Captain Tony Lambert, is my new OC in Celle, which lies somewhere south of Sweden and isn’t famous for anything. I live in Celle for three years without a mention in its history. The SIB occupy a block in the Artillery Barracks and a few months later we move to Trenchard Barracks.
I arrive in January 1960 following three happy years in Salisbury SIB UK. I’ve mentioned Tony Lambert before. He’s the ace fighter pilot who fought dogfights with the Luftwaffe at Dunkirk, so he said. German aviators in their Fokker Dr1s turned
tail when they saw his Sopwith Camel coming. He reads too many Biggles books, I think. A nameplate on his desk is the same as his name. I mean, does he need a memory jogger?
We’re new to each other and he introduces himself as a man who doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He should know. Everyone has to pull his weight. Now, where have I heard that before? Crap. He rambles on and I fall asleep. When he eventually stops for breath I wake up and introduce myself as a skeptic who doesn’t believe a word he says. No I don’t.
It dawns me that I’ve come to the wrong place. Whoever arranges these things mixed up my posting with SIB Paradise where I deserve to be. I’ll inform Captain Lambert that I want go back home but I lose my nerve. Mind you, he may have wished me the same thing.
He’s not finished yet. “Do you like Germany?” A stupid question but my life’s in jeopardy if I say so. I don’t know a bratwurst from the Berlin Autobahn.
My biggest fault is honesty. “How can I know? I only arrived last night.”
I seem to have ruffled his feathers. He asks, “Where have you been?” Meaning he thinks I’m doollaly?
I get his drift and begin a run-down of my legendary travels in SIB World but he fails to be spellbound and stops listening before I stop talking.
His speech finally ends with, “Welcome to 70 Section. I hope we can work together and keep up the standard.” That’s reassuring. I’m carrying a loaded pistol so I take it out and place the barrel against my temple. All right, so I made that up. Well, I think he wanted to have me taken outside and shot.
The meeting defines the battle lines at the start of my German adventures. I have a funny feeling that we aren’t destined to be bosom pals. He always looks acidic. Perhaps he’s been in the Fatherland too long and eats too much sauerkraut.
Anyway, from such small acorns do sworn enemies grow. I switch him off. He spends a lot of time in his office, which he likes. I spend a lot of time avoiding him, which I like. No one dislikes him anymore. Amen. Rating: Minus two.
A Celle Watering Hole
The Section’s manned by a powerful bunch of experienced investigators, most of them well-known characters in the Branch at the time. For instance, Rogers (WOI), Marnoch (WOII), Price (S/Sgt), Hansing, Creasy, Thompson, Thorpe, Wead, Kelly, Cowan, Maloney and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. Some names escape me. My friend Dennis Ridsdale arrives later.
On my arrival they’re mourning the passing of Sgt “Lolly” Spencer in a car smash. He’s called Lolly because he had deep pockets. The top typist is a Dutch lady - Frau Grietja Neumann, who looks as if she’s just stepped from the pages of Vogue. Whew! The rest of the Section tear up their marriage certificates. Except me. Being virtuous, I expunge carnal thoughts from my mind.
But I digress. My posting means pending promotion to replace the extant Staff Sergeant, Taffy Price. You’ve guessed right – a Welshman. My name’s been picked out of the hat at last. The take-over includes jobs cluttering his desk. A minor one involves a serial barrack-room Dick Turpin in an Engineer Squadron in Hildesheim, a city about 50 kilometres away.
The case doesn’t call for a meeting of the Inner Cabinet. It’s meat and veg. Eight thefts on file and Taffy tagged the main suspect, Sapper Clitherow, but hasn’t questioned him because he doesn’t want to be kept back in Germany to give evidence. Pretty poor excuse in my book.
Being a trusting soul I swallow everything he tells me. “It’s all tied up,” he concludes, tongue in cheek I’m sure. A clever devil, sounding like a top-notch investigator. A couple of days later I watch him drive out the gates. My naivety is ill founded. In the words of the song – There may be trouble ahead. I can smell i
Market Place, Hildesheim
Right. Not wanting a knife in my back, I heed leader’s advice and keep my nose to the grindstone, don’t shirk and pull my weight. Groan. I feel like a Boy Scout, so eventually straighten my toggle and get around to the barrack room thefts. I meet Clitherow, introduce my purpose and carefully explain that if he lies or tries to mess me around I’ll break his bloody arm. A little civility helps soothe a suspect at the start of interrogation. Besides, I’m not going to diddle around wasting time and talent on this piddling enquiry. I easily convince him of my sincerity.
He has a small build and a matching brain and he more or less readily puts his hands up without inviting bruising. No need to pull out his fingernails either. He has the IQ of a Morphy Richards hair dryer. By the way, he’s Irish, would you believe? With a name like Clitherow! I’m doing a survey on names. Anyway, I pat his arm in a friendly gesture and record his statement squatting on his bed in the barrack block where he stole comrades’ money. Right on the spot. I also teach him a couple of truisms like Confession is good for the soul. I have virtues.
Right. No big deal. Case closed. Plain sailing. A routine court-martial, a short time behind bars and raise a glass to the next arrest. Except someone forgot the script.
It’s trial day. I drive to Hildesheim in a shabby green army Volkswagen paid for by German reparations because they lost the war. Scalextric must’ve designed the VW. As I’m well over six foot it’s like driving a kiddy car.
The Court-martial is in Tofrek Barracks and while everyone marks time waiting for the board members to finish their morning tea and toast, I marvel at the amazing antics of a Manchester Madame in a dog-eared Tit-Bits mag. The defending officer, Engineer Lieutenant Osborne, just out of short trousers, approaches and sixth sense tells me I’m not going to like what he’s about to say, yet I feel sorry for him. Engineer to ersatz lawyer, a job he has no stomach for and I later thank the Lord he was chosen.
He glances around, making sure he can’t be overheard. “You’re the SIB sergeant,” he deduces. What gave you a clue? Could it be the three stripes on my arm or the Royal Military Police badge in my uniform cap?
I shake my head. “No, Bing Crosby.”
I don’t think he’s heard me. He gets straight to the heart of a problem obviously causing him some anguish. “I’m rather concerned,” he says. “I know Clitherow confessed to the thefts but on the date of one of them he was on leave in the UK. ” He strokes his smooth chin in deep thought. This surprise revelation is a kick in the teeth, liable to make me look silly or worse and I don’t like the sound of the worse. I study his expression. He isn’t making it up so hope he hasn’t been studying law books.
In that heart-stopping moment I recall Taffy Price’s words, “It’s all tied up,” and the idiot hadn’t even bothered to reconcile dates. His experience of criminal investigations is minus zero. I try not to think about my foolish dereliction in the bungle. Hey!
The 14-year-old lieutenant is nervous. A good thing for he has the weapon to chop me into little pieces but reluctant to wield it. We’re on opposite sides, but I like him. I like Mickey Mouse too. He continues, “We were going to plead guilty but I feel we can’t if he didn’t do it.” Logic worthy of Aristotle and he speaks respectfully. I probably remind him of his grandfather.
Fools exist who admit to crimes they didn’t commit. Can Clitherow be placed in that category? If I try that excuse who’ll believe me? I won’t. By now the sun’s high in the sky and I yearn for my first beer of the day, but for some silly reason there is no bar within reach. The only sign is TOILET. Appropriate.
The Court may decide that as Clitherow enjoys a cast iron alibi for one theft he can equally be innocent of the others? My thoughts lean reluctantly in that direction too. I’m on shaky ground. If nitwitted Taffy Price walks in now I‘ll strangle him.
Short Trousers is still talking. “I’m in a bit of a dilemma.” That makes two of us. He continues, “I’m not sure what to do.”
I switch to desperation mode. Displaying an air of complacency I don’t feel I tentatively suggest, “There’s an easy answer.” Like Einstein’s theory. “Just plead guilty to the other seven thefts.”
He lifts his cap and scratches his head. “Mmm! What about the one he didn’t do?” Good question.
I rack my brain, glad I carry aspirin in my briefcase. Something clicks and I say, “Explain that Clitherow doesn’t really remember the odd theft so hesitates to include it in his guilty plea.”
My heart’s thumping, the sword’s dangling and I need that drink more than ever. The boy puffs his cheeks and says. “Thank you, Bing. There’s not much else that’ll help.” Don’t think too much about the alibi. He doesn’t say I’m on thin ice. He doesn’t need to. Rating: Seven.
He thanks me. Incredible. He can have me flung in the Tower. I finger my neck and dread the outcome if a smart lawyer handled Clitherow’s defence. Or even a dumb one. It looks like I’m still on the team bus. What time’s lunch? No lunch but someone with ingenuity conjures up iconic mugs of hot, sweet tea.
The Court-martial
The Court accepts the Sapper’s guilty plea. The President’s a pigmy Artillery Major whose service days are reaching pension time. He needs two cushions on his chair so he’s above the oak refectory table and his gray hair has gray hairs. I know who he is because a wooden block in front of him says: PRESIDENT. He congratulates me on a well-conducted investigation. Rating: Ten. Wow! Where did I go wrong? I reach over and happily tousle his gray head. OK, I made that up. Sorry! I actually slink away, lucky I haven’t wet my pants.
Hapless Clitherow’s dealt 56 days in the Glasshouse and the rest of us scatter, me back to the Madhouse and Lieutenant Daniel Osborne, RE, goes home to mummy. The Hooper luck strikes again. Only Clitherow, the schoolboy officer and I know about the flawless alibi and thank goodness the other two fail to cash in on the escape clause. I hope. Of course, the whole episode shows there’s another, as yet unknown, thief in the Engineer squadron. He’ll probably be caught eventually but self-preservation means I won’t be the catcher. After all, he might confess to eight thefts.
I drive back into Celle when the sun is sinking. I park the Scalextric and enter the SIB office enclave in Trenchard Barracks where I bump into Grietja Neumann on her way home. She wears a smart tailored suit and hides balloons in her silk blouse. She smiles and we embrace and kiss. Dream on, Les.
In the Mess a well-built man wearing blazer and gray flannels looks very much like my old friend Douglas Marnoch. He comes from Aberdeen, which is his bad luck. It’s Doug all right and he inquires, “How did it go?”
I struggle to decipher his Scottish accent and commandeer a barstool. My tongue feels as if it’s been on a trek across the Sahara. “No problem,” I lie and continue, “Paddy Clitherow was sentenced to hang and I’m glad it went smoothly.” Mightily relieved really.
Dour Doug shrugs and says, “Captain Lambert reckons you’ve got an attitude. What d’you want to drink?”
A profound thought enters my mind and I venture, “Captain Lambert needs a proctologist. Carlsberg, please.”
END
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