave gave him an idea. I'll be just as safe talking to the guard as I am meandering about the streets. At least I might be able to find out something about the ship. So near and yet so far. Hope it Won't be a repeat of Boulogne. Nervous with his prospective enterprise, he gave himself a psychological prod to avoid succumbing to cold feet.

He approached the guard, who seemed distinctly pleased with the prospect of company. The usual greetings over, Jon said slowly and carefully so that he would not make a mistake. "Where is Kaiser Road?" It was the first name that came to mind. "I've just arrived and can't find my way around with all this ....." he waved his hand towards the destruction.

"Ah," said the guard. "I think I know, Comrade. Let me think. No, no, I'm not too sure." Then he looked at Jon. "But why are you out? Why are you here? The bombers? Not trouble you?"

"Damned British," Jon lied through his teeth. "Just arrived I have. By train. Just missed the bombing."

"Where are you from?" the guard looked more and more relaxed.

"From the south. Brothers just been posted to a front line regiment. Wants to see me before he leaves. Family matters. You know the kind of thing." The lie was well received and believed by the guard who nodded his head and said "Bravo!" Nonchalantly Jon proffered the guard a cigarette, lit it for him and then lit up one for himself. The cigarette was elliptical in shape with a crest in the middle, but it had no other identification. With great care Jon had chosen the correct cigarette for each region. But on inhaling the difference between the cigarettes now being smoked and the utter rubbish the guard was used to smoking the expected response was soon to arrive.

"Good, very good," beamed the guard. "Good to smoke. Where did you buy?"

"My fathers got an import business and still has plenty. Am bringing some for my brother. No good cigarettes on Eastern front."

"Veerry good," crooned the guard. "Will you give me some?"

"A few, perhaps," Jon played hard to get.

"I will pay," pleaded the guard.

"No,no, I dont want pay. Look, I'll give you five. Thats all I can spare," and Jon fished the cigarettes out of a crumpled packet.

"Five a day is all we get anyway. they're rubbish."

So bonhomie was established, the cigarette acted like a diplomats passport. The handing over of the cigarettes eased the situation that might have led to the guard questioning Jons credentials, instead they were temporary friends. Jon was momentarily pleased with himself.

The guard had another idea. "Perhaps if you can wait here with me, someone might come off the ships who might know Kaiser Street. Doubt it though. The ships are neutral. Got some U boats further on. Maybe one of their crew is local. Maybe theyll know Kaiser Street."

Dont bloody well know if there even is a Kaiser Street. But being here is better than walking about. Shouldnt really be smoking outside and There's sure to be a curfew, though the guard here never mentioned it. Jon laughed quietly to himself.

Together they waited and watched the passers-by. Girl friends of the crew of the neutral ships slid guiltily by, the personnel from the U-boats came and went more arrogantly. None of them had heard of Kaiser St. None of them were likely to. Minutes passed in desultory conversation. Soon more footsteps approached, a man appeared with a large alsation dog pulling on a lead.

"Ah, here comes the docks dog handler. He searches the ships before they sail. Hes local." The two Germans had a conversation. They spoke so fast Jon could not understand all they said. The guard had his back to Jon. Then he turned round and said, "he says," pointing to the dog handler, "he thinks he knows the street. Thinks its over in that part of town." The guard pointed to the area where the fire raged. ""He says its better you wait till morning. He says hell take you to the guard room. Keep warm there. Start again in daylight."

Nervous, yet excited, Jon bade farewell to the guard, and followed the dog and its handler to a foreboding building. The handler opened a door, and waves of acrid smoke and the warm smell of human beings met them as they entered. There were about a dozen guards, dozing sleepily in the heat of a cast iron coke range. A few brief words were spoken to the Sergeant, who pulled a chair up next to the range, and who promptly drifted off to doze again. All the rifles were stacked in the centre of the room ready for immediate use. With a half wave the handler and his dog left Jon to the sleeping guards.

My goodness, what a rum situation. Jon chuckled inwardly again. Here am I, an escaped prisoner, sitting in an enemy guard room with all their weapons unprotected. Spose I could fire my way out. Whatd be the point? Once I'm out but with a gun, Id still be outnumbered. Better play it cool. Ah! Whose this? Dont really like it here. Good, the dog handler." - '

The dog handler beckoned him, and led him back to the guard who was talking to a taller man dressed in mufti.

The guard turned to Jon. "This man thinks he knows Kaiser St. Thinks its over there, same like handler." He pointed to the flames. "Hes just come back from dropping his lady from over there. Very bad, very bad. Hes a sailor, from the bigger ship. Says you'd better stay put till morning. Must be somewhere there. Two people say same."

The tall sailor turned to Jon. "If the guardll let you, I can give you a bunk. You can get your head down." With an exaggerated gesture Jon produced his passport and held it, unfolded, in front of the guard. The guard barely looked at the document, but nodded his head and grinned. Jon listened intently to the sailor, there was scarcely an accent in his voice but it didnt appear to be his mother tongue. Darent try to find out where he comes from. That might make him suspicious. Intrigued but cautious Jon held his peace, but he handed an elliptical cigarette to the sailor repeating the same story as before.

"Very very good tobacco. Where from?" the sailor asked.

Again Jon repeated the fabricated spiel about his brother, his fathers business, and his south country origins. The sailor nodded and smiled. Jon looked eagerly at the second ship. Once I'm aboard that, I'll never get off. Whether I spill the beans to the Captain who I really am, or whether I just stowaway waits to be seen. Wonderful, wonderful sea. Am I nearly there or... . His meanderings were cut short.

The sailor was speaking to him in another language, one Jon didnt understand.

"Sorry, I dont understand you," Jon said defensively.

"But you're from the south? You say you are," replied the sailor this time in German. Again he went off into a language and Jon could only pick out an odd word here and there.

"I think you must be speaking a very local dialect. I'm afraid I still dont understand." Both men started to feel uncomfortable, Jon especially was inwardly threatened, he knew the sailor thought something was wrong.

On the spur of the moment Jon said in English, "Do you speak English?"

The effect of that statement on the sailor was dramatic. He blanched, stiffened and moved slightly away.

"Vy do you arsk?" the sailor replied. "Vy?" His knowledge of English wasnt perfected to the standard of his knowledge of German.

"Because I speak it better than German," replied Jon.

"Ah, ssooo," the sailor looked Jon squarely in the face. "So you prisoner. You run away, eh?"

"Yes," replied Jon, glad to be relieved of pretence. "I'm an escapee. I'm in your hands now. Get me on your boat, and I'll not trouble you any more."

"Verrry difficult. But I try." The sailor said no more, but walked steadfastly on. The sailor turned up one gang plank and started to climb the slats. Jon had his foot on the first slat.

"Halt." An authoritarian German voice called from the shadows. "HALT". A figure emerged and it turned out to be a uniformed mariner, armed with an automatic rifle. "Pass," he growled. "Pass." His voice was slurred and he was worse for drink. The sailor handed his pass, the guard barely looked at it. Then he looked at Jons passport. Drunk as he was he was not drunk enough to realise there was no pass for the docks with the passport.

"Where is your permit for the docks?" he rumbled.

The sailor answered. "Its O.K, Sergeant. The guard at the gate has given us permission for one night. My friend cannot get to his brother. All in that fire area. Going there tomorrow. His brothers going to the Eastern front. My friend leaves early morning."

"Orders are orders," grumbled the mariner ruthlessly. He became cold sober instantly. "No favours. This man must have the Captains permission, or authorisation from harbour police."

"Captains away. On leave," the sailor explained. Jon let the sailor do the talking. He seemed eager to wheedle Jon aboard. However hard he tried, the guard doggedly said, "Orders are orders." He started to fumble with his gun.

The sailor turned to Jon, and said in German. "I'm sorry, if orders are orders then you must go back to the guard at the gate and get authorisation. Impossible, yes? I understand. " The sailor looked Jon deep into his eyes. They shook hands, and the sailor prolonged the squeeze as if sending sympathetic messages. Jon turned away and walked behind the German to the guard at the gate, dispirited in the extreme. So near and yet so far, a repeat of Boulogne. -

"No good?" the friendly guard asked.

The German mariner guard gabbled some complaint, turned round and walked aggressively away.

The friendly guard muttered under his breath, "Silly bureaucrat. Navy thinks they're better than Army. One nights sleep. Stupid."

"Never mind," Jon replied soothingly.

"Guard Captains not back. Hes got to sign dock passes."

"Thanks, but I'll be off straight away. Get to Kaiser St somehow. Give my brother a surprise if I arrive for breakfast." Jon tried to joke to alleviate the tension. "Here, have another cigarette. Take care the gleam isnt noticed." Then, picking up his suitcase, he turned to go. "Thanks for your help." The guard was too enthralled with the new tobacco that he was not interested in Jons movements. Jon eased himself back on to the streets and headed for the station. It was near midnight and there were plenty of people about all moving in the same direction. These figures all carried bundles, suitcases, sacks and the women pushed prams. Jon felt conspicious in his tidiness. There were still huge piles of smouldering ruins left unattended, roads were blocked, drains overflowed. The nearer he approached the centre of the city the streets became busier. He heard the trains whistle. Ah! he thought. Railway line and rolling stocks alright. Mustve fixed that straight away, and left the buildings. But all these people. Bombed out, refugees, or what? Still, I'll flow along with them and see what happens.

Dawn broke, and Jon had a clearer picture of the situation. Reading from a huge hoarding, written both in Polish and German he knew the problem. The hoarding read, "Deserters from the Armed Services will be arrested. Agitators acting or speaking against the Reich will be shot." Old Huns getting bothered, are they? Soldiers not wanting to soldier any more. Thats interesting. Feel they're on a losing wicket, do they? Interesting too. But the refugees? Where are they all from? can't all be because of just bombs in Stettin? Must try to find out. Dont really like being near a station. Didnt know where else to go. Hells teeth. Whats this?

A cordon of German civil police was stretched across the road. Slowly the mass of people collected into a static group of humanity, all anxious for the station, for a train, for a way to escape from Stettin. Slowly the police looked at everyones cards or documents. Most people wore the double coloured lapel and these people were given scant attention and were able to continue their journey. Jon showed his passport. The guard looked at it, and turned the pages. Jons stomach turned over as he did so.

"Where is your train pass?" asked the policeman.

"I came on local train," Jon replied.

"Not from that far south, you didnt." He pulled Jon roughly by the shoulder. "Papers not good. You come for questions." Another policeman gripped his left arm and marched him rapidly to an interrogation centre. No one yet knew he was a British escapee, all they knew was that his papers were not complete. Jon began to fear the worst, and thought his thousand mile journey was of no avail.

The interrogator seemed stupid. Instead of looking closely at the photograph in the passport, and pronouncing emphatically that it was not the picture of Jon, he just asked a superfluous amount of questions. Jon answered all the questions easily. The interrogator, in his stupidity, could think of no more questions to ask so he picked up the phone and sought guidance from the secret State Security Services. Jon was immediately sent to that Headquarters, the building that was the hub of a huge prison that housed non military personnel who were allegedly undermining the Reich. This'll be the end of me. Won't get away from here easily. God! I almost wish Id never started. His spirits fell to such a low ebb that he never even looked out of the window to watch the road.

Shoved and pushed he joined a long line of decrepit men and women. He arrived at a table where he was stripped of all his possessions. These were laid in rows on the table and the warder first meticulously counted the money, then listed every item, from the biscuits to chocolates to the exact number of razor blades. This ritual was like the ritual of a doomed man. Seems like a journey to death. Seems like I'll never be free again. can't even think properly. I'm sort of numb, sort of in limbo.

"Sign here," the warder shoved a piece of paper in front of him, with all the items listed under his assumed name.

"No. I will not sign." Jons voice creaked out. Whyve I said that? Must be instinct. Sorta self protection. If I sign in the name on that faked passport I'll never be Jon Inglis again. Never a British soldier again, covered by the Geneva convention. Nobody will know if Jon Inglis is alive or dead. Well done, old instinct. Jon felt more together again, but still feared what the outcome of his refusal would be.

The warder was nonplussed as all bureaucrats are. As it had never happened to him before he didnt know what to do.

Quickly Jon said in German, "I am a British Soldier. I have escaped from prison. My real name is Jon Inglis. I will only sign if I can use my real name and my prisoner-of-war number."

Totally floored by this turn of events, the warder passed the buck. He said to an awaiting escort, "Take this prisoner up to the Duty Officer. Only he can give a decision." Glad to get rid of a difficult customer the warder turned to the next wretch who had very little to put on the table to list.

Jon was taken up some wide stairs and into a large room. He was confronted by a middle-aged senior officer in black uniform and jack-boots. The escort clicked his heels to attention and told the Duty Officer the situation. The story stunned the Duty Officer, but rage soon mounted across his face. Hate glared in his eyes. He drew his revolver as if in a trance, but made no effort to use it. The nights bombing by the British was having its effect, in his mind the Duty Officer was putting the blame for the destruction on Jon personally. Scared that the Duty Officer might explode with hate Jon desperately racked his brain for a way out. The man in front of him was not a soldier. He was Secret Police, and most of those enrolled in the Secret Police hadnt the guts to go into battle. He had power of life and death in his present role, and it was safer for him.

"Sir, Commandant," said Jon, buttering him up. "You are an officer and soldier like me. You serve your country like I serve mine. If you were in my position, even as I am now, I know you would try and escape, just like I've done."

The flattery struck home. The Secret Policeman did not realise that Jon knew all the time that he was in the meanest form of the Services, and that he was neither an Officer or a soldier. The Policemans ego clashed with his mounting anger, it was good for him to be thought a serving officer.

"Book him in as the name on the passport, and get him out of my presence before I do something." The ego had dominated the hate, but it had been touch and go. Once out of the office Jon felt a distant sense of immediate relief, but no more.

After a short march he was pitched into a dark cell with forty or so other prisoners. This heightened Jons terror. The prisoners, like Jon, were the nights haul from the streets, despite the heavy raid. It appeared they were all the flotsam of law and order. It was the start of a period of rule of fear, degredation and discomfort.

Very soon four guards arrived, flinging the door open, guns at the ready.

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