"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)

The lorry rumbled slowly along a bumpy track somewhere deep inside Germany nearly a week after Harry Dolton’s aircraft had gone down over Northern France. Harry couldn’t begin to imagine where, exactly, he was: Although he suspected that this was the point of such an enterprise. He had been in the swelteringly warm canvas covered rear of the German Army truck for the past hour. Twenty minutes of which had been on the very un-metalled track they were currently travelling. They had been on the move for the better part of two days, and he was weary; though more from the constant movement than his healing injuries. They had left France by train, and travelled deep into the heart of Germany. They had stopped overnight in a small boarder town on the French side before boarding another train, and another day had seen them progress into the heart of the Third Reich.

The Luftwaffe guards assigned to him were a highly professional group, and had treated him surprisingly well during his journey further and further away from his home land. Quite certain that not all German troops behaved this way with Prisoners, Harry suspected it was his status as an officer, and a pilot amongst the air force soldiers was a deciding factor: Honour and warfare… strange bedfellows that were rapidly tiring of one another’s company in these uncertain times..

Harry felt the truck slowing, then turn and roll to a halt with a squeak of brakes. He could hear the doors of the cab open and close as multiple German voices exchanged words. His escort rose, and began to open the rear flap of the truck. Sunlight streamed into the dull interior, momentarily disorientating Harry as he was ordered out of the back of the Opel truck.

Looking around, he blinked in the bright sunlight and began to take in his immediate surroundings. They were deep within dense pine forest, the trail the truck had driven down cut through the pines. The clearing in which the camp was built was expansive: Several hundred feet square housing rows of wooden huts inside a tall double row of wire fence. Home, for the duration, Harry realised.

The guards with Harry escorted him across the parking area to a wooden building just outside the main camp; what appeared to be an administrative building. As they entered, Harry felt the weight of several pairs of eyes looked him over. They walked through the office, where he was escorted to the desk of a portly middle aged German officer.

“Name?” the man asked tersely, without looking up at Harry.

“Flight Lieutenant Harry R Dolton,” he offered simply.

“If I had asked for your rank, I would have said so,” the man remarked, again, without looking up.

“Flight Lieutenant.” the man muttered as he filled in the next box on the form he held.

“Your service number is what?” He asked resting his pen.

“12838844471,” Harry repeated from memory, forcing himself to remain aware of the questions he was being asked.

“Your date of birth?” The German asked looking up at him.

“You have my name, rank, and serial number.” Harry replied softly with a hint of a smile. “That’s all you get, and you know that.”

The German frowned. “Insolence is not tolerated here Flight Lieutenant Dolton. A Guard will escort you through to speak with the Komandant of the camp before you are taken through, please leave.”

Harry resisted the urge to childishly stick his tongue out at the chubby beurocrat before him. Turning to his escorts, Harry shrugged and nodded that he was ready to be taken through.

His expectations, having been built up by the snide administrations officer were rapidly dashed on entering the Komandant’s office. The man was in his late forties, early fifties, with short grey hair covering his broad head, his large aquiline nose and tanned skin fitted his tall spry frame. The man’s posture oozed command and authority.

Coming to attention, Harry Saluted the Komandant without hesitation; “Flight Lieutenant Harry Dolton, Sir,” he offered, awaiting the man’s attention.

Looking up from his desk, the Komandant rose and returned Harry’s salute with a subtle nod of appreciation. “Welcome Flight Lieutenant, Forgive my bluntness, but we will skip to the chase.” The man said curtly, remaining standing. “I run my camp with four very simple and firm rules: Follow them, and your time with us will be as pleasant as possible. However, break them, and I will do my very best to make this an unpleasant experience,” he said firmly, his eyes fixed on Harry’s.

“Firstly, Escape attempts will be punished by stays of increasing length in Isolation, you may be shot also.”

Harry nodded his understanding, and smiled sheepishly at the Komandant’s last remark.

“Secondly,” The older officer continued. “You are not to fight with the guards, or your fellow prisoners of war, we house English, American, and other European airmen at this location, I will not tolerate violence.” He said firmly, walking round in front of his desk to stand in front of Harry.

“The third rule, is that you will follow the orders of a Guard to the letter, however, you may report mistreatment through the appropriate channels. I do not tolerate bullying on either side of the wire Flight Lieutenant.” The Komandant added raising his eyebrows. “Do you have any questions?”

“What about the fourth rule?” Harry asked curiously.

The Komandant nodded. “The fourth rule you do not need to know if you follow the first three. However, break any of these consistently, and you will become familiar with it. Now,” the Officer said bluntly, “You will be escorted through to the camp, Once you are there, you will report to wing commander Berkley, he is the ranking prisoner of war, and my liaison amongst the prisoners. Any questions or complaints may be directed through him, the day to day running of the camp, and prisoners, is his responsibility, He will brief you when you arrive. He is in hut twenty one,” the Komandant explained. “I hope we do not have to see one another again Flight Lieutenant.”

Saluting, Harry was escorted from the office and out to the wire of the camp itself. Unlocking the gate in the first fence, a German guard pointed to the wire lined passageway through the no-mans land between the wire. With little choice, Harry walked forwards, until he was waiting in front of the second gate. The guard unlocked this, and opened it.

“You will go through now.” The man ordered, before pushing Harry by his shoulder through the gate, and into the camp itself.

Locking the gates behind him, the German retreated back to the outside world, leaving Harry unsure of what to do next.

Well, He supposed. He had a few years to work it out.

Eventually, those within the camp began to notice the young RAF pilot standing by the gate. He hadn’t moved since the guard has led him in. He wasn’t sure if it was fear, or the stark realisation that he was now, officially, a prisoner of war. It hadn’t felt like it in Valognes, or during the journey to the camp. It was as if passing that last wire divide had made it all so much more real in his mind.

“Just hit you aint it?” Said a large Scotsman that had walked up to Harry. “Aye, I recognise that look… You’re finally realisin’ that you’re a prisoner, and that it’s over. Took me a wee while to come to terms with it too…” the Scottish airman admitted shoving his hands into his pockets before grimacing. “Like being an animal at the zoo really. The name’s Graham Moorfield.” The big man grinned extending his hand. “Fifty seven squadron, Wellington Bombardier.”

“F, Flight Lieutenant Harry Dolton, Spit Pilot, Forty Three Squadron.” Harry offered resisting the urge to grimace as the big man vigorously shook his arm. “I don’t suppose you know where I’d find a Wing Commander Berkley do you? Head Jerry outside said to report to him…” Harry asked tentatively, hoping the Scot would release his hand.

The Scotsman grinned again. “Aye nae problem, follow me lad, I mean sir.”

Graham Moorfield led Harry though the camp, stopping on the way to introduce him to other prisoners. Harry was very aware of the stares he drew as the new boy. Moorfield led him up to a hut on the far side of the camp and rapped on the door before standing back. A few moments later, a middle aged man with dark hair and thin glasses opened the door and raised his eyebrows. “Yes Graham?”

Moorfield saluted, shortly followed by Harry. “Sir, Flight Lieutenant Dolton, he’s new sir.”

“Very well Moorfield,” the man smiled. “Come on In Flight.” The man said with a slight nod. “Come in,” he added beckoning Harry to follow him. Nodding his thanks to the large Scotsman, Harry Followed the Wing Commander.

Walking into the hut, Harry looked around slowly, waiting for the man in front of him to seat himself at the rough wooden desk that filled one half of the room.

The building was Spartan, but comfortable looking. There was a single bunk off to one side, a set of shelves, and a desk with several chairs.

“Do sit flight.” Wing Commander Berkley offered with a hint of amused exasperation. “We don’t stand on ceremony here.”

Harry walked forwards and lowered himself into one of the chairs in front of the Wing Commander’s desk. “Sir, the camp Komandant told me to report to you.”

Berkley leaned back in his chair and regarded Harry for a moment. “Yes, I would imagine he did,” the man said dismissively, “All new prisoners are to report to me on arrival. It’s a little ‘settling in thing we do; lets people work out the lay of the land faster. So to speak…”

“So what’s the deal here?” Harry asked plainly, without looking away from the Wing Commander. “Are things as black and white as the Komandant’s four simple rules? Or are things a little more grey?”

Wing Commander Berkley looked at Harry for a moment before leaning forwards and propping his forearms on the desk. “As you know Flight, there is a war on.” Berkley said stating the obvious in Harry’s view. “To follow the German’s rules would be a dereliction of our duties as fighting men.” He said more forcefully, slapping his palm down on the desk. “We have the duty to escape, and cause as much mayhem for Jerry as possible in the process; we simply must. As such, all efforts in this camp are put into subterfuge, covert action, and active escape attempts. You will be a part of this now you are under my command.”

“Sir,” Harry replied non comittally. “I will of course, do my duty.”

“Very good,” Berkley nodded slowly. “I suppose I ought to fill you in on the more mediocre aspects of life here Flight.” The man said standing and walking over to a wood burning stove in the corner and checking a kettle. “Tea?”

“Thank you sir,” Harry agreed readily. “I’ve not had a cup since the morning I went down. The Jerry coffee isn’t bad… but it’s not Tea, sir.”

“That its not.” Berkley agreed filling two mugs. “Sorry, you’ll have to take it black, no civil niceties like milk and sugar at the moment…”

“That’s fine sir.” Harry agreed taking the proffered mug. “So how do things run around here? Aside from all the secret squirrel antics?”

Berkley lent against a window frame and sipped his tea. “Like one would expect a prison camp to be run, probably the same way we do back home, to be honest. We get up in the mornings, some groups on a rota perform maintenance, and go on work parties, there’s football, gardening, some of the more worldly types teach classes, there’s a chapel, and kitchen rota for meals. All in all, it’s not too bad, but its not England.”

Harry nodded. “The Jerries seem to take good care of us.” He observed from behind his mug. “Anything dodgy happened yet?”

Berkley paused, before shaking his head. “The odd fight with a guard, the odd failed escape, typical animosities, but mostly Jerry leaves us alone, and we leave them alone till we want out.”

“Is there any communication with the outside world?” Harry asked curiously, “Red Cross, or a wireless perhaps?”

Berkley shook his head sadly. “The Red Cross deliver packages via the Germans, but its all vetted, nothing slips by, and they would never let us have a wireless.”

“Worth a thought.” Harry shrugged. “How long have you been here sir?”

Berkley sighed. “About two months I believe; Captured when my Gladiator went down in Norway during the retreat. No flack…. No air support… so undermanned.” He reminisced. “We lost so many good men… So did I…. Jerry picked me up off the side of some god forsaken Norwegian mountain and packaged me off here with the other fliers they were collecting.”

“You’ve been a prisoner since then? Harry asked with surprise. “Why it’s mid august now sir. And you have no news? Sir… Italy joined the war along side Germany, and France was invaded and fell…”

Visibly paling, Berkley sat in silence for a moment. “Bloody hell.” He whispered to himself. “Not a good show… Tell me.” He almost pleaded, the middle aged man showing true signs of age in his weariness. “How are we doing back home?”

Harry raised his palms. “It’s hard to tell sir… The Germans bomb us daily, our airfields, now our cities, we’ve bombed them back and we’re struggling in the air… There’s word Hitler might try to invade England soon sir.”

Berkley shook his head. “This damn war…”

“I know sir.” Harry added after a moment’s awkward silence.

Wing Commander Berkley shook himself and stood. “Never mind eh?” He said with false optimism. “Not much we can do about it from in here… lets get you billeted and we can begin to fight Jerry again tomorrow.” Wing Commander Berkley smiled as he held the door open followed the young airman out into the late afternoon sunshine.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door to the hut, Harry cautiously made his way inside: It was as Spartan as the Wing Commander’s, but the desk had been replaced by several rows of bunk beds. Slowly walking further into the room, Harry took time to look to see which bunks appeared occupied. From the state of them, the room seemed at least mostly occupied with eight of the ten bunks filled. Taking the lower bed of the lone unoccupied bunk, he sat down on the mattress, relishing the first brief moment of solitude he had experienced in several days.
Lying down on the bunk, Harry stared up at the slats of the bed above, and quietly wept, releasing all the stress and fear that had built up since the ordeal had begun. Eventually, he drifted off into a fitful dreamless sleep.

From the Author:

Enjoy Chapter Three folks, Theres more to come soon now...
Please comment... its lovely to hear people's ideas and views of the progression.
Alyssa