“Have you ever been in love with anyone, Archie? Have you ever wanted to love anyone?”
He had never found it necessary to lie to her and he was truthful now.
“Ever since the world began people have talked an awful lot of drivel about love, Elaine. Why the hell have they always had to wrap it up in cellophane? I’ve never minded admitting to myself that it’s an appetite and neither have you, so don’t ever try and sell me anything different will you?”
She had laughed at that and asked for a cigarette but presently she had said:
“About love, Archie! An awful lot of people have believed in it for a long time. We couldn’t be wrong I suppose?”
“Not a chance, Elaine, not a chance!”
She had nodded, and pulled hard at the cigarette. Suddenly she had tossed it away and laughed again.
“Okay, it’s an appetite! How often are you hungry, Archie?”
“You ought to be able to work that one out!” he said.
“Now you’re trying to sell me something,” she chuckled. “I’m the only larder you visit!”
“I sometimes think that you could be,” he told her seriously and his reply must have stopped her from pursuing the subject, for she was silent all the way home, as though contemplating the implications of his remark.
They had never discussed love again, although their association had continued right up to the time that he began floundering with the Inland Revenue claims. Later she had drifted away with her Dutch merchant captain. He had not seen her after that and it was not until he went to prison that he began to think of her again.
Up to then she had been the last of a long line of larders, no more or less to him than Rita Ramage, his first mistress, or Gloria, the saucy shop-girl who had lifted nearly a hundred pounds from his wallet, or any other of the casual associations he had formed during his limited spare time over the years.
It was prison and the privacy of his cell that had changed this, for in here he never once thought of Rita or Gloria, but only of her and of all the good times they had spent together. Ultimately she came to mean much more than an attractive and obliging woman. As time went by she began to represent freedom in the abstract, and everything one associated with what went on outside the walls.
Lying on his cot, the rough blankets drawn up to his chin, he became reconciled to his conception of Elaine, and having at last made up his mind decided that he would write to her and ask her to come and visit him. He had a visit due to him and there was no one else whom he wanted to see in here. He thought it unlikely that she would respond to the first invitation, but at least it was worth trying, for either way it would help him. If she ignored his letter, then his resentment might enable him to put her out of mind along with all the others, but if she replied, if she actually came, then it must mean that he was as firmly rooted in her consciousness as she was in his and that surely gave him something to hope for?
Decision had always been Archie’s sedative and having made this decision he was able to dismiss her and all she stood for until the letter was written. He turned over on his side and reached over to tuck the trailing blanket under his shoulder; by the time 1943 was fifteen minutes’ old he was asleep and snoring gently.
CHAPTER XXVII
Boxer Diverts The Third Reich
SEVERAL HUNDRED MILES from the spot where Archie lay musing about Elaine, another man who had worn out shoe leather on the Avenue pavements was also in captivity, but he was enclosed by barbed wire instead of brick walls, and was watched, not by warders, but by harassed German reservists.
Like his brother, Archie, Boxer soon came to terms with his gaolers. Some of them were quick to respond to the wide, innocent smile that had once disarmed suburban grocers, and set them poking into their bins for broken biscuits, but there the parallel ended, for Boxer, unlike Archie, might almost be said to have been enjoying his captivity.
Boxer had always been receptive to new scenes and new sources of fun, and his travels up and down the Third Reich during the last few months had presented him with plenty of both. For various reasons, most of them traceable to Boxer’s eccentric sense of humour, his was far from being a static captivity, and his captors seemed determined to ensure that he should not stagnate behind one particular network of barbed wire.
A succession of schoolmasters had, as it were, broken their teeth upon Boxer’s intellect, and his original German captor, the portly and well-meaning Major General von Haussman, was neither more patient nor more ingenious than the men who had superintended Boxer’s education. Judged by standards then existing among high-ranking German officers, von Haussman was a very patient soul indeed and his forbearance, throughout the period immediately following Boxer’s amiable surrender, had a good deal to do with his prisoner’s subsequent migrations.
It was because Major General von Haussman had had so much faith in his own powers of persuasion that Boxer did not go straight into the bag with all the other Dieppe prisoners. The Major General had been struck by Boxer’s ingenuousness the very first moment he set eyes on him, as he trudged along carrying his wounded brother to the enemy medical centre.
Von Haussman reasoned that a man who would march thus into the midst of an army, assembled for the sole purpose of exterminating him, and lay claim to that army’s resources as trustingly as this soldier had done, must necessarily be lacking in intelligence, and was therefore likely to prove a promising subject for interrogation.
The Major General had had experience of questioning British prisoners during the dog days of 1940. He had found them, almost without exception, to be stubborn, security-conscious, and singularly unhelpful. They told him their number, rank and name and then, when asked for further information, yawned in his face. They were impervious to threats and indifferent to blandishments. They even refused to fill out Red Cross forms, which thoughtful Intelligence officers had prepared for them, with the object of alleviating the anxiety of loved ones at home. In short, the information of military value that Major General von Haussman extracted from captured British soldiers could have been scratched on an identity disc, and would have discouraged most examiners to the point of despair.
Major General von Haussman, however, was a patient optimist, always confident that something rewarding was just around the corner. By the time he had completed his preliminary examination of Boxer he was convinced that he had at last stumbled upon a very promising source of information, one that, wisely and carefully handled, might prove more fruitful than any number of dossiers compiled inside the established prison camps.
His aide, the slim, superior, buck-toothed Captain Engelstein, did not share his faith in Boxer, but he too made an error in his estimate of the prisoner, for both officers took one look at the big commando and decided that he was very stupid. The Major General persuaded himself that Boxer’s stupidity could be coaxed into showing a profit. Agreed on this they then formed diverse opinions of their prisoner’s worth, for the Captain concluded that the big head behind the amiable grin held nothing whatever of military value.
Both men were in error. Boxer was not stupid. All his life he had been lazy, easily-led, unimaginative, and slow-thinking, but he was not stupid. What the German officers did not know, and what they could be forgiven for not knowing, was that up to the moment of capture Boxer’s brains had never been exercised, his brother, Bernard, having done Boxer’s thinking for the better part of twenty-five years.
Boxer’s dominant characteristic had always been his sense of humour and once his nagging anxiety regarding Bernard’s hurts had been allayed, and the Germans had persuaded him that his twin would be given instant medical aid, in the best traditions of warfare between two civilised nations, it was his sense of humour that crept out to sun itself. The field of opportunity it was offered was immense and, quick to appreciate this, it at once went to work on the nearest subject. This happened to be poor Major General von Haussman, a mere fortifications expert, but a man with earnest ambitions to adventure int
o the realms of military intelligence.
The initial interview between General and Private took place in a small hut, close to the Field Dressing Station, where Bernard was having his wounds dressed.
The Major General, having dismissed his aide, settled himself comfortably and went merrily to work to win Boxer’s confidence.
First he praised him for his care of his wounded brother and said that Boxer’s fraternal solicitude had touched his heart. He then went on to assure Boxer, in an accent that reminded his prisoner of all the music-hall and barrack-room jokes he had ever heard about Germans, that from this point on Boxer need have no fears but that his brother would receive humane and skilful treatment at the hands of his late enemies. Von Haussman stressed the word ‘late’, pointing out that Boxer must now cease to regard the Germans as opponents, but rather as his hosts.
“For you, my brave man, the vor it iss over,” he announced. “For you it iss the honourable captivity!”
He then went on to talk of other matters, of the gallant failure of the Dieppe Raid, of the excellence of the German coastal defences and the impossibility of penetrating them no matter what weight of armament was brought to bear upon them from the sea or air. He gave Boxer a black cheroot to smoke and talked to him as he might have conversed with a keen young junior, placed under his care.
Boxer was fascinated by the General’s expansiveness and listened very attentively, despite the fact that he was now feeling extremely sleepy, and was obliged to stifle a series of long, yammering yawns.
Major General von Haussman noticed these yawns but he took no offence and despatched his orderly for a pint of black coffee, urging Boxer to refresh himself after his Herculean exertions. Boxer accepted the coffee gratefully and swallowed the jugful while his host went on to talk of military matters, presently sliding smoothly from this topic to that of Anglo-German relations, and the tragedy of the present conflict between cousins.
“I haf the goot friends in England,” he confided. “It iss wrong that we should quarrel so bad when we are cousins, iss it not?”
Boxer had never thought of himself as in any way related to the Germans but he was ready to try, providing this particular cousin would encourage him with something to eat, and a chance to get a good, long kip on the floor. Seeing no point in beating about the bush with a man so obviously obliging as the Major General, he said, simply and straightforwardly:
“I’m very hungry, sir! They pinched my iron rations on the way in here.”
If von Haussman was a little surprised by this ingenuous remark he did not show it, but sent instantly for some vegetable soup and a long, French loaf, of the kind that Boxer had learned to appreciate in 1940. Whilst Boxer ate, the officer went on talking, gently and persistently, until suddenly he stopped and asked a direct question.
“You set out from vere, last night?”
Boxer had been expecting something like this and had an answer ready, but he thought it best to pretend to ponder awhile. The Major General watched him, his eyes bright with hope.
At length Boxer said, slowly and clearly:
“From a little place we call ‘Bolloxhaven’, sir!”
The Major General knitted his brows. He was very familiar with the Channel and East Coast ports and had been expecting to hear the word ‘Folkestone’, ‘Dover’ or ‘Broadstairs’. He had studied many up-to-date maps but he could not recall ever having seen or heard of ‘Bolloxhaven’. He said so, quite politely.
Boxer shrugged. “It’s a long way up the creek,” he said, helpfully, and was slightly relieved to see the Major General smile.
“Ah—yes! A code name standing for…?”
“I dunno what it stands for,” said Boxer quickly, “you see, I’d never been there before last night!”
The Major General murmured something and then wrote on his pad. When he looked up Boxer was asleep, his head and shoulders on the trestle table. After regarding him paternally for a moment or two Major General Haussman summoned the orderly and told him that the prisoner would remain under guard in the hut, and was not on any account to be disturbed until the following morning.
They locked the hut and posted a sentry at the door. The sentry was changed every three hours throughout the night, but Boxer did not hear them stamping and shouting outside. It was dusk when he half-awoke and saw that they had placed a straw mattress and two grey blankets on the floor beside him. He rolled off the chair on to the mattress, pulled the blankets over him, and went to sleep again at once, remembering nothing more until a helmeted infantryman stamped in with his breakfast, placed it on the table and went out again without a word.
For a moment or two Boxer had difficulty in remembering where he was and by the time he had remembered, the Major General had entered the hut and was informing him that his brother had now been removed to a military hospital and that the doctor attending him had hopes of saving both leg and arm.
“When he iss recovered you vill together be vonce more,” he added. “Then, perhaps, the vor vill von be!”
The news cheered Boxer, who now felt refreshed, relaxed and eager to pass a pleasant hour or so with the German brass, particularly as he had acquired a taste for the General’s cheroots. If, in exchange for this unexpectedly lavish hospitality, the old boy wanted to talk about the war then Boxer was willing to humour him, and give him something to write down on his little old pad! It would be wrong, of course, to tell a Jerry anything that might be useful to him—they had been very insistent about that at the assault training centre—but surely there could be no harm at all in pulling the old chap’s leg a little? After all, it was a long time, since he had had such an opportunity, and it would be something to tell old Berni when they patched him up and brought him along.
He wondered, a little vaguely, what this silly old basket would most like to hear—something about the bombing maybe, or perhaps something a bit more spectacular, like ‘Exercise Spy-hunt’ the training scheme the Commandos had enjoyed so much in North Wales, earlier that summer.
Boxer finally decided that a highly-coloured version of this story offered the best possibilities, and at once launched into an account of an exercise in which two Commandos, playing the roles of two German agents landed by U-boat had been instructed to make their way to an air-field twenty miles inland, while the rest of the troop set out to hunt them down.
He told the story well, with many a reminiscent chuckle but he forgot to mention that the two spies, finally located under a road bridge and ‘shot out of hand’, had been Ginger and Dusty, two men from ‘A’ troop, and that Ginger, an excellent Cockney mimic, had amused them all by ‘ad libbing’ his part in broken English and squealing for mercy as he crawled about round the feet of the hysterical ‘firing-squad’.
The Major General was obviously very interested in this story and wrote a number of things down on his pad, after which he beamed at Boxer, ordered up luncheon and five more cheroots, and promised to visit him again before he was sent along to the prisoners’ collecting point.
He never paid his third visit, and Boxer never saw him again. Late that afternoon the door of the hut crashed open and two German privates, armed to the teeth, came in at the double, with Captain Englestein, the Major General’s aide at their heels.
Before Boxer understood what was happening to him he was handcuffed, bundled to his feet, and almost thrown out of the hut and into a canvas-covered van that was standing in the yard outside. The two soldiers leaped in after him, but the Captain remained prancing about outside, howling, gibbering, and waving his arms like a man in a fit.
Boxer knew no word of German, so that everything the Captain said was incomprehensible but the tirade seemed to be having a curious effect on the escort, who kept glaring at Boxer as though he was a wild beast, and slapping their rifle butts, as though to remind themselves that they were not defenceless against him.
Once he had recovered from his surprise Boxed settled down in the van to enjoy the pantomime. It was the first time tha
t he had ever witnessed a traditional German ‘flap’, and he found it fascinating. It was minutes before he realised that the Captain’s outburst was directed at him, and not at the guards, for the engine of the van refused to start and suddenly everybody was bundled out into the yard again and rushed into an open lorry, where the pantomime began all over again and the Captain, viewed from the tailboard, seemed to be having a second seizure.
He looked so diverting as he hopped about in his highly-polished boots, his narrow face purpling, and his long, aristocratic hands fluttering, that Boxer was unable to prevent himself from chortling openly and asking, of the nearest guard, “what all the panic was about?” His chuckle, and the question that followed it, had a distressing effect on everyone. The officer screamed something at the guard, who at once jabbed his rifle butt into Boxer’s stomach, completely winding him and converting his amusement into speechless indignation.
He managed to gasp, “What the bloody hell…” as the lorry started, but the sudden jerk deposited all three of them on the floor. Dragged to his feet, and hounded into the corner against the driver’s screen, Boxer began to reflect upon the incomprehensible nature of an enemy who one moment plied him with coffee, soup, cheroots and amiable conversation, and the next treated him as though he alone stood between the Wermacht and world conquest.
He never did discover the true cause of his rapid transition from privileged prisoner to prisoner extraordinary. Nobody explained to him, at least not in English, that a few moments before he was bustled from the hut Major General Haussman had received a terse telephone message from Military Intelligence, and had gathered therefrom that if ‘Bolloxhaven’ was indeed the British Army’s code name for Newhaven, Deal, Tilbury or Folkestone, it was not in general use above the rank of Corporal.
The Avenue Goes to War Page 45