“Well, I suppose I wondered whether the medal might be stolen when I saw your name on it.”
“That is not the case. By the way, aren’t you the man who was asking my wife whether I’d been in the military?”
“I may have asked her in passing, yes.”
“I’d be grateful if you minded your own business. I got rid of the medal for reasons which are nothing to do with you.”
With that, he slammed down the phone. Andrea was standing at the door, having overheard the conversation. Reluctantly, I had told her about the medal, suspecting that she would not approve. Nor did she.
“I bet he felt you were being a busybody, Charlie. Why on earth you bought the medal in the first place, I’ll never understand. Anyway, you might as well sell it now.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll take it to a dealer when we’re next in London.”
I slipped the medal back into the drawer.
* * *
My thoughts returned to Berlin – so different from any of the garrison towns in the rest of the country. Germany’s revitalized capital had been chosen as the venue of the Merse court martial because it lay outside the jurisdiction of General Hudibrass, the General Officer Commanding BAOR. Berlin possessed its own GOC, dating back to the first days after the Second World War. Isherwood’s city of the 1930s came to mind, with its decadent night clubs, the ruined buildings after the bombing and the forbidding presence of the Wall erected by the communists.
Andrea interrupted my reverie, “Darling, what am I expected to wear? It’s so hot at the moment that I intend to take light summer clothes only but will we be expected to attend any official functions?”
I pondered for a moment.
“I doubt it. As the judge in the case, I’m not supposed to socialize with the military authorities there. However, I’m told that we automatically become members of the Officers’ Club for the duration so we can use their facilities and there’s a standing invitation for the dinner dance at the end of the week. Fancy going?”
Andrea grimaced.
“Well, if you feel we really must.”
“As the case will probably be finished by that time it would be rather churlish to refuse, in the circumstances.”
She grinned.
“I expect that I’ll have done enough shopping by that time anyway.”
She was keen to visit the Kurfurstendamm, Berlin’s principal shopping street, and drop-in at the KaDeWe, the city’s main department store. Shortly afterwards, we arrived in Berlin to find that it was hotter even than Brockendorf. The last time we had been to the city was before the wall fell in 1989 when we stayed at the Gasthof Brandenburg Tor, a hotel situated near the famous Brandenburg Gate, marooned in solitary splendour just within the Russian sector of the city. Now that place had been replaced by a much larger and luxurious hotel but for old time’s sake that was where we decided to stay.
This time our room was not only bigger but far more comfortable than before with a balcony giving us a panoramic view of the city. It was not much better than before, however. Instead of the wall’s grim watchtowers and the stark, floodlit emptiness of no-man’s-land, the area was comprised of one vast building site instead. The eastern part of the city was in the process of being rebuilt.
The next day, a cheery corporal (Berlin, after all, was a popular posting) picked me up and we travelled through the city to British Army Headquarters, established after the war in Hitler’s 1936 Olympic building. On the way, my driver indicated points of interest.
“Most of the wall’s been demolished, sir, except for those parts preserved as relics for the visitors to gawp at. Checkpoint Charlie’s completely disappeared with a new road running right through where it used to stand, but the wall museum’s still there.”
He pointed out a small building which I recalled housed the artefacts of escape from the eastern sector, and which was now dwarfed by brand new office buildings either side. On arrival at the headquarters which had once been the Nazi’s Olympic Stadium, I recalled the previous court martial I had attended, held in the old fencing court constructed for the 1936 games. This time, however, a lift whisked me and an escort to another area entirely – a suite of rooms situated right at the top of the stadium itself. There we were met by the court orderly, a sergeant- major, carrying a brass-knobbed staff.
“Perhaps you would care to see the courtroom first, sir, and then I’ll show you where the judge advocate’s room is situated.”
I nodded. Opening a set of double doors, he ushered me into a large room fronted by French windows which offered a panoramic view of the original sports ground below. Tables and chairs had been arranged in such a way that the room now formed a makeshift, but perfectly adequate, courtroom.
“This will certainly do – plenty of space for everyone,” I said, “but what’s happened to the old fencing court?”
“Being renovated, sir. Now that the army are pulling out of Berlin altogether, the facilities are all being returned to their original purpose. There’s a bit of history attached to this room as well – it used to be part of Hitler’s VIP suite.”
He told me that Hitler had once occupied this part of the building, for the use of himself and his guests only. The court orderly opened the French windows and ushered me outside, revealing an exclusive part of the auditorium separated from the rest by a barrier.
Following me, he pointed up to a balcony which overhung the doors.
“That’s where Hitler used to stand taking the salute when he came to the games, sir.”
Fascinated, I studied the balcony; no doubt specifically designed so that the Fuhrer would be the focus of everyone’s attention whenever he visited – and received quite a shock! For a moment, I thought I was seeing a ghost. A broad figure strutted out and stood at the edge, looking out over the scene. However, instead of possessing the tell-tale toothbrush moustache and limp flop of hair of the dictator, this person merely wore a khaki pullover and peaked cap covered in gold laurel leaves. It was General Hudibrass taking the air.
Seeing me, he called down cheerily, “It’s Courtley, isn’t it? The JAG chappy I met the other night. Colonel Kayward told me that you were now officiating in the case. I hope this whole damned thing will be over today. I’m supposed to be playing in a golf tournament tomorrow and I need my club back!”
Jag chappy indeed!
I was furious but, not being able to think of the right riposte, replied pompously instead, “Judges aren’t permitted to talk to witnesses,” before hastily retreating indoors.
I was still feeling prickly when the court orderly told me that the president of the board wanted to have a word and I was not prepared to allow my dignity to be compromised further.
“I’ll see him together with the others when I’m ready,” I snapped.
“It’s a she, sir – and a very determined lady who’s quite insistent she...”
At which point, a formidable-looking woman bustled in.
“Brigadier Joella Drubb, sir. My normal job is the Matron General of the Army Nursing Corps. I need to talk to you about certain procedures in advance.”
Well, you could not argue with a matron general, I felt, particularly this one who looked as if she would not stand any nonsense from anyone – be it another general or indeed a judge. After all, to anyone in the nursing profession, we all look the same under hospital bed sheets.
Dutifully, I outlined our respective duties.
* * *
Half an hour later, we were due to begin. But before the court opened with its full complement, I was asked to sit alone. As I already knew, Cyril Clibbery was representing the accused but to my surprise there was no sign of Sir Fred Borler. Instead, a lanky figure sprung to his feet.
“Major Rashleigh at your service, sir – junior counsel for the prosecution and,” he waved a languid hand in his opponent’s direction, “my learned friend, Mr Clibbery, defends Private Merse.”
After saluting smartly Major Rashleigh removed his
cap with a flourish, revealing a mane of black hair which seemed overlong by military standards. What was most striking though were his eyebrows: arched and seemingly etched with black pencil. His other hand, I could not help noticing, rested on one hip in a distinctively camp fashion.
“My learned leader, Sir Frederick Borler, is regrettably unwell this morning. The prosecution apologizes on his behalf but feels it has no alternative,” he wiggled his midriff a little, “but to request an adjournment until tomorrow morning.”
I was not going to accept this at face value.
“I’m very sorry about Sir Fred’s condition, but perhaps you would be good enough to supply me with more detail. What’s actually wrong with him?”
“Regrettably, my leader, whilst waiting for his flight last night, was taken ill in the VIP lounge at Heathrow Airport. He was unable to continue his journey but I’m reliably informed that he is sleeping it off...I mean recovering in an airport hotel and will be catching a flight this afternoon.”
Too much free booze, I suspected but as both counsel still had many things to discuss before the trial could actually start the time was not really wasted and I reluctantly agreed to the request.
Eight
The next day, Sir Fred lurched to his feet plonking one chubby hand down on the lectern in front of him. A carafe of water wobbled ominously at the edge of the table as his other gesticulating hand brushed against it.
“Members of the jury, My Lord. I appear in this matter to prosecute with my learned and gallant junior, Major Rashleigh, from the Army Prosecuting Authority.”
I winced at the flowery language. The tag ‘gallant’ was normally only used to refer to those Members of Parliament who had served in the armed forces.
“The prisoner here,” Borler prodded the air in the general direction of Private Merse, “represented by Mr. Clibbery, stands charged with the crime of theft. This we will prove beyond all reasonable doubt. Mr Merse wantonly stole General Hudibrass’s golf club – an act of almost unimaginable grossness due to the exalted rank of its lawful owner.”
The Matron General was shifting in her seat in irritation and I felt it was time to intervene.
“Sir Fred – one or two things relating to the correct forms of address at a court martial: the military members should be described as ‘members of the board’, me as ‘sir’, and the accused as ‘Private Merse’.”
Borler’s eyes, bulging and bloodshot, goggled at me.
“Quite so, quite so – the court will be aware that I am accustomed to appear at the Old Bailey or other courts of that ilk and not well acquainted with the procedures of this kind of tribunal.”
His pomposity was beginning to grate on me, but I kept my voice level.
“Moreover, Sir Fred – we are dealing with a case of theft simpliciter. The fact that the club belonged to a general or to any lesser person makes no difference whatsoever in this trial. Perhaps you can proceed and just tell us about the facts.”
“The facts, yes, yes....now, where’s the police report?”
He fumbled amongst his papers frantically and, in doing so, finally knocked over his carafe of water which emptied its contents onto the floor and was fortunately absorbed by the carpet. As he continued to huff and puff, a faint aroma of stale alcohol stole across the room.
“Sir, members – regrettably, I am unable to track down at this precise moment the document that I require. However, the wheels of justice need not cease to turn – you know of the allegation – I shall call the evidence before you without further delay.”
Glancing to my left, I noticed that Brigadier Drubb’s nose was twitching. The smell of stale booze had not missed her either. Meanwhile, Sir Fred, his flabby face as white as chalk subsided in his seat and whispered to his junior. He obviously had not read the brief, I surmised, but relied on there being a comprehensive police report (which was always available in civil cases) to help him out. What he did not know was that, in military cases, the Royal Military Police were responsible for collating the witness statements only and did not write a report before handing the whole process over to their lawyers.
Major Rashleigh now rose instead and was about to address the court when a retching sound emanated from Borler. For a moment, I thought he might be having a heart attack but then guessed the ghastly truth – the man was about to be sick! And he was, vomiting straight into his wig which he snatched from his head just in time. That venerable piece of headgear was used in a way which must have been totally unprecedented in legal history. Staring in horror at its stinking contents, Sir Fred fled the courtroom without further ado.
“Ugh!”
The dead silence that followed was broken by Rashleigh’s exclamation of disgust as he flopped back into his seat. I felt it wise to adjourn at that point, and was soon visited by a young staff captain who had been responsible for Borler’s movements whilst in Germany. It was confirmed that the QC had got so drunk in the VIP lounge at Heathrow Airport that he was not fit to catch a flight until the following day. Having finally arrived, he was duly accommodated in the Berlin Garrison’s senior officers’ mess where he had met up with the mess bore (a retired colonel employed as a blanket counter in the stores), and the two had stayed up until the early hours drinking and yarning about their experiences of National Service.
“So Sir Fred’s now been prevailed upon to withdraw altogether, Major Rashleigh will take over the case. He’s asking for a short adjournment to get his tackle into order,” the embarrassed captain concluded.
“All right, half an hour then. It’s a simple enough case.”
When Rashleigh finally rose to his feet, the smell of stale booze and vomit still lingered in the air. Wrinkling his nose, he flipped his hand open, palm upwards, as he spoke.
“Sir, members, I believe that you have been told that Sir Fred has withdrawn from the case. I believe that you know enough about the facts already so we can proceed. However, in order for us to do so it will be necessary for the court to travel down to Brockendorf and reassemble at the Fortress to hear the General’s evidence.”
“Why? That means even more delay!” I said, appalled.
“Unfortunately, the General indicated that he was only available in Berlin for a day. He’s now back at his headquarters and can’t come back.”
I was furious.
“Major Rashleigh – this case was specifically sent to Berlin so that it could be tried outside General Hudibrass’s chain of command. What you are suggesting is that we hear a vital part of the case – his evidence – back at BAOR headquarters. It’s simply intolerable!”
Rashleigh looked pained.
“Well, that’s what I told Colonel Kayward also but he said it was just too bad. The general simply refuses to return.”
“Mr Clibbery, what do you say?”
“Quite inappropriate, sir, for the General to remain on his patch when giving evidence. Defeats the purpose of removing the case to Berlin.”
It was at this point that Brigadier Drubb intervened.
“Tell the General that he must do what the judge advocate requires – that’s now a direct order.”
“Does that help?” she whispered to me. “Even a general can’t disobey the command of a court martial, surely?”
I was not entirely certain. Normally, only a field marshal could order a general to do anything but common sense eventually prevailed after I indicated we were not going to move in any circumstances.
So finally, General Hudibrass stood before us like any other witness in a court of law. He saluted the seated members of the board, which I’m glad to say was not reciprocated. Queen’s Regulations made it clear that a military witness attending a court martial should salute it as a matter of respect but it would be inappropriate for it to be returned by the board.
“You may sit, General,” Brigadier Drubb said in her best ‘nurse in charge’ voice.
Rashleigh took him briefly through his evidence-in-chief which was simple enough, confirming that he
found his favourite club to be missing shortly after playing at the Gut Larchenhof club. Now, it was Clibbery’s turn to cross-examine.
“General, because of your senior rank you are entitled, are you not, to an official driver whether on or off duty?”
“Being in command 24 hours a day, I have a driver available to me at all times, yes.”
“But the same principle wouldn’t apply to a golf caddy, would it? Your exalted position entitles you to many things – but not that, surely?”
There was a pause.
“The golf caddies are drawn from the pool of service personnel who provide the drivers.”
“Quite so. But being a caddy is hardly the same thing as being a driver, is it?”
“Not exactly, no. But the driver doubles up as the caddy – he’s still on duty throughout.”
“That being the case, General, do you reimburse the caddies for the extra work?”
“Reimburse? I don’t follow what you mean. These soldiers are simply carrying out their duty.”
“But what they actually do for you is over and above their duty, surely?”
“Certainly not – and why should I pay them? After all, playing golf is an integral part of fulfilling my social obligations in Germany. I do have a certain position to maintain here, commanding the British Army of the Rhine.”
“I see.”
An undertone of sarcasm had crept into Clibbery’s tone.
“So, serving his commander-in-chief in any capacity should always be regarded by a soldier as a singular honour, in your view. Despite that privilege, did you ever thank them for doing it?”
The General looked nonplussed.
“Generals are not in the habit of thanking private soldiers.”
“So the answer to my question must be no. Indeed, Private Merse’s case is that you never once thanked him, even though being a golf enthusiast himself, he was very good at the job and caddied more than anyone else as a result.”
“There was no need for me to thank him – whether he was a good caddy or not.”
“Really? Well now let’s turn to the occasion of the tournament at the Gut Larchenhof Club – shortly before Private Merse went absent. He wasn’t able to drive a car that day, so you must have had another driver?”
Wig Betrayed Page 5
