Into Battle Read online

  He found that a cold meal of pie and salad had been left out for him. He set out his place at one end of the kitchen table. The other end was occupied by the Stokes’s only child, Dorothy, known to all as Doll. Doll was twelve years old and had been so deeply in love with Andrew from the moment of his arrival that she spent most of her day thinking about him and most of her nights dreaming about him. At the moment, she was preoccupied. Andrew moved up to see what she was doing.

  She said, “We have been told to write a story, in French, about an animal. Any animal we like. I’m afraid I’ve made lots of mistakes.”

  Andrew read what she had written, while Doll looked at him anxiously.

  “It’s very good,” he said. “My only criticism would be that you seem undecided about the sex of your leading character. Since you have described the tiger as méchante, one would suppose it to be feminine. In which case, surely it should be tigresse.”

  “Oh, dear. I do find these genders so muddling. Why should everything have to be male or female? And how is anyone supposed to know which is which?”

  “It is difficult. I suppose French children come to know it instinctively.”

  “Do you speak French?”

  “A little,” said Andrew. “And here’s your father and mother.”

  Realising that any chance of concentration had gone, Doll took her work away to her bedroom to finish her story, and Andrew sat down to eat his supper and listen to the latest news. He gathered that the so-called courtesy visit of the Panzer Schlact Kreuzer Kobold had not been an unqualified success.

  “Bad mixers, the Germans,” said Mr. Stokes. “Diddun really lay themselves out to be pleasant. If you ask me they only came to find out what they could about us, in case they had to fight us.”

  “I do hope not,” said Mrs. Stokes. “And, oh, dear, did you see those two Zeppelins that went over this afternoon?”

  “Spying,” said her husband bitterly.

  When Andrew showed up at the Royal Duke next morning, his arm was grabbed by Bob and he was pulled into the pantry where the waiters congregated when not on duty. Bob was a cheerful Devonshire boy, with a face like a russet apple and an impertinent outlook on life. Andrew enjoyed his comments about the guests and the senior members of the staff.

  He said, “Better watch out. The old man’s a bit raw this morning. I think the Germans may have pushed off without paying for all the beer they drank.”

  “They’ve gone, then?”

  “Pissed off first thing this morning. Speaking for myself, I’m glad to see the last of them.”

  “Me, too,” said Andrew. “That Captain von Holstern, he was a real sod. Do you know, he actually made a pass at me?”

  Bob said, “No. Did he really? I’d heard that Germans were like that. Naval types particularly. And I can tell you something else about him. Only keep it to yourself.” Bob dropped his voice and sounded as solemn as he was capable of sounding. “Just after you left yesterday I ran into that Major Richards, coming down the passage, heading for the manager’s office. I wondered if perhaps he was going in to make a complaint. Something about the service. So I thought I’d listen for a moment. Only it wasn’t the manager in the office, it was that German captain. The one you didn’t fancy. And here’s the odd thing. Did you know that the major spoke German? And I mean, really spoke it, not just ja and nein and ein Bier bitte, but rattling away like as if it was his native tongue.”

  “No,” said Andrew slowly. “I didn’t know that. What did you make of it?”

  “I did just wonder if he might be a spy.”

  “Do you—?”

  “Don’t say it. I know. I know. It’s just my imagination. My mother always used to say to me, you let your imagination run away with you, Bob, and one of these days you’ll find yourself in trouble.”

  “I wasn’t going to say I disbelieved you. What I was going to ask you was if you happened to know where the major lives.”

  “I can tell you that. He’s rented Fairford Manor. The old house on Gilkicker Point.”

  “The one on the cliffs, beyond the Naval Hospital?”

  “That’s the one. It belongs to the Fairford family, but when the admiral died old Lady F. couldn’t run it on her own and started to let it. The first man who took it was a professor who collected butterflies. He was chasing one when he fell over the cliff. I expect you know the story.”

  Andrew nodded. Everyone in Portsmouth knew the story.

  “Major Richards took over from the professor’s widow. I don’t fancy he’ll go falling over the cliff. I’d say he’s a man who sleeps with both eyes open.”

  “And you think he’s a German spy.”

  “And now you’re laughing at me.”

  “Certainly not. Don’t you see that if he was a spy, the old admiral’s house would be just the place for him? It’s right over the harbour entrance, and what with the dockyard, the gunnery school on Whale Island, and the signal training station on Tipner, in the course of a year half the British Navy comes through there, right under his nose.”

  “Then you’re saying I might be right.”

  “When you add the fact that he speaks fluent German, yes, I do think there might be something in it.”

  “Then oughtn’t we tell someone?”

  What Andrew might have said was interrupted by the arrival of the manager. He said, ‘I’ll need both of you this evening. I can promise you it won’t be such a late party as yesterday. It’s a group of Americans – lawyers, politicians, and such. They’ll be having a drink here around six o’clock, then going on to a special performance at the Opera House. The drinks will be chiefly shorts, gin and whiskey – bourbon whiskey – I imagine. They’ll be in the big saloon. You do a shuttle service between the bar and the guests. Get on now with cleaning out the room. And give the glasses a good polish. Americans like clean service.”

  “And cheerful service,” said Bob with a grin. Americans always tipped well. The prospect seemed to have driven all thoughts about spies out of his head.

  The guests who assembled that evening were certainly more agreeable to serve than the Germans. They were a mixed bunch of lawyers, politicians, and businessmen, middle-aged and clearly well heeled. Andrew guessed that one of the objects of their visit might have been to report back to their government on exactly what was happening across the Atlantic and on the mood of the British when faced with the possibility of war.

  A number of local notabilities had been summoned to meet them: the port admiral, Admiral Manfred, who was acting as host; Sir John Smedley, chairman of the Portsmouth Bench; and Superintendent Marcher, head of the Portsmouth Police, with his wife – known, inevitably, as the marchioness. Also, a number of locals who seemed to have come along for the drinks.

  Andrew organised his round so that he could hear as much as possible of the exchanges between the admiral and a clean-shaven, formidable-looking hunk who was addressed by his friends as “Sam” and by his juniors as “Judge.” Though he held the floor at his end of the room he was clearly being careful to say nothing that might embarrass his hosts, and the smooth flow of his platitudes was only once interrupted.

  This occurred when his attention was caught by the arrival of Major Richards, who had come in alone and was scattering apologies around for his lateness. His apologies, Andrew thought, should more properly have been offered to his host and, once supplied with a drink, he did indeed drift toward the admiral, but when he became aware that the judge was looking at him, he seemed to change his direction and slid away into the far end of the room. It was a perfectly natural movement, noticed by Andrew, only because he had not taken his eyes off him from the moment he came in.

  At half past seven, the party dispersed, but there was an hour of clearing up to do before Andrew could get away. He did not resent this. He was well pleased with the evening’s work. Not only had he earned a further ten shillings, but also the manager had agreed that the twenty-five-dollar note slipped to him by one of the Americans should, wh
en changed into British money, be divided equally among Andrew, Bob, and the two barmen. This would put more than a pound in his pocket.

  The Royal Duke stood at the far end of the South Parade, opposite the pier head. His shortest way home took him along the promenade. There were still a few hardy visitors occupying deck chairs on the sand, but the water, in the fourth week of June, was still too cold to tempt bathers.

  The promenade ended just short of the Marine barracks, and Andrew turned left into an area of small houses on small streets.

  Petty Officer Stokes, seeking peace and quiet after forty years of cramped quarters, noise, and movement, had chosen a cottage at the far end of a quiet cul-de-sac, bounded on one side by an ironworks store and on the other by the wall of the naval cemetery. Andrew had never before seen any vehicle in it, and was therefore surprised to find a horse-drawn van standing there, apparently unattended.

  He looked up as he passed it, to see where it came from, but the name on the side had been painted out. He had not much time to think about this since, as he reached the front of the van, the door opened and two men jumped out. Three more appeared from the far side. All of them were grinning as they grabbed him, picked him up, and tossed him into the back of the van.

  Since odds of five to one made any offer of resistance futile, Andrew suffered this indignity in silence. Two of the men went back to the driving seat and the other three climbed into the back of the van. In that cramped space, the four bodies were so tightly pressed that the main danger seemed to be suffocation – a thought that worried Andrew, who was flat on the floor, more than the three men who were on top of him.

  When he had got some part of his breath back, helped by the fact that his nose was inches from a crack in the floor of the van, Andrew started to think.

  His captors were Germans – sailors or stokers he thought, certainly not officers. Presumably, therefore, off the cruiser Kobold. Where were they taking him? And, a more uncomfortable thought, what were they planning to do with him when they got him there?

  He had the impression that they were running westward, back through the centre of the town, and this was confirmed when he heard the deep bell of the old Portsmouth Cathedral ahead of them, telling out the last quarter before nine.

  Could they be planning to take him across in the ferry? If so, surely he could shout for help. No. The van had slowed and was now heading south. It seemed to have come out of the area of streets, onto a rougher surface. This would be Southsea Common, on which he had sometimes walked – sand hills, stunted grass, and a few scattered trees. They must be heading down toward the water’s edge, an unattractive stretch of shingle and rock pools, very little visited except by mussel fishers.

  The van stopped, the door was opened, and he was dragged out. Two of the men grabbed an arm each, one walked behind him with a hand on his collar, and two went ahead, to a point where a post had been set up in the shingle. All of them seemed to be in the highest spirits, as though they were setting out for an unexpected treat. The one who seemed to be the leader said, “Muster hands to punishment. Lash his wrists to the post. And we’ll have his coat and shirt off.”

  This involved two men trying to do two different things at the same time and resulted in a moment of confusion. Seeing his chance, Andrew hooked his feet from under one of the two men, toppling him into the other; tore himself free from the third, leaving him holding the coat; raced down the sloping shingle; and threw himself in a long, shallow dive into the sea.

  When he surfaced and looked back, he realised a number of things – some pleasant, some unpleasant. He saw that none of his captors had any intention of coming into the water after him. He noted that the current of the Hamble River, pouring into the Solent and helped by the ebb tide, was carrying him away from the shore so fast that there was no need for him to swim; also that the water was cold. He could see his attackers lined up on the edge of the shingle. Although deprived of the final treat they had been promised, they seemed happy at what they had accomplished. As he drifted farther and farther from the shore he heard them shouting and laughing and began to wish that he could be as happy as they were.

  He was a good swimmer, but he saw no prospect of reaching dry land until the ebb had run and the tide started to make. It would be a long swim, and by that time the cold combined with the effort to keep afloat would have weakened him significantly. The prospect was not a pleasant one.

  When a black shape loomed ahead of him, stationary and too solid for a ship, he guessed what it was. There were two or three rocks in Spithead that were dignified with the name of forts. In Napoleonic times, each of them had been equipped with a gun, to help the navy deal with the fleet of flat-bottomed boats that the Corsican had collected as his invasion armada.

  When the supremacy of the British Navy had ensured that there was no danger from that source, the guns had been removed, and the only people who visited them now were occasional fishing parties. The one he was approaching must be Spitbank Fort. He directed himself toward it and hauled himself out onto a patch of sand between two fangs of rock.

  How long would it be before he could start back? And would it be wiser to wait for morning light? The truth was that he was afraid to start in case his strength failed halfway.

  He was shivering now in deep, uncontrollable spasms.

  Chapter Two

  “What’s wrong with the girl?” said Mr. Stokes irritably. He had come home after an agreeable session at the Warrant Officers’ Club and was not best pleased to find his daughter in hysterics and his wife at her wit’s end.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with her? Perhaps she’ll tell you.”

  “Haven’t you got any idea?”

  “What she said – when she left off sobbing for a minute – it sounded so much nonsense to me – was that she was up in her bedroom doing her homework and she happened to look out of the window and saw something.”

  “Saw what?”

  “Saw something that upset her.”

  Mastering his impatience with an effort, Mr. Stokes said, “Didn’t she describe it? Was it a dragon, or a lion, or a horse with two heads?”

  “It was something to do with a van and a lot of men and Andrew.”

  “Our boarder?”

  “Who else? You know she’s been crazy about him ever since he arrived. My guess is she’d been thinking about him so much she’s started imagining things.”

  “You could be right.”

  “She’s up in her room now. Why don’t you have a word with her. Maybe you can make some sense out of it.”

  In his capacity as petty officer, Mr. Stokes had often had to deal with young sailors – some of them homesick, some defiant, and one or two actually insane. He had developed a bluff and reassuring manner that was usually effective. It worked eventually with the tear-stained Doll, whom he found lying face downward on the bed. He did, at least, get a coherent story out of her, which was more than his wife had done.

  “They came in a van. They looked like sailors.”

  “German sailors?”

  “Foreign sailors.”

  “So what did they do?”

  “Andrew was coming home. As he walked past the van, they grabbed him and threw him in. It was horrible the way they treated him. Like they didn’t mind whether they hurt him.”

  There was one thing that supported the story of the van. The horse had left indisputable evidence of its presence, which Mr. Stokes had nearly trodden in on his way home. And in any event, since the road served only the back entrance to the factory and a side gate into the cemetery, vans were a rarity in it.

  But the sailors. Surely that part was a fantasy. Why should anyone wish to kidnap a waiter? The whole idea was crazy. Yet now that his daughter was speaking more rationally, her words had a ring of conviction.

  Finally, Mrs. Stokes, who had joined the conference, made a suggestion. She said, “Do you think, if we could have a word with—who is it?—the other waiter. The one Andrew was friendly wit
h.”

  Her husband said, “You mean Bob. We might talk to him, if we knew where he lived.”

  “I can tell you that,” said Doll. “It’s only two streets away. Let’s all go and see him. Let’s go quickly. Now.”

  Her father tried to veto this suggestion. He thought it was something he could handle better on his own. But his daughter, as usual, was too much for him, and he let her have her way. Bob had finished his supper and was very willing to devote his attention to discussing the mystery.

  He said, “There may be something in it. Andrew told me that the German cruiser captain had made a pass at him. Andrew turned him down flat. And told him just what he thought of him. I reckon that captain’s a vicious type. He might – it’s possible – have gotten some of his men to pick up Andrew and carry him off. I don’t mean kill him. Rough him up. If you see what I mean.”

  Mr. Stokes said he saw exactly what Bob meant and that the matter must be reported to the police. He said, “We’ll leave you out of this bit, Doll. You’ve had enough excitement for one night. Bob’ll take you home.”

  Doll agreed to this. The fickle young lady was beginning to cast Bob as a possible substitute for Andrew.

  Inspector Tillotson, who was on night duty at Milton Road Police Station, listened with unexpected patience to what Petty Officer Stokes had to tell him. He said, “I’ve got a daughter of my own. About the same age as yours. A few months ago, on account of something she’d picked up at school, she got the idea that our dog turned into a wolf once a month. When the moon was full.” He chuckled. “Actually he was a friendly old spaniel who wouldn’t hurt a bunny rabbit, whatever the moon was doing. But could we persuade her? Not on your life. Luckily the old dog died of distemper. However”—he sat up straight in his chair to indicate that the informal part of the interview was over—“that doesn’t deal with your complaint. And I’ll confess to you that it puts me in a difficulty. Suppose everything you’ve been thinking is true. Suppose the German captain arranged the whole thing as a piece of private vengeance. Tell me this: What are we going to do about it?”