The Fifth Man Read online

  By the twenty-eighth of May, Colemore—Jean Legrin, that is—no longer mechanized since his armoured car had been attended to by the Luftwaffe, was trudging wearily in the general direction of England. He had lost touch with his unit, nobody gave him any orders since there seemed no one there to do so, and he had a sinking conviction that he was being left farther and farther behind. There was always the Luftwaffe, and soon he saw other Germans as well. Lines of tanks and lorried infantry all going his way on all the roads. Jean Legrin took to the fields.

  Two days later he was in a wood near Hazebrouck, dodging from tree to tree and miserably chewing a turnip, when he came upon a wounded British officer lying hidden under a clump of bushes. He was obviously badly hurt and equally obviously would not be there much longer in any sense that really mattered. Colemore gave him a drink of water, and the officer, who happened to be a major, revived slightly and addressed him in French; not very good French at that.

  “Don’t bother,” said Colemore gently. “I’m as English as you are. Have some more water. I wish I’d got some brandy. I’ll go and see if I can scrounge something; even vin ordinaire would be better for you than this.”

  “Not worth while,” gasped the major. “Don’t leave me.”

  “All right, I won’t.”

  There was a short pause, and the major said, “No. You’d better go on. No sense—stopping here to be captured.”

  “I might just as well stay here as go on,” said Colemore. “I think we’re both well left behind.”

  The major closed his eyes and Colemore waited; there was a certain relief in having a good excuse to sit still. Those weary miles ...

  He was almost asleep when the major spoke again. “If you’re English, why are you in that uniform?”

  “Because I’m in the French Army.”

  “Dashed good reason,” said the major feebly. “Tell me—some other time—”

  He shut his eyes again and relapsed into unconsciousness, and this time Colemore really did fall asleep. When he awoke it was almost dark and the hand he still held in his was quite cold.

  He sat up quickly and thought things over. It was plain that his chances of escape were practically non-existent, and the lot of a French poilu prisoner was not likely to be a very happy one. He would be better off in Maidstone Jail. He would probably be slightly better off if he’d been a British Tommy; at least he’d be herded with his own kind. The idea came to him slowly that he would be better off still as a British officer—a major, for example.

  There followed a period of activity upon which Colemore never allowed his mind to rest; in one way the gathering darkness made the distasteful job more difficult, in another it made it easier to carry through. At last it was done; an unwounded but exhausted officer of the British Army staggered away between the trees, and a dead French poilu lay still under the rhododendron bushes. Colemore went on till he could go no farther and then dropped to the ground and slept the sleep of total exhaustion.

  When he awoke it was broad daylight. He sat up and rubbed his face with a handkerchief he found in one of his pockets; the result was scratchy discomfort since he had not shaved for five days, but he felt better.

  “Well, that’s that,” he said aloud. “Jean Legrin is dead, God rest his soul. Now, who am I?”

  He examined the gold identity disc upon his wrist which had made him feel such a grave robber, though it could not be left behind. It announced that he was Aylwin Fortescue Henry Brampton, Major, and his religion was that of the Church of England. He turned out his pockets, which contained all the usual things except letters. Apparently Major Brampton did not receive, or did not cherish, letters.

  “Pity,” murmured Colemore. “It might have been a help to know something about myself. Am I a bachelor or a married man with six children? Married men with children usually carry photographs to war; it will be simpler if I am a bachelor. I am pretty well off, judging by a gold cigarette case, ivory pocket-knife, and so forth. Haven’t I even got a girl friend?”

  His military identity card added nothing to the information on the disc; also, it bore a photograph which did not resemble Colemore in the least, so he buried it. He soon wearied of an unprofitable search; there was a more immediate need pressing upon his consciousness: breakfast. Coffee, hot rolls, bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade. Even another turnip would be better than nothing. It seemed that the best plan would be to give himself up; presumably even the Germans fed their prisoners occasionally.

  He got to his feet, feeling curiously weak in the legs and a little lightheaded from the lack of food, and trudged wearily on till he came to a road. At the moment it was empty, but a few minutes later two despatch riders came storming along on motorcycles. Colemore stepped into the road and held up his hand with a commanding gesture; the motorcyclists stopped.

  “British officer,” said Colemore briefly. “Want to surrender.” He spoke in English merely because it did not occur to him to speak German; his mind was not working very capably.

  . “Another prisoner,” said one rider to the other in German in a bored voice. “I don’t suppose this fool can speak our language either. All the trouble they give!”

  This annoyed Colemore. Very well, if it was giving trouble he’d keep it up.

  “Sprechen sie Deutsch?” asked the other rider, and Colemore merely stared at him.

  “Told you so,” grumbled the first. Turning to Colemore, he added, “Wir—We not can take.”

  “Must,” said Colemore peremptorily. “I am your prisoner.” He staggered and clutched at the handle bars to save himself from falling; the despatch rider promptly knocked his hands away and the other covered him with a revolver.

  “Stand back!” barked the first, and the second said, “You can take him on your carrier. Mine’s full.”

  “Damned if I will. This is wasting time. You”—to Colemore—“sit down there and give yourself up to somebody else. I don’t want you.”

  “No use talking like that, he doesn’t understand you,” said the other. “Listen. Something coming.”

  A noise, which Colemore had thought was merely inside his own head, grew rapidly louder and a column of light tanks came fast down the road. The despatch riders signalled them to stop.

  “Prisoner just given himself up,” they said. “Can you take him on? We can’t.”

  The tank commander stuck his head out and called upon his Maker to witness that he was sick to death of prisoners. “Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Millions of them,” he said lyrically. “All over the place. This is a fighting unit, not a”—something—“peripatetic prison camp. I’ve got to report at Hazebrouck, not play about giving free rides to the accursed English.”

  “Shoot him, then,” said the despatch rider.

  “Can’t do that, it’s against orders. Much as I’d like to. Damned nuisance.”

  “Take him to Hazebrouck, then. You can dump him there. Here! Stand up, you—”

  But Colemore collapsed in a heap in the road. When he came to himself he was uncomfortably sprawled on top of the tank with a rope through his belt to keep him from sliding off. He saw above him the corner of a large house with a smashed gable end, and the tank came to a stop. Somebody untied the rope and he fell off.

  He was hauled to his feet, cuffed, marched across the road, and pushed into a room where there was a bench, so he sat on it. Unmeasured time passed, and somebody brought him a bowl of soup and some bread; never had any meal he had ever eaten tasted so good. He was feeling almost cheerful when a German officer, with escort, came to interrogate him. They started, naturally, by searching him, and the gold cigarette case, ivory pocketknife, and other small treasures were laid out on a table. In reply to questions he gave Major Brampton’s name, rank, and regiment, but when asked about the whereabouts and destination of his unit he replied with perfect truth, “I don’t know.”

  The German scowled. “I suppose you will tell me next that you’ve no idea where you saw them last.”


  “Yes,” said Colemore ambiguously.

  “Where are they now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you run away from them, or did they run away from you?”

  “Neither,” said Colemore. “What is more, you know perfectly well you have no business to ask me such questions, and I decline to answer. You have my name, rank, and regiment, and that is all you are entitled to ask.”

  “You are impertinent,” said the German, “and if it were not that your whole Army is so totally defeated that details no longer matter, I would make you regret it. Learn this: we Germans do not obey laws, we make them for subject races to obey. Take him away.”

  The escort closed in, but Colemore said, “My things, please,” indicating the little heap on the table.

  “You may have your handkerchief. Give it to him, Schultz. The other things are much too good for a prisoner.”

  So Colemore was marched away, and the last he saw of Major Brampton’s cigarette case was in the hands of the German officer. Colemore remarked to himself that it didn’t matter, it wasn’t his anyway.

  There followed a long journey on foot, in lorries, and by rail, during which he wondered whether there would be any other officers of Brampton’s regiment in the prison camp to which he was being sent, and what would happen when they realized he was an impostor. It would not help matters if he told the truth and said he was Anthony Colemore; the whisky case was sufficiently recent and notorious for them to recognize that name at once. An escaped jailbird masquerading as a brother officer—no. Some other story must be presented.

  By the time they reached the camp he had five different explanations, all convincing, ready for use according to the circumstances in which he found himself, but none of them were wanted. Brampton had been acting as liason officer far from his own unit, and no other officer from his regiment was captured at that time or sent to the camp. One or two of the elder men there looked at him rather askance when he mentioned the name of Aylwin Brampton; Colemore wondered why, scenting some scandal. He had the sense to keep quiet and unobtrusive and gradually came to be accepted as just another fellow prisoner.

  Major Brampton’s arrival at his particular Oflag was reported in due course by the German authorities to the British, a procedure which made Colemore nervous; he had not thought of that happening when he changed identities with the late major. He looked forward with considerable anxiety to letters from home, possibly legal papers to be signed, even a power of attorney to enable someone or other to carry on his affairs in his absence. In due course a letter came. It was headed “Rock Hall, Rook’s Nest, Yorkshire”; he looked at the signature, which was merely “Lena.”

  MY DEAR AYLWTN,

  I am sure you will believe me when I say how immensely relieved I was to hear that you are safe and sound although a prisoner of war, and not even, apparently, wounded. Tom Moggett came home with a story of your having been so severely wounded that you were not likely to live, and after five months had passed without a word from you I assumed that this story was true, and a memorial service was held for you at Rook’s Nest on October 11 which I considered a suitable and appropriate date. [“I wonder why appropriate?” thought Colemore. “My birthday, perhaps?”] It was very well attended, considering all things. [“Considering what things, for heaven’s sake?”] After which I thought it best to consult my solicitors with a view to getting things settled up, as a state of uncertainty is always so inconvenient, but they strongly advised me to wait for more definite proof one way or the other, pointing out that the power of attorney you gave me would cover most contingencies for an indefinite period. [“Cold-blooded female!” snorted Colemore. “Who the devil is she? My sister?”] As the only contingency not covered is very unlikely to arise, I assented, and it is as well I did.

  The last thing I should ever wish to do, Aylwin, is to reproach an unhappy man in your miserable condition, but I do feel I owe it to myself to protest against your inconsiderate silence. The unfortunate estrangement between us does not relieve you from the obligations of common courtesy towards your wife. However, I do not wish to labour this point and will only add renewed assurance of my relief that you have been spared. I shall be very glad to hear from you as soon as possible; I know many people whose relations were taken prisoner during the retreat and they have all had letters, or postcards, or both, from them long ago. It puts me in an invidious position to have to admit that I have not heard from you. I am sure you will understand this.

  If there is anything you want which it is possible for me to send you, please let me know and I will do my utmost to fulfil any wish you may express.

  With my best wishes for a speedy end to this dreadful war and hoping that you are well and as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, believe me,

  Yours affectionately,

  LENA

  “Well, well,” said Colemore, digesting the letter gradually. “Poor old Brampton, and what a cat! Wasn’t she in a rage, too! I suppose it did make her look rather an ass, having a memorial service—not so wasted as she thinks, by the way. Contingency not likely to arise? I have it, she means her marrying again. What a—Well, I don’t wonder they were ‘estranged’; I wonder he didn’t brain her with a chair leg. What a letter to write to a poor prisoner and captive; I don’t think Brampton would answer it. I’m sure I shan’t, anyway. Raspberries to Lena.”

  So Colemore made no attempt to reply. Nine months later came another letter, much shorter, a striking mixture of plain-tiveness and exasperation. He did not answer this one either. The years passed on and he heard no more, though he still wondered sometimes what the “all things considered” were which would keep people from attending that memorial service. Presumably the same as had caused some of his fellow prisoners to look coldly upon him when he first arrived.

  Indeed, it was not until three and a half years later, when he was persuasively interviewed by the same German who had called upon Tanner, Nicholls, Little, and Abbott, that light began to dawn. The grey-haired officer with the clip off his right ear had been very polite, even apologetic. It was most unfortunate that his identity had not been discovered sooner. It was deplorable that the nephew of Sir Oliver Brampton, that enlightened Englishman, that true friend of the German Reich, now being victimized by the British for his opinions—that bis nephew should have been allowed to languish in a prisoner-of-war camp for over three years. It was in the highest degree lamentable.

  “These things will happen,” murmured Colemore, and on pretence of hitching up his trousers pinched himself to make sure this was not a dream. So this was why Colonel Vaughan-Mordaunt had looked as though he smelt something nasty when ...

  “Shall we now speak German?” said his interviewer.

  “I don’t speak German,” said Colemore, and looked him straight in the face.

  “But—in private—between ourselves—”

  “Not at any time. I never could,” said Colemore firmly.

  “No doubt you have your reasons,” said the German. “Wise reasons. Your fellow prisoners—”

  Colemore sighed impatiently and the German tried another tack.

  “Since you insist, that shall remain secret,” he said. “Reverting for a moment to your unfortunate and infinitely to be regretted imprisonment, the Reich is anxious to make every reparation in its power—”

  “Not even the Reich,” said Colemore sadly, “can give me back the wasted years.” He was beginning to enjoy himself.

  “Alas, no. Nevertheless, what can be done shall be done. Listen, I have a proposition to make.”

  The German unfolded at considerable length the part which the distinguished Major Aylwin Brampton had it in his power to play in the unfolding drama of the Reich’s inevitable triumph. “We are—I speak frankly to a man of your standing and discrimination—desperately short of reliable and intelligent agents in England. The rank and file, the letter boxes, the messenger boys, if I may so express myself—we have these. It is the heads of depa
rtments, the managerial staff, the directors, who are so deplorably lacking.”

  “Nasty blow,” said Colemore sympathetically, “when they swept up the British Union of Fascists.”

  “Very awkward. Yet their usefulness was dubious because their sympathies were known.”

  “What about mine?” said Colemore in a spirit of genuine enquiry which the German took for sarcasm. After all, if one has to play a part it’s always as well to run through the script if the producer will let you.

  “You had the superior intelligence not to appear publicly attached to any of your uncle’s enthusiasms. None but a few of us, in the inner council of German Intelligence, knew of your real convictions.”

  “Yet you kept me in jail for nearly four years,” said Colemore bitterly.

  The German began to apologize again, but the prisoner cut him short.

  “How do you propose to start operations?”

  “You will, if you follow my advice, take a short course at one of our training centres for Intelligence work. Believe me, you will find it helpful. Then,” said the German triumphantly, “you will escape and make your way to England. We will help you, of course. Every facility—you shall be landed on the English coast from a submarine—”

  “Oh no, I won’t,” said Colemore. “The English aren’t asleep, you know, especially along the coasts.”

  “There are places,” said the German. “That surprises you, but believe me, it is frequently done. You will be met on arrival and looked after.”

  “My escape will be much more convincing if I find my own way across.”

  “No,” said the German obstinately. “These are the orders, and even the highest of us in Germany have learned to obey. That is why our Germany is so great.”