David M Thomas - The Schneider Papers

He thought about that as he pulled open the front door of the public house. The regulars were friendly enough, but then he hadn’t been washed up on the cobbled beach opposite. It was important to Mason to live in a place with history. The appreciation of history, just like living by the sea, adds another dimension to life. This was his fervent opinion. The rest of the morning was passed in the blissful company of a pint of best bitter, his pipe, and pleasant repartee with the landlord and a few locals, who listened in to conversations and threw in a contentious comment like a hand grenade for devilment or, if controversial enough, but interestingly controversial, they would be included in the bar-side debate. Hitler, the French, the Italians, Spain and even the Olympics were discussed, albeit in a very general sort of way; some would say in a shallow, opinionated and even prejudicial sort of way. Everyone knew each other, and it was all good banter. Views expressed, views agreed and attacked, concessions given and vociferous destruction of a particular controversial or contrary opinion. The jury was not always composed of twelve good men and true at the ‘Capstan’. Mason found it cathartic: he had inadvertently joined a debating society, a therapy class, and membership is cheap, just the price of a drink. Every late morning at the ‘Capstan’. No need to reserve a place, just walk in.

He ran back, even though he was not wearing his plimsolls. He got back to the house, and stood arms on hips panting for a few seconds. He unlaced and then kicked each shoe in turn against the wall next to the front door, to jettison any clay stuck to the soles. He entered and took off his heavy brogue walking shoes in standing and hopping movements in the hall, and with a sigh he picked up the beige coloured letter and padded into the sitting room in his socks. He fell heavily into his favourite armchair facing the window. Now where was his pipe? He needed his pipe. Like a child’s comfort dummy. He held the letter at arm’s length, up towards the window, hoping to see the contents without opening it, and stared at his typed name and address. Just a one pager, he concluded from its thickness. A summons. He tore open the envelope, and indeed it was. It was an invitation to a meeting on Monday, 14th September 1936, 11.45hrs. Room 251, Adrastal House. No other information. End of message. Scrawl signature of a faceless administration officer. He stared at it. A few words with possible deadly consequences; like his call to arms nearly a year ago.

Chapter 6: Monday, 14th September 1936

Last day of the NSDP 8th Party Congress, known as the annual Nuremberg Rally. Hitler watched a Luftwaffe flyover. Rolls Royce Kestrel engines were in the air, on display.

As soon as he opened his eyes, he remembered that today was Air Ministry day. He rolled onto his back, bringing a bent arm over his now tightly closed eyes. He sighed with tiredness, but mostly in reaction to the day ahead. He yawned, rolled over and squinted at the bedside clock; it said six twenty five. The alarm had been set for seven o’clock. He reached over and disabled the fiddly alarm setting. It worked most of the time, but he had overslept on more than one occasion due to the idiosyncratic nature of the setting lever. One had to get it just right.

He shuffled over to the wardrobe and took out the grey worsted suit, and was glad that Mrs Minchin, his new and essential housekeeper, had yesterday hung two freshly laundered and ironed white and a light blue shirts next to his three-suit wardrobe collection. The tie would have to be RAF, albeit he had found the top brass at the Air Ministry pretty relaxed regarding officers – even auxiliary list officers – in civilian attire. Smart was the rule.

He had bought the Wolsey Hornet sports tourer in March, after the mission and before the court of inquiry. It had the 1.3 litre engine and bodywork by Abbey Coachbuilders for Eustace Watkins’ showrooms in Berkeley Street. He had seen the advert in ‘Autocar’ magazine:

1933 Wolsey EW sports tourer, 2/4 seater, all weather, 7,000 miles, £125

ARCHIE SIMONS & CO, 134, Tottenham Court Rd., (opposite Maples) W.1. Museum 3268–9

Mary had of course disapproved. This led to two, possibly three days of ‘no talking’, except short one-sentence essential speaking on her part. Mary thought it extravagant and impractical. He just loved driving it around the narrow country lanes. He could scare himself and other road users and ramblers as he came screeching around bends and reduced gear to accelerate through fords and across road junctions. The excitement of listening to the throb and crack sounds coming out of the exhaust pipe was truly exhilarating. It was just the ticket for someone who had not been doing much all day and with the Court of Inquiry looming ever closer.

The railway station was two miles away. He subconsciously decided to drive carefully and responsibly, as he remembered the wording in that new Highway Code pamphlet for motorists the government had introduced a few years earlier. It came with the car. It gave, as it said, sensible advice on how to drive safely. He had found it in the glove box, and assumed someone at Archie Simons & Co. had a sense of humour. He reasoned that his responsible driving mode was a reaction to the forthcoming meeting at the Air Ministry. Fine, he thought, good idea, take in the morning air and enjoy the moment in time. He was early for the nine thirty six to London, so he sat in the car in the station parking area and lit his pipe. He had never been a serious cigarette smoker. Tried it, but preferred a pipe. It made him look older, Mary had once said. He never asked whether that was a good thing or not.

At Charing Cross he did what had become a habit; walked out of the station and turned right into the abutting Charing Cross hotel. Just like the other main London railway stations the ever practical Victorians had convenient travellers hotels included as an integral part of the railway station. Up the curved staircase to the first floor he went, sometimes taking two stairs at a time, and along the corridor to the gentlemen’s washroom facility. He washed his face and hands to rid himself of traces and smell of smoke and coke of the Southern Railway Company. He combed his hair neatly backwards in two or three waves of familiar and deliberate hand and arm motions, and straightened his tie. When he was satisfied with his appearance, he perceptibly nodded his head and murmured, ‘Let’s go.’

He enjoyed walking down the Strand. The row of bespoke little shops on either side of the Savoy buildings and Shell-Mex House were always a source of pleasure to him, and he stopped to notice any new items on window display.

He crossed the street, and turned left into Drury Lane. ‘Careless Rapture’ had just opened at the Theatre Royal, he noted with disinterest, and then he remembered that Mary wanted to see the next Ivor Novello musical, whatever that was called. It was billed to start sometime in the autumn, wasn’t it? Novello seems to have a monopoly on Drury Lane theatres, he decided, before his eyes spotted a tailor shop on the other side of the road. Novello and all his artistic talents were immediately forgotten. A recce was called for, and he walked briskly across the road for a look-see.

Glancing at his watch, he headed east along Great Queen Street. First Kingsway and then Adastral House came into his line of sight. He paused outside, straightened his tie, ran his left hand over his hair, pushed the heavy front door with his right and walked inside. To his left was a reception desk with a Royal Air Force policeman looking busy shuffling papers.

He walked across the lobby towards the desk, and introduced himself. The military police receptionist confirmed that he was indeed expected. Squadron Leader Harry Mason signed the day logbook, acknowledged the direction instructions with a nod, and walked towards the row of elevators dominating the lobby. He felt apprehensive, that nervous heavy feeling in the pit of the stomach, just like the first time he flew into black dense rain clouds when he was a cadet pilot; a deliberate, and against instructor instructions, flight manoeuvre.