Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  Hunloke refused to close Conway’s eyes. For all he knew, his friend might still be able to see something from wherever his soul was departing. Whilst the tears blurred his vision, he remained staring into the handsome face of Brian Conway.

  “I promise you, Brian...,” he pronounced loudly for all those around him to hear. “Don’t worry yourself about Christine. I’ll take care of her now, my friend... You rest easy. I’ll see you later...”

  What Hunloke did next dismayed some of the spectating troops but not those who had experienced combat.

  He loosened Conway’s watch and removed it, holding the timepiece up for the lieutenant’s inspection, soliciting his approval. He then unbuttoned the flap on Brian Conway’s breast pocket and removed his silver cigarette case. Finally, gently but firmly, he twisted the gold signet ring from the limp right hand and stuffed the cache in his own jacket pocket. The experienced soldier was well aware that items of intrinsic value sometimes reached the next of kin. However, not always, often valuables were ‘liberated’ not unlike his own wedding ring. He was determined that Brian Conway’s corpse would not be despoiled.

  “You, corporal, I want two men to go in that tunnel and flush them out!” ordered Major Fakir. The corporal pointed at his own palpating chest as if to imply, ‘Who... Me?’

  Hunloke, his revolver in his bloody hand, stood at Fakir’s side. “Don’t be a fool, man!” bellowed Hunloke. “Anyone else who goes in there is likely to end up the same way as Brian!”

  Major Fakir was no fool. He read the potent cocktail of anger and grief that infected the deposed captain of the Buffs but was damned if he was going to yield the initiative. “What do you suggest, Mr...,” Fakir could not recall Hunloke’s name. “Do you suggest we starve them out?”

  “No, if they’re still in there, I advise you to wait for someone with hand grenades and toss a few Mills bombs in there!”

  “We do not possess any Mills bombs!” replied Fakir, annoyed that anyone should be questioning his authority, least of all the man he had usurped as camp commander. “And what are you implying when you say ‘if’ they are still in there?”

  “I mean that the hole probably leads to a bunker designed for living and hiding in, not fighting. There are no loop holes or embrasures for firing out of, or they would have done so by now...”

  “So how would they get out? Tunnel their way through bare rock?” asked Fakir with a facetious smile. He looked around the group of guards for support but garnered only glimpses of frightened faces. More than one of the guards was staring with morbid fascination at the still body of Brian Conway, for many the first corpse they had ever seen. Some of the guards appeared to be looking to Hunloke for instruction, a situation Fakir’s pride found intolerable to contemplate.

  “All warrens have more than one exit,” answered Hunloke.

  “Then why on earth didn’t you tell me! I’ll have you arrested when this is all over!”

  Fakir’s hollow threats did not intimidate Hunloke. Major Fakir reluctantly left a section of eight men guarding the ravine exit and took the remaining two infantry sections back to the top of the gulley and to the pathway beside the chapel. Hunloke, after casting a glance towards Conway and soliciting his injured superior’s permission, followed the soldiers up the steeply carve quarry steps.

  It was only when Fakir led his group of men to the end of the chapel that the open door accessing the office beneath the north transept became visible. In his mind’s eye, Hunloke could clearly see the spiral staircase twisting down from the transept into the cleric’s perfunctory office. There would be the rail lined with surplices and a coat hook bent as though buckled by a heavy vestment.

  “Corporal, take a section and go and search that room!” ordered Fakir.

  “Don’t worry corporal,” interjected Hunloke, “they won’t be there; they’ll be heading for Flash Farm.” Hunloke directed his next words at Fakir. “I suggest you send a section in the truck to head the Germans off.”

  “When I want your damned advice I’ll ask for it!” spat Fakir angrily.

  “Only trying to help...,” offered Hunloke, admirably controlling his loathing for the diminutive major, “I’ll take a team to the farm if you like?” The major prodded Hunloke’s chest with a bony finger.

  “You will stay out of this! If I see you anywhere near the village, I’ll shoot you myself!” Fakir turned to the wavering corporal. “Do as I ordered, corporal. If it’s all clear, get back to the camp, raise all the available men, and head for the village to secure it before carrying out a pincer movement on the Farm. I’m taking a section to Flash Farm in the truck to head them off, understood?”

  “No, sir, not really, sir...,” replied the beleaguered corporal.

  “Oh, just do it, man!” snapped Fakir. He irritably rounded up a section of men and headed off down the path towards the main drive. Hunloke and Bidder had not been able to see the truck parked on the road, obscured as it was by the pea souper fog. The corporal, alone in the cold mist of Derbyshire, gyrated agitatedly on the spot until he felt Hunloke’s hand grip his left shoulder.

  “Corporal...?” asked Hunloke.

  “Atkins, sir, Tommy Atkins.” Hunloke looked questioningly into the face of the young soldier. “Honest, sir, I know it sounds too farfetched...” Hunloke stifled Atkin’s defence of his name.

  “Corporal Atkins, how many men here?

  “Section of eight in the gulley and a section here, sir.”

  “You the senior NCO?”

  “Yessir, Lance Corporal Davis is in the gulley.”

  “Okay, Atkins,” said Hunloke calmly. “Here is what I want you to do. Leave four men here in defensive positions in case the Hun doubles back. Take the rest of the section back down into the gulley, leave four men from that section covering the bottom tunnel. Use the rest of the men to carry Lieutenant Conway and Superintendent Bidder into the chapel. You might be able to use the crypt entrance; you’ll find a staircase that takes you up into the nave. Understood?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good man, Atkins. Set about it.” With his confidence restored by Hunloke’s controlled disposition, Corporal Atkins organised the men as instructed. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” asked Atkins, “but what are you going to do?”

  “Me, corp? I’m going to see where our Hun friends have been hiding...”

  Corporal Atkins forced a ‘rather you than me’ smile and took his group to return to the gulley.

  Chapter 28 - Gathering Forces.

  Tuesday, 5th December 1944.

  The office beneath the transept was exactly as Hunloke had dreamt, even down to the number of surplices on the coat hooks. The only difference he observed was that the office was dustier than in the dream and the surplices were in need of washing. Carey Gladwin clearly hadn’t dusted the office in a long while, a thought that sat uneasily with him.

  Adjacent to the door, the wooden panelling gaped from the wall where it swung on cunningly concealed hinges, the door catch released by the depressed coat hook. Behind the panelling, carved directly into the rock face of the ravine, lay an opening large enough to admit a crouching man encumbered with kit. After only a few yards, the passageway took a right-angled turn to plunge down into the white limestone strata.

  Hunloke had picked up Brian Conway’s torch yet quickly noticed the cabling running the length of the wall, providing power to wall-mounted lights. Peering down the tunnel, he discerned where a few bulbs had blown or been taken to replace expired bulbs elsewhere in the complex. The hideout was certainly no mean feat of engineering. The descending steps had been roughly but accurately hewn, providing a comfortable gradient even for someone physically impaired like Hunloke. His aching hip and leg was the last thing on his mind.

  He moved down the tunnel stealthily with his Webley held at shoulder height in front of him. Despite his mind being acutely focused on what lay ahead, part of his intellect conjectured that the manmade excavation was in fact only an embellishment of wha
t nature had hollowed out, the expansion of a natural watercourse. Delicate stalactites hung in place from the ceiling, dripping droplets of mineral enriched water upon the carved steps.

  Hunloke was confident that the bunker was empty but that didn’t prevent the revolver twitching nervously in his hand, especially when he emerged into what had been the living area. The air felt surprisingly dry and much warmer than outside. The pungent, although not unpleasant, odour of a discharged weapon hung in the still atmosphere.

  The inspector had no intention of making a full examination of the space. It was unmistakable from the provided bunks, kitchen, food store and even the curtained off bathroom area, that the chamber could easily house up to eight men in a modicum of comfort, certainly until their food supply gave out. The empty cans of bully beef indicated recent occupation.

  One observation did cause Hunloke’s heart to sink even further. A weapons rack dominated one wall of the dugout. Whoever had prior control of the bunker clearly had no intention of dismantling the arsenal after the threat of invasion had receded. There were six Sten guns in waterproof wrappings that hadn’t been in service in 1940. Two weapons had clearly been removed along with a quantity of ammunition. Closer inspection also disclosed missing hand grenades and what he guessed to be explosives and detonators.

  It appeared as if the Germans were preparing to fight a war.

  Hunloke panted up the steps out of the tunnel. He was blowing hard by the time he found himself back in the chapel office. He hoped the one thing he remembered in his dream wasn’t a flight of fancy. To his relief, the object he sought was lying upon the small office desk. Why the chapel owned a telephone was a mystery. He wasn’t to know that it had been installed many years ago at the behest of the Very Reverend Ward of St Mary and All Saints church. When he conducted his biannual Christmas and Easter services at the chapel, the minister had no intention of being out of touch with his mother church. It was a Gray Family extravagance for which he was extremely grateful.

  He picked up the Bakelite receiver and heard the reassuring tone before dialling zero for the operator. The dial took a lifetime to revolve back to its resting place.

  “Operator, can I help you?”

  “Yes, can you please put me through to Flash House,” breathed Hunloke heavily.

  “Where’s that?”

  “I dunno... Flash, I suppose?”

  “One moment, sir, I’ll look it up...” The female operator fell silent.

  “Are you still there...?” asked Hunloke agitatedly. He waited a few seconds before repeating his enquiry. Almost a minute elapsed before he finally bellowed in the mouthpiece. “Hullo!”

  “There is no need to shout! A few good manners never hurt no one, I’m sure... No one has died! I’m putting you through now...” The line fell briefly silent before the dialling tone chirped through the earpiece.

  The phone rang and rang.

  Hunloke willed someone to pick up the phone, any of the bloody telephones dotted around the house.

  “Hullo?” Hunloke recognised the voice of Christine Baldwin. He shivered and had to swallow hard before he could speak, prompting the corporal to repeat her enquiry.

  “Hullo?”

  “Christine, It’s Thaddeus Hunloke.”

  “Oh, hello! If you’re after Brian, I had to run him to the camp early this morning.”

  “No, it’s you I want...”

  “There is a first time for everything, I suppose...,” she quipped. Hunloke had to swallow hard again to suppress his rising nausea.

  “I want you to meet me by the monkey-puzzle tree, you know where I mean?”

  “I’m not authorised to drive you, Mr Hunloke. You aren’t Army now...,” answered Christine high-handedly.

  Hunloke thought quickly. “It’s not me who’s making the request, it’s Brian.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s with Fakir..., Major Fakir. They’ve gone to the village and asked me to join them.”

  “Why would they do that?

  “Don’t keep asking bloody fool questions...!” Hunloke composed himself, “... Sorry, please just do as I say.”

  “Well, I’d rather it came from Brian...”

  “Brian can’t get to the bloody phone!”

  “There’s no need to get shirty!”

  A fresh contributor joined the disintegrating conversation. “Artie, this is Poppy speaking, I’m on the phone in the library. I’ll get the motorcar and pick you up.”

  “Have you been listening to my call?” challenged Hunloke, astonished but relieved to hear Poppy’s assured voice on the line.

  “Yes, force of habit I’m afraid. It’s the only way I know what is going on.”

  “Can you drive?” demanded the inspector.

  “Of course I can drive, I am modern woman!”

  The line clicked and fell silent.

  Thaddeus Hunloke pushed back his fedora and scratched his prickly scalp. He was tempted to check on Rodney Bidder’s condition; both he and Brian Conway were hopefully now in the chapel. He considered the idea and decided the superintendent might wish to pursue his own agenda. Like Brian Conway, Rodney Bidder could wait.

  He left the office via the discreet side door after hailing his intentions to the four squaddies outside. He had no intention of being shot by a nervous camp guard. Water dripped from the overhanging branches along the path as he loped hurriedly towards the tarmac road and the monkey-puzzle rendezvous point.

  Visibility in the woodland remained no more than fifteen feet and he heard the approaching vehicles long before he saw them. He recognised the sound of the labouring Austin staff car as driven by Christine Baldwin. Seconds later, he distinguished the shaded headlamps of the lead vehicle emerging from the fog. As the silhouette revealed itself, the identifiable svelte lines of the Humber Super Snipe with its bass beat became discernible; the rattling Austin was still some way behind.

  Poppy braked hard when she saw Hunloke at the roadside. It had to be hoped that Christine would not plough into the back of the Snipe. The Austin was still out of visual range when Hunloke tugged open the car door and almost collapsed onto the leather passenger seat.

  It took only one glance from Poppy to deduce that not all was well in Hunloke’s world. Aside from his expression, his hands and coat were engrained with drying blood.

  “What’s happened?” she asked, her face expressing her concern.

  “Brian’s dead...”

  His statement was issued with brutal banality, the mendacity of his emotionless delivery was revealed to Poppy by his rapidly blinking eyes and his unwillingness to meet her gaze.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I said, Brian is dead,” repeated Hunloke.

  “I heard you the first time. I’ll cry for him later. I’m assuming you are after whoever did it?”

  Within the electrified atmosphere of the Snipe, they heard the squeaking brakes of the Austin when the vehicle pulled up behind them. Hunloke reluctantly turned to face Poppy and saw the tears in her hazel eyes. After silently expressing their mutual grief, she looked away at the road ahead.

  “To the camp,” ordered Hunloke quietly. “What’s Christine doing?”

  “She insisted on coming after I threw in my three pennyworth. I told her I had no idea where we were heading for and to simply follow me.”

  Hunloke nodded approvingly. Poppy looked like a child behind the large steering wheel. She could only just see over the wheel and the long bonnet. Even so, at that moment, he couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have driving the car.

  “What happened?” asked Poppy whilst driving much faster than Hunloke would normally have preferred along the estate road.

  “He was shot by the hiding Germans. The stupid Fakir has gone off to the farm to catch them.”

  “And is that where they are heading for?”

  “I reckon so, I have a suspicion Herr Bonhof isn’t going to stray too far from Cathy Maxfield...”

&n
bsp; “Do you mean they have a thing going on? You never mentioned that.”

  “Even a psychopathic Nazi can fall in love, Lady Violet.”

  Poppy halted at the junction with the concrete track that branched off towards the camp, waiting for Christine to catch them up. The subsequent minutes it took to reach the camp slipped by in silence.

  “Wait here...,” he instructed. He was about to exit the car when he stopped himself, snatched Poppy’s left hand from the wheel, and held it tightly. She uttered a squeal of alarm and looked at him with an air of trepidation tinged with tenacity. “... And when I say ‘stay here’, I mean it! Understood?”

  For once, Poppy had no comeback and simply presented a curt nod. Hunloke burst into the guardroom, his presence not questioned by either of the two guards at the main camp gate.

  “Captain Hunloke, sir...” said a surprised Sergeant Donovan. “I was just going to call roll call.” Hunloke glanced at his watch. It was just after nine thirty. “I know we’re a bit late, sir. I was waiting for the major to return. He’s gone off with Lieutenant Conway and a platoon to look for the missing Germans. Damn fool notion...”

  “Yes, sergeant,” interrupted Hunloke. “They found them and the Hun killed Mr Conway...” Hunloke aimed to shock and hit the mark. “Major Fakir has gone off after the Hun and is about to get his section killed unless I can prevent it.”

  Donovan’s reaction was admirable. “How can I help, sir?”

  “Who’s your best combat soldier with the most recent experience?”

  “That would be Private Bird, sir. The former sergeant Bird was busted to private for insubordination, got six months in the glasshouse.”

  “And is he?”

  “Is he what, sir?”

  “Insubordinate?”

  “With a stupid officer, yessir. He likes you well enough though...”

  “Is he here?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Send someone to bring him here. Then find the Lagerführer and ask him to select his most reliable man. Then bring ‘em both here. Roll call is cancelled this morning.”