Uncommon Enemy

by Reynolds, John

  Stuart and Hamish both froze at the same moment, and stood staring at each other in astonishment. “You two gentlemen know each other, lieutenant?” asked Major Thompson.

  Hamish spoke first, bracing his shoulders to display his new uniform with its neat creases and shiny shoulder pips. “Yes, sir, I know Johnson quite well. His top lip twitched upwards. “I’m not surprised that he’s still a civilian.”

  Recovering himself quickly Stuart looked Hamish in the face before slowly shifting his gaze to the man’s shoulders..

  “I see that Mr. Beavis has attained officer status.” He beamed. “I hope that he has more success in getting his troops to obey him than he has had with a mutual acquaintance of ours.”

  The snarled response was immediate. “Watch your mouth, Johnson! I’d hate to damage it-----.”

  “Beavis!” barked the major.

  Hamish froze to attention. “Sir!”

  “I don’t know what this is about, but may I remind you that we are here in a military capacity. You will conduct yourself in a manner that befits a man of officer rank. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Sir!” responded the still rigid Hamish, staring straight ahead.

  Thompson turned to Sterling “I’m sorry about this, professor-----.”

  “No need to apologize, Major. Mr. Johnson was also out of order. Now I suggest we all follow the major’s advice and remember that we are here to serve the cause of our country and should therefore set aside any private feelings.” He turned to his assistant.

  “Agreed, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Agreed, sir. Sorry, sir.” Stuart, although still recovering from the shock of seeing Hamish in his new capacity, had quickly realized that any further aggression on his part could undermine the meeting even before it got started.

  “Good. That’s settled,” responded Major Thompson. “At ease, Beavis. I suggest, Professor Sterling that we get down to business.”

  With a scraping of chairs and a rustle of papers, the five men and the secretary seated themselves around the table. Thompson opened the meeting.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, “it’s important for our military to gather an accurate insight into the enemy’s thinking, his values and his ultimate goals. Rather stupidly we’ve made the mistake of not taking the Nazis seriously enough---.”

  “In the hope that they’d keep to their own back yard,” grunted the professor.

  “Exactly,” replied Thompson. “However, the fall of France and their occupation of Europe have motivated us to consider ways in which the Nazis could be undermined, other than on the battlefield.”

  He paused and Sterling nodded. “Over the last few weeks Mr. Johnson has been engaged in extensive research. For the purposes of this meeting I have asked him to prepare a summary of three of his key findings.” He held up his fist and raised a finger for each point. “Resistance movements, the attitudes of various sectors of the population towards their new rulers, and collaboration by locals with the Germans.” He turned to Stuart and nodded.

  “My theme is ‘The Nazis as Occupiers’,” began Stuart. “The first area I’d like us to look at is resistance movements.”

  He paused and clearing his throat he glanced quickly at Hamish. The man’s expression was neutral but his gaze was unwavering. As Stuart began speaking he became aware that his topic was generating considerable interest. Avoiding Hamish’s stare he concentrated on making eye contact with the others in the room. After briefly outlining his methodology and sources of information, he moved on to his conclusions to date.

  “What is clear to me is that in Occupied Europe the Nazis are receiving a surprising degree of cooperation among some sections of the population.”

  The three military men exchanged glances and murmured with surprise. Taking this as his cue Hamish snapped, “That’s absurd! The people of Europe hate the Nazis. They’d never collaborate with them.”

  Stuart, on his home ground and supported by his research, remained calm. The facts that he had unearthed were not palatable, but he was confident that his sources were reliable. Shifting his gaze towards Hamish he spoke slowly and deliberately.

  “My research does not deal with the absurd. I deal in facts and, if asked to develop hypotheses, I do so based on those facts. Therefore they warrant serious consideration.”

  “‘Develop hypotheses’? Huh. Typical of these varsity types. Trying to show off by using fancy words to demonstrate that they’re cleverer than the rest of us.” His eyes narrowed. “Listen, Johnson, remember that there’s a war on and that support for Hitler and the Nazis is regarded as traitorous!”

  “I think that’s enough, lieutenant,” Thompson’s tone was sharp but his voice reflected uncertainty. He frowned at Stuart. “Surely you’re not saying that the Nazis have widespread support in places like Poland, Denmark, Norway, Holland or France?”

  “It’s difficult to accurately gauge the level. It’s unlikely to be wide in Poland, due to the harsh nature of the occupation. And I’m not saying that is widespread, either. But it’s clear that there is support for the Nazis among certain sections.”

  “That’s ridiculous, sir! They fought to keep the Germans out. And I know that they’ll continue to fight.”

  “You ‘know’, lieutenant. How do you know?” The professor’s voice was calm and even.

  “Stands to reason, doesn’t it?” said Hamish, seeking support from his fellow officer.

  “I would hope so,” frowned Captain Thompson.

  “Hope is one thing, but facts are what we are trying to deal with here, gentlemen,” responded the professor. “My young colleague and I have spent many hours sifting through a mass of material, some of it translated directly from original German sources.”

  “‘German sources’! Are they reading German propaganda at this university, sir? Really, sir, this is too much! We are wasting -----.”

  “Lieutenant Beavis!” his commanding officer’s voice had resumed its previous authoritarian note. “While I too am surprised at Mr. Johnson’s findings, I have no difficulty with these two gentlemen reading German sources. Surely this is the most reliable way of finding out what the enemy is thinking?”

  “Yes, sir, but there’s more to it than that. Johnson clearly has suspect views. He may even be a Nazi sympathizer. He hasn’t joined up; he’s remained here at this university while others like me have joined the armed forces. That’s pretty suspect in my book!”

  “Really, this is too much!” Professor Sterling half rose from his chair and leaning across the table addressed himself directly to Hamish. “You, lieutenant, clearly do not understand the difference between a researcher explaining his research outcomes and a man expressing a personal political opinion. Just because a research outcome is unpalatable, doesn’t make the researcher himself suspect. Clearly in your case the term ‘military intelligence’ is an oxymoron!”

  “Are you calling me a ‘moron’?” snarled Hamish.

  The professor slowly slipped back into his chair and sighed. Turning to the major he shrugged. “I rest my case.” Clearly embarrassed at his officer’s obtuseness Thompson stood up. “I’m sorry, professor, but under the circumstances it would be best if we left. I would like to hear more of your research but,” he looked hard at Hamish, “I will have to reconsider the makeup of my team.” With that he reached over, briskly shook hands with Stuart and Sterling and walked rapidly from the room.

  Hamish, who was the last of the trio to leave, paused alongside Stuart. His words, although soft, were laced with menace.

  “Start looking over your shoulder, Johnson.”

  Chapter 9

  The news of Hitler’s full-scale invasion of Russia caught everyone by surprise and lifted the spirits of the New Zealand population. Parallels were immediately drawn with France’s ill-fated military campaign in 1812 in which Napoleon Bonaparte’s Grande Armee had been defeated by the terrible Russian winter. The conclusion that Hitler’s Wermacht soldiers would eventually meet a similar fate was wides
pread.

  The invasion immediately opened up another area of research for Professor Sterling and his team.

  “I’m absolutely staggered at the rapid progress of the German army,” he commented. “They’re well on the way to Moscow.”

  He glanced out of his office window. “However, in a few months there’ll be spring blossoms on our trees. That will mean autumn leaves in Russia. The German army won’t find the Russian winter an easy environment.”

  What intrigued Stuart apart from the rapid German advance was the support for its soldiers that came from some sections of the Soviet Republics. One morning having barely seated himself at his desk, he received a phone call from Professor Sterling.

  “Good morning, Stuart. Could you drop in to my office when you have a moment?”

  “Of course, sir,” he replied. “I’ll come now.”

  As he entered the professor’s office he was greeted with, “Here Stuart, take a look at this.”

  Stuart accepted the photograph that was handed to him. He studied it for a moment and asked, “A German photograph, sir?”

  “Yes, from the Russian front in the Ukraine. Rather bears out what you were saying at the meeting with Major Thompson.”

  Stuart studied the photograph with increasing interest. It showed two blonde-haired German soldiers, without helmets or weapons, seated between two pretty girls in traditional Ukrainian dress. All four were spontaneously laughing and applauding.

  “Apparently it was taken at some Ukrainian folk festival to which the German soldiers were invited,” explained the professor. “Clearly the question of loyalties is as confusing in the Soviet Union as it is in Occupied Europe.”

  “It certainly warrants further investigation. Have your heard anything more from Major Thompson?”

  “Yes, he phoned me just an hour ago. Our reports have resulted in their continuing to recognize the value of our work. He’s therefore agreed to an increase in our funding.”

  “Excellent news, sir.” Stuart paused. “Did he mention Hamish Beavis?”

  “Only briefly. Beavis has been re-assigned and will not have any further involvement with this office, or, to use the major’s words, ‘or any of its personnel’.”

  Stuart smiled with relief. “That’s good news, sir, on both counts. Do you think we could offer Brendan some more work?” Stuart knew that his friend was quite happy to support the war effort with his translating skills.

  “Excellent idea. His work is fast and accurate and his knowledge of colloquial German is proving invaluable. Would he be interested, do you think?”

  “Rather, sir. I’m seeing him after work for a drink so I’ll ask him.”

  During the previous war, legislation had been introduced that required pubs throughout New Zealand to close promptly at six o’clock every night - on Sunday they were not permitted to open at al. The most celebrated result of these drinking laws was the last hour before closing time, known to all as the ‘six o’clock swill’. Like all those going for an after-work drink Stuart was aware that time was limited. Promptly at five o’clock he left his office and made his way downtown to the De Bretts pub in High Street.

  The noisy smoke-filled public bar, where women were not permitted, contained an increasingly familiar mix of men in civilian clothing and military uniforms. The floor tiles extended halfway up the walls. Apart from the occasional cheaply framed print of a racehorse, boxing or wrestling champion, or rugby team, they were bare. The purpose of the establishment was clear – the consumption of large quantities of beer in the shortest possible time. Standing three deep at the long bar counter, the patrons waited impatiently as the barmen, using long hosepipes, poured beer into the relays of empty glasses and jugs that were constantly thrust forward.

  Slowly Stuart began to push his way forward through the noisy, packed throng-most of whom were concentrating on downing as much alcohol as possible within the 45 minutes that remained to them. Through the smoke he spotted Brendan in a corner, sitting on a high stool his head slumped onto one of many tall circular tables screwed to the tiled floor. He was clutching a glass. A half – filled jug of beer was on the table beside him. As Stuart approached with a hearty greeting his friend barely looked up.

  Puzzled he asked, “You OK, mate?”

  “Not really,” slurred Brendan looking up at Stuart with bloodshot eyes.

  “What’s the problem?”

  Brendan grunted and muttered to himself.

  Unable to hear him above the raucous crowd, Stuart leaned closer to his friend’s flushed face.

  “Sorry, mate, I couldn’t hear you. What’s the problem?”

  Brendan lifted his head and for a long moment looked hard at Stuart. Abruptly he stood up and shouted, “I said that I got my bloody call up papers this morning! But I’m telling you now, loud and clear, I’m not going! They can’t make me fight!”

  Brendan’s sudden leap to his feet had caused him to collide with a soldier who had been leaning against an adjacent table. As the man whirled round and shouted, “Watch what you’re doing you bloody idiot!” he sloshed most of his beer over his nearest neighbour’s khaki tunic.

  It was Hamish Beavis.

  “You!” hissed Hamish seeing Stuart.

  Before Stuart could respond the man whose tunic had received most of Hamish’s beer, reached out and grabbed Brendan by the arm. “Hey, you!” he shouted.

  Swaying slightly Brendan turned round and peered at him.

  “What did you just yell?” demanded the soldier.

  “I’m not going to fight! No bastard can make me!” responded Brendan loudly.

  “You been called up?”

  “Yeah,” replied Brendan. “What of it?”

  Hamish, obviously elated, grabbed his neighbour and shouted, “It all fits!” He pointed at Brendan and then at Stuart. “This joker is a coward, and his mate Johnson here is a supporter of the Krauts. What a bloody pair. And what a bloody nerve! Drinking in here with real Kiwi men!”

  In spite of the high noise level in the pub, the shouting had attracted the attention of other men who, sensing a confrontation began to surge towards the protagonists. Stuart, realizing that the crowd was unlikely to show any sympathy towards a man who was refusing to obey his call up orders, made a vain attempt to calm the situation by addressing Hamish’s companion.

  “Come on, mate. He’s had a few too many. He doesn’t know what he’s saying or doing. Let’s just forget it.” He forced a smile and looked at his watch. “There’s only a few minutes drinking time left and---.”

  Hamish cut across him shouting to the growing crowd, “This man’s a yellow bastard! And his mate’s a yellow bastard! They’re both yellow bastards!”

  “Yea, Carol was right. She said your vocabulary was severely limited!” retorted Stuart.

  The mention of Carol goaded Hamish into a fury. Swinging his left arm back he lashed out. This time Stuart had anticipated the blow. Hamish had been drinking and his reflexes were slower than normal, providing Stuart time to sway back from the roundhouse punch. Over the past weeks he had gone over and over the ferry building fight in his mind, recreating what he would have done had he known that a punch was coming. The images stood him in good stead. Stepping forward with his full body weight he sunk his right fist into Hamish’s solar plexus. The man collapsed coughing and vomiting quantities of beer onto the tiled floor.

  “He hit an officer, the bastard!” shouted Hamish’s companion, surging forward towards Stuart and Brendan.

  Several men in military uniform, shouting support, lurched forward to join him but in doing so tripped over the moaning, coughing figure of Hamish. His vomit mixing with the thin layer of beer on the tiled floor caused the men to slide and clutch at one another for support. Each in turn, unable to stay upright, crashed cursing into other men. The result was mayhem.

  Fuelled by alcohol and bruised from their falls, men vented their anger on the nearest stranger. Within seconds a full-scale brawl surged across the floor of the
public bar. Jugs of beer crashed and shattered on the hard floor adding an additional hazard to the flying fists and boots as with shouts of fury and howls of pain, waves of men surged over the whole area.

  Stuart found himself fighting on two fronts-to protect himself and to protect Brendan whose drunkenness made him an easy target. Stuart’s sober state did give him an edge over his belligerent attackers who were finding it difficult to swing effective blows in the crush of bodies. At first he managed to ward off most of the punches but inevitably one got through and sent Brendan sprawling. Instinctively Stuart turned to assist and in doing so received a blow to the back of his own head, knocking him down beside his friend.

  “Put the boot in!” shouted a voice above them. An excruciating pain shot through him as an army boot thudded into his ribs. Two more equally painful blows followed before another voice shouted, “OK, mates, that’s enough!” and Stuart and Brendan were left coughing and moaning on the floor in the corner of the bar while the brawl continued to surge above them. Deciding through his haze of pain that nothing was to be gained by trying to stand, Stuart put his mouth to Brendan’s ear and shouted, “Stay here. Don’t move. If we get up they’ll probably kill us!”

  The blow, the fall and the alcohol resulted in Brendan’s drifting into a half-conscious state punctuated by an occasional moan of protest when a foot stood on him or a body sprawled near him. As Stuart lay on the sodden foul-smelling floor, hunched partly in pain and partly as a means of protecting himself from further assault, above the din he heard orders being barked out. Slowly the shouting subsided. Summoned by a barman’s telephone call the police had arrived in substantial numbers to deal with a familiar problem-a pub closing time brawl.

  The police sergeant, aware that at any time his men could be called to another inner city watering hole to deal with the same problem, ordered the barroom to be cleared. Subdued by the sight of a phalanx of blue uniforms, men lurched towards the door and out into the street, assisting their mates who, through injury or drunkenness were unable to make it on their own. As the last few staggered away the sergeant surveyed the bodies strewn about the floor-some moaning and some lying still.