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  Chapter Nine

  It was pleasantly warm in the barrack room that night. McBride sat with Ben on his bed, talking. At the other side of the stove, five prisoners played draw poker on another bed. Everyone was in shirtsleeves, the stoves glowing red at the top. The warm weather had meant they had built up a pleasant fug indoors.

  “We need to be out of here before the snow comes, or else we can’t go until spring. I don’t want to stop here over the winter.”

  Ben turned to McBride: “You know how we can break out? And you have only been here since last night?” There was doubt in his voice.

  “Let me ask you a question. Can we get out of this barrack room at night?”

  “Well, we have a key to the door. I don’t know how it was obtained, but the feeling is that it would be useful in case of fire. I suppose there is some risk, with these coke stoves.”

  “Very little, the British Army have been using them for donkeys’ years. The disadvantage to leaving by the door is that the gatehouse directly faces it. Getting out the back way, between the barrack buildings would be better.”

  “When I first came, there was a scheme to escape. It never materialised though. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

  Ben got off the bed, and moved towards the ablutions. McBride followed. Ben veered off and into the separate bedroom recently occupied by the man they had buried that morning. He went over to the high window.

  “See here?” he pointed and McBride could see that the frame was quite loose in the wall. “You can lift out the frame, and the bars on the outside. It’s a bit of a squeeze to get through, I would think, but not impossible.”

  McBride slapped Ben on the back. “That is the missing link to my plan. We can go tomorrow night.”

  “Just like that?”

  “We need to pack our clothes first. We escape in these black denims, take our civvies with us. You’ve got a rucksack, I suppose?”

  “Absolutely. Essential equipment for a fracking dissenter.”

  “Right. Sit down and I’ll tell you the plan.” The poker players were still playing, and nearby, a couple of guys standing talking by the stove, smoking cigarettes. Russian ones by the smell. The Russian guards must be selling them. For what? Heirlooms, maybe.

  “Well, come on, tell me the plan.”

  “We get out through the window, say about nine o’clock. The shift change is at eight o’clock, is it?” Ben nodded. “We sneak down to the generators, put them out of action, and while the whole camp is in darkness, we nip out through the fence. There’s a cut in the chain link fence, I saw it. We get out there. I’ll rip the bottom electric wire off the post, to give us more wriggle room.”

  “Let’s hope the juice stays off while we get through.”

  “Oh, it will. And it will take them a while to sort out the fault. They’ll dash to the generator room, grab a torch, and then, if they know what they are doing, they will unscrew the fuel pipe. That will tell them there is no fuel getting to the diesel engine. They’ll trace the line inside until it goes through the wall. Then they’ll go outside to the fuel tank, and first they’ll dip it, and they will probably have to go back to the generator room to get the dipstick. It must be stored there.

  They find there’s lots of fuel in the tank, so they put back the cap, and go and try to start the engine. And it will start, and run for a minute or two, and die again.

  I bet it takes twenty minutes at least until they’ve got the lights on again.

  “In twenty minutes we can be in the forest, surely. It’s about a mile at tops. And, by God, we’ll be trying for the four minute mile don’t you think?”

  “You make it sound so simple,” said Ben.

  “The simplest plans are the best. Less to go wrong.”

  “But first, you’ve got to sabotage the generators. How do you do that?”

  “I don’t. I sabotage the tank, which I can do when we get out through the window. What I will use is something we’ve got lots of at this camp.”

  “Go on.”

  “Potatoes. Or just one potato, actually. I just stick it up the air vent on top of the tank. Air can’t get in to replace the diesel leaving. That means the diesel stops going to the engines.”

  Ben smiled. “Bloody brilliant.”

  “Well I did get lots of practice in the SAS at this sort of thing.”

  McBride looked round the barrack room and saw most prisoners were going to bed.

  “I think we should turn in now. We aren’t going to get any sleep tomorrow night. Just one long march until daybreak, then hide up during the day.”

  The next day broke fine, frosty, a totally blue sky. After breakfast and before they were due on parade, McBride went into the kitchen, giving a perfunctory rap on the door as he entered. The man who looked in charge, not big, but wearing an air of authority, was watching another man wiping the prep tables down after service. The fact that he was not doing the job himself reinforced the idea that he was in charge.

  “Excuse me, chef. I’m John McBride fairly new here. Could you let me have a potato, a raw one?”

  “I know you. Yesterday you and Ben were digging the old man’s grave. I watched you. Bad business, that. What do you want a spud for? You can’t eat them raw, didn’t you know? Will cause sickness, and give you the shits. That’s the best outcome. The worst is heart problems; even death.”

  “I’m not going to eat it, I promise. It’s just for a small experiment.”

  The chef shrugged and went over to a storeroom, emerging later with a couple of potatoes in his hand.

  “You want a couple. No extra charge?”

  “No, just one. I can’t tell you about it, but you might just find out.”

  McBride heard the sound of the men trooping out of the barrack room.

  “Got to go. Russia needs me. Are you excused parade?”

  “Just when I’m on breakfasts. The two of us are excused. Believe me I’d rather go on parade than cook meals in this crappy kitchen.”

  McBride dashed out of the door, just in time to join the line-up. It was the same as the day before, but this time McBride made sure he wasn’t on the end of a line. He realised that was where they picked men for special duties. He inserted himself in the centre of the line. It caused a bit of grumbling from his neighbours, as they adjusted their distances. The officer, when he came down the steps looked drunk, and almost missed his footing halfway down the steel steps. Vodka for breakfast probably.

  Ben, who was suddenly on his left said, “What were you doing in the kitchen?”

  McBride smiled. “Getting second helpings.”

  The morning went by quickly. First Ben and McBride jogged ten laps of the perimeter. The diesel generator was chugging away as the passed the tank on the corner, the exhaust high on the wall sending dark smoke into the crisp pure air.

  After their run they joined a group of men that Ben was friendly with, and it was obvious that they were choosing teams for five-a-side football. There was a bit of competition to have McBride on their side. He stood at over six foot, and was all muscle. They assumed he could play football. Eventually they tossed a coin, and McBride was in the opposing team to Ben. The game was reminiscent of school playground football, concrete pitch and coats for goalposts. The play was better than that though. Youngish men, certainly a lot younger than McBride, lean through their time in the camp, nimble on their feet. McBride enjoyed himself. They played for over an hour non-stop, and McBride was exhausted. But so were the others, and he was pleased that he could keep up with the youngsters. They sat around on the ground after the game, gossiping.

  McBride said to no-one in particular, “Has anybody ever escaped from here? What do you think will happen to you?” The opposing team’s goalie, a small wiry man with red hair and a Glaswegian accent spoke up.

  “Six months ago, a couple of guys went over the fence. They were shot before they had got far. Aye, we watched it all happen. A bit discouraging, that. We dug their graves, aye, same as you
done yesterday.”

  “We are just waiting until the British government gets us out of here.” A well-spoken man, in his early thirties. “I mean we are not exactly starving here, and we get lots of leisure time.” He pondered. “Come to that it’s all leisure time.”

  The window frame wouldn’t shift. They were both standing on the bed that they had pulled up to the wall. It wasn’t moving until Ben slipped on the yielding mattress whilst clutching the knob on the window. Then it came out of the wall together with a cloud of mortar dust. When Ben had disengaged himself from the frame with McBride’s help they looked up at the hole in the wall.

  “Big enough for us I think. Who goes first? You, Ben. I’ll give you a leg up.”

  He was small and thin enough to turn until he was astride the wall, and then legs first he lowered himself down into the dark. McBride followed, launching himself into the darkness knowing it wasn’t far to jump. They both searched on the ground for their greatcoats and rucksacks they had thrown out first. It took them a few minutes, getting their coats and rucksacks on in the faint light thrown by a quarter moon. McBride could neither see nor hear any guard patrols. That proved how sloppy they were.

  They made their way in single file, McBride leading down the path between the buildings. At the end they turned right, and the big diesel tank was in front of them. McBride reached into his pocket, pulled out the potato the cook had provided. Ben hefted him up onto the top of the tank, where McBride’s scrambling caused a hollow metallic booming. They both froze, listening. After five minutes, during which they heard nothing, McBride crawled slowly towards the pipe which emerged from the tank. It rose about a foot vertically, and then curved in semi-circle so that the vent was completely facing the tank top. McBride pushed the potato over the open end forcing upwards until the bottom of the pipe came out of the other side of the potato. He then pulled the potato downwards. When he removed the potato, it had a large hole through the middle. McBride put it in his pocket, slid off the tank.

  “Okay Ben, we’re fit to go.”

  By the time they reached the fence at the opposite corner of the compound, they could hear the generator still running.

  “It isn’t working,” said Ben. McBride could hear the panic in his voice.

  “Give it a minute or two.” And then they heard the hesitating stutter and only a minute later the engine died.

  “Quick, let’s go,” said McBride, getting hold of the bottom electric wire and pulling to detach it from the insulator. The wire sagged on the ground, and McBride kicked at the wire link fencing, forcing it outwards along the vertical cut that some long ago prisoner had made. With Ben’s help they forced the fencing back until the hole was big enough to crawl through. They were out, and lying on the ground when they heard the thud of running boots on concrete, and they saw dimly, men running towards the generator room.

  McBride whispered “Come on, quickly,” and they were both moving at a crouch away from the fence and into the darkness beyond.