Now that Ethel was a V.A.D. and Robert a second lieutenant in one of the less famous regiments, home life had lost much of its friction, but it had also lost something of its zest. William had looked on Ethel and Robert as cruel and vindictive tyrants, but he found, somewhat to his surprise, that he missed both the tyranny and his own plans to circumvent and avenge it.
Even the feud with Hubert Lane lacked its old excitement. There didn’t seem to be so many things to quarrel about as there had been before the war. Moreover, William needed a credulous audience for his tales of Robert’s prowess and Hubert supplied it. For Robert, in his second lieutenant’s uniform, was to William no longer an irascible dictatorial elder brother, hidebound by convention and deaf to the voice of reason. He was a noble and heroic figure, solely responsible for every success the British army had achieved since the war began. It was Robert who had conquered the Italians in Africa, raided the Lofoten Islands, crushed Raschid Ali’s revolt . . . Hubert was so credulous that William’s stories grew more and more fantastic. It was Robert who, according to William, was solely responsible for the sinking of the Bismarck. It was Robert who had captured Rudolf Hess . . . But there even the worm of credulity that was Hubert turned.
‘But Robert wasn’t in Scotland when Rudolf Hess came over,’ he objected.
‘How do you know he wasn’t?’ said William mysteriously. ‘Gosh! If I told you the places Robert had been in you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Well, there was nothing about him in the papers.’
‘No, they kept it out of the papers,’ said William. ‘Robert’s very high up an’ everythin’ about him’s gotter be kept very secret.’
The worm of credulity turned still further.
‘Thought he was only a second lieutenant.’
William gave a short laugh.
‘They keep him a second lieutenant just to put the Germans off the scent,’ he explained, ‘so they won’t know who it is that’s doing all these things.’
‘But I bet he didn’t capture Rudolf Hess,’ persisted Hubert.
‘Huh, didn’t he!’ said William, who was as usual now completely convinced by his own eloquence. ‘Well, I can’t tell you about it ’cause it’s a secret an’ I’d get shot if I told people, but it was Robert got him over from Germany to start with.’
‘Crumbs!’ gasped Hubert.
Hubert, however, though still, in the main, believing William’s stories (as I have said, he was an exceptionally credulous boy), was growing a little tired of them. He’d listened to them for weeks on end and the one-sidedness of the situation was beginning to pall. If he’d had a few tales of his own to swap in exchange, he wouldn’t have minded so much, but he hadn’t. He was an only child and had no elder brother or even near relation to glorify . . . Resentment had been slowly growing in his breast for some time, and the Rudolf Hess story seemed the last straw. He was not a boy to be content to yield the limelight to another indefinitely without becoming restive, and he was now becoming restive. He’d swallowed all Robert’s exploits as recounted by William – the African victory, the defeat of Raschid Ali, the sinking of the Bismarck . . . He had even swallowed Rudolf Hess, but – he’d reached saturation point.
‘What’s the matter, Hubert dear?’ said his mother solicitously to him at lunch, looking at his plump, sulky face. ‘I hope you’re not feeling ill, darling.’
‘No,’ muttered Hubert, ‘I’m not feelin’ ill. I’m only sick of that ole William Brown.’
Mr Lane shuddered at the name.
‘I don’t know why you have anything to do with him,’ Mrs Lane said. Then she turned to her husband. ‘Oh, by the way, I heard from Ronald this morning. He’s got a week’s leave and can spend it with us.’
‘WHAT’S THE MATTER, HUBERT DEAR?’ SAID HIS MOTHER SOLICITOUSLY TO HIM AT LUNCH.
‘Who’s Ronald?’ said Hubert.
‘Didn’t I tell you, dear? He’s a second cousin of mine. We’ve never seen much of him because his people always lived in Switzerland. They’re still there and so, of course, he can’t spend his leave with them and will be very glad to spend it with us . . . I asked him to bring a friend if he liked and he says he’d like to bring another lieutenant in his regiment, who has leave at the same time and has no relations in England to go to. It’s rather amusing. He says’ – she took a letter out of her pocket, opened it and read – ‘ “I must warn you that Orford has the most amazing resemblance to Hitler. Actually he takes rather a pride in it, and cultivates the moustache and forelock. So don’t think that I’ve brought Hitler back as a present when you see him.”’
Hubert put down his knife and fork and stared open-mouthed at his mother. He didn’t often have ideas but he was having one now. It came slowly and painfully, and he turned paler than usual with the unaccustomed effort.
‘Darling,’ cried Mrs Lane in renewed concern, ‘you’re not looking at all well. Don’t you like the pudding?’
‘No, I don’t like the pudding,’ said Hubert calmly. ‘It’s not sweet enough. But I’m feeling all right ’cept for that.’
*
Hubert walked along the road with a new briskness. There was even a little smile on his face. He looked very pleased with himself. It happened that when he reached the gate of William’s house, William himself was coming out of it. They went down the lane together.
‘You know, when Robert captured the Hess man,’ began William, who had thought out a few more details during lunch, but Hubert interrupted him.
‘Funny you should’ve told me that this morning,’ he said.
‘Why?’ said William.
‘Well, it’s jus’ a sort of coincidence, that’s all,’ said Hubert.
‘What d’you mean, a coincidence?’ said William, his curiosity aroused, as Hubert meant it to be.
‘Will you promise not to tell anyone?’ said Hubert.
‘Yes.’
‘Cross your throat?’
‘Cross my throat.’
‘Well, jus’ the same sort of thing seems to’ve happened to a cousin of mine what’s comin’ to stay with us.’
‘The same sort of thing as what?’ said William impatiently.
‘Same sort of thing as Robert capturin’ Hess.’
‘Dunno what you mean,’ said William. ‘Your cousin couldn’ve captured Hess ’cause – I keep tellin’ you – Robert captured him.’
‘Oh no,’ said Hubert, ‘he’s not captured Hess.’ He paused a moment, then brought out with a superb air of casualness: ‘He’s captured Hitler.’
‘What?’ gasped William, then, recovering himself, said firmly: ‘He couldn’t have.’
‘Why not?’ said Hubert, who was enjoying a conversation with William for the first time for weeks.
‘’Cause he’s not been captured.’
‘Oh yes, he has,’ said Hubert. ‘They’ve not put it in the papers, of course, ’cause it’s all gotter be kept secret same as the things Robert does.’
‘Well—’ William grappled helplessly with the staggering idea. ‘Who’s carryin’ on in Germany then?’
‘One of his doubles,’ said Hubert. ‘He’s got dozens of ’em, you know.’
William considered this, frowning thoughtfully.
‘I bet this cousin of your mother’s pullin’ your leg,’ he said at last. ‘I bet he’s not captured him really.’
‘Oh yes, he has,’ said Hubert confidently.
‘Well, you’ve not got any proof,’ persisted William. ‘He only says he’s captured him. I bet he’s pullin’ your leg.’
Hubert was silent for a few moments, savouring his triumph before he said, still with admirably acted carelessness:
‘Oh yes, I’ve got proof all right. He’s bringin’ him here today.’
‘What?’ squawked William. Then: ‘He can’t be – I said he was pullin’ your leg.’
‘Yes, he is,’ said Hubert. ‘The Gov’nment are lettin’ him keep him for a bit ’cause they want it kept secret that he’s been captured. They
don’t want the Germans to know what’s happened to him an’ if they took him prisoner themselves they’d have to put it in the papers. So they’re lettin’ this cousin of mine keep him for a bit for his own prisoner. He’s not dressed like he used to be,’ he added hastily. ‘He’s disguised. He has to be, so’s people won’t recognise him.’
‘Has he got a false beard?’ said William, to whom the story was beginning to seem as credible as Robert’s exploits, recounted by himself.
‘Oh no, he’s not got a false beard,’ said Hubert. ‘That wouldn’t be any good. They come off too easy, false beards. No, he’s disguised as a British officer same as Robert or this cousin of mine. People’d never think it was Hitler, seein’ him in an officer’s uniform. An’ he’s gotter pretend he is a British officer, too, an’ he’s jolly glad to do it ’stead of bein’ put in prison. This cousin of mine’s taught him English, an’ he talks it as well as you or me by now.’
‘Gosh!’ said William. He took his seat on the top of a stile that led from the lane into a field. ‘Come on. Tell us all about it.’
Hubert perched beside him and began the story that he had so carefully prepared on the way.
‘Well, it was like this,’ he said. ‘This cousin of mine was walkin’ out in the country one day an’ he looked up an’ saw a parachute comin’ sailin’ down from the sky. He ran up to where it landed an’ saw it was ole Hitler, an’ Hitler said he’d come over same as Hess ’cause ole Goering was after him, so this cousin of mine took him along an’ rang up Churchill an’ Churchill said: “Well, let’s have ’em on toast for a bit wonderin’ what’s happened to him. Tell you what – s’pose you keep him yourself ’cause if we take him we’ll have to put it in the papers. You’d better disguise him as an officer an’ teach him English an’ take him about with you so’s he can’t escape.” So this cousin of mine did an’ when my mother wrote to ask him to spend his leave with us he wrote back to say, yes, he’d like to if he could bring ole Hitler along with him.’
Hubert paused, breathless and exhausted. It was the greatest effort of imagination he had ever made in his life . . . William sat, elbows on knees, chin on hands, gazing into space, considering the story.
‘Bet this cousin of yours is pullin’ your leg. Bet he’ll come alone an’ have a good laugh at you for believin’ him.’
‘All right,’ said Hubert. ‘He’s comin’ at six tonight. You come along after that and have a look.’
‘Yes, I jolly well will,’ said William.
Hubert walked home happily. He had enjoyed the afternoon more than he had enjoyed any afternoon since the war began. It had been a refreshing change to hold forth to William instead of being held forth to by William. It had been a triumph to have concentrated the limelight upon himself instead of watching William enjoy it. It should be quite easy to sustain the Hitler fiction for the few days of his cousin’s visit. Fortunately his mother cherished a deep dislike of William as a ‘nasty rough boy’ and had long ago forbidden him the house.
The excitement with which William had first heard the news decreased slightly as he walked homeward. The cousin had been pulling ole Hubert’s leg, of course. Anyone could pull ole Hubert’s leg. He’d done it himself dozens of times. He would go round there after tea and he’d bet anyone anything he’d just find ole Hubert’s cousin having a good laugh at him.
He waited impatiently till six o’clock, then set off towards the Lanes’ house. Not wishing to risk an encounter with Mrs Lane, he concealed himself behind the hedge in a position that gave him a good view of the garden. The garden was empty. No one could be seen at any of the windows of the house.
‘Bet the whole thing’s a leg-pull,’ muttered William. ‘Bet he hasn’t even got a cousin comin’ to stay at all.’
Then the side door opened, and out came Hubert, Mrs Lane and a tall fair man in uniform.
‘Hasn’t brought a friend at all,’ said William. ‘Pullin’ ole Hubert’s leg. I said he was all the time. It’s a jolly good joke. I’ll have a jolly good laugh at him tomorrow. I’ll have a jolly good . . .’ His mouth dropped open. His eyes goggled. For at the side door appeared a figure long familiar to him from photographs and caricatures. It was bareheaded. The short moustache, the dark lank forelock, the pallid morose face . . .
‘Gosh!’ gasped William, going suddenly weak at the knees. ‘Gosh! It’s him!’
And, without stopping to consider anything further, he turned to flee as if the whole of the Gestapo were at his heels.
‘What on earth’s the matter, William?’ said his mother as he flung himself, panting and dishevelled, into the house a few minutes later, turning to bolt and bar the front door. ‘What are you doing that for?’
WILLIAM’S MOUTH DROPPED OPEN. HIS EYES GOGGLED.
William gazed at her, still panting. He longed to tell her the whole story, but he had never yet broken a ‘cross my throat’ promise and he wasn’t going to start now. Besides, on thinking the matter over, he decided that there wasn’t really anything to be afraid of. The prisoner was safely in his captor’s hands. Hubert’s cousin was presumably armed and would not allow him to escape.
FOR AT THE SIDE DOOR APPEARED A FIGURE LONG FAMILIAR TO HIM.
‘Nothin’,’ he said. ‘Well, nothin’ you need worry about. He wouldn’t dare start any of his tricks over here.’
‘What are you talking about, William?’
‘Nothin’,’ said William, drawing back the bolt. ‘I bet we’ll be all right. I’ve got my bow an’ arrows, anyway, if he does start any tricks.’
He shadowed the illustrious captive from a respectful distance all the next day. The illustrious captive went for a walk with Hubert’s cousin in the morning and stayed in the garden in the afternoon. William overheard him commenting on the countryside in excellent English. Certainly Hubert’s cousin had done that part of the job successfully. As Hubert had said, he spoke English as well as – or indeed better than – Hubert and William themselves.
The next day the two of them went up to London, and William spent the day in Hubert’s company listening to repeated accounts of the capture. Hubert was not gifted with any great imaginative powers and, having with an almost superhuman effort invented the story of the capture, he saw no reason to alter or add to it. William did not exactly become bored – one could hardly be bored by such a story – but he wanted a few more details.
‘Well, what’s he goin’ to do with him next?’ he asked.
‘Oh, he’s just gotter wait till Mr Churchill tells him what to do.’
‘Hasn’t ole Hitler ever tried to get away?’
‘No, he knows he couldn’t get away,’ said Hubert. ‘This cousin of mine’d shoot him soon as look at him if he tried gettin’ away.’
‘Does he lock him in his room at night or sleep chained to him or what?’
‘No,’ said Hubert, ‘he knows he won’t try to get away.’
Despite the undeniable excitement of the situation, there seemed something too static about it for William’s taste. It was so fraught with drama that drama should, as it were, spring from it continually.
‘Wish he’d try to escape,’ he said. ‘I bet I’d catch him if he did. He’d be my prisoner then, wouldn’t he?’
‘Dunno,’ said Hubert vaguely, ‘but anyway, he won’t try. He knows he couldn’t get back to Germany an’ he quite likes my cousin. He says he reminds him of Gobbles.’
‘He’s not a bit like Gobbles,’ objected William.
‘Well, it may be one of the others,’ said Hubert, who was finding the whole thing, though enjoyable, something of a tax on his intellect. ‘It may be Himmler or Mussolini or someone. Anyway, he says he reminds him of someone. P’raps it was his father . . . I say, you’ve not told anyone, have you? My cousin’d get in an awful row with Mr Churchill if you’ve told anyone.’
‘’Course I haven’t,’ said William indignantly. ‘I said “cross my throat”, di’n’t I?’
But the keeping of the secret was not proving easy
. It hovered on the tip of William’s tongue a hundred times a day, though he always managed to choke it back. He decided at last that it could do no harm to hint at the possession of a piece of extraordinary knowledge . . .
‘I bet I know somethin’ that’d give you a shock if you knew about it, Mother,’ he said portentously as he entered the morning-room.
But Mrs Brown had an exciting piece of information of her own to impart.
‘I’ve had a wire today, William,’ she said. ‘Robert’s coming home on leave.’
And that, for the moment, drove the thought of the secret right out of William’s head. Robert, the hero, who had conquered Africa, sunk the Bismarck and crushed Raschid Ali’s revolt . . . William’s soul thrilled at the thought of meeting him again.
When Robert actually arrived, however, William found it a little difficult to sustain this attitude. Robert in uniform was so devastatingly like Robert out of uniform – an irascible unreasonable elder brother, passionately interested in such trivial affairs as football results, the fit of his tunic, and the girl friend of the moment. It became more and more difficult to reconcile him with the hero of the sagas that William had so assiduously woven around him. It wasn’t easy even to imagine his capturing Hess . . . But William, born hero-worshipper, was determined to see Robert as he wished to see him. He meant Robert to be a hero, therefore Robert must be a hero. It would have been easier to reconcile oneself to the old unheroic Robert had it not been for Hubert’s cousin with his glorious prize just across the way. The more William thought of this, the more intolerable seemed the state of affairs. He would not submit to it. Robert was a hero. Robert should be a hero. Robert must be a hero . . . And yet the situation didn’t seem to be one that admitted of heroism. There were not likely to be any more Nazi leaders drifting in parachutes from the skies. It was a pity, thought William regretfully, that Robert had not been there instead of Hubert’s cousin when Hitler came down. And then – quite suddenly – William had his idea. It was a stupendous idea. Robert had not captured Hitler, but he could still capture him. There was Hitler under his very nose only about a quarter of a mile away. He could capture him from Hubert’s cousin and then he would be his – Robert’s – captive, until such time as the Government saw fit to claim him as their own. William, of course, still considered himself bound by his promise. He could not tell Robert in so many words that the Führer was a prisoner at the Lanes’ house and ripe for recapture, but he could surely induce the captive to attempt escape and then put Robert on his track. That, though sailing a bit near the wind, wouldn’t, he considered, be actually breaking his promise. The scheme called for careful planning. The first thing to do was to get Hitler by himself, and that wouldn’t be easy because naturally he spent most of his time in company with his captor.
William At War Page 13