by Alex Gerlis
He allowed the prisoner more than a few sips this time.
‘The other thing I want to make clear is that as far as the system is concerned – the police, the courts – you don’t exist. There’ll be no record of you anywhere. If anyone looks for you, they’ll find you’ve disappeared off the face of the earth.’ Hood held a hand up and snapped his fingers, indicating something vanishing into thin air.
‘In fact, you may wish to have a look at this. I’ll hold it so you can read it.’ The prisoner’s eyes narrowed as he read what was being held near his face. ‘As you can see, it’s a notice from the police in Birmingham – that’s where you were before you travelled down to London, isn’t it? According to this, a Polish national called Jan Dabrowski of no fixed abode was killed in an accident with a goods lorry near Birmingham New Street station on the very same day you were due to travel to London. Conveniently the only witness was a police officer. And there’s a nice touch to this: the notice also says that the night before your dreadful accident, you were arrested in the centre of Birmingham for being drunk and disorderly and given a police caution. What that means is that they have a photograph of you – the photograph we took after your arrest. So it will be very straightforward for us to release this and ensure the story appears in various newspapers. I’ve no doubt your masters will get to see it.
‘But there’s no need for that, is there? We need you to confirm that you are Agent Dryden. We want you to tell us how you got here, where you’ve been staying, who your contacts are and who you were due to meet in London last week. Then you’ll be spared. You’ll be safe in a prison camp until the war ends. We can even give you a new identity.’
Later that evening Hood and King met in the farmhouse next to the barn. Hood confessed that the Pole was the most stubborn prisoner he’d come across. He was saying nothing.
‘What did you do to him?’ King asked.
‘At this stage, not too much. He’s suffering as it is. He hasn’t eaten for three days now and we’ve allowed the minimum amount of water. In that time he hasn’t washed or been to the toilet and has hardly slept. We gave him a small amount of electricity, just enough to show we’re not bluffing.’
‘But remember, Hood, it’s—’
‘It’s not torture but the threat of it that will make him talk. Yes, I know that.’
‘And if you do have to resort to anything, the bare minimum.’
Over the next two days, the prisoner was roughed up again, handcuffed to the wall, and given small electric shocks. He continued to insist he was Jan Dabrowski from Poznań who’d come to London to meet an Irishman called Michael outside the Admiral Napier in Kentish Town in the hope of getting a job. When Lance King went in to see him, he offered him a deal.
‘Forget about everything else we’ve been asking; all you need to tell us is who you were meeting at the pub and what the meeting was about. That’s all. We know the Germans often entrap their agents, maybe by threatening their families. I can promise you if that is the case, we’ll do what we can to protect your family.’
The prisoner hesitated for the briefest of moments before shaking his head. He said that if he had anything to tell he would, because this was terrible, but he was Jan Dabrowski from Poznań who…
Lance King decided to return to London, but before he left, he took Hood aside. ‘Very well, you can push things a bit further; just make sure he gives us something.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Give it a go.’
King drove back to London and met Hugh Harper that afternoon. ‘If he’s still sticking to his story after Hood has dealt with him, then I’m inclined to believe him. Maybe we can do him for false papers or something and see what happens.’
Hugh Harper nodded slowly, reluctantly agreeing.
‘I’ll go back there now.’
‘Hang on a bit, Lance. Bartholomew’s asked to see me. He’ll be here any minute.’
* * *
Bartholomew was breathless when he entered the office.
‘When I heard he was still holding out, I spent a sleepless night going over in my mind what happened that day when we followed him and whether we missed anything. I decided to go back to the taxi driver who’d picked him up near Kentish Town station and taken him to Hampstead. I asked him if he could recall anything that would help us. He asked if he was going to be in trouble and I replied of course not, and he said he remembered the man had been writing something during the journey and put a letter inside an envelope. Just before they reached Hampstead, he asked the driver if he had a stamp and he said he didn’t so the man gave him the envelope and a ten-shilling note and said that was his to keep if he put a stamp on the letter and posted it as soon as possible.
‘The driver said he wouldn’t have thought anything of it except that he could have bought over a hundred stamps for ten shillings and frankly he’d have done what the man asked for a shilling.’
‘And the letter?’
‘He posted it later that afternoon.’
‘Where?’
‘In Regent Street, not long before we tracked him down that evening.’
‘And he didn’t think to mention it at the time? He didn’t consider a letter he’d been given ten shillings to post might be important? For heaven’s—’
‘He said he forgot. Of course had he told us that evening, we might have been able to find the bloody letter.’
‘I suppose it’s too much to ask whether he remembered the address?’
‘He says he remembers it was in Chelsea because he wondered whether he should drop it in person on his way home but then decided against it.’
‘What a bloody fool! Why on earth didn’t he think it was important when you first spoke with him? If it wasn’t still in the postbox, we could have turned the sorting office upside down.’ Hugh Harper looked furious.
‘Did you say Chelsea, Bartholomew?’
‘Yes, Mr King.’
‘Wasn’t that one of the places the radio chaps said the transmissions could have been coming from?’
‘You’re right, Lance. All the more reason—’
Harper was interrupted by a knock on the door. His secretary said she needed a word and he told her it would have to wait.
‘All’s not lost, sir,’ King said. ‘It gives us something to go on with Dabrowski: if we tell him we know about the letter – we can imply we have it – that may break him. I’ve known that to happen; it shows we’re gathering evidence. I’ll head back to the farm now.’
The secretary had opened the door again and said she was really most sorry to interrupt, but a gentleman absolutely insisted he needed to talk to Mr King most urgently.
Lance King looked like a beaten man when he returned to the office.
‘I’m afraid it’s too late, sir. Seems Hood went too far this time.’
Chapter 5
England and Belgium, July 1944
It had started as a routine day at RAF West Malling for Flying Officer Ted Palmer. Up at six, breakfast, followed by a pleasant stroll across the airbase to the officers’ mess and the morning briefing. There was little cloud – the first thing a pilot always looked out for – and the sun showed promising signs of making an effort that day. There was, however, quite a wind, noticeable enough for young Bolt to comment on as he hurried to walk alongside him.
‘Will this be enough to stop us flying, Ted?’
‘Don’t you want to fly today?’
‘Of course I do, but I was just wondering: it does seem quite strong.’
‘Should be all right by the time we take off. Don’t worry.’
The squadron gathered in the mess and the wing commander himself took the briefing.
‘We’re down to eleven as Poulsen’s had to get his ankle fixed, and in any case two of the Mark 14s need more maintenance. The squadron will split in three: Jonty will lead a section of four to go and help out over Normandy; we’ll keep a section here in case any V1s pop over – Flight Lieutenant Rees will look after that; and Bolt a
nd Palmer, you’ll have the pleasure of my company. We’re going to Belgium.’
* * *
The wing commander told them it was a reconnaissance flight as much as anything else.
‘Unless this damned wind drops, we’ll have to take off to the north, and once we get enough height, head east then south-east. Ideally I’d like to cross the coast just south of Margate, get up to twenty thousand feet over the North Sea and cross the Belgian border near Middelkerke – here…’ He tapped a point on the map near Ostend. ‘Then they want us to drop down over to this area here – west of Aalst – and have a look round. I may take a few snaps while you chaps cover me, but the main aim of our mission is to see where the hell the Luftwaffe is. Apparently they’ve been mounting some sorties from that area and command wants us to see if we can spot where they’re coming from.’
They took off at 10.30, later than the wing commander would have liked, but the wind was still blowing hard from a northerly direction and showed no sign of dropping.
Everything was fine until – in Ted Palmer’s opinion – they descended a bit too late approaching Aalst and as a result didn’t spot the Messerschmitts until they were swarming around them.
They closed in on Pilot Officer Bolt’s Spitfire first, the hunters sensing the weakest of their prey, and within seconds Palmer saw it burst into flames. The wing commander’s plane seemed to be getting away, and Palmer had dropped another couple of thousand feet to follow him when he felt a bang coming from his right wing. It wasn’t unlike someone throwing a large stone at a moving car, but when he glanced round, he saw the wing tip was missing and the rest of it was beginning to disintegrate.
He made a faultless parachute landing in a ploughed field close to a small forest and had only been hiding there for a few hours when a farmer found him and ordered him politely to follow him, please. Darkness had wrapped itself around the trees.
Fortune, he soon realised, was on his side. He had landed in a Flemish area but the farmer and his family were, they assured him, resistance: Armée Secrète.
A woman arrived very early the next day and carefully checked his papers. Had he perhaps heard of the Comet Line?
The escape network for Allied aircrew.
‘We will look after you but it’s too dangerous around here – too exposed. We’re moving you to Brussels: believe it or not, it’s safer there.’ She explained that she’d escort him there. He was to do what she said.
The bus from Aalst was crowded and the checks of their papers as they boarded were quite perfunctory. For much of the journey Palmer dozed and coughed as the bus slowly made its way through the Flemish countryside. Brussels began to emerge around them, covered in rain, the passengers joining the bus soaking wet. He was gazing down when he spotted a pair of military boots touching the tips of his shoes. As he slowly looked up, a German soldier was saying something to him in Flemish. He didn’t understand a word and a feeling of fear swept over him. The bus seemed to have fallen silent, everyone now staring at him.
The German soldier – an ill-tempered, impatient-looking man in his forties – regarded him so suspiciously Palmer wondered if he’d spotted his RAF flying suit under his overalls. He repeated the word. It sounded like he was saying ‘Vuurtje.’ He now looked quite angry, as if Palmer was deliberately disobeying him.
At that moment, a man leaned over holding a lighted match. The soldier continued to look at Palmer as he lit his cigarette, giving the impression he’d not finished with him. At that moment, a couple in front of them got up and made a point of offering their seats to the German.
It was mid morning when the bus stopped by Brussels-North railway station. They walked away from the crowd before the woman spoke, giving him directions. ‘Rue Gaucheret: you are looking for number 73. You understand that? Walk past it on the other side of the road and look at the second floor: if there are blue curtains drawn you know it’s safe. They’ll be waiting for you. When you get there, tell them you’ve come to collect the medicine.’
* * *
The woman in the apartment in rue Gaucheret explained that he was now being looked after by the Milices Patriotiques. They were communists, she told him. ‘The Armée Secrète, who got you here, are more conservative. We’re the main resistance group in this area: the population here is overwhelmingly working class and anti-German.’
Smoke from the woman’s cigarette blew towards him as she spoke. She explained that they’d leave soon for a permanent safe house, which was actually an apartment above a café on rue Guido Gezelle run by Rexist collaborators.
‘The Rexists are one of the largest groups of pro-Nazi collaborators and the café is frequented by German soldiers, but that means they’re less likely to suspect the apartment. Once you’re in it, that is.’
It all felt too hurried. Palmer didn’t feel it was his place to question the woman; after all, they were the ones rescuing him and he didn’t want to appear ungrateful. But he couldn’t understand why he couldn’t stay there for the time being. Instead she told him to get ready. They were leaving for the safe house now.
They walked briskly through Schaerbeek, Palmer following her at a distance so they did not appear to be together. She assured him that the papers she’d given him were fine: he was a labourer from Charleroi.
But she’d not anticipated a German spot check when they were within sight of the café. She hesitated when they turned the corner and saw it, but it was too late. She got through safely and he was wondering about turning round when one of them saw him.
Moments later, he was forced against the wall, revolvers held to his head, and his clothing was ripped off to reveal his RAF uniform.
For the next few minutes he was the subject of a heated debate in German. It seemed to be about where he should be taken. Eventually the Luftwaffe turned up and were adamant. Any RAF pilots should be taken to the Luftwaffe headquarters: it was essential they were given the opportunity to interrogate him.
The Luftwaffe was based in the Hotel Metropole in the centre of the city, a beautiful Belle Époque building with decor on the ground floor that was almost cathedral-like. He was being treated quite politely, the two officers who’d brought him in speaking to him in English and trying to engage him in a conversation about the merits of the Spitfire Mark 14 versus the Messerschmitt 109.
He was led through a series of corridors and up a flight of stairs, then up another one seemingly going in the opposite direction. Eventually he found himself in what had clearly been a hotel bedroom, its tall windows covered with bars and two comfortable chairs facing each other.
The Luftwaffe officer who carried out the interrogation was pleasant enough. Not what one would call friendly, but not threatening either. He was polite and gave the impression of going through the motions. Palmer was allowed to sit down and given some water while the officer flicked through his notes.
‘Very soon you’ll be taken to a special prisoner-of-war camp for Allied aircrew… I think you will find it quite amenable… Perhaps to help you as much as us, you could confirm what you were flying and when and where you were shot down.’
They’ll be friendly most probably; be prepared for that and don’t fall for it… They’ll try and lull you into giving them information you aren’t required to. Anything to do with your mission is out of the question. Apart from anything else, you don’t want to give them details that could help identify anyone who helps you…
Flying Officer Ted Palmer replied with name, rank and serial number. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand if I’m unable to say anything else.’
The officer nodded as if he had expected that, but looked disappointed nonetheless.
‘Can I ask that the Red Cross are informed about me? I wouldn’t want my family to worry unduly.’
This went on for a good hour, the Luftwaffe officer looking bored and giving the impression he’d have been shocked had Palmer volunteered any information.
‘Yesterday two Spitfire Mark 14s were shot down west of Aalst: there
were reports that one pilot may have bailed out. If this was you, it is clearly in your interests to at least let us know.’
Palmer made sure he didn’t react. If the officer was talking about only two aircraft being shot down, it sounded as if the wing commander had got away. He said he had no idea where he’d landed, or when.
The Luftwaffe officer closed his file.
‘We’ll keep you here tonight and you’ll be transferred to Dulag Luft in the morning. You were very fortunate indeed that you were brought here: they could easily have taken you to Avenue Louise.’
‘What is that?’
Before the German could reply, there was the sound of raised voices in the corridor, followed by a sharp knock at the door. The Luftwaffe officer told Palmer to wait a moment and stood up. Before he could open the door, it burst open and two men in civilian dress marched in. An almighty argument blew up.
As Flying Officer Palmer was handcuffed and marched out of the room, the Luftwaffe officer sidled over to him. ‘I’m afraid now you’ll find out all about Avenue Louise.’
* * *
They arrived at a handsome building on a wide boulevard, its front draped in large red flags with black swastikas, the heavily guarded entrance at the top of a flight of stone steps.
The car paused at the front of the building before driving to a rear entrance, where Palmer was hustled out. He was taken to a basement and pushed along a narrow, dimly lit corridor, its floor rough and uneven, the ceiling no more than five and a half feet high, causing him to crouch. He was pulled to a halt outside an iron door, and for the first time he saw who was behind him: a large man whose girth took up the width of the corridor and whose bulk blocked much of its light.
Like many men of that considerable size, his head was small in comparison to the rest of his body, his mouth tiny between the fleshy cheeks and triple chin, his eyes black and beady against his pale skin. He was wearing a black uniform with no markings and carried a small leather truncheon that he used to strike Palmer across his ribs, following up with a kick to propel him into the cell.
