Field Marshal Kertel rose from behind a long table that was covered in a map that Harry recognized immediately, but this one had models of tanks and soldiers all heading in his direction. He was surrounded by a dozen field officers, none below the rank of colonel.
Harry stood rigidly to attention and saluted.
‘Name and rank?’ the field marshal asked after he had returned Harry’s salute.
‘Clifton, sir, Lieutenant Clifton. I am General Eisenhower’s ADC.’ Harry spotted a bible on a small folding table by the field marshal’s bed. A German flag covered the canvas of one side of the tent. Something was missing.
‘And why would General Eisenhower send his ADC to see me?’
Harry observed the man carefully before answering his question. Unlike Goebbels’s or Goering’s, Kertel’s battle-worn face confirmed that he had seen frontline action many times. The only medal he wore was an Iron Cross with oakleaf cluster, which Harry knew he’d won as a lieutenant at the Battle of the Marne in 1918.
‘General Eisenhower wishes you to know that on the far side of Clemenceau, he has three full battalions of thirty thousand men, along with twenty-two thousand tanks. On his right flank is the Second Division of the Texas Rangers, in the centre, the Third Battalion of the Green Jackets, and on their left flank, a battalion of the Australian Light Infantry.’
The field marshal would have made an excellent poker player, because he gave nothing away. He would have known that the numbers were accurate, assuming those three regiments were actually in place.
‘Then it should prove a most interesting battle, lieutenant. But if your purpose was to alarm me, you have failed.’
‘That is no part of my brief, sir,’ Harry said, glancing down at the map, ‘because I suspect I haven’t told you anything you didn’t already know, including the fact that the Allies have recently taken control of the airfield at Wilhelmsberg.’ A fact that was confirmed by a small American flag pinned on the airport on the map. ‘What you may not know, sir, is that lined up on the runway is a squadron of Lancaster bombers, awaiting an order from General Eisenhower to destroy your tanks, while his battalions advance in battle formation.’
What Harry knew was that the only planes at the airfield were a couple of reconnaissance aircraft stranded because they’d run out of fuel.
‘Get to the point, lieutenant,’ said Kertel. ‘Why did General Eisenhower send you to see me?’
‘I will try to recall the general’s exact words, sir.’ Harry attempted to sound as if he were reciting a message. ‘There can be no doubt that this dreadful war is fast drawing to a close, and only a deluded man with a limited experience of warfare could still believe victory is possible.’
The allusion to Hitler did not go unnoticed by the officers who surrounded their field marshal. That was when Harry realized what was missing. There was no Nazi flag or picture of the Führer in the field marshal’s tent.
‘General Eisenhower holds you and the Nineteenth Corps in the highest regard,’ Harry continued. ‘He has no doubt that your men would lay down their lives for you, whatever the odds. But in the name of God, he asks, for what purpose? This engagement will end with your troops being decimated, while we will undoubtedly lose vast numbers of men. Everyone knows that the end of the war can only be a matter of weeks away, so what can be gained by such unnecessary carnage? General Eisenhower read your book, The Professional Soldier, when he was at West Point, sir, and one sentence in particular has remained indelibly fixed in his memory throughout his military career.’
Harry had read Kertel’s memoirs a fortnight before, when he realized they might be up against him, so he was able to recite the sentence almost word for word.
‘“Sending young men to an unnecessary death is not an act of leadership, but of vainglory, and unworthy of a professional soldier.” That, sir, is something you share with General Eisenhower, and to that end, he guarantees that if you lay down your arms, your men will be treated with the utmost dignity and respect, as set out in the Third Geneva Convention.’
Harry expected the field marshal’s response to be, ‘Good try, young man, but you can tell whoever it is commanding your puny brigade on the other side of that hill that I am about to wipe them off the face of the earth.’ But what Kertel actually said, was, ‘I will discuss the general’s proposal with my officers. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait outside.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Harry saluted, left the tent and returned to the Jeep. Quinn didn’t speak when he climbed back into the front seat and sat beside him.
It was clear that Kertel’s officers were not of one opinion, as raised voices could be heard from inside the tent. Harry could imagine the words, honour, commonsense, duty, realism, humiliation and sacrifice being bandied about. But the two he feared most were ‘he’s bluffing’.
It was almost an hour before the major summoned Harry back into the tent. Kertel was standing apart from his most trusted advisers, a world-weary look on his face. He had made his decision, and even if some of his officers didn’t agree with it, once he had given the order they would never question him. He didn’t need to tell Harry what that decision was.
‘Do I have your permission, sir, to contact General Eisenhower and inform him of your decision?’
The field marshal gave a curt nod, and his officers quickly left the tent to see that his orders were carried out.
Harry returned to his Jeep accompanied by the major, and watched 23,000 men lay down their arms, climb out of their tanks and line up in columns of three as they prepared to surrender. His only fear was that having bluffed the field marshal, he wouldn’t be able to pull off the same trick with his area commander. He picked up his field phone and only had to wait a few moments before Colonel Benson came on the line. Harry hoped the major hadn’t noticed the bead of sweat that was trickling down his nose.
‘Have you discovered how many of them we’re up against, Clifton?’ were the colonel’s first words.
‘Could you put me through to General Eisenhower, colonel? This is Lieutenant Clifton, his ADC.’
‘Have you gone out of your mind, Clifton?’
‘Yes, I will hold on, sir, while you go and look for him.’ His heart couldn’t have beaten faster if he’d just run a hundred yards, and he began to wonder how long it would be before the colonel worked out what he was up to. He nodded at the major, but the major didn’t respond. Was he standing there hoping to find a chink in his armour? As he waited, Harry watched thousands of fighting men, some perplexed, while others looked relieved, joining the ranks of those who had already abandoned their tanks and laid down their arms.
‘It’s General Eisenhower here. Is that you, Clifton?’ said Colonel Benson when he came back on the line.
‘Yes, sir. I’m with Field Marshal Kertel, and he has accepted your proposal that the Nineteenth Corps lay down their arms and surrender under the terms of the Geneva Convention, in order to avoid, if I remember your words correctly, sir, unnecessary carnage. If you bring forward one of our five battalions, they should be able to carry out the operation in an orderly fashion. I anticipate coming over Clemenceau ridge, accompanied by the Nineteenth Corps –’ he looked at his watch – ‘at approximately 1700 hours.’
‘We’ll be waiting for you, lieutenant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Fifty minutes later Harry crossed the Clemenceau ridge for the second time that day, the German battalion following him as if he were the Pied Piper, over the hill and into the arms of the Texas Rangers. As the 700 men and 214 tanks surrounded the Nineteenth Corps, Kertel realized he had been duped by an Englishman and an Irishman, whose only weapons were a Jeep and a handkerchief.
The field marshal pulled a pistol from inside his tunic, and Harry thought for a moment that he was going to shoot him. Kertel stood to attention, saluted, placed the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger.
Harry felt no pleasure in his death.
Once the Germans had been rounded up, Colo
nel Benson invited Harry to lead the nineteenth un-armoured corps in triumph to the compound. As they drove at the head of the column, even Pat Quinn had a smile on his face.
They must have been about a mile away when the Jeep passed over a German landmine. Harry heard a loud explosion, and remembered Pat’s prophetic words, Don’t you think we’ve used up enough of our nine lives during the past year?, as the Jeep cartwheeled into the air before bursting into flames.
And then, nothing.
42
DO YOU KNOW when you’re dead?
Does it happen in an instant, and then suddenly you’re no longer there?
All Harry could be sure of was the images that appeared before him were like actors in a Shakespearian play, each making their exits and entrances. But he couldn’t be sure if it was a comedy, a tragedy or a history.
The central character never changed, and was played by a woman who gave a remarkable performance, while others seemed to flit on and off the stage at her bidding. And then his eyes opened, and Emma was standing by his side.
When Harry smiled, her whole face lit up. She bent down and kissed him gently on the lips. ‘Welcome home,’ she said.
That was the moment when he realized not only how much he loved her, but also that now nothing would ever keep them apart. He took her gently by the hand. ‘You’re going to have to help me,’ he began. ‘Where am I? And how long have I been here?’
‘Bristol General, and just over a month. It was touch and go for a while, but I wasn’t going to lose you a second time.’
Harry gripped her hand firmly and smiled. He felt exhausted, and drifted back into a deep sleep.
When he woke again it was dark, and he sensed that he was alone. He tried to imagine what might have happened to all those characters during the past five years, because, as in Twelfth Night, they must have believed he’d died at sea.
Had his mother read the letter he wrote to her? Had Giles used his colour-blindness as an excuse not to be called up? Had Hugo returned to Bristol once he was convinced Harry was no longer a threat? Were Sir Walter Barrington and Lord Harvey still alive? And one other thought kept returning again and again. Was Emma waiting for the right moment to tell him there was someone else in her life?
Suddenly, the door to his room was thrown open and a little boy came running in, shouting, ‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’ before leaping on to his bed and throwing his arms around him.
Emma appeared moments later and watched as the two men in her life met for the first time.
Harry was reminded of the photograph of himself as a boy that his mother kept on the mantelpiece in Still House Lane. He didn’t have to be told that this was his child and he felt a thrill he couldn’t have begun to imagine before. He studied the boy more closely as he leapt up and down on the bed – his fair hair, blue eyes and square jaw, just like Harry’s father.
‘Oh my God,’ said Harry, and fell into a deep sleep.
When he woke again, Emma was sitting on the bed beside him. He smiled and took her hand.
‘Now I’ve met my son, any other surprises?’ he asked. Emma hesitated, before adding with a sheepish grin, ‘I’m not sure where to start.’
‘At the beginning possibly,’ said Harry, ‘like any good story. Just remember that the last time I saw you was on our wedding day.’
Emma began with her trip to Scotland and the birth of their son Sebastian. She’d just pressed the doorbell of Kristin’s apartment in Manhattan, when Harry fell asleep.
When he woke again, she was still with him.
Harry liked the sound of Great-aunt Phyllis and her cousin Alistair, and although he could only just remember Detective Kolowski, he would never forget Sefton Jelks. When Emma came to the end of her story she was on a plane crossing the Atlantic back to England, sitting next to Mr Harold Macmillan.
Emma presented Harry with a copy of The Diary of a Convict. All Harry said was, ‘I must try and find out what happened to Pat Quinn.’
Emma found it difficult to find the right words.
‘Was he killed by the landmine?’ Harry asked quietly.
Emma bowed her head. Harry didn’t speak again that night.
Each day produced new surprises because, inevitably, everyone’s life had moved on in the five years since Harry had seen them.
When his mother came to visit him the following day, she was on her own. He was so proud to learn that she was excelling at reading and writing, and was deputy manager of the hotel, but was saddened when she admitted she had never opened the letter delivered by Dr Wallace before it disappeared.
‘I thought it was from a Tom Bradshaw,’ she explained.
Harry changed the subject. ‘I see you’re wearing an engagement ring, as well as a wedding ring.’
His mother blushed. ‘Yes, I wanted to see you on my own, before you met your stepfather.’
‘My stepfather?’ said Harry. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, and would have told him who she’d married, if he hadn’t fallen asleep.
The next time Harry woke it was the middle of the night. He switched on the bedside light and began to read The Diary of a Convict. He smiled several times before he reached the last page.
Nothing Emma told him about Max Lloyd came as a surprise, especially after Sefton Jelks had made a reappearance. However, he was surprised when Emma told him that the book had been an instant bestseller, and that the follow-up was doing even better.
‘The follow-up?’ enquired Harry.
‘The first diary you wrote, about what happened to you before you were sent to Lavenham, has just been published in England. It’s racing up the charts here, as it did in America. That reminds me, Mr Guinzburg keeps asking when he can expect your first novel, the one you hinted at in The Diary of a Convict?’
‘I’ve got enough ideas for half a dozen,’ Harry said.
‘Then why don’t you get started?’ asked Emma.
When Harry woke that afternoon, his mother and Mr Holcombe were standing by his side, holding hands as if they were on their second date. He’d never seen his mother looking so happy.
‘You can’t be my stepfather,’ Harry protested, as the two shook hands.
‘I most certainly am,’ said Mr Holcombe. ‘Truth is, I should have asked your mother to be my wife twenty years ago, but I simply didn’t think I was good enough for her.’
‘And you’re still not good enough, sir,’ said Harry with a grin. ‘But then, neither of us ever will be.’
‘Truth be known, I married your mother for her money.’
‘What money?’ said Harry.
‘The ten thousand dollars Mr Jelks sent, which made it possible for us to buy a cottage in the country.’
‘For which we will be eternally grateful,’ chipped in Maisie.
‘Don’t thank me,’ said Harry. ‘Thank Emma.’
If Harry was taken by surprise when he discovered that his mother had married Mr Holcombe, it was nothing compared to the shock when Giles walked into the room, dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Wessex Regiment. If that wasn’t enough, his chest was covered in combat medals, including the Military Cross. But when Harry asked how he’d won it, Giles changed the subject.
‘I’m planning to stand for Parliament at the next election,’ he announced.
‘To which seat have you granted this honour?’ asked Harry.
‘Bristol Docklands,’ Giles replied.
‘But that’s a safe Labour seat.’
‘And I intend to be the Labour candidate.’
Harry made no attempt to hide his surprise. ‘What caused this Saint Paul-like conversion?’ he asked.
‘A corporal I served with on the frontline called Bates—’
‘Not Terry Bates?’ said Harry.
‘Yes, did you know him?’
‘Sure did. The brightest kid in my class at Merrywood Elementary, and the best sportsman. He left school at twelve to work in his father’s business: Bates and Son, butchers.’
‘That’s why I’m standing as a Labour candidate,’ said Giles. ‘Terry had just as much right to be at Oxford as you or me.’
The following day, Emma and Sebastian returned, armed with pens, pencils, pads and an India rubber. She told Harry the time had come for him to stop thinking and start writing.
During the long hours when he couldn’t sleep, or was simply alone, Harry’s thoughts turned to the novel he had intended to write if he hadn’t escaped from Lavenham.
He began to make outline notes of the characters that must turn the page. His detective would have to be a one-off, an original, who he hoped would become part of his readers’ everyday lives, like Poirot, Holmes or Maigret.
He finally settled on the name William Warwick. The Hon. William would be the second son of the Earl of Warwick, and have turned down the opportunity to go to Oxford, much to his father’s disgust, because he wanted to join the police force. His character would be loosely based on his friend Giles. After three years on the beat, walking the streets of Bristol, Bill, as he was known to his colleagues, would become a detective constable, and be assigned to Chief Inspector Blakemore, the man who’d intervened when Harry’s uncle Stan had been arrested and wrongly charged with stealing money from Hugo Barrington’s safe.
Lady Warwick, Bill’s mother, would be modelled on Elizabeth Barrington; Bill would have a girlfriend called Emma, and his grandfathers Lord Harvey and Sir Walter Barrington would make the occasional entrance on the page but only to offer sage advice.
Every night, Harry would read over the pages he’d written that day, and every morning his wastepaper basket needed emptying.
Harry always looked forward to Sebastian’s visits. His young son was so full of energy, so inquisitive and so good-looking, just like his mother, as everyone teased him.
Sebastian often asked questions no one else would have dared to: what’s it like being in prison? How many Germans did you kill? Why aren’t you and Mama married? Harry sidestepped most of them, but he knew Sebastian was far too bright not to work out what his father was up to, and feared it wouldn’t be long before the boy trapped him.