The Norwegian Letter

By David Wostenholme

The war to end all wars had been won but at a terrible cost, millions of men have been killed or wounded and now the victors had returned home to the country they had fought and died for only to find that that the jobs and the ‘Homes Fit For Hero's’ that they had been promised would be there’s once peace came, were a lie.
Britain and her Empire was bankrupt and the economy was broken, there were no rewards for those who had fought and bled, there were no jobs, there was only the prospect of unemployment, of starving families, of no roofs over their heads and of being put out onto the streets by the very people they had fought for.
But not all were concerned, there were those who saw this time of vulnerability and simmering unrest as a golden opportunity, a chance to destroy the old enemy, a chance for revolution, a chance for change. Spurred on by the success of the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia, and convinced that the time was ripe for a similar Communist Revolution in Britain, agitators had been at work in the major cities, the people were ready to rise, they were a powder keg waiting to explode at the smallest spark.
Large amounts of arms and ammunition had been smuggled into and distributed around the country, laid up and just waiting the word to be distributed and put in the hands of those same soldiers who had so recently returned back from the trenches.
It was beginning to appear that Britain was on the brink of being lost, and that the death and upheaval of revolution was inevitable; or was there the possibility of just one last chance that this catastrophe could be averted, if there was, then no matter what the risk, the chance had to be taken.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Wostenholme
• Release date: Nov 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310192210

Book preview

Chapter 1

For such an experienced unit to be brought back so hurriedly from the unfinished Galway job, especially when they were so close to wrapping it up, could only mean that this was a top priority operation. ‘Three’ stood unmoving deep in the damp hop smelling darkness of the narrow passage to the side of the Lamb and Flag. Enviously breathing in the beery fumes leaking through the old pub wall, he caught the odd snatch of muffled conversation or the remnants of a loud laugh, and watched. This was the fourth night that he had been out and the weather was a freezing drizzle, again. The fine grained rain being blown in blustery handfuls to be funnelled up St Giles by a gusting wintery wind cut into the man’s bones accentuating the numbing cold. But cold as he was he had nevertheless remained sharp and focused throughout the long hours of watching and waiting. There had been several people who had used the passage over the time he had been standing, but in that very English way they had totally ignored him. A sliver of silvery moonlight momentarily broke through the ominously dark heavy overcast. Tilting his wrist watch slightly forward he caught a splash of the pale watery light on the dial, twenty five minutes past midnight. The plan was for them to wait if necessary until two o’clock in the morning and then, if the target did not appear, they were to stand the operation down for the night. Pulling the rim of his trilby further down on his forehead, he pushed his gloved hands deeper into his coat pockets and tried without success not to shiver. Watching as the pub across the street had emptied out, he saw the Landlord waving the few remaining patrons off to walk unsteadily away in a beery haze of chatter and laughter. He had then seen the front doors being shut and heard the bolts being shot just before eleven o’clock. The lights inside the pub went off one by one until it was completely dark inside. He even considered the possibility that he may have lost the target, but then dismissed the thought as he had himself taken over surveillance from ‘Seven’ at the top of Beaumont Street, and had followed the target, at a distance, along the stone flagged pavement up the side of St Giles opposite the old colleges and had watched as he had opened the door and gone inside the Eagle and Child. That had been at ten minutes to nine, he had been in position since then and he felt sure that the target had not come out. And now, despite wearing a heavy dark overcoat buttoned to the neck with his hat pulled low, the cold had, as always, found its way in, seeped through the gaps to chill him to the marrow, he felt his age, his bones ached and he longed for a cigarette. He rolled his shoulders slightly and shrugged off the numbness. As a professional he knew from experience that discomfort was a part of the job, as familiar as an old friend, to be endured and put aside. He was just beginning to doubt himself enough to reconsider the possibility that the target may have left by a rear door or that he had missed him leaving by the front, when a slight metallic noise carried over from across the road. Easing back a step he stared through the silhouetted tree branches, blacker than the darkness beyond, and watched as a late walker, hunched in his clothes against the cold wet night, moved at a brisk pace past the pub, making his way towards the town.

He heard the last bolt being pulled, the pub door scrapped fully open and a square of yellow lamp light fell across the stone pavement. And yes, there he was, a young man, a boy really, he stepped out of the pub and a slight dark haired girl, wearing a yellow floral dress and wrapped in a thick crimson shawl, moved close so they could stand together on the door step. A murmur of voices and a giggle from the girl drifted across as the target took her in his arms. Standing on tip toe she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him softly on the lips. She then dropped down off her toes and he let her slip out from his embrace, stepping back she smiled and then turning went inside and pushed the protesting door closed. He heard the dull metallic click as the door lock turned and then the rasp as the top and bottom bolts were pushed into place and saw that the light had been turned off. He watched as the dark shape of thhe target took a last lingering look at the door, no doubt wishing that he did not had to leave. After waiting a few seconds he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, glanced up at the overcast, and then moved away to begin walking at a brisk pace down the street. ‘Three’ watched him go and then drew a small shielded torch from his coat pocket. He looked through the increasingly heavy rain towards where he knew ‘Two’ waited. The green glass filter was already in place over the lens. Pointing the torch along the pavement he pressed the on off button once to give the agreed signal indicating that the target was moving towards ‘Two’. He was answered from the darkness by a momentary snick of blurry green light. He waited until the sound of the targets footsteps had faded to nothing, and then taking out a pack of Senior Service, lit a cigarette, took a grateful lungful of smoke and moved stiffly away in the opposite direction.

*

‘Two’, stood waiting in total blackness, next to St Johns College, leaning against the cold stone architrave of a recessed doorway that smelt of urine and mould, he watched calmly and listening. Wrapped in a thick dark duffel donkey jacket, collar turned up and wearing gloves and a scarf, he was, at least in his own opinion, the consummate professional, at home in the loneliness of the night, comfortable in the pitch darkness. Waiting patiently he and soon heard the sound of hurrying footsteps that were strangely muted on the wet pavement. Allowing himself the ghost of a smile, he understood that someone wanted to be home, out of this raw weather, and who could blame him, he mused, all good Englishmen should be abed by this hour. Not moving his body, he swivelled his eyes to look up and down the street, there had about five minutes ago been a walker, wrapped against the weather, walking quickly home, but now he was gone. ‘Two’ and the target were alone, good, he thought, as he watched the man getting nearer, maybe tonight the waiting would be over. The man drew level and although the night was moonless and dark, he was easy to see, face wrapped in a striped college scarf and wearing a white cricket sweater, he was hugging himself, obviously trying to keep as warm and dry as possible. A snatch of tuneless whistling reached the watcher’s ears through the pouring rain as the target moved swiftly past. ‘Two’ let him move a short distance down the footpath and then, with some reluctance, not wanting to reveal his existence, took out a small torch and, clumsy in his thick gloves, shielding it in one hand, pressed the on button once with the other. A dim murmur of green light interrupting the black of the night and was immediately returned. He watched as the target disappeared splashing into the rain and the night. With a vague feeling of satisfaction at a job well done, he nodded slightly to himself, they had been right, he would go down Cornmarket.

*

As a part of the operational planning cadre, ‘Two’ and the others in the team had studied the local street maps. They had all agreed that walking along Cornmarket was the most direct and logical route back to Christ Church. But long, and at times bitter experience, had taught them that no one could ever be really sure of what anyone would actually do in a given situation, so contingency plans had to be made. After all, targets had done amazingly strange things in the past, so it was always a hard and fast rule that you checked and checked again. So, ‘Two’ remained in place, just in case the target decided to come back. Maybe he would go back to the pub and try to persuade the girl to let him stay, you never knew about these things until they actually happened. As he waited he smiling to himself and wondered how, if the target did decide to go back to Christ Church, he thought he was going to get back into the college as the doors were locked at midnight, he knew this for a fact because he had checked. Anyway he thought, giving a mental shrug, that may well be the least of his problems. ‘Two’ staying for a further five minutes, just to make doubly sure that there were not going to be any surprises, and then taking a last look up and down the deserted street, he stepped out into the rain and strolled unhurriedly across the road and into Pursey Street where he again became part of the darkness and unobserved walked quickly away.

The scouts had arrived several days before the main team and had consequently had time to identify several promising target routines. They had then passed this useful intelligence on to the operational team and left, their part in the mission complete. It had taken the team tasked with the mission fourteen days of concentrated effort to sufficiently prepare for the operation. No one had complained. They were all experienced professionals and knew the value of detailed planning. Street maps had been memorized and each team member had familiarized themselves with the area by walking amongst the few tourists still about at this time of the year, they now all knew the roads, paths and back alleys within a mile radius of the operational area. They had all also walked the possible target routes, signals and been agreed, escape plans had been tested and contingencies noted. The daylight dry run had ironed out the few remaining problems, individual movements had been finalized and sight lines establishing. The preparations had, as usual, been thorough and the operation was as precisely choreographed as a ballet. The team was ready to execute the plan by the agreed date. Other plans in different locations had been put on hold to allow for this operation to use a five day window specifically created to fit into the team schedule. Five days was the absolute limit allowable, as to use more time would risk compromising other sensitive ongoing operations. Yesterday, day four, had initially been promising as the target had appeared late in the morning and been tracked to the Bodleian library, he had emerged during the mid-afternoon and the team had started to move the operation forward only to have ‘Command’ stand them down as there were too many ‘civilians’ in the operational area.

*

Tonight was the last chance and it looked like the operation had a good chance of going ahead. The team, hidden in the darkness and the rain, watched and signalled as the target progressed from St Giles, down Magdalen Street, on past St Mary’s Church and the Martyrs Monument. The weather had continued to worsen. What had started the evening as a mild drizzle had now graduated into heavy icy rain which the strengthening wind was now driving in malevolent slanting sheets to bounce in rods off every surface. The night was now as black as the devils heart and not a soul was about. The target was running now, crossing the entrance to George Street. More signals were passed. George Street and Broad Street were confirmed as clear. A bad tempered roll of thunder grumbled in the distance followed by a flash of lightning that illuminated a sagging deep purple under belly of low clouds over towards Iffley. Rushing homeward the target entered the north end of Cornmarket.

The rainfall was now a thick dark torrent that dropped from the leaden sky leaching the dim glow from the few remaining streetlights, the susurration worked in concert with the rising storm wind producing a continuous wavering ghoul like howl. An assault of thunder claps was rolling nearer as a flash of flickering pallid light from the sheet lightening momentarily lit the ghostly faces of three men standing silently in a side alley. Ready to launch their part of the plan, they waited for the signal, to go or to stand down. Waiting opposite, on the corner of Market Street, ‘Command’ shielded his eyes from the rain and peered towards Carfax. He flashed his shielded torch once. Two dull green flashes came in return, it was the ‘all clear’, one last look left, right and behind and then two shielded flashes towards the alley.

Go.

The sloshing running footsteps were getting nearer. He was suddenly there. A hunched figure moving quickly. Once he was past the entrance to the alley, a lean black clad man stepped fluidly from the darkness and swung a heavy lead filled cosh through a vicious short arc to catch the target squarely behind the right ear, its impact made a muffled thud, audible even above the now screaming voice of the storm. The merest fraction of a second before the blow landed, some subliminal lizard part of the targets brain have caught a shadow of slight movement behind him and had instinctively, without any conscious thought, turned his head slightly away to the left and avoided what would have been a killing blow. Nevertheless the lead in the cosh transferred a tremendous amount of kinetic energy to the lower right side of the targets scull, and stunned, he folding over and the lights went out as the rain soaked stone slabs reached up to smash into his face. The thunder was now directly overhead adding further deafening noise to the fury of the storm. Lightening flickered and lit up the rain lashed figure lying inert on the pavement.

Is he dead? shouted one of the attackers over the storm, another squatted and felt his neck for a pulse.

He shook his head, No, he shouted back.

Rough hands dragged the limp body into the pitch black side alley and they were on him in an instant, using the cosh, and their heavy boots, brutally efficient, grunting with the effort. There was little time left so they worked quickly.

Finish it hissed a low urgent whisper.

The others looked on questioningly, not having heard the order through the noise of the storm. The leader drew a finger across his throat. A knife was drawn from a leather scabbard, flicking out like a snakes tongue. Recognition, his eye lids fluttered. Alongside the pain and ebbing consciousness, on some deep subliminal level there was recognition, he was going to die.

Gut the bastard a calm order called into the storm, a death sentence.

Blindly, flinging up an arm, the target dully felt the blade bite deep and glance off bone. The rain slick handle twisted and slipped from the killers grip, dropping to hit the ground with a sharp metallic clatter. An immense clap of thunder directly overhead, immediately followed by a hissing explosion of bright white light, momentarily disorientated the assault team. They froze for a second. Jolted into some semblance of consciousness by the intensity of the pain in his head and arm, the target realized that this slight respite in the attack was his one chance. He knew that he must take it or he was dead. Rolling suddenly, moving desperately towards the lesser darkness of the street, muscle memory from a short lifetime spent training and fighting, pushed him to his feet, staggering backwards, slipping on the rain slicked paving, he crashed noisily into several rubbish bins, spilling their contents out into the deserted street. A hard punch to his belly expelled the air from his lungs in a rush doubling him over to lurch drunkenly. Someone grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head to the side, You’re dead, bastard a voice hissed into his ear. Sensing the knee moving towards his face, he shot upright, back head-butting the man leaning over him, smacking his teeth together. In one swift movement the target pulling free the wafer thin razor he kept inside his belt. He pivoted, blood flying from his wounded arm, and sliced the blade across the nearest man’s face. The man screamed, automatically bringing up his hands. The target staggered forward gasping for breath, pulled the attackers head back and butted him hard on the bridge of his nose, the cartilage crunched like an axe in wood and the man went down. Lights were beginning to show in the rooms above and facing on to the street. Despite the storm, people had been woken by the noise. The attackers’ time was running out. The remaining two crouched menacingly, just out of reach, one holding a flick knife the other the cosh, ready to continue the attack. The target could only see through one eye, but his senses were quickly returning, stooping slightly, arms spread he slowly waved the razor. Lightening lit up the others faces like drowned corpses. They rushed him. The cosh swung in at the same instant that the flick knife was stabbed forward. Deflecting the blade with his wounded left arm the target slashed the razor across the cosh man’s chest sending him reeling backwards, mouth open in a scream that was lost in the storm. In the same movement he kicked the knife man hard in the crotch. The man jack knifed over to meet an upcoming knee that smashed into his face and went down limply. The target wiped a hand across his face and staggered back a step. The blow that he took to the back of his skull knocked him senseless. His legs folding as he slumped to the pavement. ‘Command’ looked down at what he hoped was the unconscious rather than dead body of the target and pushed the heavy Webley Mark VI revolver back into his coat pocket. Somewhere in the distance a Police whistle cut through the storm. He had seen enough. Go he ordered and watched as the injured members of the assault team helped each other down Cornmarket towards George Street. He then, turning his back, unhurriedly limped on his cane over to Market Street and disappeared into the storm filled night.

Chapter 2

It was another fresh, crisp morning and the air was surprisingly clear, albeit tinged with the slightly earthy but nevertheless pleasantly aromatic scent given off by the fresh and still slightly steaming horse dung left over from the early morning riders. Hogan took a deep appreciative breath and noticed that mixed with the remnants of the overnight frost it gave the air a distinctly pleasant tang. Nevertheless, and notwithstanding this momentary pleasure, he was not at all happy with the general atmospheric clarity, much preferring the more generic London overcast and the associated greys and shadow. The low angled bright winter sunshine accentuated his feelings of personal exposure, adding to his sense of unease at meeting this most valuable of contacts in such an open public place. Even with his team of watchers in place, he still felt vulnerable, rather, he thought, like fox in an open field. He grimaced as a young Nanny dressed in a grey uniform and pushing a perambulator smiled as she walked towards and then passed him. Too dammed exposed he thought to himself for the umpteenth time and shrugging bad temperedly further down into his coat to limp forward as fast as he could. He knew that some people were secretly, or perhaps not so secretly for that matter, amused by what they saw as his ‘paranoia’, but as far as he was concerned they were wrong, totally wrong, in fact he knew that they were wrong from personal experience as his paranoia had on several occasions, and in no uncertain terms, saved his bacon. No, as far as Hogan was concerned the adage ‘only the paranoid survive’ had proved fatally accurate on enough occasions for him to feel that the sniggerers could go and hang. But this time he had had to bend this most cardinal of his rules and literally ‘step into the sunshine’, there had really been no alternative as the man he was to meet had replied to the coded signal he had, rather theatrically he thought, placed in the Times personal column, by setting the date, time and place of the requested meeting in his equally coded reply. So, wrapped in a long thick Donegal tweed coat with a flat paddy cap pulled well down over his brow, a dark brown woollen scarf and sheepskin gloves, he walked slowly down the cinder path, leaning on his black ash plant cane. As he got closer to the rendezvous he further slowed his pace, surreptitiously watching the other few walkers for any sign of a threat, and feeling thankful for the reassuring bulk of his old Webley Mark VI revolver bulging in an outside coat pocket and bumped companionably against his thigh with every step. He did not like the cold either, it reminded him too much of the freezing winters he had spent in the trenches, the icy slush, frost bitten toes and frozen corpses. ‘Bastard weather’ he thought. His ears and nose felt pinched and his breath plumed out with every laboured step that he took. He eventually stopped next to a tall spare man standing at the edge of the frozen Serpentine. They stood quietly, side by side, for several seconds as the man threw the last of the pieces of bread he was taking one by one from a paper bag, onto the ice for the skating ducks. Dusting his gloved hands he turned to Hogan.

Leg still playing you up is it? the vowels were clipped, unmistakably military.

Hogan could only see a pair of black framed round spectacles sandwiched between the brim of a dark grey homburg and the top edge of a moss green woollen scarf, but the voice, although muffled was unmistakable.

This dammed weather doesn’t help, grumbled Hogan. The man crumpled the empty paper bag and dropped it into a nearby waste bin. Is that your signal? Hogan asked.

He glanced at Hogan and nodded slightly, We live in a wicked world, Major, a wicked world

Never a truer word, Colonel said Hogan slowly swivelled his head to take in the few people out walking on what was a bitterly cold morning. He pointed with his cane and they moved a few paces and sat on a nearby park bench.

The Colonel glanced at Hogan’s coat, You still carrying that bloody great gun around with you? he asked. Hogan grunted noncommittally. Reaching inside his camel hair coat the Colonel took out a leather covered silver hip flask, he unscrewed the top and handed it across. To ward off the chill he said. Hogan took it, toasted him and downed a lengthy bite, wiped the top and handed it back, the Colonel took an equally generous pull, replaced the cap and put it back in his coat.

I wanted to let you know how it went with the candidate I told you about the last time we met, said Hogan watching a man in a bowler hat walking a dachshund.

"You mean the one who is presently up at Oxford?’

Yes said Hogan continuing to watch as the dog walker waited to allow the dog to sniff around a lamp post. Reaching into his coat pocket he took out a pipe and a tobacco pouch, took off his gloves and began to fill the pipe.

Where did you find this chap? asked the Colonel watching the ducks as they walking around his feet.

Striking a match Hogan put it to the bowl and drew on the pipe stem until the tobacco was alight and drawing properly. One of my talent spotters suggested that he may have potential, said Hogan watching as the man with the dog walked towards the park gates.

Who? asked the Colonel, leaning slightly forward.

Hogan moved his head slightly so that he could watch the bowler hatted man and the Colonel at the same time and then turned his eyes to look at the man seated next to him.

I would rather you told me Major, said the Colonel, just on the off chance that I know something that you don’t, he turned his head and looked at Hogan, we are after all, old chap, two sides of the same coin, plus, if I am going to get him onto the books at MI5 in some capacity I will need to know something of his background

Hogan turned his eyes away, sat back on the bench and sucking nosily on his pipe for a while whilst watching as the man and his dog disappeared from sight outside the park, he then turned and looking out over the frozen lake. You will of course understand he said that the same rules will apply to this chap as apply to all my other successful candidates

As agreed previously, yes, said the Colonel, taking a rattan cigarette box from his coat pocket.

Very well, said Hogan and I know that I repeat myself, but I would again stress that even if he does go onto the MI5 books that he will not belong to or take orders from that or any other Government security organization

The Colonel nodded, Of course, he said, tapping the end of a cigarette against the box.

And that it is purely a matter of convenience, such that if his regiment, or whoever else, ask after him, national security can be quoted and no further information provided

Absolutely said the Colonel lighting up and taking a deep drag.

You do understand that for all intents and purposes he will disappear said Hogan.

My dear chap, said the Colonel, a slight note of exasperation creeping into his voice, we’ve been through this several times before, you know that I know the score

Hogan sat quietly drawing on his pipe for a few seconds and after taking a further look around, came to a decision and leaned in closer to the other man. Very well’, he said, his voice low, the person who contacted me is a trusted friend, a Brother at St Georges College in Mussoorie, he suggested that I take a look at one of their pupils, a chap by the name of Cameron Skinner"

The Colonel nodded slightly Yes he said, I know of it, run by Irish monks, Northern India, I seem to remember Craddock went there

Yes, said Hogan none committedly, I’ve know the Skinners of old, but not this boy, you may remember that I had some dealings with his cousin at Ypres

The Colonel shivered slightly with the cold, A bad business he muttered.

Hogan glanced away, momentarily distracted, and then turning back carried on talking I’ve been followed his progress for around five years now and he appears to have some character, he let out a short bark that passed for a laugh, rather like that boy out of the Kipling book, I forget his name now

The Colonel raised a gloved hand, Kim, or Tim or something like that he said.

Yes, that’s it, well like him, he keeps buggering off and going native during the breaks, keeps getting into all sorts of scrapes, so much so that I asked Stephenson to have someone keep an eye on him when he was out and about, Hogan emitted another short guttural laugh, It’s a good job I did as on one of those jaunts he killed a Pathan in a fight over a woman

Good grief, how old was he? asked the Colonel.

Sixteen, Hogan glanced across at the other man, according to Stephenson’s chap he cut the Pathans throat and walked away as cool as you like

The Colonel looked across at him sceptically Officer and gentleman material? he asked.

Bugger that, old man said Hogan, we need people who can look after themselves

So?

When I found out that he was coming up to Christ Church I decided to find out if there was any substance in the potential Hogan pursed his lips.

The Colonel looked across at him, Did you have to nearly kill him in the process? he asked coldly. Hogan sat smoking his pipe watching the ducks. Good grief man it was all over the Oxford Mail, a good job that the local Constabulary put it down to a town and gown robbery, gypsies they suggested as I remember

Hogan looked away I had to know, he said flatly Our work is too serious, I had to be sure, one way or the other

The Colonel raised a hand and used his fingers to count, Several broken ribs, severe external and internal bruising, a badly gashed arm requiring seventeen stiches, concussion from a blow to the head, a broken jaw, severe blood loss, he then raised a quizzical eyebrow, I’m bloody glad that I’m not one of your candidates!

Yes well replied Hogan defensively he got taken to the Radcliffe anyway The Colonel grunted his disapproval. Hogan inspected the glowing pipe bowl, It’s a wonder he said, what you can do if you borrow a white coat and a stethoscope he dusted his knee, so I did, and had a look at him the next day

And?

Well said Hogan, I have to say that he did look rather bedraggled, but he’s an essentially robust young man, and proved very resilient, he looked for a few seconds at the ground between his feet, I understand that he was up and about and back at his college in a couple of weeks

Five actually the Colonel looked at him with some irony, flicking his cigarette end at one of the ducks.

Be that as it may, said Hogan flatly, he’s one of the very few who is acceptable

What have The Society to say about this?

Hogan glanced across, he sometimes thought that the Colonel knew too much about Hogan’s business.

They agree with my recommendation he said tersely

So?

I’ve had a quiet word with Braithwaite, the Dean at Christ Church, said Hogan, he says Skinners a good boxing blue, fairly bright, well-bred but insubordinate and not a man you would leave your wife or daughter with for any length of time He put his thumb over the pipe bowl, took several puffs and then let out a cloud of pungent smoke. He also says that he is well on the way to getting an upper second possible a first in Classics, all being well he will graduate this June, he will then return to India for some leave Hogan watched the ducks for a second.

Will he go to Sandhurst? asked the Colonel.

Yes said Hogan, I understand that he is due to join the January intake for the Commissioning Course as part of this new Indianisation initiative, following which he will be commissioned as a Cornet into the 1st Duke of York’s Own Lancers

Skinners Horse said the Colonel appreciatively, the old Yellow Boys, a dammed fine pedigree

Yes, said Hogan, I’ve been in contact with Johnson, he’s the C.O. out in Sialkot and tried to get him to agree that when young Skinner is commissioned that rather than joining the regiment he go on special extra regimental deployment with the security services, he dusted his knee absentmindedly, I must say that he was very unhappy at losing one of his own, so much so that I had to have Lord Erwin nudge him in the right direction

Sorted then? asked the Colonel, Does Skinner know?

Not yet, I’ll get together with him towards the end of his time at Sandhurst

Very well, let me know when you would like to have the paperwork prepared

Hogan struggled to his feet and the Colonel also rose. He put out his hand and shook the Colonels hand, Until next time he said, the Colonel grunted, nodded and walked away. Hogan watched as Colonel Claude Dansey walked briskly towards the park gates. He stood for a moment and then tapped out the left over doddle of tobacco from his pipe on the seat frame and moved off in the opposite direction.

Chapter 3

A sharp double tap on the door brought him back from his memories. He glanced into the small mirror mounted on the side wall and checked his appearance, for although he was theoretically still a serving officer, it was something of a rarity for him to wear his uniform, and that, along with the distant sound of a Drill Sergeant and the accompanying crunch of hobnailed army boots had taken him back to a time and place that he would have preferred to have forgotten, but which he knew he never would. Turning his head and gazing for a second out of the sash window, he took a deep breath and then pulling out his old gold half hunter, flipped open the cover, it was five minutes to two. Enter! he called. The door opened and a man dressed in a light khaki uniform stepped briskly inside the room and shut the door, about turned, stepped forward, holding his round brimless hat under his left arm, and stood rigidly at attention, the regulation eighteen inches away from the desk at which the only other occupant in the room sat. He saluted and stood silently staring at the wall six inches above the Majors head. It was not whom the Major had expected, he took in the three chevrons on the soldiers sleeve. Sergeant, good afternoon to you he said good naturedly, his Dublin accent rounding and softening the vowels, I think however that you have made a mistake, I suspect that you have the wrong room as I’m expecting someone else at this time, he gestured towards the door, "so if you would be so kind