Avenging Steel: The First Collection

by Hall, Ian

  Every second we were alone, Alice taught me German. Turns out one language we Scots are good at is the old ‘Deutch’; it has the same guttural sounds as ours. But of course, there weren’t that many moments of the day when we were completely alone. At work there was the constant threat of the office door opening; at home we had mum and sister with us. We couldn’t even do it when walking, there as too much chance of being overheard.

  It only took three days for mum to catch us out.

  “What’s going on?” She stood clutching the side of the sitting room door. Frances’ music beat through the wall from her bedroom.

  “What?”

  She gave me a stern look. “I know what I heard. You were talking that kraut talk. What’s going on? I’ll beat it out of you!”

  At that instant, I was in no doubt she would.

  “James’s work wants him to learn German, Mrs. Baird.” Alice never missed a beat.

  Mum gave us both her ‘I don’t know if to believe you or not’ stare. “It’s very hush-hush, Mum.” I said, not really knowing what to say next.

  Thankfully Alice took up the slack. “They want to be able to listen to the German radio. It’s not really allowed, per se, but we’re a newspaper. To fully understand the news we need to know everything.” She took a breath, and dropped her tone to a whisper. “That’s why I was chosen as his assistant.” Mum’s questioning brows brooked more explanation, and thankfully Alice noticed. “I speak it fluent, you see. My Dad was a prisoner of war from the Great War. He got caught in 1915. He got put to working the fields, met my mum, and that was that.”

  “And like I said, mum,” I emphasized. “Very hush-hush. Not a word to anyone. If Jerry find out we can talk German, we’ll be watched. Not a good thing.”

  “No,” she mused for a second. “Well, just keep it down; you know what a tattle-tale your sister is.” She leaned closer. “And remember, if you get caught, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  We laughed, and the moment of awkwardness was over. I was also glad the cat was out of the bag, slightly; I hated telling mum lies.

  We got paid on Fridays, three o’clock, and like every other week, I raced home with my pay-packet. Out of the three pounds and eighteen shillings I got paid, I gave mum three quid, of which she paid the fifteen shillings rent, dividing the rest into her many purses. When Alice handed her a pound, mum refused it immediately, shooing her away. But when Alice insisted, mum gave her a hug, and started making noises about getting a bed for me for the sitting room.

  “There is a war on, after all.” She busied herself in the kitchen then popped out to the shops for some late groceries. “We all have to make sacrifices.”

  Amazing how sacrifices were better handled when the common pot got stiffened by a quid. Seems mum was already getting used to our new lodger.

  That weekend, mum baked. Then Alice talked about her German dad, and German recipes, then she baked. It was altogether a fun time. It seemed we all laughed for the first time in ages. I got up on Sunday to sunshine bursting in my windows.

  The Scotsman newspaper got printed six days a week, which meant we worked a half day on Sunday, after church; usually Monday’s news got treated a little lighter than most, there still was some sport to report on, gardening news, and a larger classified section. Money was getting tight, and we were all being told to pull our belts still tighter.

  Getting back to the full working day on Monday was always a bitch.

  However, working in a newspaper gave us certain advantages when it came to news facts. Seemingly some saboteurs had broken into Turnhouse RAF base, on the west side of Edinburgh, on Sunday night and blew up five planes. Poor Jerry had gone berserk; they rounded up civilians in the middle of the night, and shot at least four of them. Our poor regional politicians could do nothing but make excuses.

  Putting a lid on this took considerable whitewashing by us, but after three tries, yes three trips to the castle, we finally had a story the Germans were happy with. The Tuesday edition gave a bleached and diluted version of the crime, but held a stern warning of reprisals if any further acts of sabotage were carried out.

  That week two classmates left University; not a word spoken, no notice given to the faculty, I know because I asked. I saw a line of men at work the next day.

  “They’re trainee print-setters.” Daphne said. She knew everything that went on in the paper. I mentally added her name as a possible cell member.

  “Are we selling more papers?” The question was half-hearted.

  She motioned me nearer. “No, but we are losing men from the shop floor.”

  “Oh?” I feigned lack of interest, knowing her need for gossip would win through; needless to say, I was very interested.

  She looked to either side. “I think it’s happening all over.”

  “What is?”

  “Men are leaving to join the fight.”

  “You mean the saboteurs?” Our voices had dropped to the merest whisper.

  “Saboteurs, or the ships that pick them up from the coast.” She tapped the side of her nose. “Mum’s the word.”

  “Of course.” I gave her a thumb’s up. “Good on them.”

  She nodded and I crossed the foyer to the stairs. I had new information for my next message.

  But of course, now I had Alice. I gave her the message, and she went out. I never knew where, I didn’t have to.

  No member must attempt to find out more about the organization than he is told.

  I had the feeling the line would come back to bite me, but for now it was good.

  With the office to myself, I mused over Daphne’s words. Men were leaving the country on boats; Churchill was recruiting from distant Canada.

  I was interrupted from my reverie by a flurry of uniforms outside my office; too many to be a routine visit. My door opened, and a German soldier, coal-scuttle helmet showing a Bavarian shield, thrust his torso inside. “Out! Out, now!”

  I earned more displeasure when I took a second to grab my coat and scarf from the stand in the corner. In a troop, with more angry shouts behind us, we all filed quickly downstairs, then out onto the wide pavement. Lined up against the wall overlooking the railway station below, we were all searched.

  German soldiers did the actual pocket-picking, the patting down, the intimate rubs of our crotches. My collars were meticulously searched, fingers rubbing the folds carefully. On the cold February concrete we stepped out of our shoes and socks, and they too were examined. Officers and men in black civilian coats stood behind the soldiers, looking at the contents of our pockets, passed back to them. I recognized gestapo insignia, and local army police. A full hour later we were allowed back into the building. As we walked upstairs, disgruntled and cold, we stood to the side as German officers descended. Soldiers following behind them carried closed cardboard boxes.

  My office was a shambles; I expected nothing else. Drawers had been taken from our desks, overturned, their contents emptied on the floor. Papers and open folders lay everywhere, on every flat surface, spilled, searched through. I racked my mind, trying to remember if I’d had any incriminating evidence then disabused myself of the notion; I’d just sent Alice out with my last message half an hour ago.

  I’d evaded the bullet by a matter of minutes.

  The next day soldiers again stormed the building, but this was not another search. On my floor, they raced past my door, seizing Arthur Brooks and his secretary, Ruby. The two were led roughly away, arms held firmly behind their backs by uncaring men, Schmeisser sub-machine guns over their shoulders. As Ruby passed my door, she looked inside at Alice and I, screaming, her tear-covered face frozen in a terrified mask.

  Again the force of the occupation had been shoved down our throats; the rude reminder of the dangers we faced every day by working against the new regime.

  “They seek to break us.” I said. My lips hardly moved as we watched the scene unfold. “But they just strengthen our resolve.”

  “Am Ende, werden wir sie
gen.” Alice said softly. “In the end, we will triumph.”

  Ruby’s screams gradually diminished as the pair were led downstairs. Pale stunned faces were left behind. Then we all gasped as the sound of machine-gun fire echoed from below.

  As the morning passed, one by one, we all slowly made our way down to the foyer. Outside in the courtyard to our building standing to attention were two German soldiers, machine-guns held across their chests. Between them in contorted heaps on the concrete lay Arthur and Ruby, exactly where we had stood just a day before. Blood was spattered on the wall behind them, bullet holes cut into the once pristine weathered blocks.

  To report to the castle at one o’clock, I used the back entrance onto Market Street. I could not face their mutilated bodies a second time.

  Of Corpses and Patriots

  Two days after the raid, as Alice and I went over the latest stories, a thin girl appeared in my office. Her gaunt face was ingrained with dirt, her matted hair stuffed under a green knitted beret. Her woolen coat had seen many better days, its shoulders soaking wet with the smirry drizzle outside.

  “Hello Brother.” She said. Hearing her words, and immediately recognizing Ivanhoe’s ‘HB’ code. Considering her age I could not help but compare her to my sister; Frances was in school, well-fed, well dressed, her hair and face newly washed in the large bath in our apartment. Driven to help this poor child, I knew, along with other change, I had a florin in my trouser pocket.

  “Hello.” I rummaged and grasped the coin, recognizing the familiar size and weight. I fished it out.

  “The Southsider,”

  I nodded. I knew the place; a bar on Richmond Street. “I know it.” I slid the coin across the table to her. Her eyes opened wide. “Take it.”

  She almost grabbed the shiny silver coin, walking briskly to the open door, then she stopped, turned. “Thank you, kind sir.” And she was gone.

  Alice gave me a worried look. “Be careful.”

  “I will, don’t worry.” I looked at the window, saw the droplets of rain, and did not relish the journey.

  Considering it was mid-morning, the Edinburgh streets were dark and grey. The low skies above shed a constant sheen of moisture; not quite a full drizzle, but close.

  “Dreich,” I said as I pulled my collar to my chin, and arranged my scarf tight around my neck. As I walked onto South Bridge, I thought of the word, Scots by origin, yet it held such a German sound, it could have been foreign. I decided against walking; although the wind would be at my back, I would be soaked in minutes.

  Head down, crossing the street for an approaching number 3 tram, I watched every aspect of the road in front, the people, the soldiers, the trucks and cars on the wet roads. Once aboard I took details of every sodden passenger on the rickety tram. Once I got off in Newington, I paused to look in shop windows, watching in the reflection to see if I was being followed. I never noticed a thing out of the ordinary; just cold wet people making their best of a typical dismal Scottish day.

  On turning onto Richmond Street, I noticed a man coming straight towards me, his eyes on the wet paving stones in front of him. “Don’t go in.” he said quickly. “St. Francis Church.”

  I passed the man and the bar without pause or glance, turning quickly onto the wet cobbles of Davie Street, Simon Square, and doubling back onto the narrowing road of Gibb’s Entry. Two narrow alleys led back to South Bridge, but I lingered just inside the low arch. Not for the first time, I almost wished I smoked; it would have given me a legitimate reason to stop. Behind me, the dark shadows of Gibb’s Entry lay deserted, and through the narrow close I could see the silhouettes of unheeding pedestrians passing by. I felt assured I was fully alone.

  I ducked out onto the Bridges again, turned against the rain, and made my way south. From the corner of St. Francis Street, the church stood less than a hundred feet away.

  Against the dirty stone of the archway, the newly-painted royal blue door shone like a beacon. I approached slowly then strode up the three steps, grasping the ancient blackened ring handle. I turned it and pushed. As the door opened inwards, I gave a quick glance to either side. Seeing no-one, I quickly got out of the rain.

  The unlit foyer was dark, and my eyes took a second to adjust.

  Before me lay an archway to the main aisle, the warm pine pews to either side, an altar with its complex stained-glass windows beyond. The quiet scene was so colorful and vibrant in contrast to the greys outside. I walked slowly up the stone floor between the pews, smelling the coal smoke in the air, the slight warmth touching my cold cheeks. I sat on the front but one pew, looking at the hymn numbers on the large board, not knowing if they came from the service before, or the one to come.

  I think I sat there for ten minutes before I heard the door behind me, then the sound of a large iron latch being drawn. Turning, I saw Ivanhoe walking up the aisle. “You were followed from your building. Gestapo.” He said as he walked down the aisle, his footsteps echoing louder than mine had. “You lost him, but you’ll have to have a cover story for leaving so unexpectedly.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair, swept the locks away from my face. “I’ve needed a haircut for weeks. I’ll get one on the way back.”

  “That’ll work.” He sat on the pew opposite, looking all around.

  “All clear boss.” A voice said from behind the altar.

  I swear Ivanhoe sighed in relief, nodding. I heard a door close near the windows. “Brooks got caught with S.O.E. documents in his office.” I recalled my boss’s folded corpse, his head leaning against the stone of the wall. “He was sloppy. Tell me you don’t do that shite.”

  I shook my head. “There’s nothing in my office.”

  “Good. Look, we’re going to lay low for a week or so, let it all blow over, but in the meantime we need a favor.”

  I was still recoiling from the fact that perhaps Brooks had been the head of another cell in The Scotsman office. “Name it.”

  “Professor Sinclair, English Department.”

  “I know him, not well enough to talk to, but I know him.”

  “We need you to recruit him.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  He leaned over and handed me a small piece of thin paper. “Memorize this.”

  The message was handwritten in an ugly scrawl.

  Mistress, Wilma Wright, 16 Hermitage Gardens.

  He meets her at the Canny Mans, Fridays.

  His wife thinks he plays bridge with colleagues.

  Wilma is 26, works for a doctor in Morningside.

  They spent the whole of last weekend together in Dunbar.

  His wife thought he was at a conference in Stirling.

  The details were easy enough to remember. “I’ve got it.”

  “Eat it.”

  As Ivanhoe spoke, I tore the thin paper into eight pieces, then chewed it into a pulp. “That should be enough to convince him to remember he’s a patriot. He’s not a sympathizer, but that leverage should remind him of our scope.”

  “What do you want of him?”

  “Need to know only.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Just get him interested in helping us, and tell him he’ll be contacted.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell him the person who contacts him will mention the name ‘Willie Shakespeare’. Not ‘William Shakespeare’, but ‘Willie Shakespeare’.”

  I nodded my understanding. “When should I do this?”

  “As soon as possible, but definitely before Thursday afternoon. We don’t want him disappearing away for another weekend; we have a job for him.”

  Ivanhoe stood up abruptly then walked past the altar, replacing his hat, pulling it down over his eyes. “Give me five minutes and leave.”

  I got a haircut at the first barbers I passed, then caught a tram back to the office, conscious that it was now after eleven, and the one o’clock deadline loomed close. However, I needn’t have worried; Alice had the whole thing under control. Once I’d returned from the Castle, I h
eaded to the University buildings with an hour to spare for my lecture.

  The Old Buildings were right on the Bridges; I’d passed them twice today already. Inside I questioned a few friendly faces, and soon got pushed in the direction of the library. I recognized the professor, hunched over a very old-looking book. The scene looked so stereotypical; a scene from a spy novel.

  “Professor Sinclair?”

  He looked up, peering over the top of his reading glasses. “Yes?”

  I sat down next to him, and almost laughed at his bewildered expression. The man was over 50, paste thin, and the idea that he had inveigled a young woman into his bed seemed ludicrous. “Are you a patriot?”

  Considering he was a tenured professor, he sure was slow on the uptake. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked if you were a patriot. To the crown, to the country.”

  “Do I know you?” he took the glasses off, and gave me a good once over.

  “No, and you don’t need to.” I pulled my seat closer. I swear he almost recoiled from me. “I have a few friends that are interested in you doing some work for them.”

  “I’m not getting involved in Black market stuff, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “Professor Sinclair!” I snapped, my voice carrying far too far along the dusty shelves. “Are you a patriot? To the King? To the country?”

  “I say, I’ve had about enough…”

  I reached out, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and pressed his face downwards to the book. I leaned in slowly. I was new to this rough stuff, but I seemed to find some enjoyment in the play-acting. “Sinclair. Shut up and listen.” His eyes rolled sideways in fear. “I represent a few friends that are, shall I say, very patriotic. They want you to do some work for them, and you’re not going to say ‘no’, is that clear?” To my surprise, he nodded. “We know about Wilma and your Canny Mans meetings.”