Avenging Steel: The First Collection

by Hall, Ian

  He stood abruptly, just missing the sloping ceiling above, then walked to the single window, looking north across to Princes Street. He pointed with his pipe, one of the few times I’d seen it leave his mouth. “Somewhere out there are men who have prepared for this invasion. Men who have waited until the fighting has passed over them, then struck at the enemy’s soft underbelly.”

  “And the point of it all?” I needed an answer.

  “To prove we’re alive.” He whirled round. “To tell the British people that there’s hope. To prove that the feeling of hopelessness is fleeting, not permanent.”

  And to incite reprisals by the Germans. I kept my thoughts to myself, and worked the rest of the morning in relative silence, doing my job, being a good Nazi.

  By the close of my lecture, I wondered what I could do with my new-found information.

  In the end I did nothing, which turned out to be the best option.

  But my reverie was interrupted when I was accosted by two men in overcoats and sharp hats who awaited my leaving University.

  “Come with us,” the taller one said with little accent, and the strength of their grip on my upper arms disabused me of the notion to argue. I caught nothing more from his short phrase, and no matter what I said, I could not encourage them to speak again.

  Men in the High Castle

  I hadn’t been in Edinburgh Castle for some time. I’d been busy at University for the last few years, and the idea to visit the Castle always had some demerit against the considerable walk up the Royal Mile to get there. I certainly hadn’t thought of it much since the German invasion, although I had avoided looking at it as much as possible; those gaudy swastikas looked so alien hanging from its ramparts.

  Trust me; inside the castle walls it had changed beyond comprehension.

  Red swastika banners hung from every possible window and battlement, their bases weighted against the wind, frilled edges rippling in the constant breeze at the top of the hill.

  Recognizing my captors, the German guards waved us inside the outside arch without checking anyone’s credentials. We walked up the cobbled wynd in complete silence, our footfalls echoing from the nearby walls, before we broke into the airy courtyard ahead.

  I’d had about ten minutes to think of what I’d done wrong, but had scored a resounding duck-egg, unless I’d been remembered walking away from the bombing at Tollcross. I shook my head, surely I had a viable alibi; I had been dismissed by a German soldier.

  The old Governor’s Building was silhouetted against the setting sun, and I was pulled in that direction. Two minutes later I stood in the presence of three decorated officers, grey crosses with red ribbons proudly worn.

  “Mister Baird.” The man in the center spoke, I gave my head an internal shake, if I was going to be in so much contact with German troops, I had to get accustomed to the rank insignia. My ignorance definitely placed me at a disadvantage. “I am Colonel von Siegen, the temporary commander of Edinburgh.”

  I sensed my escort had not left the room, but stood behind me. “Am I under arrest, Colonel?” The impudent words from my mouth surprised me; I had no idea where they had come from.

  “No, no.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “We simply seek some information on a work person of yours.”

  I tried to remain immobile, but instinctively knew they were asking after my co-worker at The Scotsman. “Oh?”

  “You know David Paton, yes?”

  “We work together.”

  “Are you aware he is a subversive?”

  That made me pause before answering. “He’s British.”

  “We have only been in Edinburgh for two weeks. He has already made many claims against the Third Reich. He has been heard in his tavern. Have you heard him do this in the office?”

  “I have not.” Considering he had no idea exactly what I’d heard in the Scotsman building, I felt I was on safe ground.

  He looked at me as if his eyes could burn into my soul. I did my best to keep his gaze.

  “He disparages the German Army.” Siegen insisted. “It seems inconceivable that you could miss such speech.”

  “Your English is excellent, Colonel. But I assure you, to my recollection I have not heard him say anything which would support such a claim.”

  He looked at the faces of my escort behind me, searching for anything he could use.

  “Your father is in the British Army, yes?”

  “Yes, Colonel,” I usually gave his regiment and location when asked about father, but in this case I just gave the minimum required.

  “He is with the Royal Greys, yes?” he nodded at his own intelligence. “They did good moves at Waterloo.”

  “They are a famous Scottish regiment.”

  “But now they are wasted policing the Jews.”

  I swallowed my pride, and clung to one nugget. “At least he is not fighting Germans, Colonel.”

  He smiled. “No, Mister Baird, we are not in direct combat. Not yet.” I smiled back, trying not to goad him. If he were indeed in command of Edinburgh, he would be a powerful enemy. “But back to David Paton,” Siegel stared at me again. “It would be a shame if we came into combat over his actions, Mister Baird. I would hate to close down any newspaper that refused to adhere to the German edicts.”

  Again, a great use of vocabulary. “I can assure you, Colonel, if I hear him disparage you fellows, I will run up the Royal Mile and tell you.” I tried to continue my smile, but considering I was surrounded by three German officers and two possible collaborators acting as local Gestapo, my nervousness began to return.

  “I appreciate that, Mister Baird. We can always use good eyes and ears. I thank you for your candor.”

  Siegel gave a small dismissive wave, and I was led outside, then retraced my route to the main arch where I was left unceremoniously on the wide Esplanade.

  Walking away from the men in the high Castle behind me, I drew my collar closer to my chin, and braced myself against the north wind gusting across the long open parade ground. Gratefully finding shelter in the buildings at the start of the ‘Mile’, I noticed the welcoming lights on inside the Ensign Ewart, the pub dedicated to the charge of father’s regiment at Waterloo.

  Casually swinging the door inside was a huge mistake. One, I hit a German officer on the shoulder; whose gruntled stare challenged my right to exist. Two, the smoke from inside was so thick, you really could have cut it with a knife. Three, the bar was full of German soldiers, all officers, all now staring at the civilian interloper in the doorway.

  Once outside, I ran.

  The cobbles were wet and slick, but I couldn’t help myself, I sprinted full pent down the hill. Tears were streaming down my face; the ignominy had been too much to bear. In my mind I saw the familiar face of Raymond, the Ensign Ewart barman, peering over the host of grey uniforms, an expression of pure dread on his face.

  As I rounded the slight bend, I slowed and came to a halt, bending over to catch my breath, holding my stinging sides. I had never been an athletic student, and the short run down the hill had winded me.

  I strode along George IV Bridge, the breeze at my back, with one purpose; get inside the safety of the halls of learning, get to the Student’s Union Bar and somehow encourage Charlie to part with a bottle of whisky.

  I ignored the faces around me, as rain began to fall on my back. I had started my academic life with some purpose, the option of professorship somewhere down the line, but now under the Nazi jackboot, I had turned first collaborator, then a spy for the Third Reich. Then, as the gates of my sanctuary seemed further away than ever, I cursed my workmate Paton for his foolhardiness. How could the man think himself above repercussion for his loose tongue? In the days before invasion we had all been told of the danger of loose lips, and although the boots had changed feet, the hazard still existed.

  Suddenly, as if they’d just appeared from heaven, the steps to the great halls of Teviot Row House beckoned, and I appreciatively slunk inside. I stood in the vesti
bule, loosened my scarf from round my neck, and folded my sodden coat over my arm. I gave myself a couple of deep breaths, then walked calmly down the dark tiled corridor. As I approached the Library Bar, I heard the click of billiard balls and the growing sound of muted conversation. The familiar noises soothed my jangled nerves, and I relaxed into the luxurious comfort of the company of friends and colleagues. With the thought of retreating into a whisky bottle replaced by warm beer, I almost forgot about the Germans outside.

  However, I did not expect to get accosted in the toilet.

  The man entered the john right behind me; I didn’t even get time to take my piss. I hadn’t seen him in the bar.

  “James Baird?”

  He was dressed similarly to the last two goons, dark coat, shirt and tie beneath. He wore the ever-present fedora, pulled down over his forehead. I shook my head in frustration. “For God’s sake, not again.”

  “We don’t fall into the ‘not again’ category.” The nearer one said. “And if we carried ID cards, I’d show you mine. We’re not with the Germans. In fact, we’re the exact opposite.”

  Call me slow on the uptake, but I didn’t get their gist immediately. “Opposite of what exactly?”

  “Goodness sake, Baird. For a boffin you’re surprisingly dim.”

  The tall man by the door looked outside, then back at me. “British Secret Service, old boy.”

  “On yer bike,” I said, not believing a word. I had heard of the Germans using dirty tricks in interrogation, and suspected these two from the start. “I didn’t come up the Clyde in a banana boat.”

  To my surprise, they both flashed genuine smiles; an expression I hadn’t seen for quite some time. “A bit of attitude? That’s more like it, Jimmy boy.”

  “We like the idea you’re not falling for us right away,” The near one took off his hat, fished under the large circular label inside and produced a piece of folded paper. He handed it to me. “We have to get to you first, before the German’s have a chance to turn you.”

  I shook my head, not sure what to divulge. “I won’t turn.” I said carefully. “I’m British, damn it, and always will be.”

  “Good lad, good lad.” He handed me the paper. “Go on, read it.”

  The whole thing unfolded was barely three inches square, but as soon as I laid my eyes on the writing, I knew its source. Tears sprung to my eyes, we hadn’t heard from father for months. “Where did you get this?”

  They didn’t reply, just left me reading.

  Hello son.

  I’m being told this is a standard letter.

  I’m fine, and in good health, don’t worry about me. These chaps are the real thing.

  Tell your mum and Frances I love them, and will fight through hellfire and brimstone to get home one day.

  Trust in me and God.

  J.L.B.

  There was no doubt, the letter was from my father’s hand.

  “He was told to write something which you would recognize.” They looked at me as if the penny would drop. “Some phrase he often used, so you’d know he wasn’t being coerced.”

  Hellfire and brimstone.

  I came close to tearing up again, but was hardly in a situation that merited it. “He did,” was all I could manage; I could still hear him saying it, hitting his thumb with a hammer, stubbing his toe. It was a standard dad phrase alright.

  “Good, so you know we’re on the level?”

  I nodded. “Dad’s not here, is he?”

  The near fellow shook his head, offering his hand for me to shake. “My name’s Ivanhoe.”

  “Your mum had a sense of humor.” I regretted the cheek immediately.

  “From the Walter Scott book.” Ivanhoe nodded. “We don’t use names, and we don’t carry cards. In these times, that’s just a way to get yourself killed.”

  He didn’t introduce his friend. “So what do you want from me?”

  “You, old boy, are in the perfect position to get messages out to our troops in Scotland. The newspaper can be used in many ways. All we need is a bit of cooperation, you know, we ask you to slip a few code words into your news stories. Nothing else.”

  My heart surged when he told me that there were troops in Scotland, but then I already knew that; Auxiliaries, Paton had told me. I sighed, a crash so low after my euphoria. Then I thought of the impact I could make. I’d be working for the British Government, being patriotic, dash it, I’d be fighting for my country in the only way I knew how. “You’ve got it.” I hadn’t even considered the danger.

  “Good lad.” Again, the genuine smiles, so lost in present day Edinburgh. “We’ll be in contact.”

  A doubt assailed me. “How will I know it’s you? That the Germans haven’t broken into your scheme?”

  “I was coming to that.” He held out his hand for the letter from dad, and I handed it over. To my horror, he began tearing it up into smaller and smaller pieces. “What was the familiar expression you recognized?”

  “Eh, hellfire and brimstone.”

  He carefully dropped the tiny shards into the urinal, then to my surprise, motioned me to take my piss. Not easy, taking a pee when someone’s watching. Lucky for me, I had the pressure of a few pints to assist my concentration. After a moment’s indecision, I eventually started a flow, flushing dad’s letter forever.

  “H.B.” Ivanhoe said. “That’s pretty perfect.” I looked over my shoulder to see both men nodding at each other. “Okay, Sonny Jim, looks like we’ve got a code word for our communications; H.B.”

  “Like the pencil?”

  “Exactly. If any message or greeting does not have the letters H.B. somewhere in it, it’s not from us.”

  “H.B.”

  “Now all we need is a code name for you.”

  “Me?”

  “We all have names associated with British fiction, starting with the same letter as your surname, hence mine being Ivanhoe. You need a name starting with B.”

  I needed no time to think, the name shot into my head faster than lightening. As a boy I had read my fair share of Biggles, the Flying Ace series by Captain W.E. Johns. We had shared many books with friends at school. I still had a stack of them somewhere in a cupboard at home. “Biggles.”

  “Biggles?” Ivanhoe grinned, nodding his head.

  “Aye,” And so, as I fastened the buttons on the flies of my trousers, and watched Ivanhoe and his un-named friend disappear out of the toilet, I began my new life.

  James Baird the German collaborator had become Biggles, the double agent.

  A Fly in the Ointment

  Not knowing how the message would arrive, I double checked every internal memo at the office, and for four days I also checked the small letterbox in the hallway of our apartment, finding nothing. None of the occupants of the stairs used those anymore; the postman had delivered letters directly through the doors for as long as I could remember.

  On the fifth day, I almost trembled with anticipation. Upon opening the small black door, in the dusty box lay a small piece of paper.

  Happy Birthday Alex.

  Insert…

  Snow before Christmas.

  I.

  Unmistakably, the H.B. moniker and a message to implant.

  Biggles the double-agent took the number 11 tram to work that day with a spring in his step, even the gaudy German banners did not divert him from his patriotic fervor.

  But the feeling did not even last me to my office. Like so many days under German rule, there was an undercurrent of dread, a feeling that you could never quite trust anyone. Conversations were guarded, no casual banter on the tram, no smiles on the faces of my fellow travelers. No talk of football, horses or bawdy gossip.

  “Mr. Paton won’t be in today,” Daphne at the desk told me as I passed. “You’ll be on your own unless Arthur or Charlie gets a temporary replacement.”

  “Thanks, Daphne ,” I said, hoping our Main Editor, Charlie Chambers, found a partner soon; I didn’t really want to do our part of the whole story fa
ctory myself. I climbed the steps to the top floor with mounting trepidation. If the Germans had actually found evidence of Paton’s loose tongue, I had to be extra careful in case I was associated with him. I put my head down that morning, got all my stories done quickly, inserted the phrase into the top story, a winter storm looming from the north.

  Towards Christmas, the weather did indeed turn, a cold front from the Arctic hitting the whole of Britain, turning the streets of Edinburgh into a slushy mess.

  On one such day, late in December, I walked, head down against the cold wind, watching my feet kick the wet grey slush onto my trouser legs. I was suddenly buffeted by a gentleman coming in the opposite direction; we clung to each other for a second for balance, made great apologies, and he resumed his gait, leaving me looking at his retreating back.

  In that fleeting moment I recognized Ivanhoe’s un-named friend.

  Assailed with an instant fear that our glancing meeting had been observed, I shook my fist at the man, shook my head in mock disgust, and carried on my way. When I thrust my hands into my coat pockets for warmth, I found the unmistakable feeling of a folded card. I resisted the temptation to fish it out, and continued to class. Only when I had got safely inside the University building did I chance a look. It turned out to be a theatre ticket.

  Austrian String Quartet plays Brahms, Usher Hall, 24th December, 1940.

  7.30 pm. Stalls. Row 26. Seat 14.

  A Christmas Eve concert.

  I had attended the venue many times, being down the road from our home, just off Lothian Road. Although the music of Brahms had never been of interest to me, I clung to the ticket throughout my lecture, using it as a bookmark in my Humanities text book. The discourse, on fellow Scot and Edinburgh University graduate David Hume’s World Influence, went surprisingly quickly, my heart soaring with new-found patriotic fervor.

  Hampered by both a long-running lecture, and the subsequent questions afterwards, I was late for work at the newspaper arriving twenty minutes after one.