me. One is post my letters. I’m stretching my allowance, but I’m sure they’ll
pass it this once.’
‘Right you are, sir. And the other?’
‘Tell the Red Cross where I have gone, so the parcels are redirected.’
‘A pleasure.’
The door to the billet opened. A sombre-faced Feldwebel Krebs stepped in. ‘It is time, Major,’ he said. ‘The truck is here.’
‘How long is the journey?’ Watson asked.
Krebs screwed up his face at the thought of what lay ahead for the prisoner. ‘Seven hours, perhaps more.’
‘And it’s a truck?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not, I assume, fitted with Pullman recliners.’ Watson scooped up the straw-filled pillow off his bed and tucked it under his arm. ‘I am sure you can scrounge another for
whoever takes my bunk,’ he said to Sayer.
‘Leave it to me, sir. Here, let me carry that.’
Krebs looked puzzled. ‘Just one case?’
‘Yes.’
He looked at Sayer. ‘Your things too?’
‘No, chummy. I’m staying here.’
Krebs shook his head. ‘No. Hauptmann Halbricht was most insistent. Major Watson needs to be looked after, Private Sayer. You are going with him.’
The lorry, a wheezing Horch with loosely secured canvas sides that did little to keep out the wind, left Krefeld II just after midday and struck east. Sayer tried to put a
brave face on the
fait accompli
of his involvement in the transfer; Watson had complained vociferously and demanded to see Halbricht but was informed that, as in any army, orders were
orders. Sayer would accompany him to Harzgrund. In manacles, if need be.
From the open rear of the vehicle, beyond where their two escorts sat smoking, Watson could see the meagre traffic on the road consisted mainly of horse-drawn vehicles with, as always, skeletal
nags between the shafts. The people, too, looked grey and wan, in need of a substantial feed of protein, he thought. Only a motorcycle rider who roared past them, leather coat flapping, looked to
be in decent health.
‘Bit posh, all this, isn’t it?’ said Sayer as he carefully rolled a cigarette.
‘What’s that?’ Watson asked.
‘A truck all to ourselves. Luxury, that is.’
Watson nodded. Prisoners were normally transported by train, third class if they were lucky, cattle if not. With the shortage of fuel across Germany, he too was surprised at the extravagance of
personalized transport. He hoped it was simply a kind gesture by Hauptmann Halbricht. If so, it was, like his dispatching of Sayer, a misguided one. The solid tyres and the rutted roads meant
Watson’s ribs, still tender from his forest tussle with poor deluded Hanson, were giving him trouble. Sayer noticed the series of grimaces that accompanied each jolt.
‘You want me to restrap you up, sir?’
‘No, Sayer. Perhaps when we stop.’ Watson raised his voice. ‘I assume we will stop at some point.’ He looked over at the guards, but the pair, one of whom was too old for
the front line, the other a young man missing several fingers, either didn’t understand or ignored him. The grizzled one had lung problems, his breathing audibly damp even over the sound of
the Horch’s engine, but Watson reckoned him too elderly to have picked up gas damage at the front. Some kind of industrial emphysema was most likely.
The truck grumbled on. Watson accepted a roll-up about as thick as a pipe cleaner from Sayer and tried to get comfortable on his purloined pillow. To pass the time, he mentally composed more of
the story he had begun to tell Hanson on their walk, ‘The Girl and the Gold Watches’, as he now titled it.
He must have nodded off because the squeal of the brakes sent him sprawling along the metal bench towards the cab. Only Sayer’s swift handiwork prevented him ending up in a bundle on the
floor. The guards dropped the tailgate, hopped out and indicated the prisoners should do the same.
‘Exercise. Stretch legs,’ wheezed the older of the pair.
‘Where are we?’ asked Watson, blinking away sleep
pass it this once.’
‘Right you are, sir. And the other?’
‘Tell the Red Cross where I have gone, so the parcels are redirected.’
‘A pleasure.’
The door to the billet opened. A sombre-faced Feldwebel Krebs stepped in. ‘It is time, Major,’ he said. ‘The truck is here.’
‘How long is the journey?’ Watson asked.
Krebs screwed up his face at the thought of what lay ahead for the prisoner. ‘Seven hours, perhaps more.’
‘And it’s a truck?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not, I assume, fitted with Pullman recliners.’ Watson scooped up the straw-filled pillow off his bed and tucked it under his arm. ‘I am sure you can scrounge another for
whoever takes my bunk,’ he said to Sayer.
‘Leave it to me, sir. Here, let me carry that.’
Krebs looked puzzled. ‘Just one case?’
‘Yes.’
He looked at Sayer. ‘Your things too?’
‘No, chummy. I’m staying here.’
Krebs shook his head. ‘No. Hauptmann Halbricht was most insistent. Major Watson needs to be looked after, Private Sayer. You are going with him.’
The lorry, a wheezing Horch with loosely secured canvas sides that did little to keep out the wind, left Krefeld II just after midday and struck east. Sayer tried to put a
brave face on the
fait accompli
of his involvement in the transfer; Watson had complained vociferously and demanded to see Halbricht but was informed that, as in any army, orders were
orders. Sayer would accompany him to Harzgrund. In manacles, if need be.
From the open rear of the vehicle, beyond where their two escorts sat smoking, Watson could see the meagre traffic on the road consisted mainly of horse-drawn vehicles with, as always, skeletal
nags between the shafts. The people, too, looked grey and wan, in need of a substantial feed of protein, he thought. Only a motorcycle rider who roared past them, leather coat flapping, looked to
be in decent health.
‘Bit posh, all this, isn’t it?’ said Sayer as he carefully rolled a cigarette.
‘What’s that?’ Watson asked.
‘A truck all to ourselves. Luxury, that is.’
Watson nodded. Prisoners were normally transported by train, third class if they were lucky, cattle if not. With the shortage of fuel across Germany, he too was surprised at the extravagance of
personalized transport. He hoped it was simply a kind gesture by Hauptmann Halbricht. If so, it was, like his dispatching of Sayer, a misguided one. The solid tyres and the rutted roads meant
Watson’s ribs, still tender from his forest tussle with poor deluded Hanson, were giving him trouble. Sayer noticed the series of grimaces that accompanied each jolt.
‘You want me to restrap you up, sir?’
‘No, Sayer. Perhaps when we stop.’ Watson raised his voice. ‘I assume we will stop at some point.’ He looked over at the guards, but the pair, one of whom was too old for
the front line, the other a young man missing several fingers, either didn’t understand or ignored him. The grizzled one had lung problems, his breathing audibly damp even over the sound of
the Horch’s engine, but Watson reckoned him too elderly to have picked up gas damage at the front. Some kind of industrial emphysema was most likely.
The truck grumbled on. Watson accepted a roll-up about as thick as a pipe cleaner from Sayer and tried to get comfortable on his purloined pillow. To pass the time, he mentally composed more of
the story he had begun to tell Hanson on their walk, ‘The Girl and the Gold Watches’, as he now titled it.
He must have nodded off because the squeal of the brakes sent him sprawling along the metal bench towards the cab. Only Sayer’s swift handiwork prevented him ending up in a bundle on the
floor. The guards dropped the tailgate, hopped out and indicated the prisoners should do the same.
‘Exercise. Stretch legs,’ wheezed the older of the pair.
‘Where are we?’ asked Watson, blinking away sleep
Similar Books
