by Alan Hackney
When he asked for HATRACK a messenger kept him waiting five minutes and then took him to a major on the third floor. The major had a glass tankard full of tea.
Stanley saluted.
“Mr. Windrush?” said the major, extending a hand. “Take a pew. Cheers.” He raised the tankard and drank some of the tea.
“May I see your identity card?” he asked. “Thank you. Yes, it seems to be genuine all right. The photograph isn’t a bit like you. We have to check up. And may I see your posting instructions? Thanks. Fine. Some tea? No? Well, cheers.”
“Are you—or rather are part of the HATRACK, sir?” asked Stanley.
“My dear chap,” said the major. “Do I look it? Actually, no. I just want you to fill in some forms. There you are. Pen? Grand. Now I’ll just get on the blower.”
While Stanley filled in the forms the major telephoned.
“Estabs Six? What’s the form about a car for HATRACK, please? Major Dale. Ten minutes? Grand.”
They all say “Grand”, thought Stanley.
Major Dale took his cap from a peg and conducted Stanley through corridors to a side door. A fat-tyred Humber awaited them outside. Major Dale bowed Stanley into it and they moved off. The major sat silent, paring his nails, till the car stopped outside an anonymous block of offices.
“Thank you,” said the major, signing the driver’s log-book. “This way.” He led Stanley inside and to a lift.
“Fifth floor, please,” he said.
At the fifth floor they got out, walked through corridors and knocked on a door.
A sergeant-major within examined their passes. Then they knocked at an inner door.
“Come in,” said a voice.
They entered a rather bare office and saluted.
Stanley gaped slightly.
“Ah, good morning,” said Uncle Bertram. “Thank you, Jack. I’ll ring you this afternoon.”
Major Dale saluted and retired.
“Well now,” said Brigadier Tracepurcel, “sit down. You must think me ubiquitous. However, let’s have a chat. Cigarette? First let me explain a little. I want a linguist. It was fortunate meeting you so opportunely, particularly with your being already in the ‘I’ Corps. I got onto your General Mason on the Old Boy Net and suggested you come along for a chat. Hence the posting.”
He paused to light a cigar.
“All told,” he went on, shaking out the match, “you haven’t done very much in the war so far, have you? Would you like an opportunity?”
He looked closely at Stanley from under his black brows.
“It wouldn’t exactly be a garden-party, but I think you’d probably find it an improvement on translating Jap documents. There’s no parachuting, incidentally. Bad luck, but that sort of thing’s mostly done with now.”
“Well,” said Stanley, “I hadn’t really expected any … opportunities, but,” he lied, “I wouldn’t mind a shot at it.”
“Grand,” said the brigadier. “A chap with guts is what we need. Well, my dear Stanley, I’m very pleased. I see from your records that you’ve done proper infantry training, familiar with weapons and so forth. Good. We’ll put you in for a short course on enemy weapons, recognition and so on; just a week, we’re a bit pressed for time for this op. I want you to buy tropical kit during the week. Stay at the same address as you are now and if you’re asked tell people you’ve to go on some sort of staff appointment. But preferably say nothing. Things are a bit tricky, even at this stage of the war.”
Stanley heard it with something of a sinking heart. It seemed that he was for the banana boat after all, and to be under the eagle eye of Uncle Bertram made it all the more acute.
“I want you to report to the Horse Guards at eight-thirty daily during this next week,” went on Uncle Bertram, “and ask for Captain Atkinson at the indoor range. We give our chaps the works there; handy and central. All right? One last thing. I’ve given you this chance, but don’t go bruiting it about that we’re related, will you? Call me sir, even if I call you Stanley. Better still, call me HATRACK.”
1 Apologies for keeping you waiting.
2 My regrets for interrupting you.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“WELL, WHAT IS this HATRACK, old boy?” asked Lieutenant the Lord Purbeck. “Is it a decent place, or all desks and telephones? What’s your number in case we want to ring you sometime from Delhi?”
“Well, actually, John,” said Stanley, “I haven’t been allocated a phone yet. No, it’s not a bad place really. I wish I were going off with you people, though.”
Purbeck and Hammersley-Forsyth were packing their tropical kit at midnight. They were to leave in the morning. Stanley had invented a fictional chairborne job, very reluctantly, as he had been instructed to do.
“Seems a bloody queer arrangement to me,” said the Lord Purbeck. “What do you do all day, for God’s sake?”
“Oh, there are documents,” said Stanley vaguely. He thought of the array of foreign weapons in the indoor range, the stripping, the firing and the insistent voice of Captain Atkinson (“Gun fires one or two rounds and stops again”). It reminded him of his primary training, but with unfamiliar Japanese and German arms.
“It seems to tire you out anyway,” said Neville Hammersley-Forsyth. “I wonder if we really need these topees? Look at me in this.”
It came over his ears.
“Perfect fit, old boy,” said the Lord Purbeck.
“That’s what they said in Moss Bros.”
“You haven’t seen me in my shorts,” said the Lord Purbeck. “All this bloody Empire-building.” He forced six bottles of calomine lotion and several tins of talcum powder into crevices of a packed mosquito net.
“I pity you when you have to go,” said Neville bitterly to Stanley. “No one to lend a hand with your packing.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Stanley, breaking off a yawn and jumping up from the couch. “Would you like some help with those steel trunks?”
They humped down the stairs with them, past the anti-aircraft general’s flat and into the hall.
“Last chance to wake the old bastard up,” said Neville, banging his end vigorously on the floor.
*
Stanley’s two companions left by taxi at first light, and Stanley, his week at the Horse Guards completed, reported again to Major Dale at the War Office.
“Good morning to you,” said Major Dale. “Sit you down.” His tankard was full of tea again and he raised it with a nod.
“One advantage of the War House is the excellent char-wallah arrangements,” he said appreciatively. “However, to work. Now, where are your papers? Ah yes. Well now, we must be off to the sanctum.”
He telephoned for a car, and they were soon speeding through Hyde Park.
“Aren’t we going to those offices?” asked Stanley.
“No,” said Major Dale. “We’re calling in at Harrods.”
“The Men’s Tailoring?” asked Stanley, on whom light was beginning to dawn.
“Exactly.”
They walked through the perfume and millinery departments and up to the second floor, where they waited about till accosted.
“May we see Mr. Brandish, please?” asked Major Dale.
A white-haired senior tailor came to them.
“You asked to see me, sir?”
“I really wanted to see Mr. Absalom,” said Major Dale.
“Mr. Absalom is no longer with us, sir.”
“Then I should like to see Mr. Jacob,” said Major Dale.
“Mr. Jacob, sir?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Major Dale. “It’s Mr. Esau this week, of course.”
“Very well, sir,” said Mr. Brandish. “This way, please.”
He led them through a fitting-room and to a padded inner door.
“We change the names in the rigmarole, of course,” explained Major Dale.
Once in the inner room the décor changed dramatically. The place, though windowless, glowed bright with lights. Maps cove
red the walls, and coloured pins dotted the maps. Several A.T.S. girls sat with headphones or teleprinters.
From one of the farther doors the large head of Brigadier Tracepurcel popped out and beckoned them in.
“Thank you, Jack,” he said as before.
Major Dale saluted and went.
“Now, Stanley,” said Uncle Bertram, settling in a leather armchair. “All set? How do you like our front? A very pretty arrangement. The best tailors are always the soul of discretion, and they’re easily intimidated—a cowardly lot on the whole. Perhaps you remember the four and twenty in the nursery rhyme who went to catch a snail? Anyway, it’s the most ordinary thing in the world for strings of officers to pass through the tailoring department. Cigar?”
“No, thank you,” said Stanley. “Are we supposed to be going off East very soon, then?”
Uncle Bertram cleared his throat carefully.
“Well,” he said. “Matters must be revealed a little further. We shall not be going East.”
“Oh, good,” said Stanley involuntarily.
“Not very far East,” said the Brigadier, trimming his cigar. “No farther than Germany.”
“Germany?”
“Take a look at this map a moment,” said Uncle Bertram. “Here’s where the front is at the moment. All along the Rhine. Right? Montgomery up towards the north, Americans to the south. Now.”
He took a folder from a desk drawer and opened it.
“Here is the information for Operation Trip to Scarborough. The idea for Trip to Scarborough has been maturing for some time. You will probably have heard that the Nazi chiefs have salted away a good deal of plunder from the countries they occupied? Paintings, sculptures, gold bullion. Well, as far as we know they’re very liable, some of them, either to do a bunk with the stuff just before the finish, or conceal it very carefully for some years until things have blown over. Some of the stuff they may even destroy in a fit of pique, and priceless masterpieces may be lost for ever. You never know. Now, this is where we come in.”
“Oh,” said Stanley. “But I speak hardly any German. I thought——”
Uncle Bertram waved his hand impatiently.
“The Jap scheme must wait till later,” he said. “This is urgent. Once we’re really over the Rhine things are likely to happen quickly. Now here are several suspected localities our agents have got onto, and one definite spot. At least, almost definite. All but one, as you can see, are in the line of the American advance—those down towards the Czech border, for example. Even this most northerly one is going to be a bit tricky if we’re to get in first. But it’s this one that’s the definite one. Here are some air photographs. There is the main road to Paderborn. The country is wooded, as you can see. Now look at these. Here are several picture-postcard views of Schloss Schimmel, which is what we’re particularly interested in. Here is the Guard-Room, marked; there, in that block of buildings, are the guards’ quarters. This gentleman, enlarged from a group photograph, is General Pepi von Lembeck, a very nasty man, S.S., who owns the place. Pepi is supposed to be away fighting, but we ought to catch him in as soon as Monty really gets across the Rhine. Speed and surprise are of the essence, so we’ll do it at night and wear German kit. This is probably about the last opportunity of the war for this sort of thing.”
He fell to thoughtful rubbing of his hands.
Stanley’s heart sank even further.
“But surely that’s against—I mean, if you—we were…?”
“No interruptions yet, please.” Uncle Bertram waved an overriding hand. “Get a good look at these and read up this appreciation and draft plan for the next hour, but don’t make any written notes. You’ll see there’s a special platoon of German speakers laid on. As a Herr General I shall, of course, need an aide. You. The original chap is out sick. All right? Any questions?”
“Not yet,” said Stanley weakly.
“Right you are,” said Uncle Bertram, stretching his huge form. “Better get on with the reading up. I shall be pottering about next door if you want to consult on any tricky points.”
Stanley looked gingerly through the file. At first the whole thing seemed preposterous, but the details of the plan became absorbing and he read on, fascinated. The estimated value of the hoard of gold bars alone—two million pounds—gave him to think. More and more, however, he began forming the clear opinion that it was not for him.
After an hour Uncle Bertram returned from the outer office.
“All buttoned up?” he asked cheerfully. “You’re fully in the picture so far? Grand.”
“Yes, but really——” said Stanley.
“I want you to go now,” said Uncle Bertram rather quickly, “to Ewebourn airfield in Berkshire and meet the other chaps. My driver has the car downstairs. You’ll not need any kit to stay there; everything’s laid on.”
“But there’s the christening on Sunday,” said Stanley.
“And there is a war on,” said Uncle Bertram firmly.
A reticent A.T.S. sergeant led Stanley down some dusty stone staircases to the dustbin entrance of the store.
“The car, sir,” she said, opening its door and saluting.
Stanley got in, and the driver turned round and winked as they moved off.
“Good Lord!” said Stanley. “Cox!”
Upstairs, Brigadier Tracepurcel picked up the telephone.
“Telegrams, please,” he said.
*
“How beastly,” said Catherine, looking up from her telegram. “Stanley’s wired to say he’s gone on a sudden posting to Cairo. Who on earth can be godfather now? Neither Herbert nor College Sid is really suitable, poor lambs. Unless we get Father to stand proxy, of course. I’ll wire him.”
Philip gouged away at a large lump of wood he was carving.
“Is he likely to come to London, particularly in March?” he asked. “Unless we can lure him with some new comic songs.”
Within two days his reply came in the form of a letter.
My dear Catherine,
Your invitation is most kind, but I am very much afraid I shall be too busy here.
You can imagine my astonishment last week when Sarah, after so many years in my employ (and your mother’s before that) suddenly left. I fail to understand it. What I consider the most treacherous part of the business is that she left to marry that peculiar vicar, Stilton. I warned her, of course, that I would not give her a reference. Stilton has taken over the bigger living at Little Shattering, where they prefer the padre married. The whole business is ridiculous at his age, and hers for that matter. When I complained at the ludicrous suddenness of it, Sarah voiced the fantastic opinion that I was perfectly capable of looking after myself, with Mrs. Scully doing most of the work, and that she had reached the conclusion that it was an obsolete arrangement to have two women looking after one man. I suspect Stilton’s hand in this. I have for some time thought him to have Socialist leanings. I invited him round to talk the whole matter over sensibly, but he positively refused to come. He is, of course, well known for his eccentricity.
As matters stand I have to do some of the housework and so have rather less time for my commentary. Coming to London is therefore, I am afraid, quite out of the question.
Your affectionate
Father.
As they drove into Berkshire Cox discussed matters with Stanley:
“Brigadier Tracepurcel’s a proper card, sir. You know he asked for me specially? Yer. Fact is, I done him a good turn when I was in the Driving Pool and ’ad to drive ’im one day. He was after some Scotch and desperate ’e couldn’t get any, so I mentioned this mate of mine, a party in Shadwell, could get it by the case, and course, only through me, so ’e got me permanently attached. Very nice. Means I’m up the Smoke most of the time. ’E must’ve taken a fancy to me. Must’ve took a shine to you too, sir.”
Stanley was about to mention their relationship but bit it back and said instead:
“Look here, Cox, it’s all right not to call
me sir when no one’s around. We did do gardening together, after all.”
“Oh no,” said Cox. “How’d it be if I was to slip up and call you china and someone heard? You’d be for it. No, I must call you sir, even if I could almost be your dad.”
Cox’s attitude was, in fact, paternal, as it always had been. He began to tell Stanley of the arrangements at Ewebourn.
“It’s not a very lively spot, really,” he said. “Nearest human habitation’s four miles orf, and that’s some village where they’re all dead ignorant. Why, I was in the Packhorse there, and the blokes playin’ darts ’ad to practically take their shoes and almond rocks off to do the subtracting for the score. Weather like this it’ll be a nice ’appy spot and no mistake. You got a wind all the time off of the Downs comes in all the ’oles in the ’uts and the food’s cruel.”
“How long will we be there?” asked Stanley.
“I won’t,” said Cox. “I’ve got to run the brigadier around, back up the Smoke, but you won’t be there very long, I shouldn’t wonder. Once it’s all set for this Trip to Scarborough we’ll be laughin’.”
They turned off the main road and began winding through bleak lanes. Occasionally a startled sheep’s face would look up from the hedge and the animal would scamper away as they passed. All the signposts had been removed for the duration of the war, and Stanley quickly lost track of direction as they threaded their way round the humps of the downs. Finally the countryside levelled and they ran along the perimeter hedges of the aerodrome. Camouflaged huts and hangars, interspersed with water tanks raised on steel scaffolding, went past.
Cox turned in at the gate and an Air Force policeman looked at Stanley’s identity card and held out a book for signature. Once in, Cox ran the car along the edge of the airfield to a distant cluster of huts ringed round with wire. Here two army sentries stopped the car again, and Cox said:
“Here we are, sir. The Ritz Carlton.”
Stanley got out and was let in while Cox drove off.
At the guard hut a corporal instructed a man where to take Stanley.
The way led through the bleak compound, between the huts. There had been a recent shower, and though the wind had dropped the place was dismal and dripping. A few hopeful insects twitched and purred in the grass. From some of the huts Stanley could hear occasional noises, the click of a rifle bolt, a sudden snatch of song.
