Ungentlemanly Warfare

by Howard Linskey

  There were as many horse-drawn carriages on the road as petrol vehicles these days. Horses needed food but not fuel, and petrol was in shorter supply, so many tradesmen now preferred the older methods to ferry their bulkier wares around London. Baker Street was a peculiarly Dickensian scene, one which Sherlock Holmes himself would have had little difficulty in recognising.

  Walsh passed a teashop with a window boarded-up in anticipation of an air raid. Some enterprising amateur artist, the owner perhaps, had painted the accoutrements of a traditional English afternoon tea on the boards as an invitation to passers-by, as if to imply such delights actually awaited them inside. Walsh knew there was little chance of that. The only scones or cakes likely to be found here were of the painted variety.

  As Walsh traversed Baker Street, he was assailed by posters urging him to ‘Buy War Bonds’, ‘Dig For Victory’, or simply ‘Eat More Potatoes’, then ardently reminded that ‘This firm is entirely British’ by a barber who had once been proud of his Italian heritage before the outbreak of hostilities.

  He finally reached the plain sandbagged door of 64 Baker Street and instinctively checked to see if anyone was taking an unusual interest in the building. Passers-by did not pause, nor were there suspicious-looking souls loitering on street corners, surveying the property. Nobody walking by this large, innocuous-looking building could have guessed it housed the highly secret organisation known as the Special Operations Executive.

  Walsh went straight to the third floor – the home of ‘F’ Section and the spartan office to which he had been summoned. SOE divided itself into departments, each representing the country in which its operations were based. France had four sections; one run by Gaullists and another by Poles, a third was an escape line for captured airmen and finally there was ‘F’ Section, the British-run outfit to which Walsh belonged. The SOE had been hurriedly formed in July 1940 when Winston Churchill instructed Hugh Dalton, the Minister for Economic Warfare, to ‘Set Europe Ablaze’ and Harry Walsh had been, if not exactly a founding father, at least one of the earliest waifs and strays through its doors.

  Walsh rapped on an office door and the familiar public-school voice of Major Robert Price answered him.

  ‘Come in,’ murmured the deputy head of ‘F’ Section and Walsh obeyed. ‘Sit down, Walsh,’ he said, without looking up from the papers he was reading, affording Walsh a perfect view of his superior’s balding head, interrupted only by a thin ginger wisp of combed-over hair. He said nothing further, so Walsh took the vacant chair that faced Price’s well-ordered desk. Like all of the furniture in the building, it was basic and functional.

  Price kept him waiting in what Walsh took as a display of authority. The younger man looked placidly beyond Price’s shoulder, watching as an improbably bulbous spider patiently span a web in the window outside. He wondered how it had managed to climb this far up the building.

  Price was wordlessly writing notes across a pile of memos. Finally, but still without raising his eyes to meet Walsh’s, he spoke, ‘Madeleine came back with the most extraordinary story.’

  Walsh wasn’t sure what was expected of him in response but when the Major failed to elaborate further he said, ‘Really, sir?’

  Price did look up then, ‘Yes “really, sir”,’ he answered in a chiding tone. Price was a squat rotund man, just the wrong side of forty but looked considerably older. When he became annoyed – as he had a tendency to do when Walsh was in the building – his face burned a deep red, instantly becoming the most colourful thing in his drab little office. Today he appeared calmer but Walsh knew it was unlikely to last. ‘I must say I just don’t know what to make of it. It turns out Etienne Dufoy is very likely dead and the man she was sent to collect almost certainly an impostor; or should I say, he was an impostor, as I ought to add that the bloody inconvenient woman killed him.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure she had good cause, sir.’

  ‘She did apparently, or so she says. Madeleine tailed our man to a café where she overheard him speaking into the telephone in German to an unspecified contact. She understood just enough of this conversation to realise he was about to betray the exact time and location of the landing zone then she killed him. Strangled him with the phone cord evidently and not a soul noticed until she was clean away.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You keep saying that, Walsh, yes really.’

  ‘Remarkable lady that one.’

  ‘Oh she is, definitely. Of course, her story is complete and utter twaddle.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid you’ve lost me.’

  ‘Let’s just say I shall dig deeper. If I find you had any involvement whatsoever in this then you are in a truly enormous amount of trouble. You’ll beg me to return you to the wilds of Scotland to take up permanent residence as an instructor.’

  ‘I doubt that very much.’

  ‘Well don’t, because I can dream up a hundred less attractive postings than that one, believe me.’

  ‘I’m sure you can, sir, but I don’t know…’

  ‘Have the decency to be quiet while I’m rollocking you, lad. Now you may have managed to cover your tracks on this one, for now; the pilot swears there was only a young woman on board the Lysander that night, nobody saw you at the air field and of course Madeline is hardly going to be disloyal to the “legendary” Captain Harry Walsh now is she?’

  ‘I barely know the girl.’

  Price carried on as if he had not heard Walsh, ‘But I’m not partial to legends, particularly ones who disobey my orders as regularly as you do. Ever since that little incident involving the diamonds I’ve had my eye on you, Walsh, and frankly I’ve had a belly-full of your dumb insolence.’

  ‘Permission to speak, sir?’

  ‘Permission granted,’ answered Price suspiciously.

  ‘I was sent to repatriate a large consignment of industrial diamonds from occupied France, under the noses of the Germans, and I did just that. I completed my mission and we benefited to the tune of some £60,000.’

  ‘That’s just the point, isn’t it? The consignment was valued at £70,000 and you know it.’

  Walsh felt his blood beginning to boil, ‘By a crook, a convicted fraudster and counterfeiter, he valued them at £70,000.’

  ‘We utilise the talents of many such men in SOE, Walsh. You are not averse to using them yourself from time to time.’

  ‘I’ll use that kind to get the job done but I don’t believe every word they tell me. Your man Maurant spent more time in prison than out of it. He is not only a crook but a singularly unsuccessful one. I would take every word he said with a hefty pinch of salt if I were you.’

  ‘But you’re not me, Walsh, which leaves us with the mystery of the missing £10,000 in diamonds. Where can they be, I wonder?’

  ‘No idea,’ offered Walsh defiantly, ‘have you looked under Maurant’s mattress?’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse; you know the Gestapo caught up with him. I would imagine if he had taken the diamonds they would have found a way to persuade him to hand them over before he died, don’t you?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘So, we’re back to you again, Walsh.’

  Walsh felt his indignation rising. Price might be his commanding officer but he had no good cause to distrust his subordinate, nor any new reason to question him on the disappearance of the mythical diamonds. ‘And I am not going through it all again. Your superiors cleared me of any wrongdoing and the whole thing happened more than two years ago, so I won’t answer any more questions unless you make them formal. Are you making this formal, sir?’

  Price looked as if he was about to explode at the tone of Walsh’s carefully worded defiance but, realising he was on shaky ground with his unproven accusations, he gathered as much dignity as he could muster and replied through gritted teeth.

  ‘Not for the time being.’

  �
�Will that be all for now then, sir?’

  ‘No, it will not,’ and Price sighed as if trying hard to contain his exasperation, ‘there is another matter I wish to discuss.’

  ‘And what would that be, sir?’ Walsh was relieved Price had managed to uncover so little of his clandestine adventure with Emma. Good girl, he thought to himself, got your story nice and straight. Later he would enjoy a smile to himself at the thought of Emma Stirling strangling someone with a phone cord, not because she was incapable of such a violent act, far from it, but because she had clearly anticipated Price’s need for a full and vivid account. She had certainly supplied it, complete with a traitor’s lifeless body left in the darkened corridor of a French café to be discovered by the startled owner. Thanks to her, it appeared Walsh had survived.

  ‘The use, your use, your unauthorised use to be precise, of some of our very precious equipment. I have a few questions to put to you, Walsh, and I want some straight answers.’

  ‘Sir, I would never dream of giving you any other kind.’

  Professor Gaerte wore a grey suit that morning but no lab coat. The civilian clothes would underline his authority, making him stand out from the white-coated subordinates now back under his heel. As Gaerte entered the room, Schiller intercepted him. He had been expecting something from Schiller; the bright, young, doe-eyed, obsequious, treacherous youth.

  ‘May I say what a pleasure it is to have you back on the project, Herr Professor…’ Gaerte stopped him with a raised finger, warm smile and friendly sing-song voice completely at odds with his words,

  ‘Don’t be absurd, Schiller. You conspired to have me removed me from the project, you must realise I know that.’ He raised his voice to address the score of young scientists in the room. ‘You are all worried men and so you should be. You’ve had things all your own way for a dozen wasted weeks and what have you achieved apart from a handful of roasted pilots? Nothing. The Komet is still too heavy. I said it all along. Now you will work for me, tirelessly and without complaint. At the end of our time here the Komet will be ready for combat testing. I have promised the Reichsmarschall this. Those who reach my standards in the intervening weeks will accompany me to France, those who do not will be reassigned,’ and Gaerte’s eyes flicked over the cohort of worried faces.

  There was complete silence. Good, just the right combination of fear and hope. They were all scared witless yet had been given a glimpse of salvation and how they would work to achieve it. All except Schiller that is, he would work, by God, harder than them all, Gaerte would see to that, but his fate was already sealed. Schiller’s reassignment had been approved. They were always looking for men of science to conduct experiments on the Untermensch. Schiller would spend the rest of the war at one of those God-forsaken camps in the east, inserting needles into filthy Jewish arms, with the stench of the place always in his nostrils. He would rot there. Gaerte would see to it.

  ‘Good,’ he said when no answer was forthcoming, ‘then let us begin!’

  Selwyn Jepson reached into the briefcase and retrieved the buff manila folder, placed it carefully on the desk in front of him, opened it and began to read. ‘Now then, yes, Harry Walsh, here we are. Do you want to know everything, sir, or just the interesting bits?’

  Major General Colin Gubbins sat impatiently opposite him in an office not two floors from where Walsh was, at that very moment, being harangued by his deputy section head. ‘Give me what you think I need to know,’ said the Executive Head of the SOE and he frowned at Jepson bringing two dark bushy eyebrows almost together as he did so. Gubbins was a small man but no less imposing because of it. A Scot, with no discernible trace of an accent thanks to a lifetime of received pronunciation of the King’s English, first at public school then in the army. He looked every inch the British officer, right down to the precisely clipped, caterpillar-shaped moustache he favoured.

  ‘Right you are, sir. Back then, like every potential recruit, he was interviewed by Major Lewis Gielgud.’

  ‘Oh yes, his brother’s the actor, Shakespeare and so forth.’

  ‘Indeed he is. Walsh was regular army, like most of our early intake; distinguished himself fighting a rearguard action at Dunkirk and was made captain with a battlefield promotion.’ Jepson frowned. ‘There was something a little odd about that I seem to remember but I could never quite put my finger on it during our follow-up interviews. I conducted a number with our surviving veterans you see, sir, to try and build a picture in my own mind of what constitutes a good field man.’

  ‘Odd? How so? A fair number of men were promoted on that battlefield, chiefly to replace the ones that died there.’

  ‘Yes, but far from being flattered or proud, Walsh seems rather to… I’m not sure how to explain it.’

  ‘Please try, Jepson.’

  ‘Well, sir, to resent it, if I’m honest. I probed him on this obviously but he simply clammed up. I did think it was odd that a man decorated and promoted to the rank of captain should be shuffled out of his regiment with such unseemly haste.’

  ‘You had your doubts, so why did Gielgud take him do you suppose? Why not just show him the door?’

  ‘Other attributes. His father worked in France before the war and his mother was French, so he speaks the language fluently. His decision-making at Dunkirk bordered on the inspired but he’s far from rash. Thoughtful, I’d say.’

  ‘Ruthless? I mean if need be?’

  ‘Without a shadow, sir. He caused a rare amount of carnage out there for the first wave of Germans. Maybe that’s why the regiment didn’t want him. He doesn’t fight by the usual rules.’

  Gubbins sighed. ‘You know there are still intelligent, seemingly rational men in this country who would rather we lost to the Germans than win if it means fighting dirty. Meanwhile the whole bloody world descends into darkness around them. Where can I find this Walsh?’

  ‘Well, he’s here today as a matter of fact. I saw him earlier and assumed you’d sent for him.’

  ‘Good. Look, I asked you for an opinion on Walsh. I know him by reputation alone. Do you think he fits the bill?’

  ‘He seems exactly what you’re looking for.’

  Not necessarily what I’m looking for thought Jepson and once again he remembered the forceful, enigmatic message.

  Only Harry will do.

  7

  ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave

  When first we practise to deceive.’

  Walter Scott

  Jepson made enquiries as to Walsh’s whereabouts and less than five minutes later Gubbins walked into Price’s office.

  ‘Price! Sorry to barge in but I need to borrow Walsh.’

  ‘Good morning, sir! I had no idea you were even in the building,’ and Price was out of his chair so quickly he banged his knee on the side of the desk. ‘How are you, sir?’

  ‘Well, thank you, Price, but if I could just have Walsh.’

  It belatedly dawned on Price that Gubbins’ visit had absolutely nothing to do with him and everything to do with the presence in his office of the oafish Harry Walsh. Trying hard, but largely failing to disguise his displeasure, he answered his chief.

  ‘Of course, sir. Jump to it, Walsh, you heard the CD.’ Price used the familiar abbreviation of the SOE head’s title. ‘Off you go. We can finish that other business later.’

  ‘Come on, lad,’ urged Gubbins, ‘a spot of lunch while we have our chat?’ It was a rhetorical question.

  Lunch with the CD thought Price bitterly as they left him. He would have killed for the prospect of such a thing. But no, instead it is Harry Walsh who is afforded this inexplicable honour. Pearls before swine.

  Price waited till they had both removed themselves from his office and there could be no prospect of his being overheard. ‘Probably can’t even hold a knife and fork,’ he said bitterly.

  Kornatzki reached for the glass by the water
jug in his office. He wiped it with his handkerchief then went to the desk, opened the window behind it then sat down heavily in the leather chair. He needed some air.

  The Captain pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and reached blindly inside. Though it had been deliberately hidden from view under a mound of innocuous papers, he found the bottle immediately by touch. Kornatzki would normally not have opened the schnapps this early but he had just discovered the profound difference between wanting a drink and needing one. That day he needed a drink.

  Kornatzki poured a generous measure of the clear liquid then gulped half of it down. It burned the back of his throat but that was the least of his concerns. He had just come from the fetid cell that housed young Olivier.

  Kornatzki had seen many men tortured in his time with the Geheime Staatspolizei. His Gestapo superiors felt he possessed the stomach for this unpleasant yet highly necessary work and he gained satisfaction in extracting information from the enemies of the Reich. Some were easy, turning into snivelling wretches who pleaded for their lives before the inquisition had even begun. All one had to do was strap them securely into a chair and the feeling of helplessness would completely overwhelm them. That alone could take the fight and spirit away. Kornatzki would then ensure the instruments of their torture were placed before them. The movements of the inquisitor might seem slow and routine as he rolled out his linen bag, with a separate pocket for each of his sharp tools, until it lay flat on the table but they were deliberate and premeditated. As the victim’s gaze went to the scalpels, pliers, hooks and saws, resistance would drain from them along with the colour in their face. The actual torture could become almost unnecessary but the prisoner would be subjected to it just the same; to soften him up and ensure the whole truth was extracted. Kornatzki would watch as all hope, loyalty to friends, or faith in God vanished from them. It could be that easy.