The Blockade Runners

by Peter Vollmer

  As they neared the boom, the knot in his stomach began to take hold. He made a supreme effort to exude total boredom.

  A corporal, wearing a slicker, came out of the building. He carried a clipboard which was covered by a flimsy piece of transparent plastic. He looked down at the name stencilled on the door of the truck and then into the cab. Seeing an officer in the vehicle, he came to attention and saluted, which David nonchalantly returned. Doyle opened his window and handed the corporal a sheaf of documents in a blue plastic folder. He studied these.

  ‘Northolt, huh. What you’re fetching, Sarge?’ he asked.

  ‘Spares that everybody’s screaming for. We’ve got a Beverly on the apron waiting to fly these out,’ Doyle replied in a broad Yorkshire accent that surprised David, no doubt put on especially for this performance.

  ‘I know, the brass’re always screaming for something.’ The corporal chuckled before remembering an officer was present. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Corporal, you’re right. They’re always screaming,’ David replied. The corner of his mouth turned upward indicating that he was enjoying the impromptu humour, the attempt at kinship.

  The corporal smiled in return, handed the documents back to Doyle, and then walked forward to the boom, which he unclipped and raised. They drove through.

  David exhaled a long sigh of relief. ‘For fuck’s sake, I don’t want to go through that again,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Contain yourself, my friend. We’ll be back at the gate within an hour to do the same again. This was nothing.’

  David shook his head and mentally prepared himself for what was next.

  Doyle had been given a map of the base’s layout, which he had memorised. He knew exactly where he was to take the truck, thus not having to stop or ask for directions. As Doyle drove, he talked to himself, ‘Left here, left again, right here.’

  David realised that he was not the only one scared shitless.

  They drew up alongside a huge warehouse. Doyle stopped the truck and went to its rear to lower the loading body flap. Above the roller shutter warehouse door, a huge D was painted. Doyle reversed the truck right up to the dock-leveller. David remained seated. Doyle climbed out again and walked to the door through the receiving door. He pressed the red button marked Press for attention”’. They heard the shrill ringing of the bell inside. A minute later, a chain rattled and the roller shutter door rose. David was standing on the platform, having been told by Doyle to get out of the truck.

  Once the door was up, a warrant officer stepped out and saluted David.

  Doyle handed the man the blue file. They were out of the rain, the loading dock covered by a large overhead canopy. The WO was obviously a career soldier, in his mid-forties, probably with years of experience in logistics. They were dealing with a man who prided himself in the manner in which he did his job. He would be meticulous. This man had to realise something was wrong? The officer examined the document and then turned to Doyle.

  ‘This is urgent, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There’s a transport aircraft on the apron waiting for this stuff.’

  The officer looked at David, who just nodded. He was terrified to say anything, fearing his voice would croak.

  ‘Okay, just wait here. This will take a minute or two.’ The WO walked into the warehouse and left them standing on the ramp.

  ‘God, what’s he gone to do? Check our papers or what?’ David whispered to Doyle. He did his best not to move his lips.

  ‘I don’t know. Just hang on.’

  They waited for a few minutes of electric tension. Finally, they were greeted by the sound of an approaching electric forklift. A young corporal in overalls drove this, balancing two wooden crates on its forks. He drove the forklift into the truck and deposited the crates next to the headboard.

  ‘Hang on there, there are another four. The WO will be back in a moment. Ah, he said I should ask whether you would like a cuppa.’

  Both realised it would give the game away if they refused. In this weather and cold, a cup of tea would never be refused, and certainly not by military men. Their apprehension rose as they followed the forklift into the interior.

  The warehouse consisted of a multitude of fenced-off areas. Nothing stood free anywhere. All goods and equipment were behind a fence. They saw through an enclosure with its wire-mesh sliding-gate open the forklift in the interior loading another two crates. Two other men stood with clipboards in their hands. One was the warrant officer, the other a flight lieutenant.

  From an office in the middle of the warehouse, a person gave that unmistakable ‘come-hither’ wave. They knew their tea was about to be served and walked toward the office, relieved to discover only one man there. He saluted them and then proceeded to pour the tea, it strong with lots of milk and a generous helping of sugar.

  David wasn’t going to speak to the man. He left that to Doyle, who engaged him in conversation in his thick Yorkshire accent. David, exuding an air of boredom, stared dully out of the window into the warehouse watching the activities below. Again, the forklift drove to the truck and deposited another two crates, returning for the last two. Once these were loaded, the cage was locked by the WO and flight lieutenant and they walked towards the office.

  Doyle and David came to attention and saluted the flight lieutenant smartly. He glanced down to read the nameplate on David’s chest.

  ‘Lieutenant Bathingswaithe, glad to meet you,’ he said. He proffered his hand, which David shook, sure that the man would realise he was perspiring. ‘You’ve certainly chosen the worst weather to be driving around the countryside. However, the papers say this stuff is urgent.’

  ‘Sir, we’ve a plane on the apron waiting for it. They asked me to accompany the driver just to ensure all went smoothly,’ David croaked.

  The officer looked at him. David didn’t know what he was thinking but felt compelled to say something to divert whatever it may be.

  ‘I’ve a bit of a cold coming on, sir. It’s this confounded weather.’

  The officer ignored the remark.

  ‘They don’t normally use officers for this,’ the flight lieutenant said.

  ‘I was bored stiff.’

  David did not want to pick up his mug from the table, frightened that the officer would notice him shaking.

  ‘I’ve been in this game a long time. I’ve never seen you before. Where are you based?’ the officer asked. His tone was friendly as he pointed to David’s wings above his left pocket, signifying that he was a pilot.

  David had been carefully primed on how to reply if asked certain questions. This was one of them. The wings had been added as this placed him amongst the elite of the force, a glory boy, ensuring him a good degree of respect.

  ‘I’ve just returned from a long stint in Germany. I’m with 18 Squadron in Gütersloh.’

  ‘You chaps are converting from Hunters to the Lightning now, aren’t you? Once that’s done, they’ll probably send your squadron back to Germany again. Keep the Reds in check, what?’

  ‘Probably.’

  David hoped that his short supply would suffice. It did. He remained silent, lifting his cup to take a swallow of tea, pleased to note that the shakes had disappeared.

  Doyle signed all the necessary documentation. Copies were detached and retained and the remainder handed back to him. They thanked the men for their hospitality and the WO led them to the loading dock where they climbed back into the cab and drove off. At the exit to the base, the vehicle’s contents were inspected and verified against the documentation. David’s heart was in his mouth, waiting for the telephone in the small security building to ring. He imagined the men charging out, weapons unslung, demanding that they climb out of the truck.

  Finally, the corporal was satisfied. He made a notation on his clipboard and waved them off.

  David felt drained. He swore never to do this again.

  About a mile or two from the base, he slapped the dashboard with the flat of his
hand.

  ‘Stop the truck!’ He was already gripping the lever to open the door.

  Doyle looked at him.

  ‘I said, stop the damn truck. Stop it now!’

  The truck stopped. David flung the door open, leapt out, and dove into the bushes. He bent over and vomited. Wiping his face and mouth with his handkerchief, he returned without speaking, his face ashen.

  ‘It only happens the first time,’ Doyle said after a minute or so. He never looked at David, only staring ahead through the windscreen.

  Near the outskirts of London, they entered an industrial area where Doyle swung the vehicle into a factory yard housing a small warehouse. The doors were already open and he drove straight inside. The doors closed behind them.

  ‘For a first timer, I must admit you did very well,’ Doyle said.

  ‘Not the first time, the only time. I’m not a fuckin’ Rhodesian. You can do this shit yourselves,’ David replied.

  Doyle laughed.

  By the time they changed out of their uniforms, two men had already removed the crates and were using crowbars to split them open and remove the contents. These would be repacked in the new crates standing ready alongside. The old crates would be fed to the boiler on the premises, as the stencil markings were a definite giveaway. Another man was removing the RAF identification marks from the truck as well as the frame and canvas canopy. The vehicle was quickly transformed. It no longer resembled anything in use by the military. However, with the South Devon Chicken Farms boards attached to the doors, it looked like any other everyday commercial vehicle.

  ‘What’s going to happen now?’ David asked.

  ‘As I said, these are now innocuous radio and commercial aircraft spares destined for South Africa. National Airways will buy these against a letter of credit from one of the companies we have registered here in the UK. In fact, the money will actually be used to pay for these. We can always use the money here again for other purchases. These will now be shipped or air freighted to South Africa as standard imports. All the necessary documentation and certificates of origin, duly stamped, will accompany the consignment, lending authenticity to the deal.’

  ‘Quite impressive.’

  ‘Yes, but in this case, as you know, it was dangerous acquiring the goods. Usually, we simply purchase them.’

  ‘Well, don’t count on my services again.’

  Doyle chuckled. ‘Come on, let me take you back to your hotel.’

  CHAPTER 6

  Doyle dropped off David a few blocks from the hotel, allowing him to approach the hotel on foot. He browsed in a few shops along the way and checked that he was not being followed.

  At the hotel’s reception desk, the concierge handed him his key and a folded note.

  ‘The Usual – take care!’ Gisela’s message read.

  He was to meet her at the pub around the corner. The ‘take care’ was ominous. It meant he had to make sure he wasn’t followed. He looked at his watch. It was eight thirty. He spent an hour trying to lose any tail he might have, again jumping on and off buses, finally taking a taxi.

  He walked into the pub and saw her sitting at a table, nursing a gin and tonic. He went to the bar, got himself a scotch, then slid into the chair opposite her.

  ‘Cheers! Damn Rhodesians, you won’t believe what I’ve just been through. I really need this drink,’ he said. He raised he glass and exhaled a long sigh.

  She returned the toast. ‘I was just about to ask you how your day’s been.’

  ‘You really don’t want to know. You Rhodesians are insane.’

  She half-smiled.

  ‘Well, I’ve bad news for you. When I returned to the hotel, there were two men in suits in front of me at the concierge’s desk. They were describing a man. I thought it was you. It certainly matched you. Maybe it was my imagination, but I think I’m right. You recognise this type of thing when you see it again. I used to do it for the Stasi.’

  ‘And what did they find out?’

  ‘Not much. They porter said that there were too many guests. Without a name, he could not help them.’

  David looked at her. She resembled a junior executive. She was smartly dressed in a dark two-piece suit, the lapel and cuffs edged with some lighter material. Under that, she had a white lace-frilled blouse and her feet were tucked into black, square-toed, mid-heeled shoes. She wore her blonde hair swept high on her head, which emphasised her height. Tiny earrings glinted in the light.

  ‘You can be sure they’re watching the hotel. They obviously don’t know under which name you have registered. If they did, then why the description? God only knows how they find these things out. We must have a leak somewhere.’

  ‘I think I’m just going to go back to the hotel and play the innocent guest. Revert to being German, only able to speak broken English. That’ll confuse them. I’m here on business. They may think what they like but I’ve a genuine German passport. They’ll be careful.’ He smiled at her.

  She returned the smile. ‘That’s actually quite clever. I’ll be your girlfriend, we’ll be visiting England together.’

  He looked at her high cheekbones, the slight, aquiline nose; and the thrust of her breasts, taut under her white blouse. He felt an involuntary stirring.

  David and Gisela walked back to the hotel, her arm in his, chatting in German. Fortunately the rain had stopped. He quipped he was sure that they lost any tail they may have had.

  ‘Did they teach you that in the RAF?’ Her tone was not flippant.

  She led him past the hotel, the epitome of a happy couple on holiday or on business in London. They stopped at various storefronts and then walked what seemed aimlessly, using passing buses and lorries for cover while surveying their environs. Satisfied, they doubled back and then split up before the hotel so they could enter separately.

  He checked his room carefully. Nothing appeared to have been tampered with. Now in shirtsleeves, he poured himself a drink from the diminutive fridge under the dressing table when there was a knock on the door. David opened the door to find two men in overcoats, their hats in their hands.

  ‘Mr Wohlhuter? Mr Gunter Wohlhuter?’ the one on the left asked. He looked like a police officer. His English was not quite cultured, a trace of some country accent discernible. He held a piece of paper.

  ‘Jawohl, ich bin Wohlhuter. Was wollen Sie mit mir?’

  David could see this threw them.

  ‘Ein bischen,’ he replied in heavily-accented German, just a little.

  The two men looked at each other. ‘I apologise, sir. Sorry, we’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘Aber, ich bin Wohlhunter.’ He implied that he wanted to know why they came.

  That confused them even further. Shaking his head, holding out a hand as if to ward off David, the taller of the two repeated that they were sorry and they backed away, putting on their hats. David caught a glimpse of the piece of paper. There were several names written one below the other on it. They must have copied these from the reception desk. He retained his bewildered expression and repeated his name as the men disappeared down the passage.

  He phoned Gisela. He spoke in German.

  ‘They were here. Police, by the look of things. They asked for Wohlhuter, obviously not yet associating the name with a face. My apparent inability to speak English confused them further. They’re probably checking on the other names they got from the register.’

  ‘Well, we know they’re up to something. Come on up, you know the number. They won’t be confused for long.’

  She was right. Play the boy-and-girl bit, just for show.

  ‘Okay.’

  Gisela opened the door for him. It was nearly eleven and she was in a white terry gown, her feet bare. She had removed her makeup and seemed quite at home.

  Without asking, she bent and removed a miniature bottle of whisky from the fridge and poured this into a glass for him. She poured herself a gin and tonic and added some ice from a nearby bucket. She then sat down on the couch next to hi
m, her gown splitting to reveal her leg and a short expanse of thigh.

  She giggled when David described the confusion on the faces of the men.

  ‘Still, I think we need to book out tomorrow. Stay elsewhere,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, we’ll do that. They obviously have something, a sniff in the nose. Why are they fishing around here? Maybe they’ll be back. It’s possible they just wanted to verify something.’

  ‘Why don’t you move your stuff in here? We’ll leave together in the morning. Is your account paid?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I paid up front.’

  ‘So is mine. We can leave well before dawn.’

  She rose from the couch. He was unable to ignore the quick flash of thigh.

  ‘Quick, go pack your things and bring them from here before they get back. If MI6 is able to give them a description of you, it won’t take them long to realise who Wohlhuter really is. They might already have a description of you.’

  He realised that her proposal was only intended to ensure his safety and therefore quite innocuous. He found himself feeling slightly sorry. He used the fire escape stairs, making sure no on one was loitering in the passageway leading from the elevators and stairwell to his room. It took him a few minutes to pack his things. He wiped all the surfaces of fingerprints. Was that necessary, he wondered, or would it only serve to make things more suspicious to them? Too late now. Making sure that nothing was left behind, he grabbed his travelling bag and returned to her room.

  They shared another drink. After, he went to the bathroom, changed into a sweatshirt and sleeping shorts and climbed into the three-quarter bed next to hers. A large bedside table split the beds. Gisela had already retired, sliding into her bed while he was still in the bathroom.

  CHAPTER 7

  He woke to somebody shaking him. He opened his eyes. The lights were on, the curtains were still drawn, and Gisela was bending over him.