Last Man to Die

by Michael Dobbs

  When he opened his eyes he found himself staring into the face of a policeman who was studying him with great intent. Hencke’s coat was torn to ribbons by his leap over the wall, the burning sensation on his forearm had turned out to be a throbbing pain from a deep cut with blood trickling down his fingertips, and the look on his face told its own story of agony. The policeman was reaching for him.

  ‘You all right, sir? Had a close shave by the looks of you. Still, quite a number of others not so lucky, I’m afraid. You and the lady come with me, we’ll get you fixed up …’

  Uncomprehending, speechless, Hencke was led around the corner. The spectacle that confronted him was so overwhelming he all but stumbled in alarm before the policeman caught and steadied him. They were in a street, more brightly lit than the one they had just left, with tall rows of houses stretching on either side. The street was residential, not very salubrious, with the worn-down air of a shoe which has had too much use. The buildings were tenements, normally crowded with people, many of whom were at this moment spilled along the street. Immediately in front of Hencke there should have been a solid frontage of brick; instead there was a hole some forty yards across, filled with rubble, smoke, smashed wooden beams, splinters of steel and teams of men clawing away with their hands at the ruins.

  ‘You live there, did you?’ the policeman enquired solicitously.

  Hencke shook his head.

  ‘Oh, passing by, were you? Bloody V-2s. Can’t hear them coming, not like the doodle-bugs. First thing you know is when it’s hit. Too late by then, usually. You’re lucky, really lucky, believe me. Still, you and the lady must be badly shocked. Come on, let’s get that arm seen to and find you both a cuppa …’

  They were led along a street full of fire tenders, dust, ambulances, air raid wardens, rescue squads, housewives dispensing blankets and sympathy, doctors and nurses tending the injured, and policemen. Lots of policemen. And bodies. In a quiet corner there were already a dozen corpses covered by blankets. A woman’s feet stuck out from under one blanket, a child’s hand from beneath another, tightly clutching a teddy bear with one arm torn off. And the memories came flooding back …

  Neither he nor the girl said anything while his arm was tended, the Red Cross nurse used to dealing with patients in shock and happy to do all the chattering herself. It appeared the rocket had fallen some fifteen minutes earlier, about the time the pub fight started. Perhaps that was what had masked the sound of the explosion. The section of the street which had disappeared into the crater normally housed over a hundred people, the nurse said. She hoped that most of them had been out enjoying their Friday evening, but many clearly had not and the row of bodies being assembled under the blankets grew longer with every passing minute. She would like Hitler and all the rest to be brought back to London and a German hanged on every site in the city where a bomb had fallen. Her fiance had been captured in Singapore and was still, she believed, a prisoner of the Japanese, and the same went for that lot too. She wanted Hencke to go to hospital for stitches – the wound was deep – but he refused, so she disinfected it and bandaged it tightly.

  ‘Just keep it quiet for a couple of days and don’t do too much running around, love,’ she advised. ‘You’ll be as right as rain.’

  With that they were packed off for a cup of tea from the mobile canteen.

  The girl had wanted to forgo the tea and sidle out while they could, but Hencke shook his head. ‘Wait. We’re all right for the moment. Take the tea.’ He was trembling from the shock and the cold, and he needed time to recover.

  But there was something else. In the shadows behind the canteen the line of bodies was still growing. Distraught men and women would occasionally walk over to turn back the covering blankets and search for a loved one. No one interfered; death like this had long been routine in London.

  It was after their second cup of tea, drunk without a word, that he took her firmly by the hand and led her towards the line of blankets. He avoided those which obviously covered women or children, but the others he began to turn back, staring at the dead, holding on to his companion’s hand as if they were a couple seeking mutual comfort. He found what he was looking for underneath the eighth blanket. A man’s body, you could tell that by the trousers and the hair on his chest. But of the face there was nothing other than a mass of angry bone and flesh in no recognizable human pattern. The girl drew back in horror, but Hencke knelt down close, as if grieving. Another couple passed by giving them a wide and sympathetic berth, leaving them alone in their sorrow. The Irish girl watched transfixed as Hencke removed an oval dog-tag from his own neck and placed it around the neck of the corpse, before standing up in apparent distress.

  ‘It might confuse them for a while,’ he whispered, ‘buy us a little time.’

  ‘Now can we get out of here? Or do you fancy hanging around a little longer, just in case the Prime Minister decides to pay a visit?’

  She grabbed his hand and was dragging him away when they passed by the body of the girl clutching the mutilated teddy bear. Hencke stopped and stared. Tears filled his eyes and his lips moved in agitation, whispering silent words of anguish, remembering. He fell to his knees and began to pray.

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ the girl snapped in exasperation, looking around for the posse of policemen she expected would descend on them at any moment. ‘Can’t we do our praying later?’

  But he would not be hurried. He finished, oblivious to the bustle of the street, before leaning down and taking the child’s tiny hand. With great tenderness he prised the armless toy away from her. ‘For luck, Little One,’ he whispered, and gently covered her hand with the blanket.

  When he rose he stood tall, shoulders braced, and for the first time she saw what a powerful frame he had. The shocked and crumpled man of moments earlier was gone. In his eyes burned the glow of a bitterness and a determination which she understood well.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said grimly, tucking the bear inside his shirt. ‘There’s still much I have to do.’

  The Old Man was sitting on his own, in the gloom, with just a small table lamp to cast light. Had he been paying attention to the box of papers at his side he would undoubtedly have suffered severe eye strain, but the papers lay untouched. Churchill was alone with the thoughts that had preoccupied him ever since his return from Germany. He could have been excused a moment of exhilaration, the first Allied political leader to set foot on enemy soil, but there was no zest in him. He had been brooding, sulking some were saying, and had neglected not only his official duties but also the normal civilities that attend governmental life. Even Clemmie had taken umbrage, deciding on the spur of the moment to visit relatives in the country for a few days rather than indulge in yet another heated and utterly pointless exchange with her husband. She was used to his moods and tempers, but she could see no reason for this bout of petulance. It was not as though he had lost a battle – or so she thought.

  Only Cazolet had shown any inclination to indulge him and the rest of the Private Office had been more than content for him to shoulder the burden. Cazolet had sat for many hours, ignoring the barbs and the criticism, showing indifference to Churchill’s irascible accusations of disloyalty aimed at those around him, even offering a rebuke when the Old Man had gone inexcusably far. Cazolet considered he was over-reacting, and told him so. Yet self-inflicted or not, the pain was real. He resembled a great old oak, now dying, ancient limbs sagging under their own weight, the sap no longer rising. Instead of thrusting for the sky he seemed to be slowly falling apart.

  As Cazolet entered the Old Man looked up. There was no friendly rustle of leaves, no welcome in his eyes. He was swathed in his favourite silk dressing-gown whose rich brilliance he usually outshone, but tonight his garb seemed oddly out of place.

  ‘They’ve got him,’ Cazolet said. ‘Or at least they’re pretty sure it’s him. Ironic. It was a V-2 the other night. They pulled him out from under the rubble.’

  There was an involuntary gas
p. ‘What do you mean – “they’re pretty sure”? Is it him or isn’t it, for God’s sake?’ There was a petulant, unsteady timbre in his voice.

  ‘Not much to identify, that’s the problem. Just a man’s body with its head blown off and a German identity disc around the neck.’

  ‘Prison camp records? Size? Weight? Hair colour? Isn’t there something else? We must be sure!’

  ‘That will all take a little time, I’m afraid. The state of the camps, particularly for transit prisoners, is pretty awful. The whole system’s been swamped and the records are all over the place. It’ll probably take a couple of days before they’re sure … But how else could Hencke’s ID end up on a body underneath tons of rubble?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know …’

  Churchill’s eyes were closed, as if in prayer. For several minutes he scarcely moved, he might have been asleep, but Cazolet could see the occasional agitated shaking of his head, the only sign of some inner turmoil. When at last Churchill looked up, Cazolet saw the change in the eyes. The emptiness had gone, in its place was a spark of emotion – not release, certainly, more grim resolution, but a spark nonetheless.

  ‘Great turning points in history are usually marked by death, William. I never guessed it would be Hencke’s.’

  ‘We don’t know for certain.’

  ‘He’s dead. He must be dead, don’t you see? It’s as if he has been holding up the onward march of history, and history cannot wait. There is a great war out there which must be finished, one way or the other. Events have moved beyond my control and I must follow in their wake, whether I like it or not.’ He took a deep mouthful of brandy. When he spoke again there was resignation in his voice. ‘Get me General Eisenhower on the phone.’

  ‘But we can’t be sure …’

  ‘The war isn’t going to wait around for your doubts, Willie!’ he snapped, unwilling to brook any delay now his mind was made up. ‘I need to get hold of Eisenhower and tell him that one more soldier is dead and he can have his damned division. There’s nothing to be gained by holding on to them any longer.’

  ‘It’s nearly midnight, two in the morning at the general’s HQ,’ Cazolet protested. He could no longer be certain whether the Old Man was thinking straight. ‘To be honest, I’m a little confused …’

  ‘I, too, am confused, William. Last time I enquired I was His Majesty’s First Minister and Secretary of State for War. I don’t recall having laid down either of those heavy burdens. Which gives me the right and you the duty to get the good general on that bloody phone without further prancing around. Or would it make it easier if in future I gave you orders in Swahili, as the King’s English seems to be something of a problem?’

  Damn, but the Old Man was in a foul mood. Swallowing the doubts and irritation, Cazolet picked up the telephone and tapped to attract the operator’s attention. ‘See if General Eisenhower’s in the land of the living, would you, Grace? The Prime Minister would like a word …’

  It was miserably uncomfortable and the smell appalling. That’s what made it such a good hiding place.

  After they escaped from the bomb site she had dragged him through the shadows of yet more anonymous back-streets, pausing only to make a hasty telephone call before arriving at an unkempt boarding-house set back from the road behind a bushy, secluding hedge. Their reception lacked any trace of enthusiasm. Behind the front door hovered a small and wiry man who appeared greatly agitated and whose polished bald head was flushed and sweating profusely in spite of the cold. He wore an unironed shirt and an unwelcoming glower, closing the door quickly before rushing them into a back room with curtains tightly drawn. Hencke was instructed to wait in the sparsely furnished bed-sit with its squeaky floorboards and discoloured sheets while she busied herself with the proprietor. They obviously knew each other well, but that didn’t prevent her frequent disappearances from the room to consult with him turning into a running battle conducted in voices which became increasingly heated. He didn’t seem pleased to see Hencke.

  ‘Don’t worry about Uncle Billy. He’s a miserable sod with a nervous disposition, but he’ll do as he’s told.’ She said it with such authority that Hencke never doubted her. It was during a pause in the ongoing argument held just outside the door that Hencke first learned her name. Sinead. No other name. He also discovered her secret. ‘You’ll guess this much anyway before this is over, so I’ll tell you now and you’ll get very little else. So don’t go asking bloody stupid questions which I can’t answer.’ She lit a cigarette and offered him a whiskey, but he declined. He remembered how quickly the half pint of beer had begun to affect him after so long without a drink.

  ‘We’re Irish. Nationalists. You mustn’t believe everything you’ve heard about us,’ she hastened to add with a nervous smile. ‘We’re nice people really.’

  Hencke declined to mention he’d scarcely heard anything about Irish Nationalists, although what little he had heard was none too complimentary. But then, what must she think of him, a widow murderer. War makes strange companions.

  ‘The British occupy half our country. We want it back,’ she continued. ‘And we’re willing to fight for it, if necessary. Fortunately for you, it’s meant getting our boys in and out of London without the police knowing, and that’s what we’ll have to try with you. Get you to Ireland. There you’ll be safe – and halfway home.’

  Hencke sat quietly, saying nothing, trying to figure her out. She had an open, honest face, a natural smile and full lips which belied the uncompromising tone of her words. The scattering of freckles across the bridge of her ski-slope nose and the healthy bloom in her cheeks gave her an aura of innocence, yet once she had taken off her raincoat there was no denying her womanhood. As she felt the pressure of his steady gaze she lost her sense of authority and began to feel awkward and girlish. She lit another cigarette, her lips closing nervously around the tip like a young girl at a village dance waiting for her first date. She had poise beyond her years in dealing with Hencke, yet a touching naivety about herself. Her large hazel eyes bubbled with enthusiasm, but already there were the first crinkles of maturity appearing at their downcast corners. Something in them suggested a sadness which tinged her ebullience, marking her while not yet scarring. Her initial appearance, he decided, was misleading. This was no ordinary Friday-night girl in a pub. He had already learned not to make the mistake of patronizing her.

  ‘So, how will you …’

  ‘No questions, Peter Hencke. This could all go wrong and they might get their hands back on you. I don’t want you giving away our whole game. So keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut and we’ll be getting along just fine.’

  ‘One thing I must know, Sin … Sinead.’ He was unused to the name, and had to wrap his Middle European lips carefully around it. ‘One question. Why did you decide to help me?’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘The most difficult question of all. That’s just what Uncle Billy’s been bellyaching about. And I can’t say I’ve got much of an answer.’ Self-consciously she twisted the bracelet on her wrist. ‘They say that one of you killed an old woman – but I don’t believe half of what they print in their newspapers,’ she said, hurrying on. ‘You looked so pathetic in the pub, starving and wet, and that always appeals to an Irish girl’s heart. Then I had to make up my mind – you or those bloody bobbies. Not much of a choice, really. You could be Attila the Hun for all I care, you’d still be preferable to those black-hearted bastards. Anyway, you’ve lovely eyes. They sort of glow. Like my brother’s.’

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘How do you know?’ she shot back, suspicion creeping into her voice.

  ‘The pub. You were talking about him in the pub. And Donegal. And home.’

  ‘We thought you were asleep. So you were eavesdropping?’

  ‘No. Just identifying with someone who wanted so much to be home.’

  There was an uneasy silence. The conversation had become very personal, and here she was sitting on a bed swapping intimaci
es with a stranger.

  ‘How long will it be before we can get to Ireland?’ he asked.

  ‘Depends. Our group’s been in hibernation since the war began; for some while your lot was doing a much better job of getting at the British than we could ever hope to do. So it may take us a few days to get hold of the right people. With luck less than a week.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Secret?’

  ‘Not really. It just depends who we can find at a moment’s notice after five years. We’ll have to blow away a few cobwebs.’

  ‘I don’t get it. Five years … you must have been still in school.’

  A flush of embarrassment came to her cheeks.

  ‘How many men have you smuggled out?’ he demanded, but her only answer was downcast eyes. ‘Don’t tell me I’m your first?’ He couldn’t disguise his incredulity.

  ‘My family’s been part of the struggle all my life,’ she said fiercely, fighting against her own awkwardness. ‘I was there when they arrested my brother and locked him away. I sat holding my father’s hand on the night before they killed him. Three Orangemen who found him in an alleyway, called him the father of a Republican pig and shot him where he stood. Not even executed him. They blew his kneecaps away first, then put two into his guts so that he would die, but not too quickly. They made sure he’d suffer first. And made sure my mother would suffer, every day and every night for the rest of her life. Mr Hencke, I know as much about this business as I need to!’