The Fourth Estate

9 Daily Mirror 7 June 1944 Normandy Landings Are Successful

When Lubji Hoch had finished telling the tribunal his story, they just looked at him with incredulous stares. He was either some sort of superman, or a pathological liar — they couldn’t decide which.

The Czech translator shrugged his shoulders. ‘Some of it adds up,’ he told the investigating officer. ‘But a lot of it sounds a little far-fetched to me.’

The chairman of the tribunal considered the case of Lubji Hoch for a few moments, and then decided on the easy way out. ‘Send him back to the internment camp — and we’ll see him again in six months’ time. He can then tell us his story again, and we’ll just have to see how much of it has changed.’

Lubji had sat through the tribunal unable to understand a word the chairman was saying, but at least this time they had supplied him with an interpreter so he was able to follow the proceedings. On the journey back to the internment camp he made one decision. When they reviewed his case in six months’ time, he wouldn’t need his words translated.

That didn’t turn out to be quite as easy as Lubji had anticipated, because once he was back in the camp among his countrymen they showed little interest in speaking anything but Czech. In fact the only thing they ever taught him was how to play poker, and it wasn’t long before he was beating every one of them at their own game. Most of them assumed they would be returning home as soon as the war was over.

Lubji was the first internee to rise every morning, and he persistently annoyed his fellow inmates by always wanting to outrun, outwork and outstrip every one of them. Most of the Czechs looked upon him as nothing more than a Ruthenian ruffian, but as he was now over six feet in height and still growing, none of them voiced this opinion to his face.

Lubji had been back at the camp for about a week when he first noticed her. He was returning to his hut after breakfast when he saw an old woman pushing a bicycle laden with newspapers up the hill. As she passed through the camp gates he couldn’t make out her face clearly, because she wore a scarf over her head as a token defense against the bitter wind. She began to deliver papers, first to the officers’ mess and then, one by one, to the little houses occupied by the non-commissioned officers. Lubji walked around the side of the parade ground and began to follow her, hoping she might turn out to be the person to help him. When the bag on the front of her bicycle was empty, she turned back toward the camp gates. As she passed Lubji, he shouted, ‘Hello.’

‘Good morning,’ she replied, mounted her bicycle and rode through the gates and off down the hill without another word.

The following morning Lubji didn’t bother with breakfast but stood by the camp gates, staring down the hill. When he saw her pushing her laden bicycle up the slope, he ran out to join her before the guard could stop him. ‘Good morning,’ he said, taking the bicycle from her.

‘Good morning,’ she replied. ‘I’m Mrs. Sweetman. And how are you today?’ Lubji would have told her, if he’d had the slightest idea what she had said.

As she did her rounds he eagerly carried each bundle for her. One of the first words he learned in English was ‘newspaper.’ After that he set himself the task of learning ten new words every day.

By the end of the month, the guard on the camp gate didn’t even blink when Lubji slipped past him each morning to join the old lady at the bottom of the hill.

By the second month, he was sitting on the doorstep of Mrs. Sweetman’s shop at six o’clock every morning so that he could stack all the papers in the right order, before pushing the laden bicycle up the hill. When she requested a meeting with the camp commander at the beginning of the third month, the major told her that he could see no objection to Hoch’s working a few hours each day in the village shop, as long as he was always back before roll-call.

Mrs. Sweetman quickly discovered that this was not the first news-agent’s shop the young man had worked in, and she made no attempt to stop him when he rearranged the shelves, reorganized the delivery schedule, and a month later took over the accounts. She was not surprised to discover, after a few weeks of Lubji’s suggestions, that her turnover was up for the first time since 1939.

Whenever the shop was empty Mrs. Sweetman would help Lubji with his English by reading out loud one of the stories from the front page of the Citizen. Lubji would then try to read it back to her. She often burst out laughing with what she called his ‘howlers.’ Just another word Lubji added to his vocabulary.

By the time winter had turned into spring there was only the occasional howler, and it was not much longer before Lubji was able to sit down quietly in the corner and read to himself, stopping to consult Mrs. Sweetman only when he came to a word he hadn’t come across. Long before he was due to reappear in front of the tribunal, he had moved on to studying the leader column in the Manchester Guardian, and one morning, when Mrs. Sweetman stared at the word ‘insouciant’ without attempting to offer an explanation, Lubji decided to save her embarrassment by referring in future to the unthumbed Oxford Pocket Dictionary which had been left to gather dust under the counter.

‘Do you require an interpreter?’ the chairman of the panel asked.

‘No, thank you, sir,’ came back Lubji’s immediate reply.

The chairman raised an eyebrow. He was sure that when he had last interviewed this giant of a man only six months before he hadn’t been able to understand a word of English. Wasn’t he the one who had held them all spellbound with an unlikely tale of what he had been through before he ended up in Liverpool? Now he was repeating exactly the same story and, apart from a few grammatical errors and a dreadful Liverpudlian accent, it was having an even greater effect on the panel than when they had first interviewed him.

‘So, what would you like to do next, Hoch?’ he asked, once the young Czech had come to the end of his story.

‘I wish to join old regiment and play my part in winning war,’ came Lubji’s well-rehearsed reply.

‘That may not prove quite so easy, Hoch,’ said the chairman, smiling benignly down at him.

‘If you will not give me rifle I will kill Germans with bare hands,’ said Lubji defiantly. ‘Just give me chance to prove myself.’

The chairman smiled at him again before nodding at the duty sergeant, who came to attention and marched Lubji briskly out of the room.

Lubji didn’t learn the result of the tribunal’s deliberations for several days. He was delivering the morning papers to the officers’ quarters when a corporal marched up to him and said without explanation, ‘’Och, the CO wants to see you.’

‘When?’ asked Lubji.

‘Now,’ said the corporal, and without another word he turned and began marching away. Lubji dropped the remaining papers on the ground, and chased after him as he disappeared through the morning mist across the parade ground in the direction of the office block. They both came to a halt in front of a door marked ‘Commanding Officer.’

The corporal knocked, and the moment he had heard the word ‘Come,’ opened the door, marched in, stood to attention in front of the colonel’s desk and saluted.

‘’Och reporting as ordered, sir,’ he bellowed as if he were still outside on the parade ground. Lubji stopped directly behind the corporal, and was nearly knocked over by him when he took a pace backward.

Lubji stared at the smartly-dressed officer behind the desk. He had seen him once or twice before, but only at a distance. He stood to attention and threw the palm of his hand up to his forehead, trying to mimic the corporal. The commanding officer looked up at him for a moment, and then back down at the single sheet of paper on his desk.

‘Hoch,’ he began. ‘You are to be transferred from this camp to a training depot in Staffordshire, where you will join the Pioneer Corps as a private soldier.’

‘Yes, sir,’ shouted Lubji happily.

The colonel’s eyes remained on the piece of paper in front of him. ‘You will embus from the camp at 0700 hours tomorrow morning.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Before then you will report to the duty clerk who will supply you with all the necessary documentation, including a rail warrant.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you have any questions, Hoch?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Lubji. ‘Do the Pioneer Corps kill Germans?’

‘No, Hoch, they do not,’ replied the colonel, laughing, ‘but you will be expected to give invaluable assistance to those who do.’

Lubji knew what the word ‘valuable’ meant, but wasn’t quite sure about ‘invaluable.’ He made a note of it the moment he returned to his hut.

That afternoon he reported, as instructed, to the duty clerk, and was issued with a rail warrant and ten shillings. After he had packed his few possessions, he walked down the hill for the last time to thank Mrs. Sweetman for all she had done during the past seven months to help him learn English. He looked up the new word in the dictionary under the counter, and told Mrs. Sweetman that her help had been invaluable. She didn’t care to admit to the tall young foreigner that he now spoke her language better than she did.

The following morning Lubji took a bus to the station in time to catch the 7:20 to Stafford. By the time he arrived, after three changes and several delays, he had read The Times from cover to cover.

There was a jeep waiting for him at Stafford. Behind the wheel sat a corporal of the North Staffordshire Regiment, who looked so smart that Lubji called him ‘sir.’ On the journey to the barracks the corporal left Lubji in no doubt that the ‘coolies’ — Lubji was still finding it hard to pick up slang — were the lowest form of life. ‘They’re nothing more than a bunch of skivers who’ll do anything to avoid taking part in real action.’

‘I want to take part in real action,’ Lubji told him firmly, ‘and I am not a skiver.’ He hesitated. ‘Am I?’

‘It takes one to know one,’ the corporal said, as the jeep came to a halt outside the quartermaster’s stores.

Once Lubji had been issued with a private’s uniform, trousers a couple of inches too short, two khaki shirts, two pairs of gray socks, a brown tie (cotton), a billycan, knife, fork and spoon, two blankets, one sheet and one pillowcase, he was escorted to his new barracks. He found himself billeted with twenty recruits from the Staffordshire area who, before they had been called up, had worked mostly as potters or coalminers. It took him some time to realize that they were talking the same language he had been taught by Mrs. Sweetman.

During the next few weeks Lubji did little more than dig trenches, clean out latrines and occasionally drive lorry-loads of rubbish to a dump a couple of miles outside the camp. To the displeasure of his comrades, he always worked harder and longer than any of them. He soon discovered why the corporal thought the coolies were nothing more than a bunch of skivers.

Whenever Lubji emptied the dustbins behind the officers’ mess, he would retrieve any discarded newspapers, however out of date. Later that night he would lie on his narrow bed, his legs dangling over the end, and slowly turn the pages of each paper. He was mostly interested in stories about the war, but the more he read, the more he feared the action was coming to an end, and the last battle would be over long before he had been given the chance to kill any Germans.

Lubji had been a coolie for about six months when he read in morning orders that the North Staffordshire Regiment was scheduled to hold its annual boxing tournament to select representatives for the national army championships later that year. Lubji’s section was given the responsibility of setting up the ring and putting out chairs in the gymnasium so that the entire regiment could watch the final. The order was signed by the duty officer, Lieutenant Wakeham.

Once the ring had been erected in the center of the gymnasium, Lubji started to unfold the seats and place them in rows around it. At ten o’clock the section was given a fifteen-minute break, and most of them slipped out to share a Woodbine. But Lubji remained inside, watching the boxers go about their training.

When the regiment’s sixteen-stone heavyweight champion climbed through the ropes, the instructor was unable to find a suitable sparring partner for him, so the champ had to be satisfied with belting a punch-bag held up for him by the largest soldier available. But no one could hold up the bulky punch-bag for long, and after several men had been exhausted, the champion began to shadow-box, his coach urging him to knock out an invisible opponent.

Lubji watched in awe until a slight man in his early twenties, who wore one pip on his shoulder and looked as if he had just left school, entered the gymnasium. Lubji quickly began to unfold more chairs. Lieutenant Wakeham stopped by the side of the ring, and frowned as he saw the heavyweight champion shadow-boxing. ‘What’s the problem, sergeant? Can’t you find anyone to take on Matthews?’

‘No, sir,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘No one who’s the right weight would last more than a couple of minutes with ’im.’

‘Pity,’ said the lieutenant. ‘He’s bound to become a little rusty if he doesn’t get any real competition. Do try and find someone who would be willing to go a couple of rounds with him.’

Lubji dropped the chair he was unfolding and ran toward the ring. He saluted the lieutenant and said, ‘I’ll go with him for as long as you like, sir.’

The champion looked down from the ring and began to laugh. ‘I don’t box with coolies,’ he said. ‘Or with girls from the Land Army, for that matter.’

Lubji immediately pulled himself up into the ring, put up his fists and advanced toward the champion.

‘All right, all right,’ said Lieutenant Wakeham, looking up at Lubji. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Private Hoch, sir.’

‘Well, go and get changed into some gym kit, and we’ll soon find out how long you can last with Matthews.’

When Lubji returned a few minutes later, Matthews was still shadow-boxing. He continued to ignore his would-be opponent as he stepped into the ring. The coach helped Lubji on with a pair of gloves.

‘Right, let’s find out what you’re made of, Hoch,’ said Lieutenant Wakeham.

Lubji advanced boldly toward the regimental champion and, when he was still a pace away, took a swing at his nose. Matthews feinted to the right, and then placed a glove firmly in the middle of Lubji’s face.

Lubji staggered back, hit the ropes and bounced off them toward the champion. He was just able to duck as the second punch came flying over his shoulder, but was not as fortunate with the next, which caught him smack on the chin. He lasted only a few more seconds before he hit the canvas for the first time. By the end of the round he had a broken nose and a cut eye that elicited howls of laughter from his comrades, who had stopped putting out chairs to watch the free entertainment from the back row of the gymnasium.

When Lieutenant Wakeham finally brought the bout to a halt, he asked if Lubji had ever been in a boxing ring before. Lubji shook his head. ‘Well, with some proper coaching you might turn out to be quite useful. Stop whatever duties you’ve been assigned to for the present, and for the next fortnight report to the gym every morning at six. I’m sure we’ll be able to make better use of you than putting out chairs.’

By the time the national championships were held, the other coolies had stopped laughing. Even Matthews had to admit that Hoch was a great deal better sparring partner than a punch-bag, and that he might well have been the reason he reached the semifinal.

The morning after the championships were over, Lubji was detailed to return to normal duties. He began to help dismantle the ring and take the chairs back to the lecture theater. He was rolling up one of the rubber mats when a sergeant entered the gym, looked around for a moment and then bellowed, ‘’Och!’

‘Sir?’ said Lubji, springing to attention.

‘Don’t you read company orders, ’Och?’ the sergeant shouted from the other side of the gym.

‘Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.’

‘Make your mind up, ’Och, because you were meant to ’ave been in front of the regimental recruiting officer fifteen minutes ago,’ said the sergeant.

‘I didn’t realize...’ began Lubji.

‘I don’t want to ’ear your excuses, ’Och,’ said the sergeant. ‘I just want to see you moving at the double.’ Lubji shot out of the gym, with no idea where he was going. He caught up with the sergeant, who only said, ‘Follow me, ’Och, pronto.’

‘Pronto,’ Lubji repeated. His first new word for several days.

The sergeant moved quickly across the parade ground, and two minutes later Lubji was standing breathless in front of the recruiting officer. Lieutenant Wakeham had also returned to his normal duties. He stubbed out the cigarette he had been smoking.

‘Hoch,’ said Wakeham, after Lubji had come to attention and saluted, ‘I have put in a recommendation that you should be transferred to the regiment as a private soldier.’

Lubji just stood there, trying to catch his breath.

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ said the sergeant.

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ repeated Lubji.

‘Good,’ said Wakeham. ‘Do you have any questions?’

‘No, sir. Thank you, sir,’ responded the sergeant immediately.

‘No, sir. Thank you, sir,’ said Lubji. ‘Except...’

The sergeant scowled.

‘Yes?’ said Wakeham, looking up.

‘Does this mean I’ll get a chance to kill Germans?’

‘If I don’t kill you first, ’Och,’ said the sergeant.

The young officer smiled. ‘Yes, it does,’ he said. ‘All we have to do now is fill in a recruiting form.’ Lieutenant Wakeham dipped his pen into an inkwell and looked up at Lubji. ‘What is your full name?’

‘That’s all right, sir,’ said Lubji, stepping forward to take the pen. ‘I can complete the form myself.’

The two men watched as Lubji filled in all the little boxes, before signing with a flourish on the bottom line.

‘Very impressive, Hoch,’ said the lieutenant as he checked through the form. ‘But might I be permitted to give you a piece of advice?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ said Lubji.

‘Perhaps the time has come for you to change your name. I don’t think you’ll get a long way in the North Staffordshire Regiment with a name like Hoch.’

Lubji hesitated, looked down at the desk in front of him. His eyes settled on the packet of cigarettes with the famous emblem of a bearded sailor staring up at him. He drew a line through the name ‘Lubji Hoch,’ and replaced it with ‘John Player.’

As soon as he had been kitted up in his new uniform, the first thing Private Player of the North Staffordshire Regiment did was swagger round the barracks, saluting anything that moved.

The following Monday he was dispatched to Aldershot to begin a twelve-week basic training course. He still rose every morning at six, and although the food didn’t improve, at least he felt he was being trained to do something worthwhile. To kill Germans. During his time at Aldershot he mastered the rifle, the Sten gun, the hand grenade, the compass, and map reading by night and day. He could march slow and at the double, swim a mile and go three days without supplies. When he returned to the camp three months later, Lieutenant Wakeham couldn’t help noticing a rather cocky air about the immigrant from Czechoslovakia, and was not surprised to find, when he read the reports, that the latest recruit had been recommended for early promotion.

Private John Player’s first posting was with the Second Battalion at Cliftonville. It was only a few hours after being billeted that he realized that, along with a dozen other regiments, they were preparing for the invasion of France. By the spring of 1944, southern England had become one vast training ground, and Private Player regularly took part in mock battles with Americans, Canadians and Poles.

Night and day he trained with his division, impatient for General Eisenhower to give the final order, so that he could once again come face to face with the Germans. Although he was continually reminded that he was preparing for the decisive battle of the war, the endless waiting almost drove him mad. At Cliftonville he added the regimental history, the coastline of Normandy and even the rules of cricket to everything he had learned at Aldershot, but despite all this preparation, he was still holed up in barracks ‘waiting for the balloon to go up.’

And then, without warning in the middle of the night of 4 June 1944 he was woken by the sound of a thousand lorries, and realized the preparations were over. The Tannoy began booming out orders across the parade ground, and Private Player knew that at last the invasion was about to begin.

He climbed onto the transport along with all the other soldiers from his section, and couldn’t help recalling the first time he had been herded onto a lorry. As one chime struck on the clock on the morning of the fifth, the North Staffordshires drove out of the barracks in convoy. Private Player looked up at the stars, and worked out that they must be heading south.

They traveled on through the night down unlit roads, gripping their rifles tightly. Few spoke; all of them were wondering if they would still be alive in twenty-four hours’ time. When they drove through Winchester, newly-erected signposts directed them to the coast. Others had also been preparing for 5 June. Private Player checked his watch. It was a few minutes past three. They continued on and on, still without any idea of where their final destination would be. ‘I only ’ope someone knows where we’re going,’ piped up a corporal sitting opposite him.

It was another hour before the convoy came to a halt at the dockside in Portsmouth. A mass of bodies piled out of lorry after lorry and quickly formed up in divisions, to await their orders.

Player’s section stood in three silent rows, some shivering in the cold night air, others from fear, as they waited to board the large fleet of vessels they could see docked in the harbor in front of them. Division upon division waited for the order to embark. Ahead of them lay the hundred-mile crossing that would deposit them on French soil.

The last time he had been searching for a boat, Private Player remembered, it was to take him as far away from the Germans as possible. At least this time he wouldn’t be suffocating in a cramped hold with only sacks of wheat to keep him company.

There was a crackling on the Tannoy, and everyone on the dockside fell silent.

‘This is Brigadier Hampson,’ said a voice, ‘and we are all about to embark on Operation Overlord, the invasion of France. We have assembled the largest fleet in history to take you across the Channel. You will be supported by nine battleships, twenty-three cruisers, one hundred and four destroyers and seventy-one corvettes, not to mention the back-up of countless vessels from the Merchant Navy. Your platoon commander will now give you your orders.’

The sun was just beginning to rise when Lieutenant Wakeham completed his briefing and gave the order for the platoon to board the Undaunted. Within moments of their climbing aboard the destroyer, the engines roared into action and they began their tossing and bobbing journey across the Channel, still with no idea where they might end up.

For the first half hour of that choppy crossing — Eisenhower had selected an unsettled night despite the advice of his top meteorologist — they sang, joked and told unlikely tales of even more unlikely conquests. When Private Player regaled them all with the story of how he had lost his virginity to a gypsy girl after she had removed a German bullet from his shoulder, they laughed even louder, and the sergeant said it was the most unlikely tale they had heard so far.

Lieutenant Wakeham, who was kneeling at the front of the vessel, suddenly placed the palm of his right hand high in the air, and everyone fell silent. It was only moments before they would be landing on an inhospitable beach. Private Player checked his equipment. He carried a gas mask, a rifle, two bandoliers of ammunition, some basic rations and a water bottle. It was almost as bad as being handcuffed. When the destroyer weighed anchor, he followed Lieutenant Wakeham off the ship into the first amphibious craft. Within moments they were heading toward the Normandy beach. As he looked around he could see that many of his companions were still groggy with seasickness. A hail of machine-gun bullets and mortars came down on them, and Private Player saw men in other craft being killed or wounded even before they reached the beach.

When the craft landed, Player leapt over the side after Lieutenant Wakeham. To his right and left he could see his mates running up the beach under fire. The first shell fell to his left before they had covered twenty yards. Seconds later he saw a corporal stagger on for several paces after a flurry of bullets went right through his chest. His natural instinct was to take cover, but there was none, so he forced his legs to keep going. He continued to fire, although he had no idea where the enemy were.

On and on up the beach he went, unable now to see how many of his comrades were falling behind him, but the sand was already littered with bodies that June morning. Player couldn’t be sure how many hours he was pinned on that beach, but for every few yards he was able to scramble forward, he spent twice as long lying still as the enemy fire passed over his head. Every time he rose to advance, fewer of his comrades joined him. Lieutenant Wakeham finally came to a halt when he reached the protection of the cliffs, with Private Player only a yard behind him. The young officer was trembling so much it was some moments before he could give any orders.

When they finally cleared the beach, Lieutenant Wakeham counted eleven of the original twenty-eight men who had been on the landing craft. The wireless operator told him they were not to stop, as their orders were to continue advancing. Player was the only man who looked pleased. For the next two hours they moved slowly inland toward the enemy fire. On and on they went, often with only hedgerows and ditches for protection, men falling with every stride. It was not until the sun had almost disappeared that they were finally allowed to rest. A camp was hastily set up, but few could sleep while the enemy guns continued to pound away. While some played cards, others rested, and the dead lay still.

But Private Player wanted to be the first to come face to face with the Germans. When he was certain no one was watching, he stole out of his tent and advanced in the direction of the enemy, using only the tracers from their fire as his guide. After forty minutes of running, walking, and crawling, he heard the sound of German voices. He skirted round the outside of what looked like their forward camp until he spotted a German soldier relieving himself in the bushes. He crept up behind him, and just as the man was bending down to pull up his pants Player leapt on him. With one arm around his neck, he twisted and snapped his vertebrae, and left him to slump into the bushes. He removed the German’s identity tag and helmet and set off back to his camp.

He must have been about a hundred yards away when a voice demanded, ‘Who goes there?’

‘Little Red Riding Hood,’ said Player, remembering the password just in time.

‘Advance and be recognized.’

Player took a few more paces forward, and suddenly felt the tip of a bayonet in his back and a second at his throat. Without another word he was marched off to Lieutenant Wakeham’s tent. The young officer listened intently to what Player had to say, only stopping him occasionally to double check some piece of information.

‘Right, Player,’ said the lieutenant, once the unofficial scout had completed his report. ‘I want you to draw a map of exactly where you think the enemy are camped. I need details of the terrain, distance, numbers, anything you can remember that will help us once we begin our advance. When you’ve completed that, try and get some sleep. You’re going to have to act as our guide when we begin the advance at first light.’

‘Shall I put him on a charge for leaving the camp without requesting permission from an officer?’ asked the duty sergeant.

‘No,’ said Wakeham. ‘I shall be issuing company orders, effective immediately, that Player has been made up to corporal.’ Corporal Player smiled, saluted and returned to his tent. But before he went to sleep, he sewed two stripes on each sleeve of his uniform.

As the regiment advanced slow mile after slow mile deeper into France, Player continued to lead sorties behind the lines, always returning with vital information. His biggest prize was when he came back accompanied by a German officer whom he had caught with his trousers down.

Lieutenant Wakeham was impressed by the fact that Player had captured the man, and even more when he began the interrogation, and found that the corporal was able to assume the role of interpreter.

The next morning they stormed the village of Orbec, which they overran by nightfall. The lieutenant sent a dispatch to his headquarters to let them know that Corporal Player’s information had shortened the battle.

Three months after Private John Player had landed on the beach at Normandy, the North Staffordshire Regiment marched down the Champs Élysées, and the newly promoted Sergeant Player had only one thing on his mind: how to find a woman who would be happy to spend his three nights’ leave with him or — if he got really lucky — three women who would spend one night each.

But before they were let loose on the city, all noncommissioned officers were told that they must first report to the welcoming committee for Allied personnel, where they would be given advice on how to find their way around Paris. Sergeant Player couldn’t imagine a bigger waste of his time. He knew exactly how to take care of himself in any European capital. All he wanted was to be let loose before the American troops got their hands on everything under forty.

When Sergeant Player arrived at the committee headquarters, a requisitioned building in the Place de la Madeleine, he took his place in line waiting to receive a folder of information about what was expected of him while he was on Allied territory — how to locate the Eiffel Tower, which clubs and restaurants were within his price range, how to avoid catching V.D. It looked as if this advice was being dispensed by a group of middle-aged ladies who couldn’t possibly have seen the inside of a nightclub for the past twenty years.

When he finally reached the front of the queue, he just stood there mesmerized, quite unable to utter a word in any language. A slim young girl with deep brown eyes and dark curly hair stood behind the trestle table, and smiled up at the tall, shy sergeant. She handed him his folder, but he didn’t move on.

‘Do you have any questions?’ she asked in English, with a strong French accent.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘What is your name?’

‘Charlotte,’ she told him, blushing, although she had already been asked the same question a dozen times that day.

‘And are you French?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Get on with it, Sarge,’ demanded the corporal standing behind him.

‘Are you doing anything for the next three days?’ he asked, switching to her own language.

‘Not a lot. But I am on duty for another two hours.’

‘Then I’ll wait for you,’ he said. He turned and took a seat on a wooden bench that had been placed against the wall.

During the next 120 minutes John Player’s gaze rarely left the girl with curly, dark hair, except to check the slow progress of the minute hand on the large clock which hung on the wall behind her. He was glad that he had waited and not suggested he would return later, because during those two hours he saw several other soldiers lean over to ask her exactly the same question he had. On each occasion she looked across in the direction of the sergeant, smiled and shook her head. When she finally handed over her responsibilities to a middle-aged matron, she walked across to join him. Now it was her turn to ask a question.

‘What would you like to do first?’

He didn’t tell her, but happily agreed to being shown around Paris.

For the next three days he rarely left Charlotte’s side, except when she returned to her little apartment in the early hours. He did climb the Eiffel Tower, walk along the banks of the Seine, visit the Louvre and stick to most of the advice given in the folder, which meant that they were almost always accompanied by at least three regiments of single soldiers who, whenever they passed him, were unable to hide the look of envy on their faces.

They ate in overbooked restaurants, danced in nightclubs so crowded they could only shuffle around on the spot, and talked of everything except a war that might cause them to have only three precious days together. Over coffee in the Hotel Cancelier he told her of the family in Douski he hadn’t seen for four years.

He went on to describe to her everything that had happened to him since he had escaped from Czechoslovakia, leaving out only his experience with Mari. She told him of her life in Lyon, where her parents owned a small vegetable shop, and of how happy she had been when the Allies had reoccupied her beloved France. But now she longed only for the war to be over.

‘But not before I have won the Victoria Cross,’ he told her.

She shuddered, because she had read that many people who were awarded that medal received it posthumously. ‘But when the war is over,’ she asked him, ‘what will you do then?’ This time he hesitated, because she had at last found a question to which he did not have an immediate answer.

‘Go back to England,’ he said finally, ‘where I shall make my fortune.’

‘Doing what?’ she asked.

‘Not selling newspapers,’ he replied, ‘that’s for sure.’

During those three days and three nights the two of them spent only a few hours in bed — the only time they were apart.

When he finally left Charlotte at the front door of her tiny apartment, he promised her, ‘As soon as we have taken Berlin, I will return.’

Charlotte’s face crumpled as the man she had fallen in love with strode away, because so many friends had warned her that once they had left, you never saw them again. And they were to be proved right, because Charlotte Reville never saw John Player again.

Sergeant Player signed in at the guardhouse only minutes before he was due on parade. He shaved quickly and changed his shirt before checking company orders, to find that the commanding officer wanted him to report to his office at 0900 hours.

Sergeant Player marched into the office, came to attention and saluted as the clock in the square struck nine. He could think of a hundred reasons why the C.O. might want to see him. But none of them turned out to be right.

The colonel looked up from his desk. ‘I’m sorry, Player,’ he said softly, ‘but you’re going to have to leave the regiment.’

‘Why, sir?’ Player asked in disbelief. ‘What have I done wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he said with a laugh, ‘nothing at all. On the contrary. My recommendation that you should receive the King’s Commission has just been ratified by High Command. It will therefore be necessary for you to join another regiment so that you are not put in charge of men who have recently served with you in the ranks.’

Sergeant Player stood to attention with his mouth open.

‘I am simply complying with army regulations,’ the C.O. explained. ‘Naturally the regiment will miss your particular skills and expertise. But I have no doubt that we will be hearing of you again at some time in the future. All I can do now, Player, is wish you the best of luck when you join your new regiment.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, assuming the interview was over. ‘Thank you very much.’

He was about to salute when the colonel added, ‘May I be permitted to offer you one piece of advice before you join your new regiment?’

‘Please do, sir,’ replied the newly promoted lieutenant.

‘“John Player” is a slightly ridiculous name. Change it to something less likely to cause the men you are about to command to snigger behind your back.’

Second Lieutenant Richard Ian Armstrong reported to the officers’ mess of the King’s Own Regiment the following morning at 0700 hours.

As he walked across the parade ground in his tailored uniform, it took him a few minutes to get used to being saluted by every passing soldier. When he arrived in the mess and sat down for breakfast with his fellow-officers, he watched carefully to see how they held their knives and forks. After breakfast, of which he ate very little, he reported to Colonel Oakshott, his new commanding officer. Oakshott was a red-faced, bluff, friendly man who, when he welcomed him, made it clear that he had already heard of the young lieutenant’s reputation in the field.

Richard, or Dick as he quickly became known by his brother officers, reveled in being part of such a famous old regiment. But he enjoyed even more being a British officer with a clear, crisp accent which belied his origins. He had traveled a long way from those two overcrowded rooms in Douski. Sitting by the fire in the comfort of the officers’ mess of the King’s Own Regiment, drinking port, he could see no reason why he shouldn’t travel a great deal further.

Every serving officer in the King’s Own soon learned of Lieutenant Armstrong’s past exploits, and as the regiment advanced toward German soil he was, by his bravery and example in the field, able to convince even the most skeptical that he had not been making it all up. But even his own section was staggered by the courage he displayed in the Ardennes only three weeks after he had joined the regiment.

The forward party, led by Armstrong, cautiously entered the outskirts of a small village, under the impression that the Germans had already retreated to fortify their position in the hills overlooking it. But Armstrong’s platoon had only advanced a few hundred yards down the main street before it was met with a barrage of enemy fire. Lieutenant Armstrong, armed only with an automatic pistol and a hand grenade, immediately identified where the German fire was coming from, and, ‘careless of his own life’ — as the dispatch later described his action — charged toward the enemy dugouts.

He had shot and killed the three German soldiers manning the first dugout even before his sergeant had caught up with him. He then advanced toward the second dugout and lobbed his grenade into it, killing two more soldiers instantly. White flags appeared from the one remaining dugout, and three young soldiers slowly emerged, their hands high in the air. One of them took a pace forward and smiled. Armstrong returned the smile, and then shot him in the head. The two remaining Germans turned to face him, a look of pleading on their faces as their comrade slumped to the ground. Armstrong continued to smile as he shot them both in the chest.

His breathless sergeant came running up to his side. The young lieutenant swung round to face him, the smile firmly fixed on his face. The sergeant stared down at the lifeless bodies. Armstrong replaced the pistol in its holster and said, ‘Can’t take any risks with these bastards.’

‘No, sir,’ replied the sergeant quietly.

That night, once they had set up camp, Armstrong commandeered a German motorcycle and sped back to Paris on a forty-eight-hour leave, arriving on Charlotte’s doorstep at seven the following morning.

When she was told by the concierge that there was a Lieutenant Armstrong asking to see her, Charlotte said that she didn’t know anyone by that name, assuming it was just another officer hoping to be shown round Paris. But when she saw who it was, she threw her arms around him, and they didn’t leave her room for the rest of the day and night. The concierge, despite being French, was shocked. ‘I realize there’s a war on,’ she told her husband, ‘but they hadn’t even met before.’

When Dick left Charlotte to return to the front on Sunday evening, he told her that by the time he came back he would have taken Berlin, and then they would be married. He jumped on his motorcycle and rode away. She stood in her nightdress by the window of the little apartment and watched until he was out of sight. ‘Unless you are killed before Berlin falls, my darling.’

The King’s Own Regiment was among those selected for the advance on Hamburg, and Armstrong wanted to be the first officer to enter the city. After three days of fierce resistance, the city finally fell.

The following morning, Field Marshal Sir Bernard Montgomery entered the city and addressed the combined troops from the back of his jeep. He described the battle as decisive, and assured them it would not be long before the war was over and they would be going home. After they had cheered their commanding officer, he descended from his jeep and presented medals for bravery. Among those who were decorated with a Military Cross was Captain Richard Armstrong.

Two weeks later, the Germans’ unconditional surrender was signed by General Jodl and accepted by Eisenhower. The next day Captain Richard Armstrong MC was granted a week’s leave. Dick powered his motorcycle back to Paris, arriving at Charlotte’s old apartment building a few minutes before midnight. This time the concierge took him straight up to her room.

The following morning Charlotte, in a white suit, and Dick, in his dress uniform, walked to the local town hall. They emerged thirty minutes later as Captain and Mrs. Armstrong, the concierge having acted as witness. Most of the three-day honeymoon was spent in Charlotte’s little apartment. When Dick left her to return to his regiment, he told her that now the war was over he intended to leave the army, take her to England and build a great business empire.

‘Do you have any plans now that the war is over, Dick?’ asked Colonel Oakshott.

‘Yes, sir. I intend to return to England and look for a job,’ replied Armstrong.

Oakshott opened the buff file that lay on the desk in front of him. ‘It’s just that I might have something for you here in Berlin.’

‘Doing what, sir?’

‘High Command are looking for the right person to head up the PRISC, and I think you’re the ideal candidate for the position.’

‘What in heaven’s name is...’

‘The Public Relations and Information Services Control. The job might have been made for you. We’re looking for someone who can present Britain’s case persuasively, and at the same time make sure the press don’t keep getting the wrong end of the stick. Winning the war was one thing, but convincing the outside world that we’re treating the enemy even-handedly is proving far more difficult. The Americans, the Russians and the French will be appointing their own representatives, so we need someone who can keep an eye on them as well. You speak several languages and have all the qualifications the job requires. And let’s face it, Dick, you don’t have a family in England to rush back to.’

Armstrong nodded. After a few moments he said, ‘To quote Montgomery, what weapons are you giving me to carry out the job?’

‘A newspaper,’ said Oakshott. ‘Der Telegraf is one of the city’s dailies. It’s currently operated by a German called Arno Schultz. He never stops complaining that he can’t keep his presses rolling, he has constant worries about paper shortages, and the electricity is always being cut off. We want Der Telegraf on the streets every day, pumping out our view of things. I can’t think of anyone more likely to make sure that happens.’

‘Der Telegraf isn’t the only paper in Berlin,’ said Armstrong.

‘No, it isn’t,’ replied the colonel. ‘Another German is running Der Berliner out of the American sector — which is an added reason why Der Telegraf needs to be a success. At the moment Der Berliner is selling twice as many copies as Der Telegraf, a position which as you can imagine we’d like to see reversed.’

‘And what sort of authority would I have?’

‘You’d be given a free hand. You can set up your own office and staff it with as many people as you feel are necessary to do the job. There’s also a flat thrown in, which means that you could send for your wife.’ Oakshott paused. ‘Perhaps you’d like a little time to think about it, Dick?’

‘I don’t need time to think about it, sir.’

The colonel raised an eyebrow.

‘I’ll be happy to take the job on.’

‘Good man. Start by building up contacts. Get to know anyone who might be useful. If you come up against any problems, just tell whoever’s involved to get in touch with me. If you’re really stymied, the words “Allied Control Commission” usually oil even the most immovable wheels.’

It took Captain Armstrong only a week to requisition the right offices in the heart of the British sector, partly because he used the words ‘Control Commission’ in every other sentence. It took him a little longer to sign up a staff of eleven to manage the office, because all the best people were already working for the Commission. He began by poaching a Sally Carr, a general’s secretary who had worked for the Daily Chronicle in London before the war.

Once Sally had moved in, the office was up and running within days. Armstrong’s next coup came when he discovered that Lieutenant Wakeham was stationed in Berlin working on transport allocation: Sally told him that Wakeham was bored out of his mind filling out travel documents. Armstrong invited him to be his second in command, and to his surprise his former superior officer happily accepted. It took some days to get used to calling him Peter.

Armstrong completed his team with a sergeant, a couple of corporals and half a dozen privates from the King’s Own who had the one qualification he required. They were all former barrow boys from the East End of London. He selected the sharpest of them, Private Reg Benson, to be his driver. His next move was to requisition an apartment in Paulstrasse that had previously been occupied by a brigadier who was returning to England. Once the colonel had signed the necessary papers, Armstrong told Sally to send a telegram to Charlotte in Paris.

‘What do you want to say?’ she asked, turning a page of her notepad.

‘Have found suitable accommodation. Pack up everything and come immediately.’

As Sally wrote down his words, Armstrong rose from his seat. ‘I’m off to Der Telegraf to check up on Arno Schultz. See that everything runs smoothly until I get back.’

‘What shall I do with this?’ asked Sally, passing him a letter.

‘What’s it about?’ he asked, glancing at it briefly.

‘It’s from a journalist in Oxford who wants to visit Berlin and write about how the British are treating the Germans under occupation.’

‘Too damn well,’ said Armstrong as he reached the door. ‘But I suppose you’d better make an appointment for him to see me.’

10 News Chronicle 1 October 1946 THE Judgment of Nuremberg: Goering’s Guilt Unique in Its Enormity

When Keith Townsend arrived at Worcester College, Oxford, to read Politics, Philosophy and Economics, his first impression of England was everything he had expected it to be: complacent, snobbish, pompous and still living in the Victorian era. You were either an officer or other ranks, and as Keith came from the colonies, he was left in no doubt which category he fell into.

Almost all his fellow-students seemed to be younger versions of Mr. Jessop, and by the end of the first week Keith would happily have returned home if it hadn’t been for his college tutor. Dr. Howard could not have been in greater contrast to his old headmaster, and showed no surprise when the young Australian told him over a glass of sherry in his room how much he despised the British class system still perpetuated by most of the undergraduates. He even refrained from making any comment on the bust of Lenin which Keith had placed on the center of the mantelpiece, where Lord Salisbury had lodged the previous year.

Dr. Howard had no immediate solution to the class problem. In fact his only advice to Keith was that he should attend the Freshers’ Fair, where he would learn all about the clubs and societies that undergraduates could join, and perhaps find something to his liking.

Keith followed Dr. Howard’s suggestion, and spent the next morning being told why he should become a member of the Rowing Club, the Philatelic Society, the Dramatic Society, the Chess Club, the Officer Training Corps and, especially, the student newspaper. But after he had met the newly appointed editor of Cherwell and heard his views on how a paper should be run, he decided to concentrate on politics. He left the Freshers’ Fair clutching application forms for the Oxford Union and the Labor Club.

The following Tuesday, Keith found his way to the Bricklayers’ Arms, where the barman pointed up the stairs to a little room in which the Labor Club always met.

The chairman of the club, Rex Siddons, was immediately suspicious of Brother Keith, as he insisted on addressing him from the outset. Townsend had all the trappings of a traditional Tory — father with a knighthood, public school education, a private allowance and even a secondhand MG Magnette.

But as the weeks passed, and every Tuesday evening the members of the Labor Club were subjected to Keith’s views on the monarchy, private schools, the honors system and the élitism of Oxford and Cambridge, he became known as Comrade Keith. One or two of them even ended up in his room after the meetings, discussing long into the night how they would change the world once they were out of ‘this dreadful place.’

During his first term Keith was surprised to find that if he failed to turn up for a lecture, or even missed the odd tutorial at which he was supposed to read his weekly essay to his tutor, he was not automatically punished or even reprimanded. It took him several weeks to get used to a system that relied solely on self-discipline, and by the end of his first term his father was threatening that unless he buckled down, he would stop his allowance and bring him back home to do a good day’s work.

During his second term Keith wrote a long letter to his father every Friday, detailing the amount of work he was doing, which seemed to stem the flow of invective. He even made the occasional appearance at lectures, where he concentrated on trying to perfect a roulette system, and at tutorials, where he tried to stay awake.

During the summer term Keith discovered Cheltenham, Newmarket, Ascot, Doncaster and Epsom, thus ensuring that he never had enough money to purchase a new shirt or even a pair of socks.

During the vacation several of his meals had to be taken at the railway station which, because of its close proximity to Worcester, was looked upon by some undergraduates as the college canteen. One night after he had drunk a little too much at the Bricklayers’ Arms, Keith daubed on Worcester’s eighteenth-century wall: ‘C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la gare.’

At the end of his first year Keith had little to show for the twelve months he had spent at the university, other than a small group of friends who, like him, were determined to change the system to benefit the majority just as soon as they went down.

His mother, who wrote regularly, suggested that he should take advantage of his vacation by traveling extensively through Europe, as he might never get another chance to do so. He heeded her advice, and started to plan a route — which he would have kept to if he hadn’t bumped into the features editor of the Oxford Mail over a drink at the local pub.

Once term had ended, Keith started off in the same direction as many other students. He drove his MG down to Dover and took the ferry across to Calais. But as the others disembarked to begin their journeys to the historic cities of the Continent, he swung his little open tourer northeast, in the direction of Berlin. The weather was so hot that Keith was able to keep his soft top down for the first time.

As Keith drove along the winding roads of France and Belgium, he was constantly reminded of how little time had passed since Europe had been at war. Mutilated hedges and fields where tanks had taken the place of tractors, bombed-out farmhouses that had lain between advancing and retreating armies, and rivers littered with rusting military equipment. As he passed each bombed-out building and drove through mile after mile of devastated landscape, the thought of Deauville, with its casino and racecourse, became more and more appealing.

When it was too dark to avoid holes in the road, Keith turned off the highway and drove for a few hundred yards down a quiet lane. He parked at the side of the road and quickly fell into a deep sleep. He was woken while it was still dark by the sound of lorries heading ponderously toward the German border, and jotted down a note: ‘The army seems to rise without regard for the motion of the sun.’ It took two or three turns of the key before the engine spluttered into life. He rubbed his eyes, swung the MG round and returned to the main road, trying to remember to keep to the right-hand side.

After a couple of hours he reached the border, and had to wait in a long queue: each person wishing to enter Germany was meticulously checked. Eventually he came to the front, where a customs officer studied his passport. When he discovered that Keith was an Australian, he simply made a caustic comment about Donald Bradman and waved him on his way.

Nothing Keith had heard or read could have prepared him for the experience of a defeated nation. His progress became slower and slower as the cracks in the road turned into potholes, and the potholes turned into craters. It was soon impossible to travel more than a few hundred yards without having to drive as if he was in a dodgem car at a seaside amusement park. And no sooner had he managed to push the speedometer over forty than he would be forced to pull over to allow yet another convoy of trucks — the latest with stars on their doors — to drive past him down the middle of the road.

He decided to take advantage of one of these unscheduled holdups to eat at an inn he spotted just off the road. The food was inedible, the beer weak, and the sullen looks of the innkeeper and his patrons left him in no doubt that he was unwelcome. He didn’t bother to order a second course, but quickly settled his bill and left.

He drove on toward the German capital, slow kilometer after slow kilometer, and reached the outskirts of the city only a few minutes before the gas lights were turned on. He began to search immediately among the back streets for a small hotel. He knew that the nearer he got to the center, the less likely it would be that he could afford the tariff.

Eventually he found a little guesthouse on the corner of a bombed-out street. It stood on its own, as if somehow unaware of what had taken place all around it. This illusion was dispelled as soon as he pushed open the front door. The dingy hall was lit by a single candle, and a porter in baggy trousers and a gray shirt stood sulkily behind a counter. He made little attempt to respond to Keith’s efforts to book a room. Keith knew only a few words of German, so he finally held his hand in the air with his palm open, hoping the porter would understand that he wished to stay for five nights.

The man nodded reluctantly, took a key from a hook behind him and led his guest up an uncarpeted staircase to a corner room on the second floor. Keith put his holdall on the floor and stared at the little bed, the one chair, the chest of drawers with three handles out of eight and the battered table. He walked across the room and looked out of the window onto piles of rubble, and thought about the serene duckpond he could see from his college rooms. He turned to say ‘Thank you,’ but the porter had already left.

After he had unpacked his suitcase, Keith pulled the chair up to the table by the window, and for a couple of hours — feeling guilty by association — wrote down his first impressions of the defeated nation.

Keith woke the next morning as soon as the sun shone through the curtainless window. It took him some time to wash in a basin that had no plug and could only manage a trickle of cold water. He decided against shaving. He dressed, went downstairs and opened several doors, looking for the kitchen. A woman standing at a stove turned round, and managed a smile. She waved him toward the table.

Everything except flour, she explained in pidgin English, was in short supply. She set in front of him two large slices of bread covered with a thin suggestion of dripping. He thanked her, and was rewarded with a smile. After a second glass of what she assured him was milk, he returned to his room and sat on the end of the bed, checking the address at which the meeting would take place and then trying to fix it on an out-of-date road map of the city which he had picked up at Blackwell’s in Oxford. When he left the hotel it was only a few minutes after eight, but this was not an appointment he wanted to be late for.

Keith had already decided to organize his time so that he could spend at least a day in each sector of the divided city; he planned to visit the Russian sector last, so he could compare it with the three controlled by the Allies. After what he had seen so far, he assumed it could only be an improvement, which he knew would please his fellow-members of the Oxford Labor Club, who believed that ‘Uncle Joe’ was doing a far better job than Attlee, Auriol and Truman put together — despite the fact that the farthest east most of them had ever traveled was Cambridge.

Keith pulled up several times on his way into the city to ask directions to Siemensstrasse. He finally found the headquarters of the British Public Relations and Information Services Control a few minutes before nine. He parked his car, and joined a stream of servicemen and women in different-colored uniforms as they made their way up the wide stone steps and through the swing doors. A sign warned him that the lift was out of order, so he climbed the five floors to the PRISC office. Although he was early for his appointment, he still reported to the front desk.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ asked a young corporal standing behind the desk. Keith had never been called ‘sir’ by a woman before, and he didn’t like it.

He took a letter out of an inside pocket and handed it across to her. ‘I have an appointment with the director at nine o’clock.’

‘I don’t think he’s in yet, sir, but I’ll just check.’

She picked up a telephone and spoke to a colleague. ‘Someone will come and see you in a few minutes,’ she said once she had put the phone down. ‘Please have a seat.’

A few minutes turned out to be nearly an hour, by which time Keith had read both the papers on the coffee table from cover to cover, but hadn’t been offered any coffee. Der Berliner wasn’t a lot better than Cherwell, the student paper he so scorned at Oxford, and Der Telegraf was even worse. But as the director of PRISC seemed to be mentioned on nearly every page of Der Telegraf, Keith hoped he wouldn’t be asked for his opinion.

Eventually another woman appeared and asked for Mr. Townsend. Keith jumped up and walked over to the desk.

‘My name is Sally Carr,’ said the woman in a breezy cockney accent. ‘I’m the director’s secretary. How can I help you?’

‘I wrote to you from Oxford,’ Keith replied, hoping that he sounded older than his years. ‘I’m a journalist with the Oxford Mail, and I’ve been commissioned to write a series of articles on conditions in Berlin. I have an appointment to see...’ he turned her letter round, ‘...Captain Armstrong.’

‘Oh, yes, I remember,’ Miss Carr said. ‘But I’m afraid Captain Armstrong is visiting the Russian sector this morning, and I’m not expecting him in the office today. If you can come back tomorrow morning, I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.’ Keith tried not to let his disappointment show, and assured her that he would return at nine the following morning. He might have abandoned his plan to see Armstrong altogether had he not been told that this particular captain knew more about what was really going on in Berlin than all the other staff officers put together.

He spent the rest of the day exploring the British sector, stopping frequently to make notes on anything he considered newsworthy. The way the British behaved toward the defeated Germans; empty shops trying to serve too many customers; queues for food on every street corner; bowed heads whenever you tried to look a German in the eye. As a clock in the distance chimed twelve, he stepped into a noisy bar full of soldiers in uniform and took a seat at the end of the counter. When a waiter finally asked him what he wanted, he ordered a large tankard of beer and a cheese sandwich — at least he thought he ordered cheese, but his German wasn’t fluent enough to be certain. Sitting at the bar, he began to scribble down some more notes. As he watched the waiters going about their work, he became aware that if you were in civilian clothes you were served after anyone in uniform. Anyone.

The different accents around the room reminded him that the class system was perpetuated even when the British were occupying someone else’s city. Some of the soldiers were complaining — in tones that wouldn’t have pleased Miss Steadman — about how long it was taking for their papers to be processed before they could return home. Others seemed resigned to a life in uniform, and only talked of the next war and where it might be. Keith scowled when he heard one of them say, ‘Scratch them, and underneath they’re all bloody Nazis.’ But after lunch, as he continued his exploration of the British sector, he thought that on the surface at least the soldiers were well disciplined, and that most of the occupiers seemed to be treating the occupied with restraint and courtesy.

As the shopkeepers began to put up their blinds and shut their doors, Keith returned to his little MG. He found it surrounded by admirers whose looks of envy quickly turned to anger when they saw he was wearing civilian clothes. He drove slowly back to his hotel. After a plate of potatoes and cabbage eaten in the kitchen, he returned to his room and spent the next two hours writing down all he could remember of the day. Later he climbed into bed, and read Animal Farm until the candle finally flickered out.

That night Keith slept well. After another wash in near-freezing water, he made a half-hearted effort to shave before making his way down to the kitchen. Several slabs of bread already covered in dripping awaited him. After breakfast he gathered up his papers and set off for his rearranged meeting. If he had been concentrating more on his driving and less on the questions he wanted to ask Captain Armstrong, he might not have turned left at the roundabout. The tank heading straight for him was incapable of stopping without far more warning, and although Keith threw on his brakes and only clipped the corner of its heavy mudguard, the MG spun in a complete circle, mounted the pavement and crashed into a concrete lamp post. He sat behind the wheel, trembling.

The traffic around him came to a halt, and a young lieutenant jumped out of the tank and ran across to check that Keith wasn’t injured. Keith climbed gingerly out of the car, a little shaken, but, after he had jumped up and down and swung his arms, he found that he had nothing more than a slight cut on his right hand and a sore ankle.

When they inspected the tank, it had little to show for the encounter other than the removal of a layer of paint from its mudguard. But the MG looked as if it had been involved in a full-scale battle. It was then that Keith remembered he could get only third-party insurance while he was abroad. However, he assured the cavalry officer that he was in no way to blame, and after the lieutenant had told Keith how to find his way to the nearest garage, they parted.

Keith abandoned his MG and began to jog in the direction of the garage. He arrived at the forecourt about twenty minutes later, painfully aware of how unfit he was. He eventually found the one mechanic who spoke English, and was promised that eventually someone would go and retrieve the vehicle.

‘What does “eventually” mean?’ asked Keith.

‘It depends,’ said the mechanic, rubbing his thumb across the top of his fingers. ‘You see, it’s all a matter of... priorities.’

Keith took out his wallet and produced a ten-shilling note.

‘You have dollars, yes?’ asked the mechanic.

‘No,’ said Keith firmly.

After describing where the car was, he continued on his journey to Siemensstrasse. He was already ten minutes late for his appointment in a city that boasted few trains and even fewer taxis. By the time he arrived at PRISC headquarters, it was his turn to have kept someone waiting forty minutes.

The corporal behind the counter recognized him immediately, but she was not the bearer of encouraging news. ‘Captain Armstrong left for an appointment in the American sector a few minutes ago,’ she said. ‘He waited for over an hour.’

‘Damn,’ said Keith. ‘I had an accident on my way, and got here as quickly as I could. Can I see him later today?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied. ‘He has appointments in the American sector all afternoon.’

Keith shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can you tell me how to get to the French sector?’

As he walked around the streets of another sector of Berlin, he added little to his experience of the previous day, except to be reminded that there were at least two languages in this city he couldn’t converse in. This caused him to order a meal he didn’t want and a bottle of wine he couldn’t afford.

After lunch he returned to the garage to check on the progress they were making with his car. By the time he arrived, the gas lights were back on and the one person who spoke English had already gone home. Keith saw his MG standing in the corner of the forecourt in the same broken-down state he had left it in that morning. All the attendant could do was point at the figure eight on his watch.

Keith was back at the garage by a quarter to eight the following morning, but the man who spoke English didn’t appear until 8:13. He walked round the MG several times before offering an opinion. ‘One week before I can get it back on the road,’ he said sadly. This time Keith passed over a pound.

‘But perhaps I could manage it in a couple of days... It’s all a matter of priorities,’ he repeated. Keith decided he couldn’t afford to be a top priority.

As he stood on a crowded tram he began to consider his funds, or lack of them. If he was to survive for another ten days, pay his hotel bills and for the repairs to his car, he would have to spend the rest of the trip forgoing the luxury of his hotel and sleep in the MG.

Keith jumped off the tram at the now familiar stop, ran up the steps and was standing in front of the counter a few minutes before nine. This time he was kept waiting for twenty minutes, with the same newspapers to read, before the director’s secretary reappeared, an embarrassed look on her face.

‘I am so sorry, Mr. Townsend,’ she said, ‘but Captain Armstrong has had to fly to England unexpectedly. His second in command, Lieutenant Wakeham, would be only too happy to see you.’

Keith spent nearly an hour with Lieutenant Wakeham, who kept calling him ‘old chap,’ explained why he couldn’t get into Spandau and made more jokes about Don Bradman. By the time he left, Keith felt he had learned more about the state of English cricket than about what was going on in Berlin. He passed the rest of the day in the American sector, and regularly stopped to talk to GIs on street corners. They told him with pride that they never left their sector until it was time to return to the States.

When he called back at the garage later that afternoon, the English-speaking mechanic promised him the car would be ready to pick up the following evening.

The next day, Keith made his way by tram to the Russian sector. He soon discovered how wrong he had been to assume that there would be nothing new to learn from the experience. The Oxford University Labor Club would not be pleased to be told that the East Berliners’ shoulders were more hunched, their heads more bowed and their pace slower than those of their fellow-citizens in the Allied sectors, and that they didn’t appear to speak even to each other, let alone to Keith. In the main square a statue of Hitler had been replaced by an even bigger one of Lenin, and a massive effigy of Stalin dominated every street corner. After several hours of walking up and down drab streets with shops devoid of people and goods, and being unable to find a single bar or restaurant, Keith returned to the British sector.

He decided that if he drove to Dresden the following morning he might be able to complete his assignment early, and then perhaps he could spend a couple of days in Deauville replenishing his dwindling finances. He began to whistle as he jumped on a tram that would drop him outside the garage.

The MG was waiting on the forecourt, and he had to admit that it looked quite magnificent. Someone had even cleaned it, so its red bonnet gleamed in the evening light.

The mechanic passed him the key. Keith jumped behind the wheel and switched on the engine. It started immediately. ‘Great,’ he said.

The mechanic nodded his agreement. When Keith stepped out of the car, another garage worker leaned over and removed the key from the ignition.

‘So, how much will that be?’ asked Keith, opening his wallet.

‘Twenty pounds,’ said the mechanic.

Keith swung round and stared at him. ‘Twenty pounds?’ he spluttered. ‘But I don’t have twenty pounds. You’ve already pocketed thirty bob, and the damn car only cost me thirty pounds in the first place.’

This piece of information didn’t seem to impress the mechanic. ‘We had to replace the crankshaft and rebuild the carburetor,’ he explained. ‘And the spare parts weren’t easy to get hold of. Not to mention the bodywork. There’s not much call for such luxuries in Berlin. Twenty pounds,’ he repeated.

Keith opened his wallet and began to count his notes. ‘What’s that in Deutschemarks?’

‘We don’t take Deutschemarks,’ said the mechanic.

‘Why not?’

‘The British have warned us to beware of forgeries.’

Keith decided that the time had come to try some different tactics. ‘This is nothing less than extortion!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll damn well have you closed down!’

The German was unmoved. ‘You may have won the war, sir,’ he said drily, ‘but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay your bills.’

‘Do you think you can get away with this?’ shouted Keith. ‘I’m going to report you to my friend Captain Armstrong of the PRISC. Then you’ll find who’s in charge.’

‘Perhaps it would be better if we called in the police, and we can let them decide who’s in charge.’

This silenced Keith, who paced up and down the forecourt for some time before admitting, ‘I don’t have twenty pounds.’

‘Then perhaps you’ll have to sell the car.’

‘Never,’ said Keith.

‘In which case we’ll just have to garage it for you — at the usual daily rate — until you’re able to pay the bill.’

Keith turned redder and redder while the two men stood hovering over his MG. They looked remarkably unperturbed. ‘How much would you offer me for it?’ he asked eventually.

‘Well, there’s not much call for secondhand right-hand drive sports cars in Berlin,’ he said. ‘But I suppose I could manage 100,000 Deutschemarks.’

‘But you told me earlier that you didn’t deal in Deutschemarks.’

‘That’s only when we’re selling. It’s different when we’re buying.’

‘Is that 100,000 over and above my bill?’

‘No,’ said the mechanic. He paused, smiled and added, ‘but we’ll see that you get a good exchange rate.’

‘Bloody Nazis,’ muttered Keith.

When Keith began his second year at Oxford, he was pressed by his friends in the Labor Club to stand for the committee. He had quickly worked out that although the club had over six hundred members, it was the committee who met Cabinet ministers whenever they visited the university, and who held the power to pass resolutions. They even selected those who attended the party conference and so had a chance to influence party policy.

When the result of the ballot for the committee was announced, Keith was surprised by how large a margin he had been elected. The following Monday he attended his first committee meeting at the Bricklayers’ Arms. He sat at the back in silence, scarcely believing what was taking place in front of his eyes. All the things he despised most about Britain were being re-enacted by that committee. They were reactionary, prejudiced and, whenever it came to making any real decisions, ultra-conservative. If anyone came up with an original idea, it was discussed at great length and then quickly forgotten once the meeting had adjourned to the bar downstairs. Keith concluded that becoming a committee member wasn’t going to be enough if he wanted to see some of his more radical ideas become reality. In his final year he would have to become chairman of the Labor Club. When he mentioned this ambition in a letter to his father, Sir Graham wrote back that he was more interested in Keith’s prospects of getting a degree, as becoming chairman of the Labor Club was not of paramount importance for someone who hoped to succeed him as proprietor of a newspaper group.

Keith’s only rival for the post appeared to be the vice chairman, Gareth Williams, who as a miner’s son with a scholarship from Neath Grammar School certainly had all the right qualifications.

The election of officers was scheduled for the second week of Michaelmas term. Keith realized that every hour of the first week would be crucial if he hoped to become chairman. As Gareth Williams was more popular with the committee than with the rank and file members, Keith knew exactly where he had to concentrate his energies. During the first ten days of term he invited several paid-up members of the club, including freshmen, back to his room for a drink. Night after night they consumed crates of college beer and tart, non-vintage wine, all at Keith’s expense.

With twenty-four hours to go, Keith thought he had it sewn up. He checked over the list of club members, putting a tick next to those he had already approached, and who he was confident would vote for him, and a cross by those he knew were supporters of Williams.

The weekly committee meeting held on the night before the vote dragged on, but Keith derived considerable pleasure from the thought that this would be the last time he had to sit through resolution after pointless resolution that would only end up in the nearest wastepaper basket. He sat at the back of the room, making no contribution to the countless amendments to subclauses so beloved of Gareth Williams and his cronies. The committee discussed for nearly an hour the disgrace of the latest unemployment figures, which had just topped 300,000. Keith would have liked to have pointed out to the brothers that there were at least 300,000 people in Britain who were, in his opinion, simply unemployable, but he reflected that that might be unwise the day before he was seeking their support at the ballot box.

He had leaned back in his chair and was nodding off when the bombshell fell. It was during ‘Any Other Business’ that Hugh Jenkins (St. Peter’s), someone Keith rarely spoke to — not simply because he made Lenin look like a Liberal, but also because he was Gareth Williams’s closest ally — rose ponderously from his seat in the front row. ‘Brother Chairman,’ he began, ‘it has been brought to my attention that there has been a violation of Standing Order Number Nine, Subsection c, concerning the election of officers to this committee.’

‘Get on with it,’ said Keith, who already had plans for Brother Jenkins once he was elected that were not to be found under Subsection c in any rule book.

‘I intend to, Brother Townsend,’ Jenkins said, turning round to face him, ‘especially as the matter directly concerns you.’

Keith rocked forward and began to pay close attention for the first time that evening. ‘It appears, Brother Chairman, that Brother Townsend has, during the past ten days, been canvassing support for the post of chairman of this club.’

‘Of course I have,’ said Keith. ‘How else could I expect to get elected?’

‘Well, I am delighted that Brother Townsend is so open about it, Brother Chairman, because that will make it unnecessary for you to set up an internal inquiry.’

Keith looked puzzled until Jenkins explained.

‘It is,’ he continued, ‘abundantly clear that Brother Townsend has not bothered to consult the party rule book, which states quite unambiguously that any form of canvassing for office is strictly prohibited. Standing Order Number Nine, Subsection c.’

Keith had to admit that he was not in possession of a rule book, and he had certainly never consulted any part of it, let alone Standing Order Number Nine and its subsections.

‘I regret that it is nothing less than my duty to propose a resolution,’ continued Jenkins: ‘That Brother Townsend be disqualified from taking part in tomorrow’s election, and at the same time be removed from this committee.’

‘On a point of order, Brother Chairman,’ said another member of the committee, leaping up from the second row, ‘I think you will find that that is two resolutions.’

The committee then proceeded to discuss for a further forty minutes whether it was one or two resolutions that they would be required to take a vote on. This was eventually settled by an amendment to the motion: by a vote of eleven to seven it was decided that it should be two resolutions. There followed several more speeches and points of order on the question of whether Brother Townsend should be allowed to take part in the vote. Keith said he was quite content not to vote on the first resolution.

‘Most magnanimous,’ said Williams, with a smirk.

The committee then passed a resolution by a vote of ten to seven, with one abstention, that Brother Townsend should be disqualified from being a candidate for chairman.

Williams insisted that the result of the vote should be recorded in the minutes of the meeting, in case at some time in the future anyone might register an appeal. Keith made it quite clear that he had no intention of appealing. Williams was unable to remove the smirk from his face.

Keith didn’t stay to hear the outcome of the second resolution, and had returned to his room in college long before it had been voted on. He missed a long discussion on whether they should print new ballot papers now that there was only one candidate for chairman.

Several students made it clear the following day that they were sorry to learn of Keith’s disqualification. But he had already decided that the Labor Party was unlikely to enter the real world much before the end of the century, and that there was little or nothing he could do about it — even if he had become chairman of the club.

The Provost of the college concurred with his judgment over a glass of sherry that evening in the Lodgings. He went on to say, ‘I am not altogether disappointed by the outcome, because I have to warn you, Townsend, that your tutor is of the opinion that should you continue to work in the same desultory fashion as you have for the past two years, it is most unlikely that you will obtain any qualification from this university.’

Before Keith could speak up in his own defense, the Provost continued, ‘I am of course aware that an Oxford degree is unlikely to be of great importance in your chosen career, but I beg to suggest to you that it might prove a grave disappointment to your parents were you to leave us after three years with absolutely nothing to show for it.’

When Keith returned to his rooms that night he lay on his bed thinking carefully about the Provost’s admonition. But it was a letter that arrived a few days later that finally spurred him into action. His mother wrote to inform him that his father had suffered a minor heart attack, and she could only hope that it would not be too long before he was willing to shoulder some responsibility.

Keith immediately booked a call to his mother in Toorak. When he was eventually put through, the first thing he asked her was if she wanted him to return home.

‘No,’ she replied firmly. ‘But your father hopes that you will now spend some more time concentrating on your degree, otherwise he feels Oxford will have served no purpose.’

Once again Keith resolved to confound the examiners. For the next eight months he attended every lecture and never missed a tutorial. With the help of Dr. Howard, he continued to cram right through the two vacations, which only made him aware of how little work he had done in the past two years. He began to wish he had taken Miss Steadman to Oxford with him, instead of an MG.

On the Monday of the seventh week of his final term, dressed in subfusc — a dark suit, collar and white tie — and his undergraduate gown, he reported to the Examination Schools in the High. For the next five days he sat at his allotted desk, head down, and answered as many of the questions in the eleven papers as he could. When he emerged into the sunlight on the afternoon of the fifth day, he joined his friends as they sat on the steps of Schools devouring champagne with any passer-by who cared to join them.

Six weeks later Keith was relieved to find his name among those posted in the examination school as having been awarded a Bachelor of Arts (Honors) degree. From that day on, he never revealed the class of degree he had obtained, although he had to agree with Dr. Howard’s judgment that it was of little relevance to the career on which he was about to embark.

Keith wanted to return to Australia on the day after he learned his exam results, but his father wouldn’t hear of it. ‘I expect you to go and work for my old friend Max Beaverbrook at the Express,’ he said over a crackling telephone line. ‘The Beaver will teach you more in six months than you picked up at Oxford in three years.’

Keith resisted telling him that that would hardly be a great achievement. ‘The only thing that worries me, Father, is your state of health. I don’t want to stay in England if coming home means I can take some of the pressure off you.’

‘I’ve never felt better, my boy,’ Sir Graham replied. ‘The doctor tells me I’m almost back to normal, and as long as I don’t overdo things, I should be around for a long time yet. You’ll be a lot more useful to me in the long run if you learn your trade in Fleet Street than if you come home now and get under my feet. My next call is going to be to the Beaver. So make sure you drop him a line — today.’

Keith wrote to Lord Beaverbrook that afternoon, and three weeks later the proprietor of the Express granted the son of Sir Graham Townsend a fifteen-minute interview.

Keith arrived at Arlington House fifteen minutes early, and walked up and down St. James’s for several minutes before he entered the impressive block of flats. He was kept waiting another twenty minutes before a secretary took him through to Lord Beaverbrook’s large office overlooking St. James’s Park.

‘How is your father keeping?’ were the Beaver’s opening words.

‘He’s well, sir,’ Keith replied, standing in front of his desk, as he hadn’t been offered a seat.

‘And you want to follow in his footsteps?’ said the old man, looking up at him.

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘Good, then you’ll report to Frank Butterfield’s office at the Express by ten tomorrow morning. He’s the best deputy editor in Fleet Street. Any questions?’

‘No, sir,’ said Keith.

‘Good,’ replied Beaverbrook. ‘Please remember me to your father.’ He lowered his head, which appeared to be a sign that the interview was over. Thirty seconds later Keith was back out on St. James’s, not sure if the meeting had ever taken place.

The next morning he reported to Frank Butterfield in Fleet Street. The deputy editor never seemed to stop running from one journalist to another. Keith tried to keep up with him, and it wasn’t long before he fully understood why Butterfield had been divorced three times. Few sane women would have tolerated such a lifestyle. Butterfield put the paper to bed every night, except Saturday, and it was an unforgiving mistress.

As the weeks went by, Keith became bored with just following Frank around, and grew impatient to get a broader view of how a newspaper was produced and managed. Frank, who was aware of the young man’s restlessness, devised a program that would keep him fully occupied. He spent three months in circulation, the next three in advertising, and a further three on the shop floor. There he found countless examples of union members playing cards while they should have been working on the presses, or taking the occasional work break between drinking coffee and placing bets at the nearest bookmaker. Some even clocked in under two or three names, drawing a pay packet for each.

By the time Keith had been at the Express for six months, he had begun to question whether the editorial content was all that mattered in producing a successful newspaper. Shouldn’t he and his father have spent those Sunday mornings looking just as closely at the advertising space in the Courier as they did at the front pages? And when they had sat in the old man’s study criticizing the headlines in the Gazette, shouldn’t they instead have been looking to see if the paper was overstaffed, or if the expenses of the journalists were getting out of control? Surely in the end, however massive a paper’s circulation was, the principal aim should be to make as large a return on your investment as possible. He often discussed the problem with Frank Butterfield, who felt that the well-established practices on the shop floor were now probably irreversible.

Keith wrote home regularly and at great length, advancing his theories. Now that he was experiencing many of his father’s problems at first hand, he began to fear that the trade union practices which were commonplace on the shop floors of Fleet Street would soon find their way to Australia.

At the end of his first year, Keith sent a long memo to Beaverbrook at Arlington House, despite advice to the contrary from Frank Butterfield. In it he expressed the view that the shop floor at the Express was overmanned by a ratio of three to one, and that, while wages made up its largest outgoings, there could be no hope of a modern newspaper group being able to make a profit. In the future someone was going to have to take on the unions. Beaverbrook didn’t acknowledge the report.

Undaunted, Keith began his second year at the Express by putting in hours he hadn’t realized existed when he was at Oxford. This served to reinforce his view that sooner or later there would have to be massive changes in the newspaper industry, and he prepared a long memorandum for his father, which he intended to discuss with him the moment he arrived back in Australia. It set out exactly what changes he believed needed to be made at the Courier and the Gazette if they were to remain solvent during the second half of the twentieth century.

Keith was on the phone in Butterfield’s office, arranging his flight to Melbourne, when a messenger handed him the telegram.

11 The Times 5 June 1945 Setting up Control of Germany: Preliminary Meeting of Allied Commanders

When Captain Armstrong visited Der Telegraf for the first time, he was surprised to find how dingy the little basement offices were. He was greeted by a man who introduced himself as Arno Schultz, the editor of the paper.

Schultz was about five foot three, with sullen gray eyes and short-cropped hair. He was dressed in a pre-war three-piece suit that must have been made for him when he was a stone heavier. His shirt was frayed at the collar and cuffs, and he wore a thin, shiny black tie.

Armstrong smiled down at him. ‘You and I have something in common,’ he said.

Schultz shuffled nervously from foot to foot in the presence of this towering British officer. ‘And what is that?’

‘We’re both Jewish,’ said Armstrong.

‘I would never have known,’ said Schultz, sounding genuinely surprised.

Armstrong couldn’t hide a smile of satisfaction. ‘Let me make it clear from the outset,’ he said, ‘that I intend to give you every assistance to ensure that Der Telegraf is kept on the streets. I only have one long-term aim: to outsell Der Berliner.’

Schultz looked doubtful. ‘They currently sell twice as many copies a day as we do. That was true even before the war. They have far better presses, more staff, and the advantage of being in the American sector. I don’t think it’s a realistic aim, Captain.’

‘Then we’ll just have to change all that, won’t we?’ said Armstrong. ‘From now on you must look upon me as the proprietor of the newspaper, and I will leave you to get on with the editor’s job. Why don’t you start by telling me what your problems are?’

‘Where do I begin?’ said Schultz, looking up at his new boss. ‘Our printing presses are out of date. Many of the parts are worn out, and there seems to be no way of getting replacements for them.’

‘Make a list of everything you need, and I’ll see that you get replacements.’

Schultz looked unconvinced. He began cleaning his pebble glasses with a handkerchief he removed from his top pocket. ‘And then there’s a continual problem with the electricity. No sooner do I get the machinery to work than the supply is cut off, so at least twice a week we end up with no papers being printed at all.’

‘I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again,’ promised Armstrong, without any idea of how he would go about it. ‘What else?’

‘Security,’ said Schultz. ‘The censor always checks every word of my copy, so the stories are inevitably two or three days out of date when they appear, and after he has put his blue pencil through the most interesting paragraphs there isn’t much left worth reading.’

‘Right,’ said Armstrong. ‘From now on I’ll vet the stories. I’ll also have a word with the censor, so you won’t have any more of those problems in the future. Is that everything?’

‘No, Captain. My biggest problem comes when the electricity stays on all week.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Armstrong. ‘How can that be a problem?’

‘Because then I always run out of paper.’

‘What’s your current print run?’

‘One hundred, one hundred and twenty thousand copies a day at best.’

‘And Der Berliner?’

‘Somewhere around a quarter of a million copies.’ Schultz paused. ‘Every day.’

‘I’ll make sure you’re supplied with enough paper to print a quarter of a million copies every day. Give me to the end of the month.’

Schultz, normally a courteous man, didn’t even say thank you when Captain Armstrong left to return to his office. Despite the British officer’s self-confidence, he simply didn’t believe it was possible.

Once he was back behind his desk, Armstrong asked Sally to type up a list of all the items Schultz had requested. When she had completed the task he checked the list, then asked her to make a dozen copies and to organize a meeting of the full team. An hour later they all squeezed into his office.

Sally handed a copy of the list to each of them. Armstrong ran briefly through each item and ended by saying, ‘I want everything that’s on this list, and I want it pronto. When there’s a tick against every single item, you will all get three days’ leave. Until then you work every waking hour, including weekends. Do I make myself clear?’

A few of them nodded, but no one spoke.

Nine days later Charlotte arrived in Berlin, and Armstrong sent Benson to the station to pick her up.

‘Where’s my husband?’ she asked as her bags were put into the back of the jeep.

‘He had an important meeting that he couldn’t get out of, Mrs. Armstrong. He says he’ll join you later this evening.’

When Dick returned to the flat that night, he found that Charlotte had finished unpacking and had prepared dinner for him. As he walked through the door she threw her arms around him.

‘It’s wonderful to have you in Berlin, darling,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be at the station to meet you.’ He released her and looked into her eyes. ‘I’m doing the work of six men. I hope you understand.’

‘Of course I do,’ said Charlotte. ‘I want to hear all about your new job over dinner.’

Dick hardly stopped talking from the moment he sat down until they left the unwashed dishes on the table and went to bed. For the first time since he had arrived in Berlin he was late into the office the following morning.

It took Captain Armstrong’s barrow boys nineteen days to locate every item on the list, and Dick another eight to requisition them, using a powerful mix of charm, bullying and bribery. When an unopened crate of six new Remington typewriters appeared in the office with no requisition order, he simply told Lieutenant Wakeham to turn a blind eye.

If ever Armstrong came up against an obstacle he simply mentioned the words ‘Colonel Oakshott’ and ‘Control Commission.’ This nearly always resulted in the reluctant official involved signing in triplicate for whatever was needed.

When it came to the electricity supply, Peter Wakeham reported that because of overloading, one of the four sectors in the city had to be taken off the grid for at least three hours in every twelve. The grid, he added, was officially under the command of an American captain called Max Sackville, who said he hadn’t the time to see him.

‘Leave him to me,’ said Armstrong.

But Dick quickly found out that Sackville was unmoved by charm, bullying or bribery, partly because the Americans seemed to have a surplus of everything and always assumed the ultimate authority was theirs. What he did discover was that the captain had a weakness, which he indulged every Saturday evening. It took several hours of listening to how Sackville won his purple heart at Anzio before Dick was invited to join his poker school.

For the next three weeks Dick made sure he lost around $50 every Saturday night which, under several different headings, he claimed back as expenses the following Monday morning. That way he ensured that the electricity supply in the British sector was never cut off between the hours of three and midnight, except on Saturdays, when no copies of Der Telegraf were being printed.

Arno Schultz’s list of requests was completed in twenty-six days, by which time Der Telegraf was producing 140,000 copies a night. Lieutenant Wakeham had been put in charge of distribution, and the paper never failed to be on the streets by the early hours of the morning. When he was informed by Dick of Der Telegraf’s latest circulation figures, Colonel Oakshott was delighted with the results his protégé was achieving, and agreed that the team should be granted three days’ leave.

No one was more delighted by this news than Charlotte. Since she had arrived in Berlin, Dick had rarely been home before midnight, and often left the house before she woke. But that Friday afternoon he turned up outside their apartment behind the wheel of someone else’s Mercedes, and once she had loaded up the car with battered cases, they set off for Lyon to spend a long weekend with her family.

It worried Charlotte that Dick seemed quite incapable of relaxing for more than a few minutes at a time, but she was grateful that there wasn’t a phone in the little house in Lyon. On the Saturday evening the whole family went to see David Niven in The Perfect Marriage. The next morning Dick started growing a moustache.

The moment Captain Armstrong returned to Berlin, he took the colonel’s advice and began building up useful contacts in each sector of the city — a task which was made easier when people learned he was in control of a newspaper which was read by a million people every day (his figures).

Almost all the Germans he came across assumed, by the way he conducted himself, that he had to be a general; everyone else was left in no doubt that even if he wasn’t, he had the backing of the top brass. He made sure certain staff officers were mentioned regularly in Der Telegraf, and after that they rarely queried his requests, however outrageous. He also took advantage of the endless source of publicity provided by the paper to promote himself, and as he was able to write his own copy, he quickly became a celebrity in a city of anonymous uniforms.

Three months after Armstrong met Arno Schultz for the first time, Der Telegraf was regularly coming out six days a week, and he was able to report to Colonel Oakshott that the circulation had passed 200,000 copies, and that at this rate it would not be long before they overtook Der Berliner. The colonel simply said, ‘You’re doing a first class job, Dick.’ He wasn’t quite sure what Armstrong was actually doing, but he had noticed that the young captain’s expenses had crept up to over £20 a week.

Although Dick reported the colonel’s praise to Charlotte, she could sense that he was already becoming bored with the job. Der Telegraf was selling almost as many copies as Der Berliner, and the senior officers in the three Western sectors were always happy to welcome Captain Armstrong to their messes. After all, you only had to whisper a story in his ear, and it would appear in print the following day. As a result, he always had a surplus of Cuban cigars, Charlotte and Sally were never short of nylons, Peter Wakeham could indulge in his favorite tipple of Gordon’s gin, and the barrow boys had enough vodka and cigarettes to run a black market on the side.

But Dick was frustrated by the fact that he didn’t seem to be making any progress with his own career. Although promotion had been hinted at often enough, nothing seemed to happen in a city that was already far too full of majors and colonels, most of whom were simply sitting around on their backsides waiting to be sent home.

Dick began discussing with Charlotte the possibility of returning to England, especially since Britain’s newly-elected Labor Prime Minister, Clement Attlee, had asked soldiers to come home as soon as possible because there was a surplus of jobs waiting for them. Despite their comfortable lifestyle in Berlin Charlotte seemed delighted by the idea, and encouraged Dick to think about requesting an early discharge. The next day he asked to see the colonel.

‘Are you sure that’s what you really want to do?’ said Oakshott.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Dick. ‘Now that everything’s working smoothly, Schultz is quite capable of running the paper without me.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll try and speed the process up.’

A few hours later Armstrong heard the name of Klaus Lauber for the first time, and slowed the process down.

When Armstrong visited the print works later that morning, Schultz informed him that for the first time they had sold more copies than Der Berliner, and that he felt perhaps they should start thinking about bringing out a Sunday paper.

‘I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t,’ said Dick, sounding a little bored.

‘I only wish we could charge the same price as we did before the war,’ Schultz sighed. ‘With these sales figures we would be making a handsome profit. I know it must be hard for you to believe, Captain Armstrong, but in those days I was considered a prosperous and successful man.’

‘Perhaps you will be again,’ said Armstrong. ‘And sooner than you think,’ he added, looking out of the grimy window on to a pavement crowded with weary-looking people. He was about to tell Schultz that he intended to hand the whole operation over to him and return to England, when the German said, ‘I’m not sure that will be possible any longer.’

‘Why not?’ asked Armstrong. ‘The paper belongs to you, and everybody knows that the restrictions on shareholding for German citizens are about to be lifted.’

‘That may well be the case, Captain Armstrong, but unfortunately I no longer own any shares in the company.’

Armstrong paused, and began to choose his words carefully. ‘Really? What made you sell them?’ he asked, still looking out of the window.

‘I didn’t sell them,’ said Schultz. ‘I virtually gave them away.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Armstrong, turning to face him.

‘It’s quite simple, really,’ said Schultz. ‘Soon after Hitler came to power, he passed a law which disqualified Jews from owning newspapers. I was forced to dispose of my shares to a third party.’

‘So who owns Der Telegraf now?’ asked Armstrong.

‘An old friend of mine called Klaus Lauber,’ said Schultz. ‘He was a civil servant with the Ministry of Works. We met at a local chess club many years ago, and used to play every Tuesday and Friday — another thing they wouldn’t allow me to continue after Hitler came to power.’

‘But if Lauber is so close a friend, he must be in a position to sell the shares back to you.’

‘I suppose that’s still possible. After all, he only paid a nominal sum for them, on the understanding that he would return them to me once the war was over.’

‘And I’m sure he will keep his word,’ said Armstrong. ‘Especially if he was such a close friend.’

‘I’m sure he would too, if we hadn’t lost touch during the war. I haven’t set eyes on him since December 1942. Like so many Germans, he’s become just another statistic.’

‘But you must know where he lived,’ said Armstrong, tapping his swagger stick lightly on the side of his leg.

‘His family were moved out of Berlin soon after the bombing started, which was when I lost contact with him. Heaven knows where he is now,’ he added with a sigh.

Dick felt he had gleaned all the information he required. ‘So, what’s happening about that article on the opening of the new airport?’ he asked, changing the subject.

‘We already have a photographer out at the site, and I thought I’d send a reporter to interview...’ Schultz continued dutifully, but Armstrong’s mind was elsewhere. As soon as he was back at his desk he asked Sally to call the Allied Control Commission and find out who owned Der Telegraf.

‘I’ve always assumed it was Arno,’ she said.

‘Me too,’ said Armstrong, ‘but apparently not. He was forced to sell his shares to a Klaus Lauber soon after Hitler came to power. So I need to know: one, does Lauber still own the shares? Two, if he does, is he still alive? And three, if he’s still alive, where the hell is he? And Sally, don’t mention this to anyone. That includes Lieutenant Wakeham.’

It took Sally three days to confirm that Major Klaus Otto Lauber was still registered with the Allied Control Commission as the legal owner of Der Telegraf.

‘But is he still alive?’ asked Armstrong.

‘Very much so,’ said Sally. ‘And what’s more, he’s holed up in Wales.’

‘In Wales?’ echoed Armstrong. ‘How can that be?’

‘It seems that Major Lauber is presently being held in an internment camp just outside Bridgend, where he’s spent the last three years, since being captured while serving with Rommel’s Afrika Korps.’

‘What else have you been able to find out?’ asked Armstrong.

‘That’s about it,’ said Sally. ‘I fear the major did not have a good war.’

‘Well done, Sally. But I still want to know anything else you can find out about him. And I mean anything: date and place of birth, education, how long he was at the Ministry of Works, right up to the day he arrived in Bridgend. See that you use up every favor we’re owed, and pawn a few more if you need to. I’m off to see Oakshott. Anything else I should be worrying about?’

‘There’s a young journalist from the Oxford Mail hoping to see you. He’s been waiting for nearly an hour.’

‘Put him off until tomorrow.’

‘But he wrote to you asking for an appointment, and you agreed to see him.’

‘Put him off until tomorrow,’ Armstrong repeated.

Sally had come to know that tone of voice, and after getting rid of Mr. Townsend she dropped everything and set about researching the undistinguished career of Major Klaus Lauber.

When Dick left the office, Private Benson drove him over to the commanding officer’s quarters on the other side of the sector.

‘You do come up with the strangest requests,’ Colonel Oakshott said after he had outlined his idea.

‘I think you will find, sir, that in the long term this can only help cement better relations between the occupying forces and the citizens of Berlin.’

‘Well, Dick, I know you understand these things far better than I do, but in this case I can’t begin to guess how our masters will react.’

‘You might point out to them, sir, that if we can show the Germans that our prisoners of war — their husbands, sons and fathers — are receiving fair and decent treatment at the hands of the British, it could turn out to be a massive public relations coup for us, especially remembering the way the Nazis treated the Jews.’

‘I’ll do the best I can,’ promised the colonel. ‘How many camps do you want to visit?’

‘I think just one to start with,’ said Armstrong. ‘And perhaps two or three more at some time in the future, should my first sortie prove successful.’ He smiled. ‘I hope that will give “our masters” less reason to panic.’

‘Do you have anywhere in particular in mind?’ asked the colonel.

‘Intelligence informs me that the ideal camp for such an exercise is probably the one a few miles outside Bridgend.’

It took the colonel a little longer to get Captain Armstrong’s request granted than it did Sally to discover all there was to know about Klaus Lauber. Dick read through her notes again and again, searching for an angle.

Lauber had been born in Dresden in 1896. He served in the first war, rising to the rank of captain. After the Armistice he had joined the Ministry of Works in Berlin. Although only on the reserve list, he had been called up in December 1942, and given the rank of major. He was shipped out to North Africa and put in charge of a unit which built bridges and, soon afterward, of one that was ordered to destroy them. He had been captured in March 1943 during the battle of El-Agheila, was shipped to Britain, and was presently held in an internment camp just outside Bridgend. In Lauber’s file at the War Office in Whitehall there was no mention of his owning any shares in Der Telegraf.

When Armstrong had finished reading the notes yet again, he asked Sally a question. She quickly checked in the Berlin Officers’ Handbook and gave him three names.

‘Any of them serving with the King’s Own or the North Staffs?’ asked Armstrong.

‘No,’ replied Sally, ‘but one is with the Royal Rifle Brigade, who use the same messing facilities as we do.’

‘Good,’ said Dick. ‘Then he’s our man.’

‘By the way,’ said Sally, ‘what shall I do about the young journalist from the Oxford Mail?’

Dick paused. ‘Tell him I had to visit the American sector, and that I’ll try and catch up with him some time tomorrow.’

It was unusual for Armstrong to dine in the British officers’ mess, because with his influence and freedom to roam the city he was always welcome in any dining hall in Berlin. In any case, every officer knew that when it came to eating, you always tried to find some excuse to be in the French sector. However, on that particular Tuesday evening Captain Armstrong arrived at the mess a few minutes after six, and asked the corporal serving behind the bar if he knew a Captain Stephen Hallet.

‘Oh yes, sir,’ the corporal replied. ‘Captain Hallet usually comes in around six-thirty. I think you’ll find he works in the Legal Department,’ he added, telling Armstrong something he already knew.

Armstrong remained at the bar, sipping a whiskey and glancing up at the entrance as each new officer came in. He would then look inquiringly toward the corporal, who shook his head each time, until a thin, prematurely balding man who would have made even the smallest uniform look baggy headed toward the bar. He ordered a Tom Collins, and the barman gave Armstrong a quick nod. Armstrong moved across to take the stool beside him.

He introduced himself, and quickly learned that Hallet couldn’t wait to be demobbed and get back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields to continue his career as a solicitor.

‘I’ll see if I can help speed the process up,’ said Armstrong, knowing full well that when it came to that department he had absolutely no influence at all.

‘That’s very decent of you, old chap,’ replied Hallet. ‘Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can do for you in return.’

‘Shall we grab a bite?’ suggested Armstrong, slipping off his stool and guiding the lawyer toward a quiet table for two in the corner.

After they had ordered from the set menu and Armstrong had asked the corporal for a bottle of wine from his private rack, he guided his companion onto a subject on which he did need some advice.

‘I understand only too well the problems some of these Germans are facing,’ said Armstrong, as he filled his companion’s glass, ‘being Jewish myself.’

‘You do surprise me,’ said Hallet. ‘But then, Captain Armstrong,’ he added as he sipped the wine, ‘you are obviously a man who’s full of surprises.’

Armstrong looked at his companion carefully, but couldn’t detect any signs of irony. ‘You may be able to assist me with an interesting case that’s recently landed on my desk,’ he ventured.

‘I’ll be delighted to help if I possibly can,’ said Hallet.

‘That’s good of you,’ said Armstrong, not touching his glass. ‘I was wondering what rights a German Jew has if he sold his shares in a company to a non-Jew before the war. Can he claim them back now the war is over?’

The lawyer paused for a moment, and this time he did look a little puzzled. ‘Only if the person who purchased the shares is decent enough to sell them to him. Otherwise there’s absolutely nothing they can do about it. The Nuremberg Laws of 1935, if I remember correctly.’

‘That doesn’t seem fair,’ was all Armstrong said.

‘No,’ came back the reply, as the lawyer took another sip from his glass of wine. ‘It isn’t. But that was the law at the time, and the way things are set up now, there is no civil authority to override it. I must say, this claret is really quite excellent. However did you manage to lay your hands on it?’

‘A good friend of mine in the French sector seems to have an endless supply. If you like, I could send you over a dozen bottles.’

The following morning, Colonel Oakshott received authority to allow Captain Armstrong to visit an internment camp in Britain at any time during the next month. ‘But they have restricted you to Bridgend,’ he added.

‘I quite understand,’ said Armstrong.

‘And they have also made it clear,’ continued the colonel, reading from a memo pad on the desk in front of him, ‘that you cannot interview more than three prisoners, and that none of them may be above the rank of colonel — strict orders from Security.’

‘I’m sure I can manage despite those limitations,’ said Armstrong.

‘Let’s hope this all proves worthwhile, Dick. I still have my doubts, you know.’

‘I hope to prove you wrong, sir.’

Once Armstrong had returned to his office, he asked Sally to sort out his travel arrangements.

‘When do you want to go?’ she asked.

‘Tomorrow,’ he replied.

‘Silly question,’ she said.

Sally got him on a flight to London the next day, after a general had canceled at the last moment. She also arranged for him to be met by a car and driver who would take him straight to Wales.

‘But captains aren’t entitled to a car and driver,’ he said when Sally handed over his travel documents.

‘They are if the brigadier wants his daughter’s photo on the front page of Der Telegraf when she visits Berlin next month.’

‘Why should he want that?’ said Armstrong.

‘My bet is that he can’t get her married off in England,’ said Sally. ‘And as I’ve discovered, anything in a skirt is jumped on over here.’

Armstrong laughed. ‘If I were paying you, Sally, you’d get a rise. Meanwhile, keep me informed on anything else you find out about Lauber, and again, I mean anything.’

Over dinner that night, Dick told Charlotte that one of the reasons he was going to Britain was to see if he could find a job once his demob paper had been processed. Although she forced a smile, lately she wasn’t always sure that he was telling her the whole story. If she ever pressed him, he invariably hid behind the words ‘top secret,’ and tapped his nose with his forefinger, just the way he had seen Colonel Oakshott do.

Private Benson dropped him at the airport the following morning. A voice came over the Tannoy in the departure lounge and announced: ‘Would Captain Armstrong please report to the nearest military phone before he boards the plane.’ Armstrong would have taken the call, if his plane hadn’t already been taxiing down the runway.

When he landed in London three hours later, Armstrong marched across the tarmac toward a corporal leaning against a shiny black Austin and holding a placard with the name ‘Captain Armstrong’ printed on it. The corporal sprang to attention and saluted the moment he spotted the officer advancing toward him.

‘I need to be driven to Bridgend immediately,’ he said, before the man had a chance to open his mouth. They headed down the A40, and Armstrong dozed off within minutes. He didn’t wake until the corporal said, ‘Only a couple more miles and we’ll be there, sir.’

When they drove up to the camp, memories flooded back of his own internment in Liverpool. But this time when the car passed through the gates, the guards sprang to attention and saluted. The corporal brought the Austin to a halt outside the commandant’s office.

As he walked in, a captain rose from behind a desk to greet him. ‘Roach,’ he said. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’ He thrust out his hand and Armstrong shook it. Captain Roach displayed no medals on his uniform, and looked as if he’d never even crossed the Channel on a day trip, let alone come in contact with the enemy. ‘No one has actually explained to me how I can help you,’ he said as he ushered Armstrong toward a comfortable chair by the fire.

‘I need to see a list of all the prisoners detailed to this camp,’ said Armstrong, without wasting any time on banalities. ‘I intend to interview three of them for a report I’m preparing for the Control Commission in Berlin.’

‘That’s easy enough,’ said the captain. ‘But why did they choose Bridgend? Most of the Nazi generals are locked up in Yorkshire.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ said Armstrong, ‘but I wasn’t given a lot of choice.’

‘Fair enough. Now, do you have any idea what type of person you want to interview, or shall I just pick a few out at random?’ Captain Roach handed over a clipboard, and Armstrong quickly ran his finger down the list of typed names. He smiled. ‘I’ll see one corporal, one lieutenant and one major,’ he said, putting a cross by three names. He handed the clipboard back to the captain.

Roach studied his selection. ‘The first two will be easy enough,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid you won’t be able to interview Major Lauber.’

‘I have the full authority of...’

‘It wouldn’t matter if you had the full authority of Mr. Attlee himself,’ interrupted Roach. ‘When it comes to Lauber, there’s nothing I can do for you.’

‘Why not?’ snapped Armstrong.

‘Because he died two weeks ago. I sent him back to Berlin in a coffin last Monday.’

12 Melbourne Courier 12 September 1950 Sir Graham Townsend Dies

The cortège came to a halt outside the cathedral. Keith stepped out of the leading car, took his mother’s arm and guided her up the steps, followed by his sisters. As they entered the building, the congregation rose from their seats. A sidesman led them down the aisle to the empty front pew. Keith could feel several pairs of eyes boring into him, all asking the same question: ‘Are you up to it?’ A moment later the coffin was borne past them and placed on a catafalque in front of the altar.

The service was conducted by the Bishop of Melbourne, and the prayers read by the Reverend Charles Davidson. The hymns Lady Townsend had selected would have made the old man chuckle: ‘To Be a Pilgrim,’ ‘Rock of Ages’ and ‘Fight the Good Fight.’ David Jakeman, a former editor of the Courier, gave the address. He talked of Sir Graham’s energy, his enthusiasm for life, his lack of cant, his love of his family, and of how much he would be missed by all those who had known him. He ended his homily by reminding the congregation that Sir Graham had been succeeded by a son and heir.

After the blessing, Lady Townsend took her son’s arm once more and followed the pallbearers as they carried the coffin back out of the cathedral and toward the burial plot.

‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ intoned the bishop as the oak casket was lowered into the ground, and the gravediggers began to shovel sods of earth on top of it. Keith raised his head and glanced around at those who circled the grave. Friends, relations, colleagues, politicians, rivals, bookies — even the odd vulture who, Keith suspected, had come simply to pick over the bones — looked down into the gaping hole.

After the bishop had made the sign of the cross, Keith led his mother slowly back to the waiting limousine. Just before they reached it, she stopped and turned to face those who silently followed behind her. For the next hour she shook hands with every mourner, until the last one had finally departed.

Neither Keith nor his mother spoke on the journey back to Toorak, and as soon as they arrived at the house Lady Townsend climbed the great marble staircase and retired to her bedroom. Keith went off to the kitchen, where Florrie was preparing a light lunch. He laid a tray and carried it up to his mother’s room. When he reached her door he knocked quietly before going in. She was sitting in her favorite chair by the window. His mother didn’t move as he placed the tray on the table in front of her. He kissed her on the forehead, turned and left her. He then took a long walk around the grounds, retracing the steps he had so often taken with his father. Now that the funeral was over, he knew he would have to broach the one subject she had been avoiding.

Lady Townsend reappeared just before eight that evening, and together they went through to the dining room. Again she spoke only of his father, often repeating the same sentiments she had voiced the previous night. She only picked at her food, and after the main course had been cleared away she rose without warning and walked through to the drawing room.

When she took her usual place by the fire, Keith remained standing for a moment before sitting in his father’s chair. Once the maid had served them with coffee, his mother leaned forward, warmed her hands and asked him the question he had waited so patiently to hear.

‘What do you intend to do now you’re back in Australia?’

‘First thing tomorrow I’ll go in and see the editor of the Courier. There are several changes that need to be made quickly if we’re ever going to challenge the Age.’ He waited for her response.

‘Keith,’ she said eventually, ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that we no longer own the Courier.’

Keith was so stunned by this piece of information that he didn’t respond.

His mother continued to warm her hands. ‘As you know, your father left everything to me in his will, and I have always had an abhorrence of debt in any form. Perhaps if he had left the newspapers to you...’

‘But Mother, I...’ began Keith.

‘Try not to forget, Keith, that you’ve been away for nearly five years. When I last saw you, you were a schoolboy, reluctantly boarding the SS Stranthedan. I had no way of knowing if...’

‘But Father wouldn’t have wanted you to sell the Courier. It was the first paper he was ever associated with.’

‘And it was losing money every week. When the Kenwright Corporation offered me the chance to get out, leaving us without any liabilities, the board recommended I accept their offer.’

‘But you didn’t even give me the chance to see if I could turn it round. I’m well aware that both papers have been losing circulation for years. That’s why I’ve been working on a plan to do something about it, a plan which Father seemed to be coming round to.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said his mother. ‘Sir Colin Grant, the chairman of the Adelaide Messenger, has just made me an offer of £150,000 for the Gazette, and the board will be considering it at our next meeting.’

‘But why would we want to sell the Gazette?’ said Keith in disbelief.

‘Because we’ve been fighting a losing battle with the Messenger for several years, and their offer appears to be extremely generous in the circumstances.’

‘Mother,’ said Keith, standing up to face her. ‘I didn’t return home to sell the Gazette, in fact exactly the reverse. It’s my long-term aim to take over the Messenger.’

‘Keith, that’s just not realistic in our current financial situation. In any case, the board would never go along with it.’

‘Not at the moment, perhaps, but it will once we’re selling more copies than they are.’

‘You’re so like your father, Keith,’ said his mother, looking up at him.

‘Just give me an opportunity to prove myself,’ said Keith. ‘You’ll find that I’ve learned a great deal during my time in Fleet Street. I’ve come home to put that knowledge to good use.’

Lady Townsend stared into the fire for some time before she replied. ‘Sir Colin has given me ninety days to consider his offer.’ She paused again. ‘I will give you exactly the same time to convince me that I should turn him down.’

When Townsend stepped off the plane at Adelaide the following morning, the first thing he noticed as he entered the arrivals hall was that the Messenger was placed above the Gazette in the newspaper rack. He dropped his bags and switched the papers round, so that the Gazette was on top, then purchased a copy of both.

While he stood in line waiting for a taxi, he noted that of the seventy-three people who walked out of the airport, twelve were carrying the Messenger while only seven had the Gazette. As the taxi drove him into the city, he wrote down these findings on the back of his ticket, with the intention of briefing Frank Bailey, the editor of the Gazette, as soon as he reached the office. He spent the rest of the journey flicking through both papers, and had to admit that the Messenger was a more interesting read. However, he didn’t feel that was an opinion he could express on his first day in town.

Townsend was dropped outside the offices of the Gazette. He left his bags in reception and took the lift to the third floor. No one gave him a second look as he headed through the rows of journalists seated at their desks, tapping away on their typewriters. Without knocking on the editor’s door, he walked straight into the morning conference.

A surprised Frank Bailey rose from behind his desk, held out his hand and said, ‘Keith, it’s great to see you after all this time.’

‘And it’s good to see you,’ said Townsend.

‘We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.’ Bailey turned to face the horseshoe of journalists seated round his desk. ‘This is Sir Graham’s son, Keith, who will be taking over from his father as publisher. Those of you who have been around a few years will remember when he was last here as...’ Frank hesitated.

‘As my father’s son,’ said Townsend.

The comment was greeted with a ripple of laughter.

‘Please carry on as if I weren’t here,’ said Townsend. ‘I don’t intend to be the sort of publisher who interferes with editorial decisions.’ He walked over to the corner of the room, sat on the window ledge and watched as Bailey continued to conduct the morning conference. He hadn’t lost any of his skills, or, it seemed, his desire to use the paper to campaign on behalf of any underdog he felt was getting a rough deal.

‘Right, what’s looking like the lead story tomorrow?’ he asked. Three hands shot up.

‘Dave,’ said the editor, pointing a pencil at the chief crime reporter. ‘Let’s hear your bid.’

‘It looks as if we might get a verdict on the Sammy Taylor trial today. The judge is expected to finish his summing-up later this afternoon.’

‘Well, if the way he’s conducted the trial so far is anything to go by, the poor bastard hasn’t a hope in hell. That man would string Taylor up given the slightest excuse.’

‘I know,’ said Dave.

‘If it’s a guilty verdict, I’ll give the front page over to it and write a leader on the travesty of justice any Aboriginal can expect in our courts. Is the courthouse still being picketed by Abo protesters?’

‘Sure is. It’s become a night-and-day vigil. They’ve taken to sleeping on the pavement since we published those pictures of their leaders being dragged off by the police.’

‘Right, if we get a verdict today, and it’s guilty, you get the front page. Jane,’ he said, turning to the features editor, ‘I’ll need a thousand words on Abos’ rights and how disgracefully this trial has been conducted. Travesty of justice, racial prejudice, you know the sort of thing I want.’

‘What if the jury decides he’s not guilty?’ asked Dave.

‘In that unlikely event, you get the right-hand column on the front page and Jane can give me five hundred words for page seven on the strength of the jury system, Australia at last coming out of the dark ages, etc., etc.’

Bailey turned his attention to the other side of the room, and pointed his pencil at a woman whose hand had remained up. ‘Maureen,’ he said.

‘We may have a mystery illness at the Royal Adelaide Hospital. Three young children have died in the last ten days and the hospital’s chief administrator, Gyles Dunn, is refusing to make a statement of any kind, however hard I push him.’

‘Are all the children local?’

‘Yep,’ replied Maureen. ‘They all come from the Port Adelaide area.’

‘Ages?’ said Frank.

‘Four, three and four. Two girls, one boy.’

‘Right, get hold of their parents, especially the mothers. I want pictures, history of the families, everything you can find out about them. Try and discover if the families have any connection with each other, however remote. Are they related? Do they know each other or work at the same place? Do they have any shared interests, however remote, that could just connect the three cases? And I want some sort of statement out of Gyles Dunn, even if it’s “No comment.”’

Maureen gave Bailey a quick nod before he turned his attention to the picture editor. ‘Get me a picture of Dunn looking harassed that will be good enough to put on the front page. You’ll have the front-page lead, Maureen, if the Taylor verdict is not guilty, otherwise I’ll give you page four with a possible run-on to page five. Try and get pictures of all three children. Family albums is what I’m after — happy, healthy children, preferably on holiday. And I want you to get inside that hospital. If Dunn still refuses to say anything, find someone who will. A doctor, a nurse, even a porter, but make sure the statement is either witnessed or recorded. I don’t want another fiasco like the one we had last month with that Mrs. Kendal and her complaints against the fire brigade. And Dave,’ the editor said, turning his attention back to the chief crime reporter, ‘I’ll need to know as soon as possible if the verdict on Taylor is likely to be held up, so we can get to work on the layout of the front page. Anyone else got anything to offer?’

‘Thomas Playford will be making what’s promised to be an important statement at eleven o’clock this morning,’ said Jim West, a political reporter. Groans went up around the room.

‘I’m not interested,’ said Frank, ‘unless he’s going to announce his resignation. If it’s the usual photo call and public relations exercise, producing more bogus figures about what he’s supposed to have achieved for the local community, relegate it to a single column on page eleven. Sport, Harry?’

A rather overweight man, seated in the corner opposite Townsend, blinked and turned to a young associate who sat behind him. The young man whispered in his ear.

‘Oh, yes,’ the sports editor said. ‘Some time today the selectors will be announcing our team for the first Test against England, starting on Thursday.’

‘Are there likely to be any Adelaide lads in the side?’

Townsend sat through the hour-long conference but didn’t say anything, despite feeling that several questions had been left unanswered. When the conference finally broke up, he waited until all the journalists had left before he handed Frank the notes he had written earlier in the back of the taxi. The editor glanced at the scribbled figures, and promised he would study them more carefully just as soon as he had a minute. Without thinking, he deposited them in his out tray.

‘Do drop in whenever you want to catch up on anything, Keith,’ he said. ‘My door is always open.’ Townsend nodded. As he turned to leave, Frank added, ‘You know, your father and I always had a good working relationship. Until quite recently he used to fly over from Melbourne to see me at least once a month.’

Townsend smiled and closed the editor’s door quietly behind him. He walked back through the tapping typewriters, and took the lift to the top floor.

He felt a shiver as he entered his father’s office, conscious for the first time that he would never have the chance to prove to him that he would be a worthy successor. He glanced around the room, his eyes settling on the picture of his mother on the corner of the desk. He smiled at the thought that she was the one person who need have no fear of being replaced in the near future.

He heard a little cough, and turned round to find Miss Bunting standing by the door. She had served as his father’s secretary for the past thirty-seven years. As a child Townsend had often heard his mother describe Bunty as ‘a wee slip of a girl.’ He doubted if she was five feet tall, even if you measured to the top of her neatly tied bun. He had never seen her hair done in any other way, and Bunty certainly made no concession to fashion. Her straight skirt and sensible cardigan allowed only a glimpse of her ankles and neck, she wore no jewelry, and apparently no one had ever told her about nylons. ‘Welcome home, Mr. Keith,’ she said, her Scottish accent undiminished by nearly forty years of living in Adelaide. ‘I’ve just been getting things in order, so that everything would be ready for your return. I am of course due for retirement soon, but will quite understand if you want to bring in someone new to replace me before then.’

Townsend felt that she must have rehearsed every word of that little speech, and had been determined to deliver it before he had a chance to say anything. He smiled at her. ‘I shall not be looking for anyone to replace you, Miss Bunting.’ He had no idea what her first name was, only that his father called her ‘Bunty.’ ‘The one change I would appreciate is if you went back to calling me Keith.’

She smiled. ‘Where would you like to begin?’

‘I’ll spend the rest of the day going over the files, then I’ll start first thing tomorrow morning.’

Bunty looked as if she wanted to say something, but bit her lip. ‘Will first thing mean the same as it did for your father?’ she asked innocently.

‘I’m afraid it will,’ replied Townsend with a grin.

Townsend was back at the Gazette by seven the following morning. He took the lift to the second floor, and walked around the empty desks of the advertising and small ads department. Even with nobody around, he could sense the floor was inefficiently run. Papers were strewn all over desks, files had been left open, and several lights had obviously been burning all through the night. He began to realize just how long his father must have been away from the office.

The first employee strolled in at ten past nine.

‘Who are you?’ asked Townsend, as she walked across the room.

‘Ruth,’ she said. ‘And who are you?’

‘I’m Keith Townsend.’

‘Oh, yes, Sir Graham’s son,’ she said flatly, and walked over to her desk.

‘Who runs this department?’ asked Townsend.

‘Mr. Harris,’ she replied, sitting down and taking a compact out of her bag.

‘And when can I expect to see him?’

‘Oh, he usually gets in around nine-thirty, ten.’

‘Does he?’ said Townsend. ‘And which is his office?’ The young woman pointed across the floor to the far corner of the room.

Mr. Harris appeared in his office at 9:47, by which time Townsend had been through most of his files. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ were Harris’s first words when he found Townsend sitting behind his desk, studying a sheaf of papers.

‘Waiting for you,’ said Townsend. ‘I don’t expect my advertising manager to be strolling in just before ten o’clock.’

‘Nobody who works for a newspaper starts work much before ten. Even the tea boy knows that,’ said Harris.

‘When I was the tea boy on the Daily Express, Lord Beaverbrook was sitting at his desk by eight o’clock every morning.’

‘But I rarely get away before six in the evening,’ Harris protested.

‘A decent journalist rarely gets home before eight, and the back-bench staff should consider themselves lucky if they’re away much before midnight. Starting tomorrow, you and I will meet in my office every morning at eight-thirty, and the rest of your staff will be at their desks by nine. If anyone can’t manage that, they can start studying the Situations Vacant column on the back page of the paper. Do I make myself clear?’

Harris pursed his lips and nodded.

‘Good. The first thing I want from you is a budget for the next three months, with a clear breakdown of how our line prices compare with the Messenger. I want it on my desk by the time I come in tomorrow.’ He rose from Harris’s chair.

‘It may not be possible to have all those figures ready for you by this time tomorrow,’ protested Harris.

‘In that case, you can start studying the Situations Vacant column as well,’ said Townsend. ‘But not in my time.’

He strode out, leaving Harris shaking, and took the lift up one floor to the circulation department, where he wasn’t surprised to encounter exactly the same laissez-faire attitude. An hour later he left that department with more than one of them shaking, though he had to admit that a young man from Brisbane called Mel Carter, who had recently been appointed as the department’s deputy manager, had impressed him.

Frank Bailey was surprised to see ‘young Keith’ back in the office so soon, and even more surprised when he returned to his place on the window ledge for the morning conference. Bailey was relieved that Townsend didn’t offer any opinions, but couldn’t help noticing that he was continuously taking notes.

By the time Townsend reached his own office, it was eleven o’clock. He immediately set about going through his mail with Miss Bunting. She had laid it all out on his desk in separate files with different-colored markers, the purpose of which, she explained, was to make sure that he dealt with the real priorities when he was running short of time.

Two hours later, Townsend realized why his father had held ‘Bunty’ in such high regard, and was wondering not when he would replace her, but just how long she would be willing to stay on.

‘I’ve left the most important matter until last,’ said Bunty. ‘The latest offer from the Messenger. Sir Colin Grant called earlier this morning to welcome you home and to make sure that you had received his letter.’

‘Did he?’ said Townsend with a smile, as he flicked open the file marked ‘Confidential’ and skimmed through a letter from Jervis, Smith & Thomas, the lawyers who had represented the Messenger for as long as he could remember. He stopped when he came across the figure £150,000, and frowned. He then read the minutes of the previous month’s board meeting, which clearly showed the directors’ complacent attitude to the bid. But that meeting had taken place before his mother had given him a ninety-day stay of execution.

‘Dear Sir,’ dictated Townsend, as Bunty flicked over the next page of her shorthand pad. ‘I have received your letter of the twelfth inst. New paragraph. In order not to waste any more of your time, let me make it clear that the Gazette is not for sale, and never will be. Yours faithfully...’

Townsend leaned back in his chair and recalled the last time he had met the chairman of the Messenger. Like many failed politicians, Sir Colin was pompous and opinionated, particularly with the young. ‘The seen-and-not-heard brigade,’ was how he described children, if Townsend remembered correctly. He wondered how long it would be before he heard or saw him again.

Two days later, Townsend was studying Harris’s advertising report when Bunty popped her head round the door to say that Sir Colin Grant was on the line. Townsend nodded and picked up the phone.

‘Keith, my boy. Welcome home,’ the old man began. ‘I’ve just read your letter, and wondered if you were aware that I had a verbal agreement with your mother concerning the sale of the Gazette?’

‘My mother told you, Sir Colin, that she would be giving your offer her serious consideration. She made no verbal commitment, and anyone who suggests otherwise is...’

‘Now hold on, young fellow,’ interrupted Sir Colin. ‘I’m only acting in good faith. As you well know, your father and I were close friends.’

‘But my father is no longer with us, Sir Colin, so in future you will have to deal with me. And we are not close friends.’

‘Well, if that’s your attitude, there seems no point in mentioning that I was going to increase my offer to £170,000.’

‘No point at all, Sir Colin, because I still wouldn’t consider it.’

‘You will in time,’ barked the older man, ‘because within six months I’ll run you off the streets, and then you’ll be only too happy to take £50,000 for whatever remains of the bits and pieces.’ Sir Colin paused. ‘Feel free to call me when you change your mind.’

Townsend put the phone down and asked Bunty to tell the editor that he wanted to see him immediately.

Miss Bunting hesitated.

‘Is there some problem, Bunty?’

‘Only that your father used to go down and see the editor in his office.’

‘Did he really?’ said Townsend, remaining seated.

‘I’ll ask him to come up straight away.’

Townsend turned to the back page, and studied the Flats for Rent column while he waited. He had already decided that the journey to Melbourne every weekend stole too many precious hours of his time. He wondered how long he’d be able to hold off telling his mother.

Frank Bailey stormed into his office a few minutes later, but Townsend couldn’t see the expression on his face; his head remained down as he pretended to be absorbed in the back page. He circled a box, looked up at the editor and passed him a piece of paper. ‘I want you to print this letter from Jervis, Smith & Thomas on the front page tomorrow, Frank, and I’ll have three hundred words ready for the leader within the hour.’

‘But...’ said Frank.

‘And dig out the worst picture you can find of Sir Colin Grant and put it alongside the letter.’

‘But I’d planned to lead on the Taylor trial tomorrow,’ said the editor. ‘He’s innocent, and we’re known as a campaigning paper.’

‘We’re also known as a paper that’s losing money,’ said Townsend. ‘In any case, the Taylor trial was yesterday’s news. You can devote as much space to him as you like, but tomorrow it won’t be on the front page.’

‘Anything else?’ asked Frank sarcastically.

‘Yes,’ said Townsend calmly. ‘I expect to see the page-one layout on my desk before I leave this evening.’

Frank strode angrily out of the office, without uttering another word.

‘Next I want to see the advertising manager,’ Townsend told Bunty when she reappeared. He opened the file Harris had delivered a day late, and stared down at the carelessly compiled figures. That meeting turned out to be even shorter than Frank’s, and while Harris was clearing his desk, Townsend called for the deputy circulation manager, Mel Carter.

When the young man entered the room, the look on his face indicated that he too was expecting to be told that his desk should be cleared by the end of the morning.

‘Have a seat, Mel,’ said Townsend. He looked down at his file. ‘I see you’ve recently joined us on a three-month trial. Let me make it clear from the outset that I’m only interested in results: you’ve got ninety days, starting today, to prove yourself as advertising manager.’

The young man looked surprised but relieved.

‘So tell me,’ said Townsend, ‘if you could change one thing about the Gazette, what would it be?’

‘The back page,’ said Mel without hesitation. ‘I’d move the small ads to an inside page.’

‘Why?’ asked Townsend. ‘It’s the page which generates our largest income: a little over £3,000 a day, if I remember correctly.’

‘I realize that,’ said Mel. ‘But the Messenger has recently put sport on the back page and taken another 10,000 readers away from us. They’ve worked out that you can put the small ads on any page, because people are far more interested in circulation figures than they are in positioning when they decide where to place an advertisement. I could give you a more detailed breakdown of the figures by six o’clock tonight if that would help convince you.’

‘It certainly would,’ said Townsend. ‘And if you have any other bright ideas, Mel, don’t hesitate to share them with me. You’ll find my door is always open.’

It was a change for Townsend to see someone leaving his office with a smile on their face. He checked his watch as Bunty walked in.

‘Time for you to be leaving for your lunch with the circulation manager of the Messenger.’

‘I wonder if I can afford it,’ said Townsend, checking his watch.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Your father always thought the Caxton Grill very reasonable. It’s Pilligrini’s he considered extravagant, and he only ever took your mother there.’

‘It’s not the price of the meal I’m worried about, Bunty. It’s how much he’ll demand if he agrees to leave the Messenger and join us.’

Townsend waited for a week before he called for Frank Bailey and told him that the small ads would no longer be appearing on the back page.

‘But the small ads have been on the back page for over seventy years,’ was the editor’s first reaction.

‘If that’s true, I can’t think of a better argument for moving them,’ said Townsend.

‘But our readers don’t like change.’

‘And the Messenger’s do?’ said Townsend. ‘That’s one of the many reasons they’re selling far more copies than we are.’

‘Are you willing to sacrifice our long tradition simply to gain a few more readers?’

‘I can see you’ve got the message at last,’ said Townsend, not blinking.

‘But your mother assured me that...’

‘My mother is not in charge of the day-to-day running of this paper. She gave me that responsibility.’ He didn’t add, but only for ninety days.

The editor held his breath for a moment before he said calmly, ‘Are you hoping I’ll resign?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Townsend firmly. ‘But I am hoping you’ll help me run a profitable newspaper.’

He was surprised by the editor’s next question.

‘Can you hold the decision off for another two weeks?’

‘Why?’ asked Townsend.

‘Because my sports editor isn’t expected back from holiday until the end of the month.’

‘A sports editor who takes three weeks off in the middle of the cricket season probably wouldn’t even notice if his desk had been replaced when he came back,’ snapped Townsend.

The sports editor handed in his resignation on the day he returned, which deprived Townsend of the pleasure of sacking him. Within hours he had appointed the twenty-five-year-old cricket correspondent to take his place.

Frank Bailey came charging up to Townsend’s room a few moments after he heard the news. ‘It’s the editor’s job to make appointments,’ he began, even before he had closed the door to Townsend’s office, ‘not...’

‘Not any longer it isn’t,’ said Townsend.

The two men stared at each other for some time before Frank tried again. ‘In any case, he’s far too young to take on such a responsibility.’

‘He’s three years older than I am,’ said Townsend.

Frank bit his lip. ‘May I remind you,’ he said, ‘that when you visited my office for the first time only four weeks ago, you assured me, and I quote, that “I don’t intend to be the sort of publisher who interferes with editorial decisions”?’

Townsend looked up from his desk and reddened slightly.

‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ he said. ‘I lied.’

Long before the ninety days were up, the gap between the circulations of the Messenger and the Gazette had begun to narrow, and Lady Townsend quite forgot she had ever put a time limit on whether they should accept the Messenger’s offer of £150,000.

After looking over several apartments, Townsend eventually found one in an ideal location, and signed the lease within hours. That evening he explained to his mother over the phone that in future, because of the pressure of work, he wouldn’t be able to visit her in Toorak every weekend. She didn’t seem at all surprised.

When Townsend attended his third board meeting, he demanded that the directors make him chief executive, so no one would be left in any doubt that he was not there simply as the son of his father. By a narrow vote they turned him down. When he rang his mother that night and asked why she thought they had done so, she told him that the majority had considered that the title of publisher was quite enough for anyone who had only just celebrated his twenty-third birthday.

The new circulation manager reported — six months after he had left the Messenger to join the Gazette — that the gap between the two papers had closed to 32,000. Townsend was delighted by the news, and at the next board meeting he told the directors that the time had come for them to make a takeover bid for the Messenger. One or two of the older members only just managed to stop themselves laughing, but then Townsend presented them with the figures, produced something he called trend graphs, and was able to show that the bank had agreed to back him.

Once he had persuaded the majority of his colleagues to go along with the bid, Townsend dictated a letter to Sir Colin, making him an offer of £750,000 for the Messenger. Although he received no official acknowledgment of the bid, Townsend’s lawyers informed him that Sir Colin had called an emergency board meeting, which would take place the following afternoon.

The lights on the executive floor of the Messenger burned late into the night. Townsend, who had been refused entry to the building, paced up and down the pavement outside, waiting to learn the board’s decision. After two hours he grabbed a hamburger from a café in the next street, and when he returned to his beat he found the lights on the top floor were still burning. Had a passing policeman spotted him, he might have been arrested for loitering with intent.

The lights on the executive floor were finally switched off just after one, and the directors of the Messenger began to stream out of the building. Townsend looked hopefully at each one of them, but they walked straight past him without giving him so much as a glance.

Townsend hung around until he was certain that there was no one other than the cleaners left in the building. He then walked slowly back to the Gazette and watched the first edition come off the stone. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night, so he joined the early-morning vans and helped to deliver the first editions around the city. It gave him the chance to make sure the Gazette was put above the Messenger in the racks.

Two days later Bunty placed a letter in the priority file:

Townsend smiled and dropped the letter in the wastepaper basket.

Over the next few months Townsend pushed his staff night and day in a relentless drive to overtake his rival. He always made it clear to every one of his team that no one’s job was safe — and that included the editor’s. Resignations from those who were unable to keep up with the pace of the changes at the Gazette were outnumbered by those who left the Messenger to join him once they realized it was going to be ‘a battle to the death’ — a phrase Townsend used whenever he addressed the monthly staff meeting.

A year after Townsend had returned from England, the two papers’ circulations were running neck and neck, and he felt the time had come for him to make another call to the chairman of the Messenger.

When Sir Colin came on the line, Townsend didn’t bother with the normal courtesies. His opening gambit was, ‘If £750,000 isn’t enough, Sir Colin, what do you consider the paper’s actually worth?’

‘Far more than you can afford, young man. In any case,’ he added, ‘as I’ve already explained, the Messenger’s not for sale.’

‘Well, not for another six months,’ said Townsend.

‘Not ever!’ shouted Sir Colin down the line.

‘Then I’ll just have to run you off the streets,’ said Townsend. ‘And then you’ll be only too happy to take £50,000 for whatever remains of the bits and pieces.’ He paused. ‘Feel free to call me when you change your mind.’

It was Sir Colin’s turn to slam the phone down.

On the day the Gazette outsold the Messenger for the first time, Townsend held a celebration party on the fourth floor, and announced the news in a banner headline above a picture of Sir Colin taken the previous year at his wife’s funeral. As each month passed, the gap between the two papers widened, and Townsend never missed an opportunity to inform his readers of the latest circulation figures. He was not surprised when Sir Colin rang and suggested that perhaps the time had come for them to meet.

After weeks of negotiations, it was agreed that the two papers should merge, but not before Townsend had secured the only two concessions he really cared about. The new paper would be printed on his presses, and called the Gazette Messenger.

When the newly-designated board met for the first time, Sir Colin was appointed chairman and Townsend chief executive.

Within six months the word Messenger had disappeared from the masthead, and all major decisions were being taken without any pretense of consulting the board or its chairman. Few were shocked when Sir Colin offered his resignation, and no one was surprised when Townsend accepted it.

When his mother asked what had caused Sir Colin to resign, Townsend replied that it had been by mutual agreement, because he felt the time had come to make way for a younger man. Lady Townsend wasn’t altogether convinced.