No Human Enemy

by John Gardner

  ‘And you just accepted her, Sister Michael?’

  ‘I hardly looked at her. I was simply conscious of a tall nun, in the habit of the order. It was only later that…’ She swallowed audibly and moved uncomfortably in the wheelchair. ‘Theresa seemed to take charge. I think both Bridget and I were a little cowed by Theresa. She could be, well, explosive. There was a lot of anger buried in Sister Theresa, God rest her.’

  ‘So nobody queried her presence?’

  ‘It would seem not. We didn’t take much notice of anything. I wonder if you understand. This was a very serious time for us, the three of us. We were to take our final vows. Our minds were supposed to be on the great steps of poverty, chastity and obedience. In a week’s time we would make our dedication to the order, and be confirmed in our future lives, wedded to the rules of our order. The bishop of Oxford, Dr Kirk, was coming to conduct our Professing celebration. It’s a huge step and the days leading up to it are very special. We were holding ourselves apart. That’s why it seemed all the worse, what happened.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I understand. Tell me what happened when you arrived at the convent.’

  ‘We were allotted to cells and we made our way to them, maintaining silence. No, Theresa left us. She broke the silence. She said she had to see Sister Sophia in the kitchen. Something about food she was not allowed to eat – it was a medical thing. No fat or something. I think she’d seen a doctor during the previous week.’

  Handy, Suzie thought. Nipping into the kitchen and probably concealing a knife in the folds of her voluminous habit.

  ‘We were told there was ten minutes before refectory. The midday meal. I spent the time in contemplation. In my cell. Then I heard the sound of the flying bomb, that horrible burring engine noise. I was frightened and then I heard something else.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Raised voices. A huge argument. Theresa and another voice, deeper, like a man’s voice and Sister Theresa shrieking, wild, most angry. The two noises appeared to merge together, the engine of the flying bomb, scoring across the sky, then the shrieking of Theresa’s angry voice.’

  ‘And…’

  ‘And suddenly the doodlebug’s engine stopped. Well, you know how frightening that can be. Waiting for the wretched thing to glide down and explode.’

  Suzie nodded. Of course she knew. Just like everyone knew. The burring pop of the engine and the sudden cut-out that meant the bomb had ceased its flight, lowered its nose and come hurtling down to explode. It seemed as random as the ball on a roulette wheel. It was frightening. Far more terrifying than the aircraft, the bombers flying in and releasing their cargo, aiming at given points. These V-weapons seemed haphazard, making individual deaths a hit and miss business. James had told her that he had been on the parade ground at Deal and a flying bomb had puttered its way, right over the barracks. ‘We tried not to show fear,’ he said. ‘But we must have wavered, because our colour-sergeant shouted. ‘Stand still there. That’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘I ran out of my cell. It was next to the one allotted to Sister Michael. She was almost in the doorway and it was then that I saw she wasn’t a woman. That Sister Michael was a man, and Sister Theresa was screaming at him.’

  ‘Did you hear what she was screaming?’

  Monica squirmed uncomfortably. ‘That’s the most difficult thing. I really don’t know. I heard something, but I find it very difficult to believe it was real. It’s more likely I heard something devilish in my head after I’d lost consciousness.’

  ‘Tell me anyway. Tell me what you think you heard.’

  ‘I thought I heard Theresa scream, “Michael, you have manipulated me all of my life!” I know it’s madness, but I can hear that still. Plainly. Then she seemed to shout, “Michael, you seduced me. You made me commit a mortal sin and you made me twice guilty! You knew what was between us. You knew we had the same…” And I thought she shouted “father”. “You knew we had the same father!” Then she rushed at him and I saw something in her hand, something silver. She leapt towards him, shouting, “Traitor! Traitor!” and at the same moment Bridget Mary came out of her cell and ran towards Theresa. As she did so, there was this terrible sensation, as though we were surrounded by fire. The air was singed and seemed to be drawn away, as though there was no air to breathe. I felt pain and I passed out with a huge roaring in my ears, like a massive thunderclap.’

  Unbidden, words from one of the psalms came into Suzie’s head. She could almost hear them being sung in the chapel at St Helen’s years before, when she was a child:

  Thou shall not be afraid for any terror by night: nor for the arrow that flieth by day;

  Nor the pestilence that walketh in darkness: nor for the sickness that destroyeth in the noon-day.

  A thousand shall fall beside thee; and ten thousand at thy right hand: but it shall not come nigh thee,

  * * *

  Words particularly apt at the moment; words that came as a comfort to people facing the bombs and flying bombs; people who were concerned with what the Nazis may still have up their sleeves.

  ‘I couldn’t have really heard her scream all that, could I, Miss Mountford? It must have been some dream, a nightmare popping out of my subconscious. I mean Sister Theresa and this man, Michael.’

  ‘Sounds like a dream to me,’ Suzie lied. ‘Who knows what tricks the mind can play when you’ve just been almost blown to…’ She was going to say, ‘blown to buggery’, but amended it to ‘blown to bits’.

  ‘Must have smuggled him into the place in Farnborough,’ Tommy said as he read Suzie’s notes. ‘“You knew we had the same father.” Well, that’s what we thought, but how the hell did she think she’d get away with it? If it hadn’t been for the V-1 she’d probably have been sentenced to death: swung for him, because it seems horribly premeditated. She had to hide him in the Farnborough House overnight; dress him up; pass him off as a nun going to the Convent of St Catherine of Siena. Then she sneaks off, gets herself a knife and slashes him with it. This wasn’t a spur of the moment thing. I suppose we’ll never know the full story – like so many murders. But we’ve got means, motive and an eyewitness.’

  He went on reading, then started to leaf back through the pages. ‘What was it she said about Sister Theresa? There was a lot of anger buried in her?’

  Suzie nodded. ‘You really think the incest element was enough to drive her to kill another human being?’

  ‘Obviously. That’s what happened. What I really wonder about is the murder of Doris Butler. We have the evidence but no motive.’

  ‘Unless there was a link with enemy agents – I mean the Frog and the Pole, and we know Michael Lees-Duncan’s politics. He was a fascist: he admired Hitler.’

  So they wrote a detailed joint report that was mostly educated deduction from the few facts available – Tommy did the full analysis of the Doris Butler killing without reaching into realms of fantasy over motive.

  And there it might have remained but for events over which nobody had any control and which finally threatened to swamp the Mountford family.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The adjutant at Peenemünde, SS-Obersturmbannführer Erich Lottle, had told Max Voltsenvogel there was to be a rocket attack on Paris – using the new A-4 rockets, the V-2s – on 7th September.

  Nothing happened.

  He had clearly said that Paris would be targeted on 7th and London on 8th.

  Big Ben will chime in Paris on 7th and London on 8th.

  When no rockets arrived near the Eiffel Tower Max Voltsenvogel became annoyed and irritated. He rang Peenemünde but the adjutant was not available.

  That morning two of the Meilerwagen, the mobile launch platforms, each carrying one of the big A-4 rockets, hidden from view by camouflaged hoods, drove to a prepared site some two miles from the Belgian town of La Roche-en-Ardenne, thirty miles south of Liege. The rockets were accompanied by the tanks containing the propellants, and a Feuerleitpanzer – an armoured fire-control vehicle. The A-4
rockets belonged to Lehr & Versuchs (Training and Experimental) Batterie 444 of General Kammler’s Vengeance Division. They were quickly gassed up and raised above the launch platforms which stood on specially reinforced concrete platforms. The rockets were adjusted and set to be fired at Paris.

  Finally the order was given and the first rocket engine ignited and throbbed up to launch speed. The rocket rose a couple of feet then the engine cut out and the big projectile thudded back onto its site. It wobbled and swayed but did not topple over.

  The second rocket fired with similar results. When the tail fins had cooled both rockets had their fuel and propellants removed, and it was later found that the accelerometers on both weapons were faulty, causing the engines to cut out prematurely. Indeed, a large proportion of the A-4s were substandard and failed to launch, broke up or exploded in mid-air. Enough fired normally however, and the A-4s aimed at London on the following day were in good working order.

  At a little before twenty minutes to seven on the evening of Friday, 8th September 1944, a dull, drizzling evening, Frank Stubbs, caretaker of Stavely Road School, Chiswick, was walking across the school playing fields with Army Private Frank Browning, who was on leave and going to see his girlfriend. Without warning both men were hurled into the air, landing twenty yards away. Browning died instantly but Frank Stubbs climbed to his feet, shook himself and saw immediately that houses on both side of the street, alongside the playing fields, had been demolished. In all, two people were dead and twenty more injured, trapped in the rubble of their houses.

  Emergency services arrived quickly, followed by two RAF officers who set about examining the crater, thirty feet wide and ten feet deep, in the middle of the road. The RAF men retrieved shards of shrapnel from the crater which they carried off in their briefcases.

  Later, some high-ranking Civil Defence people came to the site, together with a pair of US Army Air Force officers. When asked what had caused the explosion one of the Civil Defence men replied that he couldn’t be sure. ‘It might have been a gas main,’ he said.

  A few minutes later another rocket landed in Epping.

  So the V-2 rockets were first nicknamed ‘flying gas mains’, and the V-2 assault on England began. From then until the following March the unstoppable weapons fell on London in a terrifying new Blitzkrieg, causing death, damage and, worse, a severe shaking of morale.

  Max Voltsenvogel now set Operation Löwenzahn in motion. His remaining agent, the Ram. was put on readiness. ‘The new attack with the rockets will give you a chance to escape, and get back to us here,’ he told him. ‘Failing that you must make your way across Europe to Berlin. With rockets falling all the time, the enemy will undoubtedly see your attack as one more piercing rocket hit. They won’t be looking for an individual so you’ll make good your escape.’

  The following day the aircraft arrived from KG200 – the L-5 Sentinel landing in a field close to Voltsenvogel’s headquarters. Just after eleven o’clock that evening, with a KG200 pilot called Adolf Grief in the left-hand seat and the agent code-named the Ram – Der Widder – beside him, the L-5, still with its USAAF markings, took off. Four hours thirty-five minutes later Grief – a brilliant navigator – crossed the English coast just west of Sidmouth, letting down, with the engine throttled back and flaps extended, until they saw the twin pinpoints of light shining towards them, activated by a pair of agents Voltsenvogel had sent over many weeks before.

  Grief switched on the big landing light for a couple of seconds, so that he could see the flat stretch of ground ahead. Moments later he touched down, quickly coming to a halt as Der Widder pushed open the small flat, hatch on his right, climbed onto the wing, hauled out his baggage, then slid down onto the sweet-smelling early autumn grass as the little aircraft revved up, turned, then with a roar bounced over the flat earth to become airborne again, having been on the ground for less than ninety seconds.

  The Ram grabbed his gear and set off swiftly towards the railway line that would take him to his destination.

  * * *

  The rain of A-4 rockets now fell regularly on London and the south of England causing death, damage and renewed fear to the civil and military populations alike.

  The V-1 flying bombs had been bad enough, but at least with them there had been some small warning in the buzzing and popping motor. Now the big rockets caused great consternation, arriving without warning, just the terrible thunder of their explosion, usually the double crump made from the breeching of the sound barrier followed by the horrible crash, crump and blue-tinged flash of the explosion as the one-ton payload impacted.

  Tommy Livermore and Suzie Mountford, trying to bury their fears, assumed the nonchalant habit of copying Mother Rachel’s and Sister Eunice’s skit of Germans in Berlin.

  The ground would tremble and the thud of the explosion rock walls and windows and Tommy would say, ‘Vot vos dot?’ while Suzie would quickly reply, ‘Dot vos a bomp.’

  The British public had no idea that some of the War Cabinet had expected worse. The intelligence reaching England in the weeks before the assault was of a much larger rocket – the V-2 was 46 feet high and carried one ton of explosive in the warhead. Initially the military analysts expected a warhead in excess of four tons, a possibility that had even Prime Minister Churchill fearful and alarmed.

  Later, the prime minister wrote, ‘This new form of attack imposed upon the people of London is a burden heavier than the air raids of 1940 and 1941. Suspense and strain were more prolonged. Dawn brought no relief and cloud no comfort. The man going home in the evening never knew what he would find; his wife, alone all day or with the children, could not be certain of his safe return. The blind, impersonal nature of the missiles made the individual on the ground feel helpless. There was little that he could do, no human enemy he could see shot down.’

  The general public, tired and drained after almost five years of war, were shocked and dragged down by this new terror. The news following the June invasion had been good and most people saw the defeat of Germany in sight. The new terror, coming by day and night, defeating weather and seemingly random in its effect, was a dreadful blow that set already frayed tempers on edge, and scratched at the thin veneer of many people’s outward calm. Morale was low and it was several weeks before the authorities allowed the truth to be circulated about the new menace. After all, France had been retaken and the rockets could now only be launched from Germany itself or from the flatlands of the Low Countries.

  So, it was in this time of jumpy apprehension that Suzie headed for the leafy road of large Victorian houses, abutting on Bedford Park to seek out the Reverend Father Aubrey Harding, father of Sister Bridget Mary, killed by the V-1 before she could take her vows at the Convent of St Catherine of Siena in Silverhurst Road.

  He was a small man, running to fat and with sad eyes that reflected his demeanour. (‘So short,’ Suzie told Tommy, ‘that I think he’d have trouble cutting a decent cabbage for himself.’) Father Harding, after the manner of High Anglican priests, wore a tailored soutane, the badge of his High Anglo-Catholicism, and moved in a precise manner, as though every action was part of a ritual of life.

  The big house with its heavy furnishings had belonged to his wife, and was his place of retirement. ‘I suppose I’ll sell it once this wretched war is over. I can’t afford to be sentimental over bricks and mortar.’

  He had retired in 1942 from a parish in the Midlands and returned to London with his wife who was killed in a bombing raid later that year. Now he helped out in a nearby parish and, as Mother Rachel had said, took retreats at the convent where his only child had intended to spend the rest of her life as a nun.

  He appeared to be immensely proud of her and of her vocation. ‘People don’t always understand the calling to the religious life. It is a hard and often difficult path: praising God, living apart – teaching in the case of the holy sisters of St Catherine. It was her desire from her teens to somehow serve God in this way. If the priesthood had been open
to women – perish the thought – she would have put herself forward for ordination. But, God had another path and He’s taken her to Him.’

  Suzie thought that, for a man who professed a belief in happiness and life following death, Father Harding was in many ways a sad man who rather enjoyed the self-pity which came with the loss of wife and daughter. ‘All I had has now gone for ever,’ he said ushering Suzie into a neat study lined with mahogany free-standing book cases with fussy leather trim along the shelves. In one corner there was a huge old roll-top desk, in the other a prie-dieu set facing a crucifix. A chiming clock stood on the mantel, flanked by brass candlesticks and further decoration came in heavy religious pictures: Erasmus, Christ being taken down from the cross, a chocolate-boxy painting of Our Lady and another of some young female saint – Suzie couldn’t place who she was.

  The priest gestured her into an easy chair as he sank into its twin in front of the fireplace (complete with fire irons with devil’s-head handles), and lit a cigarette without offering one to Suzie who took her own blue paper packet of Players from her bag, selected a cigarette and lit it with a match. Even then, he didn’t apologise for his rudeness.

  ‘I simply came as a representative of the Metropolitain Police to offer our condolences.’ Suzie leant forward. They had not allowed any hint of Michael Lees-Duncan’s death as a disguised nun to seep out into Fleet Street or the wider world. She was there ostensibly to offer the Met’s commiseration; in reality to see if he could give them any further information.

  ‘Nothing bothering your daughter was there, Father?’

  ‘Bothering? Why? No.’ Naturally the old priest couldn’t get the drift of Suzie’s question. But, as she was leaving – after Father Harding had made her kneel with him and pray for the repose of the souls of Sister Bridget Mary and her companions – he grasped her arm and said, ‘But, yes. Yes. The last time she was here, Bridget was most concerned for one of her colleagues – no name, no pack drill, what?’ And it came out, some morbid story about this friend’s past life, and how she so regretted it and how she was plagued with the desire to murder the man responsible. ‘Whoever it was, it seemed to me that the woman needed the services of a psychiatrist as well as a priest.’