The Danzig Corridor

by Paul R. E. Jarvis

  Despite it being late in the morning, Henry tried to sleep before the game arranged for that afternoon. The regimental rugby match had become an annual event. They were often tough affairs, and when the players took to the field, the privileges of rank were forgotten. It was usually held in October, but with the increasing likelihood of war, the date had been hurried forward. He needed to be fresh for the encounter, so he kicked off his boots, stretched out on his bunk, and was soon asleep.

  Henry woke with a jolt; he was soaked. Ed Jones stood over him waving an empty, enamel mug in his hand.

  ‘Sorry, ’Enry, but you wouldn’t wake up,’ Jonesy laughed. ‘You have to be on the field in three-quarters of an hour.’

  Henry leapt down to chase him, but Ed, surrounded by laughing co-conspirators, taunted him from the other side of the room before Henry had even reached the floor. In a state of semi-amused shock, He dried himself and then rummaged through his locker, looking for his rugby kit.

  The officers were already on the pitch, heckling, as the men of the Hampshire Regiment walked out. Major Winston, an allegedly neutral referee from the Grenadier Guards, stood on the halfway line, incongruous in his desert uniform on an overcast day in southern England. The choice of Winston was disappointing. He had refereed the same fixture the previous year and had shown a great deal of favouritism towards the officers. Henry was especially concerned after his victory over Winston’s beloved Grenadier Guards the night before.

  The team captains shook hands and chose ends. As Henry took up his position, Mac Williams, a captain in the regiment, started taunting him.

  ‘Taylor, I hope you’re going to be gentle with us.’

  Henry smiled back politely and then jogged away.

  The match was a melee of hard-hitting tackles and clandestine punches. When Major Winston blew the final whistle, the officers had won by fourteen points to twelve. Henry had sustained a blow to the face during one of the mauls and could feel it beginning to swell. As the teams walked off, Captain Williams caught up with him.

  ‘You chaps showed some spirit.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  Plastered with mud, Henry fought his way through the crowd towards the changing room. Standing at the door was the tall, willowy figure of Julian Fosdyke, a major from the Hampshires. Henry assumed the major must be in his early fifties from the crow’s feet which had started to form at the corner of his eyes, but the bushy black moustache, which seemed to occupy his entire face, showed no sign of greying.

  ‘Good show, Taylor. That was one of the best matches we’ve had for a few years.

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Mind you, your eye looks quite nasty,’ Fosdyke commented, pointing with his pace stick. ‘You should have one of the medics take a look at it.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I will, Sir.’

  ‘Taylor, I want to see you in my office in half an hour,’ the major said, his tone taking on a more official air. ‘There’s something I would like to discuss with you.’

  ‘Sir, yes, Sir,’ he said, now more than a little worried.

  With that, Fosdyke turned and walked away briskly.

  The colour drained from his face, a gnawing heaviness developing rapidly in his stomach. Had the major seen some of the punches thrown during the game? Henry smiled wryly to himself. Typical. Only he could be court-martialled before he had gone off to war.

  In the changing room, he kicked off his boots, stripped off, then headed to the shower. He stood under the ice-cold water letting his aching body become accustomed to the temperature. Assaulting an officer was a serious offence. Surely, they would not court-martial him for what happened during a rugby match. Would they?

  Back in the dormitory, he slipped on a clean uniform. The medic had appeared unimpressed with his injury. The only advice he had been given was to put some ice on it to reduce the swelling. Henry examined his face in the mirror inside his locker door. He always considered his steely blue eyes as his best feature, but the left one was now almost entirely closed by the swelling. Nonetheless, he scrutinised his appearance closely. If he was going to be disciplined, he was going to do it in style. His blond hair was clipped closely on the sides, the fair stubble giving it a faint grey appearance. The top was combed over to the right with a strand flopping onto his forehead. Perfect for hiding under a beret. He dry-shaved for the second time that day, making sure his appearance was as faultless as it could be.

  His boots glistened in the autumn sun as he strode across the parade ground towards Major Fosdyke’s office. His stomach churned nervously as he climbed the stairs to the first floor. When he knocked on the glass-panelled door, he developed palpitations and broke into a cold sweat. Inside, a busty, blonde girl looked up from behind her clattering typewriter. Her short, wavy hair fashionably sculpted into a centre parting beneath a khaki uniform hat. He guessed she must be in her mid-twenties.

  ‘You must be Corporal Taylor,’ she said sweetly, greeting him with a pleasant smile.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Go through. The major’s expecting you.’

  She gestured towards a door to the side of her desk. Henry took a deep breath and then knocked. A gruff voice from inside bellowed, ‘Come!’

  Shutting the door behind him, he stood to attention and saluted. To his surprise, the small room was crowded. Major Fosdyke was seated behind a large, mahogany desk. Behind him was Colonel Prentice, another of the regiment’s top brass. Henry barely knew him but was aware he had a reputation for being fierce. Worryingly, Mac Williams stood next to the window. Slightly taller than Henry, the handsome captain looked intimidating as he leant against the wall. Henry’s pulse was audible inside his head, pounding faster than he ever thought possible. I’ve had it now.

  After returning Henry’s salute, Major Fosdyke said, ‘Stand at ease, corporal.’

  Henry adjusted his stance accordingly as Williams began speaking, ‘It was a good game today, Taylor! Well played.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ he said, expecting a sucker punch to follow.

  ‘Sorry about the black eye. You know, the heat of the battle, and all that.’

  So, it had been Williams who had punched him. That answered the question, but why was an officer apologising to a corporal? All kinds of irrational scenarios raced through Henry’s head, his anxiety giving way to panic.

  The grey-haired colonel cleared his throat. ‘Corporal Taylor, we’ve been watching you closely.’

  Henry swallowed hard. Here it comes.

  ‘As you’re probably aware, we live in uncertain times. More than ever before, we need good men like you,’ he paused, habitually stroking his unkempt eyebrows. ‘Today, at sixteen hundred hours, the secretary of state for Defence is going to declare general mobilisation. In other words, the British Army is preparing for war.’

  Henry nodded. Where is this going?

  ‘We’ve examined your service record, and I must say it is excellent,’ the major said. ‘Following discussions within the regiment and our observations, I have the great pleasure of informing you of your promotion to sergeant. It will take effect immediately.’

  Henry’s nerves abated, but his expression remained stone-like.

  ‘Do you understand, Taylor?’ Major Fosdyke asked after a few seconds of silence, his moustache twitching as he spoke.

  ‘Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘You should be grateful to Sergeant Midgley. It was his letter of recommendation which brought you to our attention,’ the major said.

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Sergeant Taylor. Unless Hitler performs a rapid U-turn, Britain is going to war,’ the colonel said gravely. No one is sure where this will end. In the next twenty-four hours, most of us will be shipped overseas to fight and, sadly, many will not come back. You don’t need me to tell you, the very nature of war makes it dangerous, but sometimes we have to face danger head-on. As I said, we’ve been watching you for the last few months, and you have impressed us. We would like y
ou to stay behind when the regiment is deployed overseas. I can’t tell you much else, other than there is something important planned for you. You are being transferred to a newly formed unit, which is affiliated with the Intelligence Corps. I want you to report here the day after tomorrow at midday. We’ll discuss your new role then.’

  Henry nodded, struggling to absorb what he had heard.

  ‘Once again, congratulations, Sergeant Taylor,’ said the Colonel. ‘Dismissed!’

  Henry saluted, turned, and marched out.

  The secretary looked up and gave him a flirtatious wink before returning her attention to her typing.

  During Henry’s absence, the announcement of general mobilisation had been made. The dormitory was frantic as the men packed their belongings in preparation for their departure. His old unit was leaving in the second wave, which meant he had one last day with them. There were many rumours about their potential destination. Everyone’s friend seemed to know for certain it was going to be one country or another. Most people suspected they would be going to France, which caused great excitement. Talk of French women and the nightlife in ‘Gay Paris’ filled the air. He looked on glumly, knowing he would not be leaving with them.

  ‘Is everything all right, old chap?’ Jonesy asked, noticing Henry was not his usual self,

  ‘Na, not really!’ he said solemnly.

  ‘A penny for them?’

  ‘Yeah, but let’s go outside.’

  The two of them had joined up together at the age of seventeen. Jones, slightly shorter than Henry, had dark hair which sat untidily above a round face with piggy eyes—a stark contrast to Henry’s fair, handsome looks. They had become best friends during basic training and knew each other’s lives inside out. Jonesy sat on the wall, while his best friend continued to stand, clearly anxious about something. Henry started to explain about his promotion.

  ‘You’re a sergeant, ’Enry?’ Jones patted him on the back. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m letting the lads down, aren’t I?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It looks like I’m being left behind to take up some desk job, while you guys see the real action.’

  ‘You’d be letting us down if you don’t take it,’ Jonesy said flatly. ‘You have shown them hard work and dedication gets you somewhere. Anyway, if you ask me, it makes perfect sense. You don’t want to be stuck in some muddy, foreign hole, do you?’

  ‘I suppose you’re right, but I’m a soldier, not an office clerk,’ he said, letting his exasperation boil over.

  ‘It sounds to me you’re the lucky one. We’re being shipped out in the second wave to God knows where, and you get to stay home with more money and less likelihood of being shot. I would swap places with you in a heartbeat.’

  Henry forced a smile.

  After chatting for over thirty minutes, the two men returned to the dormitory to find a sing-song had started. Several soldiers from different regiments had gathered in their room and were having a great time. United by their camaraderie and uncertainty about their future, they were having one last laugh together before they were deployed throughout Europe.

  For the first time since he had joined the Army, Henry felt like an outsider. His promotion had come with one perk, though; he no longer had to sleep in the same room as the other men. Instead, he had his own room. He unloaded the contents of his locker onto his bunk and then, in two trips, transferred all his earthly goods into his new quarters.

  At lights-out Henry stood outside his door, listening to the excited whispering from the main dormitory. The chatter made him realise how much he was going to miss being one of the lads.

  The next morning passed slowly. Henry tried to keep himself busy while his old comrades made their final preparations. The first of the troops left the base that afternoon, heading for ports on the south coast. From there they would be ferried to the continent. Most were displaying false bravado, but some were clearly anxious.

  As a final farewell, Henry spent the evening with his old unit in the local pub, standing around a piano, singing merrily and harassing the overworked barmaid.

  The following morning, the British government sent Germany an ultimatum. If their troops were not withdrawn from Poland, then Britain would be at war once again. Hitler was given a two-hour period within which to respond, but there had been no reply when the deadline passed at eleven o’clock.

  At a quarter past eleven, the Right Honourable Neville Chamberlain gave the most important speech of his life. All over the country, people huddled around wireless sets, trying to listen to the prime minister. Unlike his usual statements to the house, Chamberlain’s words captivated the nation. After fifteen minutes, he concluded by saying, ‘I have to tell you now; this country is at war with Germany.’

  As he finished, he let out a deep breath and took his seat. The whole United Kingdom fell silent with him.

  At the same time as Chamberlain was making his announcement to the British people, the camp at Aldershot was a hive of activity. Tens of trucks waited on the parade ground. The regimental bands played morale-boosting favourites, as senior officers and men located their designated vehicles.

  Henry and a couple of his close friends walked among the crowd, trying to locate the other men from the Second Hampshires.

  ‘Well, this is it, ’Enry,’ Jonesy said reluctantly. ‘Give ’em hell.’

  ‘Don’t worry, mate. I will.’

  ‘You too, Alan,’ he said, embracing his friend.

  A hush descended as an Army padre, wearing a long purple stole, gave a solemn blessing into a microphone. Henry threw his best friend’s kitbag onto the back of the truck while Ed clambered aboard. The band struck up again, blaring out a fanfare as the convoy with its human cargo set off for the south coast. Once the last of the vehicles had disappeared, he glanced at his wristwatch.

  ‘Damn!’ he muttered to himself. He only had ten minutes to get ready for the meeting with Fosdyke.

  3

  Henry buffed his boots until he could see his face in them, then changed into his smartest uniform. After straightening his tie in the mirror, he dashed back across the parade ground towards the major’s office. The same secretary sat behind the desk, busily scribbling on a notepad. She looked up, recognising Henry instantly.

  ‘Sergeant Taylor, it seems you can’t stay away from me!’ she said playfully, causing him to blush.

  He enquired about his appointment, trying hard not to appear thrown by her comment.

  ‘Oh, they’re meeting in the lecture theatre down the corridor.’

  He thanked her, accidentally slamming the door on his way out.

  Unsure he was in the correct place, Henry took a seat in the back row next to the door. Six other soldiers were dotted around the room. It felt like his first day at school; no one spoke, and, like Henry, everyone was dressed immaculately.

  Shortly, Major Fosdyke, followed by Captain Williams, entered the room. Everyone sprang to attention as the two officers proceeded up the aisle onto the stage.

  ‘Please be seated, gentlemen. We have much to discuss,’ the moustachioed Fosdyke said, stepping onto the platform at the front of the room. ‘Each one of you has been selected, based on recommendations from your commanding officers. So, congratulations to all of you. Although we are few, we aim to achieve great things. I am pleased to inform you, you are now members of Bravo Section, which is affiliated with the Intelligence Corps. Do not think this is a soft option—what lies ahead will require a lot of hard work and much danger.’

  Henry shuffled in his seat as Captain Williams, with his more relaxed demeanour, took centre stage.

  ‘Our unit is unlike any other. As far as the rest of the armed forces and civilian society are concerned, we simply do not exist,’ he said, prowling back and forth on the platform.

  Henry’s ears pricked up.

  ‘So, irrespective of which regiment you are currently enrolled in, from this moment forward, you are a member of Bravo Section,’
the major stated. ‘Of course, if any of you wishes to leave before we get started, then you may do so now,’ said the athletic-looking captain, his usually cheery face taking on an uncharacteristic seriousness.

  No one moved.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said, making his way behind the podium.

  ‘Your official transfer papers will be with you in the next few weeks. I am sure you fully understand, whatever is said in this room must stay in this room. Quite frankly, your survival depends on your discretion.’

  ‘The formation of this unit was instructed by the government,’ Williams said. ‘It is the brainchild of the prime minister. He wants to strike at the heart of our enemies. Our main aim is to reduce the effectiveness of the German forces on the front line. Now, this will be achieved by a variety of measures, but primarily our efforts will be aimed at destroying their military and logistic infrastructure. You will work as a small, isolated team in very hostile territory. You are Hitler’s worst nightmare, gentlemen. You are the unseen saboteurs.’

  Henry liked what he was hearing and quickly forgot the preconceived ideas he had before the meeting.

  ‘However, there is one downside,’ the major said. ‘As individuals, we can never take any credit for what we have done, because officially we do not exist. Those who need to know will be aware of our successes, but the public and the rest of the armed forces will be unaware of your exploits.

  ‘So, we won’t see your ugly mugs in the newspapers,’ Williams said with a smile.

  Henry studied the room. The other men were sitting forward on their seats, looking eager and enthusiastic. He readily anticipated working with them. Leaning back, he was sure he had not met any of them previously. This troubled him as he had no idea of their strengths or weaknesses. How would they react under pressure? Who could he rely on to get out of a scrape?

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ said Williams. ‘One by one, please stand and introduce yourselves. Let’s start with you at the back, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sergeant Henry Taylor, Second Hampshire,’ he said, rising to his feet.