"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)

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Chapter One
 
 

Flight lieutenant Harry Dolton stretched out under the warm midmorning sun as it played lazily over the grassy apron belonging to the squadron’s aircraft. The summer of 1940 would have been a glorious time had someone mentioned to Mister Hitler that it was cricket season. Nearly every day the men and planes of Fighter Command took to the skies to fend off the swarms of Nazi warplanes that plagued the south coast of England like gnats to a horse.

Drawing on his fourth cigarette that morning, he allowed his eyes drift up to the sky above as he watched the clouds roll past in lazy procession. This damned war had given his life some meaning for all its danger and bother. All his life Harry had been the preverbal black sheep of the well regarded Dolton family; never the sportsman his father had desired, nor the university graduate or businessman that his brothers had found great success as, he was never in favour with the old man. Washing out of public school at eighteen, Avoiding his parents insistence that he find a girl, settle down, get a job, he had dallied around for several years making the correct noises about advancing his life and career, without holding any real convictions on the subject. The arrival of war in Europe had provided him with a chance of escaping his father’s mournful disappointment and fulfilled the niggling feeling that he should make a man of himself. It was good for that much.

The shrill ring of the telephone in the operations hut caught his attention instantly just as it did every pilot on duty. The seconds ticked by slowly as the call was answered. Almost always, it was a scramble, but there were the occasional false alarms and admin phone calls that got the pilots on edge as they waited for the next call to arms. Sergeant Tomlinson’s head appearing at the ops room window however was enough of a sign for Harry and the other’s in the Duty section that this was no false alarm. The pilots were halfway to their aircraft before they heard him call the scramble: The boys of 43 Squadron were the best in the whole Royal Air Force.

Jumping into the seat of his spitfire Harry pumped the choke while fastening his flight harness about his torso. Checking the straps were secure, save those at his crotch, he eased the throttle open urging the fighter to roll forwards across the turf of the airstrip as he made his final instrument checks and lined up for takeoff. He wasn’t sure why he always made sure that he left the crotch straps loose, but it had become almost a personal pre-flight ritual to check. He remembered during training one of the instructors had joked about keeping them too tight for too long was a sure way to see off fatherhood. Like the other young, inexperienced trainee-pilots, he’d burned the advice into his memory.

“Ascot three, airborne.” He called over his radio transmitter as the heavy metallic sounds of the wheels tucking themselves into the wings of his fighter reverberated around the thin airframe. Testing the response of the controls, he settled into an intercept climb.

“Rodger that Three. Form up at Fifteen thousand feet with section, Ascot One out.”

Ascot flight formed up wing on wing at the designated attitude and cruised south from Biggin Hill towards the south coast of England.

“Hello Skipper, Ascot two, what’s on the menu today sir?”

“What have I told you about calling me Sir, Jenkins? And for god’s sake stick to radio protocol.” Squadron Commander Barton replied sharply over the radio. Harry smiled as he listened to the sweet sound of someone else suffering the Commanding Officer’s ire.

“Angels twenty, five thousand up; approaching from the south east… Just bombers lads.” Barton advised. “Don’t get bloody sloppy on me, there might be fighters lurking above that Radar can’t see.”

Confirming their mission, Ascot flight climbed above the incoming bombers and waited to spring their trap. Masked from sight by the cloudy costal skies, the incoming Luftwaffe aircrews had no way of seeing the fighters as they dove out of the cloud bank as they cut, guns blazing through their formations.

“That’s the last of ‘em boys. Jolly good work.” Barton announced triumphantly as he climbed back to join the flight after trailing the fiery plummet of a stricken bomber.

“Ascot Four, we’ve got two limping away at low altitude Ascot One. Permission to pursue?”

Audibly sighing over the radio, Barton agreed. “Rodger that Four, take Dolton with you and don’t drop your guard.”

“Wilco sir, Four out.”

“Tallyho Harry.” Andy Gold called as he rolled his Spitfire over and swooped down towards the retreating aircraft. “Here we go again.” Harry groaned to himself and rolled to give chase.

The two spitfires dropped down below the enemy bombers and began their approach, safely out of kicking range of the German aircrafts’ guns. As the two fighters closed the distance, Harry Dolton’s Spitfire began to slide into an attack position off the quarter of the damaged bomber. As he began to line up the kill, the Heinkel’s starboard engine began trailing a thick black trail of smoke that obscured Harry’s view, forcing him to pull back to regain the important visibility.

“No good Andy, I can’t get a clean shot through the smoke, take a pop at the Bosh and I’ll cover you.” He offered deferring the kill to his wingman.

“Rodger that Harry, I’ll save you the other,” Gold chuckled manoeuvring his spitfire in for the kill.

As the aircraft got closer, the Heinkel’s engine spluttered and died spraying thick black engine oil out into its wake. Lining his guns up on the sedate target, Flight Officer Andy gold never saw it coming as the thick black oil smothered his Plexiglas cockpit.

“Blast it Harry I can’t see a thing, I’m pulling out.” He called breaking off from the attack. Harry was in the process of lamenting the difficulty of downing two limping Jerry bombers when he saw his wingman’s fatal error and felt the sickening grip of dread as, instead of diving away to safety, his wingman and friend pulled back on his yoke for fear of the low altitude and brought his Spitfire directly into the tail gunner’s sights. Yanking his aircraft sharply to port, Harry barely missed being hit by the burning wreckage of Gold’s Spitfire.

“Andy!” Harry yelled uselessly into his transmitter. “You damn fool.” He added softly, “Damn fool…”

Centring his crosshairs on the bomber he jabbed angrily at the trigger feeling the airframe shudder as the Spitfire’s guns rained down on the German aircraft. Shuddering, the bomber began to come apart before rolling to starboard and diving into the ocean. “That one’s for Andy.” Harry muttered to himself as he centred his aim on the healthier of the two enemy bombers that was now diving and twisting in erratic evasive manoeuvres.

Straining his eyes to see the retreating bomber through the descending fog, Harry pressed on as he attempted to close the gap between himself and the German.

As the pair broke out of a bank of fog he saw his chance and opened fire, sending the aircraft to the waves bellow.

Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to celebrate the kill. “Ascot Three to Ascot Leader, Jerries down, but… sir, Andy bought it.”

Hearing no reply Harry tapped his transmitter switch and tried again, greeted only by the cold tone of static. “Ascot Three to any aircraft, do you read?” He tried again hoping that for some simple reason things would work again. Shaking his head, he unclipped his mask and muttered a curse under his breath; another repair to add to the list for the ground crew back home.

Although at that moment in time, his blinkered pursuit of the German bomber left him entirely unaware of where home was…

Checking through his instruments, Harry began to spot damage throughout the aircraft. His fuel gauge, compass and radio all seemed to have faults; he presumed, the blame lay in a round through the wiring in the aircraft’s nose at some point in the previous scrap. Heaven knows, looking out at his wings showed that he had taken enough hits. Gentle tests to his flight controls showed them to be working as expected; small mercies he supposed.

Dropping down bellow the clouds left him a narrow corridor of several hundred feet above the dirty grey waves of the English Channel. He had three hundred and sixty choices to make, two hundred and seventy of which, would result in land, the remaining ninety, could land him in the middle of the Atlantic, without a radio or a prayer. Crossing his fingers inside the flying gloves he wore, he banked left and took a chance. Sailing had been one of the few interests he had shared with his father. That memory of childhood brought one fact to the forefront of his brain at that moment however: In the morning, winds predominantly blew out from or into the channel, bound either for, or coming in from the Atlantic Ocean, and judging by the wave patterns, he could estimate broadly which direction that was. Completing the bank, he levelled out till he was flying parallel to the waves bellow, and pressed on praying his fuel load held out.

Within fifteen minutes of his decision, the gamble appeared to have paid off as land became visible on the horizon below the cloud. Heartened by his discovery, Harry opened the throttle to a fighting speed, unsure which coast he was approaching. He didn’t very well want to go strolling over the French coast and become a leisurely target to the AAA the Jerries lined the cliffs with.

Dropping down to the wave tops. He pushed forwards, hoping his gamble would land him on friendly soil, by his estimation, his fuel load had to be dropping dangerously low; any port in a storm suited him just fine at that moment..

Rising up over the beach and headland, he sped inland encountering no resistance. It wasn’t a part of England he recognised, but there was no flak… Passing over a coast road, his heart sank, traffic was passing on the wrong side of the road… it was German military traffic.

His heart rate quickening, Harry climbed to a safer altitude away from potential ground fire and pondered his choices. He was over occupied France, with low fuel. The chances of making a return trip to England successfully were slim, at roughly 20-40 miles, he estimated that he would need to swim a good portion of the way home at best. His other options were less inviting still. He could bail out, or fly till he ran out of fuel, or till a fighter found him and dealt with him. It was the first time since he had joined the RAF that Harry had been required to decide his own fate with more than just guns and guts: It was not a pleasant feeling to realise one would either die, or spend the rest of the war in a prisoner of war camp. Harry was still pondering his fate when the chatter of guns behind him informed him that the decision had already been made by a higher power…

Cursing his lack of awareness, he began to evade the German fighter that had so successfully stalked its prey to within striking distance. Diving steeply he barely dodged a second burst as he used what he expected to be the last of his fuel in this fruitless dance. He jerked his head around quickly trying to catch sight of the Me109 at his rear. The fighter was close, and staying glued to his tail regardless of the manoeuvres he pulled off. That in itself worried him greatly: For a pilot to be able to match a Spitfire in the older 109, he must have been quite the flier. Harry shook himself mentally. Giving the Jerry too much credit would only help kill him. Instead, a risky manoeuvre was called for. It was a chance to turn the tables. It was risky, but offered greater odds than the certain death that waited should he kept up this fruitless game of chase. Opening the throttle fully, he began to accelerate away from his pursuer. As the 109 began to follow suit, Harry dropped his flaps and rammed open his dive brakes, causing the aircraft to shudder as it lurched up and shed speed. Unable to react in time, the 109, still fighting to match the speed of its faster prey, shot beneath Harry’s Spitfire. Closing his flaps, Harry nosed down and took advantage of the change in roles by opening fire with the six browning machine guns in his wings. The German fighter began to smoke as chunks flew off its fuselage as the bullets struck home. Harry fired bust after burst into the aircraft in a mixture of rage and relief. His guns clicking dry, Harry could only watch as the German Pilot bailed out as his aircraft accelerated downwards in its final dive.

At about three thousand feet, the German fighter gave up, its wings sheering off as the torque of the dive tore at them. Rolling to the side, Harry vainly tried to doge the flying metal to little avail. The wreckage tore clean through his port wing and stabalator, forcing the Spitfire into a vicious spin.

Harry fought the g-forces pulling his arms down as he reached for the cockpit release handle above his head. The few seconds it took felt like minutes as the aircraft plummeted. His fingers finally closing around the handle, he yanked at the catch as hard as he could. As the catch slipped free, the canopy was ripped backwards by the wind, making him catch his breath momentarily. Releasing the seat harness, he climbed upwards and dragged his torso out of the cockpit. Gasping for air as it sped past, he forced his legs to lift him into the buffeting wind. Feeling drained by the simple act of climbing out of the cockpit he lifted himself a fraction higher till the wind caught his body and dragged him from the stricken craft. As he was dragged by the slipstream, he felt his harness catch momentarily on the jagged edge of the stabalator as he tumbled away from the aircraft. Opening his arms as he was taught, he fought to stabilise himself as his Spitfire hurtled earthwards. Tugging at his harness with his gloved hands he checked for damage; everything felt in order… He might have been lucky. Pulling the ripcord on his harness, his heart skipped a beat as he waited for the drogue to deploy. After the longest moment, it caught air, dragging his main parachute from the seat base bellow him.

A jolt of pain shot through Harry’s body as the deployed parachute caught the air and filled. When his mind cleared enough to focus, he began to search for where he’d been hit. The pain was radiating out from his crotch… The damn loose jump straps on his harness were so comfortable in the cockpit, but when hanging from the canvas with a damaged waist strap taking no weight, the comfort and idiotic advice had proven costly. The strap on his waist, he realised, had been scythed clean through by the rough metal of the airframe as he was dragged past. Thankful as he was that he had not been closer to the stabalator; his body throbbed with the pain of his personal error. As the parachute had deployed, the change in speed had forced his entire body had slammed down on his crotch, causing debilitating jolts of pain to radiate through his whole being. Harry fought the pain to retain consciousness as he drifted towards the ground: It felt as though a knife was being twisted each time a gust caught the parachute. Sooner than he wished, the ground rushed up to meet him just as it had in the training exercises, but harder. Slamming into the grassy field took the wind out of him, and brought the world to a dark close.

To be continued...

From the Author:
Hello chickies, glad to see you're reading my new work this New Year's Day 2010. To start the new year, I bring you Angels High. My delve into the 40s, highly inspired by the damned dvd box set that I bought my boyfriend for christmas... He's not stopped watching the world war two films, so heres the product! I'll be updating this fairly regularly over the next few weeks, as with Focal Point and River of Shaddows Conclusion Chapter. My resolution if you haven't already guessed it, is to finish a few things I'd started. I may possibly POSSIBLY undertake a re-write of The Road to Haifa, I dont want to continue it as is, because i feel my writing back then was sub par. So perhaps expect that in early Feb, reposted, and rewritten.
Night night folks, Enjoy the bedtime reading, and if any one of you hum that theme song from a certain Mcqueen film... I'm going to throw an Ugg boot at you!
Alyssa
xx

"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)

---

 
 
Chapter Two
 
 

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.”

"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)

---

 
 
Chapter Three
 
 

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

"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)

---

 
 
Chapter Four
 
 

The sound of the hut door hitting the frame roused Harry from his slumber. Raising himself up on his elbows, he focused his still groggy vision on the source of the sound.

Three men had entered the hut and were stood by the door on the far side of the room, apparently as surprised by the new arrival as he was.

Sitting up and swinging his legs off the bunk, Harry smiled. “Hello.” He offered, “Flight Lieutenant Dolton… Harry; I’m, new, you might say.”

The men seemed to relax and began to move about the room as they had originally intended. “Flight Lieutenant Arthur Hamley,” replied a wide set Irishman, “And these chaps are Pilot Officer Daniel Maddox, and Captain Mike Down.”

“Nice to meet you,” grinned Down in a deep Texan drawl, extending his free hand to Harry as he mopped his sodden brow. “Sorry buddy, we just got off work detail.” He grinned running his hand through his damp hair.”

“Oh not a problem.” Harry replied, liking the American airman immediately. “I just took one of these empty bunks; that’s alright isn’t it?” he asked cautiously, explaining himself. “Nobody was around…. Needed to rest…” he shrugged apologetically.

“Ah it’s no problem.” Hamley replied stripping out of his work shirt. “Those four left are all empty so it’s grand.”

“So what outfit are you with?” Maddox asked turning to join the conversation. “Navy man myself.”

“RAF,” replied Harry, “Forty Three Squadron.”

“Ah a fighter jock lads.” chuckled the American. “Watch your women and your whiskey.”

Blushing at the comment, Harry didn’t reply immediately. “So I take it none of you are fighter pilots?” he asked changing the subject.

Maddox shook his head, “Hamley over there was a Wellington pilot, I flew Swordfish and Yank here… Actually Mike, Why don’t you explain it yourself?” he added grinning.

Mike Down slumped down on the edge of his bunk and rubbed his hair a second time. “Well I’m not one to boast, but it was a pretty hairy one.”

“Aye we know you are but tell the story so,” laughed Hamley.

Throwing his shirt at the Irishman, the American stifled a laugh before continuing his tale. “It’s like this right… I was a commercial pilot before the war… I flew seaplanes transatlantic. So when the war started, I joined the Us Army Air force and got involved with flying over supplies and things that the ships couldn’t handle.”

“Get to the point Down.” Maddox replied drearily stripping down to his shorts and picking up a towel. “I want a shower before those cads in thirty two use up all the water again.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Down waved dismissively. “So anyway I get knocked a little off course right? This burns up a lot of Juice and my bird is running pretty low with a full belly… I want to have water under my hull pretty soon. So I get myself back on track, and I head for the shore, I spot this port and it’s got a seaplane terminal…I think what the heck,” he shrugged. “So down I go… Turns out, I overshot a little bit.” He grinned sheepishly. “It was Norway, and a German Naval base that I landed in. Brash as you like I get out of my cockpit, and light up on the jetty. Only to get planted face down and have guns pointed at me before I realise my mistake.” The man smiled ruefully holding his hands up. “Not sure who was more surprised to see who.”

Harry laughed warmly. “I ended up over France, got lost, so don’t feel so down about it.”

“Ah see?” Mike grinned looking at the other men. “I’m not the only one that can’t read a map.”

The three men finished stripping and made their way down a corridor to what Harry presumed to be the ablutions block of the huts. So far, his billet mates were alright he thought: At least none of them were with Photographic Reconnaissance…

The men returned, and Harry went with them as they made their way over to the mess hut for their evening meal. For some strange reason, Harry felt as if this was the start of his school days all over again: He was with a new group of people, new set of rules, a new social network he was arriving into and hurriedly had to find a place or risk being the loner again. The fact it was all men too felt awkwardly familiar: School for Harry Dolton, had been a torturous experience. In part, it was the pressure of living up expectations forged unchecked in an environment of raw testosterone that stylised the public school in the England of the late 1930s. Harry was competitive enough. He knew that. He had sometimes even enjoyed the activities he took part in, but the school itself… what they wanted him to be… the mould he had to fit: It somehow made him extremely uncomfortable.

The group filed into the mess hall and along a queue that passed in front of the kitchen hatch at the far end of the building. The atmosphere was warm, and filled with the sounds of raised voices and the clank cutlery.

As the group wound its way towards the front, Harry watched the room. It certainly was school all over again, he mused. The cliques, the behaviour… grown men had been reduced to little more than schoolboys once more.

“Alright lads.” A man called as he jumped the cue to stand with their group. “How was work?”

“Grand Andrew.” Hamley replied turning to the newcomer. “Jerry likes to keep us occupied.”

Hamley turned to Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder he nodded his head towards the newcomer. “This lad, is Andrew Matheson, one of our hut; he’s Navy like Maddox.”

“Pleased to meet you sir.” Matheson grinned extending a hand. “RAF eh?”

“That would be me,” admitted Harry sheepishly, shaking the man’s hand. “Harry Dolton.”

“Joined our motley bunch of sods here then eh?” Andrew Matheson smiled. I’m sure you’ll settle in fine… not that we hope to hang around long.” he grinned. “So Dolton, how are you settling in? Just get here today yes?”

Harry shrugged. “Still pretty awkward,” he admitted. “Feels like im back in the seventh form again… “I guess its still hitting me: Where I am...” Harry replied softly, unable to meet the eyes of the other man.

Matheson shrugged. “Well I guess it’s our lot for now.” He added kicking a floorboard, his hands deep in his pockets. “We do what we can, because we must I suppose.”

The line finally ended, and the group received a bowl of simple stew from the kitchen before retreating to one of the unoccupied wooden benches to eat.

Harry sat in silence, slowly eating his stew as the others talked and laughed around him. In a sea of people, he felt quite alone. It wasn’t that he was new… he understood that. It was more that he knew that no matter how welcome he was made to feel, that he would never be one of them.

“You’re the first new face in here since Norway you know.” Matheson offered pointing his spoon at Harry. “I think the Jerries are upto something.”

Harry paused, his own spoon half way to his mouth. “What do you mean?” he asked, knitting his brow.

“Well, surely there have been more airmen down since Operation Domino and such.” Andrew Matheson thought aloud. “Mike here was the last to join us… and he arrived shortly after the British evacuated. What you told Old Berkley has gone around the camp like wildfire… We’ve had nobody new since then, and it seems a little strange… considering there’s space. Why you? Why now?” He pushed, looking at Harry with a confused expression.

Harry shrugged. “I can’t answer that.” He admitted with a shrug. “We loose a lot of boys, perhaps other camps were full?”

“No…” Matheson shook his head. “Jerry’s up to something.” He muttered impaling a lump of potato in his bowl. “Almost as if they are keeping news out of camps by separating airmen from different campaigns…. It would make sense… but why you?”

“I don’t know.” Harry shrugged, feeling the weight of every eye at the table. “I don’t know.” Harry muttered sheepishly. “I don’t know.”

The next few days were a blur to Harry. The first fresh face in months became an instant celebrity in the camp. News of loved ones, friends and the war all became his most common topics of conversation with the other prisoners. Harry felt like a human wireless service.

Camp life was difficult to adjust to after the freedom of the outside world. The guards were fair but strict, and Harry tried hard to remain on their good side. Although he had begun to feel more comfortable with the men he shared his billet with, he wasn’t sure they qualified as friends by any stretch.

The days began to turn into weeks. Harry did as he was told, and robotically went with the flow of camp life. He rarely talked with the other prisoners unless he had to. The men in his hut always tried to get him talking, but rarely revived more than one word answers. Harry began to realise that he was slipping into a deep depression.

Harry padded automatically through to the ablutions block on the morning of his second month in the camp, Stretching, he rolled his head from side to side, working out a kink in his neck: The bunks were comfortable enough, but he never slept particularly well.
Hanging his Red Cross towel on a hook set into the wooden panelling wall, he began to strip out of his shorts and tee-shirt. The morning chill was more effective than coffee at waking him: Quickly he slipped into the shower room and turned on a faucet before waiting for the temperature to rise above that of the room.

Stepping under the warm water, Harry lent against the wall for a moment, allowing the water to rain down over him while he woke up: The early mornings were hard on him, but he always preferred to shower first, or last. His accident made him self conscious: In such a masculine environment, what would they think about the one with no balls? There was already the occasional jibe about being small, but this would be the end of his life if they found out. But naturally, fate would not allow that to be the peak of his embarrassment. In the months since the accident, he had barely shaved more than twice during the entire period. Not that he had ever been the sort to grow a beard in an afternoon, but the loss still made him feel that he ought to be embarrassed. Hair across his body was finer, and paler, his skin less toned and softer. Even his chest seemed mildly irritated and flabby.

While these things were bad, he admitted, the worst part was that while he feared what people would think of him… how they would treat him. The changes themselves did not upset him nearly as much as he believed they should. Just like he had felt when news of the accident had been broken to him. In truth, he had never felt so calm and at peace in his life.

The sound of the door opening roused Harry from his thoughts. Jumping at the sound, he hurriedly turned to face the wall and began scrubbing his body.

“Morning,” yawned a wild haired Andrew Matheson, as he stumbled naked into the shower area. Slinging his towel over the waist high wall, the pilot collected his wash kit and stepped into the shower area.

“Sleep alright?”

“Uh, yes thank you.” Harry replied nervously, trying to keep his back to the man.

“First time I’ve seen you in here.” Matheson replied conversationally as he turned on the faucet. “You’re an early riser.”

“I don’t like the queues.” Harry offered without turning.

“Not my place to say this…” Matheson said looking over at the other officer as he slowly soaped his hair, “but you seem very shy around everyone; is this the same deal?”

Harry gulped, “No, no, it’s nothing.”

“I don’t think so.” Matheson announced, “No: The way you behave… It was like I was in school. You make yourself invisible, and hope to pass unnoticed; you don’t feel like one of the guys, so you just try to exist. Believe it or not,” the Navy pilot admitted. “I was one of the small lads back in school, I got treated pretty badly.”

Harry turned his head to look at the Navy airman. Andrew Matheson was six foot three at least, and built like a prop half. Nothing Harry could see lent credence to the man’s story.

Matheson saw the look and laughed. “Yes, It’s pretty hard to believe t. look at me, I hit a bit of a late growth spurt during my late teens and it all vanished,” he said turning off the shower and reaching for his towel. “Don’t worry old chap, It will hit you soon enough. What are you? Nineteen, maybe Twenty? Give it a couple of years and you’ll be fighting off the women.” He chuckled warmly, patting Harry on the shoulder.

Jumping at the touch, Harry bowed his head, feeling a strange urge to tell the man exactly why he would never be what he reassured him with, “It won’t Andy.”

“Ah that’s not true.” Matheson replied as he rubbed his hair. Sure you will.”

Harry turned off the water and still facing the wall, sighed audibly. “I won’t Andy; I’m stuck like this for ever… No muscles, no hair, no deeper voice, no height… I can’t.

Matheson shook his head and wrapping the towel around his waist, sat on a slatted wooden bench while he unfolded his wash roll. “Every man does Harry… Some just take a while.”

“No.” Harry sighed. “I didn’t tell anyone this… I’m so embarrassed…” he trailed off, reaching for his towel and wrapping it about his waist before slipping on his tee-shirt and turning to face one of the few people in the camp he had grown close to. “Andy, I haven’t got any balls.”

Matheson was silent for a moment, surprise painted on his face. Harry slowly walked over and sat at the far end of the bench from his friend, and looked over at the man. “When I went down… There was an accident, my parachute harness… it… they had to operate, they couldn’t save them, I’ll never again have testosterone in my body.” He said quietly, shaking with silent tears.

Matheson put his wash roll down and moved over till he could put his arm around the shoulder of his comrade. “It’s alright Harry.” He dismissed softly. “Nobody’s going to think any less of you… Accidents happen; A lot of rubbish has happened in this war… it doesn’t make you less of a man.”

Harry sighed and shook his head. “That’s just it Andy…” he whispered. “I never really felt like one… I was waiting for the damn stuff to kick in and make me like my brothers, and classmates, hoping even; now…now I don’t know.”

Andrew Matheson was quiet for a moment before squeezing the young Pilot’s shoulder reassuringly. “This war has done some terrible things to people Harry. Families split, loved ones lost… hell, the generation growing up during this mess have the same problem you do… Give yourself time, you’ll find who you are, and you’ll be alright… Just please… Don’t hold this sort of thing back from me and the guys in the billet alright? We’re here for you, we’ll look out for you.”

Harry nodded weakly without looking up. “Thank you.” He replied weakly. “I’m sorry.”

“Ah don’t be.” Matheson shrugged, smiling softly. “I’d have felt bad telling me too.”

From the Author:
Not to sound like a sour fish here folks, but I’ve received numerous comments and PMs lately asking when ‘Angels High’ Will feature transition. While I do fully intend for this to happen, (You’ll forgive me for not giving the game away yet.) Is it impossible to identify with a non transsexual or cross dressing character? Is it impossible to enjoy a tale for its merit? Not content? I apologise if this seems rude. But as a writer, I reserve the judgement to outline my plot as I desire, and bring in subject matter when I feel it appropriate. I understand you come here for TG fiction, and This is a TG story... It just requires a little more preamble than 'bob turned into sally the end.' I ask you to bear with me and I promise it will be worth your while :)
Also expect more of your favourite storires that i've been neglecting... Due to a snow sports accident, im bedridden for a couple of weeks... *sigh* fate eh?
Alyssa

"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)

---

 
 
Chapter Five
 
 

Harry had found it hard to interact normally with Andrew Matheson after their talk that morning. The man knew his deepest secret and most private feelings: Despite Harry’s poor ability to articulate those feelings, he had still revealed far more than he was comfortable with.

It was a Thursday morning by all accounts: Harry Dolton’s sense of time was effected by the repetitive nature of camp life and the days blurred together as they spent time detached from the world outside. He was working out in the camp garden with some of the other prisoners, tending to the vegetables that supplemented their meagre rations in the camp kitchen. The sun was weak, but pleasantly warming in the late October morning of 1940, still carrying with it memories of the summer. Harry worked quietly and efficiently, separating the weeds from the fresh growth in the damp earth. They hoped this crop would ripen in time for winter; no, they needed it to be. Despite being a recreational aid to keep the prisoners occupied, the garden acted as a much needed supply of fresh produce to their diet of army rations, maintaining their health and fitness and fighting off disease. The garden kept them alive.

Harry had slowly begun to open up more to the other men in the billet. He had discovered the grizzly and somewhat intimidating Irishman Hamley, was a friendly honest man, with an interest in American Jazz music, a wife, and two young children back in England.

For all his flash bravado, the Yank, Mike Down, was a simple Arkansas farm boy and quietly intelligent in his own way. He had a street savvy and practical adaptability that made up for what he lacked in formal education; the man was a survivor.

Matheson and Maddox were both typical Royal Navy Fliers: Public school, First XV; old boys. They were Naval officers through and through. Matheson was the most educated of the group, holding a bachelors degree in Art History. He had been planning to continue on with his education when war broke out and he joined the Royal Navy. His education was something the men seemed to enjoy mocking him about. The tall, dark haired Navy pilot was the closest friend Harry had made in the camp, and possibly one of the closest friends he had ever had. It surprised him to realise that he did indeed consider the man a friend; it was not a mantle he had needed to use often in the past. Matheson treated him like a human being. Not like the runt he knew he probably appeared to be in the eyes of most. It had taken him time, but with Matheson’s help, Harry had become more of a member of the hut than a guest, finally feeling capable of opening up to the others and joining in with their jokes and camaraderie. The men treated him as an equal, and even defended him when they could. The wire and the Jerries aside, Harry Dolton felt more at home than his own had.

“Come on Dolton,” jeered one of the other prisoners. “Hurry up, we need to get this done or we’re going to be here till the bloody war is over.”

Harry realised he’d been staring into space and shook his head clear before continuing to weed the patch of earth around him.

“What a fairy.” One of the other prisoners announced dismissively to the man that had spoken. “We should just leave her in the kitchen where women belong.” He laughed derisively.

Harry flinched at the words and the cruel laugher that followed, but said nothing. It wasn’t the first time someone had made a similar comment in his direction: He had learned the hard way that any response or reaction on his part just resulted in a confrontation that he never won. Straightening up, Harry dumped the weeds into a basket and dusted the soil off his hands. Without looking at the two men, he simply walked away in the direction of his hut.

Harry gritted his teeth as he left the vegetable garden. He didn’t need to reply, or show any sign of the words getting to him. He had been wrong when he had thought it was almost like school. It was school all over again: Bullies ruled the coop, and nothing could be done; not by him. The only possible option would be to see the Wing Commander, but that was just telling teacher… Harry had felt the ramifications of that before.

Slamming the door to the hut behind himself, Harry slumped down against the wall and wrapped his arms around his knees. Was the man right? Was that how people saw him? Nothing seemed to make sense anymore in his mind. Things flew around at breakneck speed, thoughts bouncing off one another at random: The comments made his own feelings the harder to understand…

“Ah there you are.” A voice chuckled darkly from the doorway. “Here I thought you were running off to your friends, but I see you made my job easier.”

Harry flinched at the voice and turned towards the door. “What the hell do you want?” He spat glaring up at the man from the vegetable garden.

“Now don’t talk to me like that,” growled the man. “You need to learn your bloody place you queer.”

Harry scrambled to his feet and took a step towards the larger man. “I’m not a queer,” he spat angrily. “Just because…. I’m… just stop it ok?” he trailed off at a loss for the words to defend himself, his defiance leaving him as he understood just how little any comeback meant.

The larger man laughed. Harry wasn’t even sure if he knew the man, let alone any reason that could have possibly drawn his ire. Before he could react, the man shoved Harry squarely in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards till he lost his balance and landed on the floor with a bump.

“You’re not even a queer,” the man sneered at him. “At least a queer would be man enough to fight back… A man would have thrown a punch at me… You’re not a bloody man is what I think.”

Harry crawled backwards on his hands trying to widen the gap between himself and the intruder but ran up against the solid barrier of the wall.

“I think you’re a woman,” the man laughed, making effeminate hand gestures and pouting mockingly. “You’re not fit to be a man.”

Harry blinked back the beginning of tears; he almost believed the man’s words. It was as if part of him felt he deserved whatever was to come. Why couldn’t he hit him? The most terrifying part was that he almost agreed.

“I’m going to teach you to be a proper woman you queer shit,” growled the man as he approached Harry slowly, each footstep falling like thunder on the wooden floorboards. Harry’s heart began to hammer in time with his death knell; the man’s footfalls, until he stood squarely above him.

The man began to reach down towards Harry, but froze midway as the door to the hut flew open, ricocheting off the wall.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Andrew Matheson growled from the doorway, “Unless you hadn’t realised, we’re all on the same side here.”

The man above Harry turned, grinning at Matheson, “That’s true enough, but this queer keeps eying me up; I felt it was time I taught him her place.”

“You won’t touch he..him.” Andrew said plainly, but with a finality that demanded that it not be questioned.

“Oh you want your little queer all to yourself eh?” the man growled menacingly. “Well be my guest, but you’ll have to accept seconds friend.” The man added with a chuckle.

“You won’t touch him…” Matheson replied simply, squaring up in front of the man. “I won’t tell you again.”

As if daring the Navy pilot, the man reached down and grabbed a fist full of Harry’s collar. “You’re going to make me friend?” The man enquired slowly, the challenge plain in his voice.

Before the man could close his mouth to grin at Matheson, he was slammed backwards into the cabin wall as the force of the Pilot ploughing into him. Released from the man’s grip, Harry dropped to the floor. Rolling to one side, he flattened himself against the far wall, keeping his distance from the two grappling men.

Matheson swung the man around and threw him into one of the bunks in the cabin with a tremendous crash, rocking the structure backwards with the force of the impact. Recovering his wits, the man swung a fist at Matheson: It was a violent yet uncontrolled attack, allowing the airman to sweep it away before landing his own squarely in the man’s gut. As he doubled over with a grunt, Matheson grabbed a fist full of the man’s hair before driving his knee sharply into the man’s nose with a sickening crack, the man dropped lifelessly to the cabin floor.

His chest heaving, Matheson lent forwards against his knees before turning to look towards his friend. “You ok?” he asked with concern, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner… I overheard what that bastard was planning with his friends. I came as soon as I could.” He apologised, his face filled with concern.

Harry nodded weakly, forcing a slight smile of appreciation. “Thank you,” he offered quietly, feeling the full weight of shame descend over him. “This wasn’t your fight you know?” he added looking up at Matheson. “It was my fault.”

Andrew Matheson straightened up and walked over to Harry before squatting down before his friend. “No It wasn’t.” he said finally. “You didn’t ask for that, and he didn’t have the right to do that, or say those things. You’re my friend, and friends look out for each other right?” he smiled, patting Harry on the shoulder.

“Isn’t this lovely,” called a voice mockingly from the open doorway. Harry’s head snapped towards the sound and his eyes fell on the his would be attacker’s friends filling their only escape route. “The queers having a quiet moment eh? I should….” The man trailed off as his eyes fell upon the sight of his friend’s prostrate form. “What the hell did you do to Webb? He growled as he rushed over to check his friend.

“He’s bloody dead.” The man cried with surprise realising that his friend was beyond help.

“His own fault,” Matheson replied straightening up. “That will teach him to try to… attack, others.”

“You bastard!” the man yelled launching himself at Andrew.

Blocking the man’s fist Matheson kicked him in the stomach before deflecting the blows dealt by the man’s accomplices. He swung around to hit one of the others when he was distracted by the sudden darkness created as a Guard filled the doorway, his submachine gun raised.

“Halt! HÓ“nde Hoch!” The guard yelled, pointing the barrel menacingly at the group of men, frozen mid brawl. “HÓ“nde Hoch!” he yelled jerking the barrel between the men.

Overflowing on adrenaline one of the men turned and launched himself foolishly at the nervous German. As if signifying the final punctuation mark on his death warrant, the gun roared in the confined space of the hut and the man crumpled to the floor, his hands grasping weakly at his bloodied chest.

“You bloody Jerry bastard!” screamed the ringleader turning on the guard, and catching him across the cheek with a lucky punch. The gun went off again, bullets pinning the third attacker to the hut wall, his blood spraying Matheson in the process. The ringleader fought the guard and the two struggled before he finally turned the gun on him, firing the rest of the magazine into his stomach. The man coughed blood before dropping to his knees and collapsing to the hut floor.

Matheson struck while the surviving attacker was turned and drove his knee into the man’s back before snapping his neck with a sickening crack and allowing him to drop to the floor to join the other corpses.

Rifling quickly through the German’s webbing Matheson removed four more magazines for the captured MP40 and reloaded the weapon before slipping the remaining magazines into his jacket.

“Well this is a turn up for the books.” Matheson muttered quietly as he glanced out of the hut doorway quickly before snapping his head back inside.

“Harry, can you grab that sidearm and give me some cover? I’ve got a bit of a plan forming here.”

Nodding quickly, Harry moved away from the wall and over to the prostrate German and unfastened the man’s holster and removed his
Luger pistol, pocketing the spare clip. “What the hell are you planning to do? Shoot your way out?” He asked cautiously, half joking, his voice still wavering slightly.

“Not quite.” Matheson replied smoothly without taking his eyes off the alleyway between the huts, “Come on now.” He hissed beckoning Harry to follow him as he darted out of the door and across the alley and inside one of the opposite huts.

“No, the plan isn’t to shoot our way out,” Matheson smiled as Harry reached the hiding place. “It’s to let Jerry do that for us.”

“Did you forget about the bloody company of Luftwaffe guards outside the wire and inside?” Harry Hissed quietly at his friend, trying to work out what madness was running through his friend’s head.

Two German guards rounded the corner with weapons raised and made their way cautiously towards the scene of the carnage. Neither paid the huts to their rear any notice as they approached the door. “Rudolf?” one called as he poked his head through the doorway, stopping dead as he was confronted by the bloodbath within. “Mein Gott….” The man muttered quietly, “Alarm Heinrich, gib Alarm!” he yelled, turning to his compatriot. Matheson swung the hut door open at that moment and sprayed the pair with his submachine gun before either could react..
“Come on, help me get their weapons.” He ordered, making his way quickly out into the alley and removing the first German’s weapon and ammunition. “The more we kill and more of us we arm, the better the chance we have. This place is so isolated we’ll be long gone before they have a chance to get any reinforcements.” Matheson explained. “If we can cause enough of a ruckus, we might make it out of here.”

“That’s all well and good,” Harry replied sharply, “But what’s your plan to tiptoe past Hitler and the rest of his pals outside the camp?”

Matheson chuckled as they ducked between the huts. “I’ll work it out when we get there… or rather, out of here.”

As the pair rounded the next hut, they barely managed to avoid a collision with Hamley, Down and Maddox moving quickly in the opposite direction.

“We heard shooting? What’s going on?” Maddox panted, his eyes widening at the sight of the pair laden with weapons. “Are you two after getting yourselves killed?”

“Fight went wrong, Jerry bought it, not my hand, but it presented an opportunity. Here,” Matheson offered, gesturing at the other weapons over his shoulder as he explained quickly to the group. “Help yourselves chaps. I think our tenancy here is up.”

The men checked over the weapons and ammunition. “What’s the plan then boss?” Down asked slapping the bolt on his weapon. “We gun our way out of here and off to Paris and cocktails?”

“Stick within the lines of the huts,” Matheson commanded, “We’re out of sight of the towers and their heavy guns. Drop as many Jerries as possible, and arm as many of our lot as possible, cause a general riot… The more confusion the better. I’ll see about sorting out those towers Myself if you can buy me time.”

“You’re a mad one,” chuckled Hamley, “but this sounds like good craic, so lets have out of this place eh?”

“Go in pairs,” Matheson added sharply, his happy go lucky side slipping under the focused military exterior. “Hamley and Maddox, Down and Dolton, I’ll go alone for now, I’ve got something I need to sort out… And for god’s sake.” He added looking over his shoulder. “Try not to get bloody killed will you?”

The men split up and made their way in opposite directions amongst the maze of huts. Harry could hear the camp sirens wailing as gunfire rattled around the camp. It was clear now that other prisoners had taken the initiative and risen up against the guards. The sharp bark of the tower machine guns was a worrying bass line that accompanied the angry sounds of armed revolt.

Rounding a corner, Harry spotted a group of German guards, armed heavily, making their way between the huts hunting the rioting prisoners. The definitions of guard and detainee were now almost totally forgotten; the former lines of battle had been redrawn within the wire perimeter of the camp.

Before the Germans could get any closer, or see the pair, a group or prisoners had jumped the Guards, beating them and mercilessly dispatching them with whatever means at hand before gathering their weapons for themselves. It was clear the camp was in full scale revolt.

“Jesus this is a bit busy,” Mike Down muttered under his breath. “That silly limey’s gonna get us all killed.”

“He saved me.” Harry said quietly, but enough for down to hear, and turn towards him. “He started this to save me.” He added looking the American airman in the eye.

Down shook his head slowly. “I hope to heck he knows what he’s doing all the same.” He added quietly, his eyes scanning the alleyway. Harry could see the worry in Down’s eyes without the need for his friend to verbalise it: They all felt it.

Harry turned suddenly, hearing the crunch of running boots behind them and raised the Luger pistol in his hands. He squeezed the trigger sharply as the shape of a German helmet rounded the corner, hitting the man squarely in the throat before he had a chance to raise his weapon. With a gargle and a look of surprise the soldier dropped, his hands gripping his throat.

“Damn Harry, that was damn good shootin’,” Down grinned with admiration. “I barely heard that fella.”

Harry didn’t answer, he was still looking between the German’s body and the smoking barrel of his pistol, shocked at what he had just done. He had trained with his issued revolver, but he had only ever shot targets. Hell, he had shot down enemy aircraft… men had died. The angry impersonal outline of an enemy aircraft however was far less personal than killing a man face to face. The act seemed far more gruesome; it was hard not to see the man lying before him was a fellow human being… rather than an enemy.
Down spotted the look on his friend’s face, “Harry for gods sake! we can’t stay here.” He persisted, recognising the state the British pilot was in. “Come on.” He yelled grabbing Harry by the arm and pulling him down another alley with him. “You can worry about that Kraut later; we still need to get the hell out of here.”

A loud explosion, shortly followed by a second reverberated around the camp, deadening all other sounds for a brief second. The sound of machinegun fire had grown quieter in their aftermath. Down whooped as they ran, “Fuckin A’ man! I think he’s actually done it!” he cheered punching the air, “Come on, let’s beat it.” He insisted, making sure the English pilot was still in tow.

They reached the edge of the huts nearest the explosions and looked out on a scene of mayhem across the camp. The dead ground between the huts and the gun towers was littered with the bodies of prisoners and guards alike, there were people running to and fro, mostly allied prisoners, and mostly armed. Both of the towers had been nearly shredded by explosions that left them twisted and burning; only the crackle of burning ammunition was left where the machine guns had formerly been housed.

Matheson ran over to the pair. “Got the bastards,” he grinned broadly, clutching his submachine gun in one hand and pumping the other wildly. “I think we might just make it.”

It wasn’t long before the remaining machine gun towers surrounding the camp fell silent, and infrequent bursts of gunfire and explosions died down as prisoners began to break through the wire and make their break for freedom into the dense forest surrounding the camp.

Harry, Mike Down, and Matheson were soon rejoined by the other men from their hut as others took advantage of the confusion and anarchy.

“What’s the plan then Andrew?” Hamley enquired calmly, as he rested his captured weapon against a hut wall and lit a borrowed German cigarette. “Don’t get me wrong, this little bout of payback was great craic, but how does ye magic plan go on from here?”

Matheson smiled calmly. “Well of course, we drive home.” He offered as if it was the most logical solution in the current situation. “We take German uniforms, identification papers, and one of the vehicles outside, and drive to Switzerland.”

“That simple?” Mike Down asked sceptically. “They aren’t going to stop us? Or wonder why we don’t speak German?”

“Probably,” Matheson shrugged, “But we can cross that bridge when we come to it, and we have to act fast.”

“So what next boss?” Maddox chipped in, racking the bolt on his weapon.

“I’m the boss now am I?” Matheson chuckled. “I don’t think I deserve that.”

“Well someone’s got to be I suppose.” Maddox shrugged. “You seem to have the answers, I’ve no issue defaulting to your command, friend.”

“Yeah well we can deal with that later.” Matheson muttered, “We’re all equals in this. If you guys want to come with me, I think I can get us out of Germany alive… we may have to do some bad things, but we will survive, and make it back to England in one piece. Anyone that wants to go it alone, or stay, now’s your chance.”

“You know my answer.” Hamley grunted, “My Missus would skin my hide if I didn’t get back to her as soon as possible.” He chuckled, stubbing out his cigarette butt.

“Just as long as you limey’s buy me a pint of that English beer you keep telling me about,” grinned Down.

The group looked at Harry, who stood still fingering the pistol in his hands. Harry looked up and smiled. “Didn’t like the food here anyway”

Matheson nodded and grinned. “Good, that’s settled,” he said quietly, but with the tone of relaxed authority in his voice that outlined the true character of the man. “We need to get to the admin building outside the wire, and take whatever uniforms and documents we can to aid our escape, if we do this half arsed like most of the chaps here, we’ll be back inside, or shot inside a week. If we take a little time to prepare, and cover our tracks, we can make this work for us.”

“So what do you need us to do?” Down asked purposefully.

Maddox kicked in the door to the Administration block and swept the room with his weapon. “Clear,” he called moving forward into the room. The group made their way into the Administration building and began to rifle through papers and documents. “Damn,” Maddox muttered as he moved past a row of desks. “They’re all dead… Some bugger’s shot them to hell, we can’t use these.” He said turning to Matheson, “The uniforms are ruined. And there’s only four men here.”

The group moved through the building to join Maddox by the group of bodies on the floor.

“Damn.” Hamley muttered, “They were executed.”

“Dead kraut is a dead kraut.” Down shrugged, “few less for us to deal with.”

Hamley turned on the American and slammed him against the wall with his hand around the American’s throat. “Now listen here you…” he spat with menace. “Yes, we might be fighting the Germans, but when people are prisoners… they are prisoners. Both sides look after them… these were not armed soldiers, or a threat, yet they were murdered in cold blood. This was not a fair fight… That’s not on where I come from. Mind your damn tongue.”

Matheson put his hand on the Irishman’s arm and shook his head. “Not here,” he said quietly. “We’re on the same side, and it won’t change anything. Hamley… he’s still on our side, and Down… watch your tongue like the man says. Try to be a little bit more respectful.” He ordered turning back to the group of corpses.

“Maddox,” he ordered “These German’s must have lived in here somewhere, find their billets. They will have had more than one uniform, unlike us.”

The Navy pilot nodded before disappearing through a side doorway.

“Sort these bodies out,” Matheson said turning to Harry, “Find any papers on them and any effects and Identification material, we need it all.”

Harry nodded his understanding and set about his gruesome task.

The bodies had been riddled with bullets by escaping prisoners. It was a scene that was terribly disgusting in a war like this. That people descended to such a level… They had all been treated fairly by the Germans. It was one thing to break out as they had, but as Hamley had said, this wasn’t fair… not one had been armed as far as he had seen.

Several of the bodies yielded identification disks and papers that Harry piled on a desk by his side. The final body was that of a young German woman, an Oberleutnant. Harry stared at the woman for a moment. Her face looked calm in death, despite the horrid wounds that blossomed from her chest. Harry carefully slipped the identity disk from her neck and read the inscription. “Maria Horler,” he said quietly to himself. Clutching the disk in his palm, he said a silent prayer for the young life cut so tragically short. Harry couldn’t help but believe that it would be one prayer too few in this terrible war.

Maddox reappeared at that moment with a grin of triumph on his face. “Boss, I found their quarters… Just as you said, spare uniforms and everything we need.”

Matheson nodded, “Did you find the papers Harry?” he continued, turning to the younger pilot. Harry nodded, still clutching the disk in his hand.

“Right then, what do we have?”

Harry sorted through the stack of identity papers before him, “One Major, a Hauptman, two Oberfeldwebel, and… and Oberleutnant.”

Matheson looked strangely at Harry for a moment, “I’m sure we had only four men a moment ago?”

Harry nodded quietly, “We have five sets of identities, five sets of uniforms, and five of us…”

Matheson knelt down in front of his friend. “You’re thinking about what I think you are, aren’t you?” he asked quietly, so as not to be overheard by the others.

Harry swallowed and nodded. “It’s the only option really, and…. Well, it would lend credence to our authenticity… if they are looking for escaped prisoners, it would be a group of all men no?”

Matheson was quiet for a moment before nodding slowly, “I suppose you have a point, but do you really want to do that? Tell me you haven’t taken those bastard’s words seriously… before…” he asked softly, trying to understand his friend’s feelings.

Harry nodded again. “Yes and no, I suppose,” he said quietly. “No, I’m not suggesting this because of… before, but it’s.” Harry grimaced, “I suppose this has been something weighing on my mind for a long time… with my problems… I’ve been confused, worried about myself, I just want to know if these stilly thoughts rattling around in my brain are real or not…You can understand that can’t you? But I’d prefer if it was just for the other reason… to the others, you know? For the sake of the mission.” he asked, his eyes pleading with his friend.

Matheson was still for a moment before nodding, and straightening up. “Not a problem,” he reassured his friend, “I won’t pretend I can understand, but I need your head in the game… if this clears things up… well why not.” Matheson shrugged. “Anyway, the ‘official’ reason is actually a damn good one. It might just keep us out of trouble.”

Matheson nodded at the doorway Maddox had indicated lead to the billets of the officers. “Go on,” he gestured. “Best get on with it.”

Harry nodded quietly before leaving his friend and making his way down the corridor towards the officer’s quarters. His heart was hammering at the thought of what he had suggested and was about to do… part of it seemed right… part, he wasn’t sure. The months after the accident, he had had nothing but time to think…. The physical ramifications coupled with feelings he never expected to be able to confront were difficult to interpret, but he was positive that he had to try.

The idea seemed so… convenient. He could only hope the others could accept the ruse. If Matheson was right, then this would help them; perhaps that was all the justification the others would need.

Finding the door to Oberleutnant Horler’s room, Harry turned the knob and slipped inside. While Spartan, the room had delicate feminine touches that marked it out as a woman’s. Sitting heavily on the bed, Harry looked around slowly, wondering where to begin. Lifting the identity disk by the chain, he looked at it for a moment before slipping the chain over his head and around his neck. “Maria Horler,” he said quietly again, as if repeating the name would change anything.

Harry wasn’t sure why this had felt like such a good idea at the time… or why the idea called to him so strongly. It was an opportunity, he realised, that he would have taken, whatever form or time it arrived in. At the present time, the truth was, Harry Dolton wasn’t sure who he was; or even if he had ever felt like a complete person in his entire life.

Harry carelessly stripped out of his camp clothes, allowing them to lie where they fell. Washing quickly in the room’s basin, he dried himself off, he began his search for clothing.

In the wardrobe, he found a full Luftwaffe officers uniform and carefully laid it on the bed before adding a blouse and shoes from the same wardrobe beside it. Aware of the timeframe they were working to, he began to search the drawers for the appropriate undergarments.

Harry was unsure where to begin: Most of the items seemed extremely alien to him. Thinking back to his childhood, he began to recognise items his mother had owned and worn. He held a pair of knickers in his hands uncertainly. He knew it was only underwear… simple fabric and stitching, but there was a distinct social line sewn into the soft satin fabric of the garment he held. With a sigh, Harry shook his head and began to dress. After all, he rationalised, it was only clothes.

The underwear seemed to fit relatively well, and once he had battled with the awkward stockings and suspender clips, After several failed attempts to fasten the brassiere, he managed to secure the garment around his chest. The brassiere’s cups, Harry had planned to pad out, to his surprise and shame, were not quite as empty as he had expected. Searching the drawers for something appropriate, Harry ended up using a spare pair of stockings to pad out his faux bust, before turning to face the clothing on the bed.

The blouse turned out to be relatively simple once he had realised the location of the buttons mirrored that of his own shirts. The crisp cotton was darted at his bust waist, and fitted better than he had expected. After slipping on the skirt, and buttoning it higher at his waist, he smoothed down the clothes and checked his reflection in the mirror.

The image that returned his gaze was a shocking one. The gangly young pilot had been replaced by a somewhat skinny girl with relatively short blonde hair, and a less than plain face. Harry stepped towards the mirror and raised a hand to his cheek involuntarily, his lips parted slightly in surprise. Somehow, the image that looked back at him through the glass felt reassuring to Harry Dolton. The young woman seemed so familiar to him, but he couldn’t place her in his memory. All that Harry knew, was that at that moment, they were the same person: She was him, and he was her: His feelings and confusions aside, he chose to bury the worries for the time being and accept things as they appeared…

Harry sat down carefully at the small desk in the room and began to sort through Maria’s makeup bag looking for items she could use. She didn’t know much of anything about makeup, but supposed she would be fine if she stuck to the basics.

Carefully, she applied mascara to her lashes while trying to keep the wand from stabbing her in the eye. Once satisfied, she took a pair of tweezers to her eyebrows, carefully tidied them just enough to give them the hint of a feminine arch. She proceeded to unscrew a tube of lipstick and attempted to paint her lips. The first few attempts were pitiful and childlike in result, forcing her to wipe off the remains and left her lips bare instead. Looking in the mirror, she fingered her short hair idly. She would have loved it to be longer, but for now, it fell haphazardly to the collar of her blouse, due to the neglect it had seen In the camp. Tutting quietly to herself, Harry picked up a pair of scissors and began neatening and shaping what she had to work with into some semblance of style she had vague images and memories of seeing before she had gotten into this mess.. After a short while, and with the help of some hair crá¨me, Harry sat back and looked at her reflection in the mirror on the wall. The young woman that looked back at her was almost pretty. Her fine features and delicate brows gave her a look of childlike innocence that was at odds with her pretty but short hair tucked nearly behind her ears, and parted over her left eye. Harry couldn’t believe it was her…

Quickly stuffing the rest of the belongings into a small suitcase she had found, Harry slipped her feet into the low heeled shoes and donned the uniform. Steeling herself, she opened the door to the room, and with a last glance, stepped out into the corridor. After a wobbly few steps, she became accustomed to the shifted centre of balance the shoes forced her into, and made it to the door to the main administration area sooner than she had hoped. As confused, and yet happy as she felt about herself, there was a niggling feeling that all would not be well when she walked through that final door… Harry placed her hand on the door and pushed softly,

To be Continued...

From the Author:
Hey guys and dolls :) Sorry this took so long, I've been out of action recently... (long story, those that want to know can PM me, or already know) So i've compensated everyone with a bumper chapter to make up for it now im coherant again.
Hope you enjoy it, and please comment :) (I really apreciate the input)
Alyssa P xx

Prisoners of War on the run in Nazi Germany. A journey of self discovery never had this many Panzer divisions hot on their heels...

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

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Chapter Six
 
 

Harry opened the door slowly, nervously inching her head forward of her body as if to catch sight of the others sooner. Andrew Matheson was stood with his back to her on the far side of the room reading a document, otherwise the room was mercifully empty.

“I’m finished,” Harry called apprehensively, uncertain of the reaction she would receive.

Andrew Matheson had used his time productively and was dressed from head to toe in the uniform of a Luftwaffe Major; the uniform fitted him smartly and made a stark contrast to the image of his scruffy, torn Navy uniform that Harry was so used to. Even his unruly black hair had been slicked back with wax sharpening his image and giving him a visible air of authority. On hearing his friend’s voice, Andrew turned crisply, and was momentarily struck dumb by the sight that befell his eyes.

“I’m not sure what I expected you know,” Matheson admitted slowly, almost with a hint of admiration. “I had a fair Idea you might pull it off somewhat but…. Jesus Harry.” He said, gesturing embarrassedly towards his friend as if to express his feelings on the subject.

Harry blushed and looked down at her feet. “I look stupid don’t I?” she asked shyly, finding it difficult to hide the obvious tone of disappointment in her voice.

Matheson blinked before shaking his head vigorously, “My god no… no, you look… Well, it’s hard to say politely,” he grinned sheepishly. “I think you look smashing, I just didn’t expect you to look so… natural I suppose,” he added, crinkling his brow. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

Harry lifted her head and smiled weakly, “Thank you.” She offered quietly, a crimson tinge growing on her cheeks, “Please don’t be sorry; I understand, I think... Well, I’m not sure if even I understand this… or expected to look this way. I don't really know what to think,” she trailed off quietly shrugging her shoulders.

Matheson nodded. “Well it certainly solves our identification problem, and looking the way you do, It gives us another ace up our proverbial sleeve... Nobody’s going to clock we’re a group of escaping allied airmen...” he laughed nervously.

Harry flinched slightly at the last word Andrew Matheson used, but kept her mouth closed. “Where are the others?” she asked quietly in an attempt to fill the awkward silence that had descended, her eyes scanning the room for the rest of the group in almost an afterthought.

Matheson lit a liberated German cigarette and lent back against a desk, “Off collecting a few items we need. The other prisoners have mostly scarpered, so no worry of being shot for wearing these Jerry uniforms.”

Harry nodded quietly, “What’s next?”

Matheson took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled before responding, “We take the Staff Car and Jeep we've rustled up, and we make our way north, to the main road, and we take it from there. We need to put distance between ourselves and the camp as soon as possible and make best speed for neutral territory. I’ll tell you the fine details once we’re all back together.” he added tapping his nose conspiratorially.

Maddox and Down returned at that moment, “Boss, we’re ready to go when you are. Is Dolton back yet?” Apparently unnoticed in the corner, Harry decided to bite the bullet and coughed lightly, drawing Maddox's gaze to the far corner of the room causing the man to jump and raise his submachine gun sharply. “Who’s the fraulein boss?” Maddox asked narrowing his eyes and watching Harry's movements extremely carefully.

An expression of fear crossed Harry’s face and she raised her hands nervously, unable to find her voice.

“What are we going to do with her Andrew? Maddox asked lowering his weapon, but keeping his guard up. “We can't well leave her, but can we take her with us?”

“Well,” Matheson said pointedly, sighing, “I was going to suggest we take her with us and all... Give us slightly more camouflage than a group of all men in an area with a POW camp breakout... Less likely to suspect us as a group.”

Matheson nodded, “Good plan, Will she play ball?”

“Oh yes.” Matheson agreed nodding.

Hamley walked back into the room at that moment, “I don't know how these bloody Krauts manage this in the heat.” He muttered pulling at the collar of the slightly too tight grey wool tunic, “These uniforms are bloody hot.”

Heads up Paddy,” Down called, “We have a prisoner.”

Hamley looked across the room and spotted the object of discussion.

“I thought those idiots killed them all?” The Irishman asked with a hint of disgust. “What are you going to do with her?”

“That's what we're discussing old chap.” Matheson replied casually. “I think it would be a bit of an idea to use her as a distraction for any roadblocks till we reach the Swiss boarder.”

“I don't like it... What happens if she decides to drop us in it with her Kraut buddies?” Down asked, frowning sceptically.

“Won't be a problem,” Matheson said smiling. “She wants to get back to England as bad as the rest of us.”

“You what?” Maddox asked frowning. “She'd be a prisoner of war then... Ours are no better than this holiday camp if I'm honest.” The Navy pilot added raising his eyebrows.

Matheson could barely suppress a chuckle, “No she won't,” he said carefully. “She's a serving officer in the RAF.”

“Man you're confusing me.” Down sighed shaking his head. “You Limeys and your weird logic.”

“Harry, let them in on the joke won't you?” Matheson asked turning to their silent comrade.

Harry blushed scarlet as all eyes in the room focused on her.

“That's Harry?” Hamley asked incredulously. “Harry Dolton...?” He asked staring wide eyed at Harry.

Harry nodded self-consciously.

“I'll be damned.” Maddox muttered. “You bloody had me going there Andy.”

“It was my idea to use the identity papers and clothes from the dead Jerry woman.” Matheson offered holding his hands up in submission, “I figure if sh... he's good enough to fool you bunch, the Jerries won't have a clue. Which means my plan will work.”

“You think dressing him up as a Fraulein is going to help us to escape occupied Europe?” Down asked sceptically. “I mean, he looks the part... but that's a bit of an odd one isn't it?” he added looking across at Harry. “You look far too convincing like that... Was this really Matheson's idea, or are you a bit queer?”

“Stop right there...” Matheson interjected angrily. “Harry is taking the biggest risk here... If he's captured, you know what would happen...” Andrew allowed the sobering conclusion to hang for a moment before continuing. “I suggested this, Harry reluctantly agreed. If you hadn't noticed, we have only five sets of Identification documents to choose from, and He has the best chance of pulling off this little ruse. If anything, he's got a bigger pair than you Down.” Matheson added tersely.

“Too right,” Down admitted grudgingly, “But which pair are you talking about?” He added grinning at his own joke.

“Those do look rather real from this distance.” Maddox agreed peering at Harry's cleavage. “What did you do to get it to look like that?” He asked stepping forwards for a closer look. Harry backed up quickly and shrugged dismissively. “Oh, some clever make-up, I was always picked for the leading lady in school... you know how it is...” Harry waved gesturing at her height. “Remembered a few bits, and anyway, I don't fancy spending time in another POW camp in this uniform, so I. Figured I'd best make a good job of it.” she lied finally finding her voice.

“I'm certainly convinced,” Peter Maddox agreed, “I'll be damned if I can tell and I know who you are...” he added frowning slightly. “Darn good job.”

“Aye, no debate the lad looks like a lass at the moment,” Hamley shrugged, “And that's right strange enough, But how can he convince them he is one? Behave like a lady and whatnot.” Hamley added with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Its one thing to look like a lass, but if he wanders around like a scrum half, he's going to draw attention to us. The wrong sort.”

Andrew Matheson thought for a moment, “Point taken, but, as Harry said, he was a bit of a Thespian... and from the sound of it, this isn't his first cameo in skirts, I'm sure he can manage to fool a few Krauts.”

Hamley nodded and agreed.

“So are we a go?” Matheson interjected, drawing the group's attention back to himself.

“We have uniforms, weapons, transport, and money... “I suggest we make best speed for the land of Clocks and Chocolate chaps.”

* * *

While not ostentatious, the staff car Harry rode in with Matheson and Maddox was a far more comfortable and pleasurable way to travel through the winding bumpy German country lanes. Looking out of the window as they drove, Harry began to reflect on the situation she now found herself in. The minor issue of the war removed from the picture, she began to wonder just how she felt about her present circumstances. The group had been traveling for the better part of a day since leaving the ruins of the camp. During their flight, the group had treated her with thinly veiled curiosity confusion and trepidation, as though she were an unexploded bomb. On the whole, the men had been unable to stop themselves from treating her as the woman she appeared to be, despite their own knowledge to the contrary. Often, the very awareness that they were treating her that way, even in the privacy of their own company, seemed to confuse them even more.

Harry/Maria sighed to herself as she watched the hedgerows fly past from the window. This day had done more to unravel her feelings than secure them as she had so hoped. Her self-doubt brought to the forefront of her mind by her accident and the subsequent changes she had experienced, were now very much her life. She knew that before she reached England, and sanctuary, she would have to first win the battle of her heart. One part of her enjoyed the treatment, and the reflection she had seen in the mirror. Another part of her told her this was wrong and sinful, regardless of how right it felt. Though not overly religious herself, she was positive that it shouldn't feel so right. The calmness that had swept her body in the weeks following the accident, and the subsequent changes that made her the target of less than civil treatment in the camp now presented themselves in a new advantageous light. Try as she might, she could only balance the scales of her mind, unable to truly tip them in favour of either viewpoint. With a sigh, Harry tried to force the notion from her mind for a short while and simply live.

* * *

It was nine o'clock in the evening before the traces of dusk in the sky encouraged the group to seek accommodation for the night. Masquerading as they were, the option of camping out of sight, as sensible as it seemed, presented far too many risks; should they be happened upon by soldiers or civilians alike, the likelihood of explaining why German military personnel were hiding in the forests of the Fatherland. Choosing instead to hide in plain sight, the group pulled into the yard of a small tavern and sent Harry into the tavern to enquire about rooms for the night.

Walking to the door, Harry steeled herself to slip fully into the role she had chosen. For better or worse, their escape from occupied Europe would depend partly, if not entirely on her ability to throw their hunters off their scent. Nowhere was it more important than here, their first interaction with the German people. Closing the door behind her, Maria Horler removed her field cap and swept her eyes over the room before her. Mercifully, the room was mostly empty, save a handful of patrons dotted around the various booths and stools. A radio by the bar was playing a faceless swing track piped fresh from the dance halls of Berlin. The bored looking bar girl was leaning on her elbows on the bar counter and looked up from the book she was reading as she heard Harry approach.
(Italic text speech in German)
“Good evening, Do you have any rooms available?” Harry asked with a slightly exasperated smile on her lips, and nervous butterflies in her stomach.

“Uh, Ja, I think so, one moment please.” The girl offered flipping through a large leather-bound book beside her on the bar counter.

“I… Yes we do,” she confirmed looking up at Harry with a grin. “Is it just for you?”

“Nein.” Harry replied, shaking her head, “There is my Major and three other men also.”

“Yes, I think we have five rooms free.” The girl added checking her book, “There is not much tourism these days really.” She offered with a sardonic smile.

“I know what you mean.” Harry sighed wistfully as she glanced around the traditional Bavarian design of the tavern, thinking how nice it might have been to be here for another reason, in a different time. Turning back to the woman she nodded sharply, “We will take the rooms for the night, and breakfast please.”

“No problem,” replied the girl as she scribbled in the book before looking up at Harry. The girl looked at her for a moment before smiling and speaking with a playful tone “I expect you do this a lot.” she added conspiratorially, a sly smile on her lips..

Harry balked as she tried to understand what the young German woman had meant. Had she seen through her masquerade? Was she having fun at her expense? Seeing Harry’s confused expression the German girl giggled to herself before explaining; “I meant run errands for the men outside,” she added rolling her eyes. “They still find a way to make you do everything for them ja?”
Harry sighed with silent relief before effecting a regretful air, “Life does not change, even in the Luftwaffe.” she shrugged with her own smile.

“It never will.” The girl agreed shrugging and going back to her book.

Turning and making her way back to the door, Harry allowed the breath she had been holding to escape. As difficult as the situation could have been, she had made it apparently undetected, and by another woman no less. No, she mentally reminded herself, by a woman. The strange façade she presented was merely a result of circumstance and disguise: As she returned to her comrades, she tried to convince herself that she meant it.

* * *

It was late in the evening, and Harry was still very much awake. She had changed into a nightgown she had thrown into the case in her hurry to pack up the possessions of her namesake. At first, stepping into a dead woman's life felt strange and morbid to Harry, but the more she thought about it, the more she realised that She had Maria Horler to thank and celebrate. Had it not been for the woman's death, she might not have had the chance to experience life. She would find a way to pay the woman back for the opportunity, even if she was still unsure of the complete meaning at this time...

Harry put down her book, unable to recover her mindset after such deep thought. Slipping off the bed, she began to rummage through the belongings in the case at the foot of the bed. Aside from the motley collection of clothes and under garments, there were a few personal items. The make-up case she had packed, and toiletry items, along with a small Photograph album. Sitting cross-legged on the floorboards, Harry began to leaf through the pictures in the album. What she saw began to tug on her heartstrings from the first moment she realised who she was looking at: As she turned the pages, Harry watched as an infant Maria grew, amongst her family and friends, and developed into the young woman she had found bloodied and cold on the floor. The photographs showed a vibrant happy young woman, full of life and love that would never reach fruition thanks to the callous action of a spiteful prisoner. Harry felt tears rolling down her cheeks as she looked at the photographs in the small book. Such a small item, but so powerful she mused. The powerful emotions welling up inside her were overpowering, forcing her to close the book and set it to one side before she found herself in an uncontrollable fit of tears. Harry thought back to her promise to thank Maria for her gift of life and changed her mind. She would not merely thank Maria, for she owed the woman far more than mere thanks could ever compensate. She vowed instead to live the life that Maria could not, to find happiness and joy, and contentment in whatever form it was presented. If that was as a woman, so be it.

Note from the Authory person:
Well.... Its been a while hasn't it? I'm awfully sorry for leaving everyone in the lurch, but I've had a lot on my plate with that terribly distracting 'real life'. Work, work and more work... Starting a career is never simple... and Festival season isn't the easiest season of work... I hope you'll forgive me, and I hope you enjoy this chapter, (its taken about 20 edits to get myself happy with it, so I hope its satisfactory.

As for posting only complete things as people seem to want... Tough, this will come in segments, as its ongoing, however, Focal Point will not be posted till it is finished, (a few weeks now I think.) And there WILL, I say again, WILL, be a removal, revision, and reposting of The Road to Haifa, complete and unabridged, with conclusion. :)
How's that?
Love
Alyssa xxx