D N A: Do Not Ask

By Stephen Ford

Set in the present-day, DNA portrays a Britain occupied by victorious German forces back in 1941.
John McCarthy, an ageing journalist working for Der Alemanne, goes looking for his missing drinking buddy, Jimmy. With no one to help, he unwittingly seeks out an old girlfriend, Bernadine Clarke, now a Chief Inspector at the Met. She at first appears willing to help but things are not all that they seem.
Undeterred by his apparent lack of progress, John persists in his search only to stumble upon the awful truth behind recent police roundups.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Ford
• Release date: Jan 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301840991

Book preview

Chapter 1 - Geschichte

Everyone blames Arthur Neville Chamberlain, always referred to simply as Neville for our downfall, but there were others to which the description appeaser must surely have been more appropriate. In the end, the blame lay on a multitude of shoulders, some domestic and others foreign but it mattered little in the end. The country lay defeated, crushed and occupied.

No one realised until it was too late that our main ally, the French, were so singularly inept and lacking in the skills of modern, fast moving warfare. Officers lacked foresight and skill, from the top down. They failed abysmally to recognise the fluidity brought to warfare by the use of large formations of mechanised armour, preferring instead to dissipate the usefulness of their tanks in supporting their slow moving infantry. It was not that the German forces were so overwhelmingly superior in men and equipment; they simply understood modern warfare. The Germans massed their armour in phalanx formations to inflict decisive crushing blows upon the French. Easily punching through weakly defended infantry lines, the panzers effortlessly knocked out the thinly spread French armour. It was all very simple. Hit hard at a single point, break through and cause the maximum alarm and panic behind the enemy`s lines. Then encircle and deny your enemy reinforcements or retreat. Surgical annihilation guaranteed, insanely simple really so ask yourself why did we and the frogs miss it?

Neville tried hard, very hard to delay the inevitable outbreak of hostilities and give the country badly needed time. He swallowed his pride and grovelled to Adolf Hitler in Munich during September nineteen thirty-eight in an effort to buy the extra time, but in the end, nothing could stop the Führer’s demonic dream of uniting Europe under the German boot. Adolf, displeased by his visitor’s interference and procrastinations reportedly crossed his arms as Neville left their last fateful meeting and muttered to an aide, If ever that silly old man comes interfering here again with his umbrella, I’ll kick him downstairs and jump on his stomach in front of the photographers. When I read the quote from Hitler’s biography, I ponder whether ‘downstairs’ meant down the stairs or perhaps a subtle and oblique reference to a tender part of Neville’s body somewhere between his navel and his kneecaps.

Let history in the free world judge Neville, in recognition of the poor fellow, he was not the idealist he purposely portrayed. Though unfairly labelled an appeaser by his compatriots; they, as well as Adolf, were to discover soon enough Neville’s well kept little secret. The country was covertly rearming for war and only needed time.

Even at the eleventh hour, there were still those who couldn’t see the threat Adolf posed to the survival of the country. Clement Attlee, the leader of the opposition complained in a letter to his older brother Tom early in nineteen thirty-nine - Neville annoys me by mouthing the arguments of complete pacifism while piling up armaments. Attlee showed in those few words his singular lack of comprehension of the true threat facing the country. Thankfully, Clement never succeeded to the highest office because it’s hard to imagine that he’d have fared any better in leading the country against Hitler. Churchill, never one to hold back an opinion, best summed up Attlee by describing him as a sheep in sheep`s clothing or a modest man, who has(sic) much to be modest about.

By contrast and perhaps to some quite surprising, Neville and Adolf had more in common than first impressions might have implied. They both loathed a certain minority group spread across the European Continent. On one occasion Neville even wrote to his sister commenting on his dislike, no doubt the Jews aren’t a loveable people; I don’t care about them myself.

Finally, war came with Germany at eleven-fifteen on the morning of the third of September, nineteen thirty-nine. Neville addressed the country in his customary squeaky voice, I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at ten Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven a.m., that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us....

For Britain, after a quiet start, things went badly wrong forcing Neville to resign his premiership and fade into obscurity, to die shortly afterwards already a forgotten man. Quickly onto the vacant stage to fill the power vacuum stepped the First Lord of the Admiralty, Hitler’s old antagonist from way back before the war, Winston Churchill.

As we all know things went surprisingly well for the Führer. After a short campaign, the French were beaten and forced into a humiliating Armistice, signed at Rethondes. Ironically, the French signed the document in the same railway carriage where they obliged an equally humiliated German High Command to sign an Armistice to end the Great War. France found itself divided. Adolf naturally took the lion’s share of France, controlling the north including Paris with its disproportionate number of French citizens. The rump of France came under the control of Marshal Pétain's Vichy-based government. This suited Hitler and allowed him to gather his forces for the final knockout blow against us. In the end, it was only a few illusionary frogs gathering around a water hole aimlessly crocking their time away.

Now another political figure takes centre stage for a brief moment of glory, the Deputy Führer Rudolf Hess. Rudolf Hess, previously considered one of the saner Nazis by those who met him, entered this life in Alexandria, Egypt. His parents were comfortably off, good German stock. Since I’ve used the dreaded word Nazi for the first time in my account, I’d better explain its origins. It’s actually an insult and was in use long before Adolf ever came to power. Its roots go back to the pejorative shortening of the Bavarian name Ignatius, often used by the local peasants to christen their sons. Thus being in common use, it easily lent itself to becoming a disparaging term for a peasant. Adolf’s Party had its origins in Bavaria and so the official name Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei easily shortened into Nazi for those wishing to insult its members. Though Adolf could all too easily see the irony he’d nonetheless, more often than not, rant and rave when Churchill described him as a Nazi in one of his many speeches or articles. Although for Winston, he, who laughs last, laughs loudest springs to mind, as I’ll explain shortly.

Anyway, Hess’s first contact with Hitler came at a Munich rally in May nineteen twenty when he heard him speak. One could say Adolf mesmerized the poor fellow; it was blind infatuation from the start. He willingly joined the embryonic Nazi Party and like all the other early disciples, always boasted of his low party number.

Like all the early sycophants, promotion came quickly. As Deputy Führer, he became the third most powerful Nazi after Hermann Göring. This may sound strange but is fact, fat Hermann was twice the man Hess was in more ways than one. In the Office of Deputy Führer, Hess enjoyed the power of life and death over the citizens of Germany. Even so, he fastidiously cultured an intellectual persona easily gaining acceptance within the diplomatic cocktail circuit. He certainly placed distance between himself and the more odious party thugs, perverts and pimps who rarely gained such respectability.

Hess, with Hitler’s tacit approval, launched an amazingly hare-brained political gamble to end the war with the United Kingdom. He proposed to bring lasting peace to Europe by persuading Parliament to enter into a mutually agreeable treaty with Germany. To achieve his vision for Europe he needed to travel to the heart of the enemy, London. Always a keen flyer, he took off from Augsburg in a Messerschmitt Bf 110 at around six at night to attempt to fly to the Duke of Hamilton’s private airfield at Dungavel. The delusional fellow soon discovered, to his horror, how a hapless vision rapidly transforms itself into a living nightmare. It all started to go wrong when he couldn’t find the airfield and bailed out over Renfrewshire, Scotland, breaking an ankle in a hard landing at Floors Farm near Eaglesham.

The Nazi’s apparently believed the Duke of Hamilton, an ardent opponent of Winston Churchill, might be willing to broker a peace, especially given the perilously weak British defences, worn down by months of Luftwaffe raids. Hitler proposed terms for an Armistice mutually beneficial in his mind to both sides but not, as events turned out, apparently so in Winston’s. Apart from the normal diplomatic claptrap put in by von Ribbentrop, the slick Foreign Minister, because he claimed to know us so well, the guts of the document boiled down to four clauses:-

a) In order to prevent future wars between Britain and Germany, spheres of interest were to be defined, for Germany Europe and for Britain the Empire.

b) The return of German colonies.

c) Indemnification of German nationals by Britain for injury to themselves or their property through the period of hostilities, with similar terms provided by Germany for British subjects.

d) Armistice and peace with Italy on similar terms.

Rudolf’s mission failed miserably. It neither moved Churchill to seek terms or to gather more support from those opposed to the war. Instead of negotiating with Rudolf, Churchill isolated the poor misguided fellow by imprisoning him in the Tower of London. At least he could claim, in his memoirs, to be the last political prisoner in the Tower. Before Adolf’s victorious army arrived, Hess found himself shipped off to Canada to stop him regaining his freedom and reuniting with his mates. Somewhat surprisingly, he enjoyed his new surroundings and happily settled in Toronto after negotiating his release from captivity. He willingly agreed to drop his Nazi party membership to become a Deutschkanadier. Successful in property development he bought a local run-down hotel and turned it into a thriving business. From all accounts he even became a sought after after-dinner speaker putting his dry humour to good effect. Eventually he became a Canadian citizen shortly before his death. Inexplicably he committed suicide by hanging himself in the summerhouse he built in the grounds of the hotel although there was at the time considerable controversy concerning the Coroner’s open verdict. It appears there was some doubt as to the authenticity of his suicide note, especially since he had only recently received an advance payment for his long awaited autobiography.

The final character, the Duke of York or perhaps more accurately characters, since the Duchess of Windsor features highly in the Duke’s life, now re-enter the stage. The Duke, formerly the uncrowned Edward VIII, was profoundly sympathetic to fascist Germany in his views and not afraid to show them.

The Duchess, formerly Wallace Simpson, was a twice-divorced American citizen of questionable morals. Neville Chamberlain noted in his diary that, Simpson is(sic) an entirely unscrupulous woman who is(sic) not in love with the King but is(sic) exploiting him for her own purposes. Perhaps a more candid opinion voiced by Joseph Kennedy, the American Ambassador to the Court of St. James, summed up her virtues. He simply referred to her as the Tart. Mind you, this is from a man who supposedly collaborated in business with Al Capone during the American prohibition. If the rumour is true, then he’s definitely someone able to make a judgement on questionable morals.

More telling of her morals, were contemporaneous police records. These highlighted that whilst busily seducing Edward she was also in a relationship with a married car dealer named Guy Trundle. Perhaps she liked his old banger. By any standards, she lacked acceptable morals and proved a very adept gold digger of the most odious kind. By coincidence or design Simpson, the former lover of Joachim von Ribbentrop when he was German Ambassador, contrived to ensnare Edward in a romantic relationship.

The Ribbentrop connection frightened the British establishment, as did the future King’s obvious leanings towards Nazism and the far right. He was not an exception amongst the royals with Prince George, Duke of Kent, the fifth child of George V and Queen Mary, also publicly making known his pro-Nazi leanings. Oddly enough, he died just before the invasion in a mysterious accident engineered, so the story went, by Churchill. The accident, if that is what it was, conveniently put paid to further talk of forcing Churchill from power and by default silenced the pro-peace movement. With the arrival of Hess, there was a predictable renewal for the cessation of hostilities with Germany but then with Hess a prisoner of Churchill the pacifist movement again lost impetus and finally withered. At this phase of the hostilities things appeared to play out well for the British leadership.

Von Ribbentrop, by nature a pompous, vain and arrogant man, couldn’t wait to tell the Führer of his grand scheme for the entrapment of Edward. The Führer shrewdly earmarked Edward as a potential future puppet king to succeed to the throne after his successful unification of Europe and conquest of the United Kingdom. We’ve had Edward the Confessor, another nicknamed Longshanks, but now we’ve Edward the Flunky on the Throne. He appeared tailor made for the job, fluent in German, related to the Kaiser and blind to Adolf’s nascent ambitions by his own overinflated ego and arrogance.

Somehow, the Establishment conveniently seeded Edward’s irrational mind with foolish thoughts of abdication. The ever-present fear that Edward might cross the long-established protocol and thoughtlessly become embroiled in politics appeared a real and present danger. Even more disconcerting for the security services was the risk of Edward’s manipulation by a foreign power. For the sake of national security, this threat appeared all too real given Simpson’s known liaison with von Ribbentrop. Apart from the question of treason, the constitutional dilemma would certainly have brought the royal family down and perhaps more telling also destroyed the ruling cadre. Here lay the very crux of the matter. Behind the throne dwelled a collection of families who had held sway over the country from before records began and who naturally didn’t relish losing their coveted power and privileges, not that they have! They are still there today conniving to enhance their wealth and power even though the monarchy is long gone.

Edward characteristically took up the challenge as a means of forcing the Establishment’s hand, secure in his mind that he would win by forcing them to concede his right to marry whom he pleased. For the illusory Edward this was not to be.

Dejected and ejected the couple unhappily left the United Kingdom to roam the Continent as stateless refugees. Predictably and against the advice of the British government, the newly created Duke and Duchess of Windsor went knocking on Adolf’s door at his weekend Obersalzberg retreat. Their act only served to reinforce the resolve of those who’d forced the abdication. The Windsor’s Nazi friends, including the Führer, willingly wined and dined them. Edward enthusiastically participated in the pantomime by giving the Nazi salute whenever his right arm was out of his pocket. Goebbels couldn’t have staged it better. It was Christmas Day every day in his perverted little Propaganda Ministry. The German press loved it and Edward proved to the world what a little shit he really was. With the outbreak of war, Edward surprisingly found himself a major general attached to the British military in France. Shortly afterwards, the German Minister Count Julius von Zech-Burkersroda, insinuated that the Duke, impertinently codenamed Willi, intentionally allowed the Allied plans for the defence of Belgium to pass to him.

Moving on from the discredited Edward to after the short decisive war, Ribbentrop became the Duke of Cornwall. This lump of granite on the extreme southwest of the country with worked out tin mines, had found a place in his heart. It wasn’t such a bad move on his part financially, although Adolf failed to realise the truth at the time. Ribbentrop managed to wangle the Duchy of Cornwall into his greedy hands enabling him to obtain a very nice income formerly enjoyed by the crown. Adolf was in reality glad to see the back of the scheming little bastard. Ribbentrop only got his title on condition that he retired from public life to live on his estate and write his memoirs. He had always been good for the odd case of champagne but could be a pain in the ass when in an impertinent mood. Wise publicans in the county of Cornwall soon found it easier to renew licenses or obtain special ones by renaming their pubs the Ribbentrop Arms.

Adolf Hitler, Time Magazine’s Man of the Year for nineteen thirty-nine, went on to even greater international acclaim receiving the Nobel peace prize for his unstinting work for humanity shortly after declaring peace in Europe. With Norway occupied by the Germans and Finland by the Russians, what else could the sandwiched Swedes do! They’re nothing but pragmatic. Anyway, with Europe now effectively a single market there was no alternative for the hapless poor Swedes. They had no other choice than to suck-up to Adolf if they didn’t want to starve or let the commies in through the backdoor.

Chapter 2 - 20th April

For once, the sun shines on a public holiday and it feels good to be alive and especially so on this day of celebration. The President rides in his open top stretched two tone black and blood red Mercedes. A style of vehicle much loved by senior military and Government officials. The limousine takes the normal route from the old Parliament building, now mostly government offices, and heads towards the Presidential Palace at the end of the Mall, yes, really, the old Buck House! Once the home of the Royals it’s now the seat of our elected President. We’re now the Demokratische Republik von England und Wales or for the average guy in the street D.R.E.W. I use the words Democratic Republic with a certain licence since we remain a one party State. As Henry Ford once said, Any customer can have a car painted any colour he wants so long as it is black and we can have any politician we want so long as he’s a card carrying party member.

A host of official cars and outriders precede the Presidential limousine, so I wait patiently for my turn to make my loyal salute. The President waves his arm robotically as the cavalcade passes by, his face beaming the insincere smile of all politicians. The First Lady sits beside him looking radiant in her expensively tailored uniform. Black does suit her blond hair and ruby red lips so well. Unsurprisingly, her ample breasts are more than up to the job of supporting an impressive array of medals and ribbons although I’m at a loss to know how she could have amassed such a collection. From what I hear, the only part of her that’s seen action is her finest asset. She certainly used it wisely, if not sparingly, in her climb up the party ladder. But there again the family name did help; it got one of her pretty little feet through the front door to start with.

I instinctively look up as a flight of shiny silver RAF Messerschmitt 626 Euro Fighters, nicknamed the Typhoon, sweep down the Mall and on over the Palace. At low altitude, it’s easy to spot the traditional air force roundels with black swastikas conveniently now displayed on the inner red circle. The R in RAF now stands for Republic although Reich featured for some time in my youth. The planes turn sharply over the Serpentine to head back over the Palace to fly once more over the cavalcade. Vortices of water vapour swirl away from the tips of the canard wings somehow heightening the display of State power over us mere earthly mortals.

Near me, on terra firma, the Waffen SS honour band competes with the reverberating sound of the jets in a one-sided battle for the attention of the crowd. Of course, the jets win outright and with a parting roar, no doubt designed to numb all senses, the jets climb vertically into the sky. The glow from the afterburners gradually fades into the vastness of the blue beyond and a silence of sorts descends upon the pageant. The band appears to have temporarily given up and stands to attention awaiting the next order. An indecipherable command comes to my ears as they scrabble to rearrange their music cards and then burst into the Prinz Eugen March. I naturally tap my foot in time to the music.

The explosion, when it happens, is shattering to the senses causing instant mayhem. Panic and fear spread like a wave through the crowd creating a stampede for safety, except no one really quite knows where safety might be. For those unfortunate enough to stand too close to the cavalcade there’s no time to panic. Metal shards fly through the air mercilessly cutting them down. Besides the twitching, dismembered bodies of the dead, others lay screaming, clutching at bleeding limbs or worse. Some just wander concussed and confused. I see a handless arm waving in the air blood spouting from severed arteries. A small child pulls on her lifeless mother’s coat, not able to understand why her mother isn’t responding. For the thousands of visitors gathered to watch this annual celebratory parade the scene before them has instantly become one of carnage. Blood flows across the pavements and drips into the gutter.

In the brief moment after the explosion, thousands of pigeons take to the wing adding to the disorientating feeling I’m now suffering. All too late, I clasp my ears as the deafening sound of the blast echoes in my head. Even more disconcerting for me is the throbbing, agonising pain that’s slowly overtaking my senses and numbing my brain. As my hearing returns I register another sound above the screams of the injured and those fleeing, that of sirens, first one and then many.

I’m confused. I truly need to understand what has just happened. Moments before, the band played the Prinz Eugen march, presumably in recognition of the President’s time spent in the Kriegsmarine as a sea cadet. Now there’s death all around me. For some unaccountable reason, maybe it’s shock, I recall my daily commute across Tower Bridge. It’s past the old Prinz Eugen, now a floating museum just beyond. If my memory serves me right, she was the first German warship to enter the Thames after the surrender.

Strangely, I now recall that moments before the explosion I was reflecting on why composers only seem to write marches for victorious armies, presumably armies don’t march when retreating! They just flee as a disorganised rabble just as my fellow citizens appear to be doing now.

I look towards the band and realise by the expressions on their faces that they can’t decide what to do given that our dear President is dead, assassinated. They can’t decide whether to go on playing or just simply leg-it. Perhaps a few notes from Siegfried’s Death and Funeral March might be appropriate. A little known fact acquired by me whilst doing research on the now late President was his great liking for anything composed by Wagner.

Looking back towards the burning wreckage of the Mercedes, oily black clouds are now climbing into the clear sky over the Mall and slowly drifting south towards the river. The honour guard dressed in their black, ceremonial uniforms are quickly corralling onlookers away from the smoking pyre. A few ghoulish sightseers attempt to snap pictures of the dismembered limbs of the ex-President hanging from the buckled upright boot lid of the wreck but think twice when rifles are pointed in their direction.

Following the explosion the first Lady, in her haste to leave the limousine appears to have totally forgone protocol and placed herself ahead of the President, a trick she’d never thought of performing moments earlier. Now she is broken and still, just so much meat. Her ripped black skirt exposes her lower torso. The few remaining onlookers look in horror as they realise that her once white silk lingerie is slowing turning red as blood seeps from her ruptured body. Cynically I expect to see a swastika tattoo on her thigh but in this, I’m disappointed.

The state television crew continue to film, more to record those in the vicinity than the scene of the smouldering wreck. Soldiers keep shouting, Holen Sie zurück.

Without appearing too hasty, I decide to turn and walk away as quickly as possible although I don’t wish to draw attention to myself. My haste moderates by the desire not to receive a bullet in my back from some brainless guard. These young snots are still, in most cases, wet behind the ears and I’ve no desire to be mistaken for an escaping bomber. The trigger-happy guards run everywhere, waving their rifles as if they’re all conducting a Wagner opera. This is not a healthy place to linger. I know darn well what treatment might befall witnesses and suspects, once the rounding up starts. My preference is to be one of the proverbial four monkeys on occasions like this. Still, at some stage, my worthless job will bring me full circle. Working on Der Alemanne does not put me in the upper echelons of international news reporting, but it does just about pay the rent.

Having mentioned monkeys I should point out that my father gave me a little ivory carving of Sanbiki no Saru when I was six or seven and told me to always live by the maxim they represented. From that day, I’ve always lived with my four monkey friends helping me through life. Mizaru covering his eyes, Kikazaru covering his ears, Iwazaru covering his mouth and not forgetting dependable Shizaru with his crossed arms depicting do no evil.

Thankfully, I spot a black cab and wave it down. Poking my head through the open window, I direct him to, Fleet Street, Der Alemanne. It’s the old Times building, but he’s too young to remember or care.

Verbinden Sie ja.

Ja, I reply without thinking, a reflexive reaction to someone speaking to me in German. I clamber into the cab and as we move off, I start muttering, Why does every fucker want to speak German these days? You’ve got me at it again.

Sorry mate didn’t get what you’ve just said.

But before I can answer, a panic-stricken mob attempting to flee from the scene of the assassination besieged us. The cab slowly pulls away from the curb and back into the traffic with the cabbie continually tapping the brake to avoid pedestrians, hell bent on suicide. They resemble headless chickens as they run blindly in all directions, panic and fear written on their faces. What’s up with this lot mate? Worse than a football match at Chelsea?

Didn’t you hear the explosion?

What explosion. I’ve had the radio on. He pokes his head out the window and shouts at someone, You got a death wish mate. and then to a very pretty young girl, mind yourself darling, and then back to me, is that what all this is about?

Yes, they’ve blown up the President.

Blimey. Then presumably, after some thought he adds, Who’s they mate? The cabbie brakes again to avoid an army truck and waves his arms at the driver in a show of frustration.

Who knows?

We both remain silent, presumably deep in our own thoughts. Well I am and presumably, he is. With time and distance, my composure slowly recovers. Staring out of the side window, I gradually mellow into a more reflective mood. Reasoning returns. Perhaps a more restrained temperament might be advisable in airing my views on the use of the Germanic language in public, especially to strangers. Thankfully, the cabbie didn’t hear or understand my outburst and in the end, he’s only doing his job and trying to survive in our paranoiac society. I look towards him and spot a woolly brown monkey swinging from the rear view mirror waving its arms at me. It reminds me to bite my tongue more often. In this crazy world silence is golden and can most definitely lead to a long, though perhaps, drab and tedious existence.

Once through the swing doors of Der Alemanne absolute chaos greets me, it’s like the first day of sales at Harrods but without the bargains. My fellow employees are happily shoving each other out of the way in their eagerness to appear important on this historic day. In the end, they’re simply afraid. Afraid of being asked the obvious, What do you do here? So as people are prone to do, under these circumstances, they camouflage their fear by an outward show of belligerence and froth. It’s a mass of people attempting to speak but with none amongst them sensible enough to care to listen. The scene is funny in a macabre sort of way. It takes a double assassination to bring out the urge in people to seek the comfort of their co-workers and at the same time the opportunity to earn a little overtime to supplement their meagre wage.

Max, the editor, sees me fighting my way into the newsroom. Waving his unlit HB at me, he shouts to catch my attention, John thanks for coming in. I need all the help I can muster so be a good fellow and get a thousand words off if you can on what’s happened. You can be flexible with the story; the Ministry staff will when they get to read it.

It’s strange how Max never uses words like truth or facts. He laughs at his own irony but not me, I prefer to stay employed. Do what they tell me and keep my head down is my motto, it’s my monkey syndrome coming out again. I’ve seen others overtaken by a sense of integrity and virtue. Invariably they always repent, the lucky ones at their leisure looking for a new career whilst others, less fortunate, just quietly disappear. The war may be a distant fading memory to many but the Ministry of Propaganda lives on, haunted by the ghost of Goebbels, his uneven step echoing along the cold, dim corridors.

We’ve got to here in my account quickly so please let me now take you back a few years, quite a few and then you will understand today’s event. Adolf Hitler was a big success story back in the forties, his storm troopers came ashore on our southern beaches and the rest is, as they say, history. The King attempted to flee across the Atlantic but the German heavy cruisers Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, christened the ugly sisters, just as fast as the Queen Mary but with eleven-inch guns, sent the Liner to the bottom together with him, the Queen and the Princesses. The German Admiral, flying his flag from the Scharnhorst, repeatedly ordered the Queen Mary to turn about, but the captain attempted to outrun the two heavy cruisers by chasing the setting sun. Hitler, in fairness, appeared devastated by the news of the loss of the Liner. Apart from the fact that it was undoubtedly a beautiful ship, it also happened to be carrying the United Kingdom’s gold reserves. On anyone’s reckoning, it proved a double loss to the Third Reich. Gone were future cruise holidays for the Generals apart from the loss of the dosh!

Someone told me, when I first joined the paper, that Wallace gave an interview shortly after returning to London, so out of interest I looked the copy up in the archives. She, Wallace, said she could barely disguise her ecstasy upon hearing the news of the tragedy of the Queen Mary. This of course was well before my time. At that time, I was still only a sperm looking forward to meeting an egg. She recalls how she freely opened bottle after bottle of Bollinger Grand Cru to celebrate the occasion with her Nazi cronies. The interviewer asked her if she was an acquaintance of Mme Lily Bollinger from her time spent in Paris and she’s reported to have answered, but of course darling. Even today, I know people still remember Tante Lily for her wonderful appreciation of the family wine, which on a few special occasions I’ve also enjoyed, although my pocket can only stretch to the cheaper vintages. If I recall her refrain it went something like, I drink it when I’m happy and when I’m sad. Sometimes I drink it when I’m alone. When I have company, I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I’m not hungry and I drink it when I am. Otherwise, I never touch it, unless I’m thirsty. Certainly, on that day Wallace did the wine justice, almost drowning in the frothy elixir.

You’ve probably guessed my name is John. Well it’s John McCarthy, born in forty-seven and, sadly for me, nearer to death than youth. I’ve seen lots in my life, mostly scenes involving bodies leaking blood and other fluids. Once a young, keen reporter and probably smart as well, I’m now a mature desk jockey. In my more active years, my forte was crime reporting. Eventually through convenient deaths and retirements, I crawled my way to the top, heading up the crime desk. It kept me busy, though on more than a few occasions I recall special circumstances surrounding a crime, especially murder, stopped me from filing copy. Back then, it seemed that everyone had an urge to commit suicide rather than be simply murdered. In one case, I can remember the victim blew the back of her head off with a shotgun, some feat for a girl with short arms and big tits, but it was still suicide. Invariably the Paper would receive a ‘D’ notice stopping us from printing my scoop if I could prove suspicious circumstances. Often the notice arrived borne by an individual dressed in a menacing black SS uniform. Times have changed. These days they tend to wear civvies but they’re still the same old thugs inside. Now at my age, they’ve given me a geriatric’s job on the political desk, probably because there are no real politics to report so I can’t get the