“Do you have anywhere in particular in mind?” asked the colonel.
“Intelligence informs me that the ideal camp for such an exercise is probably the one a few miles outside Bridgend.”
* * *
It took the colonel a little longer to get Captain Armstrong’s request granted than it did Sally to discover all there was to know about Klaus Lauber. Dick read through her notes again and again, searching for an angle.
Lauber had been born in Dresden in 1896. He served in the first war, rising to the rank of captain. After the Armistice he had joined the Ministry of Works in Berlin. Although only on the reserve list, he had been called up in December 1942, and given the rank of major. He was shipped out to North Africa and put in charge of a unit which built bridges and, soon afterward, of one that was ordered to destroy them. He had been captured in March 1943 during the battle of El-Agheila, was shipped to Britain, and was presently held in an internment camp just outside Bridgend. In Lauber’s file at the War Office in Whitehall there was no mention of his owning any shares in Der Telegraf.
When Armstrong had finished reading the notes yet again, he asked Sally a question. She quickly checked in the Berlin Officers’ Handbook and gave him three names.
“Any of them serving with the King’s Own or the North Staffs?” asked Armstrong.
“No,” replied Sally, “but one is with the Royal Rifle Brigade, who use the same messing facilities as we do.”
“Good,” said Dick. “Then he’s our man.”
“By the way,” said Sally, “what shall I do about the young journalist from the Oxford Mail?”
Dick paused. “Tell him I had to visit the American sector, and that I’ll try and catch up with him some time tomorrow.”
It was unusual for Armstrong to dine in the British officers’ mess, because with his influence and freedom to roam the city he was always welcome in any dining hall in Berlin. In any case, every officer knew that when it came to eating, you always tried to find some excuse to be in the French sector. However, on that particular Tuesday evening Captain Armstrong arrived at the mess a few minutes after six, and asked the corporal serving behind the bar if he knew a Captain Stephen Hallet.
“Oh yes, sir,” the corporal replied. “Captain Hallet usually comes in around six-thirty. I think you’ll find he works in the Legal Department,” he added, telling Armstrong something he already knew.
Armstrong remained at the bar, sipping a whiskey and glancing up at the entrance as each new officer came in. He would then look inquiringly toward the corporal, who shook his head each time, until a thin, prematurely balding man who would have made even the smallest uniform look baggy headed toward the bar. He ordered a Tom Collins, and the barman gave Armstrong a quick nod. Armstrong moved across to take the stool beside him.
He introduced himself, and quickly learned that Hallet couldn’t wait to be demobbed and get back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields to continue his career as a solicitor.
“I’ll see if I can help speed the process up,” said Armstrong, knowing full well that when it came to that department he had absolutely no influence at all.
“That’s very decent of you, old chap,” replied Hallet. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do for you in return.”
“Shall we grab a bite?” suggested Armstrong, slipping off his stool and guiding the lawyer toward a quiet table for two in the corner.
After they had ordered from the set menu and Armstrong had asked the corporal for a bottle of wine from his private rack, he guided his companion onto a subject on which he did need some advice.
“I understand only too well the problems some of these Germans are facing,” said Armstrong, as he filled his companion’s glass, “being Jewish myself.”
“You do surprise me,” said Hallet. “But then, Captain Armstrong,” he added as he sipped the wine, “you are obviously a man who’s full of surprises.”
Armstrong looked at his companion carefully, but couldn’t detect any signs of irony. “You may be able to assist me with an interesting case that’s recently landed on my desk,” he ventured.
“I’ll be delighted to help if I possibly can,” said Hallet.
“That’s good of you,” said Armstrong, not touching his glass. “I was wondering what rights a German Jew has if he sold his shares in a company to a non-Jew before the war. Can he claim them back now the war is over?”
The lawyer paused for a moment, and this time he did look a little puzzled. “Only if the person who purchased the shares is decent enough to sell them to him. Otherwise there’s absolutely nothing they can do about it. The Nuremberg Laws of 1935, if I remember correctly.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” was all Armstrong said.
“No,” came back the reply, as the lawyer took another sip from his glass of wine. “It isn’t. But that was the law at the time, and the way things are set up now, there is no civil authority to override it. I must say, this claret is really quite excellent. However did you manage to lay your hands on it?”
“A good friend of mine in the French sector seems to have an endless supply. If you like, I could send you over a dozen bottles.”
* * *
The following morning, Colonel Oakshott received authority to allow Captain Armstrong to visit an internment camp in Britain at any time during the next month. “But they have restricted you to Bridgend,” he added.
“I quite understand,” said Armstrong.
“And they have also made it clear,” continued the colonel, reading from a memo pad on the desk in front of him, “that you cannot interview more than three prisoners, and that none of them may be above the rank of colonel—strict orders from Security.”
“I’m sure I can manage despite those limitations,” said Armstrong.
“Let’s hope this all proves worthwhile, Dick. I still have my doubts, you know.”
“I hope to prove you wrong, sir.”
Once Armstrong had returned to his office, he asked Sally to sort out his travel arrangements.
“When do you want to go?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” he replied.
“Silly question,” she said.
Sally got him on a flight to London the next day, after a general had canceled at the last moment. She also arranged for him to be met by a car and driver who would take him straight to Wales.
“But captains aren’t entitled to a car and driver,” he said when Sally handed over his travel documents.
“They are if the brigadier wants his daughter’s photo on the front page of Der Telegraf when she visits Berlin next month.”
“Why should he want that?” said Armstrong.
“My bet is that he can’t get her married off in England,” said Sally. “And as I’ve discovered, anything in a skirt is jumped on over here.”
Armstrong laughed. “If I were paying you, Sally, you’d get a rise. Meanwhile, keep me informed on anything else you find out about Lauber, and again, I mean anything.”
Over dinner that night, Dick told Charlotte that one of the reasons he was going to Britain was to see if he could find a job once his demob paper had been processed. Although she forced a smile, lately she wasn’t always sure that he was telling her the whole story. If she ever pressed him, he invariably hid behind the words “top secret,” and tapped his nose with his forefinger, just the way he had seen Colonel Oakshott do.
* * *
Private Benson dropped him at the airport the following morning. A voice came over the Tannoy in the departure lounge and announced: “Would Captain Armstrong please report to the nearest military phone before he boards the plane.” Armstrong would have taken the call, if his plane hadn’t already been taxiing down the runway.
When he landed in London three hours later, Armstrong marched across the tarmac toward a corporal leaning against a shiny black Austin and holding a placard with the name “Captain Armstrong” printed on it. The corporal sprang to attention and saluted the moment he spo
tted the officer advancing toward him.
“I need to be driven to Bridgend immediately,” he said, before the man had a chance to open his mouth. They headed down the A40, and Armstrong dozed off within minutes. He didn’t wake until the corporal said, “Only a couple more miles and we’ll be there, sir.”
When they drove up to the camp, memories flooded back of his own internment in Liverpool. But this time when the car passed through the gates, the guards sprang to attention and saluted. The corporal brought the Austin to a halt outside the commandant’s office.
As he walked in, a captain rose from behind a desk to greet him. “Roach,” he said. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He thrust out his hand and Armstrong shook it. Captain Roach displayed no medals on his uniform, and looked as if he’d never even crossed the Channel on a day trip, let alone come in contact with the enemy. “No one has actually explained to me how I can help you,” he said as he ushered Armstrong toward a comfortable chair by the fire.
“’need to see a list of all the prisoners detailed to this camp,” said Armstrong, without wasting any time on banalities. “I intend to interview three of them for a report I’m preparing for the Control Commission in Berlin.”
“That’s easy enough,” said the captain. “But why did they choose Bridgend? Most of the Nazi generals are locked up in Yorkshire.”
“I’m aware of that,” said Armstrong, “but I wasn’t given a lot of choice.”
“Fair enough. Now, do you have any idea what type of person you want to interview, or shall I just pick a few out at random?” Captain Roach handed over a clipboard, and Armstrong quickly ran his finger down the list of typed names. He smiled. “I’ll see one corporal, one lieutenant and one major,” he said, putting a cross by three names. He handed the clipboard back to the captain.
Roach studied his selection. “The first two will be easy enough,” he said. “But I’m afraid you won’t be able to interview Major Lauber.”
“I have the full authority of…”
“It wouldn’t matter if you had the full authority of Mr. Attlee himself,” interrupted Roach. “When it comes to Lauber, there’s nothing I can do for you.”
“Why not?” snapped Armstrong.
“Because he died two weeks ago. I sent him back to Berlin in a coffin last Monday.”
12.
Melbourne Courier
12 September 1950
SIR GRAHAM TOWNSEND DIES
The cortège came to a halt outside the cathedral. Keith stepped out of the leading car, took his mother’s arm and guided her up the steps, followed by his sisters. As they entered the building, the congregation rose from their seats. A sidesman led them down the aisle to the empty front pew. Keith could feel several pairs of eyes boring into him, all asking the same question: “Are you up to it?” A moment later the coffin was borne past them and placed on a catafalque in front of the altar.
The service was conducted by the Bishop of Melbourne, and the prayers read by the Reverend Charles Davidson. The hymns Lady Townsend had selected would have made the old man chuckle: “To Be a Pilgrim,” “Rock of Ages” and “Fight the Good Fight.” David Jakeman, a former editor of the Courier, gave the address. He talked of Sir Graham’s energy, his enthusiasm for life, his lack of cant, his love of his family, and of how much he would be missed by all those who had known him. He ended his homily by reminding the congregation that Sir Graham had been succeeded by a son and heir.
After the blessing, Lady Townsend took her son’s arm once more and followed the pallbearers as they carried the coffin back out of the cathedral and toward the burial plot.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” intoned the bishop as the oak casket was lowered into the ground, and the gravediggers began to shovel sods of earth on top of it. Keith raised his head and glanced around at those who circled the grave. Friends, relations, colleagues, politicians, rivals, bookies—even the odd vulture who, Keith suspected, had come simply to pick over the bones—looked down into the gaping hole.
After the bishop had made the sign of the cross, Keith led his mother slowly back to the waiting limousine. Just before they reached it, she stopped and turned to face those who silently followed behind her. For the next hour she shook hands with every mourner, until the last one had finally departed.
Neither Keith nor his mother spoke on the journey back to Toorak, and as soon as they arrived at the house Lady Townsend climbed the great marble staircase and retired to her bedroom. Keith went off to the kitchen, where Florrie was preparing a light lunch. He laid a tray and carried it up to his mother’s room. When he reached her door he knocked quietly before going in. She was sitting in her favorite chair by the window. His mother didn’t move as he placed the tray on the table in front of her. He kissed her on the forehead, turned and left her. He then took a long walk around the grounds, retracing the steps he had so often taken with his father. Now that the funeral was over, he knew he would have to broach the one subject she had been avoiding.
Lady Townsend reappeared just before eight that evening, and together they went through to the dining room. Again she spoke only of his father, often repeating the same sentiments she had voiced the previous night. She only picked at her food, and after the main course had been cleared away she rose without warning and walked through to the drawing room.
When she took her usual place by the fire, Keith remained standing for a moment before sitting in his father’s chair. Once the maid had served them with coffee, his mother leaned forward, warmed her hands and asked him the question he had waited so patiently to hear.
“What do you intend to do now you’re back in Australia?”
“First thing tomorrow I’ll go in and see the editor of the Courier. There are several changes that need to be made quickly if we’re ever going to challenge the Age.” He waited for her response.
“Keith,” she said eventually, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that we no longer own the Courier.”
Keith was so stunned by this piece of information that he didn’t respond.
His mother continued to warm her hands. “As you know, your father left everything to me in his will, and I have always had an abhorrence of debt in any form. Perhaps if he had left the newspapers to you…”
“But Mother, I…” began Keith.
“Try not to forget, Keith, that you’ve been away for nearly five years. When I last saw you, you were a schoolboy, reluctantly boarding the SS Stranthedan. I had no way of knowing if…”
“But Father wouldn’t have wanted you to sell the Courier. It was the first paper he was ever associated with.”
“And it was losing money every week. When the Kenwright Corporation offered me the chance to get out, leaving us without any liabilities, the board recommended I accept their offer.”
“But you didn’t even give me the chance to see if I could turn it round. I’m well aware that both papers have been losing circulation for years. That’s why I’ve been working on a plan to do something about it, a plan which Father seemed to be coming round to.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said his mother. “Sir Colin Grant, the chairman of the Adelaide Messenger, has just made me an offer of £150,000 for the Gazette, and the board will be considering it at our next meeting.”
“But why would we want to sell the Gazette?” said Keith in disbelief.
“Because we’ve been fighting a losing battle with the Messenger for several years, and their offer appears to be extremely generous in the circumstances.”
“Mother,” said Keith, standing up to face her. “I didn’t return home to sell the Gazette, in fact exactly the reverse. It’s my long-term aim to take over the Messenger.”
“Keith, that’s just not realistic in our current financial situation. In any case, the board would never go along with it.”
“Not at the moment, perhaps, but it will once we’re selling more copies than they are.”
“You’re so like your father, Keith,�
� said his mother, looking up at him.
“Just give me an opportunity to prove myself,” said Keith. “You’ll find that I’ve learned a great deal during my time in Fleet Street. I’ve come home to put that knowledge to good use.”
Lady Townsend stared into the fire for some time before she replied. “Sir Colin has given me ninety days to consider his offer.” She paused again. “I will give you exactly the same time to convince me that I should turn him down.”
* * *
When Townsend stepped off the plane at Adelaide the following morning, the first thing he noticed as he entered the arrivals hall was that the Messenger was placed above the Gazette in the newspaper rack. He dropped his bags and switched the papers round, so that the Gazette was on top, then purchased a copy of both.
While he stood in line waiting for a taxi, he noted that of the seventy-three people who walked out of the airport, twelve were carrying the Messenger while only seven had the Gazette. As the taxi drove him into the city, he wrote down these findings on the back of his ticket, with the intention of briefing Frank Bailey, the editor of the Gazette, as soon as he reached the office. He spent the rest of the journey flicking through both papers, and had to admit that the Messenger was a more interesting read. However, he didn’t feel that was an opinion he could express on his first day in town.
Townsend was dropped outside the offices of the Gazette. He left his bags in reception and took the lift to the third floor. No one gave him a second look as he headed through the rows of journalists seated at their desks, tapping away on their typewriters. Without knocking on the editor’s door, he walked straight into the morning conference.
A surprised Frank Bailey rose from behind his desk, held out his hand and said, “Keith, it’s great to see you after all this time.”
“And it’s good to see you,” said Townsend.
“We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” Bailey turned to face the horseshoe of journalists seated round his desk. “This is Sir Graham’s son, Keith, who will be taking over from his father as publisher. Those of you who have been around a few years will remember when he was last here as…” Frank hesitated.
The Fourth Estate Page 18