by Jim Crossley
Albricht was taken aback by this blunt proposal coming as it did from the nephew he had written off as a vaguely arty, ineffective young man. He asked for time to consider and arranged a further, private meeting with William the next day. There were obvious difficulties. How could he be sure that what his nephew would tell him was correct? Suppose the truth was that Hans was dead, what use to him was that information? On the other hand, there was no real cost for Germany or for him personally in arranging an exchange of three rather unimportant prisoners. They could be swapped for Germans held in England or some neutral country. It would save a lot of trouble if the affair could be pinned on French “terrorists”. After all, that police colonel seemed to think that it was nothing to do with the British airmen. He himself was getting old. Very privately he was now certain that Germany could not win the war now that America was involved and the Russian front was collapsing. All he wanted was to get his son safely back into the bosom of the family. Then he could end his life in contentment. In the morning he had an idea.
The next meeting with William took place in a police office. Albricht asked the obvious question about how any information William might get could be verified. The answer to this was simple; verification would come from either the Red Cross or the Swiss embassy, wherever Hans, if he was still alive, was being held. Written confirmation would be handed to the Swiss police and passed to Albricht as soon as the three British were on their way home. This he rejected immediately and came up with a counter proposal. If Hans was still alive, why not a straight swap with his cousin? Once this was settled, perhaps some arrangement could be made for the other two airmen. William saw some immediate advantages in this idea. Hans would be back in Germany, well away from Angela and he himself would be free, but he didn’t like the rather vague agreement regarding his crew. He would never consider leaving Switzerland without them. The meeting broke up with William promising to try to get information about Hans while Albricht came up with a more acceptable proposal for the other two. He had to return to Germany the next day, but would be in Switzerland again the following week.
Nothing could have prepared the old fixer for the visitor who appeared in his office on the morning of his return to Berlin. The SS officer was correct but forceful.
“I have come to question you in regard to your son, Hauptmann Hans von Pilsen. Do you know, sir, where he is?”
“No, I myself am trying to find what has become of him.”
“Are you aware that he has been declared a traitor and an enemy of the Reich?”
Albricht was dumbfounded; his son a traitor? Impossible.
“I have to inform you that he has also been found guilty in his absence of the cold-blooded murder of an SS officer, Horst Feldman, in Sicily.”
“I know nothing of this. Impossible,” replied Albricht.
“Then I must inform you of these painful facts, Herr Count.”
There followed an account of the events in Enna.
“I must tell you, sir, that we have no information regarding your son’s movements on that last day. His aircraft was never found. We had a report that he might have been in a British military hospital in Gibraltar, but these are not confirmed. I do not have to tell you that should you or your wife have any contact with this traitor it is your duty to report it at once to the SS. We are of course aware of the vital work you are doing for the Reich in the diplomatic sphere (Albricht immediately thought of the two million dollars in gold coins he had recently transferred to a Swiss bank on behalf of Himmler, the head of the SS). Possibly you may be able to help us by making enquiries of the Red Cross in Switzerland. Rest assured, we will find the traitor and bring him to justice. Heil Hitler!” He strode out of the room.
Albricht collapsed into his chair, dumbfounded. His son, a traitor and murderer. Impossible! But what of this hint of his being in the hands of the British in Gibraltar?
He must get back to Switzerland as soon as possible. His young nephew, claiming contacts in the “British security establishment” was the best hope he had.
William himself had been busy trying to get as much information as possible about his cousin in order to strengthen his bargaining position. Communication with London was difficult and made more so by the obstructive Ponsonby at the embassy, but Schonbloomer had now become an enthusiastic supporter of his scheme to outwit the German police and was on good terms with senior personnel in the Swiss diplomatic service. A letter from William to Sir Felix was smuggled into a diplomatic bag and five days later a reply came from London. Reading the extraordinary story of Hans’ escape, William almost got to like his cousin in spite of the burning jealousy he felt when he read of the risks Angela had taken on his behalf. God, how he longed for Angela, her soft, yielding body, her own special smell, her bubbly irrepressible humour, even occasionally her domineering certainty. Thank the Lord that bloody Hun was well away in Canada. He must get home. He must see her.
Another meeting with Albricht was arranged. William began:
“Uncle, I now have a report from England with all the information which you asked for, but the terms remain as I stated. You get the information: my crew and I return to England.”
“I am astonished William that you put such a heavy price on simply letting me know what has happened to my son. Are we not family?”
“Family indeed, sir, but the lives of two of my men are at stake. Please do not think that I am unaware of the fate awaiting them at the hands of your police. Of course they are not guilty but our confidence in your judicial system is not high. I am afraid they will be made scapegoats to satisfy German public opinion. Either they are released and sent home or we have no deal.”
“The leaders of our Reich will not permit it.”
“Uncle, I am aware of your position of trust within your hierarchy. I believe that the British government would sanction the release of three German internees in exchange for my crew and myself. It would be a triumphant negotiation for you, besides the information which I know is foremost in your mind.”
“But how will I know that the information you offer is accurate?”
“I will provide information from the Swiss embassy or the Red Cross in whichever country your son is held to confirm that what I say is true. This evidence will be handed to you as soon as my men and I are on the way to England.”
It took a month for the Swiss consulate in Ottawa to take a photograph of Hans, authenticate it and send it to Switzerland, where it was held in safe keeping by Schonbloomer.
The Swissair DC 3 stood ready to depart for Barcelona, engines ticking over evenly while the Diplomatic Service Mercedes drew up near the control tower and Albricht examined the photographs. Yes, this was truly his son. With the pictures there was a brief report from the consulate and an affidavit signed by some English judge he had never heard of setting out the circumstances which had led to the concealment of his identity. His driver gave a signal to the control tower and the aircraft on the runway opened up its engines and headed west for Spain.
Albricht was not accustomed to thanking God for anything, but now he had to do so. His son was alive and safe in a country out of reach of the war. He no longer believed in ultimate German victory so maybe there would never be a trial for the killing of the SS officer. Perhaps Hans could one day return from Canada and become a leader of a new Germany under a different regime. He spent the rest of the day with Schonbloomer concocting a story about the Arosa incident which would satisfy the Nazi police.
The crew’s journey home was not pleasant or easy. The Spanish authorities made life as unpleasant as possible for the three airmen, and then there was an uncomfortable and noisy flight from Gibraltar home as passengers in a Lancaster which had somehow managed to fetch up in north Africa. The flight was cramped, noisy and uncomfortable. William clambered stiffly out of the plane and made for the truck waiting to take the crew to the officers’ mess. Suddenly he caught the smell of freshly cut grass, and from somewhere in the distance the sounds of Worker
s’ Playtime on the BBC drifted towards him from a hangar. From further away he could hear another sound, the unmistakable putter of a motor mower making its dark green and light green stripes on the squadron lawn. He took a deep breath. Yes, he was really home. Now he must find his Angela.
The next day a friendly bomber pilot gave him a lift to Ford, where he was ordered to take two weeks’ leave, then report to the Air Ministry in London. “By the way, Portman,” the CO remarked. “I think you’ll find all your things in order; we didn’t send them home as Flight Sergeant Tuoy said he’d care for them; he seemed to be certain that you would get back.” Not only had the faithful Tuoy looked after the few possessions William had left behind, he had used his spare time to overhaul the Lagonda, and it stood gleaming outside the mess, full of petrol and running as sweetly as silk, waiting for his return. William lost no time in setting off for Hampshire.
The judge was in London, but would be home the next day. Lady Pointer made her unexpected guest welcome, but he felt that he was poor company that evening. His hostess brushed off all questions about Hans, saying that he must wait until Sir Felix returned. Angela, she said, was at sea again but she suspected that she might arrive back in England soon, as she had been away for almost three months. William went to bed imagining the very worst. Angela was keeping away on purpose so as not to see him. She was in love with that Nazi bastard. He had taken advantage of her in Exton while he himself was fighting. Perhaps she was even pregnant. Why was Lady Pointer being so uncommunicative? He passed a troubled, sleepless night.
The next day he was put to work in the vegetable garden after breakfast and spent the day weeding, planting out leeks, lettuces and cabbage seedlings. The solitary physical work did him good and the time passed quickly until Lady Pointer asked him to collect Sir Felix from the railway station at Alton. “He does hate that bus,” she said. “And he gets exhausted after a week in London. He’s almost eighty, you know, but he will not stop work at least until the war is over.” William found himself quite shy and embarrassed to meet the man who had saved his two crew and probably himself from the clutches of the Gestapo, but the old fellow seemed cheerful enough and brushed aside all William’s thanks.
“No trouble, old boy, when you are my age you have a pretty good idea of how things are done. Cost me a couple of dinners at Brooks’s that’s all.”
Sir Felix went to bed early, so it was not until the next morning that William was able to question him about Hans.
“Well, I found your cousin a nice enough young man,” he said. “Very shaken though, which is not surprising after what he had been through. I really think Angela saved his life on that troop ship you know – or perhaps you haven’t heard that story? I’ll tell you about it.” He explained Hans’ injuries and about the swapped identity with the Polish soldier. “Pretty plucky that, wasn’t it? She could have got into no end of trouble, you know. But I must say I’m proud of her for it.”
This was not at all what William wanted to hear. He slunk off to the vegetable garden, dug ferociously for a few hours, then invented an excuse to leave for his old home on Tyneside.
As ever Mrs Wellibond was delighted to see him and made a tremendous fuss of making him as comfortable as possible. Part of the house had been taken over as a nurses’ hostel, but William’s own room was intact and at last he was able to relax and remember his happy boyhood here in Stonebeck House. He had long talks with Freddy Seal. Freddy had been doing pretty well out of his inshore fishing activities, selling shellfish and freshly caught codling and mackerel to households longing for a bit of a treat. Columba, like most private yachts, was ashore, immobilised following navy orders to deny any possible means of escape to German POWs.
“Twenty-four hours and she’ll be ready for sea again,” said Freddy with a wink. “I reckon you’ll be wanting to get to sea as soon as it’s over.”
Freddy was right. After all this dashing about in aeroplanes and the noise, smell and sheer brutishness of service life, William could hardly wait to be under sail again, At Stonebeck he began to sleep better than he had since the first days of the war. Everything took on a new, different dimension. Angela remained at the very centre of his thinking, but other things, aeroplanes, the RAF, the war and even Hans seemed to vanish behind a veil of foggy irrelevance. Instead he would calculate the state of tide at the river mouth, look up to see how the clouds were flying and pay close attention to anything which helped to forecast the weather. He felt in his sleep the jerk of flapping canvas, and under his feet the heel of the deck as his imaginary ship surged forward, washing her foredeck with clean seawater.
His next trip to London brought a sharp new focus. He was briefed by a Group Captain concerning the role which he was to play for the rest of the war. “You see, Portman,” he said. “We never use chaps who have been released from detention in front line roles – security, you see, it’s policy and we can make no exceptions; however, we do have something in mind which will suit you. We find ourselves in dire need of artists and your papers here suggest that was your work in civilian life.” He went on to outline the situation.
The Allies had landed in Normandy and after a brief pause were about to overrun Paris, and drive a battered German army back out of France towards the Rhine. The Luftwaffe was concentrating what force it had left on intercepting the relentless stream of British and American bombers which were at last beginning to overwhelm the powerhouse of the enemy war industry. Only occasionally would a bold formation of fast bombers attempt to strike at British airfields, and few of these sorties were successful. Another threat, however, was developing in the hellish cauldron of the doomed German war machine. V-1 “Doodlebugs”, unmanned flying bombs, rapidly followed by V-2 ballistic missiles were being launched from European sites with the object of striking terror into the hearts of the civilian population, especially the people of London.V-1s could occasionally be brought down by the fastest fighter planes or by ack-ack, but there was no defence at all against ballistic missiles, thousands of which were being built by slave labour in the depths of the Reich and smuggled to their launch sites in France, Holland and Belgium. Somehow they had to be stopped.
With almost complete control of the air over Germany and its occupied territories, the RAF was constantly using high-flying aircraft to photograph potential missile launch sites and to track the V-weapons as they moved, by road, rail or water, from their factories to the front line. Interpreting the thousands of photographs taken required an artist’s eye which might be able to distinguish between a natural feature, an innocent quarry or an uncompleted bit of civilian groundwork, from a well-camouflaged launch site. Did that railway siding really hold a row of dilapidated cattle trucks, or were these innocent-looking bits of rolling stock actually cunningly hidden missiles on their way to a launch site in Belgium? Is that a haystack, or a camouflaged V-weapon? Why is part of the roof of that barn a different shape from the rest of it? Much of this painstaking analysis of photographic data was done by specially trained WAAFs (female RAF personnel). William’s role was to be to head up one of the photo interpretation teams.
A week later he found himself in charge of a team of twenty-five keen-eyed young ladies, working in a disused and uncomfortable factory building in Hampshire. Photographs would be taken from first light until dusk, speedily developed and delivered to one of a number of such teams, each one specialising in a defined geographic area on the Continent. The teams would work until midnight on the day’s pictures and recommend areas for further attention or for immediate attack.
To his surprise, William found the work congenial and interesting. His team of WAAFs would show him anything they deemed suspicious, and he soon found that his artist’s eye was remarkably successful in translating fizzy photographs into three-dimensional pictures of the area and would give him a good idea of what was lurking in the shadows or underground. Often he felt he could even recognise the work of individual enemy camouflage officers, disguising a tunnel entrance here, a lau
nch vehicle there or a transporter cunningly concealed by tree branches or by a haystack. Working as a solitary male officer among a large party of WAAFs obviously had its dangers and temptations, but William was deaf to every invitation and blind to all alluring glances. In fact, the girls began to speculate widely and not always kindly about his sexual orientation. He didn’t mind. Being close to Angela’s home, he spent any spare time he had there, helping Sir Felix in the garden and mooning about thinking of her, wondering morbidly what might have passed between her and his bitter rival – Hans. He was always a welcome visitor as Sir Felix loved having contact with young people. His son, Rory, was far away fighting his way up Italy and Angela on her hospital ship was now with the British Pacific Fleet somewhere near Australia, so William’s company was welcome. Although security prevented him from saying much about what he did in the field of photo intelligence, he could talk freely about his operations with Bomber Command and in Switzerland, and made the old boy roar with laughter with his accounts of outwitting the Gestapo with the help of the Swiss police. The judge for his part talked about his political contacts, his rows with the various service chiefs (which were frequent) and his conviction that after the war a very different Britain would emerge.
Chapter 17
Ikari Samasido had lived his early years under a dismal, grey cloud. His grandfather, once a Vice Admiral in the Imperial Japanese Navy, had served his country well, including a glorious episode as commander of a destroyer in the great Battle of Tsushima in 1905 and a fine performance as a squadron commander in the Mediterranean in 1917-18. Intelligent, charming and a fluent English speaker, he had seemed to be bound for the highest positions in the Japanese military hierarchy. Then something went wrong. An avid reader of British and American news media, he saw that the world was not favourably impressed by the conduct of his country in the post-war period. Unwisely, he wrote an article for an American magazine entitled An Alternative Future for Japan which came to the notice of the government. The nationalistic clique then in power lost no time in interpreting this as a criticism of themselves and, worse still, of the Emperor. Deprived of his offices and honours, the old man had sunk into gloomy obscurity, dragging his family with him. His son, Ikari’s father, just managed to hold onto his post as a local manager in the Post Office Department but was clearly barred from any further advancement. His earnings were barely enough to support his wife, son and two daughters. The family no longer received official invitations, were shunned by upwardly mobile acquaintances and had to endure countless minor insults.