Innocence To Die For

by Eidinow, John

  ****

  He was in search of tea and a double bacon and egg sandwich when the adjutant’s assistant finally brought the summons. Corporal Hill was ordered to parade in front of the adjutant in an hour. Fifty-five minutes later, he was standing at ease outside the adjutant’s closed door. The office lights were on. Outside, the sky was dark, the rain pouring down.

  He had orders for him, said the adjutant: he was being posted away. Before he went into that, however, there were one or two things to clear up. He looked sharply at Peter and wrinkled up his nose as if sniffing something disagreeable. ‘You got most of your section back. And took a prisoner, too, I hear. Well done on that, corporal. Your father will be proud of you. Tell me, what do I record about the two missing men – 504 Smith and 583 Morgan?’

  His father! The first reference. ‘Smith became detached and never caught up, sir. I can’t say what happened to him. Morgan was killed when he faced a pair of Germans who tried to ambush us as we were getting away.’

  ‘Single-handed attack, Morgan’s, was it?’ The adjutant didn’t sound convinced.

  ‘Sir.’ Peter paused for a moment. The irony of Morgan’s getting some accolade for bravery was to be relished. Unfair on the rest, though.

  The adjutant was watching him intently. ‘Let’s just say “Died in action”.’ He made a note. ‘He’s no family. Now, come and show me where you were positioned when Jerry advanced.’

  The map on his conference table was large scale. Some moments passed before Peter could orientate himself. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I haven’t seen this map before.’

  ‘Maps were in short supply. This came…’ He stopped.

  Peter was visualizing the ground. There, towards the edge of the map, was Le Haut des Lilas, and there the lane. Tracking back from that … ‘Sir, I think we must have been about here.’ There was the road ahead of him. And there, beyond, what must have been the Germans’ main highway.

  ‘There?’ Peering down with him, their heads almost touching, the adjutant stubbed his finger next to Peter’s. His tone was incredulous. ‘There? That’s right out of position to the west, right outside the perimeter. How on earth? Are you sure, corporal?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We spent the first night on the march back … here, at Haut des Lilas.’

  The adjutant grunted. He returned the map to the map drawer, which he locked, then went to the office safe and took out a square brown envelope with red sealing wax on the flap. ‘Right. 6035 Corporal Hill. You’re ordered to report to an address in London the day after tomorrow and place yourself at the disposal of the officer there. All the details, travel warrants and so on are in this sealed envelope, which you must sign for. They are not, repeat not, to be disclosed to any other person.’ He handed Peter a receipt book. ‘Sign here please.’

  He sat back behind his desk. ‘Best if you open it here. I don’t think you will be returned to us, but take just your personal kit and place the rest in store. You can go on leave until you report in London. No point in you hanging around.’ He pulled a pad of leave dockets from a drawer and filled one in. ‘And don’t ask me what this is all about, corporal. I’ve no idea. You’ve always been a complete mystery to me. If by any chance you return to us, I will send you for officer selection. You’d better draw new battledress and boots. Can’t go looking like a tramp.’ He wrote another docket.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll be sorry to leave the regiment.’

  The address, handwritten in bold print, read: “By hand of officer. SECRET To be opened by 6035 Cpl Hill, P ELR ONLY”.

  Chapter Eight

  Away from the regiment, without the section, he found it hard to settle, wishing the mysterious appointment were that same day. The adjutant’s ignorance of his posting – genuine, he was sure – was worrying. Should he ring Nick Harry? If there had been a change in his circumstances, the man would surely be in touch with him, his “reference”. Also France had held Dinah mostly at bay; the flat brought her flooding back.

  Still, he must make the most of his time off. “Happy is he who has fled a storm at sea and reached harbour”. He rang Rutherglen Stanley to propose lunch. The secretary said he was in the country with his wife, the Lady Stanley. They were, she spoke in confidential tones, preparing for the invasion, “burying papers and valuables”. Well, lunch at the club might be interesting. A good walk in the park. A chance to read. And take no thought of the morrow. He thought he would have liked Totosh on his walk. Someday perhaps.

  ****

  Coming up out of the tube at Piccadilly Circus, he gave way to a nanny and pram and almost bumped into a burly figure walking with the help of a stick.

  ‘Mr ‘ill. Mr ‘ill.’ The man was calling after him.

  ‘Podger?’

  ‘My, my, you’re looking well. ‘ow’s the regiment? I ‘ear you ‘ad an excitin’ time in France.’

  ‘Podger! How are you? I’m sorry to see the leg’s still giving you trouble. Thank you for the cigarettes you left me in hospital.’ Podger in a waistcoat, collar and tie. Podger beaming friendship.

  ‘You’d took a nasty knock. They were saying it weren’t no accident, neither. You must’ve got on the wrong side of somebody important. Dark ‘orse, you are, Mr ‘ill. Just as well you’re a dab hand with the shotgun, as Chalky says.’ They’d been at elementary school together. Chalky had been in Podger’s playground gang.

  ‘How about a drink and a fag?’

  They walked round to Shaftsbury Avenue and found seats in the four-ale bar of a brass and plush pub, all uniforms, raucous laughter and the acrid smoke of Woodbines.

  ‘Best thing that could ‘ave ‘appened to me, this knee. No ‘ard feelings, Mr ‘ill. Without our little frac-ass, I’d’ve been stuck in France with the others and in the bloomin’ Jerry bag like as not. As it is, me and my ma are on the up and up.’ There was no Podger pa. He’d lost his job and gone when Podger was in the cradle. ‘Or would ‘ave been except my ma’d popped it. In our class, Mr ‘ill, they say, “When poverty comes in the door, love flies out the window”.’ He was heading for Soho to meet a contact. ‘The shortages and rationin’ ‘as changed everythin’. I’m supplyin’ people’s needs now, with my lads. Anythin’ you’re running short of, or any friends are short, just ring me at the Finsbury Crown. Albert behind the bar’ll take a message.’ He scribbled the number in Peter’s pocket book. ‘Or anything else you need attending to.’

  They shook hands. ‘Good luck, Mr ‘ill. You keep your eyes skinned. Someone didn’t want you around if you asks me. And keep me in mind for any supplies.’

  ****

  In the club he found that rumours were the stuff of conversation. With much head-shaking and pursed lips, they were passed along amid the coat stands in the entrance hall, round the long centre table in the Coffee Room and between close clusters of chairs in the bar and Smoking Room.

  Houses had been earmarked and bunkers readied for the government and monarch to move to away from London when the invasion came. The government was contemplating flying to Canada as soon as the inevitable invasion started. The government was actively preparing to leave for Canada. A cabinet-in-waiting was being formed the other side of the Atlantic. The departure of the Royal Family was imminent and the Royal Princesses had already left. The declaration of martial law was prepared, was ready, was only days away. Peace feelers had gone out to Hitler: the government were awaiting his response via Madrid. The Fifth Column was already at work, preparing the way for the invader. The Fascists, IRA, Communists and Peace Pledgers were all part of it. Secret intelligence reports spoke of light signalling, cars left parked by aerodromes, purchases of sketchpads and crayons (good thing Ella wasn’t here), cars left on sea fronts, yellow paint on telegraph poles, men in identical Fair Isle pullovers.

  As he listened, intrigued, the feeling grew that he was being watched. Under the pretence of returning his newspaper to the side-table, he looked round. Amid the post-lunch crowd it was impossible to tell whose eyes, if anyone’s, might have been
on him.

  A member who was something in the Foreign Office was leaving the room at the same time. ‘You’re looking very fit. Lots of fresh air recently?’

  ‘Five or six days walking in France.’

  The member raised his eyebrows. ‘Dunkirk?’

  ‘Further down the coast. We were lucky to find a friendly fisherman.’

  ‘Good show. Were our French allies generally helpful?’

  ‘Not all. Some we met seemed to be accepting the German invasion as a chance to reconstruct France.’ He quoted Odette Michel, then translated: ‘“France is defeated by its own corruption and we must learn from the Germans to rise from the ashes, renewed and purified.” Of course, I don’t know how typical that is.’

  ‘We’ll see in the next few days, I fear. Well, good luck.’

  ****

  With sense of escape, Peter walked over to the park. He’d brought Paradise Lost, but the park had become too much of an assault course to allow anything more than the occasional glance. A big military area in the centre, trenches, AA gun emplacements, balloon moorings, checkpoints. He wondered if he would be taken for a fifth columnist, scouting the park for German parachutists who would land dressed as nuns, arms up in apparent surrender but carrying grenades in both hands. As in Holland, so a man with diplomatic contacts had assured him. At least he wasn’t wearing a Fair Isle pullover. The Dorchester for tea and watch the world go by?

  Small world. That smartly dressed woman entering the lounge was, unmistakeably, Helen Jones, Miriam’s foxy-faced secretary. The man getting up to greet her had the air of an officer in civilian clothes. Navy, possibly.

  She seemed not to have spotted him but he looked down, into Paradise Lost:

  “We may with more successful hope resolve

  To wage by force or guile eternal War

  Irreconcilable, to our grand Foe …”

  As he left, Foxy and naval friend were deep in conversation, his fingers resting on her sleeve.

  He knew The Mansions, at the junction of St John’s Wood, Regent’s Park and Lord’s cricket ground. Three heavy blocks of Edwardian mansion flats, massive but hidden from the main road by the church on the corner and its wooded churchyard. One of Miriam’s campaigning dinners had been held in an opulent top-floor flat. When he’d left that dinner, the bands of white and brown stucco across the facades had stood out, bright in the moonlight as they now glowed in the sun. Then as now, he could hear the wind rustling in the trees. Then as now, the area seemed deserted.

  Delivered with such security, the instructions had merely directed him to report to the Special Duties Section (Co-ordination Staff) at 0930 hours. One of The Mansions’ flats was home to the Section. He should not bring any items of kit other than his anti-gas respirator and steel helmet.

  The lift opened into a circular hallway with old-gold velvet drapes and a deep green carpet, gilt mirrors and a crystal chandelier. Under one of the mirrors, a sergeant was seated at a desk; in front of him were a teacup, a single piece of buff foolscap with six or seven typed lines, a typewriter and a filing tray containing a copy of The Times open at the crossword. His uniform had no regimental markings.

  ‘Shouldn’t corporals use the tradesmen’s entrance?’ Floppy blonde hair fell over a high forehead. The accent was Oxford, the glasses small and round.

  ‘Corporal is a vocation not a trade, sergeant.’

  ‘Many are called but few are chosen.’

  ‘In our Father’s house are many mansions.’

  ‘Present laughter must have an ending. What brings you here, corporal?’

  ‘What’s to come is still unsure.’

  ‘Shall we do this properly?’ The floppy-haired sergeant took on a stern tone. ‘Name, rank and number?’

  ‘6035 Hill, P. Corporal, ELR, reporting, sergeant.’

  ‘ELR?’

  ‘East London Rifles, sergeant.’

  ‘So it is. I’ll tell the colonel you’re here. Watch my desk. Don’t do the crossword.’ He went into one of the corridors leading off the hall. A tap on a door. ‘Colonel, sir. Corporal Hill is here.’ He beckoned from the corridor. You’re on parade. Flat 320. Leave the respirator with me. He doesn’t like them cluttering up his office. I’ll bring it when there’s a gas attack—if I can still breathe.’

  The front door of 320 gave into a small hallway.

  ‘Here, corporal.’

  It must have been the drawing room. Although outside was a bright summer’s day, the thick velvet curtains were drawn and the lights on. Two green filing cabinets with combination locks stood against a wall; on one lay a stick and red-banded cap. Facing him behind a desk bare but for a teacup and two telephones, one with a green receiver, sat Colonel G St John Ponsonby, the very colonel Peter had encountered when he dined with The Military Cousin – and been warned about his “mysterious refugee”. Well, perhaps “they” had known something after all.

  ‘Colonel Ponsonby, sir. 6035 Corporal Hill P reporting’

  ‘Remember you well.’ A tap at the door interrupted him before he could add something and it was lost. The sergeant came in and put a cup of tea in front of Peter.

  ‘Another cup, colonel?’

  ‘In 20 minutes.’ He nodded at Peter. ‘Drink your tea, man.’ He waited, studying him as he drank. Decent tea. ‘Good. I like a man who drinks not sips. Hill, we want you to go back to France.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘An important, a very important, operation needs carrying out. One-man job. To be precise, not to mince words, we think you’re that man.’

  ‘Sir. Might I ask how I came to be selected for it from the ELR?’

  ‘No. I can’t say more than your name came to us. Was mentioned. When the job was proposed. With the assurance you’re the man. The man to do it. This job.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘It means promotion. Not a job for a corporal. Of course, there’s still a problem on your file, but I’m ignoring that. From today, it’s Sergeant Hill. “Acting”, of course. Shouldn’t be “Acting” for long. If this goes well, all’s forgiven and forgotten. Well, forgiven, anyway. Army’s like an elephant.’

  Who could possibly have mentioned his name? So soon after his getting back from France, which had been, after all, by sheer good fortune. Why did the colonel think he needed to be bribed? ‘When, sir?’

  ‘When? When it’s done and you’re back. It’s a quick job, in-and-out.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I meant when do I go?’

  ‘To France? Why, at once, man. No time to lose. “’Twere well done quickly”: that’s the rule.’

  Part Three: Borderlands

  Chapter One

  He would cross that very night.

  A so-called New British Expeditionary Force was being formed in Normandy – four or five divisions, if they could be scraped together. The general commanding was going over to take up his post. Acting-Sergeant Hill had been attached to the general’s headquarters staff for the purpose of his expedition. The attachment would both provide him with cover for his mission and get him there, into the right location, practically on the doorstep, without let or hindrance.

  On arrival at Cherbourg he could split off at once or travel with the general’s staff to Le Mans, then go on his way. Depending on the outcome (full briefing later), he could rejoin the general’s staff and get a ticket back. Or make his way to one of the embarkation ports. He should be back in days. In fact, days were probably all he had, as France was looking rocky, very rocky. Unless, that was, the general could pull something off with this second BEF. “If anyone can, he can.”

  The general and his people were leaving by destroyer from Portsmouth that evening. Peter would entrain with them at Waterloo. The officer commanding the headquarters staff and his adjutant would be aware that Acting-Sergeant Hill was under direct command from London. On their side, they’d made it clear that they had no room for tourists. It had been agreed that he would take their orders and carry out duties as per normal – but only so far
as possible without prejudice to his mission. Of course, it was in his interest to fit in, not attract any attention, be one of them.

  They would break now. The colonel had matters demanding his attention. In the meantime, Corporal Hill, Acting-Sergeant Hill that was, should report to SDS administration. There he would change his insignia, pick up new paperwork for himself, draw a personal weapon. He should have some lunch, get his personal kit together, and return at 1815 hours for detailed orders, ready to proceed straight to Waterloo.

  ‘A personal weapon, sir?’

  ‘Sidearm, pistol, revolver. Call it what you like. Can’t go running round France for Special Duties with a .303 on your shoulder. Discretion is the rule.’ He opened a desk drawer and took out a red file, adding abstractedly, ‘Don’t worry. All will be explained. Off you go now. My sergeant, Hugh, will give you directions and a pass and so on.’ The colonel reached for one of the two telephones on his desk, the green receiver. As Peter reached the door, the colonel looked up. ‘You could take your shotgun. Say you’re going for the shooting.’

  ****

  ‘Pull up one of those Maples monstrosities, corporal.’ The colonel’s sergeant threw The Times into his filing tray and rocked back in his office swivel chair to study Peter as he came back under the chandelier.

  ‘Acting-sergeant, sergeant.’

  ‘Congratulations. He must have taken a shine to you. If you’d stuck it out for another 20 minutes, that could have been a pip.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about the extra stripe. Corporals float so nicely between fatigues and responsibility.’

  ‘Commiserations, then. You know more about rough soldiering than ever I hope to. Do sit down. I’ll take a moment or two to do your papers.’