Foreword
Well, at last something’s caught up with me. That might sound like a guilty
conscience, but I’ll be damned – I will be anyway, if there’s anything to this heaven and
hell lark – if I’m going to let that spoil my last few weeks on earth. It certainly hasn’t
bothered me at any time in the course of the last damn near seventy years if you count my
first sixteen or seventeen as ‘innocent’, that is. If I was going to develop pangs of
remorse about what I’ve done, I’d have noticed the signs long ago. So, you do-gooders and
apologists for every-bloody-thing and excuse-makers and be-damned god-bothering bloody
priests can sod off: I’m one of the nastiest pieces of work that ever walked on two legs
and believe me, I’ve met some real bastards, so I know what I’m talking about. The big
joke is that everyone thinks that the doddering old white-haired man who did something in
World War Two – whatever that was, I’ve heard youngsters say – was a hero because that’s
what the official history tells. Ha! Just shows what a bunch of gullible, well-meaning,
old-school-tie arse-holes run – or ran, anyway and I’ve got no reason to think things have
changed - our country, doesn’t it?
Hero? Me? Fucking idiots! They should have put me up against a wall and shot me
back in 1945 instead of pinning medals on me and calling me a hero. Served my country?
Bullshit. All I did was satisfy my own perverted appetites – which are (still, I might
add) pretty bloody horrible – while bringing pain, misery and humiliation to a lot of good
people – most of them good-looking young women – who were all the things I wasn’t and am
not: brave, loyal, courageous, determined, steadfast, and honourable. And dead, though
that’s coming my way soon enough, thanks to a heart that the quacks say won’t last more
than two months. ‘But you’ve had a damned good innings,’ they tell me, all consideration,
wind and piss, ‘eighty-something’s a damn good age and you have a lot to look back on.’ If
only they knew!
I’ve gathered all my writing of the last few years and I’m going to spend my last
days making sure that everything’s sorted out and ready for publication. Not in this
bloody country, though: I can make all the stipulations I like in my will, but any lawyer
here will take one look at them, throw up his hands in horror and disgust and burn the
lot. Or, if he’s made of sterner stuff and actually sends them to a publisher, some bloody
editor will do exactly the same thing, if for no other reason than that the name of Sir
Harry Champion, DSO (and that’s a joke, believe me!) remains unsullied. So I’m not going
to leave it to chance: I’m sending the whole bundle off to someone in the Middle East who
hates England almost as much as he does America; he’ll get it all published, all right,
with every last word in its proper place. And when he does, I’d just love to see the fat,
smug faces of those Whitehall Warriors trying to swallow their knickers, the useless,
fat-arsed wind-bags.
There will be hell to play, I promise you! Of course, they’ll deny the whole thing
and claim that it’s a forgery intended to blacken the name of Britain and/or one of
Britain’s heroes (recently deceased, God bless him). But some of them will know; they’ll
go back to the old files and take what I’ve written and put it all together again, this
time with the correct interpretation and they’ll see what fools I’ve made of them all for
all those years. And while their faces are going red, I’ll be sitting back with my arse
toasting over a hot fire laughing my head off. So if you ever get to read this – probably
as a dog-eared samizdat-type thing smuggled in because it’ll be on every damned banned
list you can think of – read it and do what you want with it. It might make you sick or it
could just give you some fun. Me? I don’t give a fuck. Never did, come to think of it.
Chapter 1 - 1936: … a watershed
It all began in 1936; I was eighteen. The trip – you can call it the real beginning
of my life, if you like - was a present from an indulgent father, my only parent, my
mother having died giving birth to me. 1936? Prehistoric, I can hear some of you saying.
But let me tell you something about 1936, you complacent bunch: if more than half the
people in England had had their way back then we’d never have declared war on Germany at
all and now we’d all be talking German and giving that Nazi salute and it’s a pity we’re
not because it would have saved me a lot of trouble, one way and another. Mind you, I
might have ended up dead, too, so I suppose it’s all of a piece.
What’s that? Lies, you howl? No, it’s not bloody lies; it’s God’s honest truth and
you can believe that because even if I don’t tell it often, I’m telling it now. Back then
it was all appeasement and let Herr Hitler and fat old Mussolini – who was a bit of a
joke, really - have their way and who the hell cared about those odd, far-away places with
funny names anyway? We don’t want another blood-bath like the War (the first one was The
War back then) and besides, the Germans got a bad deal out of that Armistice. Anyway,
they’ll straighten out all those Slavs and Serbs and Reds and odds and sods and they’ll
make the trains run on time, too. Let them get on with it and keep our lads at home and a
pity there’s not someone like Herr Hitler over here to keep those bloody trade unions in
line. That’s the way people thought back then and that’s why everyone cheered like crazy
when Chamberlain came home waving his piece of paper, the stupid old fart.
You ever heard of a bloke called Oswald Mosley? Well, his real name was Ernald and
he was a baronet. He started the British Union of Fascists back in 1932, before Hitler
came to power in Germany. They paraded round the country in black shirts – which is what
they called themselves - making a lot of noise and acting a bit like thugs, but I’ll tell
you something that not a lot of people outside Whitehall know: there was an awful lot of
very influential support for him, even after Parliament passed the Public Order Act to get
rid of him. I know, because my father was one of them and he was by no means alone among
the aristocracy. And back then a title carried a lot more weight than it does now.
There’s your background, then: I was eighteen and had just left a well-known public
school with a fair education, a passing acquaintance with homosexuality – though since I’d
grown in height and strength and didn’t care for it much I was pretty much left alone – a
developing appetite for beer and motorcycles and a devout and passionate interest in and
complete ignorance of that ever-lasting passion of young men: young women. Yes, I know
that sounds strange to modern ears, but we really were like that in those days; we didn’t
know and no-one was going to tell us ‘until the proper time’ and that was that. Most young
men – except the outstandingly forward, brash or just plain lucky – were virgin until
their wedding day; which, given that the ignorance of sex was undoubtedly mutual, usually
led to complete confusion and inevitable disaster.
So there I was: young, ignorant and with nothing much to do for three months until
I went up to Cambridge for a life of boozy idleness, just enough work to get by with a
third and maybe … just maybe the chance to find out just what girls were all about and
what the differences were. And then my father – bless him – dropped the bombshell. He
called me into his study, where I stood before his desk wondering just what crime I’d
committed and failed to hide from him when he changed my life: he handed me a large
envelope that contained first-class tickets, traveller’s cheques, letters of introduction
and a brand-new passport.
“Coming of age,” he said with a rare smile, “a few years early, but it’ll do you no
harm at all. I’ve laid it on with some friends who are well placed in business and in the
Party and they’ve arranged to have a young chap of your own age and class to show you
around. Get over there, lad; see what Herr Hitler has done and then come back and tell me
I was wrong - if you can!”
That is how I found myself standing on a tree-surrounded plateau in the Harz
Mountains of central Germany engulfed in noise, youth, enthusiasm, colour and an
overwhelming sense of dedication and destiny. I was dazzled, because despite what my
father had said I still had in my mind popular images of Germany (from the newspapers and
newsreels) as a defeated and crushed nation, its citizens grey and colourless, racked with
dreadful inflation, chaos and starvation. What I was seeing was thousands of young people
- girls as well as boys - in uniform with smiling faces and shining eyes proudly carrying
banners and flags decorated with the black swastika, their heads high. I didn’t know that
membership of the Hitler Youth had just been made compulsory and that all other youth
organisations were banned and if I had, I don’t think it would have made the slightest
difference.
“It is quite magnificent!” I cried, turning to my companion, my voice raised over
the thump of martial music, the tramp of feet on turf and the sound of thousands of young
voices singing the ‘Horst Wessel Song’. I can hear it in my head now, nearly seventy years
later; in other nations it would have been considered a sort of half-hearted half-anthem
half jolly-the-mob-along thing: there and then it was nothing less than an affirmation of
national will that seemed to reach inside me, grab, squeeze and twist. Of course I know
now that the words and story behind them are utter rubbish, but then I couldn’t speak
German and that’s what it did to me, that and the spectacle and all that emotion. I was
deeply moved; it was another of those moments that was to shape my opinions and feelings
and hence my life because it gave my conscience – what little I had anyway - something to
hide behind. Perhaps that’s how it worked for a lot of Germans, too.
Rupert’s – his real name was Ruprecht, he told me with that engaging smile of his,
but he’d used ‘Rupert’ ever since reading ‘The Prisoner of Zenda’ – own eyes were shining,
as I’m sure mine were. But then all this was much closer to his heart than it was mine, so
I could only imagine his feelings. He was the companion that my father had promised, a boy
of almost exactly my age – eighteen – and very similar in general build and looks, though
he was taller and slimmer than me, with finer-drawn face and much lighter blonde hair. His
features were more expressive too, particular the eyebrows and mouth, which could act in
concert to show anything from absolute delight to scathing scorn or – as I frequently saw
later – the most chilling mercilessness.
“It is,” he responded, almost shouting, “the re-birth of Germany! We are strong
again! We will destroy all the filthy Jews and Reds!”
I was eighteen, English and, if I say it myself, possessed of a fairly keen
intelligence. But I saw no threat in any of that; on the contrary, I was filled with a
sort of vicarious pride, as if I too was part of this great crusade. Clearly Rupert sensed
something of this, because he grasped my arm and squeezed it, meeting my eyes with
sparkles in his. But let’s get this Jew business in perspective: Jews weren’t all that
popular in Britain at the time; I clearly remember that one of the songs we sang I our
Officer’s Training Corps unit at school had the words: ‘and cock-sucking Jews!’ in it and
it was bellowed out without the slightest complaint from the officers or anyone else who
heard it. I wasn’t anti-Jew, not particularly, I just happened to fit with the feelings of
my time. And if they weren’t there to act as scapegoats and whippings-boys (boys?), then
it would have to have been someone else.
When, several hours later, the parade was over, he led me back to the car and the
waiting chauffeur through the crowds of uniformed children, their ages ranging from ten to
our own. Rupert wore a uniform as well; I envied him the smart brown shirt and cross belts
and most particularly the fascinating dagger that he wore dangling from his belt. He had
been in the Hitler Youth since its inception, he told me proudly. Now he was too old to be
in the ranks, so was the under-leader of his local region’s organisation, a position he
had earned as much through sheer ability and drive than from his guardian’s position as a
high-ranking Party member.
I learned more about him and his family – or lack of it – in a tavern that he took
me to. It was a quiet place, one in which he was clearly well-known, because he was
ushered to a quiet table by the owner himself, accompanied by much bowing and scraping. We
ate wurst washed down with beer while we told each other about ourselves; there hadn’t
really been time before: I’d stepped off the train to be greeted by a very large,
square-headed man with closely-cropped grey hair who introduced himself, with a bow, as
‘Ernst Schnauser, ein vriend of din vater.’ This was rapidly translated by Rupert, who
explained that his guardian – and uncle - spoke very little English, but had come to greet
me because of the high esteem in which my father was held. His guardian regretted that he
had urgent Party business and would I mind if Rupert was to take me directly to the
parade, which would be very exciting?
Which is how I came to find myself up in the hills watching that marvellous scene;
Rupert had been quite right, I had found it exciting – more than exciting: enthralling.
And now we sat at this quiet table exchanging confidences as if we’d known each other all
our lives. He was born in eastern Germany, it seemed, though his parents – from an
aristocratic family – had held estates in Silesia until 1919, when huge chunks of Germany
had been taken over by Poland. The estates were lost along with the family fortunes.
Shortly afterwards his parents had been killed in a riot in Potsdam which Rupert claimed,
his eyes blazing through tears, had been instigated ‘by the filthy, blood-sucking Jews!’ A
shout he accompanied with a clenched fist hammering on to the table, making our steins
jump and the beer slop.
The reaction from other customers was not what I expected; no one looked at us with
disapproval and the proprietor didn’t rush over to remonstrate or ask us to leave. Quite
the contrary: every head that turned our way was smiling and/or nodding approval; one or
two people clapped and one even gave the Nazi salute and the shout: ‘Heil Hitler!’ The
owner did indeed come over after a few minutes, but he didn’t bring a complaint; he was
carrying a bottle of what even I could see was a bottle of very expensive wine. More
bowing and scraping and would we accept this with his compliments and would the young
gentleman be so good as to remember him to his distinguished uncle?
I was no stranger to a bit of mild deference from the couple of servants we had at
home, or from some of my father’s workers and tenants, but this sort of obsequious
grovelling indicated that Rupert’s guardian/uncle must be a very big cheese indeed. I
began looking at my handsome new companion with a good deal more respect and interest. I
have to add that I also paid a great deal of attention to that bottle of wine and the one
that followed…
We weren’t exactly drunk because neither of us was strangers to the odd trip to the
pub, in my case via a well-known route that led up a tree and over the wall surrounding
the school, then to the back parlour of the Hen and Bucket. But as our consumption
increased, so did our conversation loosen, until at last – it didn’t take long – we got on
to the subject that is close to the heart, mind and nether regions of almost every teenage
youth: girls.
“I saw you looking,” Rupert said suddenly, peering at me in that oddly owlish way
that tells of uncertain sobriety.
“Eh?”
A casual wave of the hand, “at the parade,” he explained, “the girls,” he added,
“and their…” he cupped his hands in front of his chest.
I was immediately embarrassed, but his grin reassured me. “Well,” I responded,
stammering slightly, “they were …”
Again the grin. “Yes, they were, weren’t they?” His English really was excellent;
he’d studied it at school, apparently. I had already made up my mind to learn German; I’d
found that languages were my best subject at school, though we’d done only Greek, Latin
and French, all of which seemed a bit weedy to me. German, though, sounded like a real
man’s language, gruff and guttural and eminently suited to shouting and cursing. “But I
was looking at them, too. They were very fine.”
I managed a half smile, wondering – with more than a spark of hope - where this was
going. Now he looked distinctively furtive, his face becoming serious as he leaned forward
over the table, his eyes flickering from side to side. I put my head close to his
conspiratorially.
“Would you like one?” he hissed.
My eyes flew open and I very nearly jumped upright; I gulped, strangling back the
exclamation that sprang to my lips. Did I want one? If he meant what I thought he meant of
course I wanted one! “A g … g …girl?” I managed.
“Of course a girl,” he said. Then he stopped and his eyes examined mine. “Have you
not …?” He saw the truth. “Oh! You haven’t, have you?”
I felt myself reddening again. “Well, I … we don’t … you see, it’s …”
“Ah! I understand! You do not find it so easy in England, I think!” He almost
laughed, but held it back, something for which I was grateful. Then his face became
conspiratorial once more. “Then, my friend, I think I can make a great … what’s the word?
... treat? Yes, treat for you.”
I gulped again, only too glad that I was sitting down because my knees suddenly
felt like water. I was happy too, that the table covered the tent in my trousers,
something I had been entirely unable to control. Still can’t, come to think of it. “You …
you mean you can … you know …?”
His face twisted suddenly and his mouth and eyebrows twisted into an expression of
almost apologetic scorn. His voice dropped even lower. “Only a Jew-bitch, you understand
and we’ll have to hunt her out because they’ve started getting pretty careful. But I’m
sure we can find one for you. You don’t mind one of their sluts, do you?”
I wouldn’t have minded a one-legged Hottentot! I wondered about the odd way he put
things, but it sounded to me that here was the opportunity that I’d been waiting for what
seemed so long! A woman! Once more I swallowed, hard. “No,” I squeaked then swallowed
again, “no, I don’t mind at all,” I answered in an approximation of my normal voice.
He leaned back and clapped me on the arm. “Good! Then we’ll finish this off,” he
indicated the wine, “then go back home and find you something to wear.”
Only then did it occur to me – and then only as a very secondary thought, you
understand – that I had no idea where I was going to be staying; nor, for that matter,
what had happened to my luggage, which I’d last seen on a trolley at the station. But a
girl! A girl, at last!
He had dismissed the chauffeur – another indication of Herr Schnauser’s status that
hadn’t escaped me – so we walked back to his home. That evening stroll helped to sober me
up, but I was still in a fever of excitement, though I tried hard to cover the more
obvious signs. I think he found it rather amusing that I kept asking questions which he
refused, with a gentle smile, to answer, even after we’d reached his road.
It was an imposing place in what seemed to be a well-to-do area, which rather
puzzled me. Hadn’t Rupert said that his parents had lost all their money when they their
land had been confiscated? If that was the case, how could he afford something in an area
so obviously affluent? He answered the question for me, gesturing expansively at the
houses – every one of them displaying the swastika flag in the front garden or window – as
we walked past them.
“See these?” he asked, a curious tone in his voice, as if he was on the point of
spitting, “they were all the homes of filthy Jews until we cleaned them out, the dirty
swine!” He laughed, a hard sound, edged and malicious. “How they squealed and howled!
Tried to tell us that it was against the law! Can you imagine that? Jews claiming the
protection of the law! We threw their dirty arses on the street and told them to … to …”
for the first time he groped for a word and looked at he for help.
Greatly daring, because bad language wasn’t something I used very much, I ventured:
“Fuck off?”
“Yes!” he cried, delighted. “Fuck off! That’s it, fuck off! What a delightful word;
close to ‘fick’ I think and meaning very much the same thing, eh?” He nudged me. “You see,
even our languages are nearly the same!”
I laughed, but inside I was rather more disturbed than I wanted to admit, even to
myself. How could people just be turned out of their homes, even if they were Jews? “What
happened to them?” I asked hesitantly.
He shrugged. “Who cares? They breed like rats, so they probably moved in with more
of their kind. Some may have got out of the country, while others would have been arrested
for vagrancy or criminal acts and ended up in Dachau. Or,” he added mysteriously, “some of
them did.”
“What’s Dachau?”
He gave me a look; a rather closed look; the sort that tells you a lot more than
the words that are to follow. “It’s a sort of correction camp near Munich. They work as
penance for their useless lives. Maybe they convert to a decent religion.”
“Ah. And who lives here now?”
“Good Aryan Germans, of course! Party members, officials who were forced to live in
poor parts of town because the bastard Jews were their landlords. My guardian…” he stopped
and looked at me, “you know he’s my uncle, don’t you?”
“I think it was mentioned, somewhere.”
“Ah, quite so. Well, he is my uncle by marriage because he married my mother’s
sister. But he is not of our class, you understand, although he is important in the Party
and will, I think become a very influential man. I think he is aware of the social …
divide? ... between us and so he arranged that I should have one of these houses. He
thinks it will impress me.”
I was taken aback. “What? You were just given it?”
He shrugged again as he started walking once more. The effects of the beer and wine
were wearing off, I noticed. “Well, it was standing empty so someone had to take it. And
it did impress me, I must say. He may be of peasant stock, but he has much to recommend
him. I admire him a great deal.”
An uncle who gave me a house would impress me too, I thought, peasant or no
peasant. Then something else he’d said struck a chord. “What was that about some of the
others?” I asked.
Again that mysterious smile. “Perhaps I will show you that later if I can get
permission. In the meantime, we have arrived.”
I’d been expecting something small and modest, but this was an entire house, fully
furnished. I stood in the hall, gazing at the opulence with staring eyes.
“I left most of the furniture alone,” he said, “but I naturally got rid of a lot of
their disgusting icons and the bedding, of course. Rather good, isn’t it?”
“It’s bloody marvellous! Do you … do you pay anything for it?”
“Oh, no! There’s some city taxes and things, but my uncle takes care of all that.
There was a mortgage, but that was with a kike banker who’s got other things to think
about now, so it’s all mine. I have papers and everything.”
“Just you?”
“Just me. Yes, it’s big, I know. But,” he smiled confidentially and I thought a
little nervously, “I hope to get some servants. At the moment I have a housekeeper who
comes in to make breakfast and clean, but I want …” a pause, “… some real servants.”
“Servants, too? My word!” Then I noticed that my bags had been stacked at the foot
of the stairs and was distracted from following that line of questioning. Which was a
pity, because it could have brought some interesting answers; not that it mattered,
because those unspoken questions were resolved soon enough anyway.
“Come on, I’ll show you your room and then we can see if my spare uniform will fit
you.”
“Eh? Uniform?” I eyed his, which I’d already admired, all but for the shorts.
He grinned. “It’s all right. I’ve spoken to the district leader and he thinks it’s
a fine idea.” The smile twisted slightly. “I didn’t tell him precisely why I wanted you to
have it, but I don’t suppose he’d have minded too much. The trouble is that he’s an old
gossip and the police chief in this area isn’t,” his lips twisted, “sympathetic to the
Party.” He looked savage and added, in a malicious tone of certainty: “but he’ll soon be
gone.”
I was bewildered, but followed him as he mounted the stairs, each of us with a
suitcase. “But …?”
He led me to a bedroom and threw open the door. It was the size of my father’s room
at home and had a huge double bed with crisp linen and a uniform laid on it, complete with
kepi, swastika armband and, to my delight, a dagger. He turned to me.
“Are you sure you don’t mind a Jew?”
“No, I don’t mind at all,” I replied, wondering what that bit about the police
chief was all about, but that was submerged in the tide of rising lust.
He sat on the bed. “All right, this is what we’ll do …”
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