A Funny Place to Hold a War

by John Harris

  ‘Bit of fun and games here last night,’ he said as they climbed aboard. ‘You’re lucky to be still around.’

  ‘We was all right,’ Ginger said.

  Fox watched as Scow 14 was cast off and headed downstream, its hold filled with the fruit collected the previous day. He had an idea something very odd was happening because the padre was still below with the sergeant wireless operator, their heads together, listening all the time as they moved the dials. Neither of them had had much to say and they took their meals without leaving the set.

  Jum was inclined to be gloomy after all the accidents that had occurred. The officers’ and sergeants’ mess, both somewhat thinned out by the deaths of the crews of X-X-ray, O-Orange and A-Apple and the postings to Takoradi and Bathurst, were most affected, but even those men who lived in the ugly Nissen huts and remained bound to the shabby uncomfortable base were concerned too.

  The aircrews trusted the men who worked on the engines, cleaned the bilges and made sure everything functioned on their long trips over the sea. They were all part of the same esoteric community and there was a considerable rapport between them. The practice of slipping small items of oversubscribed flying rations to flight mechanics, fitters, riggers and marine craft men was far from unusual, and everybody shared the common indignation when accidents occurred which shouldn’t have occurred.

  Molyneux was intrigued to hear of the white man in Makinkundi.

  ‘Know who he was?’ he asked Feverel.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Serviceman?’

  ‘He looked like it, but his clothes weren’t uniform, though it’s a bit hard to tell, because everybody wears what they like out here.’

  Molyneux nodded agreement. He was wearing civilian-cut shorts and a South African bush jacket himself.

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘We saw him yelling, sir, but there was so much noise going on we couldn’t make out what he was saying.’

  Molyneux didn’t ask whether Feverel thought the Africans he’d questioned had told him the truth, even though most of them must have been pagans and hadn’t sworn on a Bible. As the padre liked to say, it was almost too easy to become a Christian in Sierra Leone because the missionaries, both black and white, made converts just for the sake of the thing and they’d often discovered that pagans could be just as honest – and sometimes more honest – than someone who called himself an Anglican or a good Baptist.

  However, he contacted the police at Hawkinge Town and asked them to find Brima Komorrah. They knew of him but knew nothing of his background save that he came originally from up-country, had filed teeth and a skin marked by lines of healed knife cuts that the Africans called ‘tattooing’. He lived at Hawkinge Town, and Boina, where he worked, was in the Occra hills where a land surveying company was searching for new veins of iron ore. The police seemed a little preoccupied and it came out eventually that they were busy because of the near-riot at Makinkundi that Feverel had described. They had heard a white man had been attacked but they hadn’t yet found him and the sergeant was still investigating.

  Intrigued by the thought of a single white man in Makinkundi, Molyneux initiated a little cautious counting of noses to find if anybody was missing from the camp. Nobody was, so he rang RAF, Hawkinge.

  Hawkinge had also heard the news but couldn’t account for any absentees either, so he tried Royal Navy, Brighton, with the same result. Deciding that the man must have been a civilian, he tried British Overseas Airways, whose Sunderlands occasionally flew into Jum where they were serviced as if they were normal RAF machines. Since there was nowhere for civilian passengers to stay overnight, the corporation was organizing a few rest bungalows near Hawkinge Town and some of the bricklayers and carpenters they employed, not being under Service discipline, were inclined to break out occasionally.

  Once again he drew a blank, so he decided to try Lungi. It was just possible that one of their employees, taking the long way round to Freetown, could have found himself in Makinkundi at an inopportune moment. It took him almost half an hour to contact Lungi and he could hear Trixie Tristram complaining shrilly as he picked up a variety of wrong numbers. The site manager was inclined to be short-tempered because his work was still hampered by the sabotage of his machines.

  ‘You’re sure it was sabotage?’ Molyneux asked.

  ‘Sure, I’m sure. African nationalists, I expect.’

  Molyneux decided differently and, since unattached white men were difficult to explain and the one he was seeking didn’t seem to fit into any known pattern, he decided it might be a good idea to go and see for himself. He was just on the point of leaving when the pinnace returned.

  The padre’s face wore a secretive expression as he walked up the hill from the jetty with the wireless sergeant. For the next hour he was closeted with the signals section then he headed for Molyneux’ office.

  ‘What kept you?’ Molyneux asked. ‘The riot?’

  Morgan didn’t answer directly. ‘There’s noisy for you,’ he said. ‘Worse than an eisteddfod with a gorsedd of bards all fighting drunk. I’ve got a few things to show you. I’ve been up at signals digging them out. Take a look at this for a start.

  He laid in front of Molyneux a sheet of paper on which he had written what looked like two lines of German poetry.

  … Diene Schritte kennt sie, dienen zierlichen Gang,

  Alle Abende brennt sie, doch mich vergass sie lang…

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a song. A German song.’

  ‘What’s it mean?’

  ‘Not much in itself. But it’s significant, isn’t it, in view of the amount of German that seems to be floating about round here at the moment?’

  Molyneux looked puzzled. ‘Is that what you picked up?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the padre said. ‘But not on the wireless. On the telephone.’

  Molyneux sat bolt upright. ‘On the bloody telephone?’

  ‘Some time ago as a matter of fact. I was talking to one of the telephone operators at HQ. The one who dresses as an usherette when the concert party’s on…’

  ‘A bloody bad influence, in my opinion,’ Molyneux growled.

  ‘That’s my opinion, too, to say nothing of the medical officer’s. But that’s by the way.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Taff, come to the point! What happened at Makinkundi?’

  ‘I’m coming to it. Just be patient. I’m putting things in the right order. This telephone operator chap speaks a little German – not as much as he pretends, but some – because he was on the Continental telephone exchange before the war and he told me he’d occasionally picked up German in his headphones while trying to get numbers for Groupy or other people.’

  ‘German? Here?’

  ‘You know what the telephone lines are like. They’re about as efficient as everything else and you can just as easily speak to the Scarcies ferry operator as the commissioner of police. I told him to call me if any more came in. He did. Just before we left for Makinkundi. That’s what I heard. No more. Just that. Then it went off and we picked up the United Africa Company ordering rice. Eventually, he got what he was after, which was British Overseas Airways in Freetown.’

  ‘Well, go on. What is this song?’

  ‘It’s one the Germans sing. It’s called “Lili Marlene”. He’d got a crossed line and was on to someone who had a radio going in the background. It’s a catchy tune you don’t easily forget and I recognized it at once because I know it well. I believe it was written during the last war and I heard it first at one of those ex-servicemen’s reunions the Nazis liked so much. As an ex-soldier, I got invited and we spent the evening wallowing in nostalgia, and for nostalgia “Lili Marlene” has Vera Lynn beaten to a frazzle. The signals officer’s also heard it. Not only on the forces network in English but also in German on the telephone like me, which seems to indicate that somebody round here who isn’t aware of what the telephone can do makes a habit of listening to German radio.’
>
  The padre paused and smiled. ‘It’s a good song, mind, and I gather it’s becoming popular in the desert, with everybody singing their own version. South Africans in Afrikaans. Poles in Polish. Even the Indians in Urdu and Hindi. I’m told the first time they heard it in Italian they thought it was Mussolini’s National Anthem.’

  Conducting himself with the stem of his pipe, the padre offered the tune.

  Vor der Kaserne, vor dem grossen Tor,

  Stand eine Laterne und steht sie noch davor…

  He had a surprisingly good baritone voice but Molyneux stared at him as if he were mad. Morgan guessed what he was thinking.

  ‘Trust a Welshman to spot a good song,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I tried it on young Kneller, that singer chap we have. Man, there’s a voice for you. He knew it, too. He’d heard it on the pinnace radio. He sang it for me.’

  ‘He would. Is that all?’

  ‘I think it’s a lot, because it fits with what we heard at Makinkundi, which is why I brought it up first. We picked up transmissions that the wireless sergeant couldn’t account for.

  ‘In English?’

  ‘That would be too much luck.’ The padre gestured with a handful of signal flimsies he held. ‘This is everything we took down. We kept a listening watch the whole time, the sergeant taking down the Morse and me listening on a spare set of headphones for anything in plain language in German. There wasn’t much. The sergeant said they were on the same wavelength as the navy and that it was hard to separate them. But every time the navy blasted out, so did they – underneath. He couldn’t separate them because there was a lot of what he called mush, but I bet their friends could.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Numbers mostly.’ The padre waved the signal flimsies again. ‘They were the same ones we picked up from that feller at Lungi. The plain language was isolated words and phrases – all meaningless. But there were some I recognized.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘“Abteilung”, which means “section, division, unit”. And “B-dienst”, which I gather from the navy is the deciphering service the Germans use against British signals. We also picked up some French, too. The name Hatziger, for a start. And that, in case you don’t know it, is the name of the Vichy general in French Guinea who doesn’t love us very much because there’s a grave in Hawkinge Town cemetery that contains his son.’

  Molyneux’ eyebrows shot up. ‘Does it? I didn’t know.’

  Morgan fished in his pocket and produced a sheet of folded paper. ‘Run your eye over that, boy.’

  Molyneux picked up the sheet. It was dated May 1941, and was from the then air officer commanding to the then C-in-C, South Atlantic.

  ‘Subject,’ he read. ‘Destruction of French Dewoitine aircraft, 16 May 1941.’

  ‘This machine,’ the message read, ‘was shot down by naval anti-aircraft fire. Both members of the crew were killed. Papers found on them indicate they had come from French Guinea and were intending to overfly the harbour of Freetown, where Convoy AS 11 was watering en route to the Middle East. Pilot was Commandant Charles-Christophe Hatziger, a regular officer of the French Armée de l’Air. His passenger has been identified as Jean-Pierre Dufy, a civilian and a known German agent in Conakry. Both men have been buried at Hawkinge.’

  Molyneux looked up. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Signals office. They’re a pretty ungodly lot here and since there isn’t much call for my services in church, I get employed around headquarters in a variety of ways whenever anybody’s short of a pair of hands. Censoring mail. Tidying drawers. Just the job for an active man. We were clearing the files to make room for the new bumph that comes in when I saw this. I remembered it when we picked up the name last night so I dug it out again for you.’ Morgan touched the message. ‘I know the grave, because I’ve been looking after it. Group captain’s instructions, in case Vichy changes sides, as they undoubtedly will if we start winning.

  ‘One last thing.’ The padre looked smug. ‘With the aid of signals, we got a fix on the transmitter for you. It wasn’t very exact, of course, because we were a bit close to each other, but the lines we drew meet somewhere around Boina in the Occra hills.’

  Molyneux was still staring at the padre, his heart thumping suddenly with excitement, when the telephone rang. He listened for a while then he put it down and told his clerk to get him a car.

  ‘Things seem to be happening,’ he said.

  ‘Police Sergeant Momedu of the Hawkinge Town police has picked up this Brima Komorrah who provides the French beer I’m interested in. He should be useful. Care to come along?’

  Together they drove to Hawkinge Town. The police station was a bustle of efficiency with self-important black constables moving in and out. Sitting on a bench just inside, looking terrified, was a large African, his hands clasped on his knees, his eyes rolling.

  ‘This is the chap?’ Molyneux asked.

  ‘Dis de chap.’ Sergeant Momedu spoke passably good English, having once served in the Sierra Leone Regiment. ‘He Brima Komorrah from Moa ribber. Him Sherbro boy. We pick him up dis mornin’. Plenty trouble Makinkundi las’ night. Bundu ceremony at Aki. Plenty drumming. Plenty dance. Everybody laugh. Den white boss come. Get drunk. Fight start. Boy pour petrol over white boss and set him fire.’ Momedu’s eyes rolled towards a nearby door and he jerked his head. ‘He in dar.’

  They had noticed the smell when they’d arrived but had thought nothing about it.

  ‘Is he the one we heard about?’ Molyneux asked. ‘The one who was attacked.’

  ‘Yassah.’

  ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘Boss, he dead.’

  Molyneux’ heart sank. He’d been hoping the white man, when he found him, might be able to tell him a few things.

  ‘Who is he?’ he asked.

  Momedu had no doubts. ‘He got Dutch papers, sah, but I t’ink he mebbe French.’

  Molyneux looked quickly at the padre. ‘Why do you think that?’

  Momedu placed a dirty rag on the table and opened it out. It contained a scorched blue packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Caporal, sah.’ He pointed to the cigarettes. ‘Dutch boss no like Caporal cigarettes. Only French boss smoke Caporal.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Sah, one-time me small boy belong Guinea.’

  ‘Were you, by God? Did you hear this chap speak French?’

  ‘No, sah. He speak somet’ing I no know. I speak him English. Den he speak me English.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He bad hurt. I tell him I take him hospital. He no wan’ go hospital. So I send boy for doctor.’

  ‘And did the doctor talk to him?’

  ‘No, sah. He dead. Chop-chop. I got all his t’ings ’longside next door.’

  ‘Any papers?’

  ‘No, sah. No papers. Bunch keys. Coins. West African coins wit’ hole in middle for string, for Mende boy to put round neck. And cigarettes, sah. Also, him shoes plenty muddy, Boss. But mud not from here. From up-country. In hills. I t’ink.’

  ‘Boina?’

  Yassah. Boina way. We find motor car belong him. I t’ink dat from Boina way also.’

  Sergeant Momedu not only had a knowledge of things French but he also appeared to have the makings of a detective.

  ‘You want to see him, sah? Soon dey take him away.

  ‘Anything to see?’

  ‘No, sah. Much burn. No hair. No eyebrows. Not’ing.’

  ‘I’ll see him,’ Morgan said. ‘If he is French, then he’ll more than likely be a Catholic, but, dhu, man, I don’t think the Lord would object if he has a Protestant prayer said over him. I seem to be doing this a lot lately.’

  As Morgan vanished, Molyneux turned to Momedu again. ‘What about this Brima Komorrah? What did he have to say for himself ?’

  ‘He say beer come from Boina.’

  ‘Lots of things come from Boina, eh?’

  Yassah. I t’ink he steal. He mess boy dar.’ />
  ‘Would he know that chap you’ve got in there?’

  ‘Yassah. He know. I take him look-see. He know. He say he from Boina.’

  ‘What about the other men there? How come they have French beer?’

  ‘Boss, he don’ know.’

  With the aid of Momedu, Molyneux managed to question Komorrah but the African knew nothing. He admitted stealing bottles of beer from where he worked, and he was scared stiff because he thought it had been bought from a Syrian who had arranged for it to be stolen from the docks and he was afraid of being implicated. Occasionally, he said, other beer appeared, though he had no idea, not being able to read, that it was French. All he knew was that it was different, and he thought it came across the border.

  Molyneux’ mind was busy. ‘What’ll happen to him?’ he asked.

  ‘He be charged,’ Momedu said. ‘He t’ief.’

  Molyneux frowned. ‘Can you hold him for a while, Sergeant? I don’t want anybody to know I’m interested in Boina.’

  Momedu smiled. ‘Sah, we hold him plenty good. We say he arrest for humbugging policeman. We take him Freetown. Nobody palaver him there.’

  Morgan was grave-faced when he reappeared. He said nothing as they left the little stone police station and climbed into Molyneux’ car. Carefully, he lit his pipe and puffed at it for a while. Eventually he spoke. ‘I think Momedu was right,’ he said slowly. ‘At least, part right. He certainly wasn’t British. But I don’t think he was Dutch or French either. I think he was German.’

  ‘Another of the buggers?’ Molyneux’ head jerked round. ‘Why do you think that?’

  Morgan opened his hand. ‘This,’ he said. ‘It was among his money.’

  In his palm was a small metal badge, almost circular and not much bigger than a large coin. It was blackened by the flames that had killed its owner but as Morgan rubbed it with the hall of his thumb, Molyneux saw it was fashioned like a laurel wreath surmounted by an eagle. On the other side were a few embossed words and a swastika.