and trying to focus through watering eyes.
‘Middle of bleedin’ nowhere,’ muttered Sayer. ‘We turned off the main road about half an hour ago. At a place called Haaren.’
Watson shook his head to show it meant nothing to him. ‘How long have we been going?’
‘About three hours. You need a hand, sir?’
‘No,’ said Watson, shuffling towards the rear.
Watson climbed down gingerly from the truck, with some unasked-for assistance from the young guard with the missing digits on his left hand. Watson wondered if the wound had been self-inflicted.
He had seen plenty of those in his time. If so, the man was misjudged: those serious about escaping the war altogether always made sure their trigger finger on the right hand – and the boy
was definitely a right-hander – went. Then again, the injury had gained him this soft posting, so perhaps there was more cunning at work than Watson gave him credit for.
He looked about as he straightened his spine and did a few mild stretching exercises. Sayer was right. It was the middle of nowhere. They had pulled over on the verge of a narrow road, as
straight as a rule, which, a few feet of soil and grass apart, was hemmed in on either side by densely packed pine trees. A plantation of some description. There was no other traffic and the
silence, broken only by the tick-tick of the Horch’s cooling engine, felt oppressive. His breath clouded in the air. It was already colder than in the west of the country.
The driver, a weathered specimen with a face the colour of walnut, was already out of the cab, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee from a vacuum flask, which he clearly didn’t intend
to share.
‘You want me to take a look at the strapping?’ Sayer asked.
‘Come.’ The old guard indicated towards the trees with his rifle barrel.
‘What’s this? Ablutions?’ asked Sayer.
Watson noted that his bladder did indeed need emptying and stepped towards the treeline.
‘No!’ The guard was indicating Sayer, who had followed Watson. ‘Only him. Not you.’
Sayer put a hand on Watson’s shoulder. ‘What’s he playing at, sir?’
The second guard brought his Mauser down on Sayer’s arm, knocking it away. Sayer swore at him with some vigour which, fortunately, the German didn’t fully understand. But he got the
gist. He prodded Sayer back against the side of the truck with the muzzle of his Mauser.
‘Come,’ repeated the older man, ‘with me.’
‘Don’t do anything foolish while I am gone, Sayer,’ warned Watson. ‘I’ll be fine.’
There’s no point in us both getting killed
, he almost
added.
He had heard of this scenario, of course. A train or a lorry stops for a rest break. The prisoners ‘stretch their legs’. They are then shot ‘trying to escape’. Well,
perhaps this was fate’s payback for Hanson. It was possible he deserved such an ending after what had happened to his fellow Englishman.
The trees seemed to absorb both light and heat and he pulled the greatcoat tight around him as he shuffled into the semi-darkness. He could hear the whistle in the old guard’s breathing
quite clearly now. He wasn’t a well man. But could Watson take him? He glanced over his shoulder, reducing his walking speed as he did so. The German was a good five strides behind him and he
slowed to match Watson’s new pace. He gestured with his rifle that Watson should keep moving. Watson did so. It was then he noticed white smudges on some of the trees they passed. He ran a
finger along one. Fresh lime wash. Markings. He was being led down a particular route through these trees. But to what?
He smelled the smoke first. Pipe tobacco. Something intense and spicy, although he couldn’t say more than that.
Latakia, Watson. Unmistakable
.
As usual, he ignored the fraudster.
The smoker was leaning against a tree on the edge of a small clearing. There was a Puch motorcycle on a stand in the centre and an access pathway led off towards the north.
‘Middle of bleedin’ nowhere,’ muttered Sayer. ‘We turned off the main road about half an hour ago. At a place called Haaren.’
Watson shook his head to show it meant nothing to him. ‘How long have we been going?’
‘About three hours. You need a hand, sir?’
‘No,’ said Watson, shuffling towards the rear.
Watson climbed down gingerly from the truck, with some unasked-for assistance from the young guard with the missing digits on his left hand. Watson wondered if the wound had been self-inflicted.
He had seen plenty of those in his time. If so, the man was misjudged: those serious about escaping the war altogether always made sure their trigger finger on the right hand – and the boy
was definitely a right-hander – went. Then again, the injury had gained him this soft posting, so perhaps there was more cunning at work than Watson gave him credit for.
He looked about as he straightened his spine and did a few mild stretching exercises. Sayer was right. It was the middle of nowhere. They had pulled over on the verge of a narrow road, as
straight as a rule, which, a few feet of soil and grass apart, was hemmed in on either side by densely packed pine trees. A plantation of some description. There was no other traffic and the
silence, broken only by the tick-tick of the Horch’s cooling engine, felt oppressive. His breath clouded in the air. It was already colder than in the west of the country.
The driver, a weathered specimen with a face the colour of walnut, was already out of the cab, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee from a vacuum flask, which he clearly didn’t intend
to share.
‘You want me to take a look at the strapping?’ Sayer asked.
‘Come.’ The old guard indicated towards the trees with his rifle barrel.
‘What’s this? Ablutions?’ asked Sayer.
Watson noted that his bladder did indeed need emptying and stepped towards the treeline.
‘No!’ The guard was indicating Sayer, who had followed Watson. ‘Only him. Not you.’
Sayer put a hand on Watson’s shoulder. ‘What’s he playing at, sir?’
The second guard brought his Mauser down on Sayer’s arm, knocking it away. Sayer swore at him with some vigour which, fortunately, the German didn’t fully understand. But he got the
gist. He prodded Sayer back against the side of the truck with the muzzle of his Mauser.
‘Come,’ repeated the older man, ‘with me.’
‘Don’t do anything foolish while I am gone, Sayer,’ warned Watson. ‘I’ll be fine.’
There’s no point in us both getting killed
, he almost
added.
He had heard of this scenario, of course. A train or a lorry stops for a rest break. The prisoners ‘stretch their legs’. They are then shot ‘trying to escape’. Well,
perhaps this was fate’s payback for Hanson. It was possible he deserved such an ending after what had happened to his fellow Englishman.
The trees seemed to absorb both light and heat and he pulled the greatcoat tight around him as he shuffled into the semi-darkness. He could hear the whistle in the old guard’s breathing
quite clearly now. He wasn’t a well man. But could Watson take him? He glanced over his shoulder, reducing his walking speed as he did so. The German was a good five strides behind him and he
slowed to match Watson’s new pace. He gestured with his rifle that Watson should keep moving. Watson did so. It was then he noticed white smudges on some of the trees they passed. He ran a
finger along one. Fresh lime wash. Markings. He was being led down a particular route through these trees. But to what?
He smelled the smoke first. Pipe tobacco. Something intense and spicy, although he couldn’t say more than that.
Latakia, Watson. Unmistakable
.
As usual, he ignored the fraudster.
The smoker was leaning against a tree on the edge of a small clearing. There was a Puch motorcycle on a stand in the centre and an access pathway led off towards the north.
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