The Fourth Estate

The following morning, Colonel Oakshott received authority to allow Captain Armstrong to visit an internment camp in Britain at any time during the next month. “But they have restricted you to Bridgend,” he added.

“I quite understand,” said Armstrong.

“And they have also made it clear,” continued the colonel, reading from a memo pad on the desk in front of him, “that you cannot interview more than three prisoners, and that none of them may be above the rank of colonel—strict orders from Security.”

“I’m sure I can manage despite those limitations,” said Armstrong.

“Let’s hope this all proves worthwhile, Dick. I still have my doubts, you know.”

“I hope to prove you wrong, sir.”

Once Armstrong had returned to his office, he asked Sally to sort out his travel arrangements.

“When do you want to go?” she asked.

“Tomorrow,” he replied.

“Silly question,” she said.

Sally got him on a flight to London the next day, after a general had canceled at the last moment. She also arranged for him to be met by a car and driver who would take him straight to Wales.

“But captains aren’t entitled to a car and driver,” he said when Sally handed over his travel documents.

“They are if the brigadier wants his daughter’s photo on the front page of Der Telegraf when she visits Berlin next month.”

“Why should he want that?” said Armstrong.

“My bet is that he can’t get her married off in England,” said Sally. “And as I’ve discovered, anything in a skirt is jumped on over here.”

Armstrong laughed. “If I were paying you, Sally, you’d get a rise. Meanwhile, keep me informed on anything else you find out about Lauber, and again, I mean anything.”

Over dinner that night, Dick told Charlotte that one of the reasons he was going to Britain was to see if he could find a job once his demob paper had been processed. Although she forced a smile, lately she wasn’t always sure that he was telling her the whole story. If she ever pressed him, he invariably hid behind the words “top secret,” and tapped his nose with his forefinger, just the way he had seen Colonel Oakshott do.

* * *

Private Benson dropped him at the airport the following morning. A voice came over the Tannoy in the departure lounge and announced: “Would Captain Armstrong please report to the nearest military phone before he boards the plane.” Armstrong would have taken the call, if his plane hadn’t already been taxiing down the runway.

When he landed in London three hours later, Armstrong marched across the tarmac toward a corporal leaning against a shiny black Austin and holding a placard with the name “Captain Armstrong” printed on it. The corporal sprang to attention and saluted the moment he spo

tted the officer advancing toward him.

“I need to be driven to Bridgend immediately,” he said, before the man had a chance to open his mouth. They headed down the A40, and Armstrong dozed off within minutes. He didn’t wake until the corporal said, “Only a couple more miles and we’ll be there, sir.”

When they drove up to the camp, memories flooded back of his own internment in Liverpool. But this time when the car passed through the gates, the guards sprang to attention and saluted. The corporal brought the Austin to a halt outside the commandant’s office.

As he walked in, a captain rose from behind a desk to greet him. “Roach,” he said. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He thrust out his hand and Armstrong shook it. Captain Roach displayed no medals on his uniform, and looked as if he’d never even crossed the Channel on a day trip, let alone come in contact with the enemy. “No one has actually explained to me how I can help you,” he said as he ushered Armstrong toward a comfortable chair by the fire.

“’need to see a list of all the prisoners detailed to this camp,” said Armstrong, without wasting any time on banalities. “I intend to interview three of them for a report I’m preparing for the Control Commission in Berlin.”

“That’s easy enough,” said the captain. “But why did they choose Bridgend? Most of the Nazi generals are locked up in Yorkshire.”

“I’m aware of that,” said Armstrong, “but I wasn’t given a lot of choice.”

“Fair enough. Now, do you have any idea what type of person you want to interview, or shall I just pick a few out at random?” Captain Roach handed over a clipboard, and Armstrong quickly ran his finger down the list of typed names. He smiled. “I’ll see one corporal, one lieutenant and one major,” he said, putting a cross by three names. He handed the clipboard back to the captain.

Roach studied his selection. “The first two will be easy enough,” he said. “But I’m afraid you won’t be able to interview Major Lauber.”

“I have the full authority of…”