The Steel Fist

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Molly tossed back the last of her cider and smiled.

  “Gin and orange, please.” And, before Taggart could invite the other girls, she added “Did you know there’s a dance in the village hall tonight?”

  “No. To a gramophone?”

  Molly shook her red curls.

  “There’s a proper band. Four-piece: sax, piano, drums and clarinet. What they call semi-professional. They’re a bit old.” She giggled. “No chance they’ll be called up. But they’re lively.”

  An adjective that could, Taggart thought, be aptly applied to her and her sisters.

  While Taggart was at the bar, buying three gins and orange, the landlord switched on the wireless set that stood among the glasses.

  Alvar Liddell’s voice announced the news.

  “There has been enemy air activity over Dover and Harwich. In the course of heavy fighting, at least eleven enemy aircraft were destroyed. Three of our aircraft are missing.

  “The following announcement has been issued by The Air Ministry.

  “Enemy aircraft bearing civil markings and marked with the Red Cross have recently flown over British ships at sea and in the vicinity of the British coast, and are being used for purposes which His Majesty’s Government cannot regard as being consistent with the privileges generally accorded to the Red Cross.

  “His Majesty’s Government desire to accord to ambulance aircraft reasonable facilities for the transportation of the sick and wounded in accordance with the Red Cross Convention, and aircraft engaged in the direct evacuation of the sick and wounded will be respected, provided they comply with the relevant provisions of the Convention.

  “His Majesty’s Government are unable, however, to grant immunity to such aircraft flying over areas in which operations are in progress on land or sea, or approaching British or Allied territory, or territory in British occupation, or British or Allied ships.

  “Ambulance aircraft which do not comply with the above requirements will do so at their own risk and peril.”

  After the news, Taggart called to the two pilots.

  “What was all that in aid of?”

  They strolled over with their tankards. One of them, who wore a D.F.C. ribbon, said “Heinkel Fifty-nines, old boy. They’ve been sculling around pretending to be doing a legitimate Red Cross job, and we’ve suspected they were actually on photo recce. One was forced down today, and found to have no sick or wounded aboard; but it did have a bloody great camera or three.”

  “Total war,” Abberley turned to Taggart. “The Hun was machine-gunning refugees in France, wasn’t he, Rodney?”

  Before Taggart could reply, the other pilot — who, like his friend, had had his eyes on the girls while talking to the men — said “We know: we were there. We saw it.”

  If we don’t break this off now, Taggart thought, these two are going to try to horn in on the girls. He reflected that horn was most expressive in the circumstances: it exactly described his own intentions and he did not intend to be frustrated by equally amorously inclined members of the junior Service.

  “That’s all water under the bridge,” he said. “See you some other evening, perhaps.”

  The two baffled intruders laughed and returned to the bar. It was not long before they were buying drinks for two girls in thin summer dresses who had just come in.

  Molly looked the girls up and down.

  “They’re a bit overdressed for a village hop.”

  “They’ll be cooler than you will, after a few dances.” She looked boldly at Taggart and flicked her tongue across her lips.

  “I can always peel off a layer.”

  “With a bit of help.”

  She grinned. “I can always use a hand.”

  Two drinks later they left for the village hall. Although the windows were open, the blackout curtains made the place stuffy. The close air reeked of warm humanity and the lilac-scented talcum powder that had been sprinkled on the rough wooden floor. At one end, on a dais, the band, who all looked too old or too ill for military service, were smashing out “There’s A Boy Coming Home On Leave”.

  Molly was a vigorous dancer. By the time they had fox-trotted through this tune, “Pennsylvania Six-Five thousand” and “I’ll Never Smile Again” and tangoed —more or less — to “Frenesi”, Taggart was finding the airless atmosphere nauseous and Molly’s faintly ferile aroma of Californian Poppy, violet soap and well laundered wool — redolent of the kind of soap sold in long yellow bars — irresistibly erotic.

  “Would you like to nip back for a quick drink before the pub closes?”

  She linked her fingers in his and trotted off with a contented glance at her sisters; who were leaving hand-in-hand with Abberley and Gowland, with the same manifest intention.

  Taggart paused in an alley between the hall and the pub. It was an initiative, he discovered, which Molly would have shown had he not done so. Her strong arms coiled around his neck, her spongy lips opened beneath his and for a long moment he enjoyed the flavour of lipstick tinctured with gin and orange.

  When at last they came unstuck she laughed and dabbed at his mouth with a clean and scented handkerchief.

  “The dance’ll finish at half-past-ten. Not long to wait.” To wait for what?

  “I thought you liked dancing.”

  “Oh, I do. Love it. But I like you, too.”

  The hall was crowded. When the band had played “Who’s Taking You Home Tonight?” and the national anthem, Abberley pushed his way through the mill to Taggart.

  “You’ll find me parked under the trees beyond the church. No hurry. Tell Bill, will you?”

  Comfortable back seat for Hugh. What about us? But Molly led him to a haystack and showed him how to unbutton the flap at the front of her breeches. She let him help her to wriggle out of her jumper and brassiere. She made only one stipulation.

  “You are going to be very careful, aren’t you?”

  Taggart showed her the little square envelope he had taken from a pocket.

  “That’s all right, then. I wouldn’t want to have to force you to marry me: I don’t think I’d be much good as an officer’s wife.”

  “I think you’d be marvellous...”

  “Don’t chatter, m’dear... here, let me help you this time. You know what they say: boy scouts, girl guides! I was a very keen guide... would you... believe... that...?”

  Molly seemed to be having trouble with her breathing. She gasped the last word, then uttered a stifled shriek, her hard little fingers dug convulsively into Taggart’s back and she began to agitate her pelvis as though 220 volts were being passed through her body.

  * * *

  Sergeant Duff and Corporal Fysshe-Smith had joined the commando in time to travel to Cornwall with it. On the morning after Taggart’s escapade with Molly, Dempster turned up.

  “Sorry we aren’t in the same troop, Rodney. I’d feel comfortable with your troop commander, too. Mine frightens me.”

  “I think he frightens us all, except perhaps the Colonel.”

  Dempster’s troop leader was a black-haired Ulsterman called McGinty. Seen from behind he appeared to have no neck. In fact he did have an inch or two, eighteen inches in circumference, that seemed to be an extension of his cranium. His skull was as round as a melon, his nose had been flattened in the boxing ring — he had no defence and used to try to pulverise his opponents in a storm of whirling fists — and he could hardly breathe through it; hence his mouth tended to be open most of the time. This revealed teeth like slabs of marble. He wore a bushy moustache and his eyebrows met in a great forest of tangled hair. His forearms reminded Taggart of Popeye’s and his feet looked disproportionate to his physique in size eleven boots. He stood only five feet six inches and had a chest measurement of forty-four inches. He had been commissioned from the ranks, at the age of 25, five years before the war; and, like Taggart, won an M.C. in France.

  “What does one do to amuse oneself around here?” Taggart gave Dempster a grin. “I’ll introduce you
to someone who’ll keep you amply entertained.”

  He did not want to hurt Molly’s feelings, but was not looking forward to their next encounter.

  Dempster gave him a suspicious look.

  “That sounds too altruistic to be convincing.”

  “Not at all. You’ll thank me, I assure you. Ask Bill and Hugh, if you doubt it.”

  “You’re looking a bit dissipated this morning, if I may say so.”

  “Precisely. Over to you. We’ll be finishing here in twelve days.”

  Sergeant Duff and Corporal Fysshe-Smith came to pay their respects to Dempster.

  “Any accommodating widows in this neck of the woods, Corporal?”

  The corporal gave Dempster a stoney stare.

  “There are accommodating widows everywhere, sir, in my experience. And, since the war, grass widows too, with husbands posted far enough away not to come home and surprise them.”

  Dempster and Taggart drew their own conclusions. Sergeant Duff looked pained. There was a puritanical streak in him. While condoning, and indulging in, unchurched lechery with single girls, he thought it cowardly and mean to dishonour a husband behind his back. He did, however, view Fysshe-Smith’s adventures with detached amusement to temper his distaste.

  The sergeant had more on his mind than carnality, and a current light liaison of his own with an A.T.S. girl at the H.Q. of a local searchlight unit.

  “There’s a buzz in the Sergeants’ Mess, sir, that we’ll be going on a raid when we leave here.”

  His intonation implied a question and his look at Taggart was charged with curiosity.

  “It would be a bold man who contradicted any buzz generated in a Sergeants’ Mess. But you’re a jump ahead of me. I hope the rumour is being firmly squashed by the Sergeant-Major.” There was no need to mention why: security was in the forefront of everyone’s mind.

  “The Sar’-Major came down on it like a ton of bricks, sir.”

  “Good. We’ll know soon enough if we’re going to be sent anywhere.”

  * * *

  The four troops which had been through the six-week course entrained one midnight.

  Four hours later they were jolted from sleep in their crowded compartments by the violent spasmodic shocks of clanging buffers and the chuntering of a shunting engine. It was too dark to see what was going on.

  Presently they felt themselves in motion once more and relapsed into sleep.

  At first light, A and B Troops woke again to the realisation of quietness and a stationary train. Heads poked out of window. Their two carriages and two goods wagons were in a cutting. There was no engine. From one of the goods wagons came the smell of frying bacon.

  The two troop sergeant-majors appeared.

  “Fall in behind the rear wagon... get moving, you dozy lot.”

  They paraded in three ranks, between and outside the rails of the single track.

  The Colonel took over.

  “C and D Troops have gone to our new base. We are on our way to another destination; on the east coast. There, we shall spend one week preparing for a task.” He paused. He had stood the parade easy and there was a ripple of movement as men turned and grinned at one another. One or two enthusiasts attempted a quiet cheer and were immediately quelled by the T.S.Ms.

  “We will spend the day here and move on immediately after dark. After breakfast, latrines will be dug and hessian screens erected. Hot water will be issued for washing and shaving. There is a supply of washbasins.” The Colonel’s expression relaxed. “If any washbasins disappear, every man will be charged with the full cost.” Laughter from the troops. “As you can smell, a kitchen has been fitted up in the end wagon. We’ll have a hot meal at mid-day and again before we move off. This cutting is on a disused line and you may walk two hundred yards in each direction. Nobody is to climb up the banks. We are in this cutting for concealment.”

  The day passed in almost a holiday atmosphere. The men felt gratified that their hard training was so soon to be applied in earnest. They were not required to do any work. They were free to stroll up and down the track in the summer sunshine. They exercised the soldier’s innate ability to sleep anywhere at any time.

  Lance-Corporal Udall went looking for rabbit holes, accompanied by Corporal Fysshe-Smith, with a vague idea of setting snares.

  “Why d’you want to kill harmless rabbits, Bert?”

  “Make a good stew, don’t they.”

  “We’re being fed.”

  “Ah, but think of a nice rabbit stew when we get to wherever we’re going.”

  “If you hand them in at the cookhouse the cooks will pinch them.”

  Udall was scornful. “I’ll cook ‘em meself. Wasn’t you ever in the Scouts, then?”

  “Certainly not. I was in the Cadet Corps...”

  “Oh, yeah? Posh grammar school, eh?”

  “Not so posh. Grammar school only had a Cadet Corps. Public schools had an Officers Training Corps.”

  “Neither of them taught you how to snare and cook a rabbit, did they.”

  “No.” It was an amused admission.

  “‘Ere, Fishy, you reckon A and B Troops have been chosen for this raid — or whatever it is — because we’re the best?”

  “I don’t think they’d just toss for it, Bert. Certainly A Troop is the best: so if B are coming with us, they must be second best.”

  “Wonder where we’re going?”

  “East coast? Might be anywhere. I expect we’ll be crossing to Belgium or Holland.”

  “You been there, Fishy?”

  “I have cousins in the diamond trade in Antwerp and Amsterdam.”

  “Go on?”

  There was much admiration in Udall’s exclamation.

  “I’ve been to see them. Very flat countries. Not much cover, if we do have to make a landing.”

  “Pity Mister Dempster ain’t in the troop.”

  “Yes. Never mind: Gowland’s good.”

  “I’m glad Major McGinty’s troop wasn’t made up to strength in time to come down to Cornwall with us. I don’t fancy going on a raid with E Troop and that bleeding captain. He’s a real blood-and-guts wallah.”

  “Our respected troop leader isn’t exactly timid, either.”

  “Ah, but we know Mister Taggart.”

  Do we? Corporal Fysshe-Smith wondered. Does he even know himself?

  * * *

  The Colonel said “Of course you all know exactly where Texel is”; and smiled.

  There was silence.

  Corporal Fysshe-Smith stood up.

  The Colonel looked at him, indicating a surprise, which, if he had come to know the corporal as well as Taggart, would not have been occasioned.

  “Yes, Corporal?”

  “Texel, sir, is the first of a chain of five islands off the Dutch coast, curving north-east from Den Helder, past the mouth of the Zuider Zee.” The only mistake he made was in mispronouncing, as the British always do, the latter name. The Dutch say “Zowder Zay”; the Brits, ignorantly, “Zyder Zee”. Anyway, it is now cut off from the North Sea and called Ijsselmeer; which gives non-Dutch-speakers a further chance to get it wrong.

  “Thank you, Corporal Smith.”

  Fysshe-Smith sat down, looking prim.

  “The enemy is operating seaplanes from Texel, which are making a nuisance of themselves by laying mines off our coast. We are going to discourage them.”

  A stir of interest among the audience composed of A and B Troops.

  “We shall be transported to within striking distance in two destroyers. From three miles offshore we shall be taken to the landing site by four motor boats. These have noisy engines, so two Ansons will fly overhead as we approach, to cover our noise.”

  And invite the Boche’s attention, thought Taggart.

  “The Luftwaffe installation is pretty big, and our primary objective is to destroy as many aircraft as we can; with the secondary objective of destroying buildings, especially hangars and workshops. In the process, the more Huns
we kill the better, and we might even spare a couple to bring back as prisoners.”

  The Colonel had his audience’s rapt attention. Taggart wondered to what extent this was excited by the realisation that several flaws were immediately apparent in the plan. He glanced sideways at Gowland, but Gowland had his eyes on the Colonel and on the large-scale map of Texel at his side.

  “The flying boat base is on the mainland-facing side of the island; the landward side, at the southern end, in a small bay. So, in effect, it is tucked away in the south-east corner. We shall have to cross one mile and three-quarters of flat ground to reach it. The garrison on Texel is small and said to consist of second-class troops; and Luftwaffe personnel, who are mostly technical. There are two searchlight posts and half a dozen medium flak guns, some light flak guns, and a few machine-guns. Nothing formidable.”

  Sergeant Duff, trying to form a mental picture, wondered what the Colonel would find formidable: not much, he thought. Anyone was formidable if he had an advantage on his side. On the face of it, all the advantage would be with the Commandos. But the defenders were secure behind barbed wire, sandbags and, probably, concrete. Jerry wasn’t so daft that he took anything for granted: so he must know that his seaplane base was a likely target. Old Jerry was a cunning bastard and probably had something up his sleeve.

  Duff had been ten years in the Territorial Army. He was 28 years old. His father owned a grocery in Wimbledon, where young Wally had started work at sixteen as an errand boy. Later, the shop had acquired a van and Wally Duff had enlarged his round. There was money in Wimbledon — in the right part of it — and father Duff was shrewd: he was a “high-class purveyor”, a fact stated in golden script over his shopfront: which meant that he stocked expensive tinned and potted foods for the benefit of the gentry; or what passed as such in S.W.19. They might not have made this grade in the country, but in suburbia it was money that counted and this was an area abounding in nouveaux riches. They may have dropped their aitches, but they never dropped a point on the stock market. Duff & Son, High Class Purveyors to the Gentry, attracted custom that might otherwise have found its way to Fortnum and Mason or Harrods.

  Sergeant Duff enjoyed soldiering and he was a good soldier. His other hobby was weight-lifting and he belonged to a club where he paid a shilling a week to consort with his fellow enthusiasts; as well as hefting his own barbell and dumb bells in the “garridge” where were kept the van, father’s 1932 Austin Ten and his own 250 c.c. Triumph motor bike. He had inherited his father’s shrewdness; and his dealings with the better-off segments of Wimbledon, Putney, and New Malden residents had given him a good judgment of the quality of his officers.