By Les Hooper
Germany Saturday March 4, 1967.
Sometimes you bring home the bacon and still miss breakfast. There I was, looking forward to a relaxed weekend watching Moechengladbach kick Hanover off the park and risking fresh air by taking the family out for a trip to the countryside on Sunday. My big fault, always the optimist.
I leant back in my chair in my shirtsleeves, hands in pockets, feet propped on my desk, a ciggy stuck to my lip. Like Eliot Ness without the trilby. It might be chilly outside but the sun was making an effort to please. The world was a wonderful place and I had the best job in the British Army. The earthquake was 8.7 on the Richter scale.
It began when the phone shrilled. I snatched up the receiver. “Sewage Removal Unit!”
A hesitant voice said, “Who?”
“Special Investigation Branch. No work considered too small.”
“Oh, I thought you said…..”
I interrupted. “This line gets distorted.”
A shoplifter had been running amok at the Rheindahlen NAAFI Shop. Well, it sounded that way. I grabbed my briefcase and sped dutifully to the scene and ran into a rat’s nest. I must’ve taken a wrong turning some time in the past for I seemed destined to clock the tricky cases. A sign on the manager’s door read “STAFF ONLY” so I entered without knocking. A handsome, well-dressed woman with dangling gold earrings and wet eyes sat chewing her lips. She didn’t look dangerous. I reckon she belonged to the WI and overcooked her prize buns.
A shaky manager with a face like a sunken soufflé explained the lady tried dodging a checkout with items in her own bag she hadn’t paid for. The cause of the manager’s jitters surfaced when the woman sobbed she was the wife of Major K---- and no one could touch her and she had intended to pay for the goods. And so on. No one listened. Her Louis Vuitton handbag was large enough to hold a dishwasher.
The door crashed open and we all hit the ceiling. A Royal Artillery major built like a howitzer barged in and bawled, “What the hell’s going on? Why is my wife here? She hasn’t done anything wrong.” Before the army he was probably a bulldozer driver.
I explained the circumstances, which was a waste of breath. A small vein on his forehead throbbed. I tried to recall how to thump a patient suffering a heart attack. Would it work on majors?
“Right then,” he cried, “I’ll sort this out. Where’s the girl who’s accusing my wife? I’ll put her straight.” He scowled at the manager and crossed to the door, indicating that the callow fellow should accompany him. The room turned into an oven. I needed a sweat scarf. The major would bully the checkout girl and I couldn’t allow that.
Risking a hamstring injury, I leapt in front of the door like Lynn Davies. “You can’t do that, sir,” I said in an exceptionally polite manner, although I wanted to kick him. I forced a twisted smile and continued, “Remember, a complaint has been made that your wife attempted to leave this shop with groceries without paying for them.”
The major’s face became tighter as he confronted me. “Stand aside. I’ll get to the bottom of it.” In my book he would only reach the bottom of a cesspit.
I didn’t move despite no muscle twitches. I sneered, “You pompous ass. You think cos you’re a major you can ride roughshod over others and do what you like. But you’ve dropped a clanger. Your threats won’t work on me, so park your fat backside and shut up.”
No, I didn’t say that. I’m not suicidal. Majors belong to a powerful clique. Being haughty wasn’t too risky. I said, “I’m investigating and I request you not to interfere. At the moment all you’re doing is delaying my efforts to get at the truth.”
“I’m not interested in whatever you might be doing. No one’s going to upset my wife.”
He was dumb as well as belligerent. The tears in her eyes showed she was already upset. She wavered, “Don’t be awkward, John. I couldn’t help it.” What couldn’t she help? Burning her buns?
The plea fell on deaf ears. John grasped my arm, his expression colder than a penguin’s foot despite the hot air being expended. “You can’t stop me.”
What happened next was anyone’s guess. I hoped my guess was wrong. If he added more fat to the fire someone would end up burnt and I have sensitive skin. He had to be blocked. The frightening thought crossed my mind that if the situation reached a stand-off history would be made. My future flashed before my eyes and it wasn’t a pretty picture. The poor, helpless manager looked about to faint.
I jerked the major’s hand off my arm. A bead of sweat cooled on my temple. I didn’t like being pushed around. Could he see my fangs? I said, “You persist in following your present path (I liked saying this) and I’ll have no option other than to arrest you for obstructing me in the course of my duty.”
He snorted, “Huh! You can’t arrest me.”
My glare would shrivel the Incredible Hulk. “Oh, yes I can. Not only for obstructing me. Also for planning to influence a witness, for attempting to pervert the course of justice, not forgetting assaulting me.”
How’s that for a neat cluster of offences? Enough to hang him. I’ll be called to the bar next. But my words reined in the galloping major. He trembled as if he’d stuck a finger in a light socket. “I don’t like it,” he murmured.
He meant me. His hate list increased by one. And I loved him like diarrhea.
The dust settled. I breathed a deep sigh of relief. If the stroppy major tried scaring the checkout girl I would stop him, even it meant breaking his arm. Not a clever career move. I contacted the office and was told to tidy things up and a decision would be made later. They would test the water before jumping in. The tidying included not charming a confession out of Mrs. Jane K----. A special skill of mine.
By the time everything was sorted and I wrote an interim report I’d missed the footy kick-off. Being a peaceful cove, I dropped a plan to start a vendetta against artillery majors.
My day wasn’t over. I was still trapped in the office when the NAAFI investigator, Ken Billings, arrived. Nice enough fellow but never knew whether he liked his eggs boiled or poached. I recall a couple of occasions when he was in grave danger of making a decision. I ducked under my desk but he saw me. The assistant manager of the Rheindahlen NAAFI Club told him that the manager, Simon Jones, intended to flog duty free spirits to local bars in nearby Viersen that evening. He tried to enroll the assistant in his scheme but the man didn’t relish a criminal record and grassed.
It’s not easy being clever but I didn’t need a committee meeting to plan to wait near the NAAFI Club and follow the manager when he set out on his nefarious trip. As German boozers would be involved, I contacted the local law and was offered an unmarked car and two officers.
Just after nine o’clock that night a bored group of ditherer Ken, the German cops and me gathered outside the NAAFI Club. We tried hard to pretend we weren’t policemen. I recommended not holding up a card saying, “We’re behind you!” You have to make the effort. Ken chuckled. The Germans were puzzled. Jones blissfully stuck his head in the noose. Before I nodded off we watched him lug cases of liquor out the rear door and load them into his Mercedes car.
He drove alone to Viersen where along main street, Freiheitstrasse, every other building seemed to be a hotel, restaurant or bar. I suggested we drive in reverse behind so he wouldn’t know he was being followed. Nobody laughed or thought it was necessary. A German policeman tapped a finger on his head.
Edgy Ken disclosed, “Won’t take long to get to Venison.”
“Viersen.”
“Of course.”
Wilhelm, the driver, spoke over his shoulder and asked who, exactly, we were following. He must’ve been asleep for the past hour.
“Al Capone.”
Willy choked and swerved, and the mission nearly ended right there.
Jones had no pre-arrangements for selling the booze. At each stop he got out of his car, entered the premises, returned to his car about fifteen minutes later, lifted a box from the boot and went back inside to emerge once again ten or so minutes later with empty hands and added wealth. He must’ve been an expert haggler or a cheap dealer. No evidence existed he was born with any intelligence. He probably had the IQ of a Mongolian ox.
I watched him do this four times in an hour and a half or so. By then I was sick of it so when he next carted a box into a Bierkeller, I trailed behind him with my companions. A few customers at small tables in the bar area looked on in curiosity as we sailed through.
Jones was in a back room by a table on which stood three bottles of whisky, two of brandy, one of gin and the box. The bar owner was rooted in suspended surprise, holding a bundle of marks. It didn’t look enough to settle the National Debt. A dumpy little woman with her hair in a tight bun gave me a wary smile. When police enter buildings everyone seems to freeze and wait for something to happen. Time stands still. The room was lit by one naked bulb and the clinging odour of cigarette smoke hung in the air, mingling with the smell of stale beer.
Jones looked like Norman Wisdom, bewildered. He wore a Rolex Oyster wristwatch. I got the ball rolling. “Hello, Mr. Jones. I’m from the Special Investigation Branch and I’m arresting you for illegally selling duty free spirits.” I nodded towards the table. “I’ve been on your tail and know exactly what you’re up to.” Why beat about the bush? Mr. Jones was plucked and trussed.
Like a miracle Ken’s brain burst into life. He pulled me aside and hissed, “The NAAFI people aren’t going to like a manager being arrested.” Now he was in the kitchen he couldn’t stand the heat.
I said, “Hard cheese! If the NAAFI employ idiots they have to live with it.” Ken’s brain faded as quickly as it had flared up.
The manager had to open his foolish mouth. If I had any compassion towards him it quickly evaporated when he whined, “I know who ratted on me. It’s not serious. Can’t you forget it? I’ll make it worth your while.”
Perhaps he would double my NAAFI fag ration for a week. He was lucky I didn’t throttle him. I answered, “You’re still under arrest. Let’s go.” I kicked myself for not bringing handcuffs. I whisked him back to Rheindahlen Provost Company in the police car and arranged a patrol to escort him to the garrison guardroom where he enjoyed the comfort of a cell. He’d shot himself in the foot trying bribery. Ken drove the Mercedes back. I slept in Sunday morning so the country trip went up in smoke. But my trials weren’t yet over. About 10.30 that night I was dragged out by a message that a WRAC girl had been raped.
She waited nervously at Provost HQ, a pretty 19-year-old blonde who earned her corn in a typing pool. She spent the evening with friends in the NAAFI Club. Yes, NAAFI again. That organization was the hub of crime that weekend. They had drinks with a couple of soldiers who said they belonged to the Royal Signals in Krefeld. One offered to take her home in his car. After a short journey he stopped, dragged her out and raped her in some bushes. Afterwards he dumped her at the roadside. Her underwear was missing.
I drove her to the medical centre and asked for a doctor. Doctors are those people in white coats who run a cold stethoscope over your warm chest while listening with a transistor ear-piece then search for something nasty in an encyclopedia to match your symptoms. A young captain in the Medical Corps sauntered in, not a happy bunny. “What am I supposed to do?’ he demanded. My medical knowledge was limited to applying a sticking plaster but I told him anyway. He saw no need for a physical or why he should take swabs. But he did when I gave him a gypsy’s warning. Didn’t help. The girl bore no marks or bruises to back up her story and the mournful Doc thought there was something fishy. I know because he said, “There’s something fishy.”
I said, “She’s actually a secret Russian agent running a KGB honey trap.”
He stared as if I’d lost my marbles. “What did you say?”
As he reached for a hypodermic I quickly said, “Nothing important,” and bolted before he downgraded my medical status.
Redcaps took her back to her billet and I drove to the Royal Signals HQ in Krefeld. I expected a crestfallen squaddie dying to cough waiting at the main gate. Surprise, surprise, there wasn’t! It would take all night to weed out the rapist from 458 suspects. The Hooper luck came to the rescue. I parked my car and walked towards the Duty Room. Something caught my eye on the back shelf of a Ford Taunus. I took a closer look. A pair of white panties stared back at me. Spooky! I soon traced the owner of the car and dragged him out of bed. He didn’t fall to his knees and beg forgiveness but knew on which side his bread was buttered, didn’t beat about the bush but said everything was with her consent. I took that with a pinch of salt.
I asked him, “Are you employed on any top secret communication projects?”
Why does everyone look at me as if I’m nuts?
I left him unbruised and told him not to leave the country and went home, flashed my ID at my wife to prove it was me and crawled into a warm bed. Monday dawned. A busy day of reckoning. Loose ends to sort out. Statements to take. Interviews to conduct. Reports to write. Enough scribbling ahead to make Shakespeare trivial. And bird droppings splattered my car bonnet. An omen?
Halfway through the morning Captain Ding-dong blocked the door and curled a finger. He possessed an extremely high energy level because he never used any. The celestial master, Colonel Bill Burcher, wanted to see me. Strange, because he knew what I looked like. A call from the SIB BAOR powerhouse usually meant praise or a whipping. I wanted to tell him I was on a coffee break but we didn’t have such luxuries. I obeyed the summons anyway.
I liked Colonel Bill. He nailed the fractious and rewarded the alacritous. Never wielded the big stick and usually took me along to hold his hand when working on a case. He welcomed my immense brainpower. Investigators over-stepping the line haunted his sleep every night. On this occasion he perhaps suffered Monday morning blues and wanted me to cheer him up. I could see a medal twinkling on my chest. I told you I was an optimist. His shadow, Captain Bob Ding, stood alongside him holding a clipboard and pencil. I was wrong when I thought he was going to take tea and scones orders.
The colonel invited me to sit down. I knew then I was on the carpet. I glanced upwards and saw a ton of bricks falling towards my head. I sat and fastened my seat belt. The colonel wasn’t sporting a Mickey Mouse watch so it was no joke. I was happy to notice that he wasn’t wearing a black cap either. I kept my brain on red alert for banana skins. Maybe his ulcer was niggling. He was a big man behind a big desk. He said, “Relax, make yourself comfortable, Les. Loosen your tie and put your feet up. Tea or coffee?” Actually, he didn’t say anything of the sort.
He flipped through some notes, wagged a finger, ordered, “No wisecracks,” and fired the first shot. “You’re a senior warrant officer.” I couldn’t dispute that. “I can’t understand you.” Self-preservation warned me not to remind him that I spoke reasonable English. Captain Ding nodded.
The colonel more or less said, “You can’t threaten to arrest majors. You can’t throw that NAAFI chap in gaol. God, he’s a civilian! (Did the Deity wear a Burton suit?) You can’t act as an agent provocateur.” He paused for breath. Captain Ding nodded.
Thank you, Bill, glad you’ve got faith in me. I bit my tongue and tuned back in to the colonel, who was saying, “You can’t be rude to a MO and you can’t tell him how to do his job. I want a report straight away on the NAAFI manager. The rape can wait.” He ended with, “I understand you don’t swallow the girl’s story.” When not sure of your ground, always begin with ‘I understand.’ Captain Ding nodded.
“It smells.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I’m married.”
My mind was drifting but I really tried to remember everything the colonel said in case he asked questions later. For now he gave me a long look and slowly shook his graying head. He was forced to accept me as a brilliant detective and razor-sharp wit. Sanguine Bob nodded and said nothing. Knowing when to keep your mouth shut is a sure-fire path to promotion. If I had a Browning in my belt I could cure his loose neck for good. We’d reached the buffers. I was put in my place and Colonel Bill went back to heaven.
Wow! The welfare of a petty rogue took precedence over a posh lady shoplifter and a rape victim. The colonel must’ve heard more bells than Marylebone Telephone Exchange that morning. Even worse, my knighthood had just flown out of the window. A snotty staff jockey higher up the pecking order thought Les Hooper was too big for his boots and Colonel Bill decided to chop me down to size. No one asked for my story. I was buried up to my neck without appeal. Mute Captain Ding wore a mask of disbelief. I said, “Hard luck, Bob. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” No, I didn’t.
Well, well! I nearly started World War III. And there’s me, nose to the grindstone and all that rubbish. I played dumb. If you stir a muddy pond something unpleasant might surface. Thank goodness my Confidential Report wasn’t due. One or two unwelcome thoughts nagged at me. Was I a little over the top with the brash major? Did I really need to stick the NAAFI twit behind bars? Why did I lose my rag with the young MO? Steady on Les or you’ll discover a conscience next. Scary.
I eventually escaped. To my surprise the office was still there. Nothing had changed despite the almighty roasting I’d just survived. Clive Wainwright was still trying to batter an Imperial to death with two fingers. He was a Liverpudlian, which wasn’t his fault. I checked my desk for booby traps planted by Bob Ding. It was clean so I stepped across to Clive and poked a finger in the back of his ginger mop. “Bang! You’re dead!”
He looked up, green eyes dancing with humour. “You’re not flavour of the month then.” I’m glad he thought it amusing.
How did he know? I scoffed. “Clive, my boy, you shouldn’t listen to ugly rumours. If that’s so, why has the colonel invited me to dinner tonight?’
That shut him up. Telling a fib now and then helps keep the underdogs in line.
Any good news? Moechengladbach whacked Hanover 2–0.
I stood at the window and gazed thoughtfully out across the car park. Bird crap on my motor was the reward for a weekend’s hard graft. Everything was normal. The sun journeyed steadily across a blue ceiling. Earth was still spinning.
What happened to the leading characters? The NAAFI manager was shifted back to the UK and not beheaded. The posh shoplifter stuck to crying over burnt cakes. The pretty KGB agent finally admitted she consented. I hoped I never faced the disgruntled doctor’s stethoscope.
You can’t win ‘em all!
But I couldn’t resist a smirk. I still kept the best job in the world but what a weekend.
END
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