by Jim Crossley
A week later, Hans and Claus, one of his fellow participants in the tests, were asked to present themselves in Otto’s office. Otto and one of the officers who had monitored the testing were waiting. The officer spoke.
“Gentlemen, I have to congratulate you. You have been successful in some gentle testing to see if you are fit for service as officers in a new organisation which is going to restore the honour of your fatherland. You have a choice now. You may join us and, if you prove yourself during your training, you will become a member of an elite new unit of the nation’s armed forces, or you may leave this room and never say another word about what I have told you or about your experience with us so far. You may discuss your decision only with your parents, making it quite clear that they also are bound to secrecy. If you, or they, break this confidence you will be sorry for it. Now you have two days to decide. Return here and let Otto know your decision.”
Hans did not take long to make up his own mind, but what about his parents? His father, Albricht, was not a military man. He had been a diplomat and senior civil servant in the Kaiser’s government and had excellent connections in the German industrial hierarchy. His career had survived the fall of the imperial regime, and he was now dabbling on the edge of right-wing politics. He had been especially keen to encourage his son to become a lawyer and often tested him by arguing political and legalistic points with him. How would he react to this dramatic change of tack?
Hans approached the subject with trepidation after dinner on a Sunday evening. He need not have worried. To his immense surprise, Albricht knew all about von Seeckt’s lecture and about the selection process which Hans had undertaken. “This has always been a military family,” he said. “Your grandfather and your uncle were distinguished soldiers of the Reich in their time and it will be an honour to us all if you follow them in your generation. Join with our blessing.”
“Join with our blessing?” said Hans to himself. “There is something fishy there. I have never heard of Father talking about blessings before.”
He was not particularly close to his father but he did know that he had connections with some nationalist politicians and members of the German Officer Corps. He had also talked from time to time about restoring the privileges of the Prussian aristocracy, an idea which seemed to Hans’ generation totally absurd. Come to think of it, his father’s unexpected familiarity with the goings-on at the yacht club wasn’t the only strange thing which seemed to have been happening recently. There had been unfamiliar visitors to the house, some of them seemingly important political figures. Even Hindenburg, the revered president, had once visited and spent an afternoon closeted with Albricht and a suave gentleman called Herr von Papen, another visitor, in the study. Then there was that red-faced fat man who talked so loudly and was not at all the type whom his parents normally associated with. He had actually deigned to spend a few minutes talking to Hans, and had seemed delighted to hear that he was a member of the sailing club. There were assorted senior military officers and the occasional ambassador. Strangest of all was a vulgar fellow wearing a sort of khaki uniform. Hans had quickly made himself scarce when this horrid creature unsubtly began to caress his thigh when they happened to be standing close to each other in the hall. Rohm – that was his name. Why on earth was his father entertaining such oddities? His mother too seemed deeply involved in whatever it was that was happening. It was quite embarrassing how she had made up to the fat red-faced man – what was his name? Hermann something, Goering – that was it.
Hans was uninterested in affairs of state and blissfully ignorant of the political developments going on around him. In fact, his father was helping to put together an alliance between the National Socialist Party, Hitler’s fearsome and brutish political vehicle, and the old-fashioned, militaristic Nationalist Party. It would help his father’s cause and enhance his reputation with both sides if his son was to be a member of the armed forces. The army particularly had an almost mystical status in German imaginations and a revived German Army was the Holy Grail of all true German nationalists. Albricht had once caught himself thinking that he, like Abraham, was prepared to sacrifice his only son at the command of the Almighty – but Albricht’s “Almighty” was certainly not Abraham’s God. He quickly dismissed the thought.
Chapter 2
William made his somewhat inglorious return to Tyneside on his faithful AJS, following the old Great North Road all the way from Charing Cross to Newcastle. It had been a solid ten hours bumping along amid the lorries, motor cars and farm traffic. Mrs Wellibond, the housekeeper, who had been with the family now for twenty-five years greeted him warmly at Stonebeck House, the family home. She had prepared one of her famous dinners and sat down at the table herself to make the most of the return of the only surviving member of the beloved family which she had served so long and so well. Not a day passed by without her recalling those two awful events of 1916, the loss of William’s mother and two siblings when their ferry hit a mine, and the death of his father in an unexplained flying accident only two months later. Since then she had treated William virtually as a son. She was secretly glad that the idea of the Slade had been given up and dared to hope that he now planned to settle on Tyneside and try to make his living there. It was 1929, and things were, she said, a little better than they had been, although the shipyards were not too busy the coal mines were working hard and people had a little more money to spend. She was keen to show William the changes she had made to his old family home. Two large flats had been made out of the two wings of the house, and in each of these respectable tenants had been installed, an engineer working for Parsons and his wife and “a very untidy young man who fiddled with radio sets and suchlike”. Their rent was enough to cover the cost of keeping up the house, and they contributed towards the wages of Mrs Wellibond herself and some extra help in the house. The redoubtable housekeeper was delighted to hear news of Flopsy, who had been a regular visitor to Stonebeck before the war. By the time they had finished talking, William could scarcely keep his eyes open. There was a coal fire in his own little bedroom, looking over the front garden, and as he climbed into the familiar bed, all his old forgotten things were around him, each in its proper place.
His first task the next morning was to pay a visit to Mr Walder, the solicitor who was trustee of the family estate and was to remain so, according to his father’s will, until William reached the age of thirty. He had arranged the meeting by letter before leaving London, and had told his trustee a little about his plans. Walder’s office was in Whitley Bay. He looked more like a prosperous farmer than a lawyer, red-faced, plump and domineering in manner. His attitude was, William thought, a little too patronising. He produced a file of figures, which William stared at. They meant nothing to him. “Let me explain, young Portman,” he began. “Your father’s estate was worth altogether about a hundred thousand pounds, a tidy sum, mostly coming from the bonus shares he got over the years from Parsons. Apart from some small bequests, this has all been held in your trust fund. On top of that there is the house, of course, and personal possessions. The house just about covers its costs, and your income, five hundred pounds per year, is paid out of the trust fund. Now the fund actually produces about three thousand pounds per year, and we have been investing the surplus income, so it’s now worth about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds. We’ve been very cautious about our investment policies. No American trusts, no foreign bonds, good old-fashioned gilts and a few reliable British equities. I’ve a bad feeling about the stock markets, especially in America, and although we could have grown the sum faster, we have taken the most cautious approach we could.”
William nodded his approval.
“Now, you told me in your letter that you were thinking of setting up some sort of business up here,” continued the solicitor. “You must understand that my duty is to safeguard your funds until 1939 when you will be thirty, but the will does not preclude us from financing a modest private business venture. What had you in m
ind?”
“Well, sir, I thought I might rent some suitable premises on the Tyne and go into boat building. There are plenty of skilled workers around here looking for work and costs would be less than in the south where most yachts are built. I’ve a little experience in boatbuilding myself and I think I could make a go of it.”
Walder looked dubious. Boatbuilding didn’t seem like a very good prospect and he knew that this young man had no commercial experience whatsoever. He spoke slowly and deliberately.
“I know boats are fun, William, and you do know a bit about them, but boatbuilding is like any other business – all about money. You can pour it into an enterprise like that forever and finish up with nothing but debts. I’ve seen it too often. I don’t know much about boats myself but I do know that any manufacturing business needs hard graft, experience and the ability to sell products at the right price. I can’t let you spend your inheritance on something like that until I can see that you can manage it properly. Now I suggest you go away and think again. I’m sorry.”
William had never liked Walder much and now he hated him. There he was sitting in his office laying down the law. What did he know about boats anyway? How dare this man question his ability to run a business. He hadn’t even asked about William’s admittedly rather sketchy ideas about a range of small ketches designed for the family sailor, but it was no good arguing with this stubborn, opinionated man. He mumbled something about coming up with a plan, made his excuses and departed.
William’s next call was much more to his liking. Freddy Seal had been his father’s boatman and companion on many pre-war yachting adventures, and then been his mate on a wartime minesweeper. He had saved his father’s life after a mine exploded accidentally and was utterly devoted to the family. Since the war he had married and settled down, working on various gentlemen’s yachts in the summer, and repairing and looking after small boats during the winter months.
“Aye, Mr William, right glad I am to see ye, and they say as you’ll be with us for a bit now.” A powerful hand pumped William’s, and Freddy’s leathery face broke into a wide grin. “I’ve a done something maybe I shouldn’t when I heard as you was a’ coming. I’ve put the lad ’ere on getting old Columba ready for the summer, she ain’t sniffed water since 1914, but she’s a good old boat and right as rain, and I thinks to myself – Mr William he’ll be wanting her in the summer.”
“Quite right, Freddy, and how do the sails look?”
“They’ll do a season maybe.”
The two chatted for half an hour or so and then it was time for William to get home for lunch. An astonishing sight greeted him at the house. A young man, dressed in overalls, was squatting on the front lawn entangled in an impossible mess of wire and rope. His hands were bleeding in several places and there was a large bruise on his forehead. He was muttering and cursing to himself, and looked embarrassed and guilty when William walked up to him.
“What the duce?” began William.
The man tried to struggle to his feet, but tripped on a wire and tumbled headlong onto the soft, damp grass. He managed to sit up. Tall, thin and dishevelled, he presented a sorry picture, but even as he struggled to free himself from his entanglements a broad grin lit up his face and soon the grin transformed into an uncontrollable guffaw.
“Good morning,” he stammered, “I’m Hugh Wesley, your tenant in the west wing; that is if you’re William Portman. I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I put this aerial up on the lawn here, it’s a dipole – two masts and one hundred and fifty feet of wire – but I seem to be making a bit of a mess of it. Never was much good with this sort of thing.”
William suppressed his own laughter and helped his tenant to disentangle himself. When he stood up, William could see that he was a thin, gangly fellow with long limbs and untidy hair. He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. As he looked at the muddle around him, his shoulders again began to shake with peals of infectious laughter.
“For heaven’s sake, Wesley,” said William. “Let’s go into the house. I’m sure Mrs Wellibond will have enough for both of us and we’ll fix your dipole or whatever it is after lunch.”
William was not the most organised or methodical of people, but being a sailor, he at least knew something about masts and ropes, and he was a hundred percent better at the job than his tenant. Using some old fence posts driven into the ground as strong points, he soon had the masts ready to haul upright, while Hugh struggled with insulators and wire. In a couple of hours the masts were vertical and the whole contraption seemed reasonably secure.
“Come and have a look at this,” said Hugh, after he had coupled the aerial to a wire leading into the front room of his flat. Inside, William found an indescribable jumble of valves, wires, condensers, speakers and other such gadgets, some of which glowed and hummed quietly as Hugh turned on the power. He spoke into a microphone. A crackly voice with a distinctly foreign accent replied.
“Come in Hoopoe.”
“Testing testing,” said Hugh, “you are loud and clear.”
“Loud and clear, out to you,” said the voice.
Hugh turned down the volume. “Wonderful!” he cried. “That was Marc in Belgium. This is an HF set you see, almost unlimited range in the right conditions and a broad enough bandwidth to carry voice. I never managed that before, but this is the first time I’ve had a proper aerial. You know, we’re really getting somewhere.” He positively glowed, just like one of his radio valves, with happiness.
From that moment on, Hugh became a firm friend. It was astonishing to see that a man so clumsy and impractical was transformed into a neat, dextrous worker when faced with small electronic components and a soldering iron. Also, he was brilliant at explaining what he was doing and why.
“Look, if we put another capacitor in the circuit here we’ll change the critical frequency; now I’ll show you how we work it out.” Or “You see this valve? We’ve got a problem because its connection to the grid battery is faulty somewhere. Have a look and see if you can find what’s wrong.”
William became fascinated by the technology of radio. He had never been a great mathematician but had been taught the basics and he soon picked up the calculations he needed to work on simple circuits. There was a satisfactory combination of logic and, it seemed, artistry, about the design of them which appealed to him. He and Hugh would often struggle with a system long into the night, unwilling to be beaten.
Most days William would go down and talk to Freddy about how Columba was getting on. Recommissioning an old wooden boat is quite a task. Keel bolts have to be inspected, seams filled, old paint scraped off and new coats applied, standing and running rigging overhauled and sails patched up. Occasionally, William would lend a hand himself. He enjoyed working with Freddy and the lad who helped him; there was a constant exchange of humorous comments as they worked and it was great to see the old boat gradually looking as if she might soon be fit to go to sea.
Hugh’s circuits were not just a hobby. He was well known in the radio world, and earned his living by providing a contract design service to manufacturers and operators. It was a somewhat precarious existence but he enjoyed the work so immensely that he could imagine doing nothing else. William envied his enthusiasm and the way in which he had found a role in life which exactly suited his talents. If only he could do the same himself. Since the interview with Walder, nothing in the way of a business idea had occurred to him and, when not working on the boat or with Hugh, he gloomily tried to paint local landscapes and seascapes, producing nothing that satisfied him.
He was still at a loose end when a conversation with Mrs Wellibond started an entirely new train of thought. William knew that his grandfather on his father’s side had been a German nobleman, and his own father had been proud of his German roots, insisting always that his offspring should be bilingual and respect their ancestry. He had reluctantly changed the family name from von Pilsen to Portman during the war to prevent the boys from being persecuted at school. William’s gra
ndmother had married for a second time, after the death of her first husband, again to a German, a successful naval officer. William vaguely remembered his grandparents and how kind they had been to him and his siblings. Mrs Wellibond happened to mention in conversation that William’s father, Max, had often mentioned his elder brother, Albricht. William wondered if this German uncle of his was still alive and dug around in his father’s papers until he found an address. He determined to write a polite letter, in German of course, and see what the situation was as regards the German half of the family. More quickly than he had expected, a reply came from Uncle Albricht himself with an open invitation to visit, either at the family’s estate in East Prussia, or at their house in Berlin. William determined on a visit in the very near future. He would meet his uncle in Berlin, where he was engaged in government business. William would stay in the house for a few days, then take himself off for a tour around the country, bringing his painting things with him. Albricht was apparently the only surviving relation of his generation. He had one son, Hans, about William’s age. It might be fun to meet this Hans.