From John Ryan’s novel, Spy story: Amazon, Kindle (An excellent read). US dollars 3.99

SEVENTEEN

 Towards the end of 1942, after the tragedy of Tobruk, rationing began to bite. Motorists needed coupons to buy petrol. The government introduced “meatless days”. Beef and lamb, anyway, were in short supply and the chickens that Nick Mostert and other local farmers produced were saved for Sunday lunches. In October, however, the gloom over such things as rationing was hugely lifted by the Allied victory at El Alamein in Egypt, where General Erwin Rommel’s Afrika Korps was defeated by a superior force of tanks and many South Africans were cited for their bravery. On the Friday of that week, when Nick Mostert walked into the Grosvenor, the local celebration of the victory was at its height. Members of the NRV had all but taken over the bar. Among them was Digger O’Brien, the OC. Inevitably, through the crowd, Mostert was singled out by George Trebble and introduced to the local pilot, John Moore. Trebble suggested that the two of them should move into the adjacent lounge, where they would be able to talk more comfortably. They spoke for half an hour before Mostert excused himself, saying he had to go back to check on his incubator. When he had gone, Digger O’Brien and George Trebble joined Moore in the lounge. ‘Well, John?’ O’Brien asked. ‘All I can say is that he seems genuine enough,’ said Moore. ‘I questioned him about the layout of Twelve Squadron’s base. He knew it, down to the little wadi where the blokes go for their evening smoke. ‘He knows the workings of the Boston bomber, which is a flying incendiary, as he says. He even knows about the problems we’ve had with the rear gunner. That rear turret is so big that there’re blind spots all around it. We have to fly the Bostons in formation so that the rear gunners can watch one another’s backs. Mostert knows all about that. ‘But as a clincher, I asked him if he’d done a course on the new Mosquito light bomber. He would have had to, if he had been at the base when he says he was. The RAF sent one out so we could get familiar with it, and we should have a few more by the end of the year. ‘We were talking casually, of course, because I didn’t want him to get suspicious. I said, Do you remember the problem with arming the Mosquito’s guns before take-off? And he said, Yes, if you’re in the pilot’s seat you’ve got to move your head, otherwise a bloody great falling machinegun could give you a terrible headache. ‘His words, and exactly right,’ said Moore. ‘And how would anybody know about that unless they’d experienced it? But a strange chap isn’t he? Ask him a question and he looks up into his head for the answer. I found him a bit vague about people, and personalities. Although the squadron’s changed in just the time I’ve been there. But I’d say, yes, he’s been there as well.’ John Moore turned to O’Brien. ‘I’ll ask around when I get back if you like, sir. Maybe find out more about him. And his accident.’ O’Brien left, knowing that George Trebble would be conveying what Moore had told them to his chums in the pub, but knowing also that there was nothing he could do to stop it. Take it or leave it, that was George Trebble. Gerald Wilson and Ginger Southwood took the information with mixed reactions. ‘I’d say that lets him off the hook, then,’ said Wilson. ‘I couldn’t really picture young Mostert as a spy, anyway.’ ‘But how do you explain the leg that wasn’t broken?’ Southwood said. ‘Why would a man have his leg put in plaster unless he had something to hide? And he doesn’t mention any plans to rejoin the squadron.’ He pushed back from the counter and lit a cigarette. ‘And remember he’s a Dutchman. And that uncle, or whatever he is, fought for the Boers against the British.’ ‘It’s good to see young Moore,’ Gerald Wilson said. ‘You don’t see many chaps his age around these days. It’s the schoolboys and us, mainly.’ ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Ginger Southwood. ‘There’s me and there’s that Robert Fuller from the prisons department. What do they call his lot? Essential services? I see he’s having it off with Mavis Howlett, the low bastard.’ ‘Well, maybe while her husband’s away she considers him an essential service,’ said George Trebble, ‘She’s a bit of all right. Have you seen her in slacks? Like two little boys fighting under a blanket!’ ‘I wouldn’t like to be Fuller when Bernie Howlett gets back,’ Gerald Wilson said. ‘Bernie’s a tough little bugger. Jealous, too. He doesn’t like people to look at his wife.’ ‘He’s in the bag, is Bernie,’ said George Trebble. ‘He’s in that same stalag with the other Transkei blokes. So Fuller will be long gone by the time he gets out. Fuller and those chaps at the jail get moved around every two years or so.’ ‘I don’t know,’ said Wilson. ‘How long do you believe this bloody war’s going to last? With the Americans in Europe, and Rommel chased out of Africa now, it could all be over sooner than we imagine.’ ‘Wishful thinking, Gerald,’ said Ginger Southwood. ‘Wishful thinking.’ Later that night or early the next morning, according to Sergeant Jock Brown, a person or persons unknown broke into the Drill Hall, forced the lock on the door of the office of the National Reserve Volunteers and stole various items of office equipment as well as several documents. The Drill Hall had been closed and was apparently secure when the janitor, Melvyn Swanepoel, made his last round of the school premises shortly after 11 pm. Early on Saturday morning, Digger O’Brien was surveying the damage when Jock Brown walked in. ‘So what’s missing, Digger?’ asked Brown. ‘Have you been able to check?’ ‘Ag, bits and pieces of stationery,’ said Digger, ‘but those were just taken as a blind. What have gone are all our security files from Roberts Heights, the ones we’ve been getting weekly.’ ‘Who would want to steal that stuff?’ said Brown. ‘Who would indeed?’ said Digger.