A spotty, twenty-two-year-old technician with glasses showed Harry into the small windowless projection room. A twin-reel projector mounted on a stand threw a white square of light onto a wall-mounted screen fifteen feet away, three rows of empty chairs on either side of the projector affording the audience an uninterrupted view.
He’d only been back in the building ten minutes when Laughton’s replacement had summoned him into his office to tell him of the changes that had occurred while he’d been “on leave”. Investigations were ongoing, he’d been told by Admiral Sir Aynsley Webb KCB, a former navy supremo and acting head of department, whose retirement to Eastbourne had been temporarily postponed while the department’s modus operandi and security were reviewed and assessed by internal affairs.
Admiral Webb’s demeanour had scarcely concealed his irritation at this unexpected posting following the sudden retirement of Commander Laughton and offered up his own selfless devotion to duty as an example everyone should follow, which Harry of course had concurred graciously.
“You’re in the clear, Male,” he’d declared in portentous manner. “Never in any doubt as far as I was concerned, once I’d read the files. I mean, what sort of chap is going to take the trouble to set up an assassination in his own living room? It’s just not conceivable.” Harry had quickly concluded that Admiral Webb needed little encouragement in portraying himself as an expert in matters of intelligence, even though his initial assessment amounted to no more than a statement of the bleeding obvious.
“No, sir,” Harry had replied.
“Trouble with you spook chappies is you overthink it, can’t see the wood for the trees, try to complicate matters when the answer’s right there in front of your face,” he’d puffed.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Not getting at you, Male.”
“No, sir.”
“I think you did your best in very difficult circumstances.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I mean, you can’t expect a mere analyst to cope in a situation like that. Lamb to the slaughter, that’s what I call it.” Harry the lamb hadn’t been sure how to respond to the combination of sympathy and belittlement implicit in Webb’s last pronouncement but it hardly mattered as the admiral had been in full flight. “Bergmann was always going to be a target, given his profile. Should have kept him under armed guard.”
“He was, sir.”
“Well, it wasn’t good enough, was it?”
“No, sir. Sorry sir.”
“Not getting at you, Male,” he’d grumbled again.
“No, sir.”
Harry had had an irresistible urge to look at his watch. The conversation, if that’s what it was, had been at risk of going round in circles. Webb didn’t want to be here, that was clear, but Harry had no time to listen to the old fart moaning on about the perceived inadequacies of others. The sooner he was pensioned off to Eastbourne the better.
“Still haven’t found the blighter on the inside, either.”
“No, sir.”
“Any ideas, Male?”
Harry had ideas. They were looking in the wrong place. They were looking for some low-level flunkey who either needed cash for a gambling problem or on whom the enemy had some serious dirt, when, given the profile of the target, this went much higher up the pay grade.
“No, sir.”
“Well, keep an eye open.”
“Yes, sir.” Keep an eye open?
Every member of the department had been interviewed, and none had mysteriously disappeared or acted strangely before or after Bergmann had been shot. There was no way a mole in their own department could tough this one out.
“Look out for strange behaviour. You know what I mean.” Webb had waved a hand in the air, dismissing the subject as if he’d been wafting away a nasty smell.
“Yes, sir.”
“Now. I understand you’re the man to identify the location on this film Bergmann smuggled out.”
“Yes, sir. I know the village where the incident is alleged to have taken place.”
Webb had put on his glasses and consulted some notes. “Santa Cristina De Lago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what were you doing there?”
Harry blinked. What do you think I was doing there, you pompous old git? “I thought I’d take my platoon to the local ristorante where I heard the tortellini was particularly good. Sir.”
He tried to keep his voice neutral.
“We were trying to take Montellano, sir. We drove the Germans out and set up divisional barracks there, but they counterattacked a few days later and we had to pull back.”
“Retreat, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
Webb had grunted. Harry wasn’t sure whether the admiral had been expressing disdain or disinterest. I wonder from which cosy desk you directed naval operations?
“And the Germans took reprisals.”
“So I’m told, sir. I haven’t seen the film.”
“No. Quite. Neither have I, nor do I wish to. But you’re wanted in the projection room. Take a butcher’s, old chap, then finish your report and we can close the file.”
Webb may just have been suggesting the department’s role would then be complete, but it sounded to Harry like the decision had already been made. War crime or no war crime, it was clear the evidence would simply be filed away until such time as there was some political imperative to use it.
The kid in the projection room was fiddling with the controls on the projector.
“Do you know how to use one of these, Harry?”
“Major.” Harry wasn’t in the mood to be pally with a spotty kid straight out of university.
“Er, Major.”
“Show me.”
“On-off button here. One main dial; just twist it forwards for forwards, backwards for backwards. I’ve spliced in ten seconds of blank film to the end so you can stop it before it runs off the reel. Otherwise, you’ll need to rethread it.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Light switch is at the back.”
“I’ll call you if I have a problem.”
The kid grinned at him. “Hope you’ve got a strong stomach. It’s pretty grim.”
Harry looked in disdain at the smirking, bespectacled young technician that slouched before him: stripy sleeveless pullover, hands in the pockets of his brown corduroy trousers, tousled hair looking like it hadn’t seen a comb in a week. The kid thought this was all a game.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Roger.”
“Roger… what?”
The smirk evaporated and he removed his hands.
“Er, Roger, sir.”
Harry looked straight at Roger until Roger knew he was in trouble and one eye began to twitch.
“When were you born, Roger?”
“1940, sir.” He’d missed National Service, never worn a uniform and seen and learned everything he knew from Hollywood and war comics. A bit of discipline and some extra training at the university of life was in order.
“I was about your age in 1940, bit younger even. I remember it well. Me and thousands of lads the same age on a beach in France getting dive bombed by Stukas and strafed by Me109s. I saw my mates blown to hell – legs and arms shot off, decapitated, blood everywhere, blood on the sand, bodies floating in a blood-red sea, and I remember trying to grab hold of a poxy, blood-smeared little pleasure boat full of holes, waiting for the bullet with my name on it, the smell of smoke, fire and death, the screams for help, boys shouting for their mothers and their wives and their girlfriends as they lay dying and you know what, Roger? Even then, I knew I still had a chance.” Harry stabbed a finger at the humming projector. “Those men and boys in that film had no chance. They knew exactly what was about to happen to them and so did their mothers and their wives and their girlfriends who watched and listened as their loved ones were murdered in front of their eyes. And all so that spotty little pricks like you can play with your toys in peace.” Roger swallowed, his eyes wide with terror. “And the best you can come up with is… ‘grim’? Go back to the safety of your little cubbyhole, Roger, and stay there till I tell you it’s safe to come out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harry watched the boy slope off and he took a deep breath, feeling instant remorse and a rush of self-hatred. The lad wasn’t to blame; he was just a product of the times and he’d come down on him like a ton of bricks for nothing other than making a flippant remark. He knew no better but nor did Harry. Harry always wanted to lash out at everyone and everything even though he knew it made things worse, not better. He couldn’t help it either; he was a product of his own times and Petra had lashed out at him for the same reason: that his behaviour was incomprehensible and destructive and it made her angry and frustrated that he wouldn’t let her help him. The only difference between him and young Roger was that he no longer had any excuse.
He switched the lights off and sat down next to the projector so he could easily reach the controls. He let out his breath and turned the dial. The reels spun slowly as the projector chattered into life, the white square of light on the screen flickering with black spots and scratches for a few seconds until a chillingly familiar image appeared and the years rolled away.
***
German soldiers standing around in heavy coats, smiling and joking, smoking cigarettes and waving at the camera; a village with houses and people and dogs milling around, the camera panning upwards to the church steeple; a crowd of villagers looking pensive and subdued despite the sunshine, mothers holding babies, men wearing cloth caps, smoking pipes; a Panzer tank rolling into the market square, followed by a column of soldiers marching in time; a swastika unfurled from a balcony in the town hall. Santa Cristina De Lago. He recognises the buildings and the church and the fountain and even some of the residents. They’ve been very happy to see the Allies, but now they’re back where they started. He watches, transfixed, his heart rate beginning to climb, heat spreading up his neck.
Three officers in peaked caps, two of them facing the camera, Waffen SS motifs on the tunic collar, chin up in the typical style of the arrogant strutting fascist, nodding at each other in self-congratulatory pose; an old man kicked and beaten with sticks; a group of soldiers eating from mess tins, swigging wine from tankards, laughing and shouting in the silence; then local residents, all men, some as young as twelve parading into the square under guard; close-up of three bipod-mounted machine guns, MG42s he can tell, one man squatting behind, the other holding the trailing ammunition belt. Long shot, and in the eerie silence the smoke billowing from the muzzles, the guns dancing, panning left and right and the men and boys falling where they’d stood, piling up on each other like sacks of coal.
Harry wipes his eyes and exhales deeply again. He’s been holding his breath for the last thirty seconds, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe, perhaps in harmony and respect for those whose last breaths he’s just witnessed.
Close-up: mangled twisted corpses, lifeless limbs entangled in a grotesque display of camaraderie, posing in still life, a static dance of death, some eyes open, some closed, black blood on white shirts. Medium shot: one officer strolling alongside, pistol drawn, examining the pile of human flesh, pointing and shooting intermittently as he walks, snuffing out any flicker of life that dares persist. He reaches the end of the mound and retraces his steps, shooting once or twice more. He wears long, shiny, black leather boots, and bears the SS motif on his collar and in his hand, a Luger.
Harry fights back the wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He leans forward in his seat, eyes glued to the screen. He stands, unsteady on shaky legs that somehow drag his kicking, screaming body towards the face that’s coming slowly into focus, the brief look into the camera, the image from hell. Finally, the walk out of shot. The screen goes white and the chatter of the projector is accompanied by the rhythmic slap-slap of untethered celluloid.
Harry stares dumbly at the blank white screen, looking but not seeing, the last image burned into his brain. He senses a cool wetness at the side of his mouth, wipes away a slimy trickle of saliva and swallows deeply, having lost the ability to control more than a couple of bodily functions at once. He turns and reaches out for the chair like a blind man and manages to lower his aching body to rest.
He doesn’t know how much time passes, minutes or maybe only seconds, but the lights come up and the slap-slap stops and there’s a new silence to break.
“Major?” He doesn’t hear the first time, but his brain registers movement. It’s Roger the kid. “Major. I’ve brought you a brew.”
***
Harry looked up and saw the tousle-haired technician holding out a cup and saucer, initially unsure of what to do. Then the power returned to his limbs and he took the cup to discover, miraculously, his hand wasn’t shaking. He cleared his throat.
“Thanks, Roger.”
“Do you want me to run it again, sir?”
Harry took a second or two to think and sipped the tea. It was hot and sweet and milky and not at all the way he liked it, but it tasted of life itself and he felt his numbed senses recharging.
“No. Thanks, Roger. I’ve seen all I need to see, except…”
“Yes, sir?” Roger seemed to have suffered no ill effects from his earlier lambasting, now eager as a puppy.
“The very end. Where the SS guy looks into the camera. Can you print that out on a still photo?”
“Yes, sir!” said Roger with glee. “Within the hour.” He unhooked the reel of film, affected a clumsy amateur salute and trotted out of the projection room.