“The judge (he pronounced it jarge) will greet you later this morning at eleven hundred hours for coffee and biscuits. Please remember that all members of the office are expected to attend at ten hundred punctually as the jarge always arrives half an hour later. At the allocated time, I shall escort you into his presence.”
Bridling a bit at the man’s pomposity, I couldn’t help being flippant.
“I suppose if I call him Jarge he’ll call me Jarge back, will he?”
“Good lord, no. Sir Binden will call you by your surname!”
“Well, what do I call you, then?”
“Veejag, please, at all times.”
Later, I was to conclude that Peascod and Plunt resembled Tom and Jerry in the way they ran the office. The officious Plunt bossed the staff about but was himself constantly harassed by Peascod who kept summoning him into his office to give instructions. By convention, Sir Binden expected every visitor to be announced by Plunt as a matter of course. Their respective rooms matched their status too: Peascod occupied an airy office with windows overlooking the Mall whilst Plunt’s was considerably smaller with a view over a dark alley. In order to gain access to Peascod, you had, at all times, to go through this room.
“Courtley is here to see you, Jarge,” Plunt announced, flinging open the door and motioning me to follow.
“Thank you, Veejag. Now you may leave us.”
“Of course, Jarge.”
Plunt withdrew, bowing slightly.
After some preliminary chat, I was informed that, after conducting a few cases in the UK, I was expected to go to Germany to deal with the work which had been accumulating there.
* * *
Now, after being ushered in by Plunt following his usual routine, Peascod was waiting for me.
“Ah, there you are, Courtley. How are you getting on in Germany? Enjoying your duties, I hope.”
“Well, I’ve settled in all right – bearing in mind I’m waiting for married quarters to be assigned. But I can’t say I’m very happy with the type of work I’m doing.”
“Not happy?” Peascod started back in his chair as if I’d uttered an obscenity. “Why not, pray?”
“All I’m doing at the moment is absences without leave. I did practise at the Bar for 18 years, you know. When am I going to do some real crime?”
“Oh, my dear fellow...”
Peascod’s head wobbled frantically.
“You are very much a newcomer to the job, you know, and Smither is assigned to deal with all the criminal cases in Germany.”
“Not for that much longer, I’m told. It’s rumoured that he’s about to retire.”
Peascod sighed.
“That’s as yet to be announced in The Times, so isn’t in the public domain and cannot be discussed.”
I was growing tired of the conversation and being treated as some sort of subordinate.
“With all due respect, I didn’t come here to discuss Smither but why, if he is going to retire, can’t I at least start to take over his cases. I’m sure he won’t mind – give him more time to clear his desk.”
I fully expected Peascod to bristle at my cheek but, as I was soon to discover, he always climbed down when confronted.
“Yes...Yes. Actually, Smither has asked me for some pre-retirement leave. So perhaps you could manage his list. Of course, it means you will have to travel around the British military bases in Germany but must continue doing the absences at Brockendorf too.”
Anything to get away from that damned mess, even temporarily!
“I don’t mind that at all and will handle the extra work easily.”
In fact, I was delighted. It would give me an opportunity to see Germany properly in my free time. Criminal trials, involving witnesses giving evidence, rotated between different military camps depending on where the personnel, military or civil individuals, were living. Now, it was time to broach the other matter on my mind.
“By the way, Judge, there is something else on my mind.”
I told him about the golf club problem.
“Oh dear, oh dear.”
Peascod’s eyebrows shot up and down like angry beetles.
“On the face of it, I agree with you, Courtley, but it’s a general we’re talking about.”
“Should that matter?”
“No, no. But the Judge Advocate General does have to maintain a happy relationship with the top military people. It makes life considerably easier for everyone, you know. After all, we do work directly with the Ministry of Defence.”
I decided to cut to the chase.
“So you think the prosecution should just hand the club back to the General, then?”
“Ah, well, yes. Or possibly no.”
Peascod’s head wobbled frantically again.
“We’ll ask Veejag, shall we? He’s going to be trying the case. Veejag!”
Plunt bustled in.
“Yes, Jarge?”
“The golf club case: General Hudibrass wants his golf club back. As the trial judge, it must be for you to decide whether it can be returned to the general before the trial.”
I decided to chip in.
“Remember, Private Merse seems to be implying in his statement that he has a claim of right to the club.”
Plunt may have been called to the Bar and done pupillage but, having spent the last 30 years in the civil service, I suspected that his knowledge of criminal law was not that extensive anymore.
“Claim of right, eh? Seem to remember that the Theft Act 1968 makes that a defence in law. Perhaps Merse will say that the General gave the club to him as a present.”
Peascod sat back in horror.
“No general would make such a gift to a private.”
I chipped in again.
“But if he did, or Merse thought he did, he can’t be dishonest or guilty of stealing, can he?”
Plunt nodded and strutted around in small circles as he was wont to do when making important decisions.
“Courtley’s right. The club is to remain with the prosecution – until the end of the trial, at least,” he declared.
A week later, Peascod proved to be as good as his word and I was whisked off to do a proper criminal trial at last. For the first time, I settled down in my dreary office to read the papers in the case with a real sense of anticipation.
The facts of the case were relatively straightforward, on the face of it. The defendants, in their tank (an armoured personnel carrier, abbreviated to APC in army terminology), had been engaged in a military exercise on Luneberg Heath – a place much used for British Army manoeuvres. The two soldiers had decided that they wanted refreshments, so left the main road and drove into a convenient rastplatz. There was no problem about the logistics of this as the rastplatz, as was usual in Germany, possessed a large parking area. The accident occurred when they departed: they drove the APC back onto the main road and allegedly into the path of an oncoming BMW. This was driven by a Doctor Pridwin, the Head of Medical Services at Helmstadt Garrison, a civilian employed on behalf of the Ministry of Defence.
The prosecution’s case was that the tank had been recklessly driven onto the main road and no proper check had been made to see whether there was any oncoming traffic. The defence was that the two soldiers had, in fact, checked the road but the car was some distance away and it had simply driven on, colliding with the rear of the tank. Dr. Pridwin had been thrown clear but the two women who accompanied him had died instantly. In his witness statement, he said that he had simply been driving at a normal speed of 100 km/h along the road when the tank, without warning, swung out into his path. He was unable to take avoiding action.
The two soldiers, one a corporal who was the commander of the tank, and the driver, a private, were charged with causing death by dangerous driving. They were to be represented by separate counsel at trial. My perusal of the papers was interrupted by Margery, our formidable registrar, who ran our German office in the same way that her sergeant major husband ran his parade
ground.
“Judge Courtley, someone’s here to see you: Private Beet. He will be driving you up to Mafeking Barracks, Helmstedt, on Monday and will remain with you throughout. I’ve also booked you into a local hotel, the Hof Buscher.”
‘At least I shall see a bit of the real Germany, at last,’ I thought.
Then I espied a nervous young man standing behind her.
“Number 7990278 Beet, sir, Private, sir!” stammered this figure.
“Ah, all right, Private Beet. We’ll set off first thing at nine o’clock in the morning. I take it that you know the way?”
“Think so, sir. Only been in Germany for two weeks but my corporal’s given me a brief.”
“Can’t miss Helmstedt, young man,” Margery barked. “From Dusseldorf, it’s straight up the Autobahn Zwei and you have all day to get there. The case starts on Tuesday, ten hundred hours sharp.”
My first journey gave me time to reflect on my new life. Living in Germany had seemed to be such a great adventure. After all, was it not a country of mountains, cities and towns with antique timber buildings, displaying their date of construction and name of original owner in Gothic script? That was the way it was described in the brochures but, of course, the reality was somewhat different, as I should have realized. Most of the country was as flat as a pancake, filled with industrial sites or dark pine forests and hurtling up the autobahn was no more exciting than travelling up the M1.
Being early March, the weather was reasonably mild. After crossing the Rhine at one of its broadest points at Dusseldorf, I was grateful for the books which I had brought with me for my sojourn away from home and the monotony of the journey soon sent me to sleep…
Three
Most of the journey posed no real problem. After leaving Dusseldorf, we continued up the Autobahn Zwei which runs right across Germany from roughly west to east. However, fog began to descend as we approached Helmstedt and we were obliged to slow down to a crawl. Roadworks loomed ahead and we were directed off the motorway onto a side road. With the fog swirling around the car, all I could discern as we trundled along was the utter blackness of the thick pine forest on either side. Periodically, Beet slowed down as if examining a road sign and we began to talk.
I had already discovered during our stops for refreshments that Beet was an intelligent lad, anxious to get on, and as interested as I was in this new country.
“First time out of Brockendorf for me as well as you, sir. Moving Land Rovers about in camp is all I done so far.”
For all that, he seemed to know where he was going so it came as a surprise when he suddenly piped up, “I’m sorry, sir, but I think I took a wrong turning back there.”
I sighed. I was becoming uncomfortable being squashed up in the back of the car and the length of the journey was beginning to take its toll. However, Beet had had to contend with the thickness of the fog.
“Never mind, we’re bound to hit a village or something eventually and obtain directions. I’ve got my German phrasebook with me,” I replied.
But the forest just grew darker as the afternoon began to fade and the quality of the road began to deteriorate markedly. This was unusual in Germany where the roads are normally so well maintained, but then I recalled where we were. Helmstedt had once been one of the border towns which straddled East and West Germany. The barriers had long since gone but, as a result, had we unwittingly strayed into countryside which had once lain behind the Iron Curtain?
Eventually, we came across some derelict watchtowers peeping over the trees and drove up close to a large ramshackle shed with a collection of rusty poles and other building rubbish piled up against it. Beet began to slow the car.
“Can we stop, sir? This looks like some sort of camp and I need to use the toilet. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be, Private Beet, but I think you’ll have to go behind a tree – we’re in the middle of a deserted museum piece. You know what this is, don’t you?”
By now, we had both got out of the car to stretch our legs.
“Not the remains of a concentration camp, sir?” Beet glanced nervously up at one of the watchtowers. “Happened to watch a programme about them on the telly last week.”
I laughed.
“Not as bad as that, no. This was the old border crossing up to 1990 between West Germany and the DDR – the German Democratic Republic. It was heavily fortified and guarded to keep the East Germans contained within their border. What’s more, it’s the beginning of the Berlin corridor.”
Beet looked puzzled so I explained, “West Berlin, cut off as it was, could only be reached by one road which crossed East Germany. This crossing was known as Checkpoint Alpha. It led to Checkpoint Bravo as it entered the suburbs of Berlin and finally to Checkpoint Charlie, the only entry point through the infamous wall.”
Beet was looking around intrigued.
“You say it’s a museum piece, sir?”
I pointed to a sign, half hidden in a bush, which proclaimed the area to be one of historic interest. It had an inscription in English, French, and Russian describing the location as the dividing line between the different zones of occupied Germany laid down in 1945. “Obviously they intended to preserve the whole area to begin with, but now it’s been thoroughly neglected. Somehow I think the Germans would prefer to forget their past. Whilst we’re here, we might as well look around.”
Which we duly did, the weariness of travel forgotten. However, the site had long since been stripped of anything of interest so we didn’t tarry long. Driving back in the direction from where we had come, Beet managed to return to the motorway and we continued towards Helmstedt. The Hof Buscher, nestling in a suburb, also turned out to be easy to find. I was hoping that the hotel might be imbued with a certain Hansel and Gretel ambience but it was an entirely functional place: spotlessly clean with rather dreary modern furniture.
I couldn’t help feeling lonely as stolid German businessmen trooped in and waited patiently for their Bier Vom Fass to be drawn from the tap: pure, gold lager always bearing a generous head of foam as it fills the glass. That feeling of isolation never quite went away in the many trips that I was to take around the country, but it was somewhat mollified by the Germans’ endearing politeness to complete strangers. No individual, male or female, ever entered a bar, café, or restaurant without uttering a greeting: guten morgen, guten tag, or guten abend.
* * *
“Good morning, Judge Advocate, sir,” bellowed a huge uniformed figure as he stepped forward to open the car door. “Welcome to Mafeking Barracks. I’m Sergeant Major Prince, the court orderly today. Please allow me to escort you to your chambers.”
“Oh, good...”
I was looking forward to starting the case, after our adventures of the day before. The headquarters building (originally built for Hitler’s expanding army in 1936) was solid, imposing, and gloomy, and as I was about to enter I wondered what the makeshift courtroom would look like. In many places courts martial (being ad hoc affairs) would be held in any available building adapted temporarily for that use.
As I stepped inside, a minibus drove up. The door was flung open and a terrible din ensued. Turning back in surprise, I saw five officers in full dress khaki uniform struggling to get out of the bus. The noise was caused by the collision of the swords on the sides of the vehicle as they all clambered out. Then I remembered: military members of a general court martial were supposed to wear swords throughout the proceedings.
A room packed with files had been turned into my chambers and I put on my black robe and secured the sash around my waist. This piece of material, which was secured by a loop on the side, was comprised of three wide rings of different colours: red for the army, black for the law, and blue for the RAF. Striking it might have been, but it did little for my ever-expanding figure.Within moments, there came a sharp rap on the door.
“Ah, good morning. I’m Brigadier Gabfern.”
A tall man, with a broad smile revealing perfect, white teeth
, strode into the room.
“I’m your president, except I don’t quite know what I’m supposed to be presiding over. No doubt you’ll be able to help me?”
As this was a general court martial, a ‘bush president’ in the appropriate rank of colonel or brigadier had been appointed as opposed to a PPCM who only sat on the district ones. Sometimes, a PPCM was appointed to the same board as well to ‘hold the president’s hand’ but that was not the case on this occasion.
“Leave it all to me.”
The real authority at a court martial lay with the judge advocate. The president, as far as I was concerned, played a symbolic role only. I was determined to keep it that way.
“Oh, fine, you’ll guide me through what I have to do, then? By the way, what do I actually call you?”
I cast my mind back to Peascod’s views about our correct title which, like most things he pronounced upon, were equivocal: ‘Under the Army Act 1955, presidents are in charge of courts martial, you see, so that calling you Judge might sound as if he’s deferring to you. No military man ever wants to do that to a civilian if he can help it. On the other hand, the Lord Chancellor has indicated that you are independent just like any other judicial officer...’
“Judge will do.”
I made up my own mind on the spot. It has to be said that subsequently Robin Gabfern and I got on very well on a personal level. I soon discovered that he was the head of the Army Dental Corps and what he didn’t know about teeth was not worth knowing. His own superb dentures were proof positive of his craft. Fortunately, he didn’t pretend to know anything about the law and happily left that whole area to me. However, procedural matters did prey on his mind somewhat.
“Headgear: when is removal of such appropriate? Must get that right!” He looked seriously worried. “And saluting, too? Does the accused salute us or do we salute him?”
“I hardly think it would be for the board to salute the accused,” I observed dryly, “and as far as caps are concerned, wear them only when the proceedings commence. Everybody salutes you and then you indicate caps can be removed and left off thereafter.”
Wig Betrayed Page 2
