‘Thank you, colonel.’
‘I suppose you’ve been thinking about a commission.’
‘Not at the moment, colonel. I’m looking forward to doing my best in this posting.’
‘Good man. You can always put your name forward through me. Anyway, welcome aboard. I gather your previous outfit is in limbo for the moment.’
‘I understand it’s involved in a shake up of various services coming under a new minister, colonel.’
Over dinner, Amelia had sparkled with her tale of the minister’s grab for all the irregular outfits. An off-the-cuff remark of Churchill’s and “Lo and behold!” The Foreign Office and War Office locked in a thumb-in-the-eye struggle with the favoured minister. ‘Such aggression, deceit and ruthlessness,’ she’d said, knowingly. ‘If they turn it on Hitler, he hasn’t a chance.’
‘While the future of the unit is being decided,’ Peter added, ‘I’m glad to be ordered to continue the posting here.’
‘Well, understand you’re detached to this headquarters and return will require our consent.’ He left the rest unspoken.
****
Sitting behind his desk in the CoS outer office, glancing over the orders and the diary for the week, Peter reflected on his position. For the moment, he was below the horizon. But then, what of his mother? And Dinah? He’d be a witness to history once more, but how could this detachment possibly get him to Switzerland?
‘Welcome back aboard. I thought we’d see you again.’ The staff sergeant had the air of having fixed Peter’s return. Perhaps he had. You never knew with staff sergeants.
He’d come to collect Peter for lunch and bring his passes. A pass to get into the headquarters, a pass to get into the War Office or even the Cabinet Rooms. ‘Don’t suppose you’ll be gracing us for long.’ The staff sergeant cocked his thumb and first finger and made a popping noise.
****
Peter hadn’t expected to work quite so hard or continuously. Just as well the weather had turned cool and occasionally wet. The CoS’s diary seemed one long conference or meeting, and not just in the school or Whitehall but across the command, descending on the local chiefs, brigade, division, corps, crossing boundaries for meetings with opposite numbers, visiting RAF and Naval headquarters. Once back, he would go straight to turn his notes into an official record. The days of vicarage tea parties belonged to another, golden, age.
Cold clarity was required. In this key invasion area, the strategy to oppose a landing was officially settling in, but the reality that flowed through his notes was a tale of half-armed, half-trained men, peacetime attitudes and complaints of shortages, shortages, shortages. No anti-tank regiment here, not a single anti-tank gun there, no tanks, no air-defences, no artillery and hardly any ammo.
Invasion hung over them, its shadow deepened by intelligence reports of German bomber squadrons redeployed, of long-range guns being put in place at Calais, of German Army leave cancelled, of Fifth Columnists stepping up their activities. Trails of blue wool, marks on lampposts, blond men in telephone boxes near airfields, cars left parked on jetties, signal lights. Lord Haw-Haw knew when local clocks stopped and all about tea rationing. An army commander proposed a special unit to hunt them down and deal with them in summary court martial. The Home Office demurred. (Anselm: ‘This is 1940, not 1640.’)
German bombers began a series of tentative raids – probing defences, said the experts – that steadily became more extensive. Channel convoys, ports, coastal towns, aircraft factories.
One night, orders came for the staff to stay and sleep with their boots on: intelligence had predicted a landing, perhaps a raid, perhaps invasion itself from the east, Norway. Later, Amelia confided that their resident wizard had identified that particular night as the final favourable invasion date in Hitler’s horoscope. ‘After that, “Adolf will know the stars are against him”, he says.’
When the pace slackened, his thoughts turned to his mother and to Switzerland.
****
‘Are people as calm as they seem? Or just denying the danger? Stifling panic?’
He asked Lady Veronica as she drove him away from the school gate – thank God only in her Morris – on their way to her country cottage. Somehow she’d got through to him at headquarters. ‘How about a walk in the country this weekend? Any chance of an exeat? ’
Why not? Weekends were meeting-free. ‘We’re in a weekending war,’ the general had grumbled. ‘Impossible to get hold of anyone, even if the finest war-machine in history is sitting just across the Channel, waiting for the order to invade.’
‘I think most are fatalistic,’ Lady Veronica replied after a pause for thought. ‘If Jerry invades, there’s nothing they can do about it. Apathy, perhaps. Or maybe we are all being brave.’
‘Bravery and foolhardiness are hard to tell apart.’ Even for the subject, he thought.
‘I don’t think they’re denying the actual danger. The government have set up this scheme to send children overseas—I’m on the board. When we opened in Berkeley Street, the queue of panicky parents reached down Piccadilly. Belgravia mingling with Bermondsey.’
‘If I were in Downing Street, it’s social division in face of invasion I’d be worrying over. The working man’s belief that the rich are natural fascists waiting to welcome Hitler.’
‘That sort of rumour is really worrying the cabinet, Anselm says. That the very rich have nothing to fear if Hitler comes. It’s still despicable of them to tell us to hand rumourmongers’ names to the police. Everyone thinks that’s a dreadful mistake – and downright sinister, too. We have a natural right to rumour.’
****
There was little traffic. As they approached the cottage, Local Defence Volunteer roadblocks held them up briefly for identification, but there were no soldiers to be seen. None when they went for a long walk after lunch over the fields and across the downs.
‘No news of your mother, I’m sorry to report. Anselm says the Soviet authorities have clammed up. Won’t even confirm where Hélène is.’
‘It’s a worry that the embassy’s hit a brick wall. Madame Duverger’s really taking it badly. As though she blames herself for my mother’s being out there. I think she’s drinking.’
‘Has that Russian been in touch again?’
‘A day or two ago he left a message to call. I’m waiting for the word from Special Branch before I ring him back. In my current role, I have to be very careful.’
A light breeze blew in his ears. He took off his hat to feel it in his hair and was grateful for the peace after the constant bustle of headquarters.
They dropped down into the village for a cup of tea in the shadow of the Norman castle high on its mound, a stark ruin still looming over the little valley and the river crossing, an ancient buttressed bridge of stone across the Anglo-Saxon ford. Then they walked back along the lanes, under oak, beech and ash, with occasional glimpses of the downs rolling away, the springy turf shadowed by passing clouds and dotted white by distant sheep.
She broke the silence. ‘Isn’t this exactly what they say we’re fighting for?’
‘If you follow that Binyon poem in the paper. Did you see it?’ He declaimed:
‘“As over English earth I gaze,
Bare down, deep lane, and coppice crowned
Green hills, and distance lost in blue
Horizon of this heavenly ground …”
See? There’s an almost casual assumption that’s what England people will fight for, the only England worth fighting for. Of course, he ties the landscape into holy war. Something about arming us for the “last battle of the soul”. Arthurian knights lurking in there.’
‘But not much appeal if you lack decent housing, schools, clinics, maternity care?’
Peter declaimed again:
‘“As over English slums I gaze,
Beyond the gas works to the glue factory, and
Distance lost in black and hellish smoke.”’
She looked at him curiously. ‘Is that the real th
ing or have you just made it up?’
****
Next morning they walked to the village church, where the vicar preached a stalwart invasion sermon to a diminished congregation and was effusive over Lady Veronica’s kind attendance, then went to lunch in the pub, entertained by a weekender’s complaining to the saloon bar about his experience at the LDV’s hands. His luxuriant moustaches, foreign-sounding name and loud suiting had inspired a roadblock to shut him in a telephone box under armed guard while the local police sergeant was fetched. ‘I rang the Daily Mirror, but they said they’d be interested only if I was a member of the Fifth Column.’
Veronica excused herself to have ‘an absolutely necessary word’ with another neighbour, a retired admiral. ‘Anselm wants him to accept as regional commissioner and I’m paving the way.’
He was watching the admiral’s falling for her combination of irresistible charm and well-bred authority when a drink was put down on the table and a man dropped into Veronica’s vacant seat – his fellow clubman who was something in the Foreign Office, Bruce Hendersley. ‘Hill, isn’t it? Very good to see you. What brings you to this neck of the woods?’
‘A breather with my sister’s godmother. Perhaps you know her, Lady Veronica.’ Peter nodded towards her, deep in conversation on the other side of the bar.
Hendersley, it appeared, had borrowed a colleague’s cottage for the weekend. ‘On condition I do some work in the garden. For you, a welcome break from invasion planning?’ When Peter looked surprised, he added, ‘Just a guess. Informed guess. Someone was saying you’d joined the general’s staff.’
‘Only as a humble note-taker. Joining the staff is rather overselling it.’
‘Managing to keep in touch with French affairs?’
‘What’s published and the odd scrap of information that comes up in the meetings I note.’
‘But you weren’t exactly taking notes in France, when you heard the old Marshal?’
‘I was attached to the BEF headquarters and, yes, I did take notes at allied meetings.’
‘You didn’t come across de Gaulle?’
‘Not at all.’
‘A colleague says he has a head like a pineapple and hips like a woman.’
Peter laughed. ‘His position here seems rather at odds too.’
‘At odds?’
‘The armistice was signed by the legitimate government of France, his government, which has legally reconstituted itself in Vichy. I understand we’ve not ceased to recognise it. Yet we recognise de Gaulle’s French National Committee.’
‘He’s simply our best Frenchman, one who wants to fight on.’ Hendersley gestured deprecatingly. ‘Leader of all free Frenchmen, who want a free future for their country. That’s the most we can do.’
‘I gather precious few senior officers have come over with him, though the Pétain government’s stuffed with them.’
‘De Gaulle’s got one vice-admiral recently. But it’s true that quite a lot of the troops who came over want to go back now.’
‘Do we have any contact with Vichy?’
‘Unfortunately not. They broke off relations after we sank their fleet. Halifax is worried that we’re quite so in the dark. De Gaulle has his own axe to grind, of course. Not terribly reliable.’
From the door, Veronica signalled to Peter that they should leave. Hendersley walked to the car park with them. Out of the blue, he asked Peter if he had ever been to Australia or Canada.
‘Canada, yes. I spent a long vacation over there, working in a boys’ camp, then doing some hiking, then visiting relatives. It was a wonderful summer. Marvellous country. I’d like to go back some day.’
Hendersley nodded, then turned to Veronica to say goodbye.
****
On the way to London, Peter talked about Ella, her badly missing London and hoping to get back.
‘She’s not met some nice young officer or diplomatist, could keep her safe out there?’
‘I’m not sure that a nice young officer would ever be my sister’s cup of tea. I am sure marriage is out of the question until the question of our parentage is cleared up. And now there’s this further mystery about our mother’s papers? Is she still Polish? If so, why?’
‘Poor Peter, poor Ella. Hasn’t your father said anything to her?’
‘It’s difficult to know. She’s not going to write for the censor’s benefit. But I gather our father takes himself out and about all over the theatre, making strategic appreciations. She’s off mingling with the troops to make drawings. So they hardly see each other.’
‘This isn’t ground, I’m afraid, on which even the most loving of godparents should tread voluntarily.’
‘If there is any hint you could give, please do. I think I’m bound to see that Russian again. I’ll have the queer feeling I had before – that he knows more than I, much more.’
She dropped him at the flat, thanking him for his companionship. ‘It’s been such fun. I do hope you’ll keep me company again. Anselm can’t often make it these days.’
He was on the pavement when she called him back. ‘I said I wouldn’t tread on ground that rightly belongs to your parents, but I think I should tell you this much. You’ve guessed it, I’m sure. Yes, I believe Hélène’s … your mother’s … true nationality might well be Polish still. Obviously she has the right to live here.’
****
That night, just before he turned in, the phone rang. Apologising for ringing on a Sunday evening and so late – ‘but I wanted to be sure to catch you in’ – the Special Branch man gave the go-ahead to meet Burenko. ‘We’d be grateful if you’d let us know where and when, and if you could get acquainted a bit, as well as learn what’s on his mind.’
****
‘Is your brother still segeant-ing for Ponsonby?’
‘No, not now. Why do you ask?’
He and Amelia were having a late drink near her hostel. They’d agreed that when he knew he would be spending the night in the flat, he would ring to see if she was free to meet – not busy washing her hair, or making toast and cocoa with the other girls, that sort of thing.
‘He’s invited me to the Dingo. Said he might have something to suit me better than clerking. Of course, very hush-hush.’
‘He’s cooking up some new project. Nothing to do with us. We’re getting a real soldier for the military side. Hugh’s left. He’s taken his mathematics to some super-secret base. Not a word about it even to me.’
‘He’s a mathematician?’
‘Absolutely brilliant. I think that’s why he needs the comfort of a world beyond numbers. Something unquantifiable.’
‘Is his twin just as good at maths?’
‘School didn’t rise to it. Crosswords are my thing.’
‘Perhaps there’ll be an opening for crossword people. Am I still on your books?’
‘You’re detached from the section, if that’s what you mean. And it’s understood that you won’t be released back. I’m glad.’
Before they parted, she said, ‘Do tell me what Ponsonby wants. He said to Hugh that one of the six rules of life was “Always know when to move on”.’
‘What were the other five?’
‘“Never look back”, “Every setback an opportunity” and “You can never lose appealing to people’s self-interest” are three more. Apparently, he was trying out “Readiness is all” but it didn’t stay the course. I can’t remember the fifth and he kept the sixth to himself.’
‘I expect the fifth is “Always know how you’ll get out before you get in”. So he told me.’
‘Did you use it?’
‘I forgot.’
‘I expect the owner of the perfumed banknotes distracted you.’
‘Banknote. Only one.’
‘Four, actually.
He was about to protest but she put a Palmolive-scented finger on his lips. ‘There are things I don’t need to know.’
****
At the Dingo, Colonel Ponsonby was in his chosen p
lace at the back of the bar with the familiar bottle on the table. He seemed deep in thought but looked up as Peter approached and poured a second glass.
‘Thanks for trekkin’ over here again. Very convenient for a private conversation. Would you like to join? I could put you up.’
‘I don’t have any Australian connections, colonel.’
‘That can be dealt with. The bar never closes and the food’s sustainin’. I’ll sign a form. Now, tell me how you’re gettin’ along in your new incarnation, note-taker, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, colonel. And getting on well, thank you. It’s very interesting work.’
‘Go everywhere, I imagine. No secrets from you.’
‘Not quite true, colonel. Some meetings are so strategic or high-level that only an officer can note them. Mine are largely thrashing out operational matters.’
‘Righty-o. This is top secret. Maximum discretion. Yes?’ It was unclear whether ‘yes’ referred to the discretion or the second bottle Ponsonby was signalling for. ‘Our little unit is over … finito, kaput. Between them, the politicians and bureaucrats have sabotaged it. Your mission showed what a dedicated unit actin’ on the margins could do. They were very pleased with that info about the Duke of Hesse and so on, but, war or no, people always play for power. That’s a rule of life. I was glad I was able to fix you up with a decent berth while we waited to see how the cards were fallin’. You’d earned it. Now we can move on.’
The barman bought the second bottle. ‘If you’ll allow me, colonel.’ Peter filled the gap.
‘And 20 Churchman, if I might’, said the colonel. The barman looked at Peter, who nodded.
‘This one is outside their grasp. Auxiliary Units. I’m makin’ the case for AUs; the prospectus is drawn, and I think I’m ready to launch. Winston, a man of great imagination, flair, and buccaneerin’ spirit saw immediately that if the invader gets off the beach and moves inland, what we need will be …’ His tone was expectant, like a music hall comedian.
‘Auxiliary Units, colonel?’
‘Precisely. Workin’ from well-stocked underground hideouts. Camouflaged bunkers.’ The colonel’s eyes were agleam. ‘Therein the stay-behind force of signallers, explosives experts, men who know the lie of the land, resourceful, skilled in stalkin’. The enemy rolls over them. They emerge from their lairs, strike hard and vanish. And again. Freebootin’, buccaneerin’. Harass and upset the enemy, destroy his communications, kill his officers, supply intelligence. Some plucky little LDV-ers have already volunteered to stay behind.’ The colonel was alive. He drank a glass down with gusto and refilled it. ‘The time is come to professionalise the force. Build a network that will cost Jerry dear.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And, Peter, I want you in with me, in on the ground floor.’
Innocence To Die For Page 34