A Matter of Honor

“It certainly is,” said Jim. “People have no idea how many makes of mustards there are.” He paused for a second and then said, “One hundred and forty-three. There’s no doubt the Frogs make one or two good attempts, and even the Krauts don’t do too badly, but there’s still nothing to beat Colman’s. British is best after all, I always say. Probably the same in your line of country,” said Jim. “By the way, what is your line of country?”

“I’m in the army,” said Adam.

“What’s a soldier doing thumbing a lift on the borders of Switzerland?”

“Can I speak to you in confidence?” asked Adam.

“Mum’s the word,” said Jim. “We Hardcastles know how to keep our traps shut.”

In the case of Jim’s wife and daughter, Adam had no proof to the contrary. “I’m a captain in the Royal Wessex, at present on a NATO exercise,” began Adam. “I was dumped off the coast at Brindisi in Italy last Sunday with a false passport and ten English pounds. I have to be back in barracks at Aldershot by midnight Saturday.” When he saw the look of approbation appear on Jim’s face, he felt even Robin would have been proud of him. Mrs. Hardcastle turned around to take a more careful look at him.

“I knew you were an officer the moment you opened your mouth,” said Jim. “You couldn’t have fooled me. I was a sergeant in the Royal Army Service Corps in the last war myself. Doesn’t sound much, but I did my bit for the old country.” The acronym for the corps—“Rob All Serving Comrades”—flashed through Adam’s mind. “Have you seen any action yourself, Dudley?” Jim was asking.

“A little in Malaya,” said Adam.

“I missed that one,” said Jim. “After the big one was over, I went back into mustard. So where’s the problem in getting you back to England?”

“There are about eight of us trying to reach Aldershot, and a thousand Americans trying to stop us.”

“Yanks,” said Jim with disdain. “They only join wars just as we’re about to win them. All medals and glory, that lot. No, I mean is there any real problem?”

“Yes, the border officials have been briefed that eight British officers are attempting to get over into France, and the Swiss love to be the ones to pull us in. Only two officers out of twelve made it back to barracks last year,” said Adam, warming to his own theme. “Both were promoted within weeks.”

“The Swiss,” said Jim. “They’re even worse than the Americans. They don’t even join in a war—happy to fleece both sides at the same time. They won’t pick you up, lad, believe me. I’ll see to that.”

“If you can get me across the border, Mr. Hardcastle, I’m confident I will be able to make it all the way back to Aldershot.”

“Consider it done, lad.”

The fuel indicator was flashing red. “How many kilometers left when that happens?” demanded Romanov.

“About twenty, Comrade Major,” said the driver.

“Then we should still make the French border?”

“Perhaps it might be safer to stop and fill up,” suggested the driver.

“There is no time for safety,” said Romanov. “Go faster.”

“Yes, Comrade Major,” said the driver, who decided it was not the occasion to point out they would run out of petrol even more quickly if he was made to push the car to its limits.

“Why didn’t you fill the tank up this morning, you fool?” said Romanov.

“I thought I was only taking the consul to lunch at the town hall today, and I had intended to fill the tank up during my lunch hour.”

“Just pray for your sake that we reach the border,” said Romanov. “Faster.”

The Mercedes touched 140 kilometers per hour, and Romanov relaxed only when he saw a sign saying, Rappelle Douane Dix Kilomètres. A few minutes later a smile grew on his face as they passed the five-kilometer sign, and then suddenly the engine spluttered as it tried helplessly to continue turning over at the speed the pressed down accelerator was demanding. The indicator on the speedometer started to drop steadily as the engine continued to chug. The driver turned off the ignition and threw the gear lever into neutral. The sheer momentum of the heavy Mercedes took them another kilometer before the car slowed to a complete stop.

Romanov did not even look at the driver as he jumped out of the car and began running the last three kilometers toward the border.

“I’ve come up with an idea,” said Jim, as they passed a signpost warning drivers that the border was only two kilometers away.

“What’s that, sir?” asked Adam, who could now feel his shoulder beating like a steady tune hammered out by a child on a tin drum. “When it comes to the time for us to present our passports, you put your arm round Linda and start cuddling her. Leave the rest to me.”

Mrs. Hardcastle turned round and gave Adam a much closer look as Linda went scarlet. Adam looked across at the miniskirted, pink-lipped Linda and felt embarrassed by the predicament her father had placed his daughter in. “Don’t argue with me, Dudley,” continued Jim confidently. “I promise you what I have in mind will work.” Adam made no comment and neither did Linda. When they reached the Swiss border a few moments later, Adam could see that there were two checkpoints about one hundred yards apart. Drivers were avoiding one line of traffic in which a row was going on between a customs official and an irate lorry driver. Jim drove up straight behind the gesticulating Frenchman. “Give me your passport, Dudley,” he said. Adam handed over the violinist’s passport.

Why did you choose this line? Adam wanted to ask.