Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Yes.”

  “Then what’s she doing here?”

  “Perhaps you should ask her yourself, Captain Hunloke. A good biblical name. Thaddeus, I mean. Let’s go and see how the tea is coming along...”

  An awkward silence pervaded the kitchen when Richard Rogers made his excuses and left Thaddeus Hunloke alone with Carey Gladwin.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “Well, there’s sod-all else to do here abouts...” He allowed himself his expansive grin, which he quickly nipped in the bud. She did not seem to react to the brief but often misconstrued as sardonic smile. Hunloke shifted his weight off his standing left leg and leant against the kitchen worktop.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to deceive you or the corporal. It was a wicked thing to do...,” she confessed hesitantly.

  “I don’t think it was any more wicked than trying to kill yourself at my corporal’s expense. She’d have been in deep do-do’s if the Austin had been dented.”

  Carey presented her full face when she looked angrily at Hunloke. “Was that supposed to be funny?”

  “Soldiers’ gallows humour, Mrs Gladwin...”

  “Aren’t you going to apologise?” she asked testily.

  “For what? For factually reporting that Corporal Baldwin would have been devastated, had she run you over? You’re lucky she’d never seen a monkey-puzzle tree before.”

  “And you have?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Seen a monkey-puzzle tree?”

  “Yes, at Kew, I think...”

  “You must think me odd, captain.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “I’m not mad!” She glared at him defiantly revealing to him a previously hidden iron core of fortitude.

  “You tried to kill yourself, that doesn’t suggest rationality. Perhaps you’re suffering from depression?”

  “If I’m depressed then I’ve been so every day for the past nine years, ever since I married that bastard!”

  The use of the profanity took him aback but lacked the shock value after he had been treated to her look of grim fortitude.

  “The decision to end my life made perfect sense at the time. What have I to live for? I look like a freak; the children tease me. What have I to live for? The world would be better off without me...” She glared accusingly as if everything was his fault.

  “Well, if that isn’t depression, I don’t know what is... I would argue with you but I doubt there’s much point. I only wondered why you chose to lie to me. I see now that you had no ulterior motive. Thank you for the tea. If it’s any comfort, you make a good brew...” He offered a constrained grin and was pleased to see the glimmer of a smile in return. He nodded to Carey and walked towards the kitchen exit, only to halt when he reached the doorway. He turned to face Carey, who was watching him leave, her one good eye seemingly appraising the merits of the officer.

  “Tell me, Mrs Gladwin, does that pub at the end of the village open on a Sunday?”

  “Yes, captain.”

  He nodded and stared awkwardly at the floor. “I don’t suppose you fancy a drink? I realise you’re a Methodist and all, but you could surely drink something?”

  A voice spoke from Hunloke’s rear. “Our school of Methodism is very pragmatic, Captain Hunloke.” The deep bass voice startled Hunloke and he found himself staring into the grinning face of Richard Rogers. “We tolerate alcohol in moderation. There is a war on, after all...” The preacher looked over Hunloke’s shoulder towards Carey. “Why don’t you join Thaddeus, Carey? I can take care of the dishes.”

  Chapter 8 - The Crossroads.

  Sunday, 26th November 1944.

  After dinner on Sunday evening, the conversation that had blatantly avoided any mention of the investigation being conducted in Derbyshire, finally turned to matters concerning Flash Camp.

  Brian Conway was surprised by Thaddeus Hunloke’s mood following his day out and was somewhat loathe to shatter the mood of relaxed bonhomie. Hunloke returned from the bar at the Red Lion brandishing two pints of supposedly best bitter, consciously attempting and failing in his efforts to remain inconspicuous in the surprisingly busy bar. In the lounge, a ‘recital’, as it had been euphemistically advertised, of classic songs was being performed by a certain Mrs Gibbons, abetted by her husband at the piano.

  “Jesus, that woman has a pair of lungs on her...,” muttered Hunloke, sliding into his chair at the small circular table in the corner of the bar. “Got any cotton wool?” Conway grinned and accepted the frothing pint. “Your flash I believe, Brian...”

  Conway did not complain and offered a cigarette from his silver cigarette case to Hunloke. It was always the lieutenant’s flash. Hunloke leant back with his cigarette and pint in his right hand.

  “I think I might have a name, sir,” announced Conway solemnly.

  Hunloke made no reply. He was listening to Mrs Gibbons’ stirring rendition of Leslie Stuart’s ‘Soldiers of the King’. The shameless chorus reminded him of the night before embarkation for France when the officers’ mess joined in with the chorus of the very same song.

  ‘And when they say we’ve always won, and when they ask us how it’s done. We’ll proudly point to every one, of England’s soldiers of the King!’

  “You what...?” announced a distracted Hunloke.

  “I said, I might have a name for us to go after. After cross-checking various records, a man named Sepp Overath emerged. He could be a cuckoo.”

  “A cuckoo? What’s a bloody cuckoo?”

  “A cuckoo in the nest, sir. Initial PWIS records show Overath to be a dark-haired Schwaben. The Overath we have at Flash Camp is a blonde and several inches taller.”

  “And your inference, Brian?” Froth coated Hunloke’s top lip as he greedily gulped at his pint of bitter.

  “That after PWIS processing, a blue-eyed blonde took the identity of Herr Overath.”

  “And how does that happen?”

  “Well, possibly the real Overath fell sick and our man switched paperwork.”

  “And nobody spotted the glaring difference?”

  “Nobody is going to unless the records are thoroughly checked. It’s been know for camps to change the original PWIS records to correct the assumed obvious mistake made at the original processing stage, changing the records to suit the person they have.”

  “Very gracious of them, covering up for someone else’s cock-up... What happened to the real Overath?”

  “He probably died of wounds or disease and is recorded as our cuckoo.”

  “So some poor family believe Sepp Overath is still alive when in fact it’s someone pretending to be him. How did you spot him?”

  “They kept the original PWIS record stapled to the rear of the new one made out at Flash.”

  “But it could be a genuine mistake?”

  “It could be, sir. But it’s something for you to have a go at in the morning.”

  “Me?”

  “Well, that’s why you’re here, sir. You’re the one with the interviewing techniques.”

  “So who do you think our cuckoo is?”

  “He could be one of a dozen suspects. I have my money on Gerd Breitner. His unit was in the vicinity of the shootings at Hesdin.”

  “So he’s involved with the shooting of British soldiers?”

  “His unit certainly was. He might be persuaded to provide information regarding who ordered the deed.”

  “And then what will happen to him?”

  “If he’s Waffen-SS, we’ll move him on to a more secure camp.”

  “I hope you’re not expecting me to torture the man, Brian?”

  “Torture...? What on earth are you talking about, sir?”

  “There are some rum stories about the methods used by the CSDIC at the London District Cage.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, sir.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that, Brian...”

  Hunloke spent a restless night. His d
reams were a convoluted mess of incongruent thoughts pertaining to his recent few days in Derbyshire. His left leg was aching, making it impossible to lie comfortably. He relented and climbed stiffly from his bed at four o’clock.

  Fumbling for his cigarettes, matches, and ashtray, he limped across to the window. The bedroom looked out over the valley and distant hill that he had previously scanned and planned his mock infantry assault.

  Mrs Gibbons’ carousing performance of ‘Soldiers of the King’ rolled around his mind...

  “You know where you’re aiming, Smith?”

  “Yessir, for the driver and then the machine gunner of any lead vehicle.”

  “Good man! Wait for my order...” Captain Thaddeus Hunloke slapped Smith on his shoulder and slipped back down into the sunken road. He glanced to his left where the majority of what remained of his company lay concealed.

  They looked a motley bunch. Dirty, tired, and scared. His heart fluttered, he loved each and every one of the ugly bastards.

  He had posted one section in the burnt out farm building some twenty yards to their rear. Here the company’s sole remaining Vickers machine gun had been set up. The weapon commanded a view and field of fire over the flat pastureland that broached the coppice standing half a mile away to the east and from where the dust clouds of the enemy swirled against the clear, azure sky.

  He could imagine the enemy commander peering through field glasses towards the destroyed farmstead, debating whether to call down a further artillery barrage on the lone building. Hunloke hoped any lack of apparent habitation would negate the supplementary strike on the farmstead.

  Hunloke just prayed there was no armour support for the enemy riflemen.

  Seventy men were all that remained of his company. Seventy men against how many? A battalion of 600 men or more?

  “Wait for the Boys to fire, lads. Then you can let ‘em have it.” Hunloke did not shout, his speaking voice was sufficiently commanding to carry the length of the sunken road. The ‘Boys’ in this case was the company’s Boys anti-tank rifle. The weapon was capable of penetrating the armour of any enemy half-track or small tank.

  He used his pocket periscope to peer carefully over the lip of the natural parapet. The farmhouse stood at a crossroads. His company lay in a sunken road that ran roughly north to south, his attention focused upon the road running east to west and which skirted the distant copse.

  He involuntarily flinched when a German half-track appeared on the road, tentatively emerging from the covering wood. It moved at a walking pace and when it had cleared the tree line, he could make out the dirty field grey uniforms of enemy infantrymen.

  The enemy appeared cautious despite the seemingly open farmland in front of them. He slid back down into the sunken road. The steel helmet suddenly felt incredibly heavy and he had an insane urge to tear it from his head. His palms felt sticky and gritty against the wooden furniture of his rifle. His heart began to pound crazily in his chest. He felt convinced that the company sergeant, kneeling to his left, would detect the deflection of his khaki blouse as his heart danced a fandango, fit to burst.

  The unfolding action was like a scene from stories he had heard from veterans of the last war, the only difference was that the enemy in this instance were advancing in column, not line abreast. After what felt like an eternity, he groped his way back up to the top of the bank. He could feel the eyes of his company upon him.

  The half-track was fifty yards from the cross roads, forty-five degrees away to his right. It was not quite enfilade fire but as good as.

  “Okay Smudger, up you come, son...,” he ordered.

  Lance Corporal Smith edged up the slope with his heavy thirty-five pound rifle that weighed as much as a small child. With the anti-tank rifle resting on it bipod, he rammed home a .55 round with the bolt. Moments later the rifle exploded with a shuddering crack.

  All hell let loose.

  The three-man crew in the farmhouse dowsed the enemy column with fire from the Vickers machinegun. The company rose as one from the sunken lane. Sixty-five Lee-Enfield rifles and two Bren guns poured a deadly hail of .303 rounds into the ambushed enemy.

  He aimed dispassionately into the dispersing mass of grey. His eye line remained fixed along the barrel of his rifle whilst he effortlessly squeezed the trigger and worked the slick bolt action. Like many pre-war regulars, he was trained to fire the ‘Mad Minute’, accurate rapid fire for which the Lee Enfield was famed.

  His nervous tension vanished as he fired round after round, recharging his weapon with two fresh clips after he loosed his first ten shots.

  Fear had been replaced with exhilaration. His blood was up; he was a trained warrior, smiting down his enemy. It was an adversary that broke, that either fell upon the French soil or ran, stumbling and crawling back towards the sanctuary of the trees, away from the smoking half-track, away from the devastating field of fire from the highly-trained British regulars. The action was over in less than five minutes.

  He stood and waved towards the farmhouse. The Vickers fell silent, the crew hastily dismantling the gun and retreating out of the rear of the building.

  “Fall back!” he shouted over the deafening staccato of shots fired off by his men in the sunken road.

  His order was relayed by the section leaders to the men and with a visible reluctance, the company ceased firing and dropped back into the sunken lane to make a withdrawal via the opposite bank. He watched his men abandon the position and helped shove Lance Corporal Smith up the far bank as he struggled under the weight of his weapon. When he opened his mouth to bellow at his men to get a move on, he realised how parched his mouth had become.

  He felt as if someone had placed their hands over his ears. God how he loved the ringing in his ears! His temporary deafness imparted by the thunderous gunfire only intensified his adrenalin-fuelled state of awareness. Life was death and death was life. Only a warrior could understand such a moment.

  Standing alone in the sunken road, the first enemy mortar shell landed on the ruins of the farmhouse. Time to be away and prepare a new rearguard position, allowing the men of the BEF with their French and Belgium allies to escape the German encirclement...

  * * *

  Monday 27th November 1944.

  “Are you going to eat that snorker, sir?”

  “No, Brian. It’s all yours. Too much meat in it for my liking...”

  Brian Conway grinned and leant across to spear the sausage remaining upon Hunloke’s breakfast plate.

  “Blimey, looked what the cat dragged in...,” declared Hunloke with a rare smile. Conway looked up from his meticulous carving of the sausage. Approaching them was a sodden Christine Baldwin, water dripping from the peak of her ATS uniform hat. “Bit of a fizzle out there, is there, corporal?” asked Hunloke glibly.

  Christine stood before the seated officers, water sopping from her coat, fashioning a dark ring on the dining room’s worn beige carpet. “No, it’s bloody hammering it down!” she moaned.

  Mrs Hastings made a timely entrance from the kitchen. “Can I get you gentleman anything else?”

  Conway looked at Hunloke for clarification. He still could not understand a word the landlady said.

  “I think Corporal Baldwin would appreciate a cup of tea, Mrs Hastings,” suggested Hunloke. The landlady nodded and obligingly scuttled back into the kitchen. Hunloke glanced at his watch. It was just after seven o’clock.

  Christine stripped off her topcoat and hat before walking to the coat hooks by the door. Hunloke grinned again as he watched Conway studying her rear aspect when she reached up to hang the coat on the hook. The lieutenant caught Hunloke’s amused grin and blushed.

  “An early start then, corporal?” enquired Hunloke when Christine took the chair opposite them.

  Hunloke considered her a pretty thing, her nose and general features too large to be considered beautiful. He thought she certainly filled her uniform well and Brian Conway was clearly enamoured and mystified by the challengi
ng corporal. As an attendee of an all-boy school, the female form clearly held a beguiling and compulsive attraction that Conway had difficulty in dealing without feeling discomfited, especially when challenged by the likes of agent provocateur, Thaddeus Hunloke.

  “Yes, a clear run from Derby though,” confirmed Christine.

  “And how were your parents?”

  “Well, thanks, they had a letter from Jimmy, and he says he’s fine. A lot of rain in Italy though.”

  “You can empathise with him then, can’t you?”

  “Empathise? What, like sympathise,” asked an unsure Christine.

  “Something like that,” agreed Hunloke. “What’s the definition of empathy, Brian?”

  “The capacity for understanding and sharing the feelings of another person,” quoted Conway.

  “He’s bloody good, isn’t he, corp? You can tell he had an education unlike some of us,” said Hunloke with more than a hint of derision.

  “That’s not fair, sir, are you...” Conway’s embarrassed fit of pique was cut short by Hunloke.

  “I’m not having a go, Brian, just stating that you’re different from the corporal and me. You didn’t leave school at fourteen.”

  It was Christine who reacted to Hunloke’s provocation. “I’m not stupid!” she snapped angrily.

  “Not saying you are, corp, but like me, you’re not educated like Brian.”

  “Are you saying that Brian is better than me...?” she bridled. She paused when she realised she had referred to the lieutenant by his Christian name.

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying...,” affirmed Hunloke provokingly. He waited for Conway to speak but the lieutenant appeared lost for words. “Actually, I think the lieutenant is very fond of you but I think we could be here ‘til next Christmas before he made his move. Anyway, if you two will excuse me, I’m going upstairs to get my things. By the way, Corporal Baldwin. When I’m in uniform, I expect you to call me ‘sir’, something you seem to forget too easily...”

  Hunloke rose from the table and limped away; neither Christine Baldwin nor Brian Conway could see the mischievous, lopsided grin on Captain Hunloke’s face.