The Hidden War

by David Fiddimore

  ‘Hello, Tommo.’

  ‘. . . and don’t ask is that a promise?’ Tommo swung back at me, ‘. . . or it will be, an’ you’ll in more trouble than I can get you outta.’

  She reached up, touched his face lightly with one hand, and suddenly smiled for all of us. It was a terrific radiant smile. She was like a film star – the most attractive woman in the world. Where had that come from?

  ‘You’re a lovely man, Tommo,’ she said.

  As we climbed back into the Oxford Tommo grumbled, ‘I thought I told you to stay away from people like that, Charlie.’

  That was interesting.

  I sat up front with Randall, and to keep him awake fed him coffee from a thermos all the way to Berlin. Tommo slept in the back and snored like a sow giving birth. I wondered if his volume had anything to do with the fact that he never hung on to his girlfriends for long. Then I remembered what Maggs had said about me: neither did I. I smoked my pipe, filling the cabin with the scent of Sweet Chestnut, until it was time to help Randall hold on to the radio beacons in the corridor to Gatow. The Russians had started to try to disrupt them, and you could find yourself flying over somewhere from which they’d have a pot at you.

  I didn’t tell you about the coffin nails, did I? Cigarettes, that is. We had ten boxes each containing ten thousand cigarettes to deliver to the Military Police at Gatow. That’s why Randall hadn’t strayed far from the aircraft. Actually we’d signed for ten boxes but had ended up with eleven. Just like playing crib: one for his nob. One for us, that is. It didn’t come cheap, but in Germany it was worth ten times what we’d given for it. Randall parked up close to the buildings at Gatow, and we unloaded the ten boxes onto the tarmac ourselves, shutting the cabin door on the eleventh just as coppers drove up. They had four men and a sergeant, a jeep and a three-tonner. That was going a bit over the odds. Randall and I helped them load the boxes into the lorry, whilst Tommo leaned against our aircraft door and looked unfriendly. He was good at that. The sergeant signed the paperwork. It said that we’d carried and delivered nine boxes. I told you: everyone was at it. He pushed a roll of notes into my jacket pocket with, ‘Thanks, mate. You didn’t bring anything else with you?’

  ‘No, just a passenger.’

  ‘I’ll tell the Customs. They won’t bother you.’

  Then he saluted and they all mounted up. That was odd. I was flying in a set of grubby coveralls that I felt comfortable in, and my old leather flying jacket. Maybe I’d begun to look like an officer at last. Maybe it creeps up on you before you notice. Now we had ten thousand coffin nails to flog, and, I found after we counted it, already two hundred and twenty occupation dollars to spend. The guy who wrote that song almost got it right: sometimes life is just a bowl of cherries.

  I went round to Marthe’s place, and let myself in. There was no one there, and the flat had that indefinable stale air of not having hosted humans for a couple of days. It was cold. As usual the water coming into the basin was just a rusty trickle. But I drew enough for a decent stand-up wash, changed, and went out again. I had put on my old, but clean service trousers and battledress blouse – having replaced the buttons with plain dark blues, and removed the rank flashes – and put my jacket on over the top. I had liked Randall’s description of his aircraft: nondescript. I thought that I matched it.

  At the Leihhaus I found Russian Greg. Someone put a bottle of PX beer in front of me, and I stuck my legs under the table. He said, ‘You’re too late for eats. You wanna a sandwich?’

  ‘That would be good, Greg. Thank you.’ Then I switched to German and asked, ‘Where’s Marthe?’

  ‘She went to visit her parents. They’re at Fürstenwalde.’

  ‘Isn’t that in your half?’

  ‘Yes, Charlie, it is. I fixed her a visiting ticket to get in.’

  ‘Is that a ticket out as well?’

  ‘No. She fixes that for herself when she’s ready. I can’t help; another department.’ I wasn’t sure that I believed that, although he might have meant a different geographical area. The Russians sometimes used the word like that. ‘What you got?’

  ‘Eight thousand cigarettes. But I have only a half-share in them, and Tommo’s already hinted that he wants them. We’ll have to wait for my pilot.’

  Randall walks in on cue, doesn’t he? Spots me at the table and shambles over. I can see that he disturbs people: it’s a bit like having a small grizzly bear walking up to you on its hind legs. He hadn’t changed; you could still smell the aircraft from him.

  ‘Charlie’s pilot,’ Red Greg greeted him in English. He pulled a chair out neatly with one booted foot, and slid it in Randall’s direction. ‘Welcome to the Leihhaus. Hungry?’

  ‘Thanks pal; starving.’

  ‘Soon everyone in this city will be starving . . .’ The Russian put a bit of a dampener on it. He always did say exactly what he thought once he had booze in him. Then he shouted, ‘Make that two sandwiches, please . . .’ at the kitchen.

  ‘This is Red Greg,’ I told Randall. ‘This is my pilot, Randall,’ I told Greg. Randall frowned momentarily. It was just a fleeting thing. That was his hard luck: if he’d wanted another name he should have told me. The Russian asked him, ‘You sell me your share of Charlie’s cigarettes?’

  It was nice seeing Randall discomfited for once. He squirmed, then he answered, ‘I don’t know. Someone else wants them.’

  ‘You mean Sergeant Thomsett? I know that. We auction them maybe.’

  ‘You know Tommo?’

  ‘Try it the other way round, Randall,’ I interrupted. ‘Tommo knows everyone.’

  Randall suddenly relaxed and grinned. ‘I guess he does. Is someone going to get me a beer, or does a man buy his own round here?’

  A waitress appeared from the kitchen with two plates. On each were two sandwiches: one thick with fatty bacon, and one of cold German sausage. She gave him a ghastly smile and said, ‘Some men do, honey.’

  It was nice to see Randall discomfited again. Twenty minutes later we were beating up one of the Russian’s bottles of cheap brandy when Magda strolled in. After the introductions I explained to her that Randall was a prince. You could see the reappraisal occurring behind her eyes. I translated her for Randall because I thought he had little German.

  ‘She says that she is a countess.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I believe so: Russian Greg collects people with titles.’ Magda cut across the conversation again, so I told him, ‘She says that you and she have that in common.’

  ‘She a whore?’

  ‘A chocolady; which is something like. But you’re some kind of fucking bandit, so don’t get snotty about it.’

  Randall laughed, Magda laughed, and when Tommo came by he and the Russian bid each other up for the fags until there was no profit left for either of them: it was just a matter of pride. Then they agreed upon half each, and we gave them the price they were always looking for: it was nice to see the Allies agreeing about something for a change.

  Chapter Eight

  If Tommo had told me at Frankfurt that he was flying into Berlin to start a fight in his own bar I wouldn’t have believed him. Later he told me that he took Randall along because he reckoned Randall was a bit of a roundhouse brawler, and me because I was clever. Even if you have a yeller streak. When I thought that through I decided that I’d had the best of it, and I was flattered.

  Tommo had had problems at the Klapperschlange for a week or more. A couple of fellow sergeants had set up a bar nearby, and coveted Tommo’s customers. They call that a turf war these days. The opposition had taken the services of a PFC hoodlum called Tiny, who came round to the Rattlesnake most nights and insulted or roughed up a couple of customers. The MPs steered clear of Tiny; he was a crazy. The customers had started to drift away to places where they could drink without getting into a fight. Tommo was very tight-lipped about the whole thing, which meant that he was pretty mad. I never liked him when he was feeling mean: there was steel in him.<
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  He’d driven us there in a very nice Mercedes saloon. It was black, and still had the small holes in the front wings where the little Nazi flagpoles had been. He would have to do something about the holes in each of the rear passenger doors where an uninvited cannon shell had said Hello Sailor! on its way in and out. On the way there I’d asked him if he had a gambling room in the back, like his other place.

  ‘No, Charlie. We couldn’t work it out. The footprint of the place is just too small. I gotta couple of rooms I fixed up upstairs.’

  ‘You have the gambling up there?’

  He looked a little uncomfortable. That was almost a first in my experience of Tommo.

  ‘No, Charlie.’ Then he paused. Then he said, ‘There’s a couple of girls up there.’ I didn’t say anything. I glanced back at Randall. He was looking out on Berlin as if he hadn’t heard anything. Tommo said, ‘I ain’t a pimp.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were.’

  ‘You were thinking it. I can always tell when you’re thinking dirty.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘I don’t charge them no rent. I just take a commission from them . . .’ He wrenched the car around a corner too quickly, and without changing down. We skidded, but he held the skid, although he nearly ran down an International Patrol crossing the road. I don’t know if it was the Russian or the Frenchman he was aiming for.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Tommo. It’s just a business I didn’t expect to see you in; it was a surprise.’

  What Tommo said next he almost whispered. I’m sure that Randall didn’t pick it up. He said, ‘I’m just nuts about one of them, Charlie, that’s all.’ He looked anguished and dejected. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Whatever you did, that’s OK by me, Tommo.’

  When a pal cries out for help you don’t walk by him, do you? I don’t know: maybe you lot see things differently.

  It was just as I remembered: the steep, narrow street of cobbles slick with rain, and the bar front wore its sign of a red and deadly worm like a crown. That looked almost pink in the thin drizzle which had grabbed Berlin for the night. The long, narrow bar inside had been finished since my last visit. It was faced by small semicircular red velvet settees. They formed booths built one onto the other, and were about shoulder-high when you were seated. There were a couple of round rustic tables with straight chairs if you didn’t want to be an intimate drinker. The guitar player in the corner was the guy from Tommo’s Frankfurt joint – he must have been moonlighting – and I don’t reckon the circular area for dancing could satisfy two couples at the same time. Alice was in her box at the end of the bar. I think she was pleased to see me, but she looked kinda cranky and restless. When Tommo took off his trench coat he was wearing his Casablanca outfit underneath, only he was a whole lot bigger than old Bogey.

  First proper surprise was Dolly sitting at one of the round tables. I walked up to her but didn’t say anything in case I wasn’t supposed to know her. She smiled and said, ‘Hello, Charlie. I expected you an hour ago.’ She was wearing a royal blue dress, and had an ankle-length, black leather, SS top coat wrapped around her shoulders. Its epaulet shoulder straps had been neatly removed: she’d probably bought it in the market that had sprung up by the old Reichstag. She was smoking an American cigarette in a short holder: I’d seen that before. She always reminded me of Doris Day, but I said, ‘I thought that it was Marlene Dietrich sitting here; you look very beautiful.’

  She had crossed her legs, and they were there for all the bar to see.

  ‘Thank you, Charlie.’

  ‘You haven’t moved in upstairs, by any chance?’

  ‘No; of course not. What’s upstairs?’

  I shook my head. ‘Never mind. Can I sit with you?’

  ‘Please.’

  The place was eventually about a quarter full, the guitar player perked up, and Dolly gave me a nice slow dance resting her cheek against the top of my head. There was a tension in the air, and the party atmosphere necessary to a successful drinking enterprise was woefully lacking because everyone was waiting for a nice evening to be spoiled.

  Randall had waited outside, dozing in the car at the end of the road. Whatever he and Tommo had set up had not included me. I had just waved the waiter for another bottle when Tiny’s giant shadow fell across the outside door. I still don’t know how he managed to squeeze through it. I don’t know what I had expected, but it wasn’t this sensationally ugly creature who made Randall seem like a dwarf. I suppose that his being scared of mice was too much to hope for. He stood at the bar, as far from Alice as he could manage – which was interesting – having bounced a quiet couple out of his way, and pinched their drinks. He was a big man in a smart US army uniform and carried a silvered .45 in a buttoned holster worn prominently on his belt. Now that wasn’t regular. He held himself well, but I somehow got the impression that he was already slightly oiled.

  I had my own gun in my pocket of course, but I wondered at its ability to stop this man mountain if he came my way. Oddly enough I didn’t actually shy away from the thought of shooting someone. I had had to do that before, and it had opened a box in my brain that should have remained closed. It would have to be a head shot, and I didn’t know that I was that good. When I looked over at Tommo he gave me just the smallest of smiles, and shook his head. How could the bastard actually enjoy this sort of thing?

  Tommo walked up to Tiny, and stopped just short of arm’s reach. Tommo’s barman matched him pace for pace, but behind the bar. A pincers attack. Then Tommo asked the rest of us in the bar, ‘Do you folks think this thing had a human mother, or did we jest find it in some Alabammy swamp some place?’ Tommo’s voice and accent had changed. He now had that high nasal Southern drawl. The sort that sounds insulting even when it’s saying Thank you, sir. There were a couple of nervous laughs, but not from Dolly.

  She laughed out loud; almost a man’s laugh. King Kong blinked down at Tommo, and put his right hand on his holster flap. Then he stared hard at Dolly, who laughed at him again. Then he took a step towards her. I stood up, but that was completely unnecessary because Tommo was between us again, with a half step as neat as a ballet dancer’s. Tiny blinked at him again. This time I was sure that he was already juiced. Then the main door behind Tiny opened, and he must have felt the cool air flow in: the rest of us did.

  Randall stepped just inside holding an old-fashioned shotgun across his chest at the port. Tiny now had a problem. He needed to know what was going on behind him, but at the same time he didn’t want to turn his back on Tommo. Randall cocked the hammers of the shotgun. It was not a quiet sound in the silence that had fallen on the room, so Tiny made up his mind. He spun round to see. He was lifting the holster flap now. Fumbling.

  As he turned away from Tommo the latter held out his right hand to the barman and the barman placed a baseball bat into it. Taking the bat and bringing it down on Tiny’s head was a single flowing movement. I heard the crack from where I stood twenty feet away, and winced. Randall was stepping out of the way, and gently letting back the shotgun hammers before the man hit the floor in front of him. What you always forget about violence afterwards is how fast it is, and how much of an immediate anticlimax. A bit like some sex, I suppose. Silence.

  I broke it by asking, ‘Did you kill him?’ My voice sounded croaky.

  ‘Naw. ’nother inch down would a done. I can do without that.’ His voice was the normal old Tommo again. Just like that.

  Conversation and buzz started up again. Tommo nodded to the guitar player, who started up with a fast number, ‘What Is This Thing Called Love?’ Then I suddenly realized that I’d also seen the bartender before. In Tommo’s bar in Frankfurt. My American friend had brought him down here, and what we’d witnessed was a set-up: a choreographed piece from the theatre of violence. They’d done it before.

  Tommo took Tiny’s pistol and belt. Then he and Randall took an arm each, and the barkeep and I a foot each, dragged him out into the alley and manhandled hi
m into the Mercedes’s boot for dumping. The guitar player launched into a rather jaunty version of Chopin’s march for the dead: I thought that was kind of neat. When Tommo came back with us he fished Alice out of her box using a stick with a curious looped end, and dropped her in a dark canvas drawstring bag. Alice kicked up a lot, and was rattling, hissing and spitting before she gave up. She was one pretty mad snake.

  ‘Where are you two going with her?’ I asked Tommo.

  ‘She’s going visiting. You don’t wanna know. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  He looked around the room. The guitar player was doing ‘On Green Dolphin Street’, one of my favourites since I’d heard it the year before. When Tommo said, ‘Drinks on the house till I get back. Nothin’ happened, OK?’ it was in a conversational tone, but nobody missed it. The waiter began to line up glasses along the bar, and an hour later it began to feel like a party.

  When Tommo returned he dumped Alice unceremoniously from her bag into her box. She had a big lump nearly a foot down from her head, and a long piece of string trailed from her mouth. She wriggled about some, blinked at me, but forgot to rattle.

  ‘Has Alice swallowed a giant Tampax?’ I asked him.

  ‘Naw. She’s eaten a rat on the end of a yard o’ string. It helps get her back in the bag when she’s pissed off. Dead rat on a string. She hits the rat and swallows it. You can manoeuvre her some if you got her on a yard o’ string. She’s gotta be hungry a’ course. If she’s hungry you just dangles the rat, and bang; she don’t even think about it.’ Tommo looked tired and satisfied. The way a man looks after a successful combat. Alice looked pretty much the same.

  ‘What did you want her for, anyway?’

  ‘You ever see how fast a bar clears when someone empties a rattler onta the dance floor?’

  ‘No, but I can imagine.’ I would have smiled even if I hadn’t drunk too much.

  Dolly wrinkled up her snub nose, and asked, ‘What do you smell of?’

  ‘Kerosene. We had a fire there. Good job Alice cleared the bar first. People might have got burned.’