The Leader And The Damned

Chapter Thirty-Three

They brought Sergeant Len Reader into the Partisan camp after darkness had fallen like a black cloak. It might be more accurate to say Sergeant Reader brought in the three Partisans – led by Milic – who had found him.

Dressed in British Army serge uniform, Reader marched in front of the group as though in charge. Twenty-seven years old, about five feet eight inches tall, he had a beaky nose, alert eyes, was clean-shaven and exuded an air of confidence.

'Who's in charge of this bloody mob?' he enquired. 'You're English..!'

Lindsay stood up, holding the bowl of food he had been consuming with no great enthusiasm, stupefied by the appearance of the new arrival. Reader displayed no such surprise. He addressed his compatriot as though meeting him was the most natural thing in the world.

'London, born and bred. Sergeant Len Reader, Royal Corps of Signals. Plumber by trade – so naturally they say we're going to make a wireless operator of you, Reader. Oh, I'm insubordinate, too.

Would you by any chance be Wing Commander Lindsay?'

'I would.'

'Sir!' Reader threw up the most impressive salute he had encountered. 'Any of these buggers crowding us understand English?'

'Only a blonde girl called Paco – she's elsewhere just now…'

'So I can talk and only you'll get my drift?'

Reader was holding in one hand a sten gun and Lindsay was beginning to understand how he had managed to retain possession of the weapon. From his belt hung ammunition pouches which appeared to be bulging to capacity. A backpack completed his equipment.

'Yes, Sergeant. And this would be a good moment to talk.

'I was supposed to join up with the Brigadier – Fitzroy Maclean, that is – who jumped with his lot from the first aircraft. I was with the team in the second plane. I jumped all right then my bleedin' parachute has to drift away from the rest of 'em. So I find myself all on my own-some. Funny thing, the container with my transmitter lands plonk! Nearly bashed my brains out.'

'This Brigadier Maclean – can you tell me what he's doing in this part of the world?'

'Suppose I can tell you – seeing as part of the job was to airlift you out and fly you back to where we came from…' Reader lowered his voice. 'Tunisia.

Maclean's main job is to contact the Partisan boss over here, better not mention his name, seeing as we're surrounded with all these Peeping Toms. So I find myself wandering round for days dodging Jerries and some of the locals who seem to be hobnobbing with the enemy. A right balls-up, if you ask me…'

Cetniks,' murmured Lindsay, 'the locals collaborating with the wrong people…'

'We was warned about them. Had a lecture – situation appraisal as the toffee-nosed Intelligence lot call it. Slovenes, Croats, Serbs and God knows what they've got over here. A regular goulash of a place this is. This lot who found me didn't get the old transmitter,' Reader added with some relish.

'What happened to it? That could be vital…'

'Buried it, didn't I? Just before they arrived. I could take you to it now, it's not half-a-mile away. Better keep mum about that, hadn't we?'

'Yes, Sergeant, I should keep very mum indeed. I may want you to send a signal back when we can. How did you manage to hang on to that sten gun? I'd have expected Milic to confiscate it on the spot.'

'If that's Fatty you're talking about, he did try it on. I couldn't tell a ruddy word he was blathering but I made sure he understood me.'

'And how did you manage that, Sergeant?'

'Pointed the muzzle at his belly, cocked the gun and told him if he didn't keep his bleedin' hands off it he'd get half a magazine for breakfast.'

'And not understanding one word of English, I imagine Milk got the message?'

'Too right, he did!' Sergeant Reader looked round at the staring faces. 'Scruffy bunch, aren't they? No discipline. I'd get them licked into shape in no time…'

'I expect you would, Sergeant.' Lindsay lowered his voice. 'I want you to remember something in case anything happens to me. In my right-hand jacket pocket there is a small, black, leather-bound notebook I pinched from the Berghof. I've used it as a diary – noted down everything I've observed since I landed in Germany. Including the identity of a man I think is a Soviet spy at Hitler's operational headquarters. That book must reach a Colonel Browne of SIS in Ryder Street, London…'

'Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm around,' Reader said chirpily, 'so hand it to him yourself.'

'But if it does, Lindsay persisted, 'you get my diary and see it reaches London.'

'Wing Commander,' Reader suggested, 'let's you and me stroll off quiet like on our own and have a little chat.'