Snapshots of War Michael Gouda Part 12
Friday August 8th 1941 The Khamseen sandstorm, which blew more or less throughout the year was, in Bert's view, the most hellish wind on earth. It picked up the surface dust as fine as powder and blew it thickly into the air across hundreds of square miles of desert. Sometimes it blocked visibility down to half a dozen yards. The dust came up through the engine, and of course into the interior of the exposed carrier. Soon everything was powdered with grit and sand. It crept up his nose and down the throat, itching unbearably and making it difficult to breathe. It got in his ears, clogged his hair, and from behind sand goggles his eyes kept weeping and smarting. A ghostly yellow light suffused everything like the thickest of London's peasoupers. Just for a moment the billows of blown sand would open, allowing him to see a little further into a hot solid fog ahead, and then it would close in again. Bedouin tribesmen, their heads muffled in dirty rags, lunged across the track, leaning lopsidedly into the wind. Bert sweated, returned again and again to his water bottle for a swig of warm sandy water, and lay back gasping. Some soldiers wore their gas masks in the Khamseen, and others gave way to fits of vomiting. Sometimes a Khamseen could blow for days, making Bert feel that he would never see light and air or feel coolness again. He worried about Theresa. Sometimes he saw her emerging from the dust- cloud, silhouetted against the blinding glare of the sunlight or enclosed in a shimmering haze in the sand-wastes, and he wondered if she was dead too - like all the others. Occasionally he thought that he might be dead as well, but he assumed that in death he wouldn't be plagued with quite so much urticaria, the heat rash which raised great red welts around his ankles and wrists and seemed impossible to alleviate. Though perhaps he was already dead and this was hell. Chalky and Trent were with him all the time. They even shared his bed. He told them to get out but they returned in the darkness and then they were a comfort. The Fosters had faded, though occasionally he saw them walking hand-in-hand through the Sook, and once he thought he saw them going into the officers' mess in uniform. He called out to them but they hadn't heard. The skirmishes against the enemy continued. They could scarcely be called battles, those minor advances and retreats all along the front. Bert would drive out with the other Bren gun carriers each of which was packed with crew so that Chalky and Trent had to sit on the sides, hanging on for grim death, their feet only inches away from the growling, grinding articulated metal tracks and the spurting sand. And the chattering of the soldiers drowned their voices. Of course they were no match for the German tanks, especially the Panzer IIIs, and if they sighted one, they would swiftly turn, the caterpillar tracks screaming in opposite directions, with Charlie and Trent tossed about like rag dolls but holding on somehow, to race back to their own fortified lines. If, though, they came across a group of Germans or Italians dug in, they would swing broadside on and Sergeant Brookes, the gunner rake them with some rounds of Bren gunfire as they passed. Sometimes the enemy would withdraw and their own forward line could move forward a distance. At others the return fire was powerful enough to force their own withdrawal. In Bert's mind the sorties became a mixed-up kaleidoscope of churning sand punctuated with the sound of the automatic fire jarring over his head so that it ached, while the horizon whirled in front of the eyepieces of his goggles. "Left. Left. Left," shouted the Sergeant in his ear. Without having to think, Bert swung the wheel hard over. "Hang on, mates," he shouted to Chalky and Trent. The carrier reached a region of hard compacted sand and was able to get up to full speed. The sun was over his right shoulder, still quite high in the sky. They must be heading north. Suddenly the sand took on that strange waveform state it so often did, like little rills at the edge of the sea, so that the vehicle jumped and jarred and the wheel twisted in Bert's hands. "Keep it steady, Corp," said Sergeant Brookes. I'm trying, said Bert, silently, under his breath. For fuck's sake, can't you see I'm trying. "You're getting too old for it," said Trent in his ear. "You want to let it go to a younger man." "Get fucking knotted!" "I heard that, Corporal," said Sergeant Brookes. "Sorry, Sarge, it's these fucking ridges." But the Sergeant wasn't listening. He squeezed the trigger and a burst of automatic fire assaulted Bert's ears. The strip of shells rattled through the magazine and a stream of bullets hurtled towards somewhere on Bert's left though he couldn't take his eyes off the sand in front to see what they were aimed at. He heard Brookes cursing. Presumably the bumpy surface had put him off his aim. There was a level patch ahead. Smooth and even as if it had been flattened by a steam roller, the only variation, some slight circular indentations. Bert made for it automatically. A voice in his ear, "Not there," said Chalky, "Land mines!" "Oh Christ," said Bert. But it was too late. Though he wrenched round the wheel, the carrier skidded onto the plain, bounced round as the tracks gripped and started to turn away. "Ride 'em, cowboy," shouted Trent. "Do be careful," chorused the Fosters. Then the ground exploded under them, tossing the vehicle over and over as if it was a children's toy. The tracks screamed, drowning out the shouts of the soldiers, then the petrol tank ruptured and burst into a charring tongue of flame.
Monday August 11th 1941 Major George Carlisle was troubled, troubled and angry. Carefully laid plans, organisations, connections, relationships, devious as only his mind could encompass were so easily jeopardised. To some extent he could control people, by threats and promises, rewards and punishments, love and hate but there comes a point when individuals make their own connections and his elaborate structure built up over months of deliberate connivance could so easily fall to pieces. How carefully he had devised a whole structure, the foundations, himself and department XX, safe and secure, elegant walls, supported by flying buttresses, and rising from them slender minarets and spires. And everything depended on the fact that no one in the whole complex organisation knew more than two other people and only five people knew him. Now Leverton had managed to form a liaison with someone and somehow give himself away so that that person had become suspicious enough to denounce him to the police. Of course the police had quite properly informed MI5 and eventually the report had arrived on his desk but God knows how many references there were, police reports, notes, files still lying around in drawers, on shelves, in filing cabinets - dangerously available. And Peter Kees, whose job was to watch Leverton. Why hadn't he reported, told Carlisle of the relationship? By God, he'd have that stupid young Dutchman's balls. Now that fragile link that led from him, Major Carlisle of MI5, via Peter Kees and Charles Leverton across to the German Abwehr, was in danger. Of course Kees himself had formed a relationship with the boy, William Salter, but Carlisle knew about this. At first Carlisle had been disapproving - not morally, he personally didn't consider morality much use in time of war - but he had decided that in a way it was useful. It provided yet another hold over Kees. After all what wouldn't the man do to keep his illegal relationship with the boy secret? Carlisle was nothing if not pragmatic. But Leverton was another matter. The man did not know they were controlling him. His whole usefulness lay in the fact that he must not know he was under suspicion. Damn! Damn! Damn! Well he, Carlisle, would sort out the police. Wartime had given him powers so draconian that few people realised their extent. But he must certainly try to find out who this anonymous woman was, the one who had phoned the police, who had, it appeared, got close enough to Charles Leverton to become suspicious and eventually to report him. The trouble was Leverton was arrogant and careless, two characteristics that Carlisle knew could be disastrous in any occupation that demanded secrecy. Yes he must find the woman. He had a busy morning contacting the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Division and starting a chain of warning that would, he knew, stretch right down to the desk Sergeant who had taken the call and any lowly constables who had become involved. He instigated a search that, he hoped, would weed out any reference to Charles Leverton, everything to be sent to him for destruction under his personal supervision. He despatched two plain clothes officers with a warrant to arrest Leverton in as private and secretive way as possible, with instructions to call at his private address when they knew he was there alone and bundle him into a car with the minimum of observable fuss and take him to a secret location. It was to be done, secretly, efficiently and successfully or they would regret it to the ends of their careers. Finally he lifted the phone to summon the operative who should have found out and reported the liaison to him. He made an appointment for two days time - by then Leverton would have disappeared and there would just be the loose ends to tie up. Peter Kees would not find the interview enjoyable.
Wednesday 13th August 1941 Peter returned home after his meeting with Carlisle feeling emotionally, even physically, exhausted. Carlisle of course had found out almost immediately from him about Adele Salter's involvement with Charlie, The assumption that Adele must be the one who had informed on Charlie was obvious, even though it had been done anonymously over the telephone. Carlisle was livid with that cold, controlled rage that Peter had seen only once before but which was more frightening than any furious outburst. "The relationship must end," ordered Carlisle. Peter had at first not understood. "I think Adele has already broken with Charlie," he said. "I'm not talking about them. Leverton has been arrested. He will be tried and executed. Adele will be 'looked after'. It is you and this Salter boy I mean. You will have to take over from Leverton, talk directly to Germany from now on. I do not want another messy emotional relationship interfering with the work. Get rid of the boy." Peter had stared at him aghast. He could scarcely understand what Carlisle was saying. "Get rid of him? How could I do that?" Shop shrugged. "Sort it out yourself," he said unfeelingly. "Tell him you have found someone else. It happens - frequently, I've heard." "But he will be so hurt," said Peter, for a moment thinking of someone else apart from himself. "He's only a boy." "Exactly. He is only a boy. Do you know know what the penalty for sodomy with a boy is?" Peter did not and Carlisle did not need to elaborate. All the fight had left Peter. "Best thing is to sever all communication with the Salters. Leave Leverton to me but get him away. No argument," said Carlisle. "Break it off." "But I need him." It sounded a pathetic plea, but Peter knew he was speaking the truth. He could scarcely imagine life without William. "Break it off." It was an order that brooked no denial.
So miserably, he came home and waited for William to get back from work. He wouldn't be back for at least an hour and for this Peter was grateful. Almost automatically he went to the kitchen and started preparing a salad. There weren't many of the things which he would usually use but at least there were the basics, tomatoes, cucumber, lettuce still available in the shops and vegetables indeed were not rationed.
After that there was little else that he could do. Charlie arrested? The unemotional, matter-of-fact way Carlisle had informed him. - 'He will be tried and shot' - made him shiver. That Carlisle was a cold fish, he thought. He wondered whether the Major actually possessed any feelings of humanity. He considered what to tell William. He could tell him the truth, that Carlisle had forbidden the continuation of the relationship. But he knew that was impossible, dreading the thought that Carlisle might find out. He certainly would not use the reason that Carlisle had suggested. That was too cruel. He would have to invent another lie. He was quite good at it - with anyone except Carlisle. He mixed a dressing of vinegar, oil and a teaspoon of mustard powder, tasting it and then adding a little sugar to counteract the tartness. He was startled to hear a sudden knock at the door. It was too early for William and anyway he had his own front door key. He looked through the curtains before answering. There were two girls standing outside. One, the nearer to him was tall and thin and had long blond hair held in the sort of net which seemed to be fashionable these days. Her face looked familiar though with his mind on other things, Peter could not remember who she was. The other girl was hidden behind her companion. They must have made a mistake. It might have been Peter's imagination but he thought they looked wary. They were probably collecting for some charity. He opened the door and immediately recognised the girl whose face he had not been able to see before. It was Adele, William's sister. She, it seemed, was just as surprised to see him. Her mouth opened and she stared at him. Peter assumed she had come to see William though he had asked him not to give his address, merely giving the telephone number in case of emergencies. "Peter Kees!" said Adele, and didn't seem to be able to go on. Her friend came to her assistance. "We're looking for Mr Leverton," she said. Surely Charlie hadn't been giving out this address, thought Peter. But he was so careless. "No," he said. "He doesn't live here." He wondered whether to ask them in but thought it would complicate matters. "Mr Leverton invited Adele here," continued the blond-haired girl, whom Peter now recognised as the girl he had met the first time he had been to Granby Street for tea. He thought her name was Mavis. "He said it was his house. We thought he lived here. He hasn't been at work and we wondered whether he was ill." "It's my house," said Peter, beginning to get annoyed. "Charles is my friend and has a key but I didn't realise he was using it for...." He stopped, aware that however he finished the sentence it might upset Adele. "Is my brother staying here," said Adele suddenly. It was the first thing she had said since she had uttered his name. Peter hesitated. "At the moment," he said. "But he's looking for somewhere else." It sounded unlikely. How could William afford a place of his own on his apprentice pay? On the other hand, it was what would have to happen when he told him of Carlisle's ultimatum. The two girls looked at him and he stared back. Then Adele said, "Come on, Mavis. He's not here." "Will you be seeing him?" asked Mavis but Adele pulled her away. She seemed anxious to leave. He's probably in prison at the moment, with worse to come, thought Peter, but of course said nothing. He closed the door and went back to the sitting room, switching on the wireless and turning it low so that the music, a classical concert with Dame Myra Hess playing Chopin piano pieces. provided a background. Then he sat on the window-seat and looked out on to the mews and the arch at the end through which William would come. The girls had gone. Adele and Mavis walked slowly back through the darkening streets of the West End. "Why did you drag me away?" asked Mavis. "We should have found out some more information about old Charlie. That was the man I met at your house, wasn't it?" "The friend of my brother's," said Adele. "He's Dutch or something. At least he says he is." "He's not bad-looking," said Mavis. "I like his eyes. I wouldn't mind..." She let her voice trail off as she envisaged some fanciful liaison. "Don't you see?" "What?" "He's foreign. He's a friend of Charlie's. I found some evidence of spying in that house." Either Mavis was being wilfully dull or her imagination had clogged her thought processes. "He could be a German spy too," said Adele, almost shouting, so exasperated she was by her friend's stupidity. Mavis looked at her. "But I thought you said he was a friend of your brother's." "There's something strange there," said Adele. "I've sensed it right from the first time I met him." She pointed at an advertisement pasted on a fence which had been erected to stop people falling into a bomb crater. There was still just enough light to read the warning message. 'Walls Have Ears' it announced. 'You never know who's listening'. "They warn us about spies. They could be anywhere." "But if Peter is a spy, what does that make William? Is he a spy too?" "Oh, don't be silly," snapped Adele, "of course he isn't." But Mavis's question sparked off a train of thoughts in her mind. If Peter were a spy and William knew about it and didn't say anything to the authorities, didn't that make him a traitor too? Perhaps Peter had him under a sort of Svengali type influence, making him do his bidding against his will. She shook her head. That was stupid, she thought. Things like that didn't happen in real life. Or did they? William must just be unaware of what was going on. She didn't think much to Williams intelligence anyway. Innocent, that's what he was. She suddenly saw herself as his rescuer from a malign influence, herself as a heroine. Though Peter Keys was not really her idea of a villain. She thought of his wide, blue, innocent eyes, the engaging smile he had, that slight gap between his two upper front teeth which somehow gave him a look at vulnerability. "What should we do?" asked Mavis. "We'll have to make another call to your Police Sergeant?" She stared into the gathering gloom. "Come on! Run! There's our bus." It had got quite dark and Peter felt a sudden sadness. This was what it would be like without William, waiting alone, expecting no one. The News came on the wireless. The news reader announced that the RAF had made daily bomber sweeps over the Channel and into North France, Holland and West Germany. There had been night raids on Berlin, Hamburg, Kiel, Hanover, Frankfurt, Mannheim, Karlsruhe, the Ruhr, Magdeburg, Cologne and Bremen, Rotterdam, Ostend and Cherbourg. It all sounded encouraging but Peter wondered how much of it was propaganda. The news ended. It was well past the time when William would normally have returned. Where could he have got to? He felt a sudden twinge of anxiety. But before we could change the worry into some sort practical action, he saw him, turning the corner into the mews in a wide tacking arc, weaving across the pavement, almost tripping at the kerb. For a moment he thought he might be ill but then realised William was drunk. And the sudden relief turned to a spurt of anger. Peter heard the scratching of the key in William's attempt to find the keyhole but did nothing, just sitting there in the semi-darkness until the door burst open and William, hair dishevelled, a vacuous grin on his face, almost fell into the room. "Where have you been?" Peter demanded. William wasn't quite tight enough not to realise that his lateness would have upset Peter. Not that there was any agreement that either of them should not go out on his own but Peter would have been expecting him. It was just that Mr Pemberton, the jowled, bespectacled manager from head office, had that very morning, and entirely unexpectedly, granted him his full articles. William had been expecting a final examination, something terrifyingly hard. But apparently Mr Pemberton had used his own discretion, kept his eyes open, accepted the reports of the other men and decided that William was proficient enough to be a professional welder. When they had left work at closing time, his mates' suggestion that they stop off for a drink - to celebrate - had been too tempting to refuse. And of course one drink had stretched to two, to four, to an unaccounted - but who's counting? - number. He would apologise to dear old Peter who would understand immediately he told him the situation, with a salary which would mean he could put so much more into the communal kitty. "Sor - sorry - I'm late," he stuttered but his words were drowned by the cold demand from out of the darkness, "Where the fuck have you been?" Unspoken words of apology disappeared to be replaced with those of outraged vindication. "Just out for a drink - with my mates from the factory. What are you sitting in the dark for?" Peter got up, pulled the curtains, switched on the light, went to the kitchen and busied himself with the meal. William collapsed on the sofa. "Got some good news, Peter," he said. "I'm no longer an apprentice. Got a real job at last." He appeared at the doorway of the kitchen smiling unsteadily. "Just had a drink to celebrate. Or two. You're not cross are you?" Peter turned to the boy slumped against the door jamb, his body looking almost boneless and vulnerable, brown eyes large and appealing, in the face scarcely yet formed into manhood. Who could resist that puppy look? All the anger left him. "No, of course not," he said coming to him, taking him back into the living room and sitting next him on the couch. He took William's hand, warm, dry and responsive, into his. "It's just that my news isn't so good - and I was worried." William giggled. "Don't be grumpy," he said, but Peter's serious expression brought him up short. "What's the matter?" he asked. "What's happened?" Peter didn't really know what he was going to say until the words spilled of his mouth. "Wim - it is bad news. I have to move from here." William stared at him. He didn't seem to understand. "Move," he repeated. Peter wished he were brave enough to stand up to Carlisle, to say 'Fuck you, I will lead my own life' but the consequences were too dire and Carlisle and his organisation too powerful. If Charles Leverton could be spirited away so easily, the same thing could happen to him. Peter had put himself into a position where he could do nothing else but obey his orders. "I have to go away," he said. "I have received orders. Charles has been arrested and it would be thought 'odd', 'strange' by the Germans, if as a result my circumstances were not changed." It sounded, even to him, too vague but he had not worked the explanation out in his own mind. Later he would clarify things, explain to Carlisle what he had said and get permission to move to another location. Surely Carlisle would not object to this. Peter would miss the little house in Wentworth Mews. He would miss more what it had become over the past month - so short a time - while he shared it with William. "Can I come with you?" asked William, a catch in his voice. Peter silently prayed William would not cry "It is impossible," he said. "My control would not allow it." That at least was true enough. That night William clung to Peter in a desperate embrace and even after he had fallen asleep - Peter could tell by his regular breathing - his grip did not relax.
End of Part 12