Snapshots of War

Snapshots of War Michael Gouda Part 7 Saturday May 24th 1941 (late night) Foreplay It was still just only after seven o'clock when Adele arrived at the Arsenal. As Mum had said, she was early indeed and the day shift was still at work and would be for another hour. But she had felt a need, at the tea party, to be by herself. While Peter Kees was a pleasant enough young man, she hadn't felt any of the sexual resonances that usually accompanied a meeting with a congenial male. In fact she had felt for one moment that there was some sort of affinity, almost a sexual attachment, between Peter and her brother - but that of course was impossible. She had come to work and now, now she wanted some company. She would go to the canteen and have a cup of tea. see who was there. The long, low-ceilinged, green-painted room, though, was almost empty and there was no one she knew there. It wasn't time for an official break and the woman behind the counter only grudgingly offered her some stewed and scarcely warm liquid which had obviously been brewed some time before. She sipped the bitter mixture and thought sadly of Chalky, of that one time, and now, that there would never be another. She did not hear his approach, lost as she was in a sort of bittersweet recollection. The first she heard was a quiet whisper from behind her. "Adele." It was Charlie, smiling, his strange, yellow-gold eyes looking into hers so that she felt a tremor of - what, she was not sure. "Mr Leverton," she said confused. "I didn't think you worked the night shift." "It's still the day," he reminded her. He looked round but there was no one within earshot. "Please call me Charlie." She did not know what to say. "I'm glad I found you here," he said. "It is almost impossible to find anywhere to talk. I would like - " He broke off as a sudden bout of noisy laughter came from the entrance door. "Damn!" He paused then said in a hurried whisper. "You know my office. Upstairs, third door on the left. Go first, and I'll follow in a few minutes." He walked away. Almost without thinking of the consequences, she climbed the stairs, three flights and then turned along the corridor which was above the factory floor below. She could feel the reverberation of the machines and the rumble of the conveyor belts through her feet. The door had his name on a wooden plaque, white letters painted on a black background. She turned the handle and walked in. She shivered and was not sure whether it was cold or anticipation. It was certainly chilly in the under-manager's office. Outside it was still light and she could see through the first floor window the pallid ghost of a hunter's moon in the eastern sky. A bomber's night. Though the sustained ferocity of the blitz appeared to be over, there was still the occasional raid. She wondered if there would be one tonight. As she waited there, her hands clasped nervously together, Mr Leverton came in, turned and locked the door behind him.

• • • • • • Intercourse "You are so slim, so lovely, Theresa," gasped Mr Dent in the extreme throes of coital pleasure. Lying on her back on a pile of cushions with the moonlight from outside the only illumination, Theresa pondered on the wages of sin - or at least the cost of half a pound of ham and four 15 oz cans of fruit salad. The back room of the grocery store seemed to be a black marketeer's paradise. All around her were shelves laden with tins, packets of tea, real coffee beans. A leg of ham, she could see out of the corner of her eye, and a large uncut cheese, the very thought of it making her mouth water. Some of that was what she would ask for next. Mr Dent's head, bobbing in and out of her vision was merely a temporary distraction and she scarcely felt any of his other parts which were taking advantage of her passive compliance. "I love you, dear Theresa," lied Mr Dent, his hands massaging her breasts and his penis energetically thrusting into her. "Your body is like a willow wand." Idly Theresa wondered what on earth that could be. She had never thought too much about her body after the children had been born. She had of course, noticed certain droppings and stretchings but if Bert hadn't complained, then it hadn't bothered her too much. Slim, was she? She had actually thought she had put on some weight recently. But compared to the robust Mrs Dent, she supposed, she must be. "Oh Theresa," panted Mr Dent, pumping away with so much intensity that the shelves wobbled and for a moment Theresa wondered if they would both be killed if that huge cheese fell on them. And how would Mrs Dent feel then, when she found them in the morning, locked together so intimately amidst the debris of a mature Cheddar. The little man had staying power, she thought and what he lacked in subtlety, he certainly made up for in enthusiasm. 'Oh Bert, Bert,' she cried in silent self-reproach, knowing full well that she would do it again if - no when - she had another chance. This physical process had nothing to do with the love she felt for her husband. She was brought back to reality by an approaching climax. Despite herself she felt the beginnings of pleasure. It had been a long time.
• • • • • • Post Coitum Exhausted and finally satisfied, William and Peter lay snuggled up together in the big double bed. Their talk was spasmodic and punctuated by intimate caresses. Peter lay on his back, his arm around William who was curled so that his head rested just under Peter's chin, his left arm across Peter's chest. "Peter, will you tell me something?" Now was the time. He forced himself to ask the big question. "Anything, Wim. You only have to ask." "The last time I was here, Charlie had that message to send. The one about the mines in the North Atlantic. I can't understand why Dutch resistance fighters would need to know that sort of information." He felt Peter tense slightly beside him but there was no reply. Now he had started, he had to go on, probing. "But the Germans would want to know something like that . . . " For a moment Peter's body stayed taut and then he sighed. "It is time perhaps for the bedtime story I promised so long ago, you remember? In the Fitzroy," he said. "But I am placing all my trust in you, Wim. If you ever tell anyone else, it could be dangerous for me - and even for you. Life and death dangerous. You understand?" William twisted so that he could look up at Peter's face, visible only in the moonlight from outside. His look was stern and strained, entirely unlike his usual lively and warm expression. Peter spoke again. "First you must realise that I am in a very perilous situation. My family - well my mother is in the hands of the Germans." William gasped. He tried to think what it would be like if his own mother was captured by the Nazis. "In prison?" "Not exactly. She is still in Amsterdam, I think, but under close supervision by the authorities there. I do not think they have hurt her, but they used the threat to make me promise I would spy for them over here." "So you are a spy!" Shocked and almost a little scared, William drew away from the naked body next to him and felt coldness between them. Peter pulled him back into an embrace. "Wait a minute. You must hear the rest," he said. "When I got to England last year I was interrogated by MI5 and it did not take them long for them to discover the truth. They offered me the choice of working with them or being executed. They promised they would do all they could to rescue my mother." "So you are a British agent." It was a bit confusing. "A double agent. The Germans think I am working for them. The British give me false information like the position of the mines to pass on to them via Charlie. The Germans U-boats will keep out of the area and it will therefore be safe for allied convoys." "Charlie?" It got even more confusing. "Charlie is a real German agent." "I never liked him," said William with vehemence. Peter smiled. "I was instructed by the German Abwehr to get in touch with him, work with him. My controller at British Intelligence decided it would be a good plan not to arrest him, to carry on as if I had not been turned. It would be more believable to the Nazis. But Charlie is a dangerous man if he sees others as a threat. It would not be good for you to get close to him." William gave a weak smile. "There's no need to worry about that," he said. "He doesn't like me - and I don't like him." "He just doesn't trust you. He doesn't like the idea of my getting so involved with you. I pity the person who does get intimate with him though. Whoever it is could be in great danger." William snuggled up against Peter's body. I'm really part of the war now, he thought. I know the secrets.

Friday 30th May 1941 On the 30th May, a top secret meeting of Section Twenty took place in a small room in Wormwood Scrubs, for the moment - though it was in the process of moving into Oxfordshire - Headquarters of MI5. The room was on the first floor and had two windows which overlooked a central courtyard. There were very few material comforts, a central table on a rather worn carpet and several upright chairs. To an outsider it might have looked fairly routine, five army officers and one civilian. Section Twenty though was special. Named after the Roman numeral formed by two Xs they actually stood for 'Double Cross'. It was that part of MI5 which dealt with turning foreign spies to work for the Allies, double agents in fact. The section had a General as titular head, a Lieutenant-Colonel, two Majors, a Captain, and a Civil Servant who was a Government appointee and who reported back to the British Government War Cabinet on a regular basis. Though there was an obvious hierarchy of rank, in fact most of the decisions were taken democratically, each member having one vote. Actually the brains of the outfit (or as some might think, the 'cunning') lay in the heads of the middle order officers. The General and Colonel were there mainly to provide clout for the unit. Major George Carlisle was considered one of the best minds in the section. It was he who had convened the meeting. "A message from the German High Command to General Rommel has been intercepted," he said. "It used Enigma of course, but the boffins at Bletchley Park decoded it." The General looked confused. The Colonel leant across to him and explained, "Enigma, sir. The German code machine. They think it's unbreakable." "Damned good show," said the General. "Er, Captain, is there any tea?" The Captain bustled about with a kettle and teapot. Carlisle smiled. The Captain might be the junior officer here, might pretend to be the office boy at these meetings but much of the invaluable background work was done by him. "So what did this message say?" "That the German and Italian forces in North Africa are below strength, sir, that Rommel shouldn't attempt anything that is at all uncertain of success," said Carlisle. "And - " the General always wanted it spelled out for him. "The Prime Minister thinks it an ideal opportunity to try to relieve Tobruk. The British Troops have been holed up there for months now. It's time we had a success on that front." The Captain passed around cups of tea. The General nodded and stirred his tea thoughtfully. "Operation Battleaxe," said the Major suddenly. "A concerted two- pronged attack on the besieging enemy forces. It's Mr Churchill's own idea." "Damn good show," said the General. "But the Generals don't like it, especially Wavell," said the Major. "They think Rommel's still too strong, especially his complement of Panzer tanks. The P.M. though insists. It will be a dangerous and delicate undertaking." The General looked bewildered. Obviously the decision as to whether to support his own Army colleagues or his Prime Minister had started a major mental conflict. "So what are we expected to do?" he asked brusquely. "If we can get some false information across to Rommel, say for instance that we plan an attack further east, then he would send some of his tank divisions away from Tobruk," said Carlisle. "Good idea," said the General, brightening up. "Do we know someone who could pass on this intelligence?" "There's a man who works for the Spanish Embassy in London," said Carlisle. "In fact he is a German agent, Juan Luis Perez, who uses the code name, Pedro. He specialises in finding out and passing on information about the North Africa campaign." "The Germans rely on him?" asked the General. "Oh yes, sir," said Carlisle. "Implicitly." "If we could get false information to him," suggested the Colonel. "Tobruk has to be relieved. We need a success on that front. There hasn't been much anywhere else." "It would have to be from someone Pedro trusts - or will trust," said the General, lighting his pipe and blowing out a cloud of fragrant, though smothering smoke. Carlisle waved his hand to disperse the cloud which was floating in his direction. "Do we have anyone - an agent - who can gain access?" asked the Colonel. "No, sir. He is very wary - except in one area. He is fairly promiscuous - sexually." "We have women, don't we?" said the General. "What is his taste, his preference? Tall, short, blonde, brunette." "I'm afraid, sir," said Carlisle, his tone low - almost apologetic, "that his tastes do not lie in that direction at all. To put it specifically, he prefers other men." The General almost choked. "A shirt lifter," he said. "God dammit. A damned shit stabber. Well your woman idea's out then. We must think of another plan." "Why, sir?" asked the other Major, who hadn't spoken up to that point. "We have agents who are also of that persuasion." His eyes met Carlisle's though without a flicker of expression. The General turned on him a stare blank with incomprehension. Then. as the meaning sank in, he seemed to be almost speechless with shock. His face flushed red and his mouth opened into a soundless gape. It was so much a travesty of 'Blimpism' that Major Carlisle had to suppress a smile. "We must face it, sir," said Carlisle. "These are desperate times. We cannot be too nice in our sensibilities. Perhaps pragmatism is more sensible than over-fastidious scrupulousness in time of war." The General stopped looking but remained confused. "Are you saying... ?" He let the question die. "Means justify the ends," said the Colonel tritely, if a little ambiguously. The General wrung his hands almost as if he was washing them. Carlisle was reminded of Pontius Pilate. "The relief of Tobruk is seen as essential by the Prime Minister," said the Civil Servant quietly. It was the first time he had spoken but his words carried weight. The General nodded. "Shall we proceed with the plan as outlined?" asked Carlisle. "I will of course work out the details." Everyone around the table raised his hand. "Is there any more tea in the pot?" asked the General.

Saturday 31st May 1941 Smoke hanging around the nicotine-stained ceiling rafters. The sour smell of spilled beer on the concrete floor. A babble of conversation punctuated with the occasional exclamation-shout of anger. Here there was none of the pretentious chi-chi of the Fitzroy; this was the Mother Black Cap, Camden Town, a pub much more redolent of earthy reality in an area prone - in peace time at least - to ambushes and robberies after dark, to underworld activities, to nefarious alliances and even more violent break-ups between North London crime barons. The question seemed to be why anyone should want to meet up in the Mother Black Cap unless he wanted to avoid the eyes of law officers - who anyway, either kept clear of the area or passed through it, uneasily, in pairs? The answer of course was the strange minority of a minority who experienced a frisson of sexual excitement in danger, who, not to put too fine a point on it, fancied a bit of rough trade and were prepared to put up with, or possibly enjoyed, the occasional beating up in the pursuit of it. And Juan Luis Perez was one of these. MI5's file on him catalogued his comings and goings as a matter of course. He had been observed buying drinks for working class lads or indeed seamen who had strayed from their usual haunt of the Golden Lion, Shaftsbury Avenue, and charitably taking those amenable or too drunk to care back to his bed-sitting room in neighbouring, if slightly better class, Gospel Oak. What happened to them there had not obviously been monitored though much could be inferred from the fact that, on one occasion, a still- weaving matelot had emerged soon after arrival shaking his head and holding a raw-looking knuckle, while Perez himself had gone off to work the following morning with a decidedly bruised face and black eye. Nonetheless it was assumed that most of the pickups were compliant to some extent and this supposition had been stored up for future use. This was the reason why Peter Kees found himself in this hardly congenial public house with instructions to make himself available to Perez, a photograph of whom he had memorised - though not consumed - that day. In fact it had been a rush job, his Controller having phoned him early that same morning, only minutes in fact after William had left, with instructions that they meet for a briefing of great importance. Peter hated the dour stone building that housed the headquarters of the MI5 rump at Wormwood Scrubs. It always reminded him of a prison. Major Carlisle interviewed him, as always, in that tiny undecorated cubby-hole of a room that he called his office. Peter had objected. "What if I do not want to go all the way with this man?" "It's not negotiable," said Major Carlisle. "It's vitally important that Perez gets a message to the German forces around Tobruk that we are moving our forces to make an attack to the east. He must not, of course, have the slightest suspicion that he is being set up." "So how?" "He must do the picking up. He must initiate the contact - though you, of course, can show that you are not unwilling." "Play the tart, you mean," said Peter. Carlisle smiled thinly. "And do I just come out and say the British forces are on the move?" "The German agents are often credulous, but not, I think, to that extent. We have prepared a letter from a British soldier which contains the information. It is up to you to make sure that Perez reads it." Carlisle handed Peter a sheet of paper, creased and looking as if it had passed through quite a few hands before arrival. Some of the sentences had been obscured by thick black censor lines. It appeared to be from Corporal Albert Salter to his son, William. Peter looked up at Carlisle. "You know about William?" he said. "We know everything," said Carlisle. "But that is not the point. The story is that William left this letter at your house last night. When you found it, you put it in your wallet to give it back to him when next you saw him. You will arrange to drop it so that Perez finds it. It of course does not say exactly what the British troops will be doing but enough remains uncensored for an intelligent man to work out that he, and by implication a major part of the force, is being moved - and Perez is an intelligent man." So Peter stood at the bar of the Mother Black Cap in a 'disguise' of grubby, collarless shirt, trousers and jacket strategically grimed but not, he hoped, too foul to mar his attraction. His hair was uncombed, his looks uncharacteristically sullen. He clasped a pint glass of rather suspect-tasting bitter in his right hand and a Woodbine drooped from his lips. He had a copy of the Evening newspaper folded to the racing page from which he glanced up from time to time to check the entrants into the pub. Carlisle had told him that Perez usually arrived at 8.00 pm but the hour passed and there was no sign of the man with olive skin and black hair. Perhaps there had been extra work at the Embassy, perhaps Perez had had success on the way here. Peter hoped so. The task was distasteful to him though he knew that whatever Carlisle told him to do, he would carry out to the best of his ability. The threat of capital punishment still hung over his head and Peter was no hero. A grey-haired man in a cap standing next to him asked him his opinion of the chances of a greyhound apparently running at Harringay Stadium next weekend. "I don't fancy it," growled Peter. The inner door swung open and Peter immediately recognised the face of the man who entered. Perez was better looking than his photograph but it was obvious who he was. Peter tried to distance himself from the greyhound-fancier in the cap. Perez looked around and then went to the bar, disappearing behind a group of drinkers. Peter moved into the centre of the room where he could observe Perez's back and watched. He knew he had automatically adopted the predatory look of the hunter and recognised the same expression in Perez as he turned and their eyes met. Play the tart, he thought to himself - though perhaps what he likes is the 'normal but available' type. He kept the gaze locked for what was obviously longer than was necessary for casual encounter. The trick is, he thought, to show interest but not confrontation - especially in an area like this. He broke the contact and looked down, holding his breath. A few seconds and he heard a soft voice. "Care for a drink, mate?" The accent was good though Peter suspected that a true Londoner would find it 'foreign'. He wondered how to play it. The fluttered eyelashes would be an obvious give-away - probably too obvious and might put Perez off. Better the straight eye-to-eye - though no smile at the moment. Play it butch. "Don't mind if I do," he said. "Are you from around here?" asked Perez when he had brought back another pint of flat, bitter-tasting brew which Peter actually detested. Peter and Carlisle had discussed whether Peter's command of English was good enough to take the part of a local and had decided against. "Dutch Royal Navy," said Peter indistinctly. "Not that there's much Navy left." The tone of bitterness was not a pretence. Perez smiled. "My name's John," he said. "Peter," said Peter. "This stuff tastes like horses' piss," said Perez. "I have some whisky at home. What do you say to going back there? It's not too far." That was straight to the point, though Peter was pleased that he wouldn't have to stay until closing time, sopping up the beer which would dull his senses. He wasn't too fond of whisky but he could at least pretend to be drunker than he actually was, once they were back in Perez's flat. They caught the tube - one stop on the Northern line from Camden Town to Kentish Town - and walked through the darkened streets. Peter occasionally staggered and Perez put a steadying arm around him. "It's not far now," he said as they went under a railway arch and approached a terrace of tall Victorian brick houses.

From the street a flight of narrow stairs led up to what was in fact just two rooms, a living room, a corner of which was divided off into a small kitchen area and, through an open door, the view of a bedroom. The furnishings in the flat looked cheap and had probably been provided by some miserly landlord, or landlady. Perez's only visual contribution seemed to be three posters of Spanish bullfighting on the wall. It didn't seem the sort of flat that an Embassy official would have. Perhaps, though, it was just a pied-à-terre for the entertainment of pickups. "Do you really want a drink?" Perez asked. The drunker Peter appeared to be, the more acceptable any fumbling and dropping of the letter would seem so he nodded. "I'll just have a small one," he said. "I've had a lot to drink already and I have to get home anyway later."

Perez opened a cupboard and took out a bottle and a couple of glasses. "Well you don't have to go home tonight - not if you don't want to," said Perez. He poured out a generous portion of spirit into one of the glasses and handed it to him. "I'll have to get back," repeated Peter, "later." "If you must," said Perez. He leaned towards him and kissed him on the lips. Peter knew at that moment that, as far as he was concerned, the sex was not going to be successful. He felt nothing for the other man. Perez pressed up against him and Peter could feel the hard thrust of his erection against his thigh. His own cock stayed resolutely limp. What was the matter with him? Surely he could at least get a hard-on. Think of someone else, someone he fancied. For a moment the image of William lying back on his bed, open and inviting, flashed into his mind. His cock twitched. Peter kissed him back and felt his own cock respond. It was going to be all right. He grabbed hold of Perez, putting his arms round him and feeling the firmness of his body through the thin cotton of his shirt. The Spaniard hadn't let himself go flabby. "Let's go into the bedroom," said Perez. They went and undressed like any married couple getting ready for bed. Peter noticed that Perez folded his trousers neatly before putting them on a chair. Peter stumbled as he took off his trousers and his wallet together with letter fell onto the floor. He sat on the bed giggling foolishly. The wallet had opened and the letter, folded so that the heading was exposed, lay on the floor. Peter had to bring the letter to Perez's attention but he couldn't think of a way. It was not the right time. Sex was the paramount importance of he moment. Naked, the two of them lay on the bed, a single one with an old mattress so that they were forced together into the dip in the middle. They lay together, flesh cleaved to flesh, Peter underneath, Perez on top. He began to hump, his cock running along the groove in Peter' groin. The friction of pubic hair against his cock was arousing. A spring of liquid excitement lubricated and eased the frotting so that the groove became a slick-lined channel. Peter lay there, half hard, feeling a disillusion. wanting to co-operate yet driven by no sexual imperative. He compromised by reaching round and grasping Perez's buttocks, pulling him in time with his strokes. The man's breathing grew faster, became gasps and Peter knew that Perez would come soon. He faked excitement himself and as Perez's body arched in a convulsion of orgasm and pulsed again and again, he pressed himself against the other, counterfeiting a moan of pleasure. There would be enough come to pass for two. Perez need never know. They lay for a while, Peter patiently waiting for Perez to recover. Eventually he rolled off and sat up. "Did you . . .?" he asked. "Yes." "I'll get a towel." He padded on bare feet across the grey-green linoleum into one of those little enclosures that the developers of the flat seemed to have been so fond of. Peter heard him peeing - so there was a toilet there, probably a shower - and returned with a small hand towel. Peter dried himself. For some strange reason he felt ashamed at his deception. at his lack of involvement. "Are you sure you don't want to stay?" asked Perez on his way back. "There's no need to go straight away." It sounded almost like a plea and though Peter had had enough and wanted nothing more than to leave, he knew that this was the opportunity to carry out the main part of the plan. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He felt the bed sink as Perez joined him. "Here's your wallet," said Perez. "You dropped it." Peter opened his eyes. "There was a letter," he said vaguely. "It's important?" Perez sounded as if he was making conversation. He put his arm under Peter's shoulders. "It's belongs to a friend. He left it back at my place last night. I think it's from his father. He's a soldier in North Africa. Probably not important but he'll want it back." Behind his back Peter felt Perez's arm tense slightly. The bait had been sniffed at. Peter closed his eyes again and pretended sleepiness. "Gotta get home," he mumbled. He made his breathing grow deeper, letting his head loll away from Perez. He knew he was being watched. His left calf started to itch but he controlled the urge to scratch and tried to relax his limbs from the toes upwards. After a while he felt the arm under him being withdrawn. The weight next to him left the bed and he was just able to make out the rustle of paper being unfolded. The bait taken. Presumably Perez would make a copy if he thought the letter significant. Peter was so pleased at the success that he actually dozed off. Perhaps it was the relief but when Perez got back into bed, Peter felt so aroused that the next time around he was able energetically to have sex. He refused breakfast in the morning and left almost as soon as it was light. Later when his conscience pricked, he felt ashamed, though at the time it had not stopped him enjoying it. Perez was late leaving for work and had to run for the Underground Station. He did not see the black van as he ran out from behind a parked car directly into its path. The van driver did not even stop. The victim was taken to the Middlesex Hospital and there pronounced dead. An orderly searched his clothes for identification. The wallet showed the victim to be a Juan Luis Perez who worked at the Spanish Embassy in St Johns Wood. The orderly also found what appeared to be a letter but it was so covered with blood that he dropped it straight into the incinerator. No point, he thought, in upsetting relatives or dependents with something like that. End of Part 7