by Robert Ryan
‘And naturally you volunteered,’ said Schrader, regretting the words as soon as they had left his mouth. ‘I mean. You are the best pilot.’
Von Kahr’s eyes narrowed somewhat. Trotzman, a step behind the squadron leader, grimaced as if in warning.
‘Your family is in Berlin, aren’t they?’
That wasn’t a bad guess. Schrader had a Berlin accent as thick as the porridge they served in the mess. ‘Yes.’
‘Cardboard boxes, wasn’t it? The family business?’
‘Textiles, sir. We make uniforms for the army now.’
‘Good, good. You speak English, I hear.’
‘I do. A slight accent, apparently, but not too bad. My father exported a lot of items to Great Britain. He insisted we children all learn the language, in case we followed him into the business.’
‘Well, it’s about to come in very useful. But . . .’ he drained his coffee, ‘. . . this is the sort of mission you will never be able to tell your tailoring family about. Yes, I did volunteer for it, of course. But they said the squadron leader was too valuable to lose. Especially after what happened to poor Brandenburg.’
Schrader didn’t like the sound of that. It seemed that ‘losing’ the chosen pilot was a distinct possibility.
‘So, my thoughts turned to you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He wasn’t sure whether he managed the inflection of genuine gratitude he was striving for.
Trotzman spoke now. ‘The weather isn’t suitable for bombers. The winds above three thousand metres are wicked. But lower down, at cloud level, five or six hundred metres, bumpy, yes, but manageable. There are places . . .’ he jabbed the map, ‘. . . where you might have to skim some waves, but you’re used to that. Although your passenger might not be.’
‘Passenger?’
‘I think we can bring in the admiral now,’ said von Kahr.
Trotzman left the hut and Schrader said, ‘I don’t like the sound of this. Admiral who?’
Von Kahr lowered his voice. ‘Admiral Hersch, a senior commander in the Nachrichten-Abteilung.’ This was Naval Intelligence.
‘But we are air force,’ protested Schrader.
Von Kahr looked sympathetic for once. ‘Apparently, we are all just performing dogs for men like Hersch.’
Hersch stepped in, looking like a caricature of a Prussian aristocrat, with his expensive leather coat, broad shoulders, cropped steel-grey hair and a duelling scar. Introductions were made. The admiral’s manner was brusque and workmanlike. ‘Your mission is to fly to England, with a passenger, and land on English soil. Once the passenger is out, you fly back home.’
So simple, Schrader thought. Fly in shitty weather across the North Sea and land – land! – in England and then take off again. Even if he wasn’t shot down by the guns or a patrolling fighter, where was he meant to put a plane down? He could hardly ask to use an RFC airstrip.
Trotzman spoke again. ‘We have identified an area near Colchester where you can set a plane down, turn and take off again. A cricket pitch. Nice and smooth.’
‘But what about landing lights?’
‘You’ll be going in by day,’ said Hersch.
The temperature in the hut seemed to drop by a few degrees. Schrader couldn’t help it, he let out a bark of a laugh. ‘By day? Are you . . .?’ Careful, now. ‘Are you sure that is wise?’
Von Kahr also laughed, but mainly at Schrader’s discomfort.
Hersch, though, bided his time. ‘Don’t worry, Schrader. You’ll be in a captured Bristol two-seater. British markings. It’s at Nieumunster.’ This was where the Gothas often landed if they weren’t able to make their home base on their return after bombing England.
‘How the hell did you get a Bristol?’
‘Low on fuel. Fog. Pilot mistook the strip for Furnes. Absolutely intact.’
‘And a doddle to fly, apparently,’ added von Kahr. ‘Once you get used to the fact that some of the controls are back to front. Also the armament is a Lewis gun on the upper wing on what is called a Foster Mount. But I don’t anticipate you using that. You’ll have an hour or two to get used to it all.’
That long? Schrader thought. ‘When do I go?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘I’ll give you up-to-date weather and optimum routing at first light,’ said Trotzman.
‘Then you’ll be ferried over to familiarize yourself with this F.2,’ said Hersch. ‘Your passenger arrives at noon. We’ve taken off the observer’s gun to give more room. The passenger is a non-combatant anyway.’
‘And we’ll give you an Albatros escort for the first section, so you don’t get shot down by any of ours,’ added Hersch. ‘We’ve fitted one of the bomber’s beacon guidance systems to the plane.’
‘So when we get your radio signal on the return, you’ll be shepherded home.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Hersch, his face relaxing into an expression of concern. ‘I can tell you’re the perfect man for the job. Any questions?’
There were so many queries that they were jostling to get out of his crowded mouth. Schrader took a breath. ‘Who is the passenger, sir?’
Hersch’s expression of kindly concern was replaced by something altogether steelier. ‘What I meant was: any questions, Oberleutnant Schrader . . . other than that one.’
THIRTEEN
The five members of the War Injuries Compensation Board all came back to their senses within half an hour of each other. Not that they could share their thoughts on the ordeals they had been through. Each man was in a separate cubicle, chained to an iron bedstead by wrists and ankles. They were also tightly gagged and blindfolded. The only sound each could hear was the squeak of bedsteads as their colleagues struggled to free themselves. One by one they became still, from exhaustion or a sense of futility.
Once it was clear all were back in the real world, the voice came over the loudspeaker system. The crude paper cones in the speakers distorted the voice, making the identification of any accent impossible.
‘Welcome, Professor Anthony Holbeck, Dr Adrian Powell, Sir Gilbert Hastings, Professor Horace Carlisle and Lord Henry Arnott. It’s an honour to have such distinguished company. Please forgive the manner of your abduction and your incarceration. You will be released shortly for a period of exercise and any calls of nature you might have. I suggest you obey whatever instructions you are given to the letter, for there will be three orderlies with you at all times. Each one is armed with a cosh and, sad to say, not afraid to use it.’
The man addressing them cleared his throat. ‘Now I am sure you are wondering why you have been gathered together. But I am equally certain you would have recognized the names of your fellow . . . um . . . inmates. You are, of course, as I said, the senior members of the War Injuries Compensation Board, convened by the Ministry of Pensions to ascertain the level of payment due to those of us who have sacrificed part of ourselves, our manhood, in the service of this country. And I have to say, gentlemen, we don’t like what we are hearing. Oh, it’s very easy to be generous when it comes to men like Captain Harold Swain. Three limbs missing? Blind in one eye? Half-crazed in the head? A hundred per cent compensation. After all, if that man lives another two years before taking his own life, well, that’ll be a miracle. Or Sergeant Seymour Webb. Paralysed from the neck down. No longer a man, by your lights. Hundred per cent of the disability allowance.
‘But what about Lieutenant Jeffrey Tasker? Right arm blown off from the elbow. Well, that leaves him one good one, eh? And, as luck would have it, he is left-handed. Ah, but dig a little deeper. Tasker was a talented violin player. The Westminster String Quartet. How does your precious “manliness” rule apply now? One arm, now what’s that worth – twenty per cent? Thirty?’
A drink of water.
‘The truth is, none of us knows about an individual’s suffering, about what percentage of the man is left. Yet you want to reduce it to actuary tables, mere mathematics. And why?’ Without warning, the voice rose to a distorted scream. ‘TO SAVE
A FEW MILLION POUNDS! The cost of twenty aeroplanes or a week’s output of shells or ten of those tanks everyone thought would win the war.
‘You, Professor Holbeck, did you not suggest that those suffering from mental incapacity should receive nothing but room and board in a lunatic asylum until they were cured by electrotherapy? Dr Powell, is it really true that this country cares for its blind and deaf so well, they need little in extra compensation? Sir Gilbert? I quote: “We cannot look after our soldiers to the extent that we bankrupt the entire country. Therefore, difficult decisions must be taken and the cloth trimmed to fit.”
‘Lord Arnott, I believe you suggested a three-tier level of remuneration, with officers reaching the highest settlement, NCOs the next and the men able to apply for roughly half what an officer would receive for an equivalent injury. Interesting, that. All men are equal under the law, although some have limbs worth far more than others.’ A brief pause. ‘You, gentlemen, are a DISGRACE.
‘So . . . here’s what we are going to do. I, and my like-minded friends here, have decided we need to show you what, exactly, these men are going through. It is, apparently, the only way to elicit sympathy. Or perhaps empathy is a better word. Yes, empathy with our plight. You will form a unique group, ones eminently capable of deciding how much “manliness” remains after terrible injury. You will no longer be able to stand aloof and you will no longer be simply the War Injuries Compensation Board, but will have become members of another élite group, one every man here is a part of. Nobody volunteers for membership, yet it grows day by day.’
A silence, broken only by the crackle of electricity trapped in wires. Then: ‘Welcome to the Guild of Disaffected Servicemen.’
FOURTEEN
Mycroft Holmes was waiting in the Conversation Parlour of the Diogenes when Watson arrived for their appointment, and he was relieved he didn’t have to send one of the irascible porters to fetch Mycroft from the silent, sepulchral rooms of the main club. The senior Holmes was standing at the window, feet planted widely apart, puffing on a cigar. With his muttonchop whiskers and long frock coat he looked every inch the Victorian gentleman. Which he unapologetically was.
‘Ah, Watson. Have a seat. Forgive the cigar. I have found myself much taken with them again.’
Watson sat and Mycroft did the same.
‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘I have little to do these days other than receive visitors. And I have precious few of those. You look better than the last time I saw you.’
‘Physically, I am,’ Watson admitted. At that point, he had been in a convalescent home, broken in both mind and body following the affair on the bridge in Holland when he was to be exchanged for Holmes.
‘I can tell. Damnable business, all that. You have seen my brother?’
‘Not since the trail of Shackleton went cold.’
Mycroft blew out a thin stream of smoke. ‘You know the public will find it hard to believe that Sir Ernest has a brother, a man from the same stock, who is the absolute converse of the hero.’
Watson kept his council. Ernest Shackleton was indeed a national hero, thanks to his survival on the ice, but Watson knew he had a strained relationship with money, as his creditors and backers could well testify. His brother was cut from the same cloth, but with an added streak of larceny.
‘Well, I think the fact that he stole the Irish Crown Jewels gives an indication of Frank Shackleton’s character.’
‘A crime of which he was acquitted.’
‘A crime for which there was insufficient evidence of his involvement,’ corrected Watson. ‘They have still never been found. Holmes’s theory was that if Frank Shackleton had stirred himself to come to London, something was afoot and it wouldn’t be legal. We have no reason to disbelieve that was the case.’
‘But you aren’t here about a rogue Irishman, are you?’
‘No,’ Watson admitted. ‘I need your assistance on something that seems to have been cloaked in DORA. I need your help in unwrapping that cloak.’
Mycroft smiled. ‘Ah, those were the days, when I could stride into the inner sanctum of government and—’
‘Mycroft!’ Watson said, leaning forward. ‘Are you having trouble with bright lights at night? Some difficulty focusing in dim lights?’
Mycroft examined the questions for some devious trick. ‘A little. Why?’
‘Your eyes are cloudier than when we last met. You have the beginnings of cataracts.’
‘It is my seventieth birthday next week. Is it surprising?’
‘No, but if it gets any worse, I can recommend—’
‘I am not going under the knife, Watson.’
‘Well, that’s your decision, Mycroft.’
Mycroft made a grunting sound. ‘I appreciate your concern. But you doctors never know when to leave well enough alone. My eyes are failing. So is my bladder. These things are the natural order. We decay, Watson, and railing against it will do no good. Better to accept it. Now, this DORA business.’
‘You’ve heard of the Dover Arrow?’
Mycroft exploded to his feet and moved to the window once more. ‘Heard of it? Good God, man, who hasn’t? Yet another hospital ship deliberately sunk without warning. For a German U-boat captain to deliberately sink a boat of wounded and injured . . . inhuman, that’s what it is. It shows why we are fighting this war – we are against a nation that can bomb school children and send a Red Cross ship to the bottom of the ocean.’
He was right about the Dover Arrow not being the first hospital ship to fall victim to enemy action. Already that year they had lost the Gloucester Castle, although all 450 wounded were saved, and the Asturias, with 35 fatalities, to torpedoes, and the Salta to a mine. Again, all the wounded were recovered in the latter incident, but 5 doctors, 9 nurses and 38 RAMC orderlies drowned.
‘I think a friend of mine might have been on the Dover Arrow.’
‘Really?’
‘A Nurse Jennings. I met her when I was carrying out blood transfusion trials in Plug Street. She was on her way home and had volunteered for ambulance train duty rather than take the easy passage. She was due in Victoria that night.’
‘And never arrived.’
‘That’s correct. And that very evening, the Dover Arrow went down.’
‘But you don’t know for certain she was on board?’
‘I do not. No passenger manifest has been published.’
Mycroft considered this for a moment. ‘Well, it’s possible the authorities are waiting until they have notified the next of kin before releasing any names to the press.’
‘I suppose it’s conceivable that the Government has developed a new-found sensitivity in these matters,’ said Watson. ‘But the names are being withheld for reasons of “national security”, according to the press.’
‘The press? I wouldn’t put my faith in the press.’ Mycroft shook his head, cheeks wobbling. ‘And these days “national security” can mean anything any government department wants it to.’
‘Still, her parents, her colleagues, have no idea where she is. They – and I – would like to know if she was on board.’
One of Mycroft’s eyebrows arched up. ‘And what is she to you?’
‘Young enough to be my daughter. You can put that eyebrow down now and take that look off your face.’
Mycroft laughed. ‘I am only going by what Sherlock always said about you. Experience of women on five continents, wasn’t it?’
‘A mere three,’ admitted Watson. ‘And there was nothing untoward in this case. Nurse Jennings is, was, a close acquaintance and I am keen to establish her whereabouts.’
‘And you think I can help?’
‘A man who still has the ear of Churchill and Kell and Fisher? Who managed to bring a submarine full of Royal Marines deep into enemy territory? Who saved my life and that of his brother on that damned bridge? Don’t tell me you’ve retired, Mycroft; I simply won’t believe it. And the Government wouldn’t allow it.’
Mycroft looked out of the window to hide his small smile at the flattery. ‘You overestimate me, Watson. I did what I did in Holland for my brother. It’s true, sometimes a politician might beat a path to my door, to ask about some piece of ancient history, the Bruce-Partington Plans, perhaps, or the whereabouts of the Skoda howitzers. But do they consult me about the current conflict?’ His expression darkened at the thought and his voice became a low growl. ‘I tell you, if they did, we wouldn’t be in the mess we are in now.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ agreed Watson. ‘But back to the Dover Arrow, if you will.’
Mycroft waved his cigar as if what, a few moments ago, constituted an impossible task was now a mere trifle. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you. And if you change your mind about the cataracts . . . You know the first accounts of such eye surgery were in Sanskrit? They have been dated to 800 BC And that the Romans were familiar with the removal of cloudy lens? And the Chinese in the Tang dynasty? That’s how long it’s been going on.’
‘Well, it can go on quite happily for some more years without my participation. I won’t change my mind, Watson. Not for me the knife. I shall slowly fade away into the darkness.’ The last line was delivered with the fruity theatricality of William Gillette.
‘Now why do I doubt that you will fade anywhere?’
Mycroft simply smiled and puffed on his cigar a little more.
Watson stood and the men shook hands.
‘By the way . . .’ said Mycroft, as Watson collected his hat and gloves. He turned to find Holmes tugging one of the green velvet curtains at the window, moving it aside slightly. ‘Were you aware that you were followed here today?’
FIFTEEN
A human being cannot remain terrified for ever. At least, not at the pitch of terror that sees the mouth dry, the heart beating wildly, the stomach convulsing like a freshly captured octopus. Eventually the juice that fuels such fear is depleted. The body decides to conserve its energy. A calmness takes over, albeit with an undercurrent of apprehension running through it, a queasy vibration in the soul.