Date: Sun, 15 May 2011 17:39:26 +0100
From: Michael Gouda <michael@tanyardbank.plus.com>
Subject: Snapshots of War (Part 12)

Snapshots of War
Michael Gouda
Part 12

Friday August 8th 1941
The Khamseen sandstorm, which blew more or less throughout the year
was, in Bert's view, the most hellish wind on earth. It picked up the
surface dust as fine as powder and blew it thickly into the air across
hundreds of square miles of desert. Sometimes it blocked visibility
down to half a dozen yards. The dust came up through the engine, and
of course into the interior of the exposed carrier. Soon everything
was powdered with grit and sand. It crept up his nose and down the
throat, itching unbearably and making it difficult to breathe. It got
in his ears, clogged his hair, and from behind sand goggles his eyes
kept weeping and smarting. A ghostly yellow light suffused everything
like the thickest of London's peasoupers. Just for a moment the
billows of blown sand would open, allowing him to see a little further
into a hot solid fog ahead, and then it would close in again.
Bedouin tribesmen, their heads muffled in dirty rags, lunged across
the track, leaning lopsidedly into the wind. Bert sweated, returned
again and again to his water bottle for a swig of warm sandy water,
and lay back gasping. Some soldiers wore their gas masks in the
Khamseen, and others gave way to fits of vomiting. Sometimes a
Khamseen could blow for days, making Bert feel that he would never see
light and air or feel coolness again.
He worried about Theresa. Sometimes he saw her emerging from the dust-
cloud, silhouetted against the blinding glare of the sunlight or
enclosed in a shimmering haze in the sand-wastes, and he wondered if
she was dead too - like all the others. Occasionally he thought that
he might be dead as well, but he assumed that in death he wouldn't be
plagued with quite so much urticaria, the heat rash which raised great
red welts around his ankles and wrists and seemed impossible to
alleviate.
Though perhaps he was already dead and this was hell.
Chalky and Trent were with him all the time. They even shared his bed.
He told them to get out but they returned in the darkness and then
they were a comfort. The Fosters had faded, though occasionally he saw
them walking hand-in-hand through the Sook, and once he thought he saw
them going into the officers' mess in uniform. He called out to them
but they hadn't heard.
The skirmishes against the enemy continued. They could scarcely be
called battles, those minor advances and retreats all along the front.
Bert would drive out with the other Bren gun carriers each of which
was packed with crew so that Chalky and Trent had to sit on the sides,
hanging on for grim death, their feet only inches away from the
growling, grinding articulated metal tracks and the spurting sand.
And the chattering of the soldiers drowned their voices.
Of course they were no match for the German tanks, especially the
Panzer IIIs, and if they sighted one, they would swiftly turn, the
caterpillar tracks screaming in opposite directions, with Charlie and
Trent tossed about like rag dolls but holding on somehow, to race back
to their own fortified lines. If, though, they came across a group of
Germans or Italians dug in, they would swing broadside on and Sergeant
Brookes, the gunner rake them with some rounds of Bren gunfire as they
passed. Sometimes the enemy would withdraw and their own forward line
could move forward a distance. At others the return fire was powerful
enough to force their own withdrawal.
In Bert's mind the sorties became a mixed-up kaleidoscope of churning
sand punctuated with the sound of the automatic fire jarring over his
head so that it ached, while the horizon whirled in front of the
eyepieces of his goggles.
"Left. Left. Left," shouted the Sergeant in his ear.
Without having to think, Bert swung the wheel hard over. "Hang on,
mates," he shouted to Chalky and Trent.
The carrier reached a region of hard compacted sand and was able to
get up to full speed. The sun was over his right shoulder, still quite
high in the sky. They must be heading north. Suddenly the sand took on
that strange waveform state it so often did, like little rills at the
edge of the sea, so that the vehicle jumped and jarred and the wheel
twisted in Bert's hands.
"Keep it steady, Corp," said Sergeant Brookes.
I'm trying, said Bert, silently, under his breath. For fuck's sake,
can't you see I'm trying.
"You're getting too old for it," said Trent in his ear. "You want to
let it go to a younger man."
"Get fucking knotted!"
"I heard that, Corporal," said Sergeant Brookes.
"Sorry, Sarge, it's these fucking ridges."
But the Sergeant wasn't listening. He squeezed the trigger and a burst
of automatic fire assaulted Bert's ears. The strip of shells rattled
through the magazine and a stream of bullets hurtled towards somewhere
on Bert's left though he couldn't take his eyes off the sand in front
to see what they were aimed at.
He heard Brookes cursing. Presumably the bumpy surface had put him off
his aim. There was a level patch ahead. Smooth and even as if it had
been flattened by a steam roller, the only variation, some slight
circular indentations. Bert made for it automatically.
A voice in his ear, "Not there," said Chalky, "Land mines!"
"Oh Christ," said Bert.
But it was too late. Though he wrenched round the wheel, the carrier
skidded onto the plain, bounced round as the tracks gripped and
started to turn away.
"Ride 'em, cowboy," shouted Trent.
"Do be careful," chorused the Fosters.
Then the ground exploded under them, tossing the vehicle over and over
as if it was a children's toy. The tracks screamed, drowning out the
shouts of the soldiers, then the petrol tank ruptured and burst into a
charring tongue of flame.

Monday August 11th 1941
Major George Carlisle was troubled, troubled and angry. Carefully laid
plans, organisations, connections, relationships, devious as only his
mind could encompass were so easily jeopardised. To some extent he
could control people, by threats and promises, rewards and
punishments, love and hate but there comes a point when individuals
make their own connections and his elaborate structure built up over
months of deliberate connivance could so easily fall to pieces.
How carefully he had devised a whole structure, the foundations,
himself and department XX, safe and secure, elegant walls, supported
by flying buttresses, and rising from them slender minarets and
spires.  And everything depended on the fact that no one in the whole
complex organisation knew more than two other people and only five
people knew him.
Now Leverton had managed to form a liaison with someone and somehow
give himself away so that that person had become suspicious enough to
denounce him to the police. Of course the police had quite properly
informed MI5 and eventually the report had arrived on his desk but God
knows how many references there were, police reports, notes, files
still lying around in drawers, on shelves, in filing cabinets -
dangerously available. And Peter Kees, whose job was to watch
Leverton. Why hadn't he reported, told Carlisle of the relationship?
By God, he'd have that stupid young Dutchman's balls.
Now that fragile link that led from him, Major Carlisle of MI5, via
Peter Kees and Charles Leverton across to the German Abwehr, was in
danger. Of course Kees himself had formed a relationship with the boy,
William Salter, but Carlisle knew about this. At first Carlisle had
been disapproving - not morally, he  personally didn't consider
morality much use in time of war - but he had decided that in a way it
was useful. It provided yet another hold over Kees. After all what
wouldn't the man do to keep his illegal relationship with the boy
secret? Carlisle was nothing if not pragmatic.
But Leverton was another matter. The man did not know they were
controlling him. His whole usefulness lay in the fact that he must not
know he was under suspicion. Damn! Damn! Damn!
Well he, Carlisle, would sort out the police. Wartime had given him
powers so draconian that few people realised their extent. But he must
certainly try to find out who this anonymous woman was, the one who
had phoned the police, who had, it appeared, got close enough to
Charles Leverton to become suspicious and eventually to report him.
The trouble was Leverton was arrogant and careless, two
characteristics that Carlisle knew could be disastrous in any
occupation that demanded secrecy. Yes he must find the woman.
He had a busy morning contacting the Commissioner of the Metropolitan
Division and starting a chain of warning that would, he knew, stretch
right down to the desk Sergeant who had taken the call and any lowly
constables who had become involved. He instigated a search that, he
hoped, would weed out any reference to Charles Leverton, everything to
be sent to him for destruction under his personal supervision. He
despatched two plain clothes officers with a warrant to arrest
Leverton in as private and secretive way as possible, with
instructions to call at his private address when they knew he was
there alone and bundle him into a car with the minimum of observable
fuss and take him to a secret location. It was to be done, secretly,
efficiently and successfully or they would regret it to the ends of
their careers.
Finally he lifted the phone to summon the operative who should have
found out and reported the liaison to him. He made an appointment for
two days time - by then Leverton would have disappeared and there
would just be the loose ends to tie up.
Peter Kees would not find the interview enjoyable.

Wednesday 13th August 1941
Peter returned home after his meeting with Carlisle feeling
emotionally, even physically, exhausted. Carlisle of course had found
out almost immediately from him about Adele Salter's involvement with
Charlie, The assumption that Adele must be the one who had informed on
Charlie was obvious, even though it had been done anonymously over the
telephone. Carlisle was livid with that cold, controlled rage that
Peter had seen only once before but which was more frightening than
any furious outburst.
"The relationship must end," ordered Carlisle.
Peter had at first not understood. "I think Adele has already broken
with Charlie," he said.
"I'm not talking about them. Leverton has been arrested. He will be
tried and executed. Adele will be 'looked after'. It is you and this
Salter boy I mean. You will have to take over from Leverton, talk
directly to Germany from now on. I do not want another messy emotional
relationship interfering with the work. Get rid of the boy."
Peter had stared at him aghast. He could scarcely understand what
Carlisle was saying. "Get rid of him? How could I do that?"
Shop shrugged. "Sort it out yourself," he said unfeelingly. "Tell him
you have found someone else. It happens - frequently, I've heard."
"But he will be so hurt," said Peter, for a moment thinking of someone
else apart from himself. "He's only a boy."
"Exactly. He is only a boy. Do you know know what the penalty for
sodomy with a boy is?" Peter did not and Carlisle did not need to
elaborate. All the fight had left Peter.
"Best thing is to sever all communication with the Salters. Leave
Leverton to me but get him away. No argument," said Carlisle. "Break
it off."
"But I need him." It sounded a pathetic plea, but Peter knew he was
speaking the truth. He could scarcely imagine life without William.
"Break it off." It was an order that brooked no denial.

So miserably, he came home and waited for William to get back from
work. He wouldn't be back for at least an hour and for this Peter was
grateful. Almost automatically he went to the kitchen and started
preparing a salad. There weren't many of the things which he would
usually use but at least there were the basics, tomatoes, cucumber,
lettuce still available in the shops and vegetables indeed were not
rationed.
  After that there was little else that he could do. Charlie arrested?
The unemotional, matter-of-fact way Carlisle had informed him. - 'He
will be tried and shot' - made him shiver. That Carlisle was a cold
fish, he thought. He wondered whether the Major actually possessed any
feelings of humanity.
He considered what to tell William. He could tell him the truth, that
Carlisle had forbidden the continuation of the relationship. But he
knew that was impossible, dreading the thought that Carlisle might
find out. He certainly would not use the reason that Carlisle had
suggested. That was too cruel. He would have to invent another lie. He
was quite good at it - with anyone except Carlisle. He mixed a
dressing of vinegar, oil and a teaspoon of mustard powder, tasting it
and then adding a little sugar to counteract the tartness.
He was startled to hear a sudden knock at the door. It was too early
for William and anyway he had his own front door key. He looked
through the curtains before answering. There were two girls standing
outside. One, the nearer to him was tall and thin and had long blond
hair held in the sort of net which seemed to be fashionable these
days. Her face looked familiar though with his mind on other things,
Peter could not remember who she was. The other girl was hidden behind
her companion. They must have made a mistake. It might have been
Peter's imagination but he thought they looked wary. They were
probably collecting for some charity.
He opened the door and immediately recognised the girl whose face he
had not been able to see before. It was Adele, William's sister. She,
it seemed, was just as surprised to see him. Her mouth opened and she
stared at him. Peter assumed she had come to see William though he had
asked him not to give his address, merely giving the telephone number
in case of emergencies.
"Peter Kees!" said Adele, and didn't seem to be able to go on.
Her friend came to her assistance. "We're looking for Mr Leverton,"
she said.
Surely Charlie hadn't been giving out this address, thought Peter. But
he was so careless.
"No," he said. "He doesn't live here." He wondered whether to ask them
in but thought it would complicate matters.
"Mr Leverton invited Adele here," continued the blond-haired girl,
whom Peter now recognised as the girl he had met the first time he had
been to Granby Street for tea. He thought her name was Mavis. "He said
it was his house.  We thought he lived here. He hasn't been at work
and we wondered whether he was ill."
"It's my house," said Peter, beginning to get annoyed. "Charles is my
friend and has a key but I didn't realise he was using it for...." He
stopped, aware that however he finished the sentence it might upset
Adele.
"Is my brother staying here," said Adele suddenly. It was the first
thing she had said since she had uttered his name.
Peter hesitated. "At the moment," he said. "But he's looking for
somewhere else." It sounded unlikely. How could William afford a place
of his own on his apprentice pay? On the other hand, it was what would
have to happen when he told him of Carlisle's ultimatum.
The two girls looked at him and he stared back. Then Adele said, "Come
on, Mavis. He's not here."
"Will you be seeing him?" asked Mavis but Adele pulled her away. She
seemed anxious to leave.
He's probably in prison at the moment, with worse to come, thought
Peter, but of course said nothing. He closed the door and went back to
the sitting room, switching on the wireless and turning it low so that
the music, a classical concert with Dame Myra Hess playing Chopin
piano pieces. provided a background. Then he sat on the window-seat
and looked out on to the mews and the arch at the end through which
William would come. The girls had gone.
Adele and Mavis walked slowly back through the darkening streets of
the West End.
"Why did you drag me away?" asked Mavis. "We should have found out
some more information about old Charlie. That was the man I met at
your house, wasn't it?"
"The friend of my brother's," said Adele. "He's Dutch or something. At
least he says he is."
"He's not bad-looking," said Mavis. "I like his eyes. I wouldn't
mind..." She let her voice trail off as she envisaged some fanciful
liaison.
"Don't you see?"
"What?"
"He's foreign. He's a friend of Charlie's. I found some evidence of
spying in that house." Either Mavis was being wilfully dull or her
imagination had clogged her thought processes. "He could be a German
spy too," said Adele, almost shouting, so exasperated she was by her
friend's stupidity.
Mavis looked at her. "But I thought you said he was a friend of your
brother's."
"There's something strange there," said Adele. "I've sensed it right
from the first time I met him." She pointed at an advertisement pasted
on a fence which had been erected to stop people falling into a bomb
crater. There was still just enough light to read the warning message.
'Walls Have Ears' it announced. 'You never know who's listening'.
"They warn us about spies. They could be anywhere."
"But if Peter is a spy, what does that make William? Is he a spy too?"
"Oh, don't be silly," snapped Adele, "of course he isn't."
But Mavis's question sparked off a train of thoughts in her mind. If
Peter were a spy and William knew about it and didn't say anything to
the authorities, didn't that make him a traitor too? Perhaps Peter had
him under a sort of Svengali type influence, making him do his bidding
against his will. She shook her head. That was stupid, she thought.
Things like that didn't happen in real life. Or did they?
William must just be unaware of what was going on. She didn't think
much to Williams intelligence anyway. Innocent, that's what he was.
She suddenly saw herself as his rescuer from a malign influence,
herself as a heroine. Though Peter Keys was not really her idea of a
villain. She thought of his wide, blue, innocent eyes, the engaging
smile he had, that slight gap between his two upper front teeth which
somehow gave him a look at vulnerability.
"What should we do?" asked Mavis.
"We'll have to make another call to your Police Sergeant?" She stared
into the gathering gloom. "Come on! Run! There's our bus."
It had got quite dark and Peter felt a sudden sadness. This was what
it would be like without William, waiting alone, expecting no one. The
News came on the wireless. The news reader announced that the RAF had
made daily bomber sweeps over the Channel and into North France,
Holland and West Germany. There had been night raids on Berlin,
Hamburg, Kiel, Hanover, Frankfurt, Mannheim, Karlsruhe, the Ruhr,
Magdeburg, Cologne and Bremen, Rotterdam, Ostend and Cherbourg. It all
sounded encouraging but Peter wondered how much of it was propaganda.
The news ended. It was well past the time when William would normally
have returned. Where could he have got to? He felt a sudden twinge of
anxiety.
But before we could change the worry into some sort practical action,
he saw him, turning the corner into the mews in a wide tacking arc,
weaving across the pavement, almost tripping at the kerb. For a moment
he thought he might be ill but then realised William was drunk. And
the sudden relief turned to a spurt of anger.
Peter heard the scratching of the key in William's attempt to find the
keyhole but did nothing, just sitting there in the semi-darkness until
the door burst open and William, hair dishevelled, a vacuous grin on
his face, almost fell into the room.
"Where have you been?" Peter demanded.
William wasn't quite tight enough not to realise that his lateness
would have upset Peter. Not that there was any agreement that either
of them should not go out on his own but Peter would have been
expecting him. It was just that Mr Pemberton, the jowled, bespectacled
manager from head office, had that very morning, and entirely
unexpectedly, granted him his full articles. William had been
expecting a final examination, something terrifyingly hard. But
apparently Mr Pemberton had used his own discretion, kept his eyes
open, accepted the reports of the other men and decided that William
was proficient enough to be a professional welder. When they had left
work at closing time, his mates' suggestion that they stop off for a
drink - to celebrate - had been too tempting to refuse. And of course
one drink had stretched to two, to four, to an unaccounted - but who's
counting? - number.
He would apologise to dear old Peter who would understand immediately
he told him the situation, with a salary which would mean he could put
so much more into the communal kitty. "Sor - sorry - I'm late," he
stuttered but his words were drowned by the cold demand from out of
the darkness, "Where the fuck have you been?"
Unspoken words of apology disappeared to be replaced with those of
outraged vindication. "Just out for a drink - with my mates from the
factory. What are you sitting in the dark for?"
Peter got up, pulled the curtains, switched on the light, went to the
kitchen and busied himself with the meal. William collapsed on the
sofa. "Got some good news, Peter," he said. "I'm no longer an
apprentice. Got a real job at last." He appeared at the doorway of the
kitchen smiling unsteadily. "Just had a drink to celebrate. Or two.
You're not cross are you?"
Peter turned to the boy slumped against the door jamb, his body
looking almost boneless and vulnerable, brown eyes large and
appealing, in the face scarcely yet formed into manhood. Who could
resist that puppy look?
All the anger left him. "No, of course not," he said coming to him,
taking him back into the living room and sitting next him on the
couch. He took William's hand, warm, dry and responsive, into his.
"It's just that my news isn't so good - and I was worried."
William giggled. "Don't be grumpy," he said, but Peter's serious
expression brought him up short. "What's the matter?" he asked.
"What's happened?"
Peter didn't really know what he was going to say until the words
spilled of his mouth. "Wim - it is bad news. I have to move from here."
William stared at him. He didn't seem to understand. "Move,"  he
repeated.
Peter wished he were brave enough to stand up to Carlisle, to say
'Fuck you, I will lead my own life' but the consequences were too dire
and Carlisle and his organisation too powerful. If Charles Leverton
could be spirited away so easily, the same thing could happen to him.
Peter had put himself into a position where he could do nothing else
but obey his orders.
"I have to go away," he said. "I have received orders. Charles has
been arrested and it would be thought 'odd', 'strange' by the Germans,
if as a result my circumstances were not changed." It sounded, even to
him, too vague but he had not worked the explanation out in his own
mind. Later he would clarify things, explain to Carlisle what he had
said and get permission to move to another location. Surely Carlisle
would not object to this. Peter would miss the little house in
Wentworth Mews. He would miss more what it had become over the past
month - so short a time - while he shared it with William.
"Can I come with you?" asked William, a catch in his voice.
Peter silently prayed William would not cry "It is impossible," he
said. "My control would not allow it." That at least was true enough.
That night William clung to Peter in a desperate embrace and even
after he had fallen asleep - Peter could tell by his regular breathing
- his grip did not relax.

End of Part 12