The Fourth Estate

by Jeffrey Archer

  For the next three days he rarely left Charlotte’s side, except when she returned to her little apartment in the early hours. He did climb the Eiffel Tower, walk along the banks of the Seine, visit the Louvre and stick to most of the advice given in the folder, which meant that they were almost always accompanied by at least three regiments of single soldiers who, whenever they passed him, were unable to hide the look of envy on their faces.

  They ate in overbooked restaurants, danced in nightclubs so crowded they could only shuffle around on the spot, and talked of everything except a war that might cause them to have only three precious days together. Over coffee in the Hotel Cancelier he told her of the family in Douski he hadn’t seen for four years.

  He went on to describe to her everything that had happened to him since he had escaped from Czechoslovakia, leaving out only his experience with Mari. She told him of her life in Lyon, where her parents owned a small vegetable shop, and of how happy she had been when the Allies had reoccupied her beloved France. But now she longed only for the war to be over.

  “But not before I have won the Victoria Cross,” he told her.

  She shuddered, because she had read that many people who were awarded that medal received it posthumously. “But when the war is over,” she asked him, “what will you do then?” This time he hesitated, because she had at last found a question to which he did not have an immediate answer.

  “Go back to England,” he said finally, “where I shall make my fortune.”

  “Doing what?” she asked.

  “Not selling newspapers,” he replied, “that’s for sure.”

  During those three days and three nights the two of them spent only a few hours in bed—the only time they were apart.

  When he finally left Charlotte at the front door of her tiny apartment, he promised her, “As soon as we have taken Berlin, I will return.”

  Charlotte’s face crumpled as the man she had fallen in love with strode away, because so many friends had warned her that once they had left, you never saw them again. And they were to be proved right, because Charlotte Reville never saw John Player again.

  * * *

  Sergeant Player signed in at the guardhouse only minutes before he was due on parade. He shaved quickly and changed his shirt before checking company orders, to find that the commanding officer wanted him to report to his office at 0900 hours.

  Sergeant Player marched into the office, came to attention and saluted as the clock in the square struck nine. He could think of a hundred reasons why the C.O. might want to see him. But none of them turned out to be right.

  The colonel looked up from his desk. “I’m sorry, Player,” he said softly, “but you’re going to have to leave the regiment.”

  “Why, sir?” Player asked in disbelief. “What have I done wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said with a laugh, “nothing at all. On the contrary. My recommendation that you should receive the King’s Commission has just been ratified by High Command. It will therefore be necessary for you to join another regiment so that you are not put in charge of men who have recently served with you in the ranks.”

  Sergeant Player stood to attention with his mouth open.

  “I am simply complying with army regulations,” the C.O. explained. “Naturally the regiment will miss your particular skills and expertise. But I have no doubt that we will be hearing of you again at some time in the future. All I can do now, Player, is wish you the best of luck when you join your new regiment.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, assuming the interview was over. “Thank you very much.”

  He was about to salute when the colonel added, “May I be permitted to offer you one piece of advice before you join your new regiment?”

  “Please do, sir,” replied the newly promoted lieutenant.

  “‘John Player’ is a slightly ridiculous name. Change it to something less likely to cause the men you are about to command to snigger behind your back.”

  * * *

  Second Lieutenant Richard Ian Armstrong reported to the officers’ mess of the King’s Own Regiment the following morning at 0700 hours.

  As he walked across the parade ground in his tailored uniform, it took him a few minutes to get used to being saluted by every passing soldier. When he arrived in the mess and sat down for breakfast with his fellow-officers, he watched carefully to see how they held their knives and forks. After breakfast, of which he ate very little, he reported to Colonel Oakshott, his new commanding officer. Oakshott was a red-faced, bluff, friendly man who, when he welcomed him, made it clear that he had already heard of the young lieutenant’s reputation in the field.

  Richard, or Dick as he quickly became known by his brother officers, reveled in being part of such a famous old regiment. But he enjoyed even more being a British officer with a clear, crisp accent which belied his origins. He had traveled a long way from those two overcrowded rooms in Douski. Sitting by the fire in the comfort of the officers’ mess of the King’s Own Regiment, drinking port, he could see no reason why he shouldn’t travel a great deal further.

  * * *

  Every serving officer in the King’s Own soon learned of Lieutenant Armstrong’s past exploits, and as the regiment advanced toward German soil he was, by his bravery and example in the field, able to convince even the most skeptical that he had not been making it all up. But even his own section was staggered by the courage he displayed in the Ardennes only three weeks after he had joined the regiment.

  The forward party, led by Armstrong, cautiously entered the outskirts of a small village, under the impression that the Germans had already retreated to fortify their position in the hills overlooking it. But Armstrong’s platoon had only advanced a few hundred yards down the main street before it was met with a barrage of enemy fire. Lieutenant Armstrong, armed only with an automatic pistol and a hand grenade, immediately identified where the German fire was coming from, and, “careless of his own life”—as the dispatch later described his action—charged toward the enemy dugouts.

  He had shot and killed the three German soldiers manning the first dugout even before his sergeant had caught up with him. He then advanced toward the second dugout and lobbed his grenade into it, killing two more soldiers instantly. White flags appeared from the one remaining dugout, and three young soldiers slowly emerged, their hands high in the air. One of them took a pace forward and smiled. Armstrong returned the smile, and then shot him in the head. The two remaining Germans turned to face him, a look of pleading on their faces as their comrade slumped to the ground. Armstrong continued to smile as he shot them both in the chest.

  His breathless sergeant came running up to his side. The young lieutenant swung round to face him, the smile firmly fixed on his face. The sergeant stared down at the lifeless bodies. Armstrong replaced the pistol in its holster and said, “Can’t take any risks with these bastards.”

  “No, sir,” replied the sergeant quietly.

  * * *

  That night, once they had set up camp, Armstrong commandeered a German motorcycle and sped back to Paris on a forty-eight-hour leave, arriving on Charlotte’s doorstep at seven the following morning.

  When she was told by the concierge that there was a Lieutenant Armstrong asking to see her, Charlotte said that she didn’t know anyone by that name, assuming it was just another officer hoping to be shown round Paris. But when she saw who it was, she threw her arms around him, and they didn’t leave her room for the rest of the day and night. The concierge, despite being French, was shocked. “I realize there’s a war on,” she told her husband, “but they hadn’t even met before.”

  When Dick left Charlotte to return to the front on Sunday evening, he told her that by the time he came back he would have taken Berlin, and then they would be married. He jumped on his motorcycle and rode away. She stood in her nightdress by the window of the little apartment and watched until he was out of sight. “Unless you are killed before Berlin falls, my darling.”


  * * *

  The King’s Own Regiment was among those selected for the advance on Hamburg, and Armstrong wanted to be the first officer to enter the city. After three days of fierce resistance, the city finally fell.

  The following morning, Field Marshal Sir Bernard Montgomery entered the city and addressed the combined troops from the back of his jeep. He described the battle as decisive, and assured them it would not be long before the war was over and they would be going home. After they had cheered their commanding officer, he descended from his jeep and presented medals for bravery. Among those who were decorated with a Military Cross was Captain Richard Armstrong.

  Two weeks later, the Germans’ unconditional surrender was signed by General Jodl and accepted by Eisenhower. The next day Captain Richard Armstrong MC was granted a week’s leave. Dick powered his motorcycle back to Paris, arriving at Charlotte’s old apartment building a few minutes before midnight. This time the concierge took him straight up to her room.

  The following morning Charlotte, in a white suit, and Dick, in his dress uniform, walked to the local town hall. They emerged thirty minutes later as Captain and Mrs. Armstrong, the concierge having acted as witness. Most of the three-day honeymoon was spent in Charlotte’s little apartment. When Dick left her to return to his regiment, he told her that now the war was over he intended to leave the army, take her to England and build a great business empire.

  * * *

  “Do you have any plans now that the war is over, Dick?” asked Colonel Oakshott.

  “Yes, sir. I intend to return to England and look for a job,” replied Armstrong.

  Oakshott opened the buff file that lay on the desk in front of him. “It’s just that I might have something for you here in Berlin.”

  “Doing what, sir?”

  “High Command are looking for the right person to head up the PRISC, and I think you’re the ideal candidate for the position.”

  “What in heaven’s name is…”

  “The Public Relations and Information Services Control. The job might have been made for you. We’re looking for someone who can present Britain’s case persuasively, and at the same time make sure the press don’t keep getting the wrong end of the stick. Winning the war was one thing, but convincing the outside world that we’re treating the enemy even-handedly is proving far more difficult. The Americans, the Russians and the French will be appointing their own representatives, so we need someone who can keep an eye on them as well. You speak several languages and have all the qualifications the job requires. And let’s face it, Dick, you don’t have a family in England to rush back to.”

  Armstrong nodded. After a few moments he said, “To quote Montgomery, what weapons are you giving me to carry out the job?”

  “A newspaper,” said Oakshott. “Der Telegraf is one of the city’s dailies. It’s currently operated by a German called Arno Schultz. He never stops complaining that he can’t keep his presses rolling, he has constant worries about paper shortages, and the electricity is always being cut off. We want Der Telegraf on the streets every day, pumping out our view of things. I can’t think of anyone more likely to make sure that happens.”

  “Der Telegraf isn’t the only paper in Berlin,” said Armstrong.

  “No, it isn’t,” replied the colonel. “Another German is running Der Berliner out of the American sector—which is an added reason why Der Telegraf needs to be a success. At the moment Der Berliner is selling twice as many copies as Der Telegraf, a position which as you can imagine we’d like to see reversed.”

  “And what sort of authority would I have?”

  “You’d be given a free hand. You can set up your own office and staff it with as many people as you feel are necessary to do the job. There’s also a flat thrown in, which means that you could send for your wife.” Oakshott paused. “Perhaps you’d like a little time to think about it, Dick?”

  “I don’t need time to think about it, sir.”

  The colonel raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll be happy to take the job on.”

  “Good man. Start by building up contacts. Get to know anyone who might be useful. If you come up against any problems, just tell whoever’s involved to get in touch with me. If you’re really stymied, the words ‘Allied Control Commission’ usually oil even the most immovable wheels.”

  It took Captain Armstrong only a week to requisition the right offices in the heart of the British sector, partly because he used the words “Control Commission” in every other sentence. It took him a little longer to sign up a staff of eleven to manage the office, because all the best people were already working for the Commission. He began by poaching a Sally Carr, a general’s secretary who had worked for the Daily Chronicle in London before the war.

  Once Sally had moved in, the office was up and running within days. Armstrong’s next coup came when he discovered that Lieutenant Wakeham was stationed in Berlin working on transport allocation: Sally told him that Wakeham was bored out of his mind filling out travel documents. Armstrong invited him to be his second in command, and to his surprise his former superior officer happily accepted. It took some days to get used to calling him Peter.

  Armstrong completed his team with a sergeant, a couple of corporals and half a dozen privates from the King’s Own who had the one qualification he required. They were all former barrow boys from the East End of London. He selected the sharpest of them, Private Reg Benson, to be his driver. His next move was to requisition an apartment in Paulstrasse that had previously been occupied by a brigadier who was returning to England. Once the colonel had signed the necessary papers, Armstrong told Sally to send a telegram to Charlotte in Paris.

  “What do you want to say?” she asked, turning a page of her notepad.

  “Have found suitable accommodation. Pack up everything and come immediately.”

  As Sally wrote down his words, Armstrong rose from his seat. “I’m off to Der Telegraf to check up on Arno Schultz. See that everything runs smoothly until I get back.”

  “What shall I do with this?” asked Sally, passing him a letter.

  “What’s it about?” he asked, glancing at it briefly.

  “It’s from a journalist in Oxford who wants to visit Berlin and write about how the British are treating the Germans under occupation.”

  “Too damn well,” said Armstrong as he reached the door. “But I suppose you’d better make an appointment for him to see me.”

  10.

  News Chronicle

  1 October 1946

  THE JUDGMENT OF NUREMBERG: GOERING’S GUILT UNIQUE IN ITS ENORMITY

  When Keith Townsend arrived at Worcester College, Oxford, to read Politics, Philosophy and Economics, his first impression of England was everything he had expected it to be: complacent, snobbish, pompous and still living in the Victorian era. You were either an officer or other ranks, and as Keith came from the colonies, he was left in no doubt which category he fell into.

  Almost all his fellow-students seemed to be younger versions of Mr. Jessop, and by the end of the first week Keith would happily have returned home if it hadn’t been for his college tutor. Dr. Howard could not have been in greater contrast to his old headmaster, and showed no surprise when the young Australian told him over a glass of sherry in his room how much he despised the British class system still perpetuated by most of the undergraduates. He even refrained from making any comment on the bust of Lenin which Keith had placed on the center of the mantelpiece, where Lord Salisbury had lodged the previous year.

  Dr. Howard had no immediate solution to the class problem. In fact his only advice to Keith was that he should attend the Freshers’ Fair, where he would learn all about the clubs and societies that undergraduates could join, and perhaps find something to his liking.

  Keith followed Dr. Howard’s suggestion, and spent the next morning being told why he should become a member of the Rowing Club, the Philatelic Society, the Dramatic Society, the Chess Club, the Officer Training Corps an
d, especially, the student newspaper. But after he had met the newly appointed editor of Cherwell and heard his views on how a paper should be run, he decided to concentrate on politics. He left the Freshers’ Fair clutching application forms for the Oxford Union and the Labor Club.

  The following Tuesday, Keith found his way to the Bricklayers’ Arms, where the barman pointed up the stairs to a little room in which the Labor Club always met.

  The chairman of the club, Rex Siddons, was immediately suspicious of Brother Keith, as he insisted on addressing him from the outset. Townsend had all the trappings of a traditional Tory—father with a knighthood, public school education, a private allowance and even a secondhand MG Magnette.

  But as the weeks passed, and every Tuesday evening the members of the Labor Club were subjected to Keith’s views on the monarchy, private schools, the honors system and the élitism of Oxford and Cambridge, he became known as Comrade Keith. One or two of them even ended up in his room after the meetings, discussing long into the night how they would change the world once they were out of “this dreadful place.”

  During his first term Keith was surprised to find that if he failed to turn up for a lecture, or even missed the odd tutorial at which he was supposed to read his weekly essay to his tutor, he was not automatically punished or even reprimanded. It took him several weeks to get used to a system that relied solely on self-discipline, and by the end of his first term his father was threatening that unless he buckled down, he would stop his allowance and bring him back home to do a good day’s work.

  During his second term Keith wrote a long letter to his father every Friday, detailing the amount of work he was doing, which seemed to stem the flow of invective. He even made the occasional appearance at lectures, where he concentrated on trying to perfect a roulette system, and at tutorials, where he tried to stay awake.

  During the summer term Keith discovered Cheltenham, Newmarket, Ascot, Doncaster and Epsom, thus ensuring that he never had enough money to purchase a new shirt or even a pair of socks.