Date: Thu, 17 Mar 2011 19:53:05 +0000
From: Michael Gouda <michael@tanyardbank.plus.com>
Subject: Snapshots of War (Part 7)

Snapshots of War
Michael Gouda
Part 7
Saturday May 24th 1941 (late night)
Foreplay
It was still just only after seven o'clock when Adele arrived at the
Arsenal. As Mum had said, she was early indeed and the day shift was
still at work and would be for another hour. But she had felt a need,
at the tea party, to be by herself. While Peter Kees was a pleasant
enough young man, she hadn't felt any of the sexual resonances that
usually accompanied a meeting with a congenial male. In fact she had
felt for one moment that there was some sort of affinity, almost a
sexual attachment, between Peter and her brother - but that of course
was impossible.
She had come to work and now, now she wanted some company.
She would go to the canteen and have a cup of tea. see who was there.
The long, low-ceilinged, green-painted room, though, was almost empty
and there was no one she knew there. It wasn't time for an official
break and the woman behind the counter only grudgingly offered her
some stewed and scarcely warm liquid which had obviously been brewed
some time before. She sipped the bitter mixture and thought sadly of
Chalky, of that one time, and now, that there would never be another.
She did not hear his approach, lost as she was in a sort of
bittersweet recollection. The first she heard was a quiet whisper from
behind her. "Adele."
It was Charlie, smiling, his strange, yellow-gold eyes looking into
hers so that she felt a tremor of - what, she was not sure.
"Mr Leverton," she said confused. "I didn't think you worked the night
shift."
"It's still the day," he reminded her. He looked round but there was
no one within earshot. "Please call me Charlie."
She did not know what to say.
"I'm glad I found you here," he said. "It is almost impossible to find
anywhere to talk. I would like - " He broke off as a sudden bout of
noisy laughter came from the entrance door. "Damn!" He paused then
said in a hurried whisper. "You know my office. Upstairs, third door
on the left. Go first, and I'll follow in a few minutes."
He walked away.
Almost without thinking of the consequences, she climbed the stairs,
three flights and then turned along the corridor which was above the
factory floor below. She could feel the reverberation of the machines
and the rumble of the conveyor belts through her feet. The door had
his name on a wooden plaque, white letters painted on a black
background. She turned the handle and walked in.
She shivered and was not sure whether it was cold or anticipation. It
was certainly chilly in the under-manager's office. Outside it was
still light and she could see through the first floor window the
pallid ghost of a hunter's moon in the eastern sky. A bomber's night.
Though the sustained ferocity of the blitz appeared to be over, there
was still the occasional raid. She wondered if there would be one
tonight.
As she waited there, her hands clasped nervously together, Mr Leverton
came in, turned and locked the door behind him.

* * * * * *
Intercourse
"You are so slim, so lovely, Theresa," gasped Mr Dent in the extreme
throes of coital pleasure.
Lying on her back on a pile of cushions  with the moonlight from
outside the only illumination, Theresa pondered on the wages of sin -
or at least the cost of half a pound of ham and four 15 oz cans of
fruit salad. The back room of the grocery store seemed to be a black
marketeer's paradise. All around her were shelves laden with tins,
packets of tea, real coffee beans. A leg of ham, she could see out of
the corner of her eye, and a large uncut cheese, the very thought of
it making her mouth water. Some of that was what she would ask for next.
Mr Dent's head, bobbing in and out of her vision was merely a
temporary distraction and she scarcely felt any of his other parts
which were taking advantage of her passive compliance.
"I love you, dear Theresa," lied Mr Dent, his hands massaging her
breasts and his penis energetically thrusting into her. "Your body is
like a willow wand." Idly Theresa wondered what on earth that could
be. She had never thought too much about her body after the children
had been born. She had of course, noticed certain droppings and
stretchings but if Bert hadn't complained, then it hadn't bothered her
too much. Slim, was she? She had actually thought she had put on some
weight recently. But compared to the robust Mrs Dent, she supposed,
she must be.
"Oh Theresa," panted Mr Dent, pumping away with so much intensity that
the shelves wobbled and for a moment Theresa wondered if they would
both be killed if that huge cheese fell on them. And how would Mrs
Dent feel then, when she found them in the morning, locked together so
intimately amidst the debris of a mature Cheddar. The little man had
staying power, she thought and what he lacked in subtlety, he
certainly made up for in enthusiasm.
'Oh Bert, Bert,' she cried in silent self-reproach, knowing full well
that she would do it again if - no when - she had another chance. This
physical process had nothing to do with the love she felt for her
husband.
She was brought back to reality by an approaching climax. Despite
herself she felt the beginnings of pleasure. It had been a long time.

* * * * * *
Post Coitum
Exhausted and finally satisfied, William and Peter lay snuggled up
together in the big double bed. Their talk was spasmodic and
punctuated by intimate caresses. Peter lay on his back, his arm around
William who was curled so that his head rested just under Peter's
chin, his left arm across Peter's chest.
"Peter, will you tell me something?" Now was the time. He forced
himself to ask the big question.
"Anything, Wim. You only have to ask."
"The last time I was here, Charlie had that message to send. The one
about the mines in the North Atlantic. I can't understand why Dutch
resistance fighters would need to know that sort of information." He
felt Peter tense slightly beside him but there was no reply. Now he
had started, he had to go on, probing. "But the Germans would want to
know something like that . . . "
For a moment Peter's body stayed taut and then he sighed. "It is time
perhaps for the bedtime story I promised so long ago, you remember? In
the Fitzroy," he said. "But I am placing all my trust in you, Wim. If
you ever tell anyone else, it could be dangerous for me - and even for
you. Life and death dangerous. You understand?"
William twisted so that he could look up at Peter's face, visible only
in the moonlight from outside. His look was stern and strained,
entirely unlike his usual lively and warm expression.
Peter spoke again. "First you must realise that I am in a very
perilous situation. My family - well my mother is in the hands of the
Germans."
William gasped. He tried to think what it would be like if his own
mother was captured by the Nazis. "In prison?"
"Not exactly. She is still in Amsterdam, I think, but under close
supervision by the authorities there. I do not think they have hurt
her, but they used the threat to make me promise I would spy for them
over here."
"So you are a spy!" Shocked and almost a little scared, William drew
away from the naked body next to him and felt coldness between them.
Peter pulled him back into an embrace. "Wait a minute. You must hear
the rest," he said. "When I got to England last year I was
interrogated by MI5 and it did not take them long for them to discover
the truth. They offered me the choice of working with them or being
executed. They promised they would do all they could to rescue my
mother."
"So you are a British agent." It was a bit confusing.
"A double agent. The Germans think I am working for them. The British
give me false information like the position of the mines to pass on to
them via Charlie. The Germans U-boats will keep out of the area and it
will therefore be safe for allied convoys."
"Charlie?" It got even more confusing.
"Charlie is a real German agent."
"I never liked him," said William with vehemence.
Peter smiled. "I was instructed by the German Abwehr to get in touch
with him, work with him. My controller at British Intelligence decided
it would be a good plan not to arrest him, to carry on as if I had not
been turned. It would be more believable to the Nazis. But Charlie is
a dangerous man if he sees others as a threat. It would not be good
for you to get close to him."
William gave a weak smile. "There's no need to worry about that," he
said. "He doesn't like me - and I don't like him."
"He just doesn't trust you. He doesn't like the idea of my getting so
involved with you. I pity the person who does get intimate with him
though. Whoever it is could be in great danger."
William snuggled up against Peter's body. I'm really part of the war
now, he thought. I know the secrets.

Friday 30th May 1941
On the 30th May, a top secret meeting of Section Twenty took place in
a small room in Wormwood Scrubs, for the moment - though it was in the
process of moving into Oxfordshire - Headquarters of MI5. The room was
on the first floor and had two windows which overlooked a central
courtyard. There were very few material comforts, a central table on a
rather worn carpet and several upright chairs. To an outsider it might
have looked fairly routine, five army officers and one civilian.
Section Twenty though was special. Named after the Roman numeral
formed by two Xs they actually stood for 'Double Cross'. It was that
part of MI5 which dealt with turning foreign spies to work for the
Allies, double agents in fact.
The section had a General as titular head, a Lieutenant-Colonel, two
Majors, a Captain, and a Civil Servant who was a Government appointee
and who reported back to the British Government War Cabinet on a
regular basis. Though there was an obvious hierarchy of rank, in fact
most of the decisions were taken democratically, each member having
one vote. Actually the brains of the outfit (or as some might think,
the 'cunning') lay in the heads of the middle order officers. The
General and Colonel were there mainly to provide clout for the unit.
Major George Carlisle was considered one of the best minds in the
section. It was he who had convened the meeting.
"A message from the German High Command to General Rommel has been
intercepted," he said. "It used Enigma of course, but the boffins at
Bletchley Park decoded it."
The General looked confused. The Colonel leant across to him and
explained, "Enigma, sir. The German code machine. They think it's
unbreakable."
"Damned good show," said the General. "Er, Captain, is there any tea?"
The Captain bustled about with a kettle and teapot. Carlisle smiled.
The Captain might be the junior officer here, might pretend to be the
office boy at these meetings but much of the invaluable background
work was done by him.
"So what did this message say?"
"That the German and Italian forces in North Africa are below
strength, sir, that Rommel shouldn't attempt anything that is at all
uncertain of success," said Carlisle.
"And - " the General always wanted it spelled out for him.
"The Prime Minister thinks it an ideal opportunity to try to relieve
Tobruk. The British Troops have been holed up there for months now.
It's time we had a success on that front."
The Captain passed around cups of tea.
The General nodded and stirred his tea thoughtfully.
"Operation Battleaxe," said the Major suddenly. "A concerted two-
pronged attack on the besieging enemy forces. It's Mr Churchill's own
idea."
"Damn good show," said the General.
"But the Generals don't like it, especially Wavell," said the Major.
"They think Rommel's still too strong, especially his complement of
Panzer tanks. The P.M. though insists. It will be a dangerous and
delicate undertaking."
The General looked bewildered. Obviously the decision as to whether to
support his own Army colleagues or his Prime Minister had started a
major mental conflict. "So what are we expected to do?" he asked
brusquely.
"If we can get some false information across to Rommel, say for
instance that we plan an attack further east, then he would send some
of his tank divisions away from Tobruk," said Carlisle.
"Good idea," said the General, brightening up. "Do we know someone who
could pass on this intelligence?"
"There's a man who works for the Spanish Embassy in London," said
Carlisle. "In fact he is a German agent, Juan Luis Perez, who uses the
code name, Pedro. He specialises in finding out and passing on
information about the North Africa campaign."
"The Germans rely on him?" asked the General.
"Oh yes, sir," said Carlisle. "Implicitly."
"If we could get false information to him," suggested the Colonel.
"Tobruk  has to be relieved. We need a success on that front. There
hasn't been much anywhere else."
"It would have to be from someone Pedro trusts - or will trust," said
the General, lighting his pipe and blowing out a cloud of fragrant,
though smothering smoke.
Carlisle waved his hand to disperse the cloud which was floating in
his direction.
"Do we have anyone - an agent - who can gain access?" asked the Colonel.
"No, sir. He is very wary - except in one area. He is fairly
promiscuous - sexually."
"We have women, don't we?" said the General. "What is his taste, his
preference? Tall, short, blonde, brunette."
"I'm afraid, sir," said Carlisle, his tone low - almost apologetic,
"that his tastes do not lie in that direction at all. To put it
specifically, he prefers other men."
The General almost choked. "A shirt lifter," he said. "God dammit. A
damned shit stabber. Well your woman idea's out then. We must think of
another plan."
"Why, sir?" asked the other Major, who hadn't spoken up to that point.
"We have agents who are also of that persuasion." His eyes met
Carlisle's though without a flicker of expression.
The General turned on him a stare blank with incomprehension. Then. as
the meaning sank in, he seemed to be almost speechless with shock. His
face flushed red and his mouth opened into a soundless gape. It was so
much a travesty of 'Blimpism' that Major Carlisle had to suppress a
smile.
"We must face it, sir," said Carlisle. "These are desperate times. We
cannot be too nice in our sensibilities. Perhaps pragmatism is more
sensible than over-fastidious scrupulousness in time of war."
The General stopped looking but remained confused. "Are you
saying... ?" He let the question die.
"Means justify the ends," said the Colonel tritely, if a little
ambiguously.
The General wrung his hands almost as if he was washing them. Carlisle
was reminded of Pontius Pilate.
"The relief of Tobruk is seen as essential by the Prime Minister,"
said the Civil Servant quietly. It was the first time he had spoken
but his words carried weight.
The General nodded.
"Shall we proceed with the plan as outlined?" asked Carlisle. "I will
of course work out the details."
Everyone around the table raised his hand.
"Is there any more tea in the pot?" asked the General.


Saturday 31st May 1941
Smoke hanging around the nicotine-stained ceiling rafters. The sour
smell of spilled beer on the concrete floor. A babble of conversation
punctuated with the occasional exclamation-shout of anger. Here there
was none of the pretentious chi-chi of the Fitzroy; this was the
Mother Black Cap, Camden Town, a pub much more redolent of earthy
reality in an area prone - in peace time at least - to ambushes and
robberies after dark, to underworld activities, to nefarious alliances
and even more violent break-ups between North London crime barons.
The question seemed to be why anyone should want to meet up in the
Mother Black Cap unless he wanted to avoid the eyes of law officers -
who anyway, either kept clear of the area or passed through it,
uneasily, in pairs? The answer of course was the strange minority of a
minority who experienced a frisson of sexual excitement in danger,
who, not to put too fine a point on it, fancied a bit of rough trade
and were prepared to put up with, or possibly enjoyed, the occasional
beating up in the pursuit of it.
And Juan Luis Perez was one of these.
MI5's file on him catalogued his comings and goings as a matter of
course. He had been observed buying drinks for working class lads or
indeed seamen who had strayed from their usual haunt of the Golden
Lion, Shaftsbury Avenue, and charitably taking those amenable or too
drunk to care back to his bed-sitting room in neighbouring, if
slightly better class, Gospel Oak.
What happened to them there had not obviously been monitored though
much could be inferred from the fact that, on one occasion, a still-
weaving matelot had emerged soon after arrival shaking his head and
holding a raw-looking knuckle, while Perez himself had gone off to
work the following morning with a decidedly bruised face and black
eye. Nonetheless it was assumed that most of the pickups were
compliant to some extent and this supposition had been stored up for
future use.
This was the reason why Peter Kees found himself in this hardly
congenial public house with instructions to make himself available to
Perez, a photograph of whom he had memorised - though not consumed -
that day. In fact it had been a rush job, his Controller having phoned
him early that same morning, only minutes in fact after William had
left, with instructions that they meet for a briefing of great
importance.
Peter hated the dour stone building that housed the headquarters of
the MI5 rump at Wormwood Scrubs. It always reminded him of a prison.
Major Carlisle interviewed him, as always, in that tiny undecorated
cubby-hole of a room that he called his office.
Peter had objected. "What if I do not want to go all the way with this
man?"
"It's not negotiable," said Major Carlisle. "It's vitally important
that Perez gets a message to the German forces around Tobruk that we
are moving our forces to make an attack to the east. He must not, of
course, have the slightest suspicion that he is being set up."
"So how?"
"He must do the picking up. He must initiate the contact - though you,
of course, can show that you are not unwilling."
"Play the tart, you mean," said Peter.
Carlisle smiled thinly.
"And do I just come out and say the British forces are on the move?"
"The German agents are often credulous, but not, I think, to that
extent. We have prepared a letter from a British soldier which
contains the information. It is up to you to make sure that Perez
reads it." Carlisle handed Peter a sheet of paper, creased and looking
as if it had passed through quite a few hands before arrival. Some of
the sentences had been obscured by thick black censor lines.
It appeared to be from Corporal Albert Salter to his son, William.
Peter looked up at Carlisle. "You know about William?" he said.
"We know everything," said Carlisle. "But that is not the point. The
story is that William left this letter at your house last night. When
you found it, you put it in your wallet to give it back to him when
next you saw him. You will arrange to drop it so that Perez finds it.
It of course does not say exactly what the British troops will be
doing but enough remains uncensored for an intelligent man to work out
that he, and by implication a major part of the force, is being moved
- and Perez is an intelligent man."
So Peter stood at the bar of the Mother Black Cap in a 'disguise' of
grubby, collarless shirt, trousers and jacket strategically grimed but
not, he hoped, too foul to mar his attraction. His hair was uncombed,
his looks uncharacteristically sullen. He clasped a pint glass of
rather suspect-tasting bitter in his right hand and a Woodbine drooped
from his lips. He had a copy of the Evening newspaper folded to the
racing page from which he glanced up from time to time to check the
entrants into the pub.
Carlisle had told him that Perez usually arrived at 8.00 pm but the
hour passed and there was no sign of the man with olive skin and black
hair. Perhaps there had been extra work at the Embassy, perhaps Perez
had had success on the way here. Peter hoped so. The task was
distasteful to him though he knew that whatever Carlisle told him to
do, he would carry out to the best of his ability. The threat of
capital punishment still hung over his head and Peter was no hero.
A grey-haired man in a cap standing next to him asked him his opinion
of the chances of a greyhound apparently running at Harringay Stadium
next weekend. "I don't fancy it," growled Peter.
The inner door swung open and Peter immediately recognised the face of
the man who entered. Perez was better looking than his photograph but
it was obvious who he was. Peter tried to distance himself from the
greyhound-fancier in the cap.
Perez looked around and then went to the bar, disappearing behind a
group of drinkers. Peter moved into the centre of the room where he
could observe Perez's back and watched. He knew he had automatically
adopted the predatory look of the hunter and recognised the same
expression in Perez as he turned and their eyes met.
Play the tart, he thought to himself - though perhaps what he likes is
the 'normal but available' type. He kept the gaze locked for what was
obviously longer than was necessary for casual encounter. The trick
is, he thought, to show interest but not confrontation - especially in
an area like this. He broke the contact and looked down, holding his
breath.
A few seconds and he heard a soft voice. "Care for a drink, mate?"
The accent was good though Peter suspected that a true Londoner would
find it 'foreign'. He wondered how to play it. The fluttered eyelashes
would be an obvious give-away - probably too obvious and might put
Perez off. Better the straight eye-to-eye - though no smile at the
moment. Play it butch.
"Don't mind if I do," he said.
"Are you from around here?" asked Perez when he had brought back
another pint of flat, bitter-tasting brew which Peter actually detested.
Peter and Carlisle had discussed whether Peter's command of English
was good enough to take the part of a local and had decided against.
"Dutch Royal Navy," said Peter indistinctly. "Not that there's much
Navy left." The tone of bitterness was not a pretence.
Perez smiled. "My name's John," he said.
"Peter," said Peter.
"This stuff tastes like horses' piss," said Perez. "I have some whisky
at home. What do you say to going back there? It's not too far."
That was straight to the point, though Peter was pleased that he
wouldn't have to stay until closing time, sopping up the beer which
would dull his senses. He wasn't too fond of whisky but he could at
least pretend to be drunker than he actually was, once they were back
in Perez's flat.
They caught the tube - one stop on the Northern line from Camden Town
to Kentish Town - and walked through the darkened streets. Peter
occasionally staggered and Perez put a steadying arm around him. "It's
not far now," he said as they went under a railway arch and approached
a terrace of tall Victorian brick houses.
 From the street a flight of narrow stairs led up to what was in fact
just two rooms, a living room, a corner of which was divided off into
a small kitchen area and, through an open door, the view of a bedroom.
The furnishings in the flat looked cheap and had probably been
provided by some miserly landlord, or landlady. Perez's only visual
contribution seemed to be three posters of Spanish bullfighting on the
wall. It didn't seem the sort of flat that an Embassy official would
have. Perhaps, though, it was just a pied-à-terre for the
entertainment of pickups.
"Do you really want a drink?" Perez asked.
The drunker Peter appeared to be, the more acceptable any fumbling and
dropping of the letter would seem so he nodded. "I'll just have a
small one," he said. "I've had a lot to drink already and I have to
get home anyway later."
  Perez opened a cupboard and took out a bottle and a couple of
glasses. "Well you don't have to go home tonight - not if you don't
want to," said Perez. He poured out a generous portion of spirit into
one of the glasses and handed it to him.
"I'll have to get back," repeated Peter, "later."
"If you must," said Perez. He leaned towards him and kissed him on the
lips.
Peter knew at that moment that, as far as he was concerned, the sex
was not going to be successful. He felt nothing for the other man.
Perez pressed up against him and Peter could feel the hard thrust of
his erection against his thigh. His own cock stayed resolutely limp.
What was the matter with him? Surely he could at least get a hard-on.
Think of someone else, someone he fancied. For a moment the image of
William lying back on his bed, open and inviting, flashed into his
mind. His cock twitched.
Peter kissed him back and felt his own cock respond. It was going to
be all right. He grabbed hold of Perez, putting his arms round him and
feeling the firmness of his body through the thin cotton of his shirt.
The Spaniard hadn't let himself go flabby.
"Let's go into the bedroom," said Perez.
They went and undressed like any married couple getting ready for bed.
Peter noticed that Perez folded his trousers neatly before putting
them on a chair. Peter stumbled as he took off his trousers and his
wallet together with letter fell onto the floor. He sat on the bed
giggling foolishly. The wallet had opened and the letter, folded so
that the heading was exposed, lay on the floor.
Peter had to bring the letter to Perez's attention but he couldn't
think of a way. It was not the right time. Sex was the paramount
importance of he moment. Naked, the two of them lay on the bed, a
single one with an old mattress so that they were forced together into
the dip in the middle.
They lay together, flesh cleaved to flesh, Peter underneath, Perez on
top. He began to hump, his cock running along the groove in Peter'
groin. The friction of pubic hair against his cock was arousing. A
spring of liquid excitement lubricated and eased the frotting so that
the groove became a slick-lined channel. Peter lay there, half hard,
feeling a disillusion. wanting to co-operate yet driven by no sexual
imperative. He compromised by reaching round and grasping Perez's
buttocks, pulling him in time with his strokes. The man's breathing
grew faster, became gasps and Peter knew that Perez would come soon.
He faked excitement himself and as Perez's body arched in a convulsion
of orgasm and pulsed again and again, he pressed himself against the
other, counterfeiting a moan of pleasure. There would be enough come
to pass for two. Perez need never know.
They lay for a while, Peter patiently waiting for Perez to recover.
Eventually he rolled off and sat up.
"Did you . . .?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'll get a towel." He padded on bare feet across the grey-green
linoleum into one of those little enclosures that the developers of
the flat seemed to have been so fond of. Peter heard him peeing - so
there was a toilet there, probably a shower - and returned with a
small hand towel. Peter dried himself. For some strange reason he felt
ashamed at his deception. at his lack of involvement.
"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" asked Perez on his way back.
"There's no need to go straight away."
It sounded almost like a plea and though Peter had had enough and
wanted nothing more than to leave, he knew that this was the
opportunity to carry out the main part of the plan. He lay back on the
bed and closed his eyes. He felt the bed sink as Perez joined him.
"Here's your wallet," said Perez. "You dropped it."
Peter opened his eyes. "There was a letter," he said vaguely.
"It's important?" Perez sounded as if he was making conversation. He
put his arm under Peter's shoulders.
"It's belongs to a friend. He left it back at my place last night. I
think it's from his father. He's a soldier in North Africa. Probably
not important but he'll want it back."
Behind his back Peter felt Perez's arm tense slightly. The bait had
been sniffed at. Peter closed his eyes again and pretended sleepiness.
"Gotta get home," he mumbled. He made his breathing grow deeper,
letting his head loll away from Perez. He knew he was being watched.
His left calf started to itch but he controlled the urge to scratch
and tried to relax his limbs from the toes upwards.
After a while he felt the arm under him being withdrawn. The weight
next to him left the bed and he was just able to make out the rustle
of paper being unfolded. The bait taken. Presumably Perez would make a
copy if he thought the letter significant.
Peter was so pleased at the success that he actually dozed off.
Perhaps it was the relief but when Perez got back into bed, Peter felt
so aroused that the next time around he was able energetically to have
sex.
He refused breakfast in the morning and left almost as soon as it was
light. Later when his conscience pricked, he felt ashamed, though at
the time it had not stopped him enjoying it.
Perez was late leaving for work and had to run for the Underground
Station. He did not see the black van as he ran out from behind a
parked car directly into its path. The van driver did not even stop.
The victim was taken to the Middlesex Hospital and there pronounced
dead. An orderly searched his clothes for identification. The wallet
showed the victim to be a Juan Luis Perez who worked at the Spanish
Embassy in St Johns Wood. The orderly also found what appeared to be a
letter but it was so covered with blood that he dropped it straight
into the incinerator. No point, he thought, in upsetting relatives or
dependents with something like that.
End of Part 7