The Hidden War

by David Fiddimore

  ‘You mean that if you want to get something unofficially from the Soviet Zone into Soviet Berlin, it’s easier to smuggle it into the Allied Zone outside Berlin first, then into our part of Berlin, and then back across the line into Red Berlin?’

  ‘Good boy! I knew you’d get it! Tol’ you he was OK, Greg.’ The Russian glowered at me, and then grinned to soften it. I could hear the boots on his short legs banging against the chair legs as he swung them. That was generally a good sign. He said, ‘I’m still not sure. When I heard your plane was down, Charlie, I drove there to see what I can do. I thought that it would demonstrate my good intentions for you. It took me two days. Spartacus’s people were glad I come, because they’d realized that they’d made a mistake, and by then they were talking of shooting your crew and burning the crate to hide it. On the other hand they didn’t want such an openly hostile act.’

  ‘By then I’d delivered him a load of liquorice deep in his zone, not knowing he couldn’t get it to his General in Red Berlin where he wanted it.’ Tommo again. The picture was coming together at last.

  ‘Why didn’t you wait for me to get you some, Greg?’ ‘I did not think you could deliver, Charlie. Sorry.’ He rubbed his black stubble. It made a rasping sound. ‘So I convinced them it would save considerable face if we gave your aircraft back, after cautioning your crew for flying out of the corridors . . . and sending a strongly worded complaint to the Control Commission. It was to be one of those happily ever after stories.’

  ‘. . . And at the same time you stuck your liquorice in a set of tyres?’

  ‘Yes, I confess I did. The opportunity to get it to Gatow was too good . . .’

  Someone had said something like that to me recently. Two birds with one stone. I sipped the beer, and thought it through . . . it was just stupid enough to be true.

  ‘. . . So I’m supposed to believe that you got me my aircraft, less the pilot’s seat that is . . . and my crew back?’ I asked Greg.

  ‘Yes. I never understand why they took the seat.’

  ‘Maybe that’s where they thought the death ray was.’

  I shouldn’t have bloody said that, should I? You can go to jail for mistakes like that. There was a brief hiatus in the conversation. Both men glanced at me. Then Tommo said, ‘But there never was a death ray, was there?’

  ‘No, just a compact radar repeater from Philips we were trying on the navigation beacons. It doesn’t even bloody work, so my boss sent it back to wherever he got it from.’ I said it much too hastily. I’m not sure that worked either. Then I took a deep breath and said, ‘OK, so thank you, Greg. Thank you for returning my people.’

  ‘What about your Pig?’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘Can I have my liquorice back now? My General’s need has become rather pressing; he is making unveiled threats.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I was so angry that I told the crew chief to give it to any kids he could find. There are kids all over Berlin today with black teeth and big grins. I’m sorry.’ Poor Greg winced. So should I have done. That was his next promotion out of the window, I guessed. Maybe worse. ‘Look. Before this all started I asked them to send me over a bundle of it from England. Sweets are making a comeback, so it could still get here.’

  He just looked away from me with an expression of profound injury on his face. He blew a plume of cigar smoke into the air. it mingled with Tommo’s as if the blue-grey streams were dancing. He said, ‘Doesn’t matter.’ But it did.

  ‘That’s half the story,’ I told him. ‘What about the rest? I was in the next aircraft you attacked. I helped them get bodies out. I rode with them in the ambulance. What about that?’

  Greg shook his head. ‘Bloody Spartacus. If the ray is not in the first red Dakota it must be in the other. So the order goes out to the Soviet Air Force to bring it down . . .’

  ‘Nearly bloody succeeded. There’s no death ray in there, Greg . . .’

  ‘We know that now.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘If you had one, you would have turned it on your attackers, wouldn’t you?’

  Tommo grinned at me and said, ‘So you’re off the hook too, Charlie.’ The others didn’t know what he was talking about, and that clearly amused him. He asked, ‘We all buddies again?’ I nodded and he added, ‘Fancy a plate of Franks ev’ryone?’

  That sounded all right to me. I finished my beer and held up the glass for more, saying, ‘You know? If we get this wrong, in fifty years’ time some historian grubbing through an old diary might come to the mistaken conclusion that we started the Third World War over a couple of pounds of liquorice and a plate of sausages!’

  We all laughed, but no one contradicted me.

  Marthe served the bar, and fetched from the kitchen when they were busy. There was something light and invulnerable about her. Maybe Mr Right had come along and cut me out. Her hair had been done, and she was wearing a yellow and red flowered blouse, and a dark pleated skirt. It swung as she walked. Later I asked Russian Greg, ‘What happened to put her off me? We were almost talking about a cottage with roses around the door.’ He laughed in a way that said he thought that plainly ridiculous.

  ‘Not a cottage and roses woman, English. She’s a Berliner . . . a Berliner.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right, but what did I do wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. How much you know about Marthe, Charlie?’

  What do I know about any woman? I wondered, but said, ‘Only a bit. There’s the child, Lottie . . . and she has relatives in the Eastern Zone . . . you fixed her up with a Freepass. She had a bad time when you invaded.’

  ‘All the women did, Charlie: had more sex in ten days than they’d had in ten years . . . only nobody asked first. Who was Lottie’s father?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some soldier I think . . .’

  ‘So do I. She thought he was dead, and so did we, but he walked in from Russia two weeks ago. Walked, Charlie. He was in a camp here, only for less than a week while they denazified him.’

  ‘Christ! What’s he like?’

  ‘See for yourself.’ He nodded to a gaunt man swabbing the floor of the bar. He wore a full brown apron. He had lost most of his hair, and his white shirt and dark trousers hung on him. He couldn’t stop smiling at everyone who caught his eye. He looked like the happiest man in the world. ‘I gave him a job . . . so you won’t make it difficult for them, will you, Charlie?’

  ‘No, of course not. Do you own this place?’

  ‘Me and Tommo are part owners: this is the US–Soviet economic cooperation zone. You really going to get me some of that liquorice?’

  ‘I’m going to try.’

  ‘. . . What about my sister’s family?’

  It was always going to come back to that. In different ways he and Frieda were looking for the same thing. I said it before, but you didn’t notice: in 1948 we were all looking for a family.

  ‘That too. I promised, didn’t I?’ I thought about it and offered, ‘I promise to do my best.’ Then I began to put it together. ‘There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. I have a friend who needs to consult the lists of the Missing, Found and Dead. Your lists, that is, not ours . . .’

  The Russian swung round, and gave me his full attention. His eyes flashed. Making deals put him on his home ground again.

  The last thing I asked him was how long it would take for him to muster his sister’s family where we could get at them.

  ‘Ten days from when you tell me it’s on, but it’s got to be soon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My sister’s having a bad time.’ I’d seen that look on his face before. He bunched his right fist several times as he replied. I guessed that someone else would have a bad time in return if he got his hands on him.

  Marthe’s husband was named Otto. He never stopped mopping the floor, which is why he was soon known as Moppo: our humour was pretty cruel back then. He never stopped smiling at anyone he could engage. I think he’d left something from inside his he
ad back in Russia. I gave him a large tip as I left. I glanced at Marthe behind the bar: she lifted her chin with a proud smile. I guess she had a reason to.

  Tommo drove me back again. I told him he’d make a great cab-driver and he took it as a compliment. We were both a bit sauced. I asked him to let me off at the patrol so I could try reaching the house on my own. The Canadians were still there, and their sergeant walked over to say, ‘Hi, Tommo. Still gotcha papers?’ ‘Sure.’

  The Canadian didn’t even look at them, but handed them straight back. He asked, ‘How yer doing?’

  ‘I’m well, Allan. You need anythin’?’

  ‘DDT. Our new billet’s lousy with fleas an’ lice an’ the Doc’s run out of everything.’

  ‘I’ll send someone over in the morning; OK?’

  ‘Thanks, pal.’

  He didn’t even ask for mine. Tommo took a dozen steps with me to check that I was in stable flight. It was OK. I asked him, ‘Do you really know everyone?’

  ‘Don’t know that, Charlie. How could I?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to work out.’

  I just had that feeling he was holding out on me, but I knew that it wouldn’t be personal. We said goodnight, and shook hands. Tommo always did that.

  It was dark. I was a bit drunk. I got to the front gate. I got up the path, but I had to sit down on the front step. It was Hanna who hauled me to my feet a few minutes later and manhandled me through the door of Frieda’s apartment. I said, ‘You’re too good to me, Hanna. I should marry you.’

  ‘You’re too small: you’d get lost down there.’ Then she roared with laughter: it was the first time she said anything coarse. That was scary.

  I limped around the place for about ten miles before I found Frieda sitting on a brocade chaise longue, darning a woolly by the light of a candle. She hadn’t called out to guide me, even although she must have heard the racket I made. I leaned against the door frame and watched her.

  ‘Why are you doing that? I bet you got dozens of them.’

  ‘And in four months’ time, Charlie? How many will I have then?’ She dropped the garment on the floor beside the seat. Silence; and it’s not always bloody golden despite what they tell you. She looked at me and I looked at her. She looked at me looking at her. Picking the right time to tell a woman that you find her beautiful is a matter of judgement. On this occasion I missed my cue. Eventually she shook her head: she was dealing with a child or a mental case. She also smiled. Just.

  There was a small rectangular table near her, under a tablecloth that looked like a small Persian carpet. There was a square parcel on it, neatly wrapped in brown paper and string, and neatly addressed. About eight inches square I guess. She pointed to it and said, ‘That came for you. A motorcyclist brought it from the airport. I had to sign a form for it.’

  I hopped over and began to open it. My name and the company’s were in Elaine’s bold script. Frieda came to stand beside me. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw the nasty French lock knife I took to the string, and slid under the brown paper. As I turned back the inner cardboard, the scent of liquorice lifted towards us. She wrinkled her nose and asked, ‘What’s that?’

  I imagined Red Greg’s face before I replied: I imagined what he’d do for what I had under my hands.

  ‘The answer to a maiden’s prayer,’ I told her.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I slept well, was late down, and formed a fourth for breakfast. Old Man Halton was one of the others. I hadn’t heard him arrive; he must have flown in during the night. Fergal was the other; I hadn’t heard him either. I realized that I hadn’t seen him since I’d got back to Berlin. I’d meant to, but he had become one of the things I was always putting off. If Fergal had come to see me he’d stayed on to eat.

  My foot seemed to misbehave for an hour in the mornings, until it settled down. Frieda noticed me struggling as I crossed the room, and stood up to move the one empty chair for me. Hanna served the breakfast, which was a proper crew fry-up. It seemed a bit obscene, knowing that all over western Berlin people were beginning to scratch around for food, but my stomach won out over my conscience.

  The Old Man started with a smile, a cough and a handshake, so things were probably all right there. Frieda gave me a Jane Russell smirk: you know – the knowing sort of smiley lifted lip. Then Halton coughed all over the table. It was his table, so we didn’t complain. Through his handkerchief he said, ‘Hello, Charlie. How’s your foot?’

  ‘Wobbly, boss, for an hour in the morning – then it seems to get stronger: better each day. When did you get in?’

  ‘About 0300. I don’t seem to need the sleep I once did.’

  I was charitable enough to wonder if Frieda had had any rest either; that was interesting. Then I used her phrase on the notion, and threw it away. I informed him, ‘I’m going down to Gatow later this morning to see how Borland’s getting on.’

  ‘He’s getting on very well, I can tell you that. I spent an hour with him before I came on. You picked a useful number two there. Well done.’

  I turned to Fergal, who was amiably stuffing his face.

  ‘Hello, Fergal. How’s the God business?’

  ‘Demanding. He seems to want more for His money in Berlin than He did in Liverpool. I keep on running out . . .’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘. . . everything.’

  Fergal was ace at making a chap feel bad. I squirmed.

  ‘You should have come to see me earlier.’

  He made it worse by saying, ‘I was waiting for you, actually, Charlie.’ Bastard. ‘I didn’t know where you were camping until last night. I arrived in time for breakfast.’

  Nobody seemed to know what else to say after that, so I said, ‘Thanks for coming to see me anyway . . .’ It sounded rather weak.

  ‘I didn’t. Mr Halton’s office sent me a message and asked me to drop over. Apparently you have someone you want me to bury.’ Fergal always ate with his mouth chock-full, like a mincer. He chewed slowly as he spoke and there was absolutely no sense of judgement in his words. He just delivered them and let you do the worst yourself.

  ‘. . . OK, Fergal. I feel like a louse. I should have come to see how you’re doing.’

  Fergal went straight to the checkmate with a gentle smile. ‘. . . if I think that God would forgive you, so do I. You’re busy bringing stores into our city, aren’t you? He’ll let you off a few visits and a couple of Sundays.’ He was already calling it our city: four years ago he was bloody bombing it.

  Halton saved me. He said, ‘We’re burying Eddie this afternoon, Charlie . . . I don’t suppose you happen to know his last name, do you? Nobody else seems to.’

  ‘No, boss: don’t you? He’s been with the company longer than I have.’

  ‘I don’t think we ever saw his papers: sorry about that – things were a bit informal in the early days. Not even his pilot knows – Eddie used to do the paperwork you see.’

  ‘What about his pay?’

  ‘Always cash in hand I’m afraid. If he was abroad on pay day he had Elaine make an arrangement with the local airfield: I don’t know how it worked.’

  ‘It must be on some paperwork somewhere!’ But the Old Man shook his head, which I took to mean Not so far. I remembered taking him to the house he said was his aunt’s, but knew I could never find it again, so I asked, ‘What the hell are we going to put on his stone then?’

  Halton winced. I’d have to remember that he didn’t like me swearing. Fergal intervened, apologetically, ‘An airman known only unto God is customary in those circumstances . . .’ But even he seemed unsure of himself.

  ‘Where?’ I sounded curt. I didn’t like that.

  ‘Mr Halton pulled some strings at the new cemetery on the south side of Heerstrasse, out in the Charlottenburg. I went out there last week. You’d be surprised how many people we knew are out there.’

  I wanted to reply No I wouldn’t, but I bit my tongue. I said, ‘He’ll be in good company then.’
Then I smiled because having Fergal around you always made you feel good. ‘It’s good to see you, Fergal. I’m sorry that I forgot about you. I can’t think of anyone better to give Crazy Eddie his send-off.’

  Fergal was either moved by that, or preoccupied with his meal, because he said nothing, patted my hand and carried on eating. Halton coughed, and Frieda said, ‘I’ll ask Hanna for another pot of coffee.’ We definitely ate better when the Master was at home.

  When we finished up Old Man Halton bowled a blinder at me. He coughed, but this time it was a cough of embarrassment. ‘You’ve done really well, Charlie. The operation’s running like clockwork: thank you.’

  I’m as bad at receiving compliments as he was at handing them out – it’s not the sort of thing that men do. I glanced away. ‘Fine, boss. I like doing what I have to do, well.’

  ‘So I want you to take it easy for a few days and get your ankle mended, understand? Let Borland take the strain. He’s more than capable.’

  ‘Fine.’ Actually it wasn’t.

  ‘How long have you been over here this time?’

  ‘Two three weeks, maybe a bit longer. I’ve lost count to tell you the truth.’ And some bastard tried to kill me.

  ‘. . . so once you’re up and around properly, come back for a week. Everyone else has managed a few days back . . .’

  Because I’d scheduled them that way.

  ‘Bozey Borland hasn’t . . .’

  ‘He’s still a wanted man; you’re not.’ It did occur to me to think How did you know that? He jogged on with, ‘Spend a couple of days with your own people, and a few days in the office before you come back to Germany again. Berlin will still be here. The Crew Chief and office staff probably both need to feel a steady hand on the tiller.’ He delivered this last with a twitchy little smile: I’ve told you before that you never quite knew where you were with him; the little devil didn’t miss much.

  The reason that this was all a bit of a blinder was that I’d reckoned on spending the next few days organizing Red Greg’s family exodus and getting Frieda into the Russian records, and maybe even me into Frieda. I hadn’t worked out a running order for the tasks yet, but I was getting there. Don’t look at me that way: I told you before – it’s the way the world works and we were all at it in Berlin.