CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - In and out of a hell hole.

They shouted that all prisoners should strip naked, and tie their clothes into a bundle. The orders were punctuated by the butt of a rifle lashed out indiscriminately in the dim light. Then all prisoners, naked as the day they were born, were lined up and marched into an adjoining area like a gigantic wash-house. The doors closed and the dim light became total darkness. Christ, thought Jon. Is this what is called "The bath without a towel." Thats what they do to Jews. Turn on the gas and not water. Not really ready to die yet but.... A burst of cold water from the showers dispelled the thread of Jons thoughts. Thankful for small mercies, spose. At least its not gas. Now I must swish this around as much as I can. Havent been near water for days. What-ho. No towel of course. Never mind. Now what? A door opened at the far end of the wash-house, and again all the men were lined up, soaking wet and bollock naked. One by one they had to jump on to a wooden bench. One by one they had to raise their arms to have their pits inspected for bugs, then bend down and expose both genitals and back passage. The prisoner in front of Jon was slow to move so the white coated medico immediately ordered his entire crop of hair to be removed. A huge man, looking like a eunuch, bare to the waist stepped forward, and holding the prisoner with one hand complied with the order meticulously. The prisoner was soon as bald as a baby, both his head and private parts had been razored raw with the speed of the operation. Jon, hearing the name of his faked passport and just recognising that it was him, leapt in military style on to the bench and so avoided the degredation of a hair-cut. When the inspection finished, the prisoners were prodded and poked into another large room where they found their bundles of clothes. Jon dressed as fast as he could to avoid the rifle butts.

Then they were herded into a reception area on the ground floor, names were again called and a cell allotted to each name. Jons cell was on the eighth floor. Up and up he walked, on each floor an attendant was waiting to give him a butt up the next flight. Bruised and battered he was glad for a moment to arrive in his cell. But the gladness did not last long.

It was a one man cell, and there were already four prisoners sitting around, clothed only in their underpants. They were not at all concerned that a fifth prisoner had been forced on to their already cramped conditions. The air in the cell was stale and very hot. A chimney flue from the kitchens below ran up one wall, so hot that it hurt to touch. No wonder these blokes all look stupified. Never seen such a place like this before. Everywhere is covered in wire mesh, like a gigantic cage. Were more like animals that humans. Must be thousands of us. And women too. Think I can hear singing. Will get a chat going when I'm calmed down a bit.

As the days wore on Jon gradually pieced together the stories behind each prisoner. Jons past history paled in drama when held against the tragic circumstances of each of them. One young German was beaten and interrogated every day for charges of espionage. All the others were on equally serious charges of violent acts against the Reich.

The alleged spy started to give Jon more details of his story. Jon asked him some questions. The German flew into an uncontrolled rage.

"Youre an informer. Thats what you are. Youre planted in here to inform," raged the angry man.

"What on earth makes you say that. I'm a British soldier, made an escape and got caught. Just doing a soldiers duty, thats all. I'm no informer. Wouldnt know how to set about it"

"Look at your hands," spat the German. "Look at the nicotine. That doesnt come from five cigarettes a day." Jon looked at his hands and saw they were heavily browned with excessive smoking.

"I told you. I am a British soldier who can speak German. You didnt listen." The alleged spy turned his back, and Jon, too wearied by recent events, did not have the energy to refute the charges.

The only relief from the fetid air and cramped conditions was a hour a day in the well basement of a quadrangle. There was hassle and rifle butting on the way down and on the way up, and the guards reacted brutally if the head of any prisoner turned or the eyes attempted to roam. In columns of three they shuffled slowly round and round. At one spot a guard, hugely enjoying his position, hosed down the half naked bodies as he chanted left, right, left right. As the column moved so slowly the icy jet of water had time to produce shock effects on the already malnurished men and women, but after a while Jon enjoyed the stimulating effect it had on his overburdened nervous system.

Back in the cell Jon, once again, started to feel a downward spiral to hopelessness. I must DO something. can't stay here. I'm a soldier entitled to certain conditions on capture. Hell, I'll have a go.

To the surprise of the other occupants of the cell Jon pounded on the cell door, and shouted and shouted. No one tried to stop him. The guard arrived, unlocked the door, and without further ado gave Jon a swipe with the butt of his rifle. Jon fell backwards on to the sitting men. They heaved him upright.

"I'm a British soldier. I have escaped. The Geneva convention applies to all military personnel. I need the Commandant."

"Ha!", grunted and spat the guard. Another blow from the rifle sent Jon reeling, this time the blow was followed up with kicks from the heavy jackboots. The guard slammed the door and stumped away without a reply.

Sympathy showed in the other prisoners faces as Jon licked his surface wounds, nothing broken except skin. The onslaught had brought back the adrenalin into his veins and his fear was under control. The young German charged with espionage slowly proffered his hand as a token of apology for the earlier accusation. Jon took it in silence but with a nod of his head and a smile. This open declaration that he was a British P.O.W dispelled all thoughts that he could have been an informer.

A month ground slowly by, and in the grim conditions a month seemed like a year. One day Jon was given some startling information. A junior American officer, also a prisoner, had been detailed to hand round the food. As he approached Jon, he whispered out of the corner of his mouth "There's another British P.O.W in the next cell." That was all he said, there was no time or occasion for dialogue. Next day Jon made sure he was first out of his cell, and side by side the two P.O.Ws made their way down the eight flights of stairs. Glancing sideways, but head straight Jon saw that the man was a pilot from another hut in his old camp who had used a tunnel for escape. Through the sides of their mouths, and in between the cold douches they managed to recount a garbled story of how they both arrived at the prison. This communication smoothed the hurt of their conditions.

Everyday the wreck of human beings were forced out to the ruins of the bombed city. With their bare hands they had to load great skips with bricks and rubble from the ruins of homes and houses. The guard, knowing that Jon came from the country that dropped the bombs, continually harrassed him making him increase his work rate with prods of the rifle.

Whats in this fellas mind? Does he want to goad me so my self-discipline cracks, or does he want to shoot me under the pretext that I refuse to work as hard as he says? Dangerous situation. can't go on for ever accepting these butts, and the kicks. Cheeks already bleeding and one eye is closed. Christ! That was a swipe, AND I'm going as fast as I can. can't go on for much longer. Think I'm going to blow up. Come on Jon, Hold it.

An unexpected event saved the situation. Another guard arrived in the nick of time, preventing Jon from exploding in the face of his tormentor. Monosyllabic this newly arrived guard said, "Interrogation." Jons heart sunk with a lurch.

The interrogater was an elderly officer with a closely cropped pointed beard. This was a symbol worn in the years before Hitler came into power and when the fashion became cropped hair and a clean shaven face. The age and demeanour of the man gave Jon immediate re-assurance. The silent young woman sitting next to him made a very different impression. She had a hard face with dead eyes, and glowered at Jon with open hatred. Her hands were poised above her typewriter ready to take notes of the forthcoming interrogation.

Jon stood to attention amply proving his military background.

"Where did you get those bruises?" asked the interrogator in a quietly cultured voice.

"From the guards. Working out on the ruins," Jon replied.

"Have you any other injuries, Inglis?" Jon was overjoyed to hear his real name for the first time.

"Nothing too bad, sir." He lifted his shirt to show the marks where the rifle butts had made their mark.

"Do you need medical attention before I interrogate you?"

"No sir, nothing is broken."

"Sit down," said the interrogator and he waved towards an upright chair. Would you like some of your own biscuits, Inglis?"

"Yes, please, sir," replied Jon surprised. The interrogator signalled to the typist to fetch some biscuits from Jons bundle of luggage on the table at the far side of the room. As she turned away, the interrogator smiled and made a small thumbs up sign. When she turned round he put on a stern look again.

What a look! I do believe hes on my side, but can't do much. What a relief! That beard makes him an old soldier, and he probably doesnt agree with all that Hitlers doing. Maybe there's hope yet that I Won't get too badly treated. I'll take the biscuits and share them round when I get back to the cell. can't eat them here, hungry that I am. Won't give HER the pleasure of seeing me eat.

Jon answered all the pertinent questions about his military background, and how and why he had escaped. The pace was slow so that she could finish the typing, and while her head was down, the interrogator smiled and nodded giving signals of quiet re-assurance. Jon soon realised that the questions he was asked were carefully phrased while appearing to be direct, enabling him to give simple but evasive answers. He also managed to give satisfactory but unincriminating replies about the owner of the passport on which he was travelling. He said he knew that the owner was a Pole because of the compulsory coloured initials that all Polish people had to wear. The typist rasped away on her machine, the scowl she wore deepening as the interview progressed. Even with occasional cross questioning Jon did not feel threatened by the kindly interrogator, but he felt very unsafe with the typist. On and on the questions continued, Jon managed to keep calm, though the lack of food was making him light headed.

Thank God I'm known again as Inglis. Must have come through from Camp Headquarters. Maybe thingsll get better."

Suddenly it was all over, and a guard was called. "Sign here, please," said the interrogator. "And I have given orders for you not to be troubled when you work on the ruins outside the prison. Do you understand?" He looked at the guard, who returned the look with one of hatred.

"I do sir, and thank you, sir," Jon rose and stood to attention again. He wanted to demonstrate some respect to this older man, some recognition of the positions they were both in. It was hard to do when there were two ardent supporters of the Reich in the room.

The guard led him back to the cell, and he received no rifle butts. He handed the biscuits round to the other cell mates. These were received as if they were gold dust, not just ordinary biscuits.

On the day after his interrogation and just on impulse Jon decided to put his clothes on. It was a strange thing to do because of the heat of the place, but being dressed momentarily made him more like a human being. Not long after there was a clanging on the door, and a new guard appeared.

"Who is Inglis?" demanded the guard.

"I am," replied Jon, overjoyed that again he was being recognised for what he was, a soldier, and not a Pole.

"Come outside immediately. Get your things." The guard was abrupt but not unfriendly.

"Nothing to collect. Where am I going?" asked Jon.

The guard made no reply. There was only time for a half wave to his cell mates, they were too lethargic to take notice that he was leaving. To Jons great surprise the other P.O.W, the pilot, was waiting at the top of the stairs. Both men were marched down to the ground floor. Jon saw that the contents of his own suitcase were being checked by a German corporal, war ribbons covering his chest. The corporal refused to sign for the contents until Jon had checked them himself.

At least a hundred cigarettes missing. But I'm not going to make a fuss of that. Good sign that the corporal wanted me to check everything first. Seems hes had a long time on the front line. Front line soldiers are usually good fellows. If they dont shoot you straight away theyll play straight. Think hes going to be O.K.

Then the corporal handed the suitcase to Jon. "You must give me the money. Prisoners are forbidden to have our currency. The rest is yours."

Another point in his favour. Anyone else would have kept the suitcase, contents, the lot, and flogged it on the blackmarket. Now what?

Moments later both prisoners were being marched towards the same railway station where he was apprehended. As an escort they had two Secret Police who marched close behind them, revolvers held to their backs. At the station the two Secret police left them in charge of the corporal. They looked what they were, thugs.

Conversation between the two prisoners was allowed. "How longve you been incarcerated in that dump?" asked Jon.

"Reckon its two months, given a day or two," replied the pilot. "Never seen anything like it. Dont know who runs a system like that, certainly not the military. I'm black and blue all over."

"Everythingll seem easy after that. One poor chap in our cell, charged with espionage. He Won't last long. Beatings and interrogation every day. Now look at this lot," Jon pointed to the seething mass of civilians crowded on to the platform. "They look hopeless and helpless and..."

"Bunch of military over there," interrupted the pilot. "Look, all ranks they are. WHere's their polish and elegance? They all look hungry and weary. Things must be worse than we realise. Cor, and look there. Two dead German officers - just left. No one bothers any more."

The corporal intervened, speaking in German which Jon translated. "The Military Commandant of the station told me," the corporal explained, "those bastards had been plotting to kill Hitler. Got what they deserved, thats all." The corporal sniffed. "The Commandant also said that he would arrange for us to have a carriage to ourselves. Safer that way. You might be reason for trouble. Too much bombing."

After a long wait a train rumbled in. It was already full to bursting. The Commandant, true to his word, barked orders to civilians crammed into a carriage. They had to disembark and try to squeeze in in another compartment. They swore at the Commandant, "You are clearing us out of our seats. We are Germans, same as you. We have lost homes, sons and husbands in the war and with the bombing. You give our seats to British prisoners. Damn the British." The angry people spat both at Jon and the pilot. Jon felt sorry for these people as he cleared the spit from his cheek.

As the train moved off the Commandant clicked his heels as a form of farewell. It was a relief for the two prisoners to sit back in comfort and rest, something they had not done for a long while. The corporal efficiently and without any ceremony extracted a heavy revolver from its holster and put a bullet up its breech. He flicked off the safety catch and then said quietly, "We have a long journey back to the Main prison camp, two days to be exact. Whether either of you make it doesnt matter to me, but if you make one false move I'll blow your brains out." Jon translated this ultimatum. "Do you understand?" the corporal addressed each man in turn.

Jon and the pilot knew that the corporal meant business. They were fearful that any sudden movement might trigger a re-action for the corporal was watching closely.

"This is getting intolerable," said Jon after a while. "We've a long way to go and he means business."

"Can you have a bright idea how to ease him up?" asked the pilot.

"Well, we could give him our word that we Won't escape while he is our escort. That might help a bit."

"Thats O.K by me, Jon. Anythings better than this," the pilot readily agreed.

Jon leant forward, hands clasped together. He looked straight into the eyes of the corporal and put the offer to him.

"Look, corporal," Jon explained in German, "you are a front line soldier, so are we. If we give you our word that we Won't escape while you are our escort will that relax things? As you said, weve a long way to go, and There's no point in making life any more difficult than it is."

The corporal beamed, put his revolver away, and all three shook hands. From that moment onward the whole pattern of the journey became relaxed. Everything was shared three ways, the cigarettes, the chocolate, the corporals rations, and of course the company. The escort held the common bond of trust of front line soldiers.

He turned to Jon, "I'm on six months leave from the front. This is easy. Been fighting to the west these last years, and soon I've got to go and fight the Russians. No one likes that. Death rate very high. I fight you, you fight me. Crazy." He sighed and looked out of the window, trust emanated from him. Sometimes the corporal slept, and on arrival at a large station Jon prodded him awake. It would not do for a guard to be seen sleeping on duty. The train was delayed at this station on account of a heavy raid near by. It was in the middle of the night, and the corporal suggested that they try for some refreshment from a nearby army canteen. This was to prove a mistake. To reach the canteen the three men had to negotiate a way between the sick and wounded lying on the platform waiting for transport. There were men with gangrene, men without limbs, and men with dried gaping wounds. Someone found out that Jon and the pilot were British and the place became an uproar. The sick men shouted and raved and started to throw anything they could find. The corporal quickly ushered the prisoners outside.

"Its better to be cold out here than risk being lynched in there." The corporal was troubled and apologetic. "You see, my comrades have suffered and are suffering. I know the front they have come from. They have been living and dying like animals too long. I hope you understand." Both prisoners nodded, they understood how human beings, through degredation can have the thin veneer of civilization scrapped of by such suffering.

There was no further incident on the journey, and the prisoners and escort made the last bit of the journey from the station back to the Main camp on foot. The corporal stopped them just before they reached the gates.

"Thank you, my friends, for keeping your word." He shook the two prisoners by the hand. "And," he added, "if There's another time, may you both escape successfully." Once again his attitude changed and the corporal became an efficient member of the German machine, handing his two prisoners to the Camp Commandant with silent authority. Only a meeting of the eyes betrayed any of the former closeness.

Sitting in a small room, guarded outside, Jon briefed the pilot in the art of minimising his escape records. "And," he added, "if you're beaten, squeal. Thats what they like to hear. They think its a sign of weakness, but I know it lessens the beating. It happened before with Flighty. He took a mighty beating because he didnt squeal. Bastards, some of them are. Some are alright - like our corporal. S'ppose its the same everywhere, some good, some downright evil."

The Camp interrogator was the same type of man as the interrogator in the hell-hole at Stettin, a gently spoken elderly man with ribbons of service across his chest.

The usual rigmarole about the last escape was combed through, the interrogator asked pertinent though not difficult questions. Then he asked, "Have you escaped before?"

"No, sir," Jon lied looking directly at him.

The interrogator smiled, but shook his head. "Youll have seven days solitary confinement," he said. "For the first escape, thats the punishment, second escape much more." It was with difficulty Jon bit his lip to stop him from blurting out that he knew the rules.

Interrogation over the two were left in the passage under guard.

"One weeks solitary. Thats not bad. Bet he knew this wasnt my first escape. Gave an odd sort of smile, he did." Jon recounted his session to the pilot who nodded slightly, preoccupied with his own weeks ordeal.

"Dont take on so," Jon tried to encourage the young man. "Itll be over like a flash. Get a bit more hungry than usual. Hell, dont want to hang around here much longer. Someone may come and recognise me, then theyd know Id escaped before." He tried to move further into the shadows of the corridor.

Misfortune pounced. The Gestapo guard who had refused dental treatment when Jon was in the dungeon cells sauntered along the passageway. He caught sight of Jons red hair. Prolonging the agony of waiting for the encounter he walked slowly up and down in front of the returned escapees. Then he moved swiftly up to Jon and glared down at him.

"You," he shouted, breathing heavily in Jons face. "What have you been doing?" In his civilian clothes it was quite obvious what Jon had been doing. Then the Gestapo guard shouted to an underling, "Get me his papers." While the papers were being fetched the angry man walked up and down muttering under his breath. Jon quaked in his thin shoes fearing the worst. The guard read the papers then shrieked out in mock horror, "Seven days for his first arrest after escape. Seven days. Seven days only. Should be seven hundred and seventy days. First escape indeed! Get me the officer who conducted this investigation." The underling scuttled off. On hearing the noise the most hated of all the Gestapo men in the whole camp appeared. He was known as Scarface. While gaining the highest decoration of the Reich he had lost an eye and part of his face. This deformity gave him an evil grin, the evilness of the grin matched the evil in his nature and his actions. Already Jon had seen many prisoners mutilated to the enjoyment of this man Scarface. The pilot blanched and Jon again felt the feeling that all odds were weighted against him. The interrogator appeared sensing trouble. The Gestapo guard who had spotted Jon upbraided the middle-aged officer to such an extent that even Jon as an enemy felt embarrassed. Scarface chuckled, he enjoyed a row.

"Wait till you come in and do your time under me, maximum time, not just seven days," he gloated. "There Won't be much skin left on your body. I'll teach you to lie to one of our officers. You scum. In your solitary confinement I'll break your spirit - that I will. I promise you that, you runt." He took no notice of the pilot. After words with the Gestapo guard, and a vicious look at the subdued interrogator he turned to the prisoners and said, "I'm taking you straight away to the top remand compound. I've a special cell for multiple escapees. And you Won't like it. Now," he continued getting into his verbal stride, "You will both hold hands all the way till you get there. If you break the handgrip I will take that as a sign that you are about to escape," by now he had focussed his revolver on Jons back, "and" he continued, "I will shoot. Last week I shot two prisoners. They broke hands. Forward, quick march."

"Hes on the wanted list for cruelty by our chaps," muttered Jon. "Better do as were told." The pilot seemed beyond caring, and moved as if in a dream, a dream of his family and whether he would see them again. At the Remand Centre they were separated, the pilot to join the prisoners with lesser offences, Jon to the gruesome cell that Scarface had called special. With a kick on his backside Jon was sent sprawling. He landed in a layer of slime and excreta. The cell had never been cleaned, and there were no toilet facilities, hence the state of the floor. Again the wooden slats for a bed, but this time no small window for the sunbeams to glance through. The only light came through the grid in the door, the light of a dimly lit corridor.

The battle of wills started. Scarface had all the cards. The meagre diet and the unwholesome conditions were a constant drain on Jons resources. The ace of spades that Scarface held in his hand was that he denied Jon sleep. Every half hour that he was on duty, he would peer through the small grid, and if he saw Jon in repose he would shout and yell.

God Almighty. Sleep is more precious than anything. can't even get a cat-nap. Eyes are popping, heads swimming. Feel quite sick. And look at my legs. Skin and bone again, and soon the skin will start peeling. Oooh! for a drink of fresh cold water. Oooh! for a wash in hot soapy water. Think I'll soon start fantasising. Hang on in, old boy. The now I've got is grim. Yesterdays gone, and tomorrows not here. I'm alive and can reason. Thats about all thats left. Keep going, Jonno, There's bound to be an end.

On the last day Scarface leered triumphantly as he saw Jon huddled on the boards, mumbling away. Jon heard the keys turn in his door, and a new guard appeared, together with the medical officer. In his stupor, Jon managed to stand up. Swaying dangerously he shouted after Scarface, "Think you broke me, didnt you? Shitface, Scarface. Well you didnt."

The effort of that retort and the effort of standing was too much. Jon swayed, the M.O and other guard caught him by the arm and propelled him, half dragging him away from the cell.

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