A short excerpt from Chapter 4 of Age Shall Not Weary Them, upcoming sequel to England Expects and second in the Empires Lost Series

(final edit not done yet, so apologies for any errors)

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Chelsea & Fulham Railway Station (disused)

West London Line, Fulham SW6

Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien

 

September 22, 1942

Tuesday 

Harry Jenkins parked his cab in the railway station forecourt early that Tuesday morning and stepped slowly out onto the asphalt, taking a moment to stare pointedly up at an overcast sky that was still predominantly dark but hinted at the nearing glow of dawn beyond the city’s eastern skyline.  The sun itself was still below the horizon, but the first of its rays were clearly visible, reaching out in bright streaks that bathed the thinning clouds in hues of deep, ominous red and orange.

Harry shuddered slightly, the action unexpected and completely involuntary.  He didn’t particularly believe the old sailors’ tales of red skies at dawn being forewarning of bad weather to come, but somehow the sight caused a chill to run through his body all the same.

Not like it takes red in the morning to bring on the bleedin’ rain in London anyway, he reasoned silently, trying to break himself out of his sudden moment of uncertainty as he finally roused himself, opening the back door of the Austin and lifting out a stack of three large cardboard boxes.  Despite their size, they were remarkably light, and it was only their physical size that presented any real problem as he carried them a few paces across the asphalt between the car and the front door of the railway station’s main office.

Like the rest of the buildings there, the office had lain dormant and abandoned for two years, and the original lock had been smashed in early on, either by vandals or by vagrants in search of temporary shelter.  The padlocked latch that now secured the door had been added sometime after, and was clearly not of the building’s original construction.  Harry himself had added the fixture, and he’d made sure it went on strong and solid, hammered down by long, thick nails in what seemed a rough job but was in fact quite sturdy.

The nails themselves, substantially longer than the thickness of the solid wood door, had been chosen that way intentionally, and their points, which had projected at least a centimetre or more through on the other side, had then been hammered down flat, making it all but impossible for any would-be burglar or ne’er-do-well to pull the latch from its mountings.

Pressing the boxes against the wall by the door and using his body to hold them, he awkwardly fished inside his trouser pocket for the keys to the heavy padlock that kept the door secured.  It took some manoeuvring for him to open the lock without dropping the wedged boxes, but he managed it eventually, pushing the door wide and moving through to the dark office inside with his cargo in hand.

There was no light within, but enough streamed through from the open doorway for him to find a space to finally put the boxes down.  Stretching his back, he groaned melodramatically and turned back around with every intention of closing the front door once more and turning on the lights.  It was in that moment that Harry Jenkins first realised he wasn’t alone within the abandoned station office.  As the lights came on suddenly, leaving him momentarily blinded, he was presented with the terrifying sight of a black-shirted SS trooper standing on either side of the open doorway, MP2 submachine guns grasped menacingly in their hands. 

There was little space to move freely.  Boxes and crates were piled everywhere inside what had once been the main foyer of the station office.  A closed ticket sales counter lay against one wall, while the remains of waiting room benches and seats took up the other side, and at the far end, another door that was also normally locked now hung wide open, leading out onto the rail platform.  Another doorway on a side wall opened into what had once been the stationmaster’s office.  Save for one or two narrow walkways between, every piece of usable space inside that main room was taken up by goods of varying size and value, stacked almost head high.

“It’s about time you showed up, Mister Jenkins,” a heavily-accented German voice behind him observed good English and he whirled once more, abject terror in his still-blurry eyes to find himself confronted by a tall, blond-haired SS officer.  After two years of German occupation, most Britons could recognise Wehrmacht and Schutzstaffeln ranks well enough, and the man standing before him wore the collar tabs of an Obersturmbannführer, or lieutenant-colonel, above an immaculately pressed and presented black uniform of the Germanische-SS.  He was seated precariously on the edge of a large, wooden packing crate, staring at Jenkins across two metres of chest-high boxes.

During three years of war and subsequent Nazi occupation throughout Western Europe, the Germanische-SS had become one of the most hated and feared paramilitary units in existence.  Created as part of the larger Schutzstaffeln ‘umbrella’, it had never been intended for use as a combat force as the Waffen-SS had been.  The group had instead been modelled on an organisation that had already operating in Germany for many years – the Allegemeine-SS.  Both were similarly tasked with Anti-Semitic operations and the enforcement of Nazi racial doctrine.  It was under the auspices of the Germanische-SS that the Einsatzgruppen carried out their work rounding up Jews throughout Occupied Europe, along with other ‘undesirable’ races and political groups, all under the direct orders and authority of Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler and Chancellor Adolf Hitler himself.

The officer, who appeared to be in his early thirties, seemed taller than all of them as they were crammed together inside that office, surrounded by towers of crates and cardboard boxes of varying sizes and weights.  Flanked by another pair of armed troopers, he felt no need to draw the pistol at his belt, secure in the knowledge his guards were perfectly capable of handling any situation that might arise.  It wasn’t the guns or the guards that frightened Jenkins most however as he stood there, speechless and rooted to the spot.  Instead, the greatest source of terror was the crazed look of righteous superiority that blazed in the officer’s eyes and the long, livid scar that ran from beneath his right eye and finished almost at the corner of his lip.

“Wh-what d’you want from me…?”  Jenkins stammered slowly, trying to play dumb and pretend he had no idea of the purpose behind their presence.  As damning as the boxes of black-market goods piled around them were – more than enough to have him shot anyway, in all likelihood – he also knew that investigations into criminal activity of that kind were generally left to the Gestapo and what was left of the local London constabulary.  Germanische-SS investigators were only interested in one thing – Jews – and that meant the officer’s presence could only be in relation to the trio of fugitives he’d handed over to Michaels and the American, five days earlier.

If the SS even considered the possibility that he’d harboured any Jews or assisted in their escape, there was no doubt he’d be executed without any mercy whatsoever.  Considering the stories and rumours that were already circulating about SS and Gestapo practices in Occupied Britain, there was more than a fifty-fifty chance he’d be tortured into the bargain, something that frightened Harry Jenkins a great deal more than a simple threat of quick death.

“Oh, I think you know exactly what we’re here to talk about, Mister Jenkins,” Lieutenant-Colonel Pieter Stahl of the Germanische-SS (London Office) replied with an evil smile.  “We have it on very good authority that you met up with some very interesting characters here last week:  characters I’d very much like to know more about.”

“I dunno what yer talkin’ about,” Jenkins shot back, a little too quickly to be convincing.

“We’ve been waiting here half the night for you, Mister Jenkins,” Stahl continued, ignoring the man’s words completely.  Such a long time, and it would’ve been such a waste if it hadn’t been for the fact that some of your friends were kind enough to visit….”

Harry’s stomach fell into an icy pit as he heard those words.  He knew that could only mean Nobbs and Rowe, and as both of them had been part of the altercation with Michaels and the American the other night, that now made things all the more difficult.

“The local Gestapo’s been watching you for a while now, Harry – may I call you Harry?”  Stahl asked as if engaged in a polite conversation over tea, and continued on without waiting for a reply.  “They’ve been keeping an eye on your activities here with great interest.  Apparently you’ve been a huge help in tracking shipments of illegal goods all over Grossbritannien.  We’ve even been able to trace the origin of at least some of the goods back to thefts from Q-Stores at a number of our barracks around the country.”  He paused for a moment, partly to take a breath but mostly for effect.  “Of course, the Germanische-SS has no real interest in the black market… but you know that, don’t you, Harry?”  Jenkins could only nod dumbly, fear taking control of him completely as he realised Stahl was coming to the point of the interrogation, and any feelings of hope within him began to slip away.  “Everybody knows what we’re interested in,” he added cheerfully, but a dark quality had crept into his tone and eyes in that moment.  “… And what’s that, Harry… ?  Tell me what that is…”

“Jews,” Harry croaked softly after a moment’s pause, as if the word was almost impossible to get out.  “You’re after Jews…”

“See…?  That wasn’t all that difficult, was it?  Well done!”  Stahl congratulated mockingly, toying with the man purely for reasons of self-amusement.  “Now, getting down to business…” he continued, standing for the first time and taking a few steps toward Harry through the maze of stolen goods.  “We know you picked up a Jewish boy from the docks five nights ago, accompanied by a young Gentile female of similar age and an adult of as-yet undetermined racial background.  The vague description we have of the adult male seems similar to that of a Jew they’ve been hunting for in France for two years or more… someone the High Command would very much like to get their hands on, apparently.”  He shrugged, as if discussing something as insignificant as choosing a pair of socks.  “The descriptions aren’t identical, but they’re close enough for us to be interested… particularly with regard to how the elusive little creature – if it is who we suspect – has managed to get across The Channel and find himself here in London.”

“I – I don’t know anything about any o’ that codswallop,” Harry tried to protest again, but fear was sapping his strength and he knew the officer wasn’t going to believe him.

“Of course you don’t, Harry,” Stahl replied condescendingly with a faint smile.  “Considering your lowly place in this world, I’d be extremely surprised if you did know anything about how this ‘fellow’ managed to arrive in Grossbritannien.  At this point however, I’m more interested in where this little Jew and his entourage are going rather than where they’ve been…”  His smile became toothy and positively evil, something that was exacerbated dramatically as the scar on his cheek warped into a bizarre shape in the process.  “… And I’m certain you’ll be able to help us with that!”

Harry was about to protest his innocence again but was interrupted as the door to the stationmaster’s office at the rear of the room opened suddenly, revealing the unexpected presence of a second Germanische-SS officer, this one wearing the rank of Standartenführer – a full colonel.  As tall as Stahl, he seemed perhaps just a few years older and also looked to have a far more powerful frame, with thick arms and broad shoulders.  His hair was equally fair however and his eyes similarly blue, and he looked every inch a perfect example of the Aryan ‘superman’ espoused by Nazi racial doctrine.

“Where are my manners, Harry?” Stahl began pleasantly as he turned to glance at the new arrival.  “I’ve not introduced everyone yet.  This is my commanding officer, Colonel Franz Bauer.  We’ve been working together at the London Office for… oh… about a year now… and so far we’ve been doing a wonderful job, if I do dare to say so myself.  You and I were having such an interesting conversation that I almost forgot we weren’t alone.”

“Anything else, Franz…?”  He asked as he turned back to Bauer momentarily, all pretence disappearing from his features and tone as both hardened to ice.

“Nein, Pieter… nothing more,” Bauer replied with a shrug.  Although both spoke excellent English, his accent was less pronounced than Stahl’s.  “I wasn’t expecting anything, in all honesty:  those two fools are little better than mindless, hired muscle at best.”  He cast a malevolent glare in Harry’s direction.  “From what they have told me however, I’m more than confident we can get something useful out of Herr Jenkins here.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that at all,” Stahl agreed as Harry’s stomach lurched, and he almost threw up as he recognised the implied threat of torture that lay beneath that simple statement.  “Standartenführer Bauer’s looking forward to having his own ‘chat’ with you in the back room there, Harry,” he continued, turning back to Jenkins with a terrible gleam in his eyes.  “I have to admit, coming from a combat background as I do, that I’m a bit of a novice when it comes to interrogation… Franz however is a true master at ‘the game’, and in that sense it’s so wonderful we ‘found’ each other as I’ve learned so much in the last twelve months!  Better that he take over from here, although I’m certainly going to come in and watch!”

“What – what’re you gonna do to me…?” Harry stammered in terror, trying to take a step back now but finding himself held fast as the pair of troopers by the door moved quickly forward and secured his arms.

“Harry, my friend, I don’t think mere words could truly do justice to what you’re about to experience,” Stahl hissed breathlessly, and Harry realised for the first time that the young officer was actually shaking with an almost sexual excitement.  Tears began to stream down the cabbie’s cheeks in that moment as he realised what they were about to do to him was as much for their own enjoyment as for any interest in information, and that it didn’t really matter any more what he did or didn’t tell them:  they were going to hurt him either way.

 “Please, don’t do this!  I don’t know anything, I swear…!”  Harry was struggling now, pleading desperately as powerful arms encircled his throat and his shoulders, making any movement impossible.

“He was a tough one, that Arthur,” Bauer continued in almost grudging recognition, oblivious to Harry’s pleas as he recalled the torture of Rowe earlier that morning.  “He lasted almost two hours and he still gave us nothing in the end, although I suspect that was probably because he was too stupid to actually know anything.”  He shrugged.  “Made it a lot easier to break Nobbs when he saw what we’d done to his friend, and he told us a few interesting things as a result, but not much we can really use.”  For the first time, Bauer stepped close enough for Harry to see the rest of his upper body, and he realised in horror that during the entire time since he’d left that dark room, the SS officer had been daintily wiping his blood-stained hands on a cloth that might once have been white.  “He only lasted twenty minutes or so, but most of that wasn’t much more than practice, really, considering we got everything worthwhile out of him in the first five…”  Bauer gave a snort of derision, almost managing a hint of a smile for the first time.  “Practice makes perfect, Pieter, as they say, and I believe Mister Jenkins here has his mother at home also… I wonder if she might have any light to shed on our little problem.”

“What an excellent thought, Franz!  What do you think, Harry?  Should we have the local Gestapo bring Elsie in for a chat too?”

“No…!”  Harry howled instantly, any last vestige of resistance leaving him at the threat of violence against his mother.  “No…no, please!”  His body sagged against the guards behind him, all strength gone now as he stared sullenly at the floor in total defeat.  “Scotland… they said they were heading to Scotland…”

 

 “Harry, you have been an absolute wealth of information!”  Stahl declared with a broad smile that almost bordered on being genuine.  “You’ve given us so much to work on!”  He paused just long enough to give the man the faintest glimmer of false hope before letting the hammer fall.  “It’s just… well… we have to be certain you’re being honest with us…”

“What…?”  Harry blurted in shock, his mind unable to accept the implication of what Stahl had just said.  “What… no…!  I’ve told you everything, I swear to you!  I swear on my mother’s life… you must believe me…!”

“Oh, we will believe you, Harry… I’ve no doubt we will…”  Stahl said in a dismissive, emotionless tone as he gave an imperceptible nod to the guards at Jenkins’ back.

“Watch how you step as you take him in, boys,” Bauer remarked casually, ignoring Jenkins’ desperate pleas as the troopers gripped the cabbie tightly once more and began to slowly push him toward the open doorway to the back room.  “…Don’t slip as you go in – there’s blood all over the floor in there.  I’ll be in shortly…”

Already gripped completely by abject terror, it never occurred to Harry that there’d been no reason for Bauer to issue that last remark in English, other than to add to the man’s level of torment in some small way.

“Please… please don’t do this… I’m begging you… please don’t hurt me…”

“Try not to think about it in terms of the pain,” Stahl suggested, sounding to all the world like a kindly older brother and patting the struggling man on the shoulder as the guards pushed him past.  “It’ll be over much quicker if you look at it as a learning experience!” 

Stahl paused for a moment, staring out through the open doorway at the reddening horizon beyond.  He suspected Jenkins hadn’t heard his advice, honestly intentioned as it had been in Stahl’s own way.  No matter, he thought, with little real sadness or disappointment.  He didn’t blame the man for not listening; he had other things on his mind at that moment, after all.

“You know, Harry,” he added finally, turning back toward the guards as they continued pushing the wailing man toward the room at the rear of the office, “I don’t believe those old sayings of ‘red sky at morning, sailors’ warning’…”   Stahl smiled broadly as he moved to Bauer’s side and the pair began to follow the guards toward the dreaded room.  “…I think it’s going to be a wonderful day after all…!”