"The summer of 1940 would have been a glorious time had someone mentioned to Mister Hitler that it was cricket season."

A tale of War, of love, and of friendship. (And a few Nazis)

Harry woke with a bump: He was in the back of an open topped lorry. The trees lining the road flashed by between the bars that secured the canvas cover to the body. His eyes wandered slowly over the people seated around him. German Field grey uniforms and helmets lined the benches on either side.

“Englander?” Asked a man kneeling to his left, seeing that Harry was awake. “English Airman yes?”

Harry nodded weakly, raising his hand to his head. “Yes, English.” He groaned quietly, apprehensive of the response his admission would receive from his German captors.

The German nodded as if he had suspected as much. “You lie still English. You hit head, we take to Field Hospital. You are Prisoner of War now.”

Harry nodded; a Prisoner of War camp was his future from now on and there was little point resisting his fate: His best chance of escape, it was said, was during the first few hours after capture. At the moment however, he was in no shape to fight back… with a strange sense of calm, he allowed the pain in his head to reclaim his consciousness.

When Harry woke again, he was lying on a mattress under a gently rotating ceiling fan: The field hospital he presumed. Looking around, he could see nurses attending to rows of occupied beds similar to his own. Besides medical staff, he could see no guards. Raising his hand, he confirmed his suspicions; he was handcuffed firmly to the base of the bed.

Hearing the cuff rattle, a nurse turned away from a cart and approached his bed.

“Hello,” she greeted him smiling. “Can you tell me your name?” She asked in accented English. “We need it for our records.” She shrugged apologetically. “I am not military.” She offered as Harry hesitated.

“Harry Dolton,” he offered simply, not quite certain of who he could trust at the present time, military or otherwise.

“Ok Mister Dolton,” the nurse smiled again. “You are in a Military Hospital in Valognes, A German Army patrol found you and brought you in.”

“How long have I been here?” Harry asked closing his eyes and grimacing as a jab of pain shot through his body once more. “And do you know what happened to me?”

“The nurse smiled sympathetically and lowered herself into the plain chair beside Harry’s bed. “You were brought in two days ago I believe, I was not working at the time, but it must have been then. “As for what is wrong with you, I do not know, I know that physically you are healthy though. The doctor will know more about the specifics, I am just a nurse.” She shrugged apologetically. “But as far as I can see, your vitals are good, and you seem coherent enough for a head injury, so things are not so grim yes?” she smiled touching Harry’s arm.

“Apart from being in an enemy military hospital I’d be inclined to agree with you.” Harry murmured softly, “thank you nurse.”

Squeezing his arm, the nurse stood and left him to attend to another patient in the ward.

Harry lowered his head back to the pillow and tried to focus on the ceiling fan above him. He wasn’t sure about anything anymore. He’d never been this seriously injured before, even as a child, so his expectations of hospitals in general were limited. He still felt as though something was deliberately missing. The fate of the German pilot he had fought with also clawed at the back of his brain too.

Later that afternoon, Harry was woken by a stern older man with a thin moustache and glasses hovering over his bed.

“Doctor?” he asked groggily attempting to raise himself against the bed.

The doctor frowned. “You are awake I see? Good. I wished to make you aware that you were injured by your parachute landing, there have been complications… but I cannot go into this at the moment. I have been instructed by the Luftwaffe to attend to your immediate medical concerns, and then turn you over to them for transfer to a Prisoner of War camp when I deem you healthy.” He replied stiffly.

“What complications?” Harry asked, concern edging his voice.

“Those I cannot comment on.” The doctor replied firmly, although his mask of indifference slipped slightly to one of mild discomfort as he spoke. “You must wait for the Luftwaffe Officer to explain this to you.

“Hey. I have a right to know what’s bloody wrong with me.” Harry shot back. “Am I your patient or the Luftwaffe’s?”

The doctor frowned deeply. “You are not my patient by choice, Englishman; I treat you because I must, as a doctor, not because I like you.”
The man turned and left briskly.

Harry was annoyed by the German doctor’s attitude, but shrugged it off; he was after all, an enemy combatatant he reasoned; no reason to expect flowers and chocolates at his bedside. He was more concerned however, by the reference to ‘complications’, but the mention that his physical health was good confused the young officer.

Two days later, Harry woke to find a German officer seated by the foot of his bed. The man was reading a book, his eyes occasionally drifting to where Harry lay. He watched the German for a moment before the man realised that he was awake.

The German smiled broadly, and closed the book after meticulously marking his place with a leather bookmark. “Good morning Heir Dolton, My name is Hauptman Markus Bergmann, the man announced formally as he reached over and offered Harry his hand. “As you can see, I am not in action at the moment,” he grinned nodding towards a wooden crutch leaning against the window sill, “So I desired greatly to meet with the English Pilot that has awarded me this brief respite from the tireless pursuit of your brethren.”

“You were the pilot I shot down?” Harry asked, shaking the offered hand, still partially asleep.

“I was indeed,” agreed Bergmann. “I was speaking with the doctor; he mentioned that you were well enough to perhaps take a walk. Would you care to join me in for some fresh air?” he offered noncommittally. “Perhaps we could talk more about… experiences away from the formality of this place.” He added nodding in the direction of the doctor, who Harry could see was hovering just out of earshot.

Harry smiled. “I’d take you up on that offer Hauptman, but I am somewhat at a loss to personally agree,” he mentioned raising his shackled wrist.

Hauptman Bergmann shook his head and called over a nurse that promptly returned carrying a key. The nurse approached and unlocked the cuff around his wrist. Freed, Harry rubbed his naked wrist, encouraging the circulation to flow once more.

“Thank you,” he offered, looking over at the German officer. “Although what’s to stop me doing a runner?”
Bergmann chuckled. “Oh you could try, although like myself at present I believe you are no flight risk, as they say.”

Harry pulled the woollen dressing gown about his shoulders as the two walked through the small garden next to the hospital. Before the war, it had been a town clinic of some form and a few merciful vestiges of civilian life still remained. The garden itself was surrounded on three sides by the Hospital; A quiet area of flower beds, paved pathways and seating areas. It could have been anywhere in England if it hadn’t for the garish military signs on the walls in German. Tugging at the dressing gown again, Harry walked along side the German officer in silence. He felt cold, despite the summer sunshine that bathed the courtyard; he wasn’t sure if it was the doctor’s words, his predicament, or his proximity to the enemy.

Stopping by a small bench, the two sat. Bergmann opened a silver cigarette case and offered it Harry wordlessly. Gratefully accepting the cigarette, he held it to his lips as the German offered him a light before tending to his own; the two smoked for a moment in silence before talking, savouring the tobacco. Harry looked over at the German officer that was treating him so civilly. The man was about his age or perhaps slightly older. Much taller than Harry’s five foot eight, Markus Bergmann was almost the poster child for the Aryan movement; Tall, broad and blonde haired.

“You were in the Royal Air Force long before the war?” Bergmann asked curiously, looking across at the Englishman beside him.

“No,” Harry admitted bluntly. “No, I joined up as war broke out… Sort of impulsive I suppose.”

“I have been flying all my life,” explained Bergmann with a sheepish grin revealing his deeper feelings on the subject. “My father, he taught me when I was thirteen. For most of my youth I would fly for pleasure; for any reason, I almost wished I would never have to land.”

“You joined the Luftwaffe before the war then?” Harry asked.

Markus Bergman shook his head, “no, not at first. I was a naval officer of all things,” he chuckled. “My father was a Fregattenkapitá¤n, ah, sorry, Commander? in the Kreigsmarine; our navy. I had wanted to possibly fly sea planes with the navy, although I never did like the idea of being shot from a battleship into the air.” He laughed.

“So dodging bullets was preferable?” Harry asked with amusement, a crease of a smirk on his lips.

“What is it you English say? I traded one frying pan for a fire,” Bergmann smiled sardonically. “But either way, I defend the Germany of my family, and future generations. Regardless of the politics.” The Pilot said with a dismissive wave.

“Not one for the goose stepping about then?” Harry asked teasingly, feeling more comfortable in the other pilot’s presence as the man opened up to him.

Bergmann shook his head. “Why we fight, I do not wish to discuss, but fight we do, so I do. It is my job, as a soldier, nothing more: I follow the orders of those above me as an Officer should.”

“But what about Hitler and his thing with the Jews? I’m not sure I could willingly stomach that on my watch.” Harry offered. “There’s fighting because we must, and then there’s willing ignorance.”

Bergmann nodded his head. “That there is, but we are both airmen yes? Tell me this… Can you tell me of one time when you have flown a mission that was not a response to an enemy action. We intercept, we escort, we reconnoitre, we attack, but all of it is a direct response to conflict, not politics. Our jobs are far removed from the desks. We fight because we must, not because we want to…. Politics.” Bergmann shrugged. “It is largely irrelevant once the shooting starts no?”

Harry nodded more to himself than in agreement. “True enough,” he offered softly. “True enough.”

Bergman chuckled. “On the subject of shooting, I had wanted to speak with you about the manoeuvre you used when we fought, where did you learn such flying?” the German airman asked with a hint of awe, “It is not a standard tactic I think.”

“Tricks of the trade,” Harry smiled tapping his nose with his index finger. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

Markus Bergman Laughed heartily. “I am not so sure it would be a complete loss if you did.” He grinned. “Rarely do I come up against pilots that understand the limitations of their own aircraft, never mind that of their enemy’s also. The way you forced me to commit to a chase before you sprang your trap…. It was truly inspirational.”

Harry blushed. “I think you give me too much credit,” He smiled weakly, “I could tell you were an experienced pilot, I was low on fuel, I tried something absurd to try and rattle you and keep my behind out of your gun sight.”

Bergmann nodded, “That it did, I was not prepared for such an action.”

The conversation wore on, experiences were shared, the shop talk that aviators amongst their own kind engaged in, Eventually, things began to wind down, and the pair sat in silence.. Harry however, desperately wanted to raise a subject that had been evading him since his arrival at the hospital. Stubbing out his cigarette, he turned to his German companion.

“Look,” Harry began, getting Bergman’s attention. “I’d like you to be straight with me here… flier to flier. That bloody excuse for a doctor in there won’t tell me what’s wrong with me…” Harry frowned nodding towards the hospital. “Has he told you anything? I hate being left out of the loop like this… its obviously bad, so just spit it out.” He said with mounting frustration.

Markus Bergmann’s expression fell and the man frowned. “I suppose you should be told… However, I was not quite prepared to tell you so… soon.”

“I’m going to die.” Harry stated flatly, a surprising calm washing over his body.

Bergmann shook his head. “No, ah, you are healthy; at least physically.” He said choosing his words carefully. “It is more… well, the doctors were forced to operate on you when you were brought in.” Bergmann explained. “Your, testicles… they were damaged, you were bleeding…” He trailed off. Placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder, the man smiled sympathetically. “They had to be removed.”

Harry sat quietly for a moment, unsure of how he should feel at such news. “Oh,” He finally offered quietly.

“I expected you to take this news more… badly?” Bergmann said tentatively. “You are not angry? Upset?”

Harry shrugged. “My own fault I think.” He said looking out over the garden. “Bloody macho attitudes in flight school and leaving straps on our harness looser… that and a tangle with my ship on the way out; bad luck and my own fault really… Bit annoyed that the doctor wouldn’t tell me though, Numb? of course. Though I don’t feel angry.”
“You have every right to Heir Dolton.”

“My name is Harry,” he said flatly looking at the German opposite him. “I think after dropping a bombshell like that one me; I would have thought we’d be beyond formalities.” He chuckled nervously. “What’s to become of me?” Harry asked softly, his expression becoming more serious as he watched the German airman’s face for reaction.

Bergmann interlaced his fingers. “You will be transferred to a Prisoner of War camp soon: As soon as you are able to be transported. I am sorry.”

Harry laughed. “No need to be sorry, I’m the dolt that had the bad luck to come down in your back garden. It’s the rules of the game.”

“You English have strange ways of coping with bad news.” Bergmann offered shaking his head. “I think perhaps we could share a drink after the war is over… We could learn much from each other.”

“Yes,” Harry admitted blankly. “Yes, I suppose we could.”