Dead pile

It was the second time this had happened. The last time he had been wearing a uniform. The last time he had been stronger, fitter. The men above him had been heavier too. Moving too soon would be dangerous. If he left it too late, there would be no chance of moving ever again. He had to stay awake. He had to stay conscious. He had to stay still and ignore the vile smell and disgusting fluids.

The first time he had been lucky. Not as lucky as he could have been, but luckier than ninety seven others. The three of them had split up. The chances of one of them getting back to tell the tale were better so. None of them mentioned what a slim chance it was. He had been found by an old French farmer and his daughter. He thought that the daughter had been widowed recently. Or perhaps she had had a brother who had been killed. In the evenings, she sometimes took the framed photograph down from the shelf above the fireplace and looked at it with such sadness in her expression. Sometimes she wept. Sometimes she showed him the photograph and told him – well, he didn't know what she was telling him. They shared no language. He agreed with her – yes, a fine man, you could see that from the photograph, a good person (or a clever person, or a brave person, or a kind person?). Yes, you could see that too. You didn't have to look at the photograph to see that – although he peered at it dutifully- you just had to see it in the sorrow in her face.

The old man – like so many old men – was slowly becoming crippled by rheumatism. Sometimes – when the weather was very poor and the rheumatism was very bad and no one was likely to come near the farm - he put on the old man's clothes and went out to do the milking or dig in the vegetable patch, which could not be seen from the road. He tried to imitate the old man's stoop and shuffling gait, nevertheless. If this had been one of Dot's stories, he would have fallen in love with the daughter and she with him. It wasn't a story. She was considerably older than him for one thing. He had grown fond of both the old man and his daughter, and thanked them both profusely when it seemed that discovery would be inevitable and soon. By that time he had worked out what "mercy" and "orrivar" meant. At least they knew he was grateful. He hoped they had understood why he had to leave.

He was wearing his uniform when he turned himself in. No, no one had helped him. He had stolen food and hidden from everyone. He could not say exactly how he had come to be left behind. Perhaps he had had some blow to the head? He had found himself in a field, and hidden from everyone and stolen food. He did not know how long he had been hiding for. He could not be sure even which month it was exactly. Could they tell him? Yes, he could remember his name and his number. He remembered very little. He had hidden from everyone and stolen food. The name of.. He didn't understand. Yes, he could remember his name; he could remember his number. He knew it was important to remember those, he told them with a slight air of pride, as if even that feat was a challenge for him. It did not take them very long to stop asking him questions. From their air of satisfaction, it was easy to tell that the Germans at least thought they were winning a war.

Despite everything, it was a relief to hear English, to speak and be understood. He was tempted to tell too much of his story to his fellow prisoners. He had never been a liar and was surprise how much it bothered him, even to have lied to the enemy. Better stick to his story – whoever asked. I must have been hit on the head. I hid from everyone and stole food.

What was happening to his Mum and Dad? Had they received the telegram that everyone dreaded so much? Would they now receive a letter informing them that he was a prisoner of war? Which would they believe?

They were moved, then moved again. He stopped counting the length of his captivity in days, and used weeks; stopped counting the weeks and thought merely of months; started counting in years. He had not got very far in years when he ceased to be so sure about them. Perhaps that was hunger.

They say one rotten apple spoils a whole barrel. Perhaps the Germans said it, too. Perhaps they had decided to put the rotten apples together and have one barrel that stank to high heaven. Not that all their captors were rotten, but there probably wasn't one of them you would want beside you if you were fighting. Some had the brains of a squashed frog. Some had less. There were the corrupt, the lazy, the ones who couldn't do anything right. He never quite decided whether that was a good thing or a bad one. They were a camp of very unimportant prisoners with very unimportant captors, presumably somewhere in Germany. The amount of food kept getting less and less. He supposed that was because Britain was winning. The guards got thinner too.

He hadn't been shamming. The dim-witted guards had presumably made a mistake. He had been unconscious anyway, when he had been thrown on the dead pile outside the camp, for burial the next day. Starvation might still be inevitable. He supposed he would find out. At least he had the chance to starve as a free man. He was surprised to find that still mattered. It was probably time to move.

When they were kids, they used to eat the new leaves from the hawthorn in spring and call it bread and cheese. It wasn't spring now, but he supposed the leaves were still edible.

He stole. He stole a tin mug. He stole some twine; he eventually managed to steal a fish hook. He stole some clothes. He stole milk from cows in field. He stole vegetables from gardens and ate them raw. He would have died if he had escaped in winter or spring. As it was, he grew no weaker, and if he did not actually get stronger, he had a purpose to drive him on.

It drove him westward. All that being made to learn geography at school had a purpose. South was Switzerland – true, but south was also Austria, that was part of Germany now, and Italy, another enemy. He knew of no way in which he could be sure of arriving in one rather than the other. He didn't know what Swiss sounded like, nor Italian, so how could he tell one from the other when people spoke? Besides, he was sure there were mountains. He had been up a mountain once, and had only agreed to that because he had not wanted to let the Coots down. He would have to cross higher mountains to get to Switzerland, perhaps.

Northwards there would be sea. That was an attractive prospect, but it might well present its own problems. Eastwards lay Russia, another ally of Germany. He remembered the shock and sombre looks this had caused at the beginning of the war. He would go westward. Perhaps, if the war was going badly for Germany, France might once more be in friendly hands. If not – well, perhaps he could steal a boat. So westward it was. He would keep hiding, keep avoiding towns, catch fish where he could. He could remember how to snare rabbits too, but most of his food was stolen. It got colder and he had to steal some more clothes. Pickings were slim from those who had very little. He had to take more risks with where he hid, favouring barns over hedges. Some days he only moved a mile or so. Some days he went further. He would keep going until heard soldiers speaking in English. Eventually, months later, he did.

Author's note:

I regard this as Chapter 6 of Pieces, but it stands by itself, I think, or else it would fail as a chapter as badly as it would fail as a separate story. I have used two real stories for this. The first might be described as oral history. The person whose story it was did not make old bones and nor did I ever speak to him directly, so I could not the check facts of how he survived after his escape from the dead pile. The prisoner's opinion of his captors is his, based on the same piece of oral history. The other was based on an article I found in Wikipedia. I just added one of Arthur Ransome's characters into an already documented situation.