Treason if You Lose

by Peter Rimmer

  “Go to sleep, my love. They’re not coming over tonight. Billy Glass thinks the tide has turned in the air war. That the generals in the German high command have realised they can’t invade England across the Channel without command of the air. Even if Hitler won’t believe them. Mr Glass thinks we’re over the worst in London. Now it’s us bombing Berlin and Cologne.”

  “And if the Japs come into the war?”

  “Don’t let’s think about it. I’m going to have a look at the children.”

  When Horatio came back to tell Janet they were asleep, she was breathing softly. Horatio kissed her gently on the forehead, not wanting to wake her up. Of all the things he had done in his life, marrying Janet had been the best.

  Instead of going to sleep, Horatio lay on his back thinking of his conversation with Harry Brigandshaw when Horatio had congratulated Harry on his twenty-three kills in the last war, the start of what Horatio thought would be an easy conversation. The exchange had been at the very beginning of what became a lasting friendship of mutual trust.

  “It was murder, Mr Wakefield. What’s the difference? Thou shalt not kill. Under any circumstances. When they asked Socrates in the Plato Dialogues if it was right to kill a man if the man had a knife to his throat about to kill him, you know what Socrates said?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you should read Plato before congratulating me on shooting down twenty-three enemy aircraft. Thank God Klaus von Lieberman survived.”

  “I’ll read Plato, Mr Brigandshaw. What did Socrates reply?”

  “The man might change his mind. Killing him was still murder. The crews that died by my guns were murdered by me, Mr Wakefield. I have to live with that every day. Men with families who still remember them and I didn’t even know their names. Saving Klaus from the flames of his crashed aircraft was the only good thing I did in the war. Revenging the death of my brother George was only compounding the wrong. Making the whole damn thing go round again. If I knew who they were I’d find every member of those families and go down on my knees. Thou shalt not kill. Under any circumstances. Plato explains the complete certainty of that rightness better than me.”

  With the night sky outside their bedroom still quiet, not even a roaming searchlight in the sky, Horatio realised once again the rightness of Harry Brigandshaw’s words. In the children’s bedroom young Harry and Bergit slept. His son was named in honour of Harry Brigandshaw who had called Klaus von Lieberman when Horatio had been abducted from Berlin to the countryside by the Nazis before the war while he and William were on assignment as freelance journalists to report the rise of Hitler. His daughter Bergit was named in honour of his saviour’s wife. The goodness of Harry’s words was not lost on Horatio. Without Harry saving Klaus, he would likely have been dead, his two children never born. Now Harry’s son Anthony was bombing the Germans, Klaus’s son Erwin blitzing the English. Man’s stupidity once again in its eternal repetition.

  Sometime after the moon stopped shining through the bedroom window, Horatio fell into a restless sleep.

  When he woke in the morning it was still quiet outside.

  “Good morning, my darling. Did you sleep better last night? Bergit and Harry haven’t made a sound. Go back to sleep while I go downstairs and make us some tea. My word, it’s chilly this morning.”

  “Did you sleep all right, Janet?”

  “Like a log. Won’t it be nice when the war is over?”

  7

  The call came through from Glen Hamilton in Denver, Colorado, ten days later. Horatio was in a meeting with Billy Glass, the editor of the Daily Mail. William Smythe was sitting on the leather sofa in Mr Glass’s Fleet Street office. The call had been redirected from William’s office by Betty Townsend. Horatio picked up the phone after a nod in the phone’s direction by his editor. Mr Glass believed in delegation right from the start.

  “William?” said a distant voice. The line was bad.

  “Horatio Wakefield of the Daily Mail.”

  “Glen Hamilton. It’s not yet on the wire. William was right. The Japs have attacked Pearl Harbor in a surprise assault from aircraft carriers. Devastation to our Pacific Fleet. Roosevelt is about to declare war on Japan. Probably Germany a couple of days later. Thought I owed that to William for not listening.”

  “He’s right here.”

  The line suddenly went dead leaving Horatio staring at an empty phone.

  “Who’s right here?” asked Billy Glass, taking in Horatio’s expression of surprise, quickly followed by relief, followed by a broad smile.

  “My friend William. The Japs have attacked the American Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor. They’re in the war. We’re not on our own anymore. We can win. That was Glen Hamilton from Denver returning William’s favour.”

  “Then get off your arse down to the newsroom. Talk it straight to Jimmy on the press. Stop everything. We can get this into the London streets first.”

  “What about me?” asked William as Horatio ran for the door.

  “Bugger you, Will,” said Horatio over his shoulder. “Every man for himself.”

  “Do I get my usual fee, Mr Glass? Sounds like Betty redirected my call from Denver.”

  “Your freelance cheque for top information as usual, William Smythe. What would we at the Mail do without you? Now this does put the cat among the proverbial pigeons. They’ll attack Hong Kong and Singapore next. A small price to pay for America coming into the war.”

  “Not if your cousin is stationed in Singapore and the Japs invade overland down the Malayan Peninsula. My cousin Joe is a sergeant in the Royal Engineers. Married to a Chinese girl. Cherry Blossom’s father was the one who tipped me off. Sometimes I don’t like being right. They have kids. Now this bloody war is right on their doorstep.”

  “Have a drink with me, Will. It’s six o’clock. We’ll have the paper on the street corners by dawn. Got hold of a bottle of Scotch from a lady that owed me a favour. This means victory.”

  “Not if they sank the American fleet.”

  “Singapore is a fortress. The Japs won’t get in there. That port controls the seas of Asia. But you know all that.”

  “Cherry Blossom’s father said…”

  “Is he a military man?”

  “He was right last time. Is it real Scotch?”

  “All the way from Scotland. I’m so glad Horatio took that call. Now you and I can drink in comfort while he does the work. It’s two weeks since Jerry last hit London. Oh yes. Now we are going to win. You know my guess, William? We’ll win the war and lose the empire. Isn’t America’s wish for the British Empire to dissolve part of a pet theory of yours? Empire out one door. The dollar in the other. There’s always a price to pay. Whatever we do, with or without the Americans, our two nations are joined at the hip. Lose a bit of money in the colonies. Make it up in joint American British trade. Half the bloody colonies cost us more money to administer than we get from trade. Or am I quoting back your own words, William? Let Gandhi have India and see what they do with it. In the end they’ll still be speaking English like the Americans. The educated Indians. Met a few of them in London. Jolly good chaps. We’ll export more railway rolling stock than ever. You don’t want soda in your Scotch? Of course not. Ruins the aroma. Have a cigar. Last box. This is big news.”

  “I’ll just phone Betty. Say I’ll be home a little late.”

  “How nice. She really has sunk in her claws. I have a new mistress even my wife doesn’t know about. Chop and change to keep on top’s my motto. Makes me feel years younger. Now just smell that malt whisky. Some Sassenachs say there are only two good things out of Scotland: the road out and the whisky. For myself, I’m rather partial to the Scots. My new lady is a Scot. Ministry of Information. Not sure if she wasn’t planted but who cares? She doesn’t. Asked her once. You know what she said? ‘Who cares.’ Lovely girl.”

  “Did she get you the bottle of whisky, Billy?”

  “How on earth did you know?”

  William waited for a
moment as his call went through.

  “It’s me, Betty. Back a bit late. Thanks for Glen’s call. No, I won’t be too late. Billy Glass has found a bottle of whisky… Yes, I’m sure you can. Bye… She’s coming over.”

  “Clever girl.”

  “She is rather.”

  When Glen Hamilton phoned Freya St Clair she was sitting in front of the fire in the lounge of Purbeck Manor. As Freya Taylor she had been Glen’s personal assistant at the Denver Telegraph before marrying Robert St Clair. She was the first to read Holy Knight in 1928. Her son Richard, just turned eleven, was sitting next to her reading a book, quiet for once in his life. Outside the long sash windows rain was pelting down. Merlin St Clair, the Lord of the Manor and her brother-in-law, had moved the phone from the hall to the lounge. It was better than talking in a draughty hall that was often cold in summer. Four-year-old Chuck had gone off to find his grandmother. Lady St Clair always found time to alleviate Chuck’s boredom. Chuck was mostly bored in the old manor house living with the old people. There were no young children for miles.

  Merlin St Clair had unsuccessfully offered the house as a refuge for children from the East End of London. They could see Poole Harbour from the top of the Purbeck Hills behind the manor. The Germans had bombed the harbour since the start of the Blitz. The London children had been sent to Cornwall and up to Scotland, some as far as Canada. Every acre of the old family estate was growing crops to help the war effort. Most of the labourers were land girls, the men having gone off to war.

  Upstairs in the old manor, her husband Robert was trying to write a book, his head full of the war and getting nowhere. Trying to write a book about medieval England when the island was under attack was proving too difficult for Robert’s imagination.

  When Freya picked up the phone the last person she expected was her old boss in America. Barnaby St Clair was coming down with a girl from a band.

  “Is that Barnaby?” asked Freya, her mind elsewhere.

  “Hello, Freya?”

  “Glen! Why this is a lovely surprise.”

  “We’re in the war, Freya.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Roosevelt has declared war on Japan and the German Axis. We were attacked by carrier-based planes. Half the Pacific fleet is burning in Pearl Harbor. Dreadful devastation. Nothing on your radio?”

  “Merlin won’t let us turn on the news.”

  “Wise man. Are you all right?”

  “They bomb the harbour. We can see the flames at night. Nothing too bad in the country. Poole Harbour is beyond the back of the hills behind the house.”

  “So here we are again. How’s the heir to the St Clair Barony?”

  “Reading a book next to me on the sofa in front of the fire. Why did you phone?”

  “I felt lonely. You were with me in the last war. It’s the boys. Glen Junior is turning eighteen. Can’t wait to fight the Japs. Alwin’s a year younger. Samantha’s in a real state while the boys are jumping with joy. Gregory L’Amour, hero of the films, is finally going to get his wish to fight a real war. America’s at war, Freya. That’s a real bitch. You be careful.”

  “You too, Glen.”

  “Why does the world always want to destroy itself?”

  “Human nature passed down to us by our ancestors, most of whom were the survivors of wars. Darwin, Glen, survival of the fittest.”

  “Are you writing?”

  “Given up plays. Robert’s struggling. Surrounded by war there’s little else to think of. Give my love to America.”

  With so much to say in so short a time, both of them had said little when the three minutes came to an end. Her connection to her country, America, was cut leaving Freya bewildered.

  “What was that all about, Mum?”

  “Go back to your book. Nothing, thank God, that affects you, Richard. I’m going up to see how your father is getting on with the book. The fire needs some more wood.”

  “I want to be a writer when I grow up.”

  “I’m glad. Being a writer you can live in nice places.”

  On the way up the stairs to Robert’s old bedroom he was using as a study, she met Merlin coming down the other way past the old, dark family portraits that lined the stairs.

  “Glen Hamilton just phoned. America’s in the war. Japs attacked Pearl Harbor.”

  “I know. Listened to the news.”

  “But you won’t let us! Do you always listen to the news?”

  “Always.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “You can’t do anything. Just upsets everyone. It’s better not to know bad news when there’s nothing you can do about it. Now we are going to win.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “But not for a long time. A lot of people are going to die across Europe and the Far East before this is over.”

  “Have you told Robert?”

  “He’s having enough trouble with the book. I’m going out to shoot us a rabbit or two.”

  “It’s pelting with rain. Poor little rabbits.”

  “When it’s stewed you’ll eat it just the same. There’s a war on.”

  While Freya was powdering her nose in their bedroom, sitting on the stool in front of her mirror before going up to her husband’s study, Robert from his study window was watching his brother Merlin walk out of a side door into the rain. Robert smiled, knowing what Merlin was up to. Under the oilskin cape there would be a loaded doublebarrelled shotgun. A 12 bore, as Merlin preferred to call the antique, hammer-head weapon that had belonged to their grandfather. Merlin was going hunting. Most likely for a brace of rabbits. Something was on his brother’s mind.

  With his train of thought taken out of the book he was trying to write with absolutely no success, Robert got up from the chair of his desk that gave him a view through the window over the family estate and put some wood on the fire in the grate.

  When they had first arrived from America fifteen months earlier, Robert had begun chopping the firewood for the winter so the logs dried out. The children had joined them when they decided to stay in Dorset and not with Barnaby in London. Richard had been made a weekly boarder in a small private school not far from Purbeck Manor. After the long summer of 1941, the wood was bone dry, the split elm logs burning nicely in his old bedroom grate, the room he had made into his study. Everything was perfect for writing.

  Day after day Robert sat at his desk or in the armchair he had brought up from downstairs. Nothing happened. His mind was crammed with the war. For the first time in his life Robert was unable to write, unable to leave the real world to go with the people in his book. Into a world he made himself to his liking, not the world of people forever discontented with their lot, arguing with each other to get their own way. In Robert’s books, everyone except the villain was nice to each other. Loved each other. Cherished each other.

  “You can come in, Freya. Heard you coming down the corridor on tiptoe.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “It isn’t. And won’t. Until this bloody war is over. Are the children all right?”

  “Richard’s reading a book. Wants to be a writer. Chuck’s gone off to find his grandmother. He’s bored.”

  “Wants to write? That’s a turn-up for the books, no pun intended. I’ll talk him out of that idea. Writing is wonderful when it works. Agony when it doesn't. This last year has been agony. What’s on Merlin’s mind? Gone off with a gun under his oilskin in the rain. Merlin only goes for a tramp in the rain when he has something on his mind.”

  “America’s come into the war.”

  “Have they? Why?”

  “The Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. Glen just phoned. Merlin had heard it on the news.”

  “He doesn’t listen to the news.”

  “Apparently he does. In secret. Now the whole world’s at war with each other.”

  “In the olden days the wars were local. Still, everyone was fighting each other somewhere. Just no one knew about all the other wars. Come an
d sit on my knee by the fire. I just put on a nice dry log. My poor mother, Chuck is a handful when he’s bored.”

  “She loves it. Takes her mind off the death of your father. Gives her something to do.”

  “I suppose so. The star of Holy Knight now has his chance to fly in combat. We humans really are a mess.”

  “It’ll be over quickly now. Last time it took America a year to win the war.”

  Robert smiled at his wife as she sat on the side of his chair. There was no arguing with the Americans. They had won the war. That was that. Pulling his wife down onto his lap they fell silent, happy with each other’s company. For the first time in years his right foot began to itch. The right foot he had left in France in 1916. The one the German shell had taken away, never to be found.

  “My missing foot’s itching. Memories. I’ll just scratch it mentally so the itch goes away.”

  “Mad as a hatter. You English are as mad as hatters.”

  “Probably.”

  “One brother shooting rabbits in the rain. The other scratching an invisible foot. Tell me about the book.”

  “All my characters have buggered off. None of them want to talk to me. I love this old house. It’s in my bones. I imagine my ancestors sitting right here. Getting up and looking out of that window. Putting logs on the fire. Shooting rabbits in the rain. Pestering their grandmother. Right down the centuries.”

  Part 6

  Only God Knows Why – April to June 1943

  1

  The row had started at Christmas the following year. Gerry Hollingsworth in Los Angeles wanted Genevieve to play the lead of a nurse in love with an American soldier. The soldier was Gregory L’Amour. The picture was propaganda. It was important for the American people to be united with Britain in the war against Japan and Germany.

  The same day Genevieve told Tinus she was contemplating a film offer from America, Tinus was on his way back to active duty in command of a wing at RAF Tangmere, reducing Genevieve to a flood of tears. The RAF had developed a system of concentrating three squadrons of fighters on enemy formations simultaneously, giving them not only superior aircraft in the Mark IX Spitfire, but superior numbers in the air. The newly promoted Wing Commander Oosthuizen DFC and Bar was to be one of three pilots leading the new wing formations at Tangmere. Over England, the RAF were in command of the air. The German High Command had abandoned Operation Sea Lion to invade Britain having failed in its attempt to shoot the RAF out of the skies.