1996
It being Wednesday, I was perched in my habitual spot at the bar. The pub was far busier than normal, due to the fact we were midway through Race Week. It seemed the entire population of Europe had passed through the doors in the last few days, all wearing the uniform of black biking leathers. The roads were clogged with motorbikes. The only thing that saved the Farmer’s Arms from being swamped was its location away from the main course. During the races, most bikers would be elsewhere, staking out favourite viewing spots.
Personally, I never minded the bikes. It was a disruption, true, but only for two weeks, and by and large life continued as usual. The roads were a bit crazy, and it was sometimes impossible to get from one place to another while the racing course was closed… but that added up to a nice reason to stay near to home, in my opinion, especially if your home was close to a licensed premises. Plus it was nice to sit in the pub and to hear voices conversing in something other than English.
The bikers were friendly types. They’d buy their beer and have quick, whispered discussions over the uncommon Manx money, and more often than not they would give you a polite nod or a word of greeting. They were often more friendly than the locals, it must be said. At least the visitors troubled to learn the word “please”.
So I didn’t pay much attention when a man sat down next to me. He wore black and red leathers, the jacket open over a faded Mad Sunday t-shirt. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d have said he was German—it’s a generalising comment, I know, but there’s a certain look about the Germanic bikers. Even in a sea of middle-aged, overweight bike enthusiasts, there are distinguishing features that identify specific nationalities.
“Excuse me, sir?”
I looked up. Contrary to my guess, his accent was American. I put on a polite smile, expecting to be asked the time, or where the toilets were, or possibly which beer I’d recommend from the small selection behind the bar.
“Are you Allan Hendricks?”
I nodded. “That’s me, yes.”
“The landlady at my guesthouse said I’d probably find you here.”
“It’s as good a place as any to find me.” I was frowning, wondering what the man wanted, and why he’d gone to any length to search me out. People seeking advice or local knowledge could surely find someone better.
“That’s good, that’s good.” The man bobbed his head and smiled. “My name’s Eric Golding. Can I buy you a drink?”
I looked at him properly then. Set down my pint and looked at him. The family resemblance was there, now I knew to look for it. “Eric Golding,” I repeated. “Might I presume you were named after your grandfather?”
The man’s smile widened. He bobbed his head happily. “That’s right, that’s exactly right. The landlady said you might remember my grandpa. She said my name was kinda familiar. I mentioned my grandpa was here during the war, y’know, and she said you’d be the person to talk to.”
I sipped my drink, mostly so I didn’t have to reply straight away. “I remember him well enough, sure. What did you want to ask about?”
“Let me get us a drink first.” The barman hovered close by, since the bar wasn’t busy right then. Eric Golding ordered two pints of bitter. I wasn’t sure if that’s what he wanted to drink, or if he was just being sociable, but I didn’t object.
I waited for him to start talking.
“So, Mister Hendricks.” Eric Golding pulled a face as he drank from his pint. I’d guessed correctly—he hadn’t wanted to order that. “I was wondering if you could tell me anything about my grandpa. Because, well, I never really heard what happened while he was over here. There aren’t many records from the war. Well, not any I can find.”
I laughed. “That’s true enough. You won’t find records from the Island for those years. The Manx government has a unique way of filing. I think the official explanation is the pertinent records were dumped into a disused mineshaft. For safe-keeping, you understand.”
“I can believe that,” Eric Golding smiled. “That’s why I’ve been asking around. I mean, I found out the date he arrived, and the date he was shipped home, but the times in between…” He made a vague gesture. “Nothing. But he was in the same camp as you, right? In Kirk Maughold?”
He pronounced it correctly, “mack-old”, which meant he’d troubled to find out.
“Aye, that’s right,” I said. “Me and your grandfather, we were shipped there at the same time.”
Eric Golding sat forward. “So… what can you tell me? Because I’d love to know.”
And, since he took the time to come find me and buy me drinks, I told him.
I didn’t tell him everything; of course not. Up until I started writing this page, I never told anyone the whole story. There’s always been a reason not to. The reasons have differed through the years—at first it was because no one wanted to hear, then because I tried to excise it from my memories, and now it’s because no one cares anymore. There was a lot happening in the world at the time, and the events I got caught up in weren’t that significant, not in a wider sense. I’m unsurprised no one cares what happened all that time ago in Kirk Maughold Camp.
So I gave the polite young man an abridged version. It was mostly the truth. I’m sure he thought I was a little crazy, but I’m used to that.
This though—I’d like this to be the full version. As much as I can remember, exactly as I remember it. If you want to tell me it’s historically inaccurate, then fine—you’re probably right. Any official records are long gone, so it’s nothing more than my word against yours. And it’s easy to blame an old man’s faulty memory.
I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say so to my face, though. I believe in what happened, even if no one else does.
CHAPTER ONE
The summer of 1940 was one of the hottest on record. Despite that, I expected it to be raining on the Isle of Man. My sole impression of the Island—gleaned many years beforehand from a relative who’d holidayed there—was of a small, rain-soaked rock in the Irish Sea, wholly undeserving of its status as a holiday destination. So it was with some surprise I arrived to find the sun beating down.
We sailed from Liverpool on the Victoria at the end of August. Nearly five hundred men, most from the camp at Huyton in Lancaster. The mix of nationalities was nothing new to me by then. There were representatives from Germany, Italy, France and England, plus a smattering from other countries. I spoke only English and German, and in Huyton had become acutely aware of my lingual shortcomings, although it helped that everyone understood a little of each other’s languages.
The Victoria arrived in Ramsey harbour mid-afternoon, and I was pleasantly surprised by my first glimpse of the Isle of Man. The land around Ramsey was flat, but further south were rolling hills swathed in green and purple heather. The harbour had a holiday air. Dozens of people had turned out to watch our boat arrive. Ladies in Sunday hats, and children shouting and pointing. The sky was filled with squawking seabirds.
We weren’t the first internees to arrive on the Island that month; not by any means. Five or six ships had already delivered their human cargoes. The most recent before ours was a convoy of women and children, who were transported onwards to Rushen Camp at the south of the Island. I was anxious for any word, since my wife was now interned there. Due to the segregation within Huyton, I hadn’t seen her in three months.
Most of the men on the Victoria that day were destined for the newly opened camp in the parish of Maughold, a few miles down the coast from Ramsey. There wasn’t any transport available, so we marched with our packs slung over our shoulders. I had brought only one small bag, which contained just about everything I owned, but some people lugged huge suitcases. I didn’t envy them as they manhandled the heavy cases along the road in the hot sun.
The camp was situated on the headland, just outside a small fishing village bearing the same name as the parish. The camp had been constructed from scratch, in a certain amount of hurry. Most of the other internment camps on the Island consisted of requisitioned guesthouses, surrounded by fences and converted into living accommodation for large numbers of internees. The two exceptions were Knockaloe in the west and Kirk Maughold Camp in the east, both of which were built specifically. When we reached the latter, we found the buildings to be uniform and functional, made in the main part of unfinished boards.
The camp itself was hidden amongst a proliferation of trees, so we didn’t catch sight of it until we rounded a bend in the road and found the fence before us. Although the main gate currently stood open, it was still an imposing, heavy structure, as were the towers at each corner of the camp.
Ever since Rebecca and I fled Germany, we’d been surrounded by barbed wire. Even before the war it was everywhere. At every border crossing, along each road, on the beaches of the English Channel, around the camps in England. It was so ubiquitous we barely noticed it anymore. It was a part of life. So it came as no surprise when I looked up at the fence around my new home and saw it topped by coils of wire. In a way, it was almost comforting.
There was a short introductory lecture from Captain Parker in the central open area of the camp—a space referred to as the green—then we were escorted to our bunkhouses and told to make ourselves comfortable. Already I could see differences between this place and the camps in England. For a start, the soldiers were polite and friendly. Never unprofessional, of course, but they showed the internees far more respect and tolerance than I saw elsewhere. The camp itself was of a better standard, and it was clean. That in itself was a marked improvement over the last place I’d stayed.
My bunkhouse accommodated two dozen men. The narrow cots were covered with scratchy wool blankets. I later found out the bedding was of local produce, donated by farmers from the nearby villages. I deposited my bag on my new bunk. There wasn’t much point unpacking my meagre possessions straight away. I sat down to look at the men with whom I’d spend the foreseeable future.
We were divided up in what seemed an arbitrary manner, without consideration as to nationality. Most of my roommates were German, with a couple of German-speaking Austrians, a trio of Frenchmen, and one man from Switzerland who spoke both German and French fluently. This man was introduced to me as Eric Golding. He was blue eyed and blond, a perfect example of the Aryan model, with a startlingly friendly disposition. Some sixty years later, I’d be struck by how similar in appearance his grandson was.
Eric carried a large, bulky pack. Before he could stow it away, I glimpsed a number of textbooks inside, although the titles were unfamiliar. I was always interested in the things people carried with them. So many of us had fled our homes in a hurry, leaving almost everything behind. The items we deemed important enough to save said a lot about us.
Seeing as Eric was making an effort to be sociable—it was he who made the first circuit of the bunkhouse, shaking hands and collecting names—I felt comfortable enough to ask him about the books. “Medical texts, mostly,” he said with a shrug. “I wish I could’ve brought my entire library, but what can you do? I brought what I thought would be useful.”
“You’re a doctor?” I knew a few people who had abandoned their homeland to work as doctors in England. There was good money to be had there. And, of course, it was safer.
“Just a curious party.” Eric Golding had a broad, infectious smile. “It’s good to have a skill. Something you can practice in a place like this. I’m going to speak with the doctor in charge as soon as I can. Hopefully, I can make myself useful.”
“So, you were a medical student? Back home, I mean.”
“No. More’s the pity. I never had the time to study. I wrote for a newspaper.”
One of the other men spoke up. “I hear they’ve got free presses at the camps in Douglas. You could start one here.”
Eric waved the idea away with distaste, then changed the subject. He asked us one by one where we came from, and within an hour gleaned stories from everyone. It didn’t surprise me he’d worked for a newspaper. He was one of those people to whom it was easy to talk, and who made it natural to unburden yourself. Even so, I stayed quiet while the others talked. When pressed, I gave an abridged account—that I was one of the many naturalised English citizens to be picked up and confined because of the years I’d spent studying in Germany. I didn’t mention Rebecca.
The first days were unsettled, as we found our bearings and adjusted to our new home. It didn’t take long for us to settle into a routine. The camp was well organised, outside and in, and within a week the beginnings of a small community took shape. Each block of four bunkhouses had their own cooking and washing facilities, and one person from each was in charge of picking up and distributing the rations. An Austrian named Francis Oliver was nominated, after a brief vote, as spokesperson when dealing with the outside authorities.
The English soldiers within the camp—most of whom had arrived on the same boat as us—were a constant but non-invasive presence. We more or less looked after ourselves. The degree of freedom, while not excessive, felt strange after the restrictions of Huyton.
Despite rationing, the food was good. Much came from local farms—”good, honest, working men’s food”, as Eric put it. After a couple of weeks, a labour scheme was introduced, whereby groups of three or four men were loaned out to neighbouring farms. The men were paid in tokens exchangeable for food and other items within the camp. The token system was invented in the woman’s camp, which didn’t surprise any of us.
There were only two real sources of discontent. One was the lack of news from the outside world. Newspapers and radios were prohibited, so we had no idea what was going on beyond the confines of our sheltered isle. The other was lack of communication with the other camps. This occupied my thoughts the most. Many of us had wives and children interned in Rushen Camp, but for the amount of news we heard, they could have been on the moon.
Twice a week a supply truck arrived from Douglas. A crowd invariably gathered around it. The men who brought in supplies were our sole link to the other camps, bringing with them tantalising scraps of news. All we really wanted to know was that our families were safe and well, and there was no unrest within Rushen.
Life settled into routines. We became comfortable.
In September 1940, the Victoria brought the second wave of internees for Kirk Maughold Camp.
CHAPTER TWO
Eric wasn’t making idle chatter when he spoke of his intention to become a medical assistant. Because the camp was small in comparison to the others on the Island, there was only one resident doctor, Dr. Alfred Faragher, plus three others who made fortnightly visits. Dr. Faragher was more than happy to accept Eric’s help tending to the minor illnesses and injuries presented by the camp residents.
When the Victoria brought an extra two hundred men to the camp, it also brought a few interesting injuries. A serious fight had broken out as the ship came into harbour. It left one man dead and several others with concussions, cuts and bruises. In an attempt to restore peace, the surviving troublemakers were taken to separate camps. Two ended up in Knockaloe, one in Mooragh Camp in Ramsey, and three more came to us.
I crossed the green to the medical building that morning because there was a rumour circulating and I wanted to tell Eric. Word was, within the next week, we’d be allowed British newspapers and access to a radio. By that point any official news source, even the censored and biased versions we’d get, was most welcome.
The green, a misnamed square of parched, yellowing grass, was towards the eastern side of the camp, farthest from the main gate, and from its centre it was possible to see between the trees all the way to the coast. The tantalising glimpse of ocean in the distance sparkled blue in the sun. Bordering the green to the south was the communal mess hall; to the north a few supply sheds and a duel-faith chapel; and to the east, at the very bottom of the camp, was the medical building. It was identical to the other squat wooden huts, but was set slightly apart, as if shunned by its fellows.
Inside the building, the air was warm and smelled of chemicals. The windows were open but there wasn’t enough of a breeze to dispel the heat of the day. I hesitated at the door. I’d never liked hospitals. Even though the medical building was far removed from the cold, sterile hospitals I knew, the medicinal tang in the air made me uneasy.
Eric looked up from his work. He was consulting his watch to time the pulse of an older man who lay in a bed. I waited until he finished before approaching.
“Good morning to you, Hendricks.” Eric jotted a note on the man’s chart in neat, printed letters. “How’s things?”
“Looking hopeful.” I told him the rumour about the newspapers, expecting him to be as excited as the rest of us.
Eric, however, merely shrugged. A very Gallic gesture of disinterest. “I suppose that’s good news. It’ll make people happy. Everyone’s hankering after the slightest scrap of information from outside.”
“But not you?”
“Not so much. I think I’m happier not knowing how the war’s going.” Eric smiled to show he wasn’t entirely serious. “If the world’s going to end, there’s nothing we can do about it, and I for one am quite happy to stay on an isolated rock in the middle of the sea, enjoying the sun and remaining blissfully ignorant.”
“I thought you were a journalist. How can you not be interested?”
“Easy. The first step’s to turn your attention to something you can actually change.” Eric indicated the patients with a nod of his head. “This is the real world, as far as I’m concerned.”
There were two-dozen beds in the long, narrow room, only five of which were currently occupied. I recognised the old man and one other person, although I hadn’t been in the camp long enough to learn names. The other men I’d never seen before. Two were young lads with bruising to their faces. Like everyone else, I’d heard about the fight on the Victoria.
“So, how’re things here?” I settled down in a chair next to an open window. There was nothing I needed to do for several hours, so I was happy to sit and chat. “You busy?”
Eric tilted his hand from side to side; another French gesture. His upbringing in Switzerland had left him with a peculiar set of mannerisms, some recognisably French, others German, some unique to himself. “About the same as usual, I’d say. A bit of excitement last night when this bunch were brought in.” He nodded to the men with the bruises. “But that’s about it.”
“Do we know what happened?” I kept my voice down. The men were awake, even if they weren’t paying us any attention.
“You don’t have to whisper. They don’t speak German. No, I don’t know the full story. All I’ve heard is what these two told me, and I’m not sure if it differs from the official word. They say one man was causing trouble throughout the crossing. Muttering to himself, threatening the other passengers, stuff like that. Obviously there was something wrong with him. These two plead complete innocence, of course.”
“Of course.”
“They were just trying to calm him down before he hurt anyone. The world’s full of good intentions, isn’t it? Anyway, it seems the guards on the ship waded in to break up the fight, and the crazy guy attacked them too. At that point they shot him.”
I wondered if I’d ever get used to the casual violence that permeated everything these days. Rebecca reminded me more than once that we were at war, and we had to accept terrible things would happen. There was nothing we could do. I didn’t like to argue so I always conceded the point, but I still thought she was wrong. At least, I wanted to believe she was wrong.
“Are you due for a break?” I asked.
Eric checked his watch. “I expect so. I could use some fresh air. Been stuck in here all morning.”
The old man in the bed looked up. “Think how I feel, sonny,” he said.
“That’s true, that’s true, I apologise profusely.” To me, Eric said, “Let me check with Faragher. He’s treating the other casualty from the fight.”
I followed him to the far end of the building. There were two smaller rooms, each with a single bed. “Why’s he in a separate room?” I asked.
“Faragher decided it. The three casualties wouldn’t stop arguing. It was easiest to put this one in a room of his own. We even convinced him it was a medical precaution, since there’s a slight possibility he’s picked up something infectious.”
Dr. Faragher met us at the door. He was a short, overweight Manxman, with myopic eyes and flecks of grey in his beard. He seemed permanently surprised, even by something as simple as me coming to the medical building unannounced. “Oh. Good morning, Hendricks. What brings you this way?”
I repeated the news about the possible arrival of newspapers, and Faragher at least seemed pleased. As always, I had a certain amount of difficulty understanding him, since English is not my first language and Dr. Faragher possessed one of the broadest Manx accents I ever encountered.
“How’s your newest patient?” Eric asked.
“Florescu? He’s fine, he’s doing just fine. Seems to have calmed down a small amount. Still can’t understand a bloody word he’s saying, but he’d tell us if he were in pain, I’m sure.” He pronounced the last word with two syllables—“shu-ah”. “You wanting to nip out for a bit?”
“If you don’t need me for anything.”
The doctor assured him it was fine. As we left, I glanced into the isolation room and caught the eye of the man inside. He must’ve assumed I was a doctor, because he gave me a cautious smile. The chart at the end of his bed gave his name as Nicholai Florescu. There was a bruise on his left temple and a red, inflamed mark on his forearm. To be honest, I was surprised Dr. Faragher insisted on keeping the men in the hospital building with such slight injuries. Maybe he was happy to have some new patients.
Eric and I walked around the outside of the building, circled the green, then headed down the main street towards the general store. That building was no more a store than the dirt track down the middle of the camp was a main street, but people called it that. It was the place where we traded our labour tokens for extra food, or small handicrafts, or in exchange for more labour. One of the other Germans in our bunkhouse had taken on the role of seamstress, and mended items of clothing for one labour token apiece. Since we’d only been there a matter of weeks, the system was still in its fledging stages, but we all agreed it had potential.
I lit a cigarette. Eric declined. He seemed more thoughtful than usual, walking at a slow pace with hands folded behind his back. Usually I had to fight to shut him up.
“That man in the isolation room,” I said after a lengthy period of silence. “You said there was a risk he might be contagious.”
“I said he might’ve picked up something infectious,” Eric corrected. “He’s no real danger to anyone else, otherwise we wouldn’t let people wander in and out of his room. Faragher’s keeping him under observation in case he develops blood poisoning or tetanus.”
“Why would he?”
“Well, it’s a faint possibility, but one we’ve got to look out for, because of the bite on his arm. Did you see it? The crazy man on the boat bit him. That’s what started the fight.” Eric shook his head. “What’s the world coming to?”
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