London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  But Churchill had rejected such a notion out of hand. And Hitler had become even more egotistical and bloated with his own power. The never to be forgotten images of Auschwitz flashed through his mind, proof if any more was to be needed about the brutal insanity that ruled his country. He remembered his life in England. In many ways he had been privileged and lucky - a boarding school education, exposure to the upper middle class, the relaxed life at a first class university, the job in the City - all of these had left their mark on him, so much so that on his return to Germany life had at first seemed strange. Germans were far more concerned with issues of nationalism and pride in their country’s achievements. The British by and large took a more relaxed view on these subjects and life in general - minding one’s own business, as they quaintly put it, inured from the threat of civil strife by the institutions of Parliament and the Monarchy, and the economic cushioning that a large Empire provided. Similar institutions had all but disappeared in Germany under the Nazis. Maybe that was the reason why a deranged demagogue like Hitler had seized his opportunity and swept to power. It was inconceivable to Simon that the same could happen in England - but then she had never been exposed to the havoc, uncertainty and economic ruin that convulsed and tormented Germany after the end of the First World War.

  The bus journey took an age. The village he reached was on the A34, the main road from Stratford to Oxford. He had dozed off in the field until the sun had woken him up around half past nine. Ten minutes later he was in the centre of the quiet village. There was hardly anyone to be seen. He wandered over to the bus stop. A glance at the timetable told him that he had about half an hour to wait. Simon bought some milk and a small loaf of bread at the grocery shop next to the pub, and then settled down to wait. He passed the time by remembering the lessons that Schubert had given him, and mentally brushed up on the techniques and tips he had learned.

  Towards the end of his training Schubert had introduced a very unusual teacher, a renegade Englishman who had changed sides and joined the SS. He held the rank of Untersturmführer, and was perfectly attired in a field grey uniform with an unusual unit badge on his shoulder. It identified him as a member of the British and European Volunteer force. His job was to get Simon back into the habit of conversing in fluent, colloquial English. This newcomer provided a constant critique on accent and pronunciation, and some very useful information on the changes inside Britain since the start of the war. Particular emphasis was made on the paperwork and bureaucracy Simon would encounter. Interestingly, he would not answer any questions about himself, and Schubert was careful to avoid mentioning his name.

  Simon found himself wondering why anyone would want to change sides and betray his own country, let alone serve another regime that was responsible for millions of deaths and countless crimes against humanity. Maybe this Englishman was unaware of this. Maybe changing sides was a better outcome than languishing in a POW camp. And then it hit him- he himself would be doing exactly the same but in reverse, betraying his own country. But at least he had seen with his own eyes the hideous excesses of Hitler’s Germany. Surely such outrages would never occur in England, or would they?

  He ran through the list of documents in his inside pockets: money, ID card, ration card, Army Discharge form and War Office Temporary Disablement form, and his ‘parent’s’ address in London. His cover was that of a Captain, wounded in the Italian Campaign and recently discharged back to England to recuperate. Schubert had used his best forger to work on these.

  ‘Everyone loves a wounded hero, so you should sail through any document inspection without a problem. And if they rumble you because of these, I’ll eat my hat,’ he grinned. ‘We based them on documents found on a dead British officer at Anzio, and changed the name slightly. It should survive any test except an official check with the War Office files.’ Schubert was very fat, with small piggy eyes and myopic glasses. But at least he had a sense of humour, of a rather black sort. ‘Mind you,’ he chuckled, ‘that won’t help much if they’ve got you by the balls in Wormwood Scrubs, or some equally pleasant health resort. But at least you’ll have the consolation of knowing I’ll have serious indigestion!’ He didn’t seem to care that if Simon was caught, questions might be asked about Schubert’s own performance.

  His reverie was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He quickly turned around to see an elderly village constable, dressed in an ancient royal blue uniform with a classic bobby’s helmet perched on his head.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, sorry to bother you, but I’ve been asked to check anybody new in the village today. Could I see your identity papers, please’? The smile was polite but insistent. Simon’s heart raced for a moment. He forced himself to look natural and relaxed.

  ‘Certainly officer’. Simon pulled out his papers and handed them over. The policeman took his time, slowly and carefully checking the documents. Life was quite slow in the country, and nobody was in much of a hurry.

  Eventually, his papers were passed back, with a salute. ‘Thank you, Captain O’Malley.’

  ‘Everything all right officer?’ Simon smiled - just another casual document check, probably the first of many.

  ‘We had a little scare last night, ‘though strictly speaking I really shouldn’t be telling you this. But seeing as you’re a military man, I’m sure it will be alright’, the older man smiled. ‘We had a report from the Local Air Defence about a German aircraft snooping about during the night, Lord knows why- there’s nothing of importance around here. Apparently, one of the RAF pilots thought he saw a parachute, so we’ve been asked to check up on unusual people in the area, just in case’. He stopped and thought for a moment, then resumed. ‘May I ask what you’re doing in the village?’

  Simon had his answer well prepared. ‘I’m waiting for the bus to Oxford. I came up to see my aunt. She lives near Mickleton. She’s old and frail, and won’t be with us much longer, I’m afraid. She looked after me as a child when my mother was ill, and I wanted to see her one last time. I came this way a few days ago. I like walking. The doctors say it’s a good form of rehabilitation for my wounds’.

  ‘Ah, yes sir, I’m sure you’re right. ‘Been abroad recently?’

  ‘I was wounded at Anzio, in Italy’.

  ‘Anzio, Anzio….’ He shook his head. ‘The papers talk about lots of fighting there. I’ve got a son who’s with the Eighth Army, but they’re over the other side of the country, from what I can tell. Ah, here’s your bus. Good day, sir.’

  The policeman walked back towards the pub, nodding and greeting a few villagers who passed by. Simon glanced casually around. Had somebody in the grocery shop alerted him? There was nobody else in the queue. The bus pulled up and he got in, paid his fare to the elderly conductor, and managed to find a spare seat towards the back. His shoulder bag made a comfortable pillow against the window glass. As the bus moved off, a black saloon entered the village.

  He managed to stay awake for the first part of the journey, but fatigue gradually overcame him. It was a beautiful day, hot for late spring, and the sun soon turned the bus into an oven despite the open windows. The heat crept over him like a warm blanket and he dozed off, oblivious to the picturesque rolling green landscape of small hills, woods and fields as the bus ground out the miles to the south. He awoke just outside Chipping Norton. The bus had to wait for nearly half an hour while an enormous convoy of trucks, tanks and towed guns moved through, bound for some military camp further south. He’d never seen the uniforms or equipment before- were they American? They were certainly friendly enough, waving and blowing kisses at any vaguely attractive woman on the bus. There was another ID check at the stop in the town, just another routine inspection of papers by the local police. His scrutiny passed without comment, and the journey continued, eventually reaching Oxford almost two hours later.

  It was but a short walk to the station, where he paid for a second-class ticket to take him to London Paddington terminal. The men’s washroom gave him a chance to wake himself up
with a cold wash and shave. Feeling suitably refreshed, he sat down on one of the platform benches and waited for the next train to London. A large crowd of fellow passengers gradually joined him. Nobody paid him any particular attention, and he congratulated himself at having managed to blend himself in so well. When the train steamed in he chose a seat in a compartment towards the rear of the train that would give him a clear view of all the other passengers who got on. He barely noticed the two men in dark grey suits and hats who boarded the carriage behind him, just as the train pulled away.

  MI6 Headquarters, Broadway Buildings 1515

  ‘What’s the news, Charlie?’ Stewart Menzies had just rushed back from a late luncheon meeting with the CIGS, Field Marshall Sir Alan Brooke, and stormed into Monckton’s office. MI6 had received a report earlier that morning from RAF Air Defence of Great Britain headquarters in Northwood. A high- speed enemy aircraft had penetrated airspace over Lincolnshire and flown southwest towards the Midlands. It was tracked by radar throughout its flight path, and despite the attentions of several night fighter squadrons, nobody had managed to shoot it down. One of the pursuing pilots thought he saw a parachute during his chase, but couldn’t be absolutely certain.

  Monckton was quite animated. ‘We’re tracking a potential suspect on the train from Oxford into Paddington, Chief. The local police were sent out late last night to scour the area on the basis of what the RAF had reported, but they couldn’t find any evidence of a parachute drop- hardly surprisingly in the middle of the night!’ He grinned excitedly. ‘One of the village bobbies near the area of the presumed drop reported talking to a stranger. This man’s papers identified him as a Captain O’Malley, who then boarded the bus to Oxford. By chance the local constabulary checked the village just after the bus left, and the old boy told them that this O’Malley character had just got on and was probably heading to Oxford. They managed to put a call into the police station at Chipping Norton, and followed the bus all the way down there. Chipping Norton police confirmed that our man stayed on the bus. So they carried on and followed it all the way to Oxford. He didn’t get off.’

  ‘On what basis do you regard him as ‘our man’?’ Menzies asked.

  ‘Well, only because nobody reported anything else out of the ordinary since last night. Police and Home Guard enquiries in the area have otherwise drawn a blank. Granted, it’s a little thin, but there’s nothing else to go on at present. And why would a German aircraft pay a visit to this area? There’s little of military note, apart from a Royal Engineer base at Long Marston. All the important invasion stuff is further south. The RAF boys are quite worried, though. The route in and out of our airspace avoided known anti-aircraft defence areas and airfields, and tracks straight back to Germany. None of their aircraft could touch it, although one fighter pilot is claiming he managed a hit. But there’s no evidence to support this. It’s hardly likely to be a reconnaissance mission, not in the middle of the night, so this all suggests a mission to drop an agent. That’s also backed up by the presumed parachute sighting. I spoke to the Chief Constable of Warwickshire, who’s been very cooperative. He was a little unsure about maintaining surveillance, rather than stepping straight in and arresting this chap - you know what those foot-pads are like.’ Menzies nodded in agreement.‘But I managed to persuade him that this is the way we want to play it. He hasn’t got much in the way of resources in that part of the world, but he had several teams out checking the area - two last night in fact and another two this morning’. Monckton moved over to where Menzies was sitting. ‘I’ve marked up a map’.

  He spread out an Ordnance Survey map of the area. It covered the area around Stratford and to the south. ‘The RAF pilot thought the drop was in the area marked by this circle’. Monckton pointed to a sparsely inhabited area that encompassed a five-mile radius around Ilmington. ‘The village policeman reported contact with O’Malley here.’ He pointed to the town of Shipston-on-Stour. ‘The bus route follows the A34 all the way down and then branches off towards Chipping Norton. After it stops there, it then rejoins the A34 to go through to Woodstock and onto Oxford. He was observed going into the railway station, and the ticket clerk remembers him buying a ticket to Paddington. I’ve asked the Chief Constable to continue with house-to-house inquiries in the area inside the circle, just in case they turn up anything else. That brings us bang up to date.’

  ‘Who’s on the train?’ Menzies asked.

  ‘Two plain clothes officers from Oxford, Chief. They’ve been warned to identify themselves to the Transport Police. We’ll liaise with them.’

  ‘Lord, I hope they don’t bugger things up and tip their hand before our chaps take over’. Menzies groaned. ‘What time is it due in?’

  ‘A quarter past four, assuming no unforeseen delays. I’ve organised a team of six to meet them at the station. That’s all we could spare without pulling men off other essential jobs.’

  ‘Alright. We’d better get a move on.’ Menzies leaned back in his chair, twirled his moustache and thought for a moment. ‘I’d have preferred eight to make it really effective. See if we can poach the two chaps from the train to make the numbers up. We might be able to pull some more of our people in later on to replace them.- He paused again. ‘OK, Charlie, here’s what we’ll do. The team at Paddington will operate on a rolling basis. Two in a car, the rest on foot, alternating so that our suspect doesn’t get spooked and recognize the tail. And if he does spot our chaps and tries to evade, that can only confirm who he really is. Brief the team quickly, then get them over fast to Paddington. Put Simmonds in charge downstairs - he can coordinate the phone lines here and plot the trail on our street maps. Have you checked with the War Office?’

  ‘Yes, Chief. I just finished with them as you walked in.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s the same old story. They say they’ll get their best men onto it, checking out O’Malley’s identity, as soon as they can spare somebody.’

  ‘Bugger!’ Menzies fumed. That means we’ll be lucky to get an answer by tomorrow night. More likely, it’ll be sometime next week. Lazy bastards- I’d like to go in there and light a rocket up their arses.’ Menzies had little respect for the War Office and Whitehall officialdom in general. He considered both to be manned by incompetents who should have been pensioned off ages ago. ‘Well, let’s see how far this chap gets, and where he’s going to. The next few hours should be rather interesting.’

  West London 1625

  The train arrived in Paddington almost on time, only a few minutes late. Simon made his way across the platforms and through the busy concourse. A routine check at the ticket barrier, and then out onto the station foyer. Black taxis were parked in an orderly line, but he avoided the queue. Instead he decided to walk. Exercise to stretch his legs and improve his breathing was what he needed. His ankle was holding up well. Full physical recovery was still some way off, so why not take the opportunity to walk about and get familiar with the ebb and flow of a great city, particularly in a time of war?

  The late spring sunshine was still warm, but most of the pedestrians he encountered still wore jackets, or were dressed in uniform. This was the first and most obvious difference that struck him on his return to the capital, the sheer profusion of colour, not dissimilar to the scene of organized confusion at Anhalter station in Berlin. The faces were far less serious, seeming to suggest that London and England had weathered the worst of the storm, despite the bombings, and victory could not be far away. And there was hardly any bomb damage to be seen, at least not on the way in from the west. The sky was clean and unsullied from the smoke of burning buildings. The occasional set of barrage balloons could be seen on the horizon, protecting factories and important installations, but evidence of destruction was minimal compared to the widespread devastation he had witnessed in some of Berlin’s suburbs.

  Everywhere there were posters, urging and cajoling the public to be vigilant and thrifty, in their efforts to counter enemy spies and help the wartime economy.
He’d listened to a few old dears talking in his carriage as the train journey unfolded, and from that he’d gleaned some interesting pieces of useful information. Most of the population had at least one job in addition to their main occupation with the exception of the very young and elderly.

  There were so many other public-spirited schemes designed to mobilize almost the entire population and get them personally involved in the war against Germany. Few women were allowed to stay at home full-time, minding the family. Many of them were conscripted into working in aircraft, tank or munitions factories, freeing up men to join the armed forces to fight the evils of Nazism and liberate occupied Europe. Others worked on the land to grow food on any available plot, no matter how small. It was an impressive achievement- the entire nation was united in a single objective. He wondered why this had never been achieved in Germany. Was it the National Socialist vision of Kirche, Kinder, Küche – a woman’s place was in the home, protecting the simple ideals of the perfect family, while her husband defended the state against the barbarian hordes?

  He smiled to himself. The English always had their own way of doing things. He regarded them as a most civilized yet individual collection of people. Mind your own business, and don’t let the state interfere too much. Most people were happy to go about their own private lives and individual pursuits in a relaxed manner and not worry too much about what was looming over the horizon. At least, that’s what his years on England had taught him. But when faced with a deadly threat, they had responded magnificently, a sense of the whole country pulling together as one.