by Will Belford
‘Joe? I’m sorry, do not let the cutlery worry you. Few women will notice if you use the dessert spoon for the soup.’
‘Except you of course Yvette,’ he countered, ‘and you are the only woman I want to notice.’
She laughed again and looked out the window.
Joe was in a terrible state of indecision. Apart from offering her arm, it seemed she’d given him no sign that she even liked him much. The dinner was drawing to a close: it was now or never.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Joe leaned forward and looked her in the eye.
‘Yvette, this might be a bit what we call ‘forward’, but, I’ve got a week’s leave coming up and I was thinking that … oh hell, it’s impossible, forget it,’ he tailed off.
‘What Joe,’ she asked, fanning the tiny flame of hope that still flickered, ‘you were thinking what?’
He spoke quickly, hoping to get it all out before the inevitable refusal.
‘I was thinking that if you had the time, maybe we could go on some sort of trip; visit some of these Roman ruins you were talking about. Is there anywhere within a day or two of here you’ve always wanted to go?’
She clapped her hands, laughed delightedly and reached across the table to take his hands.
‘A trip? There is nothing I would rather do. ‘ow about we go to Diekirch? I’ve always wanted to see the ruins of the baths there.’
‘Diekirch? Where is it?’ Joe didn’t care if it was in Antarctica, he had asked her and she had agreed to go, he couldn’t believe his luck.
‘It’s in the far east of Belgium, well Luxembourg really, in the foothills of the Ardennes. You can get there in a day on the express train. It’s supposed to be a beautiful place.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Joe, raising his glass, ‘to Diekirch then.’
Suddenly her face fell, ‘Ah Joe, it is not so easy. My uncle will probably insist on a chaperone. You will ‘ave to come and meet him.’
She clinked her glass on his.
‘I would so much like to go to Diekirch with you Joe; it all depends on mon oncle.’
‘Mon oncle then,’ said Joe with a smile, and downed his glass in one gulp.
~ ~ ~
‘I needn’t remind you Dean that this document is Top Secret,’ said Major Merrivale, ‘your job is not to read it but to encode it. The Brigadier requested this himself, his signals truck caught fire yesterday, so you men are the only unit around here with the skill and the equipment.’
‘Why are we enciphering it Major?’ asked Joe, ‘surely this sort of information wouldn’t be transmitted by radio?’
‘I’m told it’s a deception measure. All the forward-deployment orders transmitted to British units so far have been false, designed to fool Gerry into thinking we’re going to advance east. We’ll be going north of course, to cover Brussels, but the real orders haven’t been distributed until now. This is just another in a long stream, but to maintain consistency it needs to be transmitted tonight.’
‘We’ll get onto it Major.’
In the signals tent, Hagan Schmidt was trying to memorise the British signals manual and codebook. His English was good, but even so it was a struggle to remember the word-based sections of the codes, made even harder by the images of the Jewish girl in the town that kept filling his head.
She was a sweet morsel and he wanted her. He wanted her submitting to him, screaming with desire as he held her down and pounded her until she begged him to stop. Of course that would never happen, she had eyes only for the Australian lieutenant and it was quite clear what those eyes saw when she looked at him. He’d watched them closely, as he’d been trained to watch everyone. Nothing escaped him.
Now, sitting in the signals tent, he cursed for the hundredth time Oberst Huber, whose idea it had been to ‘embed’ him into British Army Headquarters. Sure enough, he’d been assigned to a frontline unit, and here he was, stuck in a tent in Belgium of all places, when he should have been firmly ensconced in the British signals headquarters.
He looked up as Joe entered.
‘We’ve got a job mate. You know the drill. Encipher it using tonight’s codes, then give it to me to check and I’ll send it. Billy Simpson’s outside on guard. He won’t let anyone in, and you’re not to leave this tent until you’re finished. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’
Joe left him to it and walked back into town to have dinner.
Inside the tent, Schmidt began enciphering the document. After completing just a few lines he had to contain himself when he recognised it for what it was: the order of battle for the whole BEF. This was gold, a far greater find than anything he could have laid his hands on in the Army Headquarters back in England, and it had just fallen into his lap. He simply had to get hold of the complete document and transmit it to Germany. Could he both copy it and encipher it in an hour?
He grabbed a piece of spare paper and shuffled it underneath the page he was encoding onto. Then he started, pressing as hard as he could to make a clear impression on the sheet underneath. He would have plenty of time to decode it later.
Joe returned to the tent after consuming a decent coq au vin and the rest of the bottle not used in the chicken. He’d given a few shillings of his weekly pay to his hosts and he certainly couldn’t complain that they were making his stay there anything but pleasant. Walking back over the bridge with the sun setting behind him, well-fed and well-watered, a post-prandial cigarette filling his lungs, he felt pretty comfortable.
‘All done then?’ he asked, walking into the tent.
‘Nearly sir, five minutes?’
‘Okay, I’ll have fag. Call me when you’re done.’
Schmidt stuffed the impressions into his pocket, left the tent and handed the enciphered version to Joe.
‘Finished.’
‘Thanks, see you in the morning.’
‘Yes sir.’
Schmidt walked down the slope and crossed the bridge into town, He felt as if his pocket was on fire and his back itched, but as he turned the corner into the main street he knew he’d got away with it.
Chapter Eleven
France, 5 May, 1940
Switching off the torch, Hagan Schmidt crept up the trench line to where the sentry should have been, stopped and listened carefully. The sound of snores carried gently across the night air from the dugout to his left.
He tip-toed into the dugout to find Private Simpson fast asleep on the bunk. The radios were sitting on a platform dug into the wall. Schmidt moved quietly over and grabbed the nearest one. Stepping out of the dugout, his foot landed in a pile of empty cans that some careless soldier had failed to bury. The clatter sounded to him like a thunderclap and he froze. There was a snuffle and a cough from inside the dugout, then silence. After a few seconds, the snores recommenced. Watching his feet, Schmidt moved on until he reached the edge of the woods. He crept in through the trees to a pitch-black gully, where he squatted in the shadows and switched on the radio. As the valves warmed, their orange and purple glow outlined the edges of the case and the backs of the dials.
He pulled the decoded order of battle from his coat pocket, set the frequency dial and gave the call sign.
‘Norden, this is Doberman, come in, over.’
‘Norden receiving you Doberman, over.’
Schmidt began reciting the patterns of numbers from the pages, but he had barely begun when he heard footsteps.
‘Who goes there?’ came the voice of Private Farmer: the timid challenge of an uncertain man alone in the darkness.
Cursing, Schmidt stood up.
‘It’s only me Farmer.’
‘What the hell are you doing out here? You’re on duty in two hours, shouldn’t you be getting some sleep?’ asked Farmer. He was standing on the edge of the gully, his rifle pointing down, the strap over his shoulder.
‘Didn’t the Lieutenant tell you? We have a combined exercise with the French divisional artillery tonight, I got here early to test my frequencies,’ lied Sc
hmidt, pointing to the radio.
‘I’ve not heard anything about any combined exercise, but I thought I heard someone talking German, ‘Heinz Zvy Dry’ and all that, like they were telling us about the other day,’ said the suspicious sentry.
‘I was speaking French, it sounds a bit like German,’ said Schmidt, wondering how he could get rid of the accursed pest. Perhaps intimidation would work.
‘Farmer, when I passed the guard post before, I heard you snoring. You want the Major to find out about that?’
‘Asleep? Not me.’ replied Farmer indignantly, ‘I must have been having a piss out the back when you went past. You heard Simpson, he’s having a sleep before it’s his turn. Anyway, you’re not supposed to be out here mister, exercise or no exercise.’
Schmidt couldn’t believe his ill-luck. Over the horizon, the biggest invasion the world had ever seen was preparing, and here he was, poised to provide critical intelligence to the German High Command, arguing with an English peasant. The man’s petty officious manner reminded him of the bullies who’d tormented him at his English public school, and he could feel the blood rising in his face and the adrenalin sparking his nerves. He told himself to stay calm and think, just as Colonel Huber had taught him.
‘This is all well out of order,’ said Farmer, ‘you know the rules, it’s curfew after 9 o’clock unless you’ve got a pass, and if you’re on sentry, you’re either walking the trench or in the dugout. Otherwise I might shoot someone by mistake. Now you’d better get back to the dugout and we’ll forget the whole thing, alright?’
‘Alright Farmer, just give me a moment to get the radio on my back will you? It’s heavy.’
Then the radio crackled and the voice came in German, ‘Doberman, horen sie mich?’
‘What the … ?’ said Farmer, staring at the radio.
Schmidt realised that it was too late. Even if he could explain this away to Farmer, in the morning the fool would certainly report what he’d seen in the woods: the radio switched on, signals coming in “what sounded like German to me sir.” An explanation would be demanded and there was no plausible explanation. He’d been careless, and underestimated the enemy. The enemy would have to pay for that mistake.
Schmidt lunged upwards and hauled with all his strength on the end of the rifle. The strap pulled Farmer forward and he toppled over the edge of the gully, landing hard on the rocks and dropping the rifle. Schmidt was on him in an instant, his hands around the throat, thumbs pushing deep into the flesh, fingers clawing at the back of the man‘s neck. Farmer struggled fiercely to escape the terrible chokehold and managed to dislodge one of Schmidt’s hands, but the German was stronger and he was on top. By the time Farmer got a grip on his attacker’s throat he was too far gone and his struggles weakened as his body was starved of oxygen.
Dripping with sweat, Schmidt looked up from the murderous task and checked around him. There was no one; no alarm; nothing. He slumped to the ground as the adrenaline surge abated. What now? He couldn’t get rid of the body. He’d have to make it look like an accident, then return the radio to the dugout before Simpson woke up, and finish the transmission later.
Farmer was lying on his back. Schmidt rolled him over, grasped his head and twisted it with all his strength until he heard a crack. He cast about him in the darkness. At the foot of the slope there was a tree whose branches forked a few feet off the ground. He had an idea.
~ ~ ~
Joe shielded his eyes from the rising sun as he peered down into the gully where Private Farmer’s lifeless body lay. Simpson had found him only minutes before and come running straight to Joe with the news. It looked like the man had come out here in the dark, missed his footing on the edge of the gully and fallen. By some incredibly bad stroke of luck his head had landed in the crook of a tree when he fell. It looked like he’d broken his neck; certainly his head was at an unnatural angle.
‘What the hell was he doing out here in the bloody pitch-dark? Having a slash?’ asked Joe.
‘He was on guard, maybe he heard something sir and decided to investigate,’ said Simpson, feeling guilty because he’d been asleep when it happened. He’d missed his watch because Farmer hadn’t woken him, and now he was on a charge for dereliction of duty.
‘What’d he hear for heaven’s sake, an owl? Stone the bloody crows, we’re not even at war yet and we’ve lost a man. What was he thinking?’
‘Dunno sir,’ said Simpson miserably, ‘will I get his things together sir?’
‘Yes do that,’ replied Joe, ‘but first I have to report to the Major, we’ll have to get the blasted MPs to deal with this.’
He turned and walked up the slope to find Summerville waiting at the edge of the wood.
‘What the hell is it Summers?’ said Joe. He was angry. Angry that a man in his platoon had died needlessly, pointlessly, without even firing a shot.
‘You need any help moving him sir?’ asked the private.
‘Nah, the redcaps’ll deal with it, haven’t you got radio drill with the arty boys now?’
‘Yes, five minutes, I just thought I’d offer to help.’
‘Well go and get your radio, forget about Farmer, he’s gone.’
Joe walked over the bridge and back into town. Something was niggling at his mind, but he had a train to catch that night, and plenty to organise before then.
An hour later at the command post, a Military Police Captain approached him.
‘Lieutenant Dean?’ he enquired, ‘I believe Private Farmer was one of your platoon sir.’
‘Yep, poor bugger.’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this sir,’ replied the Sergeant, ‘but it looks like he didn’t die by accident.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Joe.
‘His neck was broken alright sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘but the doctor reckons it was done by twisting it, not by falling into the crook of that tree. He says the only way a neck could be broken like that is if it was twisted through 180 degrees. Most likely way for that to happen is if someone twisted it. Also, there are marks that suggest he was strangled.’
‘Strangled? So it’s murder then?’ asked Joe incredulously.
‘It seems so, that’s what we’ll be investigating anyway sir. We’d appreciate a bit of your time and then we’ll talk to all your men, see if we can find out a bit more of what was going on last night. We’re especially interested in Private Simpson sir, he was the last person to see Farmer alive. Thing is sir, that’s usually the most likely suspect you see.’
‘Well tell me what you need sergeant,’ replied Joe ‘I’m supposed to be going on leave tonight. I suppose I’ll have to cancel that.’
‘No need for that sir, you can’t do much for us anyway. Lieutenant Jameson has confirmed that you were with him all evening. We’ll have a report for the Captain by sundown tomorrow.’
‘Well go easy on Simpson will you?’ said Joe, ‘I’ve already lost one man, I need him to fight Germans.’
‘We’ll bear that in mind sir,’ said the sergeant, He saluted and walked away.
Chapter Twelve
France, 8 May 1940
The radio was heavier than it looked and the straps chafed Joe’s shoulders as he trudged up the side of the hill. A hundred yards on either side of him, Kelly, Summerville and Jaroslek were already settled in their observation points, while a few miles behind them, the 25-pounders of the regimental artillery were loading coloured smoke shells into their barrels.
Reaching the top of the hill, Joe swung the radio down and sat in the grass. To the east, farmland stretched away, undulating gently and dotted with copses of conifers. Off in the distance a herd of cows grazed contentedly in the sunshine; in the field below him a large cross had been whitewashed onto the grass.
With a few minutes until the exercise began, Joe sat back and enjoyed the peace and quiet. His thoughts turned to Farmer. Who could have murdered him and why? The MPs’ investigation had been inconclusive. Simpson had no motive and was clearly te
rrified enough to say anything, while the rest of the platoon had been asleep in their billets, at least according to their own accounts. In short, they had nothing. Farmer’s family would receive a letter from Major Merrivale saying he’d died in a training accident.
Realising there was no end to these speculations, Joe switched on the radio and tuned it to the agreed frequency.
‘Hammer One this is Bluebird One, are you receiving me? Over.’ The radio crackled then a tinny voice replied, ‘Loud and clear Bluebird.’ Joe asked the same question with minor variations four times until he was satisfied that all four observers had communication with himself and the battery.
‘Hammer One, episode begins at GNE34.’
‘GNE34, roger.’
A few seconds later a shell whistled over his head and landed in the field below him, to the right and beyond the white cross. Blue smoke jetted skyward and drifted towards him on the breeze.
‘Correction. Two North, Three West.’
‘Two North, Three West, roger,’ crackled the radio and seconds later another shell arced over and landed within two yards of the cross.
‘On target, fire for effect,’ said Joe into the mouthpiece.
A full salvo of shells screamed over Joe’s head and he covered his ears as they burst in the field. The cross was obscured in a dense cloud of red smoke.
‘Direct hit Hammer One. Bluebird Two, your call.’
Joe put the mouthpiece down and listened in as each of his signallers went through the routine, firing at their own targets. Each time they got a Fire For Effect within two shots. The British gunners were good. Of course, they’d had plenty of time to lay the guns and get familiar with the maps and co-ordinates; he hoped they would be that accurate if his men had to call down a barrage in a battle.
Joe was about to pack up his radio when he heard a burst of what sounded like German come across the air. He bent his ear to the headphones and heard it again.
‘Zwei und vierzig, dreizehn, ein und achtzig, funf.’
