The Perils and the Prize

by Jim Crossley

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jim Crossley read modern history at Cambridge and has written six successful books on military history. Retired from a career in industry, he lives in Norfolk and enjoys sailing and country living generally. He has always been fascinated by the relationship between Britain and Germany, two nations united by many common values and family connections, yet torn apart by two world wars.

  By the same author:

  Something Wrong With Our Ships2008Published privately

  British Destroyers 1892-19182009Osprey Publishing

  Bismarck: The Epic Sea Chase2010Pen and Sword

  The Hidden Threat2011Pen and Sword

  Monitors of the Royal Navy2015Pen and Sword

  Voices from Jutland2016Pen and Sword

  The Perils and the Prize

  Jim Crossley

  The Perils and the Prize

  Vanguard Press

  VANGUARD KINDLE

  © Copyright 2020

  Jim Crossley

  The right of Jim Crossley to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN (PAPERBACK) 978 1 78465 787 1

  Vanguard Press is an imprint of

  Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.

  www.pegasuspublishers.com

  First Published in 2020

  Vanguard Press

  Sheraton House Castle Park

  Cambridge England

  Printed & Bound in Great Britain

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wife, Anne, who has supported me in my writing and tolerated the associated ill temper and frequent absences.

  Chapter 1

  It was a bleak wintry afternoon. The last shafts of daylight filtered through the skylight onto the reclining model in the centre of the room. William contemplated a wet, dreary walk home to his little room in Chelsea. His painting was not going well. It was never going to go well. The Slade School, under the direction of Henry Tonks, still insisted on the highest standards of anatomical accuracy in every student’s work and William just couldn’t get it right. Looking at his attempt at a male nude, even he could see that the flesh did not clothe the skeleton as it should. The muscles did not seem to be consistent with the posture, but fought each other in little distorted knots around the joints. He couldn’t get the left foot to rest convincingly on the dais. Landscapes, seascapes and pictures of boats came naturally to him but he simply couldn’t draw people as the Slade demanded. After his first year there, he knew he was an unsatisfactory student. Eventually he would have to do something about it. Eventually…

  The truth was that he enjoyed student life in London, in an idle, uncommitted sort of way. When he had come to London the previous autumn, he had been a somewhat gawky country boy, his tall, athletic frame giving testament to a rigorous routine of games and exercise at school. Exposure to the Chelsea set, however, prompted a rapid transformation in the middle-class provincial lad. His clothes and demeanour had become those of a typical art student. His long, dark hair flopped down over his ears and collar. His face was paler; he secretly hoped more “interesting” looking. Although above average height, he gave an impression of vulnerability, almost of weakness. His grey-blue eyes seeming always to be probing for an escape route from whatever situation he might be in. He wore a loose-fitting corduroy jacket and the fashionably floppy trousers known as “Oxford Bags”. Great care was taken in the selection of loosely knotted ties and scarves, so as to look casual yet chic. He smoked strange Balkan cigarettes. Better off than most of his contemporaries, and with no parent to moderate his expenses, he could afford long evenings in the fashionable arty pubs and eateries around Chelsea, and drifted aimlessly among a group of like-minded friends. They gathered noisily together for animated discussions of art, politics and the human condition generally. Mostly scions of wealthy families, he and his set were not greatly affected by the depression then blighting less fortunate people all over the civilised world, but this did not stop them from adopting fashionable Marxist views and languid drawing room pacifism.

  That evening he remembered he had promised to go with some Slade friends and a few would-be actors from RADA to a lecture by a Mr Markwitz entitled The Wondrous Achievements of Soviet Russia. He was looking forward to it, not because of the lecture, but because afterwards they were going on to a private club in Pimlico which had a seductive reputation for scandalous goings-on. He was dreaming about this when the bell rang for the end of the session and it was time to pack up his things and go home. The model ambled off his stage, modestly wrapped in a towel. The janitor began his regular litany of complaints about the mess the young ladies and gentlemen were making of the wash room. The students looked despondently at their latest creations and stowed them away to be worked on later. Gradually the Slade shut down for the night, disgorging its denizens into the wet, cold, colourless streets.

  By seven William was at his lecture. The little hall was full, the audience consisting mainly of students like himself, but with a smattering of rougher-looking types – trade unionists, Communist Party members, even the odd genuine worker. It was difficult to tell whether Markwitz had ever actually visited Russia or not, but he certainly seemed enthusiastic about the place. It was a veritable paradise, he said, for working people. There was a universal free health service, no unemployment, and everyone helped his neighbour as there was no economic competition. Women had equal rights. Art, cinema and poetry flourished. He showed lantern slides of factory workers eating happily together in works canteens, of peasants, transformed into collective farm workers, smiling at each other as they raked together piles of hay, of earnest students studying engineering in magnificent lecture halls. He waxed lyrical about the development of Soviet arts and theatre. Above all he praised the liberation of people from the stultifying influence of superstition, of the church, and of cruel domination by their feudal landlords and their capitalist bosses.

  “All the people of the Soviet Union,” he declared, “are fellow workers, each receiving what he needs, each giving what he can. Nothing can resist the force of this movement. It falls to you, workers, students and activists to bring these blessings to our own poor country.”

  It wasn’t quite clear what Markwitz meant by “our own poor country”. His accent and name did not exactly identify him as a true Brit. German? Polish? It wasn’t clear, but that didn’t matter. He had made his point. He sat down, looking pleased with himself, and invited questions from the floor. There was some desultory questioning about foreign policy.

  “How,” he replied, “can a country free of religion and capitalism not be peaceful?” About trade unions: “They are the organ of the workers’ control.” Someone tried to ask something about freedom of the press. This produced a little scuffling at the back of the hall and two large men appeared shouldering their way towards the questioner, but Markwitz was equal to the situation.

  “All Soviet newspapers are entirely free to express the t
houghts and the wishes of the people. They are not controlled by the ruling class as they are in England.”

  This seemed quite satisfactory. The meeting broke up amid polite murmurings of approval and the audience filed out, whispering to each other in awed tones, rather as so many non-conformists might leave from a revival meeting. There were people at the door handing out leaflets and news sheets, but William and his little group pushed past into the street and towards a pub.

  “Well, what did you think of that?” asked Guy, a fellow Slade student.

  “Not much new really, but he spoke well, didn’t he?” replied William. “I wonder what it’s really like in Russia though? You know, I don’t believe that fellow has ever been there.”

  “It’s certainly difficult to get in. I tried but they wouldn’t let me as I was not a Party Member. Oh well, I’m on for a drink, Will; how about you?”

  They drifted into the Royal Dragoon and chatted happily there for the duration of a round or two until it was time to go on to the Café des Artes.

  The club was in a Chelsea back street on the top floor of a dreary-looking grey building, the rest of which was taken up by a shabby antique shop. You entered by going up an outdoor fire escape and opening a red leather-covered outer door. Behind the door sat Boris, the doorman, who checked membership cards and took coats in grumpy silence. You then pushed through a heavy velvet curtain into the club itself. You had to blink several times before your eyes adjusted to the dim light and the haze of strange-smelling smoke.

  There were several little groups clustered round tables drinking the “house special” cocktail which, that evening, was a bitter mixture of absinthe and vodka, laced with Worcester sauce. The clients were mostly students but there was a sprinkling of older arty types of both sexes, hoping perhaps to revive the pleasures of their youth, or perhaps to pick up a young girl or boyfriend with whom to misspend the night.

  William’s party grabbed a vacant table and ordered drinks. There were eight of them, four aspiring actors from RADA, and Rosie and Camilla, two fellow art students, who both affected the vague, languid manner then fashionable in arty circles. Camilla was a talented painter, and was to become well known for her family group portraits painted in great houses for wealthy clients. She put a pale arm around William.

  “Willie, darling, do find me some cigarettes I’m positively gasping for a smoke.” William gave her one of his Balkans. “Thanks, you’re such a dear, but isn’t it too too dull in here, same old lot? Oh, I do get so tired of it.”

  William tried to think of a suitable reply when a disturbance arose near them. Jacky, one of the RADA boys, a youth so handsome that it was hard to draw your eyes away from him, stood up quickly and glared at an elderly man who had somehow found a place at their table.

  “Take your hands off me,” he hissed. “You are a disgusting old man. Get out of here, or I shall have to ask Boris to throw you out.”

  The interloper, a little the worse for drink, shambled away. Jacky flushed scarlet, but Rosie comforted him.

  “We all know what you’re really like, sweetie, so don’t take offence. Anyway, I bags the first dance with you and we’ll show ’em all. I hear there’s going to be a Charleston.”

  Sure enough, at that very moment, a band struck up and soon the little dance floor was crowded with couples drifting and swaying to a slow waltz, the air above them a cloud of blue cigarette smoke. After a few dances the compere announced the start of the floorshow and the audience settled round their tables to watch the usual mediocre performances leading up to the high spot of the entertainment. After the conjurors and a man who told dubious jokes, two girls in short dresses and with fashionably bobbed hair appeared on the stage. They were announced as “Barbara and Cassandra, the Amazing Charleston Sensation”. As the first notes of the dance sounded, they seemed at first to freeze, then they were off, incredibly alive and vigorous, throwing themselves into the rhythm of the wild dance, seeming to understand and react together perfectly, like two puppets violently motivated by a single puppeteer. Limbs whizzed faster and faster, legs kicked higher and higher, and as the music rose to a level of intensity worthy of its dark African origins, the girls threw themselves at each other, parted, kicked high, twirled, came together again, all the time shivering and shimmering to the music. Sometimes the band paused, and the pair was statue still, looking fixedly at a point above the audience’s head. Sometimes the pace was so frantic that arms, legs, skirts and faces seemed to blur into a single mad mass of colour.

  The band stopped. “Now all Charleston!” shouted the compere. The floor thronged with dancers, strutting, kicking and shimmying to the music until it seemed that the floor and walls of the old building must burst with the sheer energy of it all. William sat mesmerised at his table. He could Charleston all right, but he had no partner, as Camilla had drifted off with Guy. Conversation was impossible with the din of the music and the shouts and laughter from the dance floor so he just smiled vaguely and carried on drinking the venomous cocktails. It was late now and his head was struggling with the assaults of the music and the alcohol. The dance finished and his party started to drift away. He found himself left alone at the table with Jacky. Exhausted by dancing, Jacky had managed to shake off Rosie, who had been becoming boringly amorous, and was relishing a final, well-earned drink.

  The two young men left together; they both lived near The World’s End at the end of Chelsea High Street, and they strode a little unsteadily down the shining wet pavement, where old newspapers whirled past them on the bitter wind. All at once a figure stepped out in front of them. He was a tall man in a shabby greatcoat fastened with string around his waist. In the dim light of the street lamps they could make out a hollow, pallid face and William noticed that one arm of the greatcoat was empty.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said a surprisingly cultured voice. “I don’t suppose either of you can spare a few coppers for a wounded soldier?”

  Jacky seemed to want to walk on, after all, these unfortunates were common enough in 1920’s London, but William held back, as if mesmerised by the figure in front of him. He was suddenly ashamed of himself, unable to face the reality that the stranger represented, the injustice, the tragedy of his own humiliation. In his dazed, inebriated condition, the man’s words had somehow awakened him to the stark, desperate reality of life in depression-hit London. He was suddenly appalled by the contrast between his frivolous evening and that of this poor, broken creature wandering homeless and alone in the damp, joyless streets of the great city. He dug in his pocket and found four half crowns – ten shillings – which he thrust into the outstretched hand, then, unable to face the thanks of the stranger, or even to speak to him, he hurried on his way, scarlet-faced with embarrassment. Jacky had seen his friend’s generous gift and sensed his discomfort. They were now only a few steps from William’s door.

  “For God’s sake, Jacky, come in,” he muttered. “I need to talk to someone.”

  The two climbed the stairs and William lit the gas fire. Jacky slumped in one of the armchairs and watched as two whisky and sodas were produced.

  “Well, what is it, old chap?” he asked. “Was it something that fellow said?” William thought for a moment. Jacky was not one of his close friends, but suddenly he felt an urge to talk to someone seriously, and Jacky it would have to be.

  “Do you ever feel your life is utterly futile?” he began. “From what I hear you are going to be a fantastic actor, but I know I’ll never be much of a painter and here I am dawdling about in London pretending to be a serious art student. I’m spending the money my father earned by hard work and couldn’t use himself because he was killed in the war. My mum and my brother and sister too, blown up in a ship. I survived, and here I am wasting time on a useless life of sham art and sleazy nightclubs. I’ve got to find something useful to do, and I think it will mean getting out of London. That fellow in the street, it’s a damned disgrace; he’d been a soldier, probably an officer, and look at him n
ow, poor chap. That really brought it home to me, that and the things the lecturer was saying about Russia. I feel so utterly useless! I hate this life we lead. God, Jacky, I might as well have blown up with the rest of the family.”

  Jacky sipped his whisky and thought for a while. He was no fool and he had always liked William, sensing his unease in the shabby bohemian world which they both inhabited.

  “Well I suppose we all feel like that from time to time. You say I will succeed on the stage. Believe me, I love acting more than anything, but I know I’m not half as good as some of the others in my year. I get the good parts because people say I’m good-looking, but as for talent that’s another thing entirely. I think we just have to take life as it comes. Unlike that old soldier we’re both lucky. There’s no point in worrying about it. But if you really don’t like the Slade, try something else, that’s my advice. You’ll be happy enough when you get your teeth into something which really suits you. Good God! Is that the time? I must get home.”

  “Don’t go,” said William. He simply couldn’t bear the thought of being alone that night in his miserable little rooms. “There’s a spare bed in the other room, do stay.”

  So the two sat in front of the gas fire. Jacky was a good talker. Like many stage people he was self-absorbed and deeply interested in the impression he made on those around him. He loved talking about himself and letting his unbridled imagination soar into all sorts of improbable scenarios. That evening he dwelt on the possibilities of getting in to the movie business, maybe in America, and fantasised about the career that he might create for himself, making films with gorgeous women. “I have even got a sort of audition soon,” he announced, “but I am sure it will come to nothing.” His host slumped moodily in his chair. He hardly listened to what Jacky was saying but dwelt gloomily on his own prospects and the miserable, useless life that he was leading. Eventually a pause in the flow of words enabled him to announce that he was going to bed. Jacky’s optimistic conversation had only emphasised his own depression. He slept badly and woke with a hangover.