Island of Steel - Introducing the Heroes

‘Guten Morgen,’ he said to a sharp-faced man pressing his way through the gap Baker had allowed.

‘It’s not good, Herr Black,’ the man snapped.

Baker had christened himself and all his operatives with colours. This chap was Herr Blue. Baker had another false name. Because he had once lived in Holland and they were now under German rule, the SOE had issued him with a Dutch passport that claimed he was a Mark Riemens.

Baker yawned and cleared his throat. ‘You’re telling me.’

‘Where were you last night? I had everybody there.’

‘Give me strength! What are you going to do when I’ve buggered off back to Blighty? Eh?’ He stared through the shabby net curtains. A pale sun was rising through the smoke left from the bombing. The rooftops were shiny as an old pewter beer mug. ‘So, what happened then?’

‘We debriefed Herr Yellow. Only Herr Yellow. Why was that?’

‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

‘Because Herr Green lost his right hand in the blast. That’s why!’

‘Oh, God.’ It had been another Berlin Blunder after all.

‘He was taken to a doctor who had him taken to hospital.’

Baker shuddered and felt sick. ‘Got any fags?’

He said this to give himself time to conjure up a response as much as to smoke his first cigarette of the day.

‘Black market. Expensive.’

‘I’ve got some money, somewhere.’

Herr Blue nodded and that was all. Baker finally made an effort to search his jacket lying in a tangle, the sleeves twisted inside out. He offered some notes from his SOE spy kitty and received four cigarettes in return.

‘That it? How much percentage have you added, you robbing bastard?’

‘Herr Black! I have had enough of you! At first you gave us hope with your zeal to fight the Fascists animals. Your instructions how to make home-made bombs and ways to sabotage. Morse code practise. Now it’s all gone.’ He paused dramatically, and then said softly, ‘Herr Green’s wife threatens to inform the Security Department.’

Baker had drawn in tobacco smoke and now coughed it out in a despairing bellow. And then groaned as his pet ulcer nibbled at his stomach for breakfast.

‘Damn and blast it! I’ve had it, chum. Can’t do any more. I’m off. It’s no good.’ He kicked an empty bottle out of his way and slumped on the chair. ‘I’ve taught you all I know.’

They argued more loudly than common sense should dictate. Baker was staying in this crumbling tenement inhabited by all manner of low life, by people who had fallen below any standard of respectability, despite the purifying purges of the government. Any one of them would shop him for money and the prestige of being a good Third Reich citizen. The kudos of exposing an enemy spy was worth even more than the money. Almost.

It was time he definitely left.

‘Where is the radio?’ asked Herr Blue sullenly.

Baker gestured to a wardrobe with a hanging door. ‘The battery wants charging.’

Herr Blue wrapped it in a sack and left without another word.

Instantly Baker’s lassitude vanished, his ping-pong personality taking an upward turn as soon as he was released from his subversive responsibility. He carefully but quickly shaved in cold water. Put on a clean white shirt and the same tie. He brushed his suit savagely and dabbed at stains with a small piece of soap. He put on his heavy German overcoat, bought at a second hand store when he first arrived. He wore well-kept brogues, shined up bright with his only towel. Looked-after shoes make all the difference. An instruction from his wise parents.