The Triumph Read online

  4

  England, 1941

  ‘I have the most tremendous news,’ Murdoch said, letting the front door of the flat bang shut behind him.

  ‘Hitler’s dead,’ Lee suggested.

  ‘No. Or at least, if he is no one’s admitting it. But even if he were, this news is better. Fergus is to get the VC.’

  Lee stared at him, mouth open.

  ‘It’s true,’ Murdoch assured her. ‘Seems he saved Bert Manly-Smith’s life at the Battle of Beda Fomm. Isn’t that marvellous?’

  ‘Oh, Murdoch, I’m so glad.’ She hugged him. ‘Three VCs in one family. Oh, I’m so proud of you all.’

  ‘What is more,’ Murdoch said. ‘The battle was a howling success and the Italians have been knocked right out of Cyrenaica. That’s half of Libya, you know. The only sad thing is that Johnny Wilkinson has been killed. You remember Johnny?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ Lee said. They had not met since before the war, when Johnny had been a lieutenant.

  ‘But even that...well, it means Fergus has been confirmed as colonel.’

  ‘What a celebration we are going to have. Oh, Murdoch...’ she raised her head to listen to the siren.

  He kissed her on the nose. ‘Later, perhaps.’

  Since the previous October the Luftwaffe had carried out raid after raid, mainly on London; there had indeed been only two twenty-four-hour periods in which not a bomb had fallen on the capital, and sometimes the raids had lasted all night. Most devastating were the fire storms caused by the dropping of vast numbers of incendiaries; there had been occasions when the entire city had appeared to be in flames, and the press had talked, in grim jest, of the Second Fire of London.

  Yet people had become almost accustomed even to living in such a hell. Houses might be knocked down, water and gas mains shattered, all the ordinary comforts of life disrupted, but life itself went on in as nearly normal a fashion as possible.

  And Lee insisted on remaining in London. Murdoch felt she was needlessly exposing herself to danger, but he understood that she wanted to share his; equally, being in London meant that she could be near Helen, and see her and the grandchild at least once a week. This was a great blessing for her. ‘I’d go mad out in the country with just Annaliese and Philippa,’ she would say.

  ‘And little Ian,’ Murdoch would suggest.

  ‘Yes,’ Lee said, without enthusiasm. Although she had telephoned Annaliese to congratulate her on her engagement, and they had both got down for a brief Christmas celebration, Murdoch also knew that Lee had felt uneasy with Annaliese these past few months. Annaliese, after the shock of nearly being taken away from Broad Acres and interned in the early days of the war, had married Ian somewhat hesitantly and anxiously. If his death had left her temporarily distraught, becoming engaged to Fergus had given her the confidence she had left behind when she had fled Germany, and in the absence of Lee she had virtually assumed the direction of life at Broad Acres. Lee had been uncertain what to do about it. As Fergus’s wife, Annaliese would certainly inherit the estate, but that was still hopefully some years in the future. Yet if Lee’s immediate reaction had been to slap the girl down, she could not help but remember how when she had married Murdoch, old Florence Mackinder had voluntarily withdrawn into the granny wing and encouraged the young wife to get on with managing the house. Of course, Florence Mackinder had already been a widow for some years, and had perhaps been happy to get rid of the responsibilities. This was far from Lee’s position.

  The situation had been embarrassing, and Lee had been happy to return to the noise and disruption, and danger, of London. ‘We’ll sort things out when this is over,’ she told Murdoch.

  But that didn’t look like being in the very near future, even if Wavell’s troops were routing the Italians in Africa.

  Murdoch was also concerned that his own life had become so very separated from Lee, mentally. That had only happened once before, just prior to the outbreak of the Great War, when secret orders and counter-orders had been flying to and fro, and he had been unable to tell her where he was, what he was doing, and why he was doing it. Once the war had actually started, although they had been physically separated, sometimes by thousands of miles as when the regiment had been sent to the Middle East, he had yet been able, whether by letter or leave, to share his thoughts and emotions with her. And after 1918 they had become far closer. Lee had accompanied him to India and shared all the physical dangers of the Mahsud uprising. And when this war had started she had again accompanied him when he had gone to Holland as head of the military mission. Again they had shared their thoughts and his responsibilities.

  But this new command Churchill had given him precluded sharing, with anyone. He had a staff, with whom he could discuss points of view as an aid to making decisions. But the decision, as to who was to be used, and where he or she were to be sent, was his alone. And it was the loneliest business he had ever known. He was used to making decisions; he had been in command of something, ever since 1907 in Somaliland, when as a captain he and his squadron had been detached to operate against the Mad Mullah. But, as he had told the Prime Minister, the decisions had always involved himself, as well as the men he had ordered into danger. This was a wholly different situation. He met men, and women, sized them up, and then sent them out into the blue. He never knew whether or not he would ever see them again, whether or not they were actually betraying him — or at least their colleagues —whether or not they died with his name cursed on their lips in Gestapo torture chambers or against bullet-scarred walls.

  Because too many of them had already suffered that fate.

  Yet they, and therefore he, had achieved some notable triumphs. It had been his agents who had unearthed the German decision to send an armoured division to North Africa; that hadn’t done the Italians too much good, as yet. Even more important, his agents had discerned vast German troop movements into Eastern Europe. They, and Murdoch, had no doubt this meant that Hitler was going to make war on Russia; the unnatural friendship between the Nazi and Communist regimes had shown visible signs of creaking during the past few months. He had given that information to Churchill, and presumably Churchill had seen that it reached Stalin. But the Russians had not made any positive response.

  And the German Army had become diverted into the attack on Greece, which was turning out to be another victory for them. It was going to be a long war, all right.

  He had gained other insights into what was going on across the Channel and in Berlin, which he found even more interesting, and pregnant with hope for the future. He had learned, for instance, of the existence of a considerable underground movement against Hitler — in the Wehrmacht. He did not suppose many of the generals involved were against the bestiality of the regime; they were merely concerned that Hitler, having failed to invade and conquer England last autumn, might after all be going to lose the war, and that, were he no longer there, they might, at this moment when their arms had been blessed with unbroken success, be able to negotiate a peace which would leave Germany the hegemony of Europe. Murdoch could not help but wonder if Paul was one of them. God, he thought, if the newspapers were ever to discover that snippet of gossip: that the eldest son of Sir Murdoch Mackinder was actually a colonel in the German Army! But how he hoped that Paul was one of the anti-Hitler conspirators. And if he was, what vistas that might open up.

  Unfortunately, Churchill was not interested in pursuing that possibility. He had said that he would never deal with Nazi Germany, and in that embracing phrase he included the army which had carried out Hitler’s orders. When Murdoch had pointed out that he entirely agreed that Germany had to be at least reduced to its pre-1937 borders, and, this time, adequately and permanently disarmed, but that surely a first step in the direction of reaching that goal had to be the elimination of Hitler, the Prime Minister had growled, ‘Bring me proof that they will do it.’

  That proof he had been unable to obtain, as yet. But he was making every effort to get in touch with the cons
piring generals, through his agents. The thought that he could soon be corresponding with Paul was all but unbearable.

  *

  ‘They’re early tonight,’ remarked the woman in the cot next to the Mackinders, as the booms of the bombs started to reverberate through the cellars.

  ‘Yes,’ Lee agreed. ‘Hardly worthwhile undressing. We’ll be back up for dinner.’

  Because it was only seven o’clock on a warm late April evening.

  ‘There was a letter from Harry today,’ she said, sitting on her cot beside Murdoch. ‘I forgot to mention it when you began telling me about Fergus. His battalion is being shipped out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Philippines. What does that mean, Murdoch?’

  ‘Well...the Philippines have always been used as a training ground for the Marines. So it could be just routine. On the other hand...it could equally be a warning to Japan not to get too ambitious now that we have our hands full over here.’

  ‘Would they?’

  ‘They’ve always been ambitious.’

  ‘And you think the Americans might come in with us if the Japanese were to attack us?’

  ‘I would hope so.’

  ‘Oh, boy,’ she said. ‘That would be just great. Like the last time. Oh, boy, we’d be certain to win, then.’

  ‘We are certain to win, now,’ Murdoch reminded her. She glanced at him. ‘I wish I had your confidence.’

  He kissed her nose. ‘I wish you did too. But you do realize, my dearest girl, that if America were to come in, then Harry would be in as well, whether he likes it or not.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do understand that. But we’re all in this already, Murdoch. We have to be. It isn’t right for Harry to be sitting on the sidelines.’

  ‘I’ll say amen to that.’ He raised his head as the entire cellar shook. The lights promptly went out.

  ‘That was closer than usual,’ someone remarked out of the darkness.

  ‘Well, we’ve been lucky for so long...’ There was a tremendous crash.

  *

  Murdoch was aware of a great deal of weight, which seemed to be pinning the lower half of his body. He was also aware of pain, but this was nothing more than an irritation; his brain was working quite clearly.

  But it was for the moment uncertain of its whereabouts, and his nostrils were blocked with dust. He sneezed and blew, and that cleared his ears as well. Before, the only sound had been a faint singing in his head. Now he heard creaks and thuds, and groans, and wails of pain from close at hand. And suddenly realized what had happened.

  ‘Lee,’ he gasped. ‘Lee!’

  ‘Murdoch? Where are you?’

  He swept his hand to and fro, and found her. The bed on which they had been sitting had collapsed, and they were both on the cellar floor, still beside each other. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I think so. What happened?’

  ‘I would say the building took a direct hit.’

  ‘Oh, my God! I had chops waiting on the kitchen table for dinner.’

  ‘Well, I would say “had” is the operative word. Tell you what, we’ll go to a restaurant.’

  ‘When?’ she asked.

  ‘When we get out of here.’

  ‘General Mackinder, sir,’ a man said urgently. ‘General Mackinder!’

  ‘Here,’ Murdoch answered.

  ‘My wife, General Mackinder. She’s not moving. She’s not speaking.’

  ‘Damnation,’ Murdoch said. ‘Lee, can you find the torch?’

  ‘I’m looking,’ she said.

  A match flared further off in the cellar, and then died again. Now the conversation, and the appeals for help, became widespread.

  ‘She’s dead,’ the man said despondently. ‘I know she’s dead. Will you look at her, General Mackinder?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t, right this minute,’ Murdoch confessed. ‘I seem to be pinned by something. As soon as I can see...’

  ‘Got it,’ Lee said. ‘Oh, blow. It’s broken.’

  ‘Well, can you move?’

  ‘I think so.’ He listened to her scrabbling about, and felt her dress against his arm. ‘Are you really stuck?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have a torch,’ someone called from the distance, and a light beam crossed the darkness. They might have been better off without it, as there was an immediate chorus of screams and exclamations. For the light revealed a tangled mess of joints and timbers, collapsed around the beds in spidery profusion, above which the ceiling of the cellar appeared as either gaping holes or precariously balanced timbers. And on top of the timbers would be all the piled rubble of the building.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Lee gasped. ‘If that stuff comes down...’

  ‘Yes,’ Murdoch agreed.

  ‘Aaagh!’ someone screamed from the far side of the cellar. ‘Water! It’s pouring in.’

  ‘We’re going to drown,’ someone yelled.

  There was a general rustle, and some ominous creaks from above them.

  ‘Murdoch!’ Lee begged him to take control.

  ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen,’ Murdoch shouted. ‘Keep still unless you can move with total freedom. Please do not touch or put any weight on these fallen timbers. That water can only be from a broken main. It cannot possibly rise high enough to be dangerous.’ Some of the panic subsided, and Murdoch called again. ‘Mr Jameson, is that you?’ He had recognized the voice of the man with the torch.

  ‘That’s right, General.’

  Will you shine the torch at the stairs and see if they are clear. Mr Wainwright, we will get to your wife in a moment.’

  The chorus of noise gradually ceased as Jameson’s torch beam searched the darkness. ‘Can you move?’ Murdoch asked Lee again, in a low voice.

  ‘Yes.’ She was kneeling beside his head. ‘Oh Murdoch, there’s a beam fallen right across your legs.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘There is water, seeping across the floor.’

  ‘I’m sitting in it. But don’t worry about it,’ he assured her.

  ‘I can see the stairs, General,’ Jameson said. ‘There are some timbers across them, but I think it should be possible to get up.’

  ‘Very good.’ The stairs were round a buttress of the wall from where he and Lee were, and Murdoch couldn’t see them himself. ‘I would like a volunteer to make his, or her, way to the stairs, and see if it is possible to reach the street and summon aid.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Jameson volunteered.

  ‘Only if you can find someone to replace you holding the torch.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said a woman.

  ‘Well, be absolutely patient and careful, Mrs Jordan,’ Murdoch told her. ‘If you shift one timber, the whole lot may come down. If you can’t get through, come back and we’ll wait for daybreak.’

  ‘Daybreak,’ Lee muttered. ‘That’s hours away.’

  ‘So you be patient,’ Murdoch told her.

  ‘She’s dead,’ Wainwright sobbed. ‘I know she’s dead.’ Mrs Jordan, a middle-aged mother of four — fortunately her children had been evacuated to South Wales — briefly came into the light of Jameson’s torch as she crawled towards the staircase. Then she vanished from Murdoch’s vision again. ‘Can you get through?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so. Pays to be small, don’t it?’ she asked with a nervous giggle.

  ‘Good girl,’ Murdoch said. ‘Now, anyone else who can get out, without touching or moving any timbers, do so. Mrs Jordan, will you find the nearest help? Mr Jameson, will you keep shining your torch on the stairs?’

  The rustling began again, but now it was a controlled movement; Murdoch had taken effective command.

  ‘I loved her,’ Mr Wainwright said. ‘Oh, God, I loved her.’

  Lee crawled over the remains of the beds to sit beside him. ‘Help will soon be here, Mr Wainwright.’

  ‘I should think you could get out, Lee,’ Murdoch said.

 
; ‘I think when we go, we’ll go together,’ she told him.

  She was being as courageous as ever. But when, several hours later, the firemen started moving the fallen timbers and masonry to free him, she collapsed into Murdoch’s arms exhausted from the tension of waiting. He was the last to be dug from the rubble, the timber pinning his legs being carefully lifted as soon as there was room. ‘It’s hospital for a check-up for you, Sir Murdoch,’ the fire officer said.

  ‘I feel perfectly all right,’ Murdoch protested.

  ‘You could’ve broken some bones in there,’ the man pointed out. ‘At your age that could be serious.’

  ‘My age,’ Murdoch snorted.

  Lee was taken up with him, and before the ambulance drove them away, together with the sobbing Wainwright and his dead wife — one of the falling beams had crushed her skull — they were able to see the ruins of the block of flats; theirs had been the penthouse. There was simply nothing left, save rubble.

  ‘Now there is absolutely no reason for you to remain in London,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘But you’ll come with me.’

  ‘You know I can’t, my love.’

  ‘But what will you do?’

  ‘I’ll take a room at the Cavalry Club. They’ll look after me • ,

  ‘Until it’s bombed too,’ she said, and shuddered, looking at Mrs Wainwright’s silent body. ‘We are going to win, Murdoch? Say we are going to win.’

  ‘We are going to win,’ he promised her.

  *

  Murdoch’s legs were badly bruised, although no bones had been broken, and he was kept in hospital for a month, much to his annoyance. The day he was released he was commanded to call at Number Ten.