Hunloke took a deep breath and began to recount the events that started in Bristol. It was whilst he was describing the meeting with Brian Conway that Poppy returned with a tray containing the infamous brown teapot and a mismatch of assorted crockery. She placed the tray on the central coffee table and, straightening her dressing gown, perched herself primly next to Hunloke.
“Thank you, Mrs Gray, we won’t be needing you any longer,” smiled Bidder.
“I’m not going anywhere! You’re in my room. I want to make sure Artie says nothing to incriminate himself. I studied law at Oxford for two terms, I’ll have you know!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Gray, but I really must...”
“Actually, sir,” interjected Hunloke, “it will be easier if she stays. She’ll only earwig at the door if you throw her out, and she knows most of what’s been going on anyway...”
Bidder shook his head ruefully. “My God man, you really have let things slip, haven’t you?”
“Maybe... I’ve acted foolishly in some of the things I done, but I don’t regret involving Poppy.”
“Christ man, who else have you taken into your confidence, the bloody butler?”
“Well, there’s the Lagerführer at the camp. As for the butler, I’ll get to him in a while, sir...”
Hunloke continued to recount his story. It was a cathartic experience and he appreciated being able to unburden himself of the salient facts he had acquired. Rodney Bidder listened patiently during the hour or so it took for his deputy to divulge all he knew. The air grew heavy with cigarette smoke, the two men chain smoking throughout Hunloke’s verbal dissertation. Poppy made several trips to the kitchen to recharge the teapot.
“So as I see it, the main player in all this is Major Henry Mills,” announced Bidder.
“Yessir...,” agreed Hunloke.
“And what have you done about him?”
“Brian Conway is in London checking out Mills and also Charles Beevor.”
“So that was what the major-domo was referring to when he said some lieutenant was stirring things up in the city?”
“Brian and Christine, that’s Corporal Baldwin, should be back on Tuesday.”
“I don’t like the security services...,” declared Bidder bitterly, “they get away with murder under the protective blanket of ‘national security’. Think they can do what the hell they want! I take it you haven’t completely taken leave of your senses and have written this down somewhere safe? Whilst you were being consoled by Mrs Gray, those two redcaps shoved a lot of what they thought useful on that desk in the library into bags and carted it off with them.”
“Poppy has kept my private notes with her personal belongings,” confirmed Hunloke. Poppy beamed magnanimously to intimate to Rodney Bidder whose idea the security measure had been.
“Good job someone had their thinking cap on,” said Bidder. The experienced superintendant peered at Poppy from behind his curtain of cigarette smoke and tried to read her. He disturbingly came to the conclusion he couldn’t read her at all.
“What about the allegations of misconduct, sir?” asked the deposed captain.
“Don’t worry about that, son. Seems you annoyed a local farmer’s wife. Turbutt only used the complaint to unsettle you. You know the score. You concentrate on finding Beevor’s killer.”
“Commissioner Bidder shows good taste, Artie. I think I’ll invite him to stay at the house,” replied Poppy in a voice rich with faux naivety.
“Actually, ma’am, I’m a superintendent...,” corrected Bidder.
“Oh, we don’t worry about ranks and titles at Flash. I’m Lady Violet yet you don’t hear me banging on about it.”
Chapter 25 - The New Broom.
Monday, 4th December 1944.
Before Thaddeus Hunloke was discharged of his duties at Flash Camp, he had the unenviable task of officially handing over responsibility to the incoming officer from Catterick, a certain Major Fakir. Superintendant Bidder remained at Flash House to read through Hunloke’s personal notes on the case.
“The men will be sorry to see you go, sir,” said Sergeant Donovan with genuine feeling.
“Thanks, sergeant. I appreciate that,” replied Hunloke.
It was a cold, grey, and soulless morning, the sky leaden with portents of rain. Hunloke had once served under a Scottish officer who liked to use the word ‘dreek’ to describe such a day. He had no idea what it meant but the word came instantly to mind and seemed most apposite.
The camp was assembling for morning roll call, the prisoners retaining their cooperative nature, the memories of their imposed incarceration following the escape of their comrades remained fresh in their minds and wasn’t something they wished to repeat in a hurry.
“I’d like to speak with the Lagerführer before my replacement gets here,” continued Hunloke.
“Of course, sir, I’ll have him sent to your office as soon as roll call is over.”
Günter Grass was escorted to the commanding officer’s office where Hunloke was waiting for him. The obligatory cigarette packet and ashtray were the only items on the table other than the empty in-tray and telephone. He clumped heavily into the office like a man twice his weight.
“Is it true?” asked Grass, concern written all over his face.
“Is what true, Günter?”
“That you’ve been relieved of command.”
“Good news travels fast around here...”
“I don’t think we view it as good news.”
“Why, because I was a soft touch?” asked Hunloke petulantly.
“Is that what you think...?” Grass had restored his usual impassive comportment.
“No, Günter. I think I was just the wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“If you would allow me, Hauptmann, I believe quite the opposite to be true. And if I may say so, you should stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have done nothing to be ashamed of as far as this camp goes.”
Hunloke grinned ruefully and took out a cigarette from the pack before tossing the almost full packet towards the seated Grass, who nodded his thanks and quickly pocketed the valuable camp currency. “I want to thank you for the help you’ve given me,” stated Hunloke whilst lighting his cigarette.
“I could offer you more assistance if it remains any use to you...”
“And why would you want to help a man who is no longer worth cultivating...?”
“Is that what you think?” repeated Grass. Hunloke thought he detected the faintest hint of annoyance in the German’s eyes and immediately reproached himself. Grass was correct; he was acting in an irresolute manner.
“No, it isn’t... Sorry. It’s a reflection upon the people I’ve had to deal with since being here. Sorry, go ahead...”
“I have been making discreet enquiries of my own.” Grass lowered his voice, aware that the walls dividing the office from the main hut were fabricated from thin plywood sheets. “I have spoken with an individual whom I suggest might not be all he seems. It took ten cigarettes to get the information; it is surprising the value men place upon such a commodity.”
“You mean a man you suspect of being Waffen-SS?”
“That is your assertion, not mine...”
“Natürlich...,” offered Hunloke with a shrug.
“The man is no National Socialist. You deceive yourself when you think all the SS are idealist thugs. Many are just clerks draughted into uniform. However, the one thing they often share in common, a trait promoted by the Nazi Party, is the elevation of the self, a nobody in uniform with a little authority becomes obsessed with his own importance.”
A cold shiver ran down Hunloke’s spine. He speculated for a moment whether Grass was including Captain Thaddeus Hunloke MC in that category of man.
Grass continued. “The man in question found himself caught during the retreat to Falaise and managed to pass himself off as a Wehrmacht soldier quite easily. He was only a clerk in administration given a rifle. I spoke with him about the l
ate Bonhof and Kleff...” Grass emphasised the ‘late’.
“Over a period of time his tongue loosened, impressing me as he did with his own importance,” Grass grinned to stress the irony of the statement. “He revealed something in passing about a project he had heard of and sworn to secrecy never to reveal. The problem with secrecy in the Third Reich is that knowledge, no matter how trivial, is as useful a currency as tobacco is here. Despite any risks involved, knowledge indicates worth and has a powerful affect upon the ego. The man was only too happy to tell me, in confidence of course, of a plan set up by an SS-Oberführer, colonel to you, to impress his superiors. He claims a handful of men were to be inserted as POW’s in England.”
“With what aim, Günter?” asked a reinvigorated Hunloke, now perched on the edge of his chair.
“Hah, now there is the paradox of the great Third Reich. We come up with wonderful ideas but seldom pursue them to their logical conclusion. I’m told we could have had the flying bombs and rockets much earlier had they been pushed through.”
“So what did or didn’t you push through this time?” asked Hunloke. He was pleased by his outwardly calm exterior, for his heart was beating hard in his chest, perhaps not as aggressively as when interviewed by Colonel Turbutt.
“The latter, I believe. The men were intended to be placed here to wreak havoc of some sort in your country. But when push came to shove, no one knew what that ‘something’ should be.”
“I thought you were going to say ‘release anthrax’ or something.”
“Hauptmann, the German Volk is an honourable martial race. We may bomb, as you do, but we did not gas you.”
“You rounded up Jews and shipped them east though...,” countered Hunloke provocatively.
“Where they are relocated....” Hunloke had heard rumours to the contrary. Nevertheless, he was unsure if Grass was aware of such stories or whether he was simply in denial.
“So you’re telling me that there is no great catastrophic event about to befall the country?”
“No, not according to my research.”
“One question, Feldwebel Grass. Is it not stretching coincidence a little far to say that only a handful of men were inserted in the country and possibly two of them ended up in the same camp as a man who was aware of this operation’s existence?”
Grass shrugged equivocally. “Who is to say what is coincidence and what is destiny? I only tell you what I know.”
Hunloke extinguished his cigarette pedantically in the ashtray. “Okay, Günter. I’ve got a confession for you now. I’ve been in contact with a Major Mills of MI6, like your Abwehr, who has advised me of something called Operation Rabe, which is more or less the operation you just described. As a police officer, which I was, still am, and will be, when coincidences begin to stack up, it points to something far more orchestrated. The question is this. Why did Bonhof and Kleff do a runner if they don’t have the means of doing any real harm, other than murdering a hapless camp guard and a fellow POW?”
“I can offer you no explanation. Perhaps they have a specific plan of their own...”
Grass stopped mid sentence, aroused by the commotion erupting in the main guardroom outside the office. Hunloke heard the squeaky report of the distant corporal and automatically stood to his feet to peer through the opaque glass panel out into the guardroom. Grass remained implacably seated.
The door into the office swung open and Sergeant Donovan stood officiously in the doorway. “Captain Hunloke, sir. There is a Major Fakir reporting for duty, sir.”
“Very good, sergeant. Be so good as to show him in.” Hunloke reached for his hat and placed it firmly on his tussled blonde hair.
The man who marched briskly into the office was of medium height but incredibly thin, perhaps not unlike an Indian Fakir. He wore a neatly trimmed Field Marshal Montgomery style moustache and owned hawk-like eyes that scanned the office in an instant before alighting upon Hunloke. The major’s gaze seemed to focus upon Hunloke’s blonde bristly chin. In all the excitement of the morning, Hunloke had forgotten to shave. The omission was not missed by the major.
“Major Fakir, welcome to Flash.” Hunloke offered a smart salute to which the major casually replied, the fingers of his hand appearing to point at the ceiling rather than his right temple.
“It’s pronounced ‘fa-keer’, captain, not ‘fack-er’. That sounds rather like a promiscuous gunner, don’t you think?” The mention of ‘gunner’ as opposed to ‘private’ corresponded with the major’s cap badge belonging to the Royal Artillery.
Fakir removed his hat and smoothed down his thinning hair, fashioned in a comb-over, poorly disguising his balding crown. It was impossible to gauge his age. He could be anywhere between forty and sixty. The major pushed past Hunloke to stand behind the desk, compelling the displaced captain to stand beside Günter Grass.
It was at this point the major appeared to notice Grass and peered inquisitively down at the slouching German.
“Sir, may I present Feldwebel Grass, Lagerführer at Flash Camp,” said Hunloke. Major Fakir deigned to make no reply. Instead, he chose to test the office chair. Upon taking a firm seat, he swivelled from side to side and experimented with its reclining properties. Apparently satisfied, he took the ashtray lying on the desk and cast it bodily into the waste paper basket.
“I will speak with the prisoner when I am ready. Until then he is dismissed,” proclaimed Fakir.
Hunloke took the hint. “Sergeant Donovan!” shouted the captain. Grass was amused to watch Fakir cringe at the sudden noise. Donovan quickly reappeared. “Sergeant, kindly see that the Feldwebel is escorted back to the compound.”
“Yessir.” Donovan took a step backwards creating the space for Grass to vacate the office.
The German NCO took his time rising from the chair. He slowly donned his battered cap before standing as erect as his square frame would allow him. Hunloke often wondered how Grass’ broad shoulders ever managed to squeeze through a tank cupola. Feldwebel Grass brought his heels smartly together and saluted the captain. Hunloke’s return was as neat, if not better. Hunloke did not expect the proffered handshake that followed.
Grass spoke his farewell in plainly spoken German. “Thank you, Hauptmann. If you need my help, you have only to ask. It has been an honour to work with you.”
Hunloke could only nod his reply, with the emotion of the moment, he could not think of anything suitable to say.
“You don’t speak their filthy lingo, do you, captain?” asked Fakir once they were alone.
“A little, sir...”
“That explains a lot about you...,” sneered Fakir.
Major Fakir spent an hour and a half explaining his personal credo with regards to running a POW camp. Hunloke’s eyes glazed over after five minutes and he hoped he nodded and shook his head at the prescient moments. He wished Günter Grass and his fellow POW’s the best of British with their new commandant. They were going to need it.
When Hunloke attempted to explain the current status of the camp, he was hushed by a raised palm from Fakir.
“Excuse me, captain. I think you’ll find I am sufficiently experienced at running camps not to need your advice. Thank you for your efforts. I think you can go now.”
“Right... Thank you, sir...” Hunloke stood and replaced his cap. The major was already scrawling a memo with his expensive fountain pen and Hunloke was wondering if he ought to salute. He came up with an answer that was best left unsaid. He slipped out of the office without a word.
If the major had wanted to belittle Hunloke and leave him with a sense of despondency then he had failed. Hunloke instead was filled with a sense of pride that sprung from somewhere deep within his core. The guardroom with Donovan at his desk and the duty corporal apparently hard at work did little to diminish his satisfaction. For better or worse, the camp ran a good deal more smoothly than it did before he arrived.
“Can I use the phone to organise a lift, sergeant?” asked Hunloke.
&nbs
p; “No need, sir, it’s all taken care of...,” answered Donovan. Hunloke missed the corporal sneaking out the door into the compound.
“I guess this is goodbye then, sergeant.”
Donovan finally looked up from his typewriter and leant back in his chair. Hunloke was of the impression the NCO was doing his best to suppress a smile. “I had an old platoon lieutenant, sir. He once said to me that in the Army, we never say ‘goodbye’ but always ‘adieu’.”
Hunloke smiled bashfully. “In that case, sergeant, ‘til we meet again...” He extended his hand towards the seated sergeant. Donovan finally grinned, stood up, and accepted the handshake.
“Come on, Captain Hunloke, sir. I’ll show you to the door.” Donovan guided the limping Hunloke the length of the hut, the captain’s eyes set firmly on the sergeant’s back. “Just wait here a second, sir,” requested Donovan when they reached the door, “I’ll be back quicker than you can say Jack Robinson...”
Thaddeus Hunloke had no reason to question the sergeant’s request. In truth, he was operating purely on instinct; his mind was absorbed with the brief but tremendously evocative memories of his reluctant time spent in charge of Flash Camp.
Donovan reappeared. “When you’re ready, sir...”
Hunloke stepped out of the guardroom to a sight that took his breath away and made the hairs at the back of his neck bristle with pride. The entire camp guard detail, other than those patrolling the perimeter, was lined up on parade. Ahead of him was the Humber Super Snipe
“Hope you don’t mind, sir. I rang ahead and spoke to Mrs Gray. She insisted on bringing the car. Bit better than the Bedford...,” grinned Donovan.
“Thank you, sergeant...,” muttered Hunloke. His eyes misted over at the sight of the guard of honour laid on as a mark of respect for the departing temporary senior officer. He unashamedly swallowed to dislodge the lump in his throat.
“It was a bit short notice, sir,” continued Donovan, “but the lads wanted to give you something, something you might appreciate.”
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 27
