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  ‘Can he appeal?’

  ‘There is no machinery of appeal.’

  ‘Then what have the divisional and corps commanders got to do with it?’

  ‘The proceedings are referred to them, so that they can, if they wish, make representations to the commander-in-chief.’

  ‘But it’s Haig who actually presses the button.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Adding murder by retail to the wholesale murders he has already committed.’

  ‘If you like to put it that way.’

  ‘Does he ever say no?’

  ‘Very rarely though there have been cases when the medical evidence has shown that, as a result of shell shock, the accused has hardly known what he was doing.’

  Luke considered the convoluted and unfathomable workings of Sergeant Britain’s mind. He said, ‘I don’t see a defence on those lines succeeding. I’m sure he knew perfectly well what he was doing.’

  Sergeant Whaley, who was in charge of the guard at the citadel was making his routine report to Colonel Fleming, two days later. He was a man of some education.

  He said, ‘The prisoner appears to be entirely reconciled to what is going to happen to him. It’s almost uncanny. It might be someone else altogether.’

  ‘And he’s giving you no trouble?’

  ‘No trouble at all, sir.’

  ‘Any special requests?’

  ‘There was just one thing, sir. He’s asked for paper and writing materials. Seems he’s got some letters to write.’

  He was surprised that such a simple request seemed to have troubled Colonel Fleming. He thought it would be acceded to at once. But it was only after considerable thought that the colonel said, ‘Very well. Let him have them. Anything he writes will, of course, have to be shown to me.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Nothing more about the prisoner, sir. But just before I came in, there was a message from 19 Corps. Colonel Macdonogh would like to see you this afternoon, at some time convenient to you.’

  Considering that Macdonogh was a full colonel and the Director of Military Intelligence, and Fleming was a lieutenant colonel, and his junior in the hierarchy, this was a civilly phrased request. Nonetheless, Fleming could not avoid a feeling of unease.

  ‘Tell him fifteen hundred hours,’ he said.

  Macdonogh said, ‘I have had a chance of studying the case of Sergeant Britain, and of discussing it with the C-in-C.’

  ‘I trust you found the proceedings in order.’

  ‘Yes. They were in order. As far as they went.’

  Clearly something had to be added to explain this qualified assent, but it was a long moment – an intolerably long moment, it seemed, to Fleming – before Macdonogh continued.

  ‘The C-in-C is not a man who shows his feelings easily, but from hints he has dropped it is clear that he is getting worried. You know that in the last month there have been three more cases of deserters being spirited away behind the German lines—all from this corps, two from 42 Division and one from 61 Division. The last one was particularly serious. A BSM from the artillery. All of them spouting treason as soon as they get into German hands. The C-in-C is determined that this poisonous leakage, which seems to spring mainly from this area, shall cease.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Totally determined.’

  Fleming said, ‘yes’ once again. He was well aware whose heads were on the block.

  ‘He indicated that, in the special circumstances of this case, he was prepared to go out of his way to help us. Even to condone a certain degree of irregularity. This man, Britain, clearly knows all about this end of the escape route. He had his ticket in his pocket. If we hadn’t picked him up the moment he came back from leave he’d be in Germany by now.’

  Fleming now had an idea of what was coming.

  ‘If we play our cards right he could surely be persuaded to give us the information we need to block this leakage and to stamp out the people who are controlling it.’

  The way in which he said ‘persuaded’ suggested to Fleming the use of thumb screws and heated irons. He said, ‘I don’t quite see—’

  ‘I’ll tell you exactly what you have to do.’

  It was no longer a suggestion; it was an order.

  ‘First, you will finalise the arrangements for the execution. It will take place on the barrack square here in Montreuil. As many of the prisoner’s regiment as can conveniently be mustered will be paraded to witness an execution,’

  ‘That is the normal practice,’ agreed Fleming. ‘I’ll speak to Farr at once.’

  ‘He will have nominated a firing party of ten reliable men. Nine of them will parade with loaded rifles. The tenth with a rifle loaded only with blank cartridges.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Fleming.

  If he wondered why the Director of Military Intelligence was concerning himself with such mundane details, he was soon to find out.

  During the night which separated the sixth and seventh day, Luke had not managed to sleep at all.

  His room overlooked the parade ground, less than a hundred yards away. From it, on the rare occasions that he had been in his room by day, he had heard the stamp and go of military proceedings without being interested in them. Now every sound would be significant.

  His thoughts ran forwards and backwards.

  Right back to his encounter with Lance-Corporal Mungeam in the house of François Delavigne. Then forward, in a series of spasmodic jumps, to the discovery of Marianne’s body under the paddling feet of Bo and Emil, and forward again to the pool of black mud in which he had so nearly concluded his investigations for good. He could still taste the mud in his mouth, clean mud in comparison with the filth around Passchendaele.

  How long ago had that been? Months that seemed like years.

  Finding sleep impossible, he had turned on his bedside light and started to read through the sheaf of notes which had been the basis of his reports that went through Fleming to Macdonogh. These should have started further trains of thought, but the words remained flat and meaningless on the pages.

  Five o’clock struck from the tower of the Church of Saint-Sulpice, and shortly afterwards he heard the first sounds of military movement. The stamping of feet and orders given in a voice less raucous than usual, muted seemingly to the solemnity of the occasion.

  Although it was now light enough for him to have seen what was going forward he had no wish to look, and lay back on his bed, pressing his face into the pillow so as to blank out sound.

  Further orders. The stamping of feet and the clash and rattle of arms.

  Then silence.

  A silence broken by noises which might have meant something to him if he had not blocked his ears.

  A silence which lasted for an unexpectedly long time and then, surely – he sat up to listen – the sound of men moving away.

  Could he possibly have missed the volley for which he had been waiting? In the silence of early morning it would have crashed out its dreadful message through Montreuil and out over the fields.

  Impossible to have missed it.

  Then steps outside the door, followed by a knock. He croaked out, ‘Come in’ and swung his legs out of the bed.

  It was Colonel Fleming, immaculately dressed in full parade order and looking pleased with himself. He said, in the tones of a casual visitor, ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I thought you ought to have the news. The C-in-C has given me authority to postpone the execution. On terms, you understand. He felt that if Sergeant Britain was faced with the imminent prospect of death, and was reprieved at the last moment, he would be in a suitable state—pre-conditioned, you might say – to give us the co-operation we require.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘That remains for you to say when you see him.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘We thought you would be the right person. It’s clear that he dislikes and distrusts me. On the other hand, he will have been gra
teful to you for your—shall I say?—spirited defence at his court martial.’

  ‘I see,’ said Luke. ‘And exactly what is the proposition you wish me to put to him?’

  ‘Very simply, that if he will give us all the information—which he undoubtedly possesses—about how the desertion machinery operates at this end—his sentence will be commuted to detention at His Majesty’s pleasure, with, of course, a strong chance of release when hostilities cease.’

  Luke, who had been struggling into his clothes, said, ‘Very well, I’ll go at once.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Fleming, ‘strike while the iron’s hot.’

  Luke found Sergeant Britain finishing his breakfast. ‘We got it ready for him special,’ said the warder sourly, ‘seeing as how it was the custom on such occasions. But he wouldn’t eat it. Would be a waste of a fine dish of eggs and bacon, was what he said. And off he went, as cheerful as though he was going to a dance. Of course, after he’d gone no one cared to touch the food. And then, to our surprise, he came marching back! “Heat it up again”, he said. “I could really fancy it now”. So that’s what we done. And he did seem to fancy it.’

  When the warder had taken himself off, with a look on his face in which admiration and disapproval were oddly mingled, Britain let loose the laughter that he had been holding back with difficulty.

  ‘What a performance!’ he said. ‘A second-rate film. The condemned man tied to the post. The execution squad raise their rifles. A messenger rushes up. He is carrying an official-looking letter. It is torn open. It’s a reprieve. Everything goes into reverse. Arms are ordered. The regiment moves off. The condemned man is untied and taken back to his cell.’

  Luke, who was becoming almost as aggrieved as the warder at this untimely flippancy said, ‘I must presume that the reprieve was welcome.’

  ‘Oh, surely. But it was only Act One. I guess that there are going to be several repeat performances. Bound to be. The whole ploy was so absolutely typical of Fleming. He enjoyed every moment of it. He’s a real sadist. Incidentally, I found that out when I was in his house at Eton. He was head of it and I was a very unimportant junior boy. Whenever he decided to beat someone—a ritual he loved—he would inform the victim of his intention on the evening before the beating, so that he would have a good deal more than a mauvais quart d’heure—in fact an unpleasant twelve hours—to think about it. And I imagine his idea was that if I was marched in front of a firing squad two or three times and only reprieved at the last moment, ultimately my nerve would break and I would give him what he wanted.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The one thing that’s going to save him: details of how this end of the desertion racket works, so that he can get a pat on the back instead of a kick on the bottom.’

  ‘And you’re not going to give it to him?’

  ‘Certainly not. Why should I betray the people who are willing to help me, in order to save the bacon of a prime bastard like Fleming?’

  ‘If I was in your shoes, I could think of one very good reason.’

  ‘Now look here,’ said Britain, suddenly entirely serious. ‘You mustn’t think of me as a hero. The fact is that I’d spotted, as I thought, a magnificent chance to put across my views on the conduct of the war, and to do so in safety. Like spitting and running away. I’d made what I thought were water-tight arrangements to desert as soon as I got back to France, but they were too quick for me.’

  Luke explained the part played by Minette and Marianne, and Britain said, ‘You can’t think of everything. When I discovered that they’d scribbled those numbers onto my money packet and slipped that top-secret report into my kit, I could see the way things were heading. Whatever I did my number was up.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ said Luke. ‘Do you mean to say—are you really telling me—that the evidence against you was faked by Fleming?’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone else who could have done it. Can you?’

  When Luke had nothing to say, Britain went on, speaking in the same level voice, ‘Take that business of the top-secret document. That was a real beauty. One of my jobs at that time was looking after the regiment’s sporting activities—football being, of course, the main one. Not that we had a lot of time for it, but when we did happen to be out of the line it was considered to be a great thing for the men—and I’m sure it was—to have something to take their minds off the war. We’d been relieved at the end of July and moved back to base camp where we could look forward to a month or two out of action, and I’d got out a promising list of matches, most of which, of course, were destined never to be played, because when the German counter-attack came in on August 7th we were all shunted back, pretty smartly, into the line.’

  ‘By which time you were on leave?’

  ‘Luckily for me, yes. But that was in the unforeseeable future and I can remember that when I scribbled out that fixture list I was feeling optimistic. After all, we’d been through the worst of the Passchendaele fighting and had survived. The list had to be referred to Colonel Fleming, who called himself brigade sports officer. Not that he did much to justify the title. The real work was done by the units concerned. However, as a formality, he had to see and approve the list.’

  ‘Which, no doubt, he did.’

  ‘Right. And normally he’d hardly bother to read it. He’d just say, “Good show. Carry on”. However, on this occasion, for some reason, he said, “I’ll hang on to this and read it more carefully as soon as I’ve time to spare”.’

  ‘An overworked staff officer,’ said Luke, ‘without a single moment to call his own. Poor fellow.’

  ‘However, he was good enough to add that if I’d take it round that evening at—say—eighteen hundred hours to his office, he’d have a word with his clerk, who’d help me to get it typed. And he added that he’d told him to sort out all the earlier fixture lists which might have details on them that would be useful.’

  ‘And was this sort of helpfulness usual?’

  ‘Unusual and suspicious. But, never look a gift horse in the mouth. I was round at the office at six o’clock, where I found the clerk, Lance-Corporal Merrick, in sole possession. He told me that the only typewriter I could use was his own machine, the other two were under repair. But not to worry. He had a date with the QMS and wouldn’t be needing the machine for at least an hour, which he supposed would be enough time for me. “Ample”, I said. He added that, in case I wanted to look at the earlier fixture lists, he’d got them out for me. “When you’ve finished”, he said, “just pop them back in that cabinet, lock it up, and leave the key in the drawer of my desk”.’

  ‘I was surprised to find that the cabinet he’d indicated seemed to be full of highly secret and confidential documents, which I had neither the time nor the inclination to examine. I put in an hour of rather inexpert typing, returned the old lists to the cabinet, relocked it and replaced the key in the drawer as instructed. Do you see the picture now?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Luke, though he was beginning, very unwillingly, to do so.

  ‘It’s clear enough, isn’t it? All Merrick had to do was to extract a highly secret document from the cabinet—the corps commander’s letter would have suggested itself at once—and type it out on his own machine, taking care to do it inexpertly. When this document was found in my possession it could be proved, scientifically, that it had been typed on that particular machine, and that I had had every opportunity to do the typing.’

  In the face of Sergeant Britain’s confident narrative, Luke was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain his stance of incredulity. He said, ‘If they went to all this trouble, can you explain why they didn’t use the evidence which—if you’re to be believed—they had so carefully concocted?’

  ‘I can suggest three reasons. If they used this document they’d be forced to explain how I got a sight of it. And they’d be faced with an unanswerable question: why were old fixture lists kept in a high security cabinet? The defence, however amateur,
would certainly press for an answer.’

  ‘However amateur,’ said Luke. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you. I thought you did very well. There was a second equally difficult question: why was I left alone for an hour with an unlocked cabinet full of secret documents? The JAG must have questioned Merrick and not only have disbelieved his answers, but have realised that the third charge was a doubtful starter, so much so that it might backfire. If the defence could pick holes in it, that would reflect badly on the main charge of treason. As the drivers say, don’t inspan a lame horse with a couple of good goers.’

  After an uncomfortable pause, Luke said, speaking as though the words hurt him, ‘You said there were three reasons.’

  Britain was smiling. He said, ‘Quite right. There was a third reason, and I’m glad you’ve mentioned it. When I thought that Merrick was going to be involved as a witness, I took certain precautions. I wrote what I knew about him—it wasn’t complimentary—and I have it here.’

  He pushed across a long, sealed envelope.

  ‘I’m entrusting it to you on one condition. That you only read it or use it if Merrick should be called as a witness in any future court proceedings. Then it can be handed to the defence.’

  ‘And I suppose that unless I give you my word you won’t tell me what’s in the envelope.’

  ‘Correct. In fact, unless I have your undertaking I’ll probably destroy it’

  Luke took a deep breath.

  It seemed to him, somehow, that if he agreed he was accepting, also, the other parts of Britain’s incredible story.

  Finally, and conscious that he was being weak, he said, ‘If those are your terms, I suppose I must accept them.’

  ‘Good boy. Look after it carefully. I think they may have suspected what I was up to when I asked for writing materials. No doubt they’ll try to get their hands on it. And to destroy it as successfully and unscrupulously as they’ve destroyed me. But that’s a pleasure I intend to deny them.’