Last Man to Die Read Online Free

to revenge the fate which had cast Pilsudski as babysitter in this gut-rotting dampness instead of letting him loose in Europe; time to revenge a birthright which had left him a good six inches shorter than most men; time to revenge the suffering of his aunt and grandmother at the hands of Germans – not these Germans, of course, but these were the only Germans around. It was time. Pilsudski gave a curt nod.
    At the sign, each of the prisoners was thrown across the table, his head forced down by a guard until he had lost his footing in the mud and was spreadeagled. As he lay there, surprised, stunned, a second guard armed with a heavy leather glove forced his legs wide apart and violated him, the guard’s gloved finger piercing and entering, twisting deep inside and raping not just the body but the soul. One began to emit a low howl of anguish and degradation but a shouted reprimand from a fellow prisoner choked it off. After all, why admit the shame, why give the guards still further satisfaction?
    ‘You are … tearing up … all the rules,’ the commander began, barely able to find words as he struggled to contain his feelings. ‘What in God’s name do you think this is?’
    ‘A medical inspection. For piles. If anyone asks. Which they won’t.’ Pilsudski’s manner was cold asthe wind. He didn’t regret a thing. ‘By the way, one of the prisoners is excused. The queer. They tell me he’s been comprehensively inspected already.’
    ‘So. I think I understand.’
    ‘Sure you do, Fritz. How do the rules of war go? To the victor the spoils. To the losers, a finger up their ass. And it’s a damn sight less than you bastards deserve.’
    ‘You have already defeated us. Is that not enough?’
    ‘No, not by a long chalk. I want every stinking German left alive crawling on his hands and knees, begging for mercy, just like you left that faggot the other night. I hope I make myself clear.’
    There was no point in further protest. In war he had been a senior officer but in defeat he felt no better or more worthy of respect than any other man; the German turned on his heel as correctly as his ailing legs would allow and joined the end of one of the lines.
    It took more than two hours for the guards to finish their work, and the drizzle continued to fall as the parade ground turned into a sea of slime. There were tears mingling with the rain that flowed down the cheeks of many of the Germans, tears of emasculation and despoliation, tears of despair at having been captured, of having failed both their comrades and their country. But most of all there were tears of guilt at being survivors when so many others had found the courage to do their duty to the very end. In laying down their arms instead of their lives they were guilty of desertion, of dereliction, of having betrayed the womenfolk and children they had left behind. As Pilsudski knew, almost every one of the men on that parade ground secretly believed he deserved the punishment being metedout to him. Pilsudski might be a vicious bastard but, as losers, theirs was the greater sin.
    Such feelings of guilt are the general rule for prisoners of war. But to all generalities there are exceptions. And in Camp 174B, the exception was Peter Hencke …
    ‘It’s an unpalatable prospect, Willie,’ the Prime Minister growled, breaking a lengthy period of silent contemplation as he searched for the soap under a thick layer of suds.
    William Cazolet took off his glasses and gave them a vigorous polish to clear the condensation. He felt such a fool on bath nights. In the fortified Annexe off Downing Street where the Prime Minister spent much of his time, the ventilation was close to non-existent behind windows which were permanently enclosed in thick steel shutters. It made the bathroom hot and steamy, just as the PM liked it, but for visitors – and there usually were visitors on bath night, even female secretaries taking shorthand – it could be an ordeal. It was one of