Christopher Greenwood’s breath was ragged and burning at the back of his throat. He turned another corner and stopped for a second, listening again. The church bells were ringing, and every toll of the bells sent a rush of heat through his chest. It was certain, then. The Nazi invasion of Britain had begun.
Chris suddenly felt a pain in his side, and bent over, panting heavily. He’d better go more steadily or he’d never get to the Operational Base. He started walking again, rubbing at the stitch, when a voice sounded in his ear.
“Oi! You! Where’d you think you’re going?”
Chris turned to see a policeman, carrying a rifle, approaching him. He took a breath and gathered his thoughts.
“You shouldn’t be out, sonny. Not a night for Scouts. Go home and wait for further instructions.”
Chris turned to show his uniform, “I’m on war business, constable, I’m in the Home Guard.”
The officer looked over his uniform for a moment and grunted.
“Bit young, aren’t you?”
Chris swallowed and realised his mouth was dry. “They have recruited some of us from the Scouts, I’m over sixteen.”
The police officer stared at him and then shook his head.
“Over sixteen. Dear God. We’re sending sixteen year olds to war all over again.” The policeman tapped at Chris’s shoulder badge. “What’s this? Battalion 202. Which Home Guard unit is that?” Chris shrugged. The policeman studied his face for a moment. “Where did you get the mark on your face?”
Chris’s hand went to his right cheek. The stinging had died down. He hadn’t thought about it for several minutes. His mind raced for a good reason.
“Had a row with my girlfriend.”
“What about? Must have been bad for her to crack you like that.”
Chris’s face burned at the memory of how he’d been slapped and his mind went blank. He gambled on a shrug, “Oh you know, she’s just really worried about me.”
The policeman roared with laughter, “Worried? That’s a good one. Don’t let her worry too much – she’ll beat you to death. Women, eh?” The policeman shook his head and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The Barracks are that way. You’re heading out of town.”
“I’ve, er … got to report to another HQ.”
“Another HQ?” The policeman’s eyes flicked back to Chris’s shoulder badge. “Battalion 202. What other HQ?”
Chris realised that the copper was taking advantage of his age. He’d always been brought up to be polite to the police, but enough was enough.
“I’m sorry, constable, but I can’t tell you. It’s classified information. Excuse me. I’ve got to go.”
With that, he turned and walked away, with every fibre in his body screaming at the fact that he was disobeying a policeman. He could imagine his mother’s face right now.
But then he heard the older man’s voice again. “Good luck then, lad. Watch how you go.”
He looked back. The policeman seemed older somehow.
“I will. You too.”
He walked to the end of the street, turned the corner and then started to run again. The others would probably be waiting.
The streets around him were deathly quiet, there was an ominous rumble to the south, which Chris realised with a start was the sound of artillery fire: British? German? Impossible to tell. He could hear some voices in the distance of the town, the Local Defence Volunteers would be mustering and preparing themselves for their stand. Otherwise people were to stay off the streets until further notice.
Chris wasn’t exactly an LDV, but he wasn’t a civilian, either. He was in an Auxiliary Unit – the secret resistance fighters who were to mobilize if the Nazis successfully invaded.
The street lights of the town were behind him now as he approached the forest on the edge of the town. He stopped for a second, heart racing. Before him the forest was a tangle of twisted tree limbs, some catching the light, others standing black against the navy-blue sky. Would he be able to find the OB? For a second his heart failed him; he might spend all night looking and not find his way in the dark. He might get caught by the Nazis, shot, anything.
Then he felt the sting on his face again and remembered the real cause of it. He couldn’t go back to face his mother, not after their row. He had to go on. He took a deep breath, feeling the air streaming cold through his nose and into his lungs, then let it out. They’d practised finding their way in the dark before. He could do it now – and he would. He had to.
Heading forward into the forest he looked for the oak tree stump covered in moss – fifteen paces to the right of that should be the trap door for the OB.
The night suddenly wheeled around him and Chris found himself pinned to the ground, staring at a blade pressed along his face. A voice rumbled, “You’re late,” then chuckled. The knife was lifted away and Chris breathed again.
“Leave it out, Tommy.”
“Just getting in practice, Chris. Happen now Jerry’s come we’ll be doing a lot more of that.”
“Yeah, but not to each other,” Chris could hear the harder, adult tone in his voice and realised what he had suspected over the last few months since he had been spoken to by the Chief Superintendent, - that he had been growing up quickly, and that now, in some important ways, he was a man. Of course in other ways he was just a scared boy – like when he’d choked at the edge of the forest – but now he was with the unit. The sense of belonging was coming back to him.
It had started when he had been introduced to them and they had worked on the OB together. It had grown when he had gone with them for training at Colehill, a stately home somewhere down South. They had gone twice, and Christopher had felt excited and scared in equal measure as he had been shown how to use explosives, use a knife, and ambush enemy troops.
But the scariest moment had been when one of their trainers had said, “Auxiliary fighters must never surrender to the enemy. You must fight to the last bullet.”
Tommy had spoken up– “And what do we do with the last bullet against an SS Regiment?”
The trainer had stared at each of them in turn and then said, “You use the last bullet on yourself.”
Someone had muttered, “God,” in the silence, and the trainer had looked around again before continuing, “Believe you me, lads, you’ll want to die quick and clean – if those Nazis get their hands on you, you will die – but it’ll be long and painful. You’ll be better off doing it yourself.”
It had all been a bit of a lark until then. Blowing things up, throwing grenades, learning how to throw someone bigger than yourself. They’d even been driven out in the dark and then had to find their way back to the house. Like Scouts. But it had become hard and cold and real when the trainer had said that.
With Tommy behind him, Chris worked his way backwards in to the trapdoor entrance to the OB, and climbed down the ladder. Turning into the communal area, he saw the other members of the unit – Mr Adamson, a local farmer who had been a sergeant in the West Yorkshire Regiment in the Great War. Mr Strode, a local solicitor who had been a lieutenant in the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry at the Somme. Fisher, a sullen farm hand who worked for Adamson, and Peter Cosmin, whose father was Polish and who worked at the Co-op stores in town and who Mr Strode said was a bit of a Commie but not a bad one. Each of them nodded to Chris.
When Tommy had closed the trap door and joined them, Mr Strode stood up from the table they had been sitting around and cleared his throat:
“Now that Tommy and young Greenwood are with us, I can begin. I’m sorry that it’s come to this, naturally, but we’ve all heard the church bells- “
“You can hear the shellfire. If you listen closely enough,” put in Adamson.
“Yes, and I’ve also received the code word by telephone,” continued Strode, “So it’s official. Britain is under attack, and as of now our unit is active. It is our duty to offer what armed resistance we can against the enemy. I don’t wish to be morbid when I say that we need to remember that our life expectancy from today is a fortnight.” Strode paused. The men waited. “We therefore need to bear in mind the AU motto, ‘Valiant yet vigilant’ whilst also remembering that every night that we do not perform some action is a wasted night. Agreed?” The other men nodded.
Strode continued, “If we can all see this thing through to the end, I will be delighted, but if we have to go down fighting, then I say let’s do that as well, as best we’re able.”
Cosmin snorted at this and Adamson fixed his eyes on the ground before saying, “What if some are better able than others?”
Strode stiffened, then shrugged. “I was at the Somme, and I won the Military Cross. And I earnt it. And I’ll earn it all over again, I’m sure.”
To silence further dissent he motioned to Tommy to open the rum ration that was on the table and pour a tot into each of the metal tumblers on the table.
“By way of a toast and for Dutch courage, gentlemen.”
“Shouldn’t we wait until we’ve carried out the op?” asked Adamson.
“I’ve a feeling we may need it beforehand,” said Strode, slitting an envelope of instructions and preparing to read aloud:
“His Majesty’s Government wishes you every success in your work as AU fighters. Remember, think before you act – but always think of your country before you think of yourself. You will find below a series of instructions for what you should attempt to achieve over the coming hours and days but remember – you are the personnel on the ground and so you must make the best operational decisions you can according to the circumstances you are working under.”
Strode paused for a second, scanning ahead.
“Now we’re coming to it,” muttered Tommy.
Strode paled a little, then read on.
“Instruction One. Your first action must be to make your identities, background and whereabouts as secure from the enemy as possible. To this end, you must locate the local senior police officer who vetted you for your membership of this AU. In your case, this is Chief Superintendent Frederickson, Address: 2 Major Walk, Pontefract.”
“So the talk was true,” Chris heard someone say. He lifted the tumbler to his mouth and tipped the burning contents down his throat. Strode continued reading.
“This may be seen to be an act of betrayal at this moment. But you must remember that this Police Officer is the only individual who knows your role in the British Resistance Organisation, who you are, where you come from, your family, indeed all significant information about you. If captured, he may voluntarily or under duress offer damaging information about you to the enemy, leading to the failure of your mission, your torture and death, and perhaps the torture and death of those closest to you. This war will be a long and difficult one. This is the first of many difficult actions you will have to perform. Do not delay. Go to the address noted above. The Officer in question has received instructions to await your arrival. Assassinate him immediately.”
Chief Superintendent Frederickson had come to the King’s Grammar School last year, after they had taken that intelligence test. Chris had been taken out of Mathematics to speak to him in the Deputy Head’s office. He thought they’d found out about him going off at lunch to see Rosie over at Park Lane, but then the Deputy had cleared his throat and said that a police officer wanted to speak to him and the man had looked so sad and thoughtful that he’d known it was about something else. Frederickson had told Chris that he’d scored well on the tests and that he’d talked to people who knew him and that there might be a way for him to help with the War effort. They’d talked about lots of things: Scouts, Cadets, his family, whether he had a girl, the War, the Germans. Chris had said that he’d be happy to fight for his family and the Superintendent had given a short laugh.
“Yes, it’s good to have family.”
He had looked out of the window, then shaken himself and turned back to Chris and smiled.
“Well, thank you Mr. Greenwood. Someone will be in touch with you shortly. Please tell no one about this interview.”
Fisher and Cosmin knocked their drinks back like Christopher had done. Strode took a sip of his. Adamson and Tommy left theirs untouched, Strode broke the silence.
“Well, it’s not entirely unexpected, but it’s going to be… a difficult matter to… expedite.”
There were a few grunts. Chris tried to swallow and felt his tongue rubbing like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. He looked around for something to put in his tumbler. Tommy snatched up the flask of rum and stoppered it.
“No more of that, lad. Water for you”, and with that produced a metal pitcher of stream water, pouring some into Chris’s tumbler. He swigged the water gratefully; it was ice-cold and tasted slightly of the metal, but he didn’t care.
Adamson cleared his throat, “Are there many other instructions? Should we read the others now?”
Strode scanned the list.
“Basically, there are lists of roads and rail lines to sabotage, a list of other public figures we need to … keep an eye on and … deal with if we become aware that they are collaborating with the invaders. Instructions for operating the wireless. Other than that it’s telling us to be active but careful, fight to the last bullet, etcetera.”
He laid the instructions down and placed his half-drunk tumbler on top of them.
“Right. As Patrol Leader, this is what I propose: we realistically must address the situation regarding the Chief Superintendent. Beyond that, we need to begin disrupting potential supply lines and transport links”.
Adamson gave a curt nod then said, “Agreed, but the invasion has started tonight, hundreds of miles away on the South Coast. The Home Forces will be fighting back-…”
Tommy cut in, “But they’ll be falling back soon, not fighting back. There aren’t two hundred field guns in the whole of Britain. And the attack could be spread around, along the Welsh Coast, anywhere.”
Adamson’s eyes flickered half-closed. “Yes, Tom, but still, it’s gonna take them some time to get up ‘ere. And they’re gonna need transport links when they do.”
“Yes, but not all transport links. I’d wager the roads will be essential, rail lines less so. Civilians are under orders to stay at home and not become refugees,” Strode said, “So the roads will be kept clear, but perhaps our first action could and should be to disrupt Pontefract’s rail links. The railway between here and Leeds, and the line that links Sheffield to York would be important to the Nazis.”
There was general agreement to this. Strode continued, “It’ll also be relatively easy to achieve, and good preparation.” The others nodded, Strode met each man’s eyes before going on. “There are three of us with actual military experience. Adamson and I both fought in the Great War, and Tommy fought with the Spanish Republicans.”
“Mainly running supplies,” Tommy put in, “But I was at the front line a bit as well.” Strode nodded and went on.
“There are six of us in total. So it may be worth pairing those with combat experience up with those who don’t have that experience. In pairs we can cover more area and more targets. There are also fewer of us in one place to be attacked or captured”.
“Or killed”, said Fisher, gloomily – Strode shrugged.
“Of course we will also mount ops as a team of six or in other combinations. But at least for tonight we can trial working in three pairs, since there are three jobs to do.”
Chris’s throat tightened. There had only been two railway lines mentioned. “What are the three jobs, Mr Strode?”
“I’ll come to that, Greenwood,” Strode gave him a kind smile, “I will work with Cosmin to disable the Sheffield-York line. Adamson, with your experience you had better be Deputy Patrol Leader . You work with Fisher on the Ponte-Leeds line.”
The bottom fell out of Chris’s stomach. He could hardly believe what he was hearing – Strode coughed and then spoke again.
“Tommy is operational number three from now on and will work with Greenwood on our other priority tonight. That is, the assassination of the Chief Superintendent.”
There was a pause. Chris laughed a little and then stopped. It was silent in the OB, but the silence started to ring loudly in his ears.
“Why me? I’ve never done anything like that”.
Strode smiled calmly at him, Tommy gave a small, hard chuckle and answered, “No one has, Chris, not even those of us who’ve been in the Army”.
“But – but - …” Chris felt the skin at the base of his throat getting tighter and tighter, “I’d be better helping with one of the rail lines. I’m second in my chemistry class …”
Cosmin stirred and spoke up. “You’re good with explosives, Christopher, but we’ve all done the sabotage course.”
Chris raised his voice, but it sounded like a squeak – “But I’m –….”
“A boy?” Adamson shook his head, “So’s Fisher – he’s only eighteen. Cosmin here’s only twenty – I was just a lad when I signed up for the Western Front.”
“But I’m seventeen.”
“But you agreed to all of this, Christopher. And now you’ve got to honour the agreement.”
“I didn’t agree to murder a copper.”
Adamson’s eyes seemed to go slightly red and moist and he shook his head again slowly. “Do you think this is the worst thing we’ll have to do? This is just the start, I’m sorry to say.”
Chris felt Tommy’s hand on his shoulder. “Christopher, we’re gonna have to fight a dirty war. The Nazis are the dirtiest fighters of all – that’s how they’ve got this far. The truth is that if they get their hands on the Chief Superintendent they’ll torture him to get any information out of him they can. It won’t be his fault if he lets something slip.”
“But couldn’t we bring him here instead?”
Fisher sniggered. Tommy carried on.
“No, son. He’s in his late fifties. He’s not prepared for life in an OP – God knows, we hardly are. And anyway, the likelihood is that some or all of us are gonna be dead in two weeks’ time anyway.”
“We’ll soon be joining the Chief Super, if it makes you feel any better, grammar schoolboy,” Fisher sneered.
“That’s enough,” snapped Adamson.
“It is important that everyone is … properly initiated into the OP’s work,” Mr Strode put in gently, “For one reason or another everyone else has satisfied that requirement. Except you, Christopher.” There was a pause. “But I’m certain you’re going to discharge this requirement perfectly well.”
Chris had looked from one face to another, but had found no help. So it was settled, he would help to kill the Chief Superintendent.
After that, weapons were issued. Strode and Cosmin took the Thompson Sub-Machine gun and a shot gun. Adamson and Fisher took the Sten machine gun and a .303 rifle; Tommy handed Chris a silenced .22 sniper rifle and ammo and took a .303 rifle himself.
“More for practice, really” Tommy explained, “They aren’t close tonight. We just need to get used to carrying weapons. But of course you never know.”
“But someone’s gonna use a gun tonight, eh Christopher”? smirked Fisher. Chris looked at him once, then looked away.
Outside, they split off in pairs, making their ways as silently as possible through the forest. They had agreed to rendezvous back at the OB within four hours.
Tommy led Chris through a particularly dense part of the forest. Chris felt a mixture of panic and relief when he felt the close shadow of the trees lift, and the lights of Pontefract shining in the distance.
“We’d best get going,” Tommy murmured. They set off across a field, “And whilst we’re walking you can tell me how you got the mark on your face.”
Chris felt his face go hot, but the darkness covered it. It was a relief to tell someone the truth.
“It – it was my Mum. I was leaving the house and she stopped me”.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I need to go to the Home Guard, Mum.”
“That’s a laugh. You’re not eighteen.”
“But I’m in the Home Guard and I’ve got to report for duty.”
“Over my dead bloody body you are.”
“Look Mum - …”
“Christopher! I may never see you again! Your father’s abandoned us to play soldiers and now you’re abandoning me too!”
“Mum! The Nazis are coming one way or the other and we’ve got to do something”.
He had gently but firmly lifted his pack and made to move around her. He felt the blow rather than saw it. Mrs. Greenwood brought her open hand across his left cheek bone and for a second he saw nothing but sparks – then he saw her leaning against the front door.
“You’re not leaving this house!”
Chris suddenly felt a burst of hot anger explode in his guts and run up his throat, shooting out of his mouth.
“Oh – yes – I AM!”
His mother flew at him again, but this time he was ready and brought her down with the sharp left hook he’d been taught at Colehill. There was a silence. Mrs Greenwood trembled and looked up at him.
“Hit your own mother….”
“I’m sorry mum, I’ll be back, I promise.”
Chris had then grabbed his pack and fled through the door.
As he stepped into the street, Rosie from the next house up appeared at her door. “Chris, are you alright?” He had a glimpse of yellow light on her brown hair before a hand grabbed her elbow and yanked her back inside. “Get inside now, Rose.”
Chief Superintendent Frederickson’s house was on the edge of the town, his garden conveniently backed onto farm fields. They crouched at his back wall to gather their breath. Tommy laid a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “You had to, fella. What a body has to do under pressure…. Don’t blame yourself too much, Chris, but don’t blame your mum too much, either.”
Chris stared at the ground.
“I’ll try, but what’s she gonna say about this?”
“Nothin’ whatsoever, Chris. She ain’t gonna find out. This kinda thing you need to focus on, do it, and move on.”
Chris sighed and nodded. There was a leaden throbbing in his chest and a pressure at each of his temples that made everything he looked at seem somehow sharper. He held his breath until his throat, mouth and nose felt hot, then slowly expelled it through pursed lips. “Alright, what do we do now?”
Tommy looked at him closely. “Can I trust you, Chris? Can we rely on you?”
Chris glanced at Tommy, then off across the fields. Eventually he nodded slowly and looked back at him through one eye, “Yes, you can.”
Tommy stared at him, then nodded. “Okay, then. First, we’ll do a recce. You take the back and right hand side of the house, I’ll take the front and left hand side. Try to check for other people in the house, where his lordship is, any noise from other houses….Meet at the back door in five minutes.”
They checked their watches.
“Go.”
Tommy streaked off up the side of the house. Chris ran to the rear of the house. Watched and listened. A blackout curtain allowed a glimmer of light along its bottom edge, and he thought that he heard a record being played, something classical. He strained his ears, but couldn’t hear any human voices at all. The rest of the house was in darkness. He ran to the right hand alley running the length of the house. Dark. He looked over the hedge, saw nothing out of the ordinary. The occupants might be shivering in their beds, or huddling in the darkness. They might have fled to some central point in the town or joined the LDVs or the Home Guard line of defence.
Chris gave another 360 degree scan and ran to the back door, checked his rifle and the silencer. A sudden movement made him look up sharply – it was Tommy. He cleared his throat and reported:
“All clear.”
“Right, we need to secure the inside of the house. Assuming he’s in the back parlour, we’ll do a quick search of the upstairs.”
Without waiting for any comment he turned and expertly inserted a lock pick into the back door, but as he turned the handle it opened smoothly.
They looked at each other and then moved inside.
The music was a little louder. They found themselves in the kitchen, the door to the hallway open, light escaping from under the back parlour door to the left. They moved swiftly over it. Tommy pressed his ear to the door then nodded, opening the door silently, looking around swiftly as he stepped in. A voice greeted them: “Come in, gentlemen.”
Following Tommy through the door, Chris took in a room lined with bookcases and holding a Davenport writing desk, bookcase, low table, hard-backed chair, armchair, a fire which was roaring with burning logs; a record player on one side of the room and a drinks cabinet, from which the room’s occupant had brought across a glass and a bottle of Scotch whisky to the low table in front of him.
Chief Superintendent Frederickson was drunk. If the bottle had been full when he had sat down, then he had drunk about half of its contents. On his lap was a photo album. Chris noticed with almost detached interest that a pistol was lying across the open album.
“I’ve been expecting you since the bells started ringing,” said the Chief Superintendent. “What took you so long?”
“We had to organise ourselves,” Tommy answered. “Incidentally, is your revolver loaded, sir?”
The Chief Superintendent snorted with laughter, “’Sir’, is it? I’ve just been knighted, and I’m about to die.”
He must have seen their reaction; he continued: “Yes, I read your instructions, although I’d guessed what was in them. Stands to sense, I suppose. War on, eh?”
There was a long silence as the Chief Superintendent took another sip of whisky. “I’ve been laying preparations of my own. Spent today destroying any…incriminating files. Only one incriminating file left,” and he tapped the side of his head.
Tommy nodded, “Yes, sir.”
“Mm. Well, not much reason for me to complain. No family now. No children. My wife died three years ago. Good innings.”
Swig.
“And it strikes me that I can save you some effort.”
Chris felt sweat break in a fine line at the top of his forehead. The Chief Superintendent’s eyes flicked towards him and then to Tommy.
“My God, he was going to do it?”
“Yes he was. Is.”
“Dear Heavens, it really is time for me to say goodnight. I don’t want a schoolboy doing it.”
Swig.
“Please step into the hallway, gentlemen and I’ll take care of the matter directly.”
There was a pause. Chris became aware that the knuckles of his hand that was holding the barrel of his rifle had turned ice cold. He felt Tommy’s fingers tap his shoulder. As he turned away, he said,
“I’m sorry, Sir, I’m sorry.”
“Yes, so am I – but the blood of this is on my hands. You’ll have plenty on yours in time, but at least it’ll be the right blood.”
He said it gently. Chris saw the wisdom of it. He and Tommy withdrew through the closing parlour door.
Chris and Tommy stared at one another for a moment. There was the noise of a bottle being lifted off wood, the long splosh of liquid pouring into a glass. A pause. Then out of nowhere the record began playing again at full volume. Chris jumped and brought his weapon up automatically; Tommy did the same. They looked at each other. There was the sound of someone moving around inside of the room. Then one single pistol shot, muffled, through the door.
Tommy’s shoulders dropped a little. “Okay, it’s done.”
Inside the room, Frederickson was lying, slumped back with his head tilted at an awkward angle. Eyes open. Mouth open. A dark red wound on the right hand side of his head. Chris felt an acidic gurgling at the top of his throat, and started trembling. Swallowed, hard. The gurgling subsided. Tommy was checking the body’s neck for a pulse. He looked over his shoulder, “Gone.”
Then he went over to the drinks cabinet and poured some brandy into two glasses and brought them over. “Here, drink this.”
Chris smelt the pungency of brandy, flinched, then forced himself to drink.
“What do we do now?”
“You search him – get hold of anything you think might be useful from his pockets and around this room. I’ll be back in a minute.”
With that, Tommy left the room. Chris stared at the corpse that had been a thinking, feeling, living human being a few minutes before. Setting his glass down he gingerly approached the body, and started checking the pockets of the trousers and jacket without disturbing it any more than was strictly necessary. At one point, the head rolled to one side and he shouted out, thinking the corpse was coming back to life. After a moment the job was done; he had the Chief Superintendent’s identity card, some money, the revolver with five bullets in the chamber. Checking in the drawers of the desk he found a box of bullets for the revolver. He saw a bunch of keys and picked them up. One might open a door at the police station. He saw a full bottle of Scotch on the drinks stand and picked that up as well.
Tommy came back in, hefting a shotgun, broken over his forearm.
“Found this upstairs with some shells, picked up some food tins and medical stuff.” In his other hand he held a tin of white paint, and a small brush. The lid was already off. Stepping to the wall opposite he quickly scrawled with the paint:
Setting the paint and brush down, he turned back to Chris: “One more job, then we go.”
Chris frowned. “What’s that?”
“You’re going to shoot him.”
“What? But he’s dead. Why didn’t I just shoot him before and be done with it?”
“Because he wanted to go his own way, and we had to respect that. You’ve handled the body and that’s good, but you need to shoot him, Chris.”
Chris’s vision rolled like a sea wave and he felt his knees tremble. Tommy grabbed his elbow, holding him up but also squeezing hard. “Chris, we can’t go back and tell them you didn’t do the job. We have to be able to tell them that you did it. We have to. That he was waiting for us, but that you did it.”
In the silence, the distant, rhythmic rumble of the approaching artillery fire seemed to grow gradually louder. Chris thought of how Fisher would look if he knew he hadn’t done it. He thought of his mother, on the hallway floor, crying. The rumble halted, then started again, even louder still.
Chris felt a sharp ache along his jaw, then a tightening in the centre of his chest. It occurred to him that he might be about to have a heart attack. He felt exhausted; a dull throbbing had returned to his forehead, and the sense of bloated fullness in his stomach was rising to the back of his throat.
He aimed the rifle at the crumpled corpse in the chair. His hands shook and trembled. Christopher watched his own forearms quiver. The barrel of the gun wobbled violently which made him nearly laugh, but then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. With a huge effort of will he made the barrel steady. The rising feeling lifted higher and he didn’t know if he’d be sick before he pulled the trigger. He heard the ticking of the clock and then looked at the third button of Chief Superintendent Frederickson’s ironed white short. He pulled the trigger. The corpse jumped slightly in the chair and was still.
Chris handed the rifle to Tommy and managed to say, “Hold that,” before he had to run to the corner of the room, leaning over and losing control as his mother’s rabbit stew came rushing up out of his mouth. Three times he vomited, finally leaning against the wall, shaking, with his nose dripping, apologising, then feeling the other man’s hand on his shoulder.
“Good,” said Tommy, “Now take the revolver and shoot him in the head”.
“What?”
“If it gets out that he had a chest wound and a head wound, the others may suspect something. You shot him in the chest, then used his revolver.”
Chris felt the weight of the revolver, felt its weight so fully that he thought gravity was sucking his hand down to the ground. Bringing it up in both hands, he slowly approached the body in the armchair.
It was done. They were moving slowly across the field again. They would be back at the OB within half an hour – probably ahead of schedule.
“Is that clear, Chris? We arrived – he told us he knew why we were there. You shot him in the chest and then shot him with the revolver. You got carried away and shot him twice in the head. You don’t need to say anything else.”
“Yeah. Alright.” Chris heard his own words slurring. Tommy looked at in the moonlight. He crouched down and saw the torn, ploughed earth lurch up towards him suddenly. Tommy crouched down beside him.
“Chris, it’ll be fine. You did your bit.”
Chris thought of the Chief Superintendent with his loosened tie, the sad music, the photo album. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
“You did, Chris – and as soon as we can – and I don’t think it’ll be too long – you’ll get your first proper scalp. There’ll be chances to pick off some lone Nazi.”
Chris took a gulp of air. That would feel more right than what had happened tonight, but he was no longer sure that he wanted to hurt anyone.
“That would be…alright.” He shuddered. “Tommy, it’s worth it, isn’t it? All of what we’re doing?”
Tommy moved closer, then said, “Worth it?! Of course it is! Think about your mum, your girlfriend, think about your neighbours and your friends, Chris. We’re doing this for them. Of course it’s worth it.”
Chris looked back at the town, with its glimmering, flickering lights, and then back towards the forest and the OB, lying in a field of black. Was it worth it? There was another volcanic rumble in the distance. Christopher sighed to himself: they would have to go on.
Slowly, nodding, he stood up, and followed Tommy back into the darkness.
Email your comments to Jonathan.Doering@ncpontefract.ac.uk