“After I’ve interviewed him. If his story is the same as yours. Now please tell me about your escape.”
Some of we English were trying to exercise one day when someone got hold of an old football and we had a kick about. The Indians were intrigued, you see their game sir is cricket….”
Rushton smiled. He was a cricketing man. He played for his local village. He found himself drifting off, thinking of warm sunny Sunday afternoons on the field, batting, the Pavilion, cucumber sandwiches and Champagne, the sound of leather on willow.
“The Indians wanted to learn football so we played them, they lost heavily. So we split the teams. English and Indians mixed, the sides being more equal….”
Rushton put up a hand to stop him.
“Can we get to where you escaped.”
“I’m just coming to that Sir.”
Doyle returned and offered Alf the fresh flask.
“Suddenly the camp commandant wanted to play. Us against the Germans. Well I just knew it was an excuse for them to knock us about. Rough us up a bit Sir. But the men they wanted to play. The Germans played dirty all right but we were winning. It was now that the aeroplane that you found us in appeared.”
Rushton perked up at this, the cricket forgotten, this was what he wanted to hear.
“The ball got kicked out over the fence as the plane touched down and out stepped General von Brockhorst.”
Rushton raised his eyebrows at the storyteller.
“Hans von Brockhorst?”
Alf shrugged.
“I suppose so.”
“On his own?”
“Yes.”
“No fighter escort?”
“None sir.”
“What did he want?”
“He told us that we were being transferred. Then he went to inspect the facility….” Alf began laughing “While he was gone I grabbed Larder and went for the ball. The Germans were so dumbfounded that their second in command had come for a visit that no one closed the gate. We literally walked out. No one saw us at first. I expected a shout or bullets but thank God none came. Johnny knocked out the pilot and….”
“Then who flew the plane?”
“I did sir.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a pilot?” Rushton said scribbling notes.
“I’m not a pilot. One of the Indians in hospital showed me how to fly.”
“One of the Indians….? How? With what? How did he learn to fly?”
“I’m not sure Sir. But he showed me. We used pallet blocks for our feet and brush handles for controls. It’s really quite easy Sir, obviously my knowledge of flying is extremely limited,” Alf continued not sure about Rushton’s expression.
“It’s absolutely incredible. What do you say Doyle?”
“Incredible Sir.”
“You’re telling me sergeant Dennis that you stole an aeroplane belonging to the number two of the axis powers in North Africa and you got away with it.”
“For a while Sir.”
“Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!” Rushton banged his fist on the table.
“If I ask Private Larder his story will verify this will it?”
“Absolutely Sir.”
“I’m beginning to like you sergeant Dennis,” then Rushton remembered the German, “Who was he?”
“He was the pilot. We were flying along and suddenly the door flew open and there he was clinging on to the struts.”
“Oh come now.”
“It’s true Sir. Well I couldn’t kill him, not like that Sir in cold blood. So I ordered Private Larder to pull him in. At first we didn’t know what to do. Neither of us could speak each others language. I know enough German to get by. It’s funny….” Alf stopped staring into space above Rushton’s right shoulder.
The Major and his Sergeant exchanged glances.
“It’s funny Sir but this was the first time that I realised we were fighting a war against men, against real human beings not machines.”
Rushton understood what Alf meant.’
“Good let that be a lesson to you! What caused you to crash?”
“A Spitfire! One of our own. One of our boys doing his job. He hit us twice. The German plane was damaged badly. I was unable to control it. He suddenly stopped firing Sir, I don’t know why. We were unable to defend ourselves. Disabled and he just stopped. Just like that. He could have blown us out of the sky but he chose not to. It didn’t matter, the damage was done. All we had left to do was crash.”
Alf took a big swig of water.
“The rest Sir you know.”
Rushton sat quiet for several minutes. A fly buzzed and settled on the desk. Alf watched it. Very much wishing that he was that fly right now, not a care in the world.
“What a remarkable story.”
“It is Sir.”
“It sounds like the screenplay of one of those American war films.”
“It’s all perfectly true Sir. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I believe you. I will speak to Private Larder next,” Rushton got up. Alf sprang to his feet and stood to attention, “In the meantime if you would be good enough to draw the details of the P.O.W. camp, the hospital, any relevant details you can think of, numbers of men held, enemy numbers, anything at all. It would be very much appreciated.”
“Do I consider it an order Sir?”
“No. No,” Rushton said “Let’s call it a favour. Sergeant Doyle you may step down.”
Alf heard the words and understood them. He and Johnny were safe. He brought his right hand up and saluted. Rushton saluted back.
“Thank you sergeant that will be all for now. I will send for you later.”
Alf was sitting in the mild afternoon sun sketching on paper details of the hospital and camp. He pencilled in the tents, guard house, latrines, boundaries, guard posts, enemy numbers and of those they guarded. He finished and checked over his work. Then satisfied he took a clean sheet of paper and began sketching details of the desert as he could remember it. Johnny approached from the side. Alf saw him coming out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and smiled.
“The Major said it was all right for us to talk.”
“How long did he interrogate you?”
“A lot less than you. He asked me very direct questions, ideas that he could only have got from you. He seemed very happy with my answers. At one point he asked me if I was all right. I told him my head hurts which it does most days, in fact.”
Alf studied the scars that had disfigured Johnny’s face.
“They are looking much better.”
“Their Doctor, Downing, said he’d seen worse. He thinks they’ll fade over time.”
“I hope so Johnny.”
“Me too.”
Johnny studied Alf’s sketches. Then he grabbed a pencil.
“Here I think the mountains were bigger…. More like this.”
“You know I think you’re right. You do some for a while.”
Johnny began sketching as he remembered it.
“I saw more because I was looking out of the window. You were too busy flying the plane. It’s a shame Kleber was killed. He wasn’t a bad bloke.”
“He was all right.”
“I wonder where he came from. What his home was like. His wife, his family.”
“Pretty much like everyone else’s I expect. He was probably just keeping himself out of trouble as best he could. Spending his days flying his plane. No where near the front. Safe behind his side’s lines dropping the General off. Never near danger. Always heavily escorted. He probably thought he’d never see any action or signs of danger. His wife was probably more at risk than he was.”
“They buried him by his plane Alf, I saw them. They got spades and began digging him a hole.”
“Poor sod. Stuck out here a thousand miles from home.”