Tomb of the Lost

Chapter NINETEEN



The Fieseler Storch flew in low over the mountains. Her pilot Gottfried Kleber keeping her steady in the light head winds. The morning sky was clear. The flight so far had been pleasant and uneventful. Ahead there were rain clouds but all morning he had flown towards them and they had come no closer. The threat of a storm moving away from them faster than the small aeroplane could fly. Kleber had discovered that out here in the desert distances were difficult to estimate. What you thought was close was often miles away and what you thought was far ahead you often came upon very quickly. Sometimes in his two years flying in North Africa he saw columns of enemy vehicles but his Fieseler Storch was unarmed and he flew away to avoid their fire. The small aircraft being constructed mainly of wood and canvas giving very little protection against anything from a bullet upwards. Kleber had only ever been shot at once. This was months ago when he was escorting the great Field Marshall Erwin Rommel. Today Kleber was escorting another great man and he glanced momentarily at General Hans von Brockhorst seated next to him. The General was pleasant enough, Kleber decided again. He had requested to sit in the front with the pilot rather than on his own in the main body. The small aircrafts seating conditions cramped regardless of where one sat.

Von Brockhorst had enjoyed the flight. A chance to see the desert from the air. He took note of everything. The land, proximity of the mountains and available cover they could provide. The abundance of water and he reminded himself of how the great Sultan, the great Islamic leader Saladin had moved from one stretch of water to another with an army of two hundred thousand. Like most military commanders Von Brockhorst had studied the strategies of Alexander, Caesar, Genghis Khan, Saladin, Napoleon. Saladin had gone on to crush the Christian armies and return Jerusalem to Islam.

Von Brockhorst felt excitement as he tried to imagine what it was like.

‘Which side would I have fought on?’ he asked himself.

‘Why the side of victory of course’ he answered.

‘But who really won during the crusades?’

Kleber banked the small plane for a minute and then levelled out. They were now heading into the sun. The mountains taking on a red glow at their tips from the warm rays of sunlight, looking brown where they were shaded.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it,” Von Brockhorst spoke for only the second time in the journey.

“It is General. It truly is,” Kleber answered “Almost as beautiful as the Fatherland,” he added using Germany’s nickname.

Von Brockhorst gazed down at the rolling hills and the plains. He could visualise great armies on horseback and foot crossing the open stretches to face each other in battle.

The Fieseler Storch was catching up to a flock of geese as they were heading further south and Kleber closed on their v-formation. He eased up on the throttle so that the Storch was almost at its minimum rpm and they enjoyed a wonderful close up of the migrating birds without alarming them.

“I’ve seen Geese at over six thousand feet General but I don’t like taking her too high because it makes it so cold inside the cockpit and it’s uncomfortable for passengers. They are remarkable birds though and can fly much higher. How high though nobody truly knows.”

Von Brockhorst looked up at their underbellies. Lots of thoughts running through his head.

’I wonder how they cope with the cold. It must be the layer of goose fat they carry. The tasty fat that went into pate and was used to roast meats that fed Germany’s highborn and wealthy families. I wonder how they navigate and know exactly where they are and which direction to travel in. Have modern air forces copied them for their formation flying. And why do they fly in a V and how do they choose which one is their leader.’

He began smiling to himself at all the possibilities.

“Yes they truly are magnificent creatures,” he said to Kleber “Thank you for showing me them.”

“My pleasure sir. I sometimes wish I could be just like them.”

Von Brockhorst could understand why.

“To be free Corporal? To go wherever you wanted? To follow any direction you choose?”

“To let the wind take me wherever sir,” Kleber added, enjoying the game.

“You must find yourself up here alone sometimes.”

“Yes sir.”

“What is that like?”

“To me? Paradise sir. Sometimes my missions mean I get to fly by myself at night with just the stars above me and a full moon. It is the most beautiful thing on earth General.”

Von Brockhorst thought about his life as a soldier, as a tank commander. The smell of petrol, oil, burning, dust, dirt, filth, the stench of decay.

“Yes you are most fortunate Corporal Kleber.”

Later in the morning Kleber spotted a squadron of fighters and he pointed them out to his passenger.

“Can you get us closer?”

“I’ll get us as close as I can but from this distance I can’t tell who they are.”

Von Brockhorst wasn’t at all afraid. Flying fascinated him and he was very glad that he’d asked to sit up in the cockpit. Kleber was afraid. Not for himself but for his Important passenger.

’What a great coup for the allies if they could shoot down and kill the third in command of the German forces North Africa.’

Kleber knew he could never forgive himself. As long as he was in the aeroplane Von Brockhorst was his responsibility.

Kleber approached the fighters carefully from behind and below. They could easily outrun his plane even with the weapons they carried but they were cruising. He got within a quarter of a mile of them and then cursed his luck. They were British!

Von Brockhorst had also seen the roundels on their under wings. They continued on their way seemingly unaware of the intruder. Kleber’s heart was pounding. If any of the British pilots looked into their rear view mirrors they would surely see him. Von Brockhorst was impressed.

“Get me a bit closer.”

“Sir?”

“I want to see them closer.”

“But General….”

“That’s an order.”

Kleber said a silent prayer and opened up the throttle. He kept low and closed in on the Spitfires hoping that their Rolls Royce engines would drown out the sound of his smaller engine labouring as it gathered altitude. Kleber closed to within three hundred yards, his adrenalin flowing. He felt a cold sweat at the base of his neck. He glanced across at Von Brockhorst. The man had nerves of steel it seemed. Kleber guessed that was what separated officers from men.

Von Brockhorst was just looking from plane to plane.

“Thank you Kleber that’s close enough. I’ve seen all I need to see.”

Kleber closed the throttle down and the British planes began to pull away when suddenly two more Spitfires drew up either side of the Fieseler Storch. Kleber looked from one side of his plane to the next. The two British pilots were flanking them. Von Brockhorst was watching them with interest. The pilot on his side waved and Von Brockhorst put his hand up to wave back.

“I’m guessing if we just act normally they might not suspect anything.”

Kleber hoped the General was right. Personally he couldn’t see how the British pilots had failed to notice that a German aeroplane was in their midst.

’Thank goodness Von Brockhorst isn’t wearing his hat.’

“What are you going to do Kleber?”

Kleber was racking his brain as to what exactly to do. Then a thought struck him.

“I’m going to signal to the one my side that we are burning up too much fuel and that I’m going to drop to one thousand feet to conserve as much as possible.”

“Will they believe it?”

“I hope so.”

Kleber got the attention of the pilot on his side. With hand signals he explained what he was going to do and then repeated it. The English pilot gave him the thumbs up.

“He’s gone for it,” Kleber said pushing forward on his controls and sending the Storch into a shallow dive, “I just hope he doesn’t radio the others.”





Bill smith gave the other pilot the thumbs up. He understood clearly the hand signals.

‘Using too much fuel. Will level out at a thousand.’

Bill watched the small aeroplane with its German markings go into a shallow dive. He waited until the small plane was just a dot below and behind him before making his report.

Squadron leader Snowy Roberts listened to his right wing’s report and asked for it to be repeated.

“What small aeroplane? German markings! What the devil are you talking about man?”

Bill repeated his report feeling anxiety now. It had definitely been a German aeroplane. One he’d never seen before. One he was sure he would recognise again. Roberts knew nothing of a German marked plane. He hadn’t seen it. Smith and the pilot John Wilkins had returned from a scouting mission to rejoin the squadron. Both men were now claiming the little German aeroplane had been there. Roberts had no doubt about that.

‘But what was it doing there?’

“Do you want us to go after it sir?” Bill felt the adrenalin flowing, desperately wanting the kill.

“Negative. It could be anywhere by now,” Roberts unclipped his mask so it hung down one side of his face.

’I don’t know what he was doing up here with us,’ he said to himself looking down at the mountains below ’But the cheeky bastard got away with it.’



Captain Schwann blew his whistle for a break in the football match. The Germans, fit, strong members of the mighty German Afrika korps were losing 3-1 to a group of injured, recovering British soldiers and one Indian. A sizeable crowd had gathered to watch and the spectators were seated around the crudely marked out pitch.

Alf strode up to Schwann.

“Is that the end of the game? Have we won?”

“I think not Sergeant. We cannot finish with Germany losing to England. No this is merely a break in play for both sides to drink some water. We will resume play in ten minutes time.”

Alf looked at his men, they were all tired. Grimes was limping badly now.

“Sir may I ask that we finish now and perhaps have a rematch another day. My men are….”

“Certainly not,” Schwann said sitting on a wooden chair and swigging from a water bottle.

“Captain my team are not fit. They have all come from the infirmary. Perhaps if you asked your team members they wouldn’t object to playing again, on, say Saturday.”

Schwann took another swig from the water then screwed the little aluminium cap back on.

“Impossible,” he spoke with arrogance “Why don’t you substitute your players for fresh ones.”

“The players you’ve been up against are the fittest we have. Any other team would not be good enough….”

Schwann held up his hand and cut Alf off mid sentence.

“I am not interested in the individual problems of your players. You will have a team ready to play the guards in five minutes or you forfeit the game. Now it’s up to you but personally I would like to beat you fair and square,” Schwann got up and began stretching. Alf watched him for a minute until he finished stretching his right calf muscle and switched to his left. He held out a hand to Alf, gesturing towards the British.

“Sergeant your team please.”

Alf rejoined his men.

“Arrogant sod wants to play again.”

“Alf mate I don’t think we can. We’re all shattered,” Burroughs said.

“Or we forfeit the game. That’s what he said.”

The English players protested.

“Alf we’ve given it all we’ve got.”

“I don’t expect any of you to carry on playing. I must admit that my shoulder and arm are aching like hell. I don’t particularly want to carry on. I leave it up to you.”

Johnny Larder was livid.

“Cheating bastards,” he said “We’ve given it our best and we’ve beat them fair and square.”

“They know we are unfit,” Burroughs put in.

Alf looked at them. His team mates, his comrades, his friends. Wilf Burroughs, half an ear missing. Johnny Larder scarred neck and cheek, deaf now in one ear. Others hurt. Some lucky to be alive. They looked a sorry state.

“I’ll tell him we concede,” Alf turned and started to walk towards Schwann and his guards who were lined up watching the British.

“Alf,” Burroughs called fairly quietly though everyone heard it. Schwann and his men were confidently chuckling. Alf turned to face his men. Slowly Burroughs smiled at him. Alf nodded at them and grinned.

“Captain Schwann your turn to kick off!” he shouted over his shoulder. The English cheered as their players moved onto the pitch. One or two hobbled. All were sore. Not just their injuries hurting now but muscles. All of them had not eaten well in months. The Germans gave them the best they could but it was never the fresh meat that they so desperately needed. Some of them were painfully thin. Bones showing through skin in extreme cases. But there was one thing they all had in plenty.

Spirit!

The will to fight!

Schwann’s smile vanished. In its place his mouth became a thin line of determination. He nodded his head. Now the Germans knew the measure of their opponents. Schwann blew his whistle and let it drop as before to his chest. He kicked the ball sideways to Kahler who rushed down the pitch with it. The English players keeping their distance afraid of Kahler’s methods. Johnny Larder suddenly rushed forward and although Kahler didn’t exactly see him through keeping his eye on the ball he was aware of the young Englishman coming at him. Kahler roared to try to scare him off but Larder was focused on the ball. The big German tried to side step him but Johnny stuck his foot out and with a smack he stopped Kahler’s advance. Kahler stumbled on with his own momentum. Johnny quickly recovered and dribbled the ball towards goal. Kahler whirled around and ran back. He out-sprinted Larder and was able to turn to defend. It was a brilliant piece of football.

“Good! Good!” Schwann was encouraging.

Johnny feinted left, pretended to strike and as Kahler lunged to defend Johnny passed to Alf. Alf took his shot. The ball rose as it crossed the goal heading for the top left corner. Somehow Kahler got his head to some of the ball and it deflected straight at the goalkeeper. All he could do was kick it as hard as he could to clear it. The men on the pitch watched it as it cleared the perimeter fence and bounced a few times before coming to rest in the desert. Schwann looked around at the guards who were not playing.

“Does anyone have a key for the gate?”

No one came forward.

“One of you must have one.”

There were embarrassed shuffles of feet. Schwann looked up into the sentry tower. Three times the height of a man. The sentry leaning to one side of his protective sandbags. The muzzle of his MG42 clearly visible.

“What about you?”

“Yes Herr Captain.”

“Well come down here and open the gate.”

“Yawohl Herr Captain.”

He descended the ladder leaving his tower unattended.

Alf felt a surge of excitement. This was the tower with the blind spot. He suddenly had visions of walking out of the gate a free man. If only it could be that easy. The guard fumbled with the lock and swung the gate open just as the small aeroplane flew overhead. It was flying so low it got everyone’s attention. It had at first flown over the hospital with its main tent white with German markings and a huge red cross sown onto the canvas. There were other smaller white tents that Von Brockhorst could see and then various other desert camouflaged tents for supplies and quarters for the doctors and personnel. Then they had flown over barracks tents. Then lastly they had now just flown over the tents containing the P.O.W.s surrounded by barbed wire.

As Von Brockhorst looked down he could see that there had been a football match in progress. He could see that the gate was being opened in anticipation of his arrival.

’That’s efficiency,’ he said to himself ’But how did they know I was coming?’

Von Brockhorst was not making a scheduled stop.

From his side Kleber could see that the football had been kicked out of bounds which was probably why the gate was being opened. He banked the aeroplane, did a one eighty, and descended touching down gently on the desert floor. He brought the plane to a halt and shut the engine off. Captain Schwann blew his whistle and waved his arms to signify that the match was over. The English players cheered and some of the Germans made obscene gestures.

“This isn’t over,” Schwann said to Alf, pointing a finger in his face.

“As you wish sir.”

Schwann about turned and quickly strode over to the chair where his shirt and jacket were hanging. He had no idea who was in the Storch.

’But this had better be bloody good.’

He quickly buttoned up his shirt but left his jacket undone. He ran a hand over his hair to smooth it down and walked out of the open gate. The Fiesler Storch was a couple of hundred metres away. Schwann could see two pairs of legs, their top halves hidden by the plane.

“Have the plane ready to leave as soon as I return.”

Kleber clicked his heels together and saluted.

“Yes Herr General.”

Von Brockhorst placed his leather hat onto his head and pulled it down to his favoured position. He reached into the plane and took his briefcase, placing it under one arm as he slipped on his elegant leather officers gloves. It wasn’t that his hands were cold. Von Brockhorst just enjoyed the finer things in life. Schwann stepped around the front of the plane and saw Kleber first.

“What is the purpose of this?” he stopped as Von Brockhorst turned to face him. “Your pardon Herr General.”

Von Brockhorst looked at him. The jacket undone, no cap, dusty trousers and boots. Not exactly the model officer. Then he reminded himself of how hard these men’s lives were. The conditions, the lack of facilities. Death never far away. Schwann began to apologise for the way he was dressed.

“I apologise General. We were not expecting you. I was…. That is we were playing football sir. It’s a good way for my men to get much needed exercise and it lifts the morale of the prisoners.”

“No apology is necessary Captain. On the contrary I think it’s a grand idea. Tell me who won?”

“The thing is sir we were doing really well and we….”

“The British won didn’t they.”

Schwann nodded.

“Yes sir.”

“Well they are to be congratulated. And for you Captain.”

“Sir?”

“Sometimes it is good for a man to lose. It makes winning next time more enjoyable. Men learn from mistakes.”

“Yes sir.”

“When you play them again your desire to win and that of your team will be greater.”

“Yes Herr General.”

Von Brockhorst was pleased with this and he let it show in his face.

“Now Captain I’ll inspect your facilities if you please.”

“Of course sir I’d be delighted to show you,” Schwann replied buttoning up his jacket.

The General led the way with the Captain barely able to keep up at first.

“Who is it Alf?” Burroughs asked.

“One of their Generals I think.”

“It’s not Rommel is it.”

“No not Rommel. I know him. I wonder if this is the new General, what was his name, Von Becker or something.”

“Von Brockhorst,” Johnny said.

“Von Brockhorst,” Alf repeated “Von Arnim’s second in command.”

“Christ,” Johnny Larder said “What the hell does he want here with us?”

“Don’t know,” Alf replied “But I think we’re about to find out. Look lively he’s coming this way. Attention!”

The British P.O.W.‘s lined up as best they could for the visiting General. For some of them it was the first General they had ever seen. It didn’t matter that it was a German one. On this day they stood tall and proud. As one they saluted Von Brockhorst. Alf stood with his chest out, his arms pressed neatly by his sides. His shoulder was agony and masking the pain he gritted his teeth and with tight lips he brought his left hand up and saluted smartly. Von Brockhorst was very impressed by this Englishman of low rank and he returned the salute and held it for a few moments thus honouring the young P.O.W.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” Von Brockhorst said finally after lowering his hand.”

“Yes sir.”

“At ease.”

The British relaxed their pose.

“I understand that your team beat the German team in a game of football. Well done to you all.”

A cheer went up from the assembled.

“I have a message from Field Marshall Erwin Rommel which I will now read to you.”

Von Brockhorst opened his case, took out a sealed letter, opened it and began to read.

“From German high command Afrika Korps,” he read the relevant bits and then spoke.

“The Field Marshall apologises for the conditions here, however soon you are to be moved….”

Every P.O.W. felt his ears prick up at this ’Moved. Moved?’ they asked themselves. Now he had their full attention.

“You are to be moved to a British Military Hospital in Tunis.”

Von Brockhorst folded the letter and handed it to Schwann. Schwann stared at it open mouthed. The British P.O.W.s erupted into a roar.

“Which is currently held by the axis powers,” Von Brockhorst shouted over the crowd. Their cries turned to despondency.

Schwann re-read the directive. There was no mistaking it. The entire field hospital was being moved North . He was pleased, a smile spread across his face. He looked at his surroundings. Desert. He thought about Tunis. Formerly French owned. The officers no doubt would stay in the luxury hotels, clean beds, clean towels, hot running water. Right now it sounded like a dream, paradise.

Von Brockhorst stayed with the prisoners for another minute and then accompanied by Schwann he moved on inspecting the sentry tower first, even sighting down the barrel of the MG42 and talking to the guard who was keen to show him his range of view. Once finished they moved inside to inspect the hospital facilities. Kahler was left in charge of clearing up the football pitch. He pointed a huge finger at Johnny Larder.

“You go and get the ball.”

Johnny shrugged and went for it.

“And if you try anything funny I’ll have you shot.”

Johnny waited until Kahler was no longer looking at him before he gave the V sign. Alf was looking up at the wooden tower. When Von Brockhorst had descended the ladder with Schwann the sentry had waited until they had disappeared and he had quietly crept down and was now having a sneaky cigarette. He came over to Alf and spoke to him about the game.

“I must admit I thought your team played very well.”

“Thank you,” Alf replied.

The German offered Alf the cigarette to puff on.

“No thank you,” Alf said craving the Nicotine but knowing it would be unwise with his injured lung. The German shrugged, drew on the cigarette until it was almost finished, then threw it to the ground and crushed it with his boot. He nodded at Alf and having a quick look around to make sure he was safe headed back towards the ladder. Alf watched him go. Then he turned to look at Johnny approaching the football, outside the compound now. No one was watching Larder. Alf glanced at the sentry, he would reach the ladder soon.

With his heart thumping in his chest Alf crossed to the tent where he knew the tower couldn’t see him. He felt almost giddy but he checked once more. The guard was just pulling himself onto the wooden platform atop the ladder. Johnny was almost at the football. Alf shoved his hands deep into his pockets, put his head down and set off walking as quickly as he could towards Larder, expecting at any second a whistle, a shout or worse a bullet. Then when he was halfway to Larder he took his hands out of his pockets and ran. He ran as if the devil himself was after him. Larder was aware of someone running up behind him and as he started to turn Alf grabbed him by the arm and shoved him forward.

“Run Johnny Run!”

Johnny tried to resist.

“Alf what are you doing?”

“Run! Do exactly as I say.” Alf ran past him looking back over his shoulder to make sure Johnny was there. He was. Another quick glance revealed that so far they were undetected. When they got to the aeroplane Alf shoved Johnny to the front.

“You go round that way.”

Johnny put his hands out.

“Alf what are we doing?”

“We’re taking the plane.”

“What!”

“No time to discuss it. Go!”

Johnny did as he was told. Alf went around to the tail and crept along the body. Kleber was at the front checking the oil level.

“Here what do you want?” he asked Larder, slightly startled. Alf tapped Kleber on the shoulder and as he turned Alf landed the punch. It had the desired effect. Alf caught the German pilot and lowered him gently to the ground. Kleber was out cold. Johnny was watching Alf. He could hardly believe this was happening.

“Johnny check on the camp. Is anyone coming after us?”

Alf quickly positioned Kleber’s inert form near the wheels where he hopefully wouldn’t be so conspicuous.

“No. No one has noticed us yet.”

“Would you say we’re out of range of that MG42? The one in the tower.”

“Maybe but only just.”

“Johnny I need you to grab the propeller and pull it down as hard as you can.”

Johnny was about to rush off.

“But only when I say so.”

“Right.”

“Keep your eye on what’s going on over there.”

“O.K.”

Alf climbed into the cockpit and began flicking switches remembering everything the Indian had told him. The instruments were slightly different but the basics were similar. He put his feet on the pedals to get their feel. Johnny was waiting patiently for Alf to give the signal. Alf suddenly put his thumb up and Johnny pulled down with all his might. The propeller rotated once and the engine turned over, then silence. To Johnny’s nerves the noise was deafening but the sound barely made it across the desert.

Kahler had just put the last of the oil drums back when he glanced at the plane. He saw the pilot trying to start it. Then he snapped back. The football was still in the same place where he sent Larder to get it. He stopped and searched the faces inside the compound looking for the young Englishman. He couldn’t see him. Kahler was staring at the pilot trying to start the plane.

Suddenly the door to Schwann’s office opened and Schwann shouted “Attention!” as Von Brockhorst stepped out onto the wooden balcony behind him. They both stopped at the top of the stairs.

“Well everything seems satisfactory Captain. I know….”

Von Brockhorst stopped talking when he heard the Fiesler’s engine splutter into life. Schwann was watching Kahler who was sprinting for the watch tower.

“What is that man doing?” Von Brockhorst asked as Kahler reached the ladder and rapidly began climbing it shouting at the top of his voice. Kahler reached the platform, elbowed the guard out of the way and swung the barrel of the MG42 in the direction of the plane and opened fire. The first burst of bullets raced across the desert floor. The second kicked up around Johnny’s legs. He ran around and climbed inside the plane.

“Bloody hell Alf that was close.”

Von Brockhorst couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Why the hell is that idiot shooting at my pilot?”

At the first sound of the gunfire the British P.O.W.’s had dived for the dirt.

“Stay down all of you!” Schwann ordered between Kahler’s firing. Suddenly the MG42 jammed. Schwann was about to shout at Kahler when the plane began to move forward. Von Brockhorst was still staring at Kahler.

“I demand to know why that man is shooting at my pilot.”

Schwann saw the body of Kleber laying on the ground.

“I think sir that may be your pilot.”

Von Brockhorst’s eyes widened. Suddenly he jumped into action.

“Stop them!” he shouted “They’re stealing my plane.”

“After them,” Schwann ordered every German in earshot. Some armed, some not. They ran as ordered but the attempt would be futile. The aeroplane was already bouncing along the desert floor gaining speed.

Kleber was coming round. He sat up holding his chin and turned his head towards the sound of his aeroplane. It was moving away from him. Then he realised what had happened.

“The bastard!” he said out loud.

Then the Storch turned and was lumbering back towards him. He got to his feet and waited. Alf had straightened the plane up and now pushed forward on the throttle. Johnny beside him was punching the air in delight. Alf looked out of the window and saw what looked like the whole of the German army descending upon them trying to cut them off. On foot!

“Johnny we’re not out of this yet.”

Kahler was too busy trying to free the jammed machine gun. Suddenly it freed and he opened fire without looking. Several Germans were hit in the back and killed, others writhed in agony. Horrified Kahler stopped firing.

“Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Schwann shouted.

Some of the British started to cheer when they saw but Burroughs shut them up. Schwann ran down the stairs. He crossed quickly to Wilf and yanked him to his feet and put his Luger to the side of Burroughs head. Beyond the running Germans Johnny could see it.

“Alf.”

Alf looked across. He could see it was Burroughs. He eased back on the throttle and then committed himself.

“Sorry Wilf,” he said and pushed the throttle all the way forward.

Schwann angrily withdrew his pistol and fired it into the air.

“They saw and they didn’t care,” he said.

“Why would they. They take off I’m dead. They stop, we’re all dead.”

“Who are they?”

Wilf smiled.

“Never mind, a roll call will reveal them. They will not get away.”

“My dear Captain I fear that they already have,” Burroughs pointed at the aeroplane as it left the ground.

As they had increased speed on the ground Alf had realised that the pilot was standing directly in his way.

“What is he doing.”

Johnny had just found a loaded handgun in a pouch.

“Want me to shoot him Alf?”

Alf shook his head.

“He’ll move.”

Kleber did.

Right at the last moment. Or so Alf thought. Kleber actually rolled out of the way, came up onto his feet, ran after the plane and grabbed onto the wheel struts and was now hanging on for dear life as the plane gained height. Kleber slipped once, regained his hand hold, climbed up and opened the passenger door on a surprised Johnny Larder. Johnny recovered quickly to lash out but missed. Kleber tried to grab him as Johnny brought the hand holding the gun around. Kleber was the quicker of the two, however, and he slammed the door on Johnny’s arm. The gun flew from Johnny’s hand and it clattered across the cockpit floor and under Alf’s feet. The small aeroplane was barely a hundred feet from the ground and Alf dipped its wings to try to eject the unwanted passenger. Kleber was having none of it. After all this was his plane. He wasn’t about to give it up without a fight. The next time the door opened he grabbed Johnny and tried to pull him out. Johnny panicked and grabbed hold of Alf who had just managed to get hold of the gun. Alf levelled it at Kleber’s head who instantly stopped what he was doing. He hung on with all his strength. He looked down at the ground, certain death whichever way you looked at it. He was tempted to jump. To be in control of his demise and not someone else. Then kleber looked into Alf’s eyes.

“Do it Alf! Do it! Kill him!”

Johnny couldn’t understand what the old ’un was waiting for.

Kleber started to laugh. Alf was glancing from the German to where he was going.

“What’s so funny? Alf Ask him.”

Alf spoke in poor German, slowly he lowered the gun. Johnny couldn’t believe his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Johnny pull him in.”

“What?”

“Help him. Quick before he falls.”

Johnny just stared open mouthed.

“Larder I gave you an order.”

Johnny sprung into action. He grabbed Kleber and started to haul him in. Johnny had to move back to get him inside. The two men lay on the floor of the plane panting. Alf passed the gun back to Johnny.

“Keep this on him.”

Kleber shook his head and said something to Alf. The Englishman understood only the words “Not necessary.”

“Just cover him with the gun. You don’t have to put it in his face just keep it in his general direction.”

Larder did as he was told. Kleber motioned that he wished to sit in the passenger seat. Alf agreed, explaining that if the German tried anything Larder would shoot him dead. Kleber nodded that he understand. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered them. Both Englishmen declined so he shrugged and put them away. They flew in silence for a few minutes. Then Johnny asked.

“Ask him what was so funny back there!”

Alf spoke to Kleber while continuing to look ahead. The German words making him sound so funny as usual.

“He says he was laughing at the absurdity of him acting the hero and jumping onto his plane. So far he has seen no action of any kind in this war and now this, trying to stop someone from stealing his plane. He just thought it was funny.”

Johnny nodded to Kleber who spoke to Alf again.

“He wants to know why I didn’t shoot him. When I had the chance with him hanging on helplessly as he was.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That it would be murder. That I wasn’t a murderer and couldn’t kill him in cold blood.”

Then Alf said something else in German. Kleber looked at him for a moment. Then suddenly he burst out laughing and then Alf joined him. Johnny was grinning like people who watch other people laugh without understanding the joke.

“What did you say Alf?”

Alf tried to stop laughing but tittered between words.

“I asked him if he thought the General would be cross.”

They all laughed together. Alf had tears in his eyes.



Von Brockhorst watched the small aeroplane as it got smaller and smaller in the sky. Finally he could see it no more. He looked around the camp. The captured British watched silently but he could see that they were restless. They wanted to leap and shout. The Germans stood by in embarrassed silence like guilty school children standing before their headmaster. Von Brockhorst looked up at the tower. Kahler was looming over the sentry. He was more worried about the trouble he was in than the fact that he’d just shot some of his countrymen in the back. Finally Von Brockhorst looked at Schwann who was standing nervously to one side. Schwann stared back. He was sure that the next words the General spoke would be to order his execution. The General just coldly stared at him. The younger man tried to read what was behind the eyes. What thoughts were going through that brilliant brain, but he couldn’t, there was no emotion there at all. Von Brockhorst opened his mouth to speak but closed it again instantly as Schwann panicked and began blurting out an explanation.

“Herr General we’ll do everything in our power to see that these men are punished. They’ll not get far….” he continued feeling his courage build now that he had spoken to the General “….I’ll have their corpses brought to you by sundown. With your permission I’ll personally lead a team to find them. They will not make a mockery of General Hans Von Brockhorst.”

Schwann clicked his heels and delivered the best salute of his military life.

Von Brockhorst just glared at him. Finally he said.

“Have you finished?”

Schwann nodded nervously and lowered the salute.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“I won’t sir?”

“No. It’s a big desert. You’ll never find them. What you will do is as I’ve already instructed.”

“Yes sir.”

Now Von Brockhorst returned the salute.

“Dismissed!” he said loudly to the rest of the camp.

The Germans relaxed. The P.O.W.’s began to disperse.

“Captain Schwann.”

“Yes Herr General.”

“I need to use your telephone.”

“Yes of course Herr General. If I may….” Schwann said opening the door for Von Brockhorst .

“In private Captain,” Von Brockhorst said as Schwann tried to follow him in. Schwann had almost got the door shut.

“Oh and Captain.”

“Herr General?”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to arrange some transport for me.”

Schwann closed the door with a little click.

Von Brockhorst stepped around Schwann’s desk and sat slowly in the chair. He took his hat off and placed it neatly on the desk in front of him. He reached forward for the telephone, picked up the receiver and listened to the dial tone. Then very slowly he replaced the receiver. He thought about the morning’s events. His stolen aeroplane and the escaped prisoners.

Then he threw his head back and roared with laughter.