CHAPTER 7
The next few months were as routine as anything could be when held as a prisoner. Jim had a degree of freedom he had never expected the day he had been marched away from a Flanders canalside. Two days in the camp would be followed by five in the castle, largely outdoors. A couple of the Fritzes spoke some English, and they served two purposes. The first was the obvious one, passing on Jim’s instructions to the small group of labourers that he led, while the second was something he should really have expected.

The message was there in the tone the soldiers used to the underkeepers: yes, yes, we know he’s the enemy, but just for now, you will do as he says. And we are the ones with the guns.

There was a massive amount of work to be done, as whoever had occupied the position before Jim was pushed into it had either been incredibly lacking, or simply not there, which was the conclusion that Jim was steadily settling on. Weber’s words had troubled him more than a little, especially his use of the word ‘clean’.

Jim didn’t really mind Jews, as long as they kept to themselves, the funny-dressed ones, that is. He knew Shields was full of sand-dancers, but you could hardly tell they weren’t proper Tynesiders most of the time. The hat-and-cloak Jews, the ones with the funny haircuts, they all stayed up by Coatsworth Road, in Gateshead, so unless you went looking for them you’d never know they were there. Out of sight, out of mind, but that one word was a niggle.

‘Clean’.

The work was absorbing, though, and that niggle gradually slipped from his mind as the jobs took front row seats. There were an awful lot of vermin nests to break up, and not just crows but also a lot of buzzards and harriers. He found and destroyed two goshawk nests as well as those of more familiar pests, and once he had sited and baited a few pole traps, the gins became very productive. Partridge were plentiful, and he had real hopes that they would become more so now that he had eradicated the harriers. The next year should be a good season for shooting.

He did encounter several pigs, and they were nothing like the ones he was used to at home. His own gissies were more like sausages in shape, round at front and rear and level along the back, whereas the creatures his underkeepers took care not to disturb were very different, high shoulders sloping down to their scut, and bristling with hair. The young piglets were striped, and would scamper off when disturbed, but the adults, many of them with a fearsome set of tusks, would just stand and stare back in a very worrying absence of any obvious fear.

And there were bloody cats that hunted them…

The days and months gradually piled up, with occasional bursts of activity. The Red Cross were as good as their word, parcels and letters coming more regularly than Jim had expected, while his own men seemed to have taken him at his own word, and his censorship duties were never onerous. Every couple of weeks, the ‘Oberst’ would visit his new estate, and Jim would lead him on a stalk. There were a couple of meadows in particular where the roe would gather to graze, and Jim had prepared a couple of shooting blinds for the older man. On a few occasions, after a particularly productive day, Weber would load some sacks into the little car’s boot before Jim’s return to the camp, filled with cooked venison.

Jim had asked, but he already knew what the answer was likely to be.

“Why not just take a couple of carcasses for our kitchen, sir?”

Weber had laughed out loud at the suggestion.

“Who do you think it would be cooked for, Sergeant? You would see none of it at all! This way, your men get a treat. They will not be living the easiness of your life here, and it is as the Bible tells us, not to tie up the mouths of the animals that work our mills. The kie, as you say. My man will collect you again on Monday. Veeder zayn!”

Winter came on schedule, and it was a hard one. The lads were given an allowance of the coal they had been cutting, and Jim found that Dinger had been absolutely accurate, if not even a little complimentary, in his description of said ‘coal’. It gave out a lot of smoke, but it did burn slower and hotter than the offcuts of wood they had used through the Autumn. Weber or one of his staff had found Jim a pair of wellies as well as a sheepskin jacket, so he would be able to keep on top of his labours without freezing, but as the wind drove the snow in swirling flurries across the flat landscape, all Jim could think was how doomed any escape attempt would be. For such seemingly benign terrain, the place could clearly be brutal. He found himself dreading his two nights of shivering in the camp, thin blankets and smoky stove, before hauling those thoughts back.

Institutionalised, like a long-term jailbird: was that what was happening to him? How long would he be kept caged? Nothing seemed to be happening in the war, as far as he could tell. A trickle of other prisoners had arrived, from North and East Africa, which clearly led to problems in the increasingly bitter winter, as their uniforms were far from being as warm as those Dinger and the lads still wore. All told, however, the war seemed distant and horribly static. Keep the routine going, Allen; stay as warm as you can, eat the occasional treat from the Oberst’s stalking sessions (including a couple carried out wrapped in white suits) and survive.

The Spring thaw took him by surprise, especially with its savagery. Everything was wet, everything was muddy, and many of the roads and tracks became rivers of mud rather than any useful route for transport, so Jim spent a few weeks indoors, repairing and preparing pole traps and, to his surprise, shotguns and hunting rifles. There was never a chance of ammunition for them, but it meant several comfortable days in his well-heated office with oil, pull-through and instrument screwdrivers. The weapons were a mixture of types, from some almost antique side-by-side German and Italian pieces to one far more modern over-and-under American beast. They were all fine firearms, and the fettling was absolutely absorbing.

It was with some shock that he realised that ten months had gone by since their surrender to Albach, and that was rammed home by another influx of prisoners, including a CSM from the King’s, which meant Jim was no longer the senior NCO. He was in camp when the new chums arrived, and there was a knock on his door from Dinger, which was hardly his usual style.

“Sarge, got a new intake from Greece. Sergeant Mahor Rumens, Sarn’t Allen”

Jim nodded to the lad, before pulling some professionalism beck to himself and rising from his seat.

“Thanks, Bell; could you grab another chair for us? I will take things from there. Sarn’t Major!”

The newcomer waved at the desk as dinger produced the second chair.

“This your little world apart, Sergeant? Please: take the pew. I will need some time to settle. It’s been a pretty collection of balls-ups so far, and, well, I am rather worn down at the moment. As well as brassed off, of course. What have you been told?”

Jim shrugged, just as there was another rap at the door. Dinger again, with two mugs.

“Beg pardon, gents, but Jonty had some real tea left over, from his Mam, so he donated a bit. Got no sugar, sorry, Sarn’t Major”

The newcomer’s smile was wan, but at least it was there.

“Thank you so much, Corporal. That is just what I need. If you can spare anything for the rest of my lads, it would be appreciated”

“I’ll see what I can do, Sarn’t Major”

“Thanks, Corp. Sergeant? Your tale of woe?2

Jim shrugged.

“Nothing much to tell, really. Dunkirk rearguard. No choice but to chuck it in. Got shipped out here once the Fritzes realised how many of my boys were collier lads. Northumberland Fusiliers, aye?”

Rumens nodded, eyes a little distant, then sipped his tea.

“That, Sergeant Allen, is exactly what I needed. My sorry tale? We were cut off north of the Canal. Bridge blown. Several of my lads had copped it from splinters, and my….”

He paused for a few seconds, and Jim asked the question that had risen straight away.

“Which canal, Sarn’t Major? Not THE Canal?”

A twisted smile.

“Oh, call me Keith”

“Jim, Keith, if you like”

“Thanks, Jim. No, not Suez, if that’s what you meant. Corinth. The bastards have taken Greece, all of it by now, I suppose. Most of my lot had scarpered—on orders, Jim, not just run off--- but we had wounded, so I stayed with the MO’s orderly. My Staff Sergeant, Dicky Dawes, he actually made himself laugh. Me too. He said ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers’, pardon my French, and then he laughed and said, ‘Yes, exactly! Fuck this game of soldiers for a fucking game of soldiers!’, and then he managed to get the rest of the boys away. Navy will be doing the rest, I hope. Fucking paratroops”

Another sip.

“Sorry I couldn’t bring better news, but at least it’ll be getting warmer here. Didn’t exactly pack a lot when I came away. Bit of a rush, Jim”

“I gathered that, Keith. What’s the rest of the news?”

“Lots of bad news, I’m afraid. Rather save that for now. Just one good bit, and that is the Eyeties. They don’t do too well. Had a go at Egypt”

There was something in Keith’s eyes that was almost gleeful, so Jim risked a smile.

“How did they get on?”

“Oh, we pushed them back and took a few prisoners”

Another sip, before a grin broke out properly.

“About a hundred and forty thousand of them”

“Fucking hell! Sorry, Keith, but, well, fucking hell!”

The CSM shrugged.

“Would have been even more, but loads of us got pulled back out and sent off to Greece and, well, here we are. Word came that Jerry has sent some reinforcement to Africa to bail out Musso”

Jim nodded, taking a mouthful of his own tea, so much more welcome than the roasted acorn based sludge they were given by the Germans.

“And home? What about home?”

Keith’s grin faded.

“Not do good. The RAF fought the Jerries off in daylight, but they’re now coming over at night. Not going to talk about that. How is morale? I’d like some idea before I risk ruining it”

“Not that bad. Think they’re mostly resigned to it, really, though the lads who joined up to get out of the pit are hardly chuffed at being sent down into another one. Coal mining area here”

“The Corporal tells me you have a cushier billet”

“Aye, I suppose if could be seen like that. Snide bastard that bagged us, right at the start, he worked out want we all do, and I was a keeper, so I spend the week clearing vermin from some senior officer’s estate”

“How senior?”

“Oberst von something and something”

“Full colonel, then. Any perks?”

Jim shrugged.

“Warm office, when I’m in it. And they’re generous when we get a decent bag, and I get to bring a load of cooked game back for the lads. Roe deer, partridge, quail, wild boar. Not had a day out for weeks, though; Oberst has been away for a while”

“Really? I wonder if… No. Not today. Formality now, Jim: you are hereby relieved of command. Please don’t feel bad about that”

Jim laughed.

“You have no idea! Can I make a suggestion?”

“A helpful one?”

“I think so. Censoring letters. Divvy up the work between us?”

A much warmer smile at last.

“I will never, ever object to sharing that burden. Thank you. Now, tea is gone. Do you have time to walk me around the place?”

The next morning was actually Spring-like for the first time, rather than not-quite-out-of-Winter, and as the shouts of ‘Rowse! App-ell!’ rang out, Jim ambled down to his usual place in the ranks for roll call, this time with Keith appearing at his right. The roll was called, and that was when the Germans went berserk, as the head count came up two men short and two names went unanswered.

Bell, David and Armstrong, Arthur.