by Jules Wake
They ate in silence for the next ten minutes, Judith steadily ploughing through each mouthful with methodical, neat bites.
‘Great jam, Elsie. Hides the taste of this awful bread. What I wouldn’t give for a lovely white loaf instead of this wholegrain stuff. Where did you snaffle the jam from?’
Elsie beamed. ‘William is still here. The garden’s pretty big and he seems to have the fairies working for him. I’ve no idea where he gets the help but I had a bumper crop of strawberries, raspberries and gooseberries last year. I’ve got more beetroot than I know what to do with and I’ll be shelling peas for the next few days, not to mention the spinach and new potatoes. I’ll be pickling beets for the rest of the week. Not that I’m complaining, mind.’
Betty frowned. Labour was in short supply. Most of the men in the village had gone away to fight and William was on the wrong side of seventy to be doing all that work on his own. Who was helping him? The only land girls in the village worked on the Davenports’ sheep farm.
‘You’d best be off,’ said Elsie, starting to clear the table.
‘Good luck, Judith,’ Betty said to the other woman, who was due to report to someone in the room next to the library, which had once been Lady Chesham’s morning room.
‘Thank you. And you.’ Judith actually smiled.
Betty left, heading for the first floor, where a suite of bedrooms had been turned into offices, still puzzling over who was helping William.
‘Welcome to Bedlam,’ said a cheery ATS sergeant when Betty peeped round the door to a room filled with bustle. ‘I’m Kate, Sergeant Phipps.’
‘Betty, Private Connors.’
‘Welcome aboard. I’ll show you to your desk. You’ll get to know everyone in time.’
Betty was pleased to see that her desk was beside one of the big stone-mullioned windows with a view out over the stable yard and the estate offices. There were ten other desks crammed into the room with barely room to move between them, and already uniformed ATS girls were busy typing with steady concentration at the large solid typewriters. Betty swallowed, watching the nearest girl firing her fingers over the keys. They were all very fast and clearly knew what they were doing. She flexed her hands, hoping that she could pick up speed quickly.
‘Here you go. It’s all very straightforward. The Wrens compile the translations, they’re typed up, then they go to Naval Intelligence, who assess them, then they pass through those they want compiled into the reports, which come here. Once we’ve typed them up they’re passed through to the office next door where they do the analysis and prepare the final report.’
‘Reports?’ asked Betty.
‘Yes. They go on to the Admiralty.’
Betty wrinkled her nose. What was that about translations? But she didn’t want to look stupid so she kept her mouth shut. She was beginning to think that perhaps Sergeant Phipps was right, she had come to Bedlam.
Just as she was about to sit down at her desk, a door on the opposite wall opened and a peal of laughter rang out as two ATS girls carrying sheaves of papers entered, along with a man in an American USAF uniform. The girls went over to a central desk and immediately began sorting through the papers.
‘Well, hello, who have we here?’ The American man sauntered, there was no other word for his rolling casual walk, over to her desk.
‘Betty. Betty Connors, Sir,’ she added hastily, staring up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, her heart flipping stupidly over in her chest. For a moment she was completely bowled over by how good-looking he was. He could have stepped straight out of a film. Even his uniform looked smarter than anyone else’s in the room.
‘Betty. That sure is a nice name. Anyone ever told you, you look a little like Betty Grable?’ He gave her such a ridiculously suggestive, theatrical wink that she forgot to be starstruck.
‘Lots of times,’ she said cheerfully, completely forgetting he was a superior officer. ‘It’s not terribly original. You’ll have try harder than that.’
He grinned. ‘Be happy to, ma’am. Where did you spring from?’
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ said Betty, slipping smartly behind the desk and sitting down, looking up at him through her lashes. He laughed.
‘I like a gal with a smart mouth,’ he said, looking very deliberately at her mouth and making her very glad that she’d used her favourite lipstick this morning as a confidence boost for her first day. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel a little tight and fizzy inside.
She couldn’t help herself looking right back at his full lips and wondering what it would be like if he kissed her. Which was darned odd. Whenever she could, she avoided kissing Bert like the plague; she didn’t like it very much. So, why, now, was her imagination picturing her in the arms of this man, being soundly kissed by that very mouth, when she didn’t even know his name?
Suddenly, as if he remembered where he was, he stood up straight. ‘Major Carl Wendermeyer, at your service, ma’am. Welcome to the unit.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ she said, realising that playtime was over as he walked over to the Sergeant in the corner to confer with him. Feeling a little foolish and determined not to look at him again, which was difficult because her eyes seemed to have a life of their own, she eyed the monster of a typewriter and hesitantly lifted one finger to pick at a key. Around her the noisy room was filled with the clack of typewriter keys. The very speedy clack of typewriter keys. She chewed anxiously at her lip and taking a deep breath, she sat up straight and prepared herself a bit like the organ players she’d seen at the cinema. It was all very well telling people she could type, having practised on that bit of cardboard, but she’d not touched a real typewriter for three years. Ironic really. Not since the last time she’d been in this house. She took a quick peek around; no one seemed to be paying any attention to her, well, apart from Carl whose eyes slid away as soon as she glanced his way.
She eased out a breath and looked out of the window, trying to summon up the courage to get started. As soon as she did they’d know she was a fraud. For a moment she frowned and then sharpened her gaze. Through the trees she could see what looked like a gun or a watchtower that had never been there before. She stared harder. Was that an armed soldier at the top? Puzzled, she looked down at the stable yard. Heavy metal doors had replaced the open-topped wooden stable doors and there were bars at the window. Then as she watched she saw two Army privates march into the yard bearing rifles. It dawned on her that none of the military personnel she’d seen in the house bore arms. Curious now, she saw them approach one of the old stables. Her eyes very nearly popped out of her head when one of the soldiers emerged escorting another man. A German! In a Luftwaffe uniform. She’d seen enough Pathé newsreels to identify the foreign uniform. What was he doing here? Had a plane come down recently? Surely not, it would have been the talk of the village, and if it was in the last twenty-four hours, wouldn’t Elsie have mentioned it at breakfast?
She watched, holding her breath, as the three men crossed the stable yard, the German in the middle – seeming quite happy to walk with them, in fact it looked as if he were chatting to the two guards – and headed towards one of several newly built prefab blocks.
Now she really was mystified. She picked up the paper on her desk and read the neat script, wondering if it might shed any further light on what was going on here.
Interview with A1332.
* * *
Conducted by Naval Intelligence, Lieutenant F. R. Wesley.
* * *
Airman A1332, a bomber gunner with the Luftwaffe, described the remotely controlled gun-turret system on the Messerschmitt Bf 109. There was also talk of prototypes which utilise four MG 131 for a quadmount system for tail defence.
Betty read on, the furrow between her eyes deepening. She picked up the second and third sheet, skimming their contents quickly.
What on earth was going on at Latimer House?
Chapter Nine
&n
bsp; Evelyn
Evelyn slipped into a seat next to a girl she’d met over breakfast, Lieutenant Bradley. There was an expectant hush in the air in the elegant dining room as she studied the faded patches on the dark-red walls where family paintings must have once hung. The long glossy mahogany table and plush velvet chairs looked as if they belonged to the house, unlike the utilitarian filing cabinets lining one of the walls next to the beautiful gothic-style stone fireplace, which were like upstart invaders with their flat grey finish contrasting with the rich, warm wood of the panelled walls. Around the table everyone looked alert and ready for action as if they enjoyed their work. It made a very pleasant change after her tenure in Falmouth beneath Williamson, who had not commanded a happy ship. She sipped at her coffee, listening to the lively conversation around her, which seemed principally to be about whether there would be a dance at RAF Bovingdon later in the summer, now that the American Air Force had taken over the site.
Everyone fell silent when the door opened and Colonel Myers, accompanied by two other senior Army officers, entered the room. They all rose to their feet and saluted.
‘At ease,’ said Myers in a loud commanding voice and took his cap off, before pulling out a chair. The other two officers sat down on either side.
‘This morning’s schedule. Andrews and Bradley, you’ll take W2335 in interview room 2. He’s feeling a bit homesick. Needs a bit of mollycoddling. Bradley, be gentle with him.’
There was a laugh around the room. ‘If you can, steer him back to Gafsa, Tunisia. Find out what he knows about any defensive positions there.’
Evelyn listened avidly as the man on the right of Myers then made some suggestions as to how to treat the prisoner and his current mental state, and Andrews and Bradley took copious notes.
‘That’s Lieutenant Colonel Weston,’ muttered Bradley as she scribbled away, ‘psychologist with the RAMC. He advises us on the best way to approach each interview.’
Evelyn nodded gratefully. The meeting continued at a rapid-fire pace and Evelyn realised that the workload was significant. She herself was allocated several interviews before lunch, thankfully with a much more experienced officer, and clear guidance and direction from Weston as to how they were to take things.
The meeting drew to a close and everyone looked as eager as a hare in spring to be off.
Myers stood up and then looked at Evelyn. ‘And welcome to our latest recruit, Lieutenant Brooke-Edwards. We’ll look forward to introducing you properly over gin cocktails in the Officers’ Mess this evening. Six o’clock sharp.’
There was a collection of nods her way but everyone seemed more anxious to gather their notes and disappear, apart from an officer with a shock of thick dark hair that looked as if no amount of brilliantine would ever tame it, and warm brown eyes, which crinkled into a happy smile. He looked rather familiar.
‘Lieutenant Brooke-Edwards, Lieutenant Frederickson. Your partner in crime for the day. I’ll be showing you the ropes.’ The broad-shouldered man with a wicked dimple held out his hand, grinning at her. ‘Nice to see you, Evelyn.’
She gasped. ‘Freddie. I didn’t even notice you. Oh, my goodness.’ She beamed at him, delighted to see a friendly face. ‘Gosh, I haven’t seen you since Oxford days. How are you?’
‘Excellent and all the better for seeing you. Although I’m sorry to hear about David. Heard from him recently?’
She shook her head, her smile dimming. ‘No, not for a while but the post is so bad and we’d get a telegram if it were bad news, I’m sure.’ She’d been telling herself this for weeks now but it was starting to wear thin. Why hadn’t they heard from him? Pain pinched at her heart. Please let him be all right.
He winced. ‘Did you hear about Henry?’
‘He joined the RAF, didn’t he?’
Freddie’s face tightened and he didn’t need to say anymore. Evelyn laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
Henry had been Freddie’s best friend at Oxford; they’d both been at Balliol. She saw Freddie’s Adam’s apple dip and she gave him a moment. With a deep breath, he lifted his head and was able to say, shortly, ‘Bought it on a mission and shot down over France… Right-ho, we’d best get off. Lots to do today. Some of these buggers like to drag it out. Interrogation gives ’em a change of scene from their cells. Got a couple of tricky sods on the list this afternoon.’
‘How long do they stay here?’
‘Depends on how good for gen they are, but usually not more than a couple of weeks and then they’re shipped out elsewhere. Only as long as they’re useful, Myers likes to say.’
They left the main building by a set of doors at the back of the house on the western side, following a path which was very quickly blocked by a tall fence, topped by barbed wire and manned by armed guards. Evelyn was introduced to the guards and had to show the pass which had been issued upon her arrival. For the first time, she realised that security was tight and guards were positioned around the perimeter of the site. Through the trees she could now see a watchtower manned by more armed soldiers. This was a prison. A small shudder ran through her as her stomach knotted at the thought of conducting a face-to-face interrogation.
She started when Freddie, as if reading her mind, asked, ‘Done much of this sort of thing before?’
As they walked at a brisk pace along the path Evelyn told him about her work in Falmouth.
‘Sounds like you were one step away from fishing the poor buggers out of the sea,’ commented Freddie, making her laugh. ‘But you’ve experience of meeting POWs face to face, which is good. Some people are a bit daunted. Not sure what to expect.’
Evelyn chose her words carefully, keen to hide her nerves, and because she wasn’t sure what the prevailing attitude to the prisoners was here. ‘They’re men with families back home that have left a life behind them to fight a common enemy. Some are bitter and resentful or resigned and prepared to make the best of it, others surprisingly keen to co-operate. I’ve seen all sorts, although admittedly that’s when they’ve been at their lowest ebb. A lot of them were scared and disorientated because they’d been captured by the enemy and had no idea what to expect, which was a huge psychological barrier to overcome. I imagine here they’re perhaps a bit more settled and accepting of their situation.’
‘Hmm, not always. Sometimes they’ve had time to regroup and get bolshy. To be honest it’s like anything in life, they’re all different. You never know what to expect with a new chap. We’ve got a couple of unknown quantities this morning and this afternoon are all old favourites. This will be a last hurrah for them, throwing you into the interrogation to shake things up. If nothing comes of it, they’ll be shipped off to a POW camp proper. Won’t be as cushy as here, that’s for sure.’
‘Is it cushy?’
‘Two to a cell. I’d say so. A lot of the personnel here are crammed into Nissen huts.’
As they crossed a courtyard and skirted around some of the blocks at the back of the house, she recognised the signs of a walled garden, a lot bigger than the one at Quartiles, and a stable block. All the while Freddie kept up an entertaining stream of chatter. ‘Did you ever know Dilly Fortescue? You did? Well, her sister, Pamela, was the redhead at the briefing. And remember Alasdair Spencer? His cousins are both Naval Intelligence; you’ll meet them tonight, along with Katherine Ruddings, who was at Oxford the year before you. She’s related to the Buckinghams in Henley.’
‘Oh, I saw Gracie Buckingham when I was home last week,’ said Evelyn. Compared to her last posting, this all sounded rather jolly. She rather thought she was going to enjoy herself here.
The purpose-built block they entered was split into a number of offices along with one long and separate corridor of six rooms, all of which had a pair of armed guards standing outside the heavy doors. As soon as she stepped inside Evelyn’s mood turned sombre, matching the grey-painted cement-block walls and flooring. This was to all intents and purposes a prison and the men they were to question were the e
nemy. She surreptitiously wiped her hands down her Navy skirt and wished she dared check her notes again. Their instructions were to leave all notes outside the interview room. The aim was to make the interactions as informal as possible, which, according to the strategy, made the prisoners feel more relaxed. Each officer was armed with additional packets of cigarettes which they were encouraged to offer.
Freddie glanced down at her. ‘Chocks away. Don’t worry. Follow my lead.’
As it was her first interview here, she was quite happy to do just that, but, she thought as she eyed his back, following him down the corridor, she knew her job and knew that she was damned good at it. Part of her skill was building rapport with people and Freddie needn’t think she’d be playing apprentice to him for long.
He opened the door to interview room no. 5 which was flanked by two serious-faced Army privates. Inside a German Hauptman sat at a table looking ill at ease in his uniform. In her last role Evelyn had had to learn all the different insignia that appeared on uniform sleeves and shoulders, so that she could identify at a glance what rank someone was. This man was the equivalent of a British Captain in the Army and a Flight Lieutenant in the RAF. Pale and hunched, there were dark-purple shadows under each reddened eye and a large swelling on his forehead. His bloodshot eyes darted anxiously from her to Freddie as they entered and he seemed to shrink in his seat and cradle the arm that was held in a sling. She could almost smell his fear. The Gestapo were renowned for their interrogation and torture techniques, particularly among their own people, something that played well into the hands of the British. German POWs assumed that a similar fate awaited them and lived in dread of this first interrogation. Those she’d come across before had been too relieved that they were still alive to worry about torture at that stage, but this poor man had had time to think about his position. Compassion as much as her job made her give him a reassuring smile.