by V M Knox
John Winthorpe laughed. ‘From you Clement, I would consider it an insult if you did not call me Johnny.’
'I wasn't expecting to see you here. Its good of you to come personally.'
Johnny waved his arm in the air and a car parked at the top of the street outside a public house swung out into the traffic. Turning, it pulled up beside them and Johnny opened the door.
‘How is Mrs Wisdom?’ Johnny asked.
‘She is well, thank you. Although, not too happy about me coming up to London.’
‘And you have family?’
‘No. We were not blessed that way.’ Clement turned to stare out the window, the subject of children one he did not wish to continue. In the early years of his marriage it had been the source of much sorrow, especially for Mary. But as the years had passed anguished tears had been replaced with stoic acceptance until finally age denied parenthood.
‘She worked at The Admiralty, didn’t she, before you took her away?’
Clement nodded. ‘A secretary. So what is this council about, Johnny?’
There was a slight pause.
‘I don’t recall saying it was a council. Be that as it may, we are on our way now to meet a man who has had an idea which we all believe is feasible.’
Clement’s gaze followed the line of sandbags surrounding the great Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. The threat of forthcoming invasion had transformed London. If the crowds at Lewes station had not convinced him that the war was on England’s doorstep, London’s streets left him in little doubt. Johnny’s prevaricating words resounded in his ears as the car crossed the street and entered Whitehall.
‘I wasn’t aware that to be an archdeacon one also had to be a politician.’
Johnny laughed. ‘I have arranged for you to stay overnight with James Moore, the rector of Christ Church in Mayfair. You shouldn’t experience any problems there for your wife to worry about.’
‘Thank you,’ Clement said, but he didn’t believe encountering street villains was what Mary had in mind. ‘The meeting is being held in Whitehall?’ Clement asked as the car sped along the street.
‘Nearly there.’
Just short of Trafalgar Square the car pulled up and Johnny jumped out. Clutching his small overnight suitcase, Clement followed Johnny across the street and through an elaborate doorway in an elegant, beige-stone building of some considerable size. Beyond the double doorway was a narrow entry foyer and a flight of uncarpeted stairs. Clement sensed that whoever occupied the offices above were neither ecumenical nor frequented by the general public.
Johnny strode ahead up the stairs to the third floor. Leaving the stairwell, he pushed open a door. Beyond was a wide, plush corridor of timber panelling and thick carpets. Johnny, it seemed to Clement, was not only familiar with the place, but perfectly at home. Striding along it, and without knocking, Johnny thrust open another door.
Inside was a timber-lined ante-room where a neatly dressed woman sat behind a typewriter. She glanced up as they entered.
‘Commander Winthorpe. He is expecting you. Please go in,’ she said, nodding in the direction of the inner door.
Johnny knocked then opened the door. Inside was a small office with little in the way of flamboyant decoration. There were several filing cabinets, a desk covered in files, three chairs and a rug. Otherwise the room possessed nothing superfluous to need.
‘Sir, may I introduce the Reverend Clement Wisdom. Clement, this is Colonel Colin Gubbins DSO MC.’
Clement saw a battle-hardened Colonel with a serious face. He had a high forehead, prominent brows, deep set eyes and a full moustache. The Colonel gestured towards a chair opposite his desk and Clement sat down.
‘I am supposing, Colonel, that you are not replacing His Grace Cosmo Lang?’
Gubbins laughed. ‘No, I think the Archbishop of Canterbury can rest easy. His is the one job I am never likely to be called upon to do. I’ll get straight to the point, Reverend Wisdom. Living in East Sussex, you will be more aware than most that the Royal Air Force has been keeping the Hun at bay for some weeks now.’ The Colonel paused, shuffling some papers on his desk.
Clement thought of the air battles that had gone on almost daily in the skies above southern England and the lives it had impacted. Clive Wade and Ned Cooper who had lost his fourteen-year-old son from shrapnel wounds when a Stuka crashed into the man’s south paddock while the lad was ploughing.
Gubbins opened a file and picked out a piece of paper. ‘Before I continue, you should know that what we are about to discuss will require you to sign the Official Secrets Act. Are you willing to do so, Reverend?’
‘Of course, if that is necessary,’ Clement answered, his gaze on Johnny.
‘It is,’ said Gubbins. ‘A little while ago, I was asked by the Prime Minister to set up a new group. Due to recent escalating enemy activity, we have decided to increase recruitment, and John here has put your name forward. This is strictly top secret and not to be shared with anyone not associated with the enterprise.’ The Colonel slid a document across the desk for Clement to see. Before him was The Official Secrets Act. Clement wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or concerned and for some inexplicable reason he visualized Mary’s beans. He read the document - threatening him with death should he ever become talkative - before reaching for the proffered pen.
Clement handed the signed form to Gubbins who placed it in a file on his desk then leaned back in his chair. 'We have before us, Reverend, nothing short of a battle for survival. It appears we are entering a new phase. Intelligence informs us, that we can expect the Germans to step up their attack on us. This could be in the form of aerial bombardment and will probably be the precursor to an attempt at invasion. We don’t know when it will be exactly, but it will be soon.’
‘Invasion?’ Clement muttered. He felt a hollowness developing in his chest.
‘Yes. We must expect it. But we must not be like the ostrich. Preparation is the key.’ Gubbins stood and wandered over to the window, his back to them. ‘We must be ready for them when they do come. To this end we are establishing Auxiliary Groups within the Home Guard. These special groups will be completely autonomous, answerable to me, but set up independently of each other. We are envisaging groups or cells of approximately six to eight men each, with a fifteen-mile radius of ground to patrol. Each cell will have a leader and an intelligence officer as the liaison man between the group and us here at GHQ. You will have an underground Operational Base, which the Royal Engineers will build for you in some local woodland close to your village. It will be constructed so that you can live and plan underground, and patrol at night.’
Gubbins turned to face him. ‘Reverend, these groups, which the Prime Minister somewhat euphemistically calls Scallywags, will only become operational on the broadcast of a word. That word is “Cromwell”. If you receive a telegram or hear that word broadcast, invasion is imminent and you must leave everything and go to your designated Operational Base. As you already know, in the event of invasion all the church bells throughout the country will be ringing to alert the people. This would still happen. But what we are envisioning for certain selected men is more than Home Guard defence and raising the alarm. Kent and Sussex are our top priority as the likely places for a German amphibious invasion. We expect there to be a massive air support effort for the invasion, so lookouts and Observer Corps members will be on high alert. The closest observation post to you will be at Firle Beacon. This will give you some warning, but not a lot. Yours, and those further to the east, may be the only groups not to get much advanced notice.’
Clement heard the Colonel and he understood what the man was saying, but as Gubbins continued, Clement’s brain was no longer taking it in. His mouth was dry and he could feel his heart beginning to pound in his chest. He licked his lips, trying to feel normal and look intelligent.
‘Reverend, you may be wondering why you have been chosen. Your involvement and leadership of your local Home Guard makes you an obvious
choice. Moreover, you have military experience from having served in the last war. Perhaps more importantly, through your vocation, you have had experience of death at close quarters.’ Gubbins’s bright blue eyes surveyed Clement closely. ‘Your job would be to act behind enemy lines, targeting and killing high-ranking German officers, as well as blowing up bridges, railways, petrol depots… in fact anything the Germans could use to expedite their advance to the capital.’
Clement knew he was staring; he felt overwhelmed with all that Gubbins was saying, but he knew well enough what it meant. ‘It is a suicide mission.’
‘We prefer to think of it as guerrilla warfare, Reverend, but be that as it may, we do not believe you would survive long before being captured. They would, of course, shoot you. But you would be expected to take you own life, if captured. There is one other issue of importance, but we can discuss that tomorrow.’
Gubbins came around his desk and stood before him. ‘Given the nature of the assignment I cannot force you to be involved, Clement, but I would ask it of you as one patriotic man to another. We are in the midst of what the Prime Minster is calling grievous times. We must anticipate the worst. It can only then get better.' Gubbins paused. 'Think about it overnight. I would need your answer in the morning.’
Johnny waited by the door.
Clement reached for his gas mask and suitcase. He stared at Gubbins, his heart sinking. ‘You think they are that close?’
‘Yes.’
Chapter 3
It was mid-afternoon when the car pulled up outside the vicarage in Down Street, Mayfair. Johnny had taken him to St Martin-in-the-Fields for some lunch - a soup kitchen had been set up in the crypt - but there had been little conversation.
Clement’s mind was spinning. Despite the wholesome meal, what he really needed was time and solitude to think and pray.
‘Get some rest, Clement. I will collect you tomorrow morning at half past nine,’ Johnny said as Clement closed the car door. Standing on the pavement, he watched it drive away then climbed the steps to the vicarage and rang the bell.
A man wearing a clerical collar opened the door. ‘You must be Reverend Wisdom? I’m James Moore. We were expecting you. Please come in.’ Moore closed the door behind Clement. ‘You knew John from Oakhill, I understand?’
‘Yes.’
Moore led the way to his study. ‘John has told me not to ask why you are in London. It must be marvellous to be so involved with all that is happening. Nothing so exciting about my work. I am just a London vicar.’
Clement heard the disappointment. ‘I am just a country vicar myself, actually.’ At least, I was yesterday, he thought.
‘My wife, Helen will make the supper soon. I'm sorry it is so early. Little children. I'm sure you remember. Please do be seated.’
Clement nodded but didn't comment. Moore then told him a little about his parish work in Mayfair. While Clement wanted to be gracious, all he could think about was Gubbins and the Auxiliary Units.
Three hours later and pleading genuine tiredness, Clement retired to a bedroom to unpack and prepare for an early night. He closed the bedroom door and let out a long sigh. He was exhausted. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror above the washstand. Was he too old for such adventures? Gubbins and Johnny evidently didn’t think so. Hanging his jacket on the hook behind the door, he lay down on the bed and, closing his eyes, tried to consider practical matters. He tried to imagine England ruled by the Nazis.
No-one had succeeded in invading the island in almost a thousand years. Napoleon had tried but failed and Clement prayed Hitler would suffer the same fate. Suffer. It would be they who would suffer if the Germans succeeded. Despite his tiredness, he rose and knelt by the bed, his hands together, his fingers intertwined, and silently recited the Lord’s Prayer. But his head was spinning and his prayers and thoughts jumbled. Overwhelming emotions of excitement juxtaposed with uncertainty and a degree of melancholy for what lay ahead for himself and the country. He opened his eyes.
He would need help at the church. He was already stretched with just routine church duties and the captaincy of the Home Guard. If the church bells rang...he stopped his thoughts. When the church bells ring, he corrected himself, the village will be in uproar. His villagers would look to him, and if they couldn’t find him they would believe themselves abandoned.
He decided to arrange an Invasion Day exercise with the villagers on his return. He would place Mary in charge and he would act as observer. That way, his absence, if invasion did come, would not affect the proceedings. He paused, his eyes staring at the bedspread’s floral pattern and contemplated how life would be when it was no longer an exercise. Gubbins had avoided the term “suicide mission”, but that was what it was. Mary would be a widow.
Clement looked up through the window pane at the diminishing light outside. Evening was settling; the sky turning from grey-white to cool night. He checked his watch. He had been thinking and praying for over an hour, but he hadn’t made any firm decisions. His mind returned to his wife. Mary was a capable and resourceful woman. She visited her sister in Windsor regularly and was not afraid of travelling alone to carry out what she saw as her duty. She had also spent some months the year before caring for an aged aunt in a remote house near Combe Martin in the West Country, until the old lady died. She was resilient and independent.
Perhaps involvement in the Auxiliary Units was his life’s purpose. God raised up men like Gubbins in an hour of need, why not him? His mind went back to the meeting at The War Office. Gubbins had said it would involve killing. Killing the enemy, of course. But they were still men, made of flesh and blood. He had taken up the sword as a young man, but since his epiphany he had devoted himself to his calling. Killing was something he had not thought about since the mud-soaked days of France.
Clement reached for his Bible; he knew the words of Ecclesiastes about a time to kill and a time of war but he wanted more guidance. He held the Book and closed his eyes. The Germans were the aggressors. They had marched on Poland and Czechoslovakia. His mind rattled off all the countries that Hitler had invaded and conquered. All of Western Europe from Norway to the Spanish border was under the jackboot. And now it was their turn. Yet the sixth commandment resounded in his head.
He opened his Bible and found he was looking at St Paul’s letter to The Ephesians. At the top of the page he read, “Put on the whole armour of God that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil”. He closed his Bible feeling the tension between his faith and his duty. And what of taking his own life? He had given his life to God and it was for the Almighty to determine the time of his death. Yet it was part of the entrenched Christian ethic to give one’s life for others. If the deaths of his team and even his own death by his own hand saved others, would that violate God’s commandments? There was no tidy answer. He prayed for a sign. Around ten o’clock, he turned out the lamp.
A loud and violent noise woke Clement. He could hear Helen’s frantic voice in the hallway. He jumped out of bed and opened the door to the corridor.
‘Do you know what is happening, Clement?’ James was shouting.
He knew it was not a thunderstorm but something much more serious. ‘James, do you have a crypt under the church?’
‘We do.’
‘Take Helen and get into it, as fast as possible. Don’t forget your gas masks.’
With each passing second the low droning increased until it roared in the darkness above them; the unstoppable barrage, so loud that it passed through one’s very core. Then came the detonation.
Clement grabbed his dressing gown and wrapping it around himself, reached for his gas mask then ran downstairs. Moore opened the door to the street. The sky was dark, less than a quarter moon. People were gathering on the street, struck with astonishment at what was happening. But the sight of the local vicar opening the church was enough for many to follow.
Above them, Clement saw a single beam from a nearby searchlight strobe across the
night sky and cross with another some miles distant. Caught in its ferocious glare were the dark and ominous shapes of aeroplanes - hundreds of them - passing through the piercing shaft of light. The incessant noise thundered on, only punctuated by the long screeching sound of falling bombs as they wailed towards the earth. People stopped where they stood, rooted in fear, staring into the darkness. Explosions and flashing lights in rapid succession lit up the sky. It was raw and powerful; death was raining down. James opened the door to the church and people ran for its shelter.
‘This way’, James shouted as frightened people - women, children and the elderly - descended the dark stairs in complete silence.
‘Clement, do you have any matches?’ James asked.
He shook his head as a man beside him produced a match-box and James lit the lamp hanging on the wall beside the staircase.
‘Is that the only lamp?’ Clement asked.
James nodded. ‘I have several on the bookcase in my study. Useless now.’
‘I’ll go back.’
‘Are you sure, Clement?’
James handed him the keys to the rectory. Clement held no illusions about his own mortality. A line from his favourite Shakespearean play, Henry V popped into his head. We are in God’s hand, brother, not in theirs. It was just as truthful for them this night in London as it had been for the English at Agincourt. He hurried up the stairs and into the night.
The noise was intense. Overhead the search lights still lit up the night sky and anti-aircraft fire streaked towards the bombers. Somewhere sirens were wailing. The long piercing sound of falling bombs increased, silent only for a heart-stopping second before detonation. Then the earth shuddered. He ran into the house and opened the door to James’s study.
Walking straight to the bookcase, Clement felt for the lamps. Hanging them over his arm, he felt his way into the kitchen and hurried towards the tiled wall of the scullery in the hope of finding some food. A blast roared in the night and even with his back turned to the blacked-out, scullery window his eye caught the flash. He jumped with the fright of it. On the dresser shelf above him two large containers hurtled to the floor with a crash of metal on tile. Two bread bins disgorged their contents onto the floor. He stared at the five loaves. ‘Alright, Lord,’ he said. ‘I hear you.’ Gathering them, he piled the bread into the crook of his other arm.
