Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

"Stan Russell. Good heavens, are you the company sergeant major now? You were only a lance corporal when—"

"I am, sir," Stan said. His voice dropped to a whisper. "And I'll see to it that you don't get the same treatment as the others, me old mate."

"No, you'd better not do that, Stan. I need worse than the same treatment," said Charlie, placing both hands on his stomach.

Although the senior NCOs were gentler on Charlie than they were on the raw recruits, he still found the first week of basic training a painful reminder of how little exercise he had done over the previous twenty years. When he became hungry he quickly discovered that what the NAAFI had to offer could hardly be described as appetizing, and trying to get to sleep each night on a bed of unrelenting springs held together by a two-inch horsehair mattress made him less than delighted with Herr Hitler.

By the end of the second week Charlie was made up to corporal and told that if he wanted to stay on in Cardiff as an instructor they would immediately commission him as a training officer, with the rank of captain.

"The Germans are expected in Cardiff, are they, boyo?" asked Charlie. "I had no idea they played rugby football."

His exact words on the subject were relayed back to the commanding officer, so Charlie continued as a corporal, completing his basic training. By the eighth week he had been promoted to sergeant and given his own platoon to knock into shape, ready for wherever it was they were going to be sent. From that moment on there wasn't a competition, from the rifle range to the boxing ring, that his men were allowed to lose, and "Trumper's Terriers" set the standard for the rest of the battalion for the remaining four weeks.

With only ten days left before they completed their training, Stan Russell informed Charlie that the battalion was destined for Africa, where they would join Wavell in the desert. Charlie was delighted by the news, as he had long admired the reputation of the "poet general."

Sergeant Trumper spent most of that final week helping his lads write letters to their families and girlfriends. He didn't intend to put pen to paper himself until the last moment. With a week to go he admitted to Stan that he wasn't ready to take on the Germans in anything much more than a verbal bathe.

He was in the middle of a Bren demonstration with his platoon, explaining cocking and reloading, when a red-faced lieutenant came running up.

"Trumper."

"Sir," said Charlie, leaping to attention.

"The commanding officer wants to see you immediately."

"Yes, sir," said Charlie. He instructed his corporal to carry on with the lesson and then chased after the lieutenant.

"Why are we running so fast?" asked Charlie.

"Because the commanding officer was running when he came looking for me."

"Then it has to be at least high treason," said Charlie.

"Heaven knows what it is, Sergeant, but you'll find out soon enough," said the lieutenant, as they arrived outside the CO's door. The lieutenant, closely followed by Charlie, entered the colonel's office without knocking.

"Sergeant Trumper, 7312087, reporting—"

"You can cut all that bullshit out, Trumper," said the colonel, as Charlie watched the commanding officer pacing up and down, slapping his side with a swagger stick. "My car is waiting for you at the gate. You are to go straight to London."

"London, sir?"

"Yes, Trumper, London. Mr. Churchill's just been on the blower. Wants to see you soonest."

The colonel's driver did everything in his power to get Sergeant Trumper to London as quickly as possible. He pressed his foot to the floor again and again as he tried to keep the speedometer above eighty. However, as they were continually held up en route by convoys of troops, transportation lorries, and even at one point Warrior tanks, the task was daunting. When Charlie finally reached Chiswick on the outskirts of London they were then faced with the blackout, followed by an air raid, followed by the all-clear, followed by countless more roadblocks all the way to Downing Street.

Despite having six hours to ponder as to why Mr. Churchill could possibly want to see him, when the car came to a halt outside Number 10 Charlie was no nearer a conclusion than he had been when he left the barracks at Cardiff earlier that afternoon.

When he explained to the policeman on the door who he was, the constable checked his clipboard, then gave a sharp rap on the brass knocker before inviting Sergeant Trumper to step into the hall. Charlie's first reaction on being inside Number 10 was surprise at discovering how small the house was compared with Daphne's home in Eaton Square.

A young Wren officer came forward to greet the middle-aged sergeant before ushering him through to an anteroom.

"The Prime Minister has the American ambassador with him at the moment," she explained. "But he doesn't expect his meeting with Mr. Kennedy to last much longer."

"Thank you," said Charlie.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you." Charlie was too nervous to think about drinking tea. As she closed the door, he picked up a copy of Lilliput from a side table and leafed through the pages, but didn't attempt to take in the words.

After he had thumbed through every magazine on the table—and they were even more out of date at Number 10 than at his dentist—he began to take an interest in the pictures on the wall. Wellington, Palmerston and Disraeli: all inferior portraits that Becky would not have bothered to offer for sale at Number 1. Becky. Good heavens, he thought, she doesn't even know I'm in London. He stared at the telephone that rested on the sideboard aware that he couldn't possibly call her from Number 10. In frustration he began to pace round the room feeling like a patient waiting for the doctor to tell him if the diagnosis was terminal. Suddenly the door swung open and the Wren reappeared.

"The Prime Minister will see you now, Mr. Trumper," she said, then proceeded to lead him up a narrow staircase, past the framed photographs of former prime ministers. By the time he reached Churchill he found himself on the landing facing a man of five feet nine inches in height who stood, arms on hips, legs apart, staring defiantly at him.

"Trumper," said Churchill, thrusting out his hand. "Good of you to come at such short notice. Hope I didn't tear you away from anything important."

Just a Bren lesson, thought Charlie, but decided not to mention the fact as he followed the shambling figure through to his study. Churchill waved his guest into a comfortable winged chair near a roaring fire; Charlie looked at the burning logs and remembered the Prime Minister's strictures to the nation on wasting coal.

"You must be wondering what this is all about," the Prime Minister said, as he lit up a cigar and opened a file that was resting on his knee. He started to read.

"Yes, sir," said Charlie, but his reply failed to elicit any explanation. Churchill continued to read from the copious notes in front of him.

"I see we have something in common."

"We do, Prime Minister?"

"We both served in the Great War."

"The war to end all wars."

"Yes, wrong again, wasn't he?" said Churchill. "But then he was a politician." The Prime Minister chuckled before continuing to read from the files. Suddenly he looked up. "However, we both have a far more important role to play in this war, Trumper, and I can't waste your time on teaching recruits Bren lessons in Cardiff."

The damned man knew all along, thought Charlie.

"When a nation is at war, Trumper," said the Prime Minister, closing the file, "people imagine victory will be guaranteed so long as we have more troops and better equipment than the enemy. But battles can be lost or won by something that the generals in the field have no control over. A little cog that stops the wheels going round smoothly. Only today I've had to set up a new department in the War Office to deal with code-breaking. I've stolen the two best professors they have at Cambridge, along with their assistants, to help solve the problem. Invaluable cogs, Trumper."