The Second World War: PART 8 - Andrew MacDonald - Sagan/ Fussen (1944) #2

MACDONALD

8.

1944

SAGAN

 

 

 

It is just as well that the human body retains little to no memory of exquisite pain - it is only the mind that does. 

Squadron Leader and ‘Big X’ Roger Bartlett took a long pull off his mug of scrounged Russian vodka and sat back in the chair awkwardly.  The Jerrys had given him a thorough going over this time.  The lads had to carry him into Hut 106.  Seven cigarette ends had piled up in the ashtray when there was a rattle at his cabin door.  He looked to MacDonald, who had been scraping the last dregs of sugar from a tin.

            ‘Who’s there?’ he called out, setting it aside and clenching his hands into fists.

The wooden door ebbed open.  No noise was made.  Then the door went wide in a sudden movement.  Farrier’s smile appeared first, the rest of him followed. 

            ‘Afternoon, sir.’

            ‘By God, Roger!’ Bartlett said, crossing the room in one movement and taking his old friend by the hand.  He shook it vigorously.  ‘How’re you doing man?’

            ‘Not so bad sir, not so bad.’ Farrier averted his gaze and filled it with his favourite Scotsman.  ‘Mac!’

            ‘Roger,’ MacDonald nodded, maintaining the air of professionalism typical of the man’s character.  He smiled warmly and offered the man a seat opposite Big X.

            Farrier sat and went to cross his legs.  He lifted his right leg up, unable to get it over the knee and let it fall back down.  He leaned back and folded his arms.

            ‘Glad to see the Gestapo haven’t lost their touch,’ Farrier said, gesturing to Bartlett’s eye.

            ‘Me too, you been in the wars yourself?’

            ‘Fifty days in the cooler.’

            ‘I thought you’d lost a bit of weight,’ X said.

            ‘Quite, I could make it as a tunnel man now.’

MacDonald and Bartlett shared a glance.  Bartlett polished off his vodka and smacked his lips.  He raised the brow of his brooding eye and sat forward conspiratorially.

‘We don’t need you now Roger,’ he said.

‘Sir?’ Farrier asked.

Big X found his feet, placed his hands behind his back and began to pace.  It was typical of him when he dictated terms to a fellow officer.  There was a hubbub of excitement about his manner, something Farrier hadn’t seen in a long time.

‘We’ve given up work on Dick and Harry and pushed ahead with Tom.  The tunnel’s nearly at the trees.  Thirty feet to go.  Willie, Danny and the boys have dug around the clock to get us there and, barring any problems, it’ll be a fortnight until the escape.’

Farrier’s face lit up, he looked to MacDonald for reassurance; the Scotsman nodded back at him.

 

 

 

 

MACDONALD

8.

1944

FUSSEN

 

 

 

MacDonald noticed some tunnel dirt on his oxfords and tapped the toe box against the ground.

         Most of it came off, and he continued walking, weaving through the crowds.  The train’s steam break hissed, a breeze caught it, blowing it across the platform.  He walked at Bartlett’s side.  Roger Farrier, in a Piccadilly Trilby and overcoat, was a little further behind. The RN officer, Eric Ashley-Pitt was another few paces behind him.  They had their train tickets and Ausweis at hand.  Mac looked over his shoulder and nodded.  They did too.  

            While the train was being loaded, the conductor shook hands with a Gestapo officer at the end of the platform.  There were four soldiers waiting for them at a checkpoint.  Each of whom had memorised Bartlett’s face.  The long lines of people would pass through and head up the stairs to the bus station.  A station master’s voice crackled through the public-address system and told them to have their documents ready.  In German train stations, they’d drag someone away for questioning at random.  

That morning, the platform was packed with people of every age, class, talking in most European languages, none in English.  More than ten of the escapees were in amongst them, posing as Frenchmen, and the Germans were ready to root them out.  It just so happened that a low-ranking member of the Secret State Police spotted Farrier from afar, crossing the platform with his gun arm extended.     

            Roger Farrier didn’t notice, but Ashley-Pitt did.  

            He measured the distance and flung himself into the policeman.  The gun went off.  Everyone screamed.

Farrier took off, fleeing across the railway line and over the wire fence to the taxi rank.

MacDonald pushed Bartlett along. The orderly line dispersed, people charged at the checkpoint in droves.  From behind, there was another gunshot.  Then two more rang out.  Mac turned and saw another soldier trying to get involved in the skirmish.  Ashley-Pitt turned, his arm up in a parry.  They tore at each other.  The soldier tried to pick off a shot with his rifle.  Ashley-Pitt found his footing and whirled the Polizist into the third man, then ran for it.  Running back down the platform as fast as his legs could carry him.  The men adjusted their uniforms, calmly, stood next to each other, taking their time and picked him off, like a target on a shooting range.  The two shots caught him square between the shoulder blades.

They waited a moment, guns still raised.  Ashley-Pitt was on his stomach.  He kicked feebly on the ground.  Behind him, looking down at the body was an SS officer and he was reaching into his holster.

MacDonald turned, shoving himself back in and mixing with the others.  The people were still running, tripping up the stairs when the final shot came.  MacDonald shuddered, feeling like the nerves had shattered in his back.  

They’d got him.