Free Human Game: The True Story of the 'Great Escape' Murders and the Hunt for the Gestapo Gunmen by Simon Read Page A

engine and turned the jeep around. As Belsen fell away behind him, he pondered the men on his wanted list. Would they express remorse for what they had done or simply swear blind allegiance to their cause? He mulled the questions over as he drove back to Rinteln, the sides of the road littered with rusting armored vehicles. He occasionally passed a bedraggled procession of the bombed-out and homeless, wandering from one town to another in search of food and shelter.
    The dislocation of millions added another layer of complexity to the investigation, though it favored the men being sought by the RAF. Establishing the identities of those blasted or forced from their homes was all but impossible, as the vast number of displaced people had no way of confirming who they were. Those wanted by the authorities for war crimes and other transgressions could pass themselves off as anyone they so desired and disappear among the ruins. As McKenna considered this,something in his mind suddenly clicked. Noncombatants would have been evacuated from Breslau before the Russian siege began, and combatants desperate to avoid capture most likely slipped out before the Red Army overran the city. If he could find out where evacuees from Breslau were now located, he might get a line on Absalon or Scharpwinkel.
    Back in Rinteln, McKenna paid a visit to the town’s
Bürgermeister
—equivalent to a mayor—who said survivors of Breslau had fled to Rinteln and the surrounding area. Of course, he warned, some might have moved on, but many were likely to still be in the vicinity. Would the flight lieutenant care for the names and addresses of the host families? McKenna could hardly believe his luck and returned to his barracks with a long list of doors to knock on. He showed the list that evening to Smit. The two of them, he said, would have to start canvassing neighborhoods the following day. It was old-fashioned detective work and certainly preferable to the drudgery of cross-referencing files. They would work separately to save time, each covering his own ground. Although having been in the country for only three weeks, McKenna had picked up enough rudimentary German to stumble through the questions he needed to ask.
    The rain fell dark and slow the following morning, September 27, as McKenna—his collar turned up against the cold—made his way door to door. His inquiries went nowhere that first day, and he returned to his barrack soaked through and foul tempered. At most houses, no one had answered the door. Those who were home said apologetically they were no longer housing refugees. A stiff drink and a smoke in the mess hall that evening put his mood right but did nothing to make the prospect of hitting the streets again any more appealing. When Smit pulled up a chair and reached for the bottle, McKenna hoped to hear some good news, but he felt his optimism fade when he saw the other man’s grim expression. Between them, they easily conquered the bottle’s contents and a pack of cigarettes before calling it a night.

    The image, initially a blur, slowly came into focus. A field spread out before him beneath a gunmetal sky. Two figures materialized in thedistance, one walking in front of the other. Watching them approach, McKenna realized the man in front was a young RAF officer, his uniform tailored to look like a suit. Behind him, a pistol in hand, stomped a member of the Gestapo dressed in a gray SS uniform. The two men stopped in front of McKenna and seemed unaware of his presence. Unable to move or cry out, he watched in horror as the Gestapo man raised the gun to the back of the airman’s head and pulled the trigger. The young man’s body convulsed and fell forward, the pistol’s report echoing across the field like thunder.
    McKenna jerked upright in bed. He stared into a dark corner of the room and listened to the rain beat a steady cadence against the window. The dream, which had plagued him for several weeks, lingered in his