Those facts made the arrival of the SS convoy early that Thursday morning even more unusual. They’d been roused unexpectedly and assembled in the pre-dawn darkness as a staff car and a dozen open-topped trucks were driven into the compound, a pair of half-track APCs loaded with troops travelling at the head and tail of the procession. Even more unusual was the fact that the trucks, APCs and the troops inside them were all Waffen-SS rather than Luftwaffe. They’d been ordered up onto the trucks, although Colonel Scammell, the ranking captured officer had protested strongly to the camp’s commandant the entire time. Those complaints had fallen on deaf ears however, and off they’d gone in the trucks in the cold darkness of that early morning.
It’d been a forty minute drive or so north along the coast from Boulogne-sur-Mer, and had the circumstances — and the comfort of the trip — been better, Whittaker might well have found the whole thing quite enjoyable. The Route de la Motte du Bourg carried them through village after village as it wound its way along the French coast, quite close to The Channel throughout the majority of the journey. The sun rose over the French countryside to the east during the drive, the golden light streaming down across the huge expanse of water and the indistinct English coastline beyond… a coastline Whittaker and most of the others in those trucks would much rather have viewed from a good deal closer.
The sun had well and truly risen by the time the convoy turned off the main road at the small village of Escalles and headed north-east toward La Haute Escalles on the Route de Peuplingues. Just a kilometre or two beyond the village, all could easily see a massive construction site being cut into the green countryside as it rose into low, flat hills between the township of Peuplingues and the coastal village of Sangatte, just a few kilometres north.
The compound they eventually arrived at was truly huge, with the twin, parallel chain-link fences topped with coils of barbed wire stretching out in either direction from the side road through which they entered. There were towers inside the fence by the main gate, and also further along at regular intervals, the muzzles of a pair of heavy machine guns clearly visible protruding from the upper platforms of each of the nearer ones, and there was no reason to imagine the rest would be any different. A pair of squat, concrete pillboxes also sat athwart the road outside the gates, the long muzzle of an anti-tank gun protruding from the darkened firing slot of each.
A single railway line approached from the east, passing close by the northern side of Peuplingues and running parallel with the road for a kilometre or so as both followed the site’s southern perimeter fence, the newly-constructed track running about three thousand metres east to join up at with an existing French railway line near Fréthun. By coincidence, the majority of the new line’s layout almost exactly mirrored the positioning of what fifty years later in Realtime would’ve become the entrance to the Channel Tunnel.
The road and rail links converged as they approached the site and entered side-by-side through the same wide, double gates. The convoy drove on through as those gates opened before them, the guards waving them through, and Whittaker and the rest of the prisoners could see that there was already quite a bit of work going on.
Construction equipment was in operation all around, and Waffen-SS troops armed with assault rifles and submachine guns were everywhere also. Another thing that didn’t go unnoticed were the large number of anti-aircraft emplacements spread around the area: light 23mm guns in twin and quadruple mountings were numerous, with lesser numbers of medium 37mm and 50mm automatic cannon accompanying them.
Batteries of the ubiquitous Flak-36 88mm — equally adept at dealing with aircraft and armoured vehicles — were placed at strategic points around the compound perimeter, while heavier 105mm and 128mm high-altitude weapons were also visible in single gun emplacements here and there, also on the perimeter and usually set up close to clusters of the smaller guns.
The trucks finally came to a sudden stop near the end of the parallel railway track — a track that seemed far from complete. The earthworks and the bedding for further new track continued on much further, curving back around to the west and then to the north-east, the layout almost perpendicular to that coastline that was at that point probably no more than three kilometres away.
They were ordered off the trucks and lined up between the road and the railway line in two ragged rows of fifty men. Piles of digging equipment — picks, shovels and such — lay nearby in large, lidless wooden crates, and as SS guards piled out of the APCs they began to order the POWs to take up those tools in both German and broken English.
The orders were received with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, and the officers refused outright, quite unused to being treated or spoken to in such a manner. Colonel Scammell, close to Whittaker in the front row, was one of the most vocal in his objections, being the ranking officer, and he immediately broke ranks and sought out the nearest armed SS trooper.
“You will work!” The lance-corporal directed angrily, a little flustered at the unexpected questioning of his authority and gesturing once more at the tools.
“Article 27 of the Geneva Convention — of which Germany is a signatory — prohibits officers from being forced to engage in manual labour!” Scammell snarled in return, equally infuriated as the grey of his large moustache and hair contrasted dramatically with the beet coloured fury spreading across his features. “This is a direct contravention, and there is no way these men will be taking part!” The NCO, who fortunately did have some understanding of English, wasn’t really programmed to consider higher issues such as International Law, and that statement left him stymied for a moment or two: there was a pause as he considered the ramifications of whether his duties as a soldier might indeed answer to a higher code than his orders alone.
The captain in charge of the work detail came storming down from his staff car at the head of the convoy at that moment, pistol already in hand and looking none too pleased at the disruption to work that should have already been started.
“What the hell is holding these prisoners up?” He demanded loudly, directing his query at the SS NCO. “Why are these men not working?”
“Their ranking officer, sir,” the man replied instantly, inwardly relieved the situation was now no longer his problem. “He claims that ordering officers to work is prohibited by the Geneva Convention, and that they will not do it.”
“You say you will not work?” The captain demanded, turning to Scammell and switching to reasonable English.
“These men aren’t lifting a finger!” The British officer shot back in instantly, repeating what he’d said to the NCO, and there was a moment’s silence as the two men’s eyes locked, neither ready to back down. The German suddenly turned slightly, addressing his next question to the rest of the men lined up there.
“This is true?” He shouted the words, the tone indicating that the question was completely rhetoric. “Because of the Geneva Convention, you will not work?” The SS officer took a step backward and lifted the pistol without any warning, shooting Colonel Scammell through the chest. The sound caused many to jump in fright, and there was nothing but surprise on the British officer’s face as he stared down for a few seconds at the crimson spot suddenly spreading across his tunic. It was only another moment or two before the man’s eyes glazed over and he toppled to the ground, the rest of the allied prisoners riveted to the spot in shock.