Scruffy - A Diversion Read online

One of the Artillerymen put his arm around the Gunner’s shoulder and said, “Don’t take it so ’ard, pal, there must be plenty more where they came from.”

  One of the sailors said, “That’s tough, chum,” and the other one agreed, “Yeah, that’s tough.”

  Alfonso T. Ramirez drained his glass of beer and set it back upon the bar soundlessly. He stood there regarding it for a moment and then as quietly left. No one saw him go, or would have cared if they had, which was an error. For Mr. Ramirez had been struck with an idea and he was hastening home as quickly as he could to seek the privacy of his four walls and have it out to look at.

  The fact that he wished to be in his room with the door securely locked before entertaining the thought which had invaded his mind in the Admiral Nelson was the measure of the courage of Mr. Ramirez, or rather total lack of it. He was a physical and moral coward, fearing death, pain, disgrace, punishment, all of the deterrents against wrong-doing, yet at the same time he enjoyed the greatest fantasies and illusions of grandeur and derring-do.

  In his secret soul he was a dedicated Nazi and potential traitor by virtue of his hatred of the British, fanned by such unfortunate incidents as have been noted. In his mind’s eye he saw the Knight’s Cross being pinned on his breast by Hitler himself for some glorious and definitive exploit such as blowing up the ammunition dump at Gibraltar; sabotaging the water supply; discovering and giving away the secret pathway up which, should war be declared, the Germans could enter and overwhelm the Rock.

  That same imagination, however, was equally capable of projecting another film upon the same screen, showing Alfonso T. Ramirez poised by the trap-door with a rope around his neck, or with his back to a wall facing a British firing squad for espionage or treason during wartime. So terrifying were these rushes that Ramirez didn’t so much as dare to fiddle with a prism in the optical shop of the Naval Yard where he worked. But ever since the declaration of war, burning with resentment against the British, he had been nursing the ambition to have some small share in the eventual triumph of the master race, to perform some deed or exploit which would aid in the downfall of the English.

  There was a German Consulate in Algeciras, over-staffed to the point of absurdity, and everyone in Gibraltar knew that this was the operating base of the German Gestapo and Intelligence Service, and it was known as well that there must unquestionably be spies among the workmen who crossed the line every day. At one time Ramirez had entertained the idea of nipping across the border to that same German Consulate and offering his services, his value being that he had access to at least one sensitive spot in the scheme of British operations and defence, namely the Navy Yard.

  His cowardice and his shrewdness had combined to prevent him from carrying out any project so rash. For he was clever enough to know that if a spy can be rewarded, he can also be blackmailed by his masters, and once committed can be ordered or compelled to undertake all kinds of hazardous operations. He saw himself being required to steal plans, plant bombs, even collaborate perhaps in assassinations. He had no stomach for any of this. He was terrified of weapons and even more fearful of being caught.

  And now the idea which had presented itself to him appeared to be foolproof on all counts, and effective as well. Nevertheless he examined it first carefully from all angles.

  It was that he would nominate himself as a secret spy and saboteur for the Third Reich. No one would ever know it but himself. He would inflict serious damage upon the British position in Gibraltar by dealing a heavy blow to their morale, and one which might well lead, or certainly contribute in the end, to the loss of the position.

  Gunner Lovejoy had said that the reason for the careful maintenance of the ape packs on the Rock by the Army was because of their being coupled with the legend and superstition that if ever the apes should leave Gibraltar the British would be driven from the Rock. If the Germans could be apprised that attrition had begun in the ape pack and that it had been reduced by half, they could use it for propaganda purposes and stir up unrest and discontent among both the civilian and military population of this key Bastion, an unrest which might lead to fear, panic and eventually defeat. History was full of instances where battles had been won or lost, or the tide of events turned by omens, superstition, or unreasoning fear induced by religious beliefs.

  How to transmit this information without endangering his own watertight security as a loyal Gibraltarian permitted access to naval secrets or destroying his own incognito? The answer was simple. An anonymous letter. There wasn’t even any danger of such a document being found upon his person since he would not write it until he was safely on Spanish soil. There were no restrictions confining the civilian population of Gibraltar to the Rock. Equipped with proper passes and identification, they could cross over into Spain as they wished, provided they returned before the border was closed at night. He had only then, some Sunday when it was customary for Gibraltarians to wish to leave the confines of their narrow community for a bit of leg-stretching in the country, to cross over, write his letter either in La Linea or Algeciras, post it and return. There was no possible way it could be traced to him.

  Ramirez hugged to himself the perfection of his scheme. He determined to put it into effect at once.

  Had Dr. Hans Hott, the German Consul at Algeciras, been the genuine article he might have dropped the anonymous letter he had just read into the waste-paper basket as another example of the crank mail that passes over every diplomat’s desk. He was, however, not a Consul at all, but a highly educated and intelligent member of the German espionage system. He therefore perused the letter a second time, more carefully. It read as follows, in printed letters:

  DR. HANS HOTT, GERMAN CONSULATE, ALGECIRAS.

  HEIL HITLER:

  SOMETHING YOU SHOULD KNOW. THE APES ON THE ROCK ARE DYING. ONLY HALF ARE LEFT. YOU SHOULD MAKE THIS PUBLIC. THE BRITISH BELIEVE IF THE APES DIE OFF FROM THE ROCK THEY WILL BE DEFEATED AND HAVE TO GO. THERE ARE ONLY THIRTEEN LEFT OF THE QUEEN’S GATE PACK AND TWELVE OF THE MIDDLE HILL. IF I HAVE ANY FURTHER NEWS I WILL WRITE AGAIN. YOU MAY TRUST ME. I AM OF THE BLOOD. HEIL HITLER.

  The German smiled to himself. Obviously the contents of the letter were to be trusted, and likewise could be easily checked. He wondered why no one had made use of this before, and it struck him quite simply that probably no one had thought of it. It was small, seemingly unimportant items such as these that sometimes could be pyramided into great results. He reached for the telephone to put the machinery in motion.

  Gloomy Gustave came on from the German broadcasting station somewhere in Spain immediately after the six o’clock news. Most of Gibraltar listened to him, the British for laughs or the cathartic effect of his irritating voice upon their livers and systems, and the Gibraltarians from their not too ill-founded suspicions that they might not be getting all the news from the British side. Gloomy Gustave spoke in English in a voice that was oiled and buttered with self-satisfaction, righteousness and doom. His accent was that of the German who has learned English but never mastered it, and its perfection was a further irritant to which the listeners on the Rock looked forward each evening with some enjoyment.

  However, the broadcast of Gloomy Gustave made a few days after the anonymous letter had arrived at the desk of Consul Hott brought neither pleasure nor entertainment to the auditors as the greasy voice emerged from their wireless sets.

  “Are the days of the British on Gibraltar numbered? Are all you Gibraltarians now groaning under the lash of the perfidious English soon to be free of the imperialist tyrant? If the deaths that have recently occurred among the Barbary apes of Gibraltar may be taken as a sign, that day is not far off.”

  In their quarters where Felicity was clattering in the kitchen and Tim sipping the thimbleful of gin and Italian that was his nightly ration, the Captain, who had been only half-listening, brought his head up with a snap and called, “Hoy, love! Hold it for a sec! You’d better come out and hear this.”

  In his office Major McPhers
on, who listened nightly with ears of an Intelligence officer, got up from his desk and went over and stood in front of his wireless set to be sure to miss nothing.

  In the Admiral Nelson, Alfonso Treugang Ramirez was conscious for a moment of a million butterflies struggling within his stomach and a feeling of sudden panic that the next moment the police or security forces would come bursting in through the door and lay violent hands upon him. Lovejoy, who had pricked up his ears at the word apes, had not yet connected it with the wireless box and was looking about him as though someone of those there in the bar had mentioned it.

  And in far-off London Major Clyde, the Intelligence officer charged with overall responsibility for Gibraltar and Malta and who listened nightly to the German broadcasts from the monitoring room of the B.B.C., frowned and settled the earphones on his head-set more securely.

  Gustave continued: “As is well known on Gibraltar, a legend that when the last of the Barbary apes leaves the Rock the British will be driven from Gibraltar is based upon more than mere superstition, and the British have maintained these monkeys at considerable expense to avoid the fulfilment of this prophecy, even going so far as to appoint an officer of the Royal Artillery to look after their welfare. The British will, of course, deny this, but it can now be revealed that in recent weeks the number of both the ape packs has been reduced by half. There are only thirteen left in the famous Queen’s Gate pack and the Middle Hill group is down to twelve. The German and Italian air and naval blockade of Gibraltar has been successful and many of the apes have succumbed to malnutrition and exposure to diseases resulting from the fact that there is insufficient food.

  “At this rate it will not be long before there will be no more apes remaining and freedom-loving Gibraltarians will rejoice with their Spanish brothers that the oppression of British rule is drawing to an end.”

  Captain Timothy Bailey swore helplessly in front of his wireless set. “That’s exactly what I was working to prevent! Oh, damn their stupidity.”

  Felicity looked anxiously from the set to her husband as Gustave turned to his nightly crowing about German successes. “But do you suppose it’s true, Tim?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so. I met Lovejoy in town the other day. He was blubbering. He’d just lost Mona and Tess. Damn near had me going too. Do you remember them?”

  “The sweet ones that we used to cuddle?” Felicity asked. She looked at her husband with sudden sympathy and cried, “Oh dear, Tim, is this awful for you? You had tried so hard.”

  He looked down at her, as always with fresh enchantment at her warmth and understanding. “It will be damned awkward if it goes on,” he replied. “I wonder what McPherson is thinking?”

  What Major McPherson was thinking standing in front of his set in his office was not printable. Out of the blue a new and serious Intelligence burden had been landed upon his shoulders. In the first place swamped by security problems, most of them unsolvable, he had given no thought to the apes for months, had not yet known of their situation. And in the second, even had he known it, it would not have dawned upon him that the Germans could so quickly turn this information into a damaging and dangerous bit of propaganda. In so confined a community as the Rock spirit and morale, although intangible, were nevertheless as vulnerable and perilous as the high explosives in the magazines.

  In the pub Gunner Lovejoy stared at the old, battered wireless box over the bar with an expression of mingled surprise and distaste upon his leathery countenance. “Gord!” he exclaimed, “The barstids. However did that blighter find that out?”

  Ramirez, his momentary panic dispelled and secure that no one would ever penetrate his dark secret, said, “That’s terrible for you, Gunner. Can I buy another beer?”

  In London Major Clyde had returned to his office and was re-reading a transcript of the broadcast and pulling at his lower lip. Like Captain Bailey’s, his mind was projecting itself to the future, except more quickly and subtly, with more corners cut. He also travelled further along the paths of imagination by which some men are able to chart catastrophe and breakdown, starting with no more than a single grain of sand introduced into the machinery.

  He, in his turn, picked up the telephone. The number he called was a very private one and the person who answered most highly placed. The Major spoke to him using his first name, which was surprising for a mere Major, but less so considering the weight he pulled and the respect in which he was held.

  “So I think I’d better get out there, John, don’t you?” Major Clyde concluded.

  “Yes, I do, Bill, I quite agree with you.”

  “Will you authorize what is necessary?”

  “Yes. See Peter about the flight out. Do you want the P.M. alerted?”

  “Not yet, until after I’ve had a dekko. I’ll be off in the morning.”

  1 2

  Major Clyde Pays Some Visits

  Major McPherson, the Senior Security Officer on the Rock, looked up as the door to his office opened and closed with lightning rapidity and recognized the tall stooped figure of Major William Clyde.

  A look of enormous relief spread across McPherson’s broad Scots countenance. A thick, florid, capable man, he was a conscientious Intelligence officer, staggered by but not panicked at the enormity of the security job with which they had to cope. He always welcomed the visits of Major Clyde who was helping to bring about some order out of the security tangle by facing up to what could not be helped or improved and concentrating on areas where matters could be mended.

  For one thing Clyde had succeeded in ending the nightmare of a Trojan Horse invasion of the Rock. There was nothing to be done about the 10,000 Spanish workmen who crossed over into Gibraltar each morning. Without them not a wheel or a lathe on the Rock would have turned. The Fortress would have run down like an unwound clock. But he had put a stop to their crossing the line seated in the buses coming from La Linea and Algeciras. Now they arrived at the narrow neck of land at the entrance to Gibraltar where the Customs Police and military control posts were set up, disembarked, marched over the line holding their passes under the scrutiny of the Army, climbed into a fleet of empty charabancs waiting on the other side and were carried to their work, thus effectively countering any scheme to rush half a division of troops disguised as workmen into the Fortress.

  Now McPherson said, “By God, Slinker, I’m glad to see you. I thought this would bring you back, but not quite that quickly. What did you do, dematerialize?”

  “Apes,” said Major Clyde, “seeping apes! And at my age! I thought I was all through with them the last time Nanny took me to the Zoo. Here we are losing the war in a nice, quiet, gentlemanly manner and then this has to happen. Who’s the clot in charge of those brutes? Aren’t you supposed to have something called an O.I.C. Apes? There’s hell to play at Whitehall over this. The Spaniards are teetering on the brink while our chaps in Madrid are working their heads off to hold them back. It just wants one good push for Franco to take the plunge. Something as silly as this could give it to him.” He went over to a chair and collapsed his frame into it and repeated, “Seeping apes!”

  “Where do you want me to begin?” McPherson asked.

  Clyde said morosely, “The usual place.”

  McPherson reflected and said, “I’d say it began when they sacked Tim Bailey.”

  “Bailey, who’s he?”

  “He was the O.I.C. Apes here when the war started, and a damned good one. Conscientious bloke. Made a sort of a hobby of it, he and Lovejoy.”

  “Lovejoy?”

  “Keeper fellow. Gunner in charge. Half an ape himself. They love him. Tim got on the Brig’s nerves.”

  “How?”

  “Worrying him about the apes. Wanting shelters and cages built. More food. Took the job seriously. Became the Rock bore on the subject.”

  “Sounds as though he might have some sense.”

  “Who?”

  “This Bailey fellow. Saw this coming, didn’t he?”

  Major McPhe
rson nodded. “Actually he did. He used to deafen my ears with it when nobody else would listen. Well then there was this incident at the General Sir George Eliott celebration, your do. Someone picked the occasion to play a practical joke.”

  Major Clyde said, “I remember something, what was it—?”

  Major McPherson gave him the details, concluding—“The C.R.A. made Bailey responsible, sacked him and put in this dim bulb Barton with instructions for him to keep away from the apes. So nobody’s bothered.” He added, “We have had other things on our mind.”

  “I suppose you had,” concurred Clyde. “Did you ever turn up the joker?”

  “No. The firework could have come from anywhere. We were working on it when the Brigadier called off the hunt. Anyway he’d had Bailey’s head which he’d been wanting, and that was that.”

  Clyde reflected, tugging at his lower lip. He said, “It wasn’t a joke, but it seems nevertheless to have been damn practical. Get me the files on everyone concerned and then I think I might have a word with Captain Bailey.”

  “You’ll find him occupying a dog-house down near Europa Point, he and his wife.”

  Major Clyde raised an eyebrow, “Oh, married too?”

  “Wife’s a Wren Officer, Admiral French’s daughter.”

  The eyebrows went even higher. “Oh,” he said, “the man must have something. I hear she’s a nice girl.”

  The entrance of Major William Clyde into the family circle of the Baileys, Captain, R.A., and ex-O.I.C. Apes, and Second Officer W.R.N.S. Felicity, could not have been more dramatic had it been staged by a director of Wagnerian opera at Bayreuth.

  It was night and the Rock was having one of its occasional tropic-like thunderstorms, in themselves stagy affairs with fork lightning, torrents of rain, high wind and utterly appalling explosions of thunder. It was the kind of night which made Tim groan in his heart for his lost apes, the kind of night when they should have been shut away, dry and safe in proper shelters. Sometimes these storms were followed by cold Levanter. Thinking of the effect upon the drenched monkeys made him shudder.