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A WAYWARD CAREER: NOVEL

Chapter One

On a frosty March morning the four of us had gathered in the Commanding Officer's room, luxuriously furnished and cosy in spite of the tense atmosphere. The plush expanse of carpet, broad mahogany desk and set of leather armchairs under the near life size portrait of Queen Elizabeth II on horseback only served to illustrate the difference between him and us. He was the only one sitting down. From behind his desk, facing me across the room, his towering silhouette stood out against the cold bright light that filtered through the net curtains. Horn-rimmed spectacles I had not seen on him before completed the image of a total stranger. I sensed his tension, perhaps only noticeable to me because I knew both so well - the man and the room. His minions were posted on either side of him. In their cheap civilian clothes, neither Kleinmann the Head of Personnel nor Pfronzig the Workshop Manager looked impressive. Under these circumstances, however, their weight was considerable. He was on their side, the three of them united against me.
A nod from him and Kleinmann cleared his throat.
"Miss Wiegel," he said, "you were asked here this morning because we have reached a decision...”
He was speaking English, of course, and there was something rather ridiculous in the way he pronounced it.
“We want to give you another chance."
Each carefully enunciated syllable fell like spittle from his lips. This, together with his bald pate and fishy eyes made him look more like a reptile than ever. Pfronzig, at the other end of the desk, breathed his noisy consent. In a suit that seemed several sizes too small, he made you think of a fat schoolboy gone to seed. Turning his sweaty face in my direction, he gave me one of those looks men like him reserve for pretty girls. Did he realize my victory? I barely did myself.
In the silence that followed, the Major’s impatience was making itself felt. Frowning slightly, he jerked his chin in Kleinmann´s direction who promptly followed the hint.
"Major MacAdams wishes to temper justice with mercy because you are young and still have a lot to learn.”
Still I did not react. What could I say? It was such a carefully planned mise-en-scene. Standing there, halfway between the door and the desk, I felt like someone in the dock who has been acquitted but inspires no confidence. Anything I said would be out of place. The two Germans, in their eagerness to please, had missed none of the cues. Here, even a personnel officer was only an executive, his responsibility strictly limited. What I could not figure out was Pfronzig´s role. Wasn’t he just a kind of foreman on the workshop’s blue-collar staff? Was that why he seemed the most ill at ease in this posh, well-heated office, where so much had been left unsaid? Perspiring heavily as usual, he had not once dared to pull out his handkerchief.
Suddenly the window panes started to vibrate as a sergeant major bellowed his orders on the parade ground outside: "Attenntion, forwaaard, march! Left, right, left, right!" accompanied by the thumping of heavy boots. It was the year 1954 and I had not yet turned eighteen.
The pencil between Major MacAdam´s fingers had been performing all kinds of acrobatics. In the end, he used its blunt end to drum out a tattoo on the polished desktop. The whole of this farce must have been staged in accordance with his wishes. Presumably; he wanted it to be brief.
"I can only hope you appreciate the Commanding Officer’s magnanimity, Miss Wiegel."
Why was Kleinmann watching me like that? Was he afraid I might do or say something unexpected? Maybe he was thinking how differently most of the German staff would have behaved in my place, or was he not thinking at all, just doing his duty in a way to which no one could possibly object? Pfronzig was quite another kettle of fish. All this was completely beyond him, made him feel resentful and irritable. I doubted whether he would last long with the British forces.
Major MacAdams leaned forward and, with a gesture of barely concealed exasperation, pulled his glasses forward to the tip of his nose. He had been kind and generous. There was no reason why he should be bored stiff into the bargain.
"You see I'm not a monster, Miss Wiegel!" he said and, for the first time this morning, looked at me. His expression was one of stern benevolence. What he could not control was the twitching of a muscle in the corner of his mouth. He tried to by allowing himself the ghost of a smile. It brought relief all round. Pfronzig jumped at the opportunity to pull out his handkerchief, hastily wiping both forehead and neck.
"You will be transferred to Maintenance," said Kleinmann in an attempt to sound benevolent himself, "a fresh start one might say!"
Pfronzig nodded listlessly. They bowed while I just stood there waiting - for what?
"Attennntion, left turn! Forwaaard, march!" The whole performance had only lasted about ten minutes, but it was a milestone in my inglorious career with the British Army of the Rhine. More than that it was an eye opener since, as the Major so aptly remarked, I still had a lot to learn.

*

"So you’re leaving us at last, Miss."
Kulinsky, the senior and least unpleasant among the old men who had been my colleagues for the past six months was already at his desk when I arrived that morning. He always turned up first, ever since they assigned me to the horrible backroom called Stores.
"How anyone can put up with this place for years is beyond me”, was my triumphant reply. Too late I realised how tactless it had been. The last thing I wanted was to make him feel even more miserable.
I had walked all the way to the office, from Aunt Bea's flat down a windswept avenue past the football stadium, then over the canal bridge and taking a shortcut across sodden fields on to a sheer endless stretch of open road mainly used by trucks and other utility vehicles. All the way into the suburbs one passed rows of Nissen huts interspersed with waste ground, serving as rubbish dumps, now and then a dilapidated garage or open workshop. The very last stretch of road offered a narrow pavement close up to high factory walls. Heavy lorries shook the ground as you made your way towards the gaping hole of a railway tunnel. In there I would hold my breath until I emerged on to the busy crossroads just below the Unit's well-guarded gates. It might not have been so bad in summer, but when I started work in that place it was late autumn and I was never dressed right. Even so I became inured to it, learning to brave wind and rain, carrying a precious pair of patent leather pumps in a bag, myself bundled up in an old raincoat, hoping not to meet anyone I knew.
What I never got used to however was that back office called Stores. It was vast, nearly the size of a school gym, and lit by naked bulbs that dangled from bare rafters under the smoke-stained ceiling. There were some factory type-windows far too high up for anyone to notice, let alone look through or open. They remained the same dismal shade of grey whatever the time of day, whatever the weather. Khaki-coloured metal filing cabinets covered the walls all round the room, each one of them divided up into rows of drawers tightly packed with thousands of cards bearing the name and description of an article in the depot, its serial number and all kinds of cabbalistic signs one was supposed to interpret and remember. Our job as Store clerks was to check and compare the entries against a heap of vouchers that descended unbidden on our desks. The idea was that every piece of equipment or spare part that passed through the depot should be accounted for. At least once a day someone mentioned the fact that the entire armoured workshop depended on us for their repairs. It took me a long time to realise they repaired anything - from a machine gun to a tank. I was after all fresh from school and anything to do with wars had been a taboo subject in the budding German democracy, as far back as I could remember.
My colleagues were old men, five of them counting Kulinsky. He was the least offensive and when the others were not present would even exchange a few civil words with me. "They're sending you to Maintenance - Sergeant Gutsley's office, I hear." The withered old man nodded sagely. "A rum 'un, that! Even his own people seem to stay clear of him."
So it was going to be out of the frying pan into the fire, was it? "I shouldn't let it worry me, if I were you - people will talk!" he went on. "What d´you expect if a man lives in barracks like a bachelor, when he's entitled to a whole house for himself and his family?"
"Where is his family then?"
"In England, I suppose."
The rest of the crew arrived and Kulinsky shut up. They came traipsing in just like every morning, one after the other, their perfunctory greeting little more than a reflex action. They hung up their coats in narrow metal lockers, pulled up sleeve protectors to the elbows and slipped into those grey-blue smocks that were the hallmark of their status, distinguishing them from the workshop labourers in their dirty overalls. Then each would settle at his desk, lighting up while commenting on the day, mostly the weather unless it was a Monday when football results were on the menu. Not one of them ever so much as nodded to me - I had been assigned to the desk nearest the door. To face each other they had to turn round, because the desks were placed behind each other in a row down the centre of the room. It seemed a peculiar arrangement, presumably meant to discourage idle talk.
The chief clerk and from my point of view most objectionable of the lot, was called Saurig. He bore a distinct similarity to a very large pig and was so short tempered that all the others were afraid of him. His place was at the head of the row facing the partition to the neighbouring office, where Miss Niewirsch, the German secretary to the Depot Officer, reigned supreme. Whenever she opened the hatch just in front of Saurig´s place she would address herself briefly to him, never to anyone else, only to pass on some order from the Captain who was her boss and ours, of course.

During the months I had languished in this man-made hell, enduring all those hours of mindless drudgery spread over interminable days and weeks, I had never stopped imagining some means of escape. My sentence had begun in the autumn and lasted through the winter. Now it was nearly spring and here I was, pulling to the rickety panel door behind me for the last time. Never again would I have to cross that grease covered shop floor where dispirited British soldiers, assisted by a handful of German civilians toiled among heaps of indescribable junk. You had to circumnavigate all kinds of military hardware spread out on tarpaulin sheets. Caterpillar tracks and steel cable lay waiting to trip you up. Pyramids of lorry tires, collections of engine blocks and rifle butts disconsolately awaited disposal. Never would I have to confront again those oil-smeared faces who, when they caught sight of me, would invariably come to a sudden halt. The lavatories were housed in a kind of lean-to at the back of the hangar. A visit there meant running the gauntlet through that desolate scene, while closing your ears to the guffaws that followed each barely concealed obscenity. Miss Niewirsch and I had been the only women using the “Ladies”. She would be expecting me to drop in and make my farewells.

"I'd simply refuse to share an office with that man," she said as soon as I set foot in the greenhouse she had created around her workstation. "You've no idea what they say about Sergeant Gutsley!"
An excited jerk of her head did not manage to disturb the symmetrical waves of hair pinned down on either side of her forehead. It just released a few particles of dry make up that circled aimlessly in the overheated air, before settling on the nearest plant. Beckoning me to sit down she proffered a cup of tea and even a cigarette. It was this unusual treatment that made me realise I had become, if not a very important, at least a very interesting person in her eyes. While she went on with her chatter about the horrors I was about to experience, I shot a glance at the communicating door leading to the office of the mostly invisible Captain. I had come face to face with Captain Billington-Jones a couple of times, when he managed to see through me as British officers of his stamp invariably did in the case of minor characters like myself. He had been to some posh military academy she once told me. She considered it an honour to serve him. I remember she was annoyed when I did not seem sufficiently impressed.
I was not, although Miss Niewirsch enjoyed no end of privileges. She not only had an office to herself but was entitled to any number of tea breaks, because she herself brewed the stuff. She also had her own telephone and was never short of English cigarettes. It was plenty to be jealous of for someone like me, but I consoled myself remembering she was all of thirty and therefore could rightly claim preferential treatment. It would have been presumptuous to think someone like me could ever rise to such heights. If only she had not enjoyed such rude good health! It was not until the end of the winter that she caught the 'flu so badly she had to stop at home. So it fell to me to perform the more menial of her duties. If she had, after all, dragged herself to the office that time, I would still be sitting in Stores, would not have been dismissed nor reinstated and assigned to Maintenance. Of all this Miss Niewirsch was blissfully unaware!
"Has it occurred to you that you will be the only German in the whole Maintenance complex?" she asked. "What are you supposed to be doing there anyway?"
"I haven't the faintest idea.”
It was the truth although I realised that my indifference must appear feigned or make her think I was keeping my own counsel.
"They must have told you something!"
"Not a thing."
She sniffed disdainfully, which I interpreted to mean that no one could have conned her like that.
"Of course, you are still so young," she said. It sounded as if, in her eyes, that was more of a handicap than anything else. "You'll just have to give it a try - perhaps it's only a makeshift solution."
I nodded in an attempt not to let on that the possibility of a makeshift solution was no cause for joy.
“Well, good luck anyway,” she said turning her swivel chair back to face the typewriter and thus dismissing me for good.
Under clouds that were racing across the sky heralding a downpour, I sauntered across to the one- storey office block on the opposite side of the cobblestone road that ran right through the workshop. I did not even glance at the Administration building that housed all the important people including Him of course, so impatient was I to get to my new job, the third already since leaving school. It seemed fated now to be another disaster. From the outside the building did not look particularly enticing. A stencilled sign on the entrance door said "Maintenance and Repairs." I stepped into a narrow corridor that received its light, such as it was, from a row of frosted glass windows to the right. The banging and screeching associated with a workshop sounded muffled, though very near. To my left there were a succession of closed doors. On the last but one another stencilled name plate read: "F.S. Gutsley, Sergeant".
"Come in!" a raucous voice shouted from inside. I took a deep breath before opening the door.
The first thing that struck me was that in this room there was hardly a touch of khaki and a complete absence of filing cabinets, a fact that might have cheered my up, if the oil painted walls had not borne such a strong resemblance to a school or hospital in a deprived area. "Miss Wiegel...?" The man behind the desk frowned at me in a way that was anything but welcoming. Just then, a stray sunbeam fell across the hideously painted floorboards and in the resulting penumbra the uniformed figure in the far corner near the window turned into an anonymous silhouette. Rapidly the room grew darker as large drops of rain splashed against the window panes.
"You're supposed to sit there!"
He pointed to a diminutive table standing in front of the right-hand wall, halfway between the door and the window. I nodded, trying to remain unimpressed by the looming outlines of a typewriter just like the one Frãulein Niewirsch had. As I struggled out of my coat and hung it on a hook by the door, I felt his eyes on my back. Nervously I pulled at my dress, made a useless attempt to tidy my hair, unruly at the best of times, and slid into the swivel chair behind the monstrous machine that would doubtless bring about my next downfall.
"Have you got anything for me to do?" I asked bravely without looking at him.
"Can't say I have," he replied and after an uncomfortable silence - "what would you like to do then?" His mocking tone seemed to call for a cheeky retort, but I felt in no mood for one. He did not appear to expect a reply either since with an audible sigh, he turned back to his files.
To me Sergeant Gutsley looked every bit of forty! Deep furrows stretched from his cheekbones down to the corners of his lips, where they disappeared behind a moustache the colour of muddy water. The way he slouched over his desk with his rounded shoulders and hollow chest reminded me of the melancholy knight Don Quixote. I bit my lips at the idea that, behind this ramshackle façade, there was supposed to lurk something indescribably sinister, when suddenly a bright penetrating glance met mine.
"Well, what's the verdict, eh?"
The back of his chair creaked as he stretched himself clasping his hands behind his head. My embarrassment seemed to amuse him. He fumbled in the pockets of his uniform, shoved wads of papers around the desk in front of him, until he came upon what he had been looking for.
"Cigarette?" The crumpled packet was almost empty, but I was glad enough of the diversion. In my nervousness I started to chatter... How odd it was to find myself, from one day to the next in such different surroundings with a typewriter of my own and just one other person to share the office with. So far all my colleagues had been Germans and the work had to be written out by hand. The Sergeant listened nodding or clicking his tongue, without once interrupting me. How unreal the past was already starting to become! It might have happened years ago. For the first time I saw myself and the dread "Stores" through the eyes of an outsider and it seemed absurd that I should ever have thought I could go on mouldering there like Kulinsky and the others.
Thanks to the combined efforts of Kleinmann and Pfronzig they had managed to steer me into that siding, neatly calculated to nip any youthful ambitions in the bud. What´s more, they had very nearly pulled it off! A beginner, untrained to boot, could hardly expect anything better. They had made that abundantly clear to me when I applied for a job with the 14th Armoured Workshop. Had they guessed that this unit to the city's north was my last hope? "School certificate?" the Head of Personnel sneered. "That's no good to us here." I had thought it wiser not even to mention my false start at Central Headquarters - they would find out about it fast enough! It was Pfronzig who quite casually suggested, "what about `Stores', Willy? Wouldn't that be just the thing for her?" Not until later did it dawn on me that all this might have been carefully orchestrated - an opening to be mentioned in passing, my hopes to be built up and then dashed. "Out of the question!" had been Kleinmann's reply, upon which Pfronzig had promptly retorted, "just an idea, if she's so desperate for a job." I had practically to go down on my bended knees to be granted this chance until, with a shrug of the shoulders, they relented. I would never be able to say they induced me to accept their miserable offer.
How appalled I was the first time I saw that office they called "Stocktaking"! Even the Depot Officer's secretary had been indignant. "You're not supposed to work in there, surely?" I was the first female ever to do so and probably the last as well. From the moment I was introduced to my five male colleagues it became clear they did not welcome me. Hostility, mingled with the stench of their cigars, was to envelop me ten hours every day of the week and five on Saturdays. They must have perceived me as a threat somehow, especially Saurig. As Head Clerk he could be counted on to find fault with my work at every opportunity and, more from boredom than inherent malevolence, I imagine, the remaining four never failed to applaud him. Not an hour went by without them exchanging some crude reference or pointed remark impossible not to understand, so that gloomy room turned into a kind of prison for me.

The Sergeant was an avid listener. He knew everyone there and never failed to come up with the mot juste, when I could not think of the right English word. His sardonic comments gradually took the sting out of my most recent past - making it appear like an episode not meant to be taken seriously. My laughter came ever more freely until I had a sudden suspicion. Had I not gone too far? After all, I hardly knew Sergeant Gutsley. By then, however, he was piling into the fray himself and conjuring up for me caricatures of those employed in Maintenance, down to the boss himself, a certain Captain Walters. Before my eyes that sombre Don Quixote turned into a clown, whose very features lent witty malice to his every word. Back and forth like ping pong balls went the sallies between us – a stirring joust that stimulated my intellect until, right in the midst of our laughter, I stiffened.
"Isn't that comical captain somewhere around?"
"Not for the moment, I'm glad to say," he assured me. "Besides, he's a sight more comical when he isn't there. Better make the most of your freedom while it lasts."
"But I can't sit around twiddling my thumbs - whatever will people think?"
"Just pretend you're there for ornamental purposes."
At that moment the door sprang open. Major MacAdams breezed in trailing a gust of cold air.
"Well now, Miss Wiegel - a bit of an improvement, eh?" was his opening gambit while casually waving to Gutsley, who noisily sprang to attention.
"Sit down, Sergeant, sit down!"
Unperturbed by the fact that his remark had provoked no echo, he flung his cap, gloves and cane on to a broad wooden shelf that ran the whole length of the wall opposite me. Leaning against it, his elbows supporting him from behind, he let his benevolent gaze wander around.
"Looks all right to me, sergeant. Didn't I tell you it would brighten up the place?"
The fact that Gutsley, somewhat overcome I suppose, managed no more than a vague nod, did nothing to curb his enthusiasm.
"About time for a touch of colour in here," he added; "it's supposed to do wonders for efficiency!"
In the face of his superior's noisy joviality, the Sergeant appeared to shrink into his corner. It was not until the Major asked him what progress had been made with some vehicle or other that he took on a semblance of his former self. Relaying the desired information while meticulously describing each problem encountered, he seemed to grow in stature, literally came to life as he provided documentary evidence for the man hours and equipment needed, submitted plans and order sheets for his CO's attention until the Major sighed with an air of ostentatious indignation.
"All right, all right, Sergeant! Now try and convince me the chaps out there are doing their bit. We both know all they're thinking of is the next leave - don't we?"
I was the gallery and with a glance towards it he added, "after all, we've both been in their shoes, eh?"
Sgt. Gutsley dropped his eyelids - a sign of consent as silent as it was noncommittal. It was just what MacAdams, the great comedian, needed for one of his eloquent winks in my direction. Hard luck again, I thought, haughtily looking past him and out of the window. If he was offended, he never let on. The two men’s conversation simply ambled on along the same old lines. I caught only snatches of jargon entirely beyond my ken. It allowed me to follow my own train of thoughts. It would be difficult to imagine more extreme opposites than those two, wearing the same uniform and speaking the same language. With his aggressive self-confidence and hearty manner, the Major loomed larger than life. Next to him, Gutsley cut a pathetic figure, his skin more sallow than ever, his posture the usual hangdog. No wonder that MacAdams - remembering his initial success - missed no opportunity to show off as the triumphant male able to seduce at will. To me, his dishonesty was surpassed only by his lack of tact. In an attempt to put all my recently acquired wisdom into the expression on my face, I answered his question whether I had no work to do with a pert "no"! It appeared to baffle the Sergeant more than him.
“Come on," he said to Gutsley; "we'll stir those fellows up a bit", upon which the pair of them noisily departed in the direction of the workshop.
Left to my own devices in that strange new office, I felt useless to the extreme. Reproachfully the typewriter's keys stared up at me. Did anyone here realize I could not even type? What a mess I had got myself into! I had not made just one mistake but one after the other. Why was it so difficult to learn from experience? That flirt with the Major should never have happened to me. For years, I had lived with my parents in one room, so precious little of their private life had managed to escape me. The answer to any open questions had been supplied by their circle of friends who, almost without exception, had crawled into some niche with the British forces. Affairs with British officers, whether married or not, were the order of the day and the consequences were rarely less than pathetic. Would I at least be able to derive some benefit from my own experience? By now nearly one year of employment lay behind me, a year of quasi-independence but also a year with two dismissals. It was just as well I had not mentioned the last one at home.
"Dismissed and re-instated!" I could hear Aunt Bea exclaim. "Come off it - out with the truth!"
The truth was, it had started like a fairy story...
Imagine Cinderella banned to a dump like Stocktaking and, far beyond reach in his Ivory Tower, the jealously guarded Prince. Not a hope of their meeting - until one day Miss Niewirsch fell ill.
"You're to go to the Chief Clerk's office and fetch the mail", Saurig informed me positively gloating because all day it had been raining hard and the way to the Administration Building was long – a windswept thoroughfare without any shelter. Any man would have walked through the adjoining workshops, but nothing was further from my mind. You never knew whom you might meet on the main road, besides I was hankering for a breath of fresh air. So I shot out of the office and through the small door on the side of the hanging metal shutters, leaving the Stores workshop behind me. It was bliss already to be blown along past one concrete wall after another even though there was no one about, until the neat two-storey block of this particular Ivory Tower lay before me. Even from the outside it had an air of luxury about it. Not exactly pomp but, oh so different from the rest of the Unit’s buildings. There were net curtains behind each window, a small garden to either side of the entrance door and a neat gravel path leading up to it. For once, I was on an authorised mission, meaning I could confidently walk up it. No need to worry about the two rows of shining windows that looked out over the parade ground and all the rest, like so many watchful eyes. I slowed my pace as I approached the white lacquered door, savouring my triumph. Once you stepped inside, it really felt like entering a palace. Crimson carpets covered the length of a broad corridor hushed in ceremonial gloom. A row of closed doors lay on the one side, faced by just as many coloured prints of stern looking military men covered in decorations.
Inside the Chief Clerk's office I shuffled my feet uncomfortably, not knowing where to turn. Serried ranks of pigeonholes in a wooden construction ran along the centre cutting the room in two. No one had told me what to look for and where. A medley of abbreviations added to my confusion. It took the Chief Clerk only minutes to focus his beady eyes on me. He was a notoriously bad-tempered dwarf and when I stretched out my hand for the third time to pick up one of the bundles, he pounced.
"What the hell are you doing?"
I had to explain, not exactly my forte when under duress, while I watched him grow purple in the face. Any hopes that I might be able to hang on long enough to meet my Magic Prince again dwindled fast.
At that time, I had come face to face with our new Commanding Officer just twice, once when he held his official speech in the civilians' canteen. That was a couple of days after I had been taken on, and the second purely by chance. I was returning from a lunchtime walk beyond the confines of the compound at the very moment he was getting into his car by the main gates. For me, both those encounters had been marked by the fact that our eyes had met, with more than fleeting interest. It was nothing tangible, but more than enough to nourish my dreams.
Our next meeting was to take place in the course of my third or fourth trip to the Chief Clerk's office. Fate had arranged this particular sighting with near criminal negligence and it could very easily have turned out to be for my benefit only. The Major was perched on the edge of his secretary's desk with his back to the door and did not even turn round when I entered, let alone break off his conversation with her. Luckily, Miss Pütz was not only the proverbial old maid but also a creature sadly neglected by her maker. Looking at her, all sorts of terms would come to mind that were, strictly speaking, more suited to the feathered species. Her complexion, for example, had quite a lot in common with the plucked carcase of a Christmas turkey and, as if that were not enough, she had a fatal predilection for sensible clothes, sturdy shoes and the like. In short, she was a woman who inspired nothing so much as confidence. All I had to do was to lend fate a helping hand, something I have never been able to resist. A clumsy gesture - or was it sleight of hand on my part - did the trick and hey presto, the contents of one of the pigeon holes landed on the floor! The Chief Clerk fairly spat with fury, while Major MacAdams just turned his head, saw me and came - as any gentleman would - to the rescue of a damsel in distress. What was more natural than that this should trigger some innocent conversational banter between us - the time it took to pick up the scattered mail from the floor?

Almost noiselessly, Sergeant Gutsley had crept to his place bringing me back to reality. He looked gloomier than usual as he rummaged through the files on his desk, an unlit cigarette dangling from under his moustache.
"You do seem to need something to keep you busy," he sighed. "It's the very devil with you Germans! Here, take that and practise your typing a bit! His nibs will be sure to expect all kinds of things from his first secretary."
"You mean the Captain?"
"Indeed I do."
Gutsley pointed to a square hatch in the wall just above his head explaining, "idle hands bring out the worst in him", while he lit his umpteenth cigarette from the butt of the last one.
"How about a cuppa?"
"Yes please!"
I jumped as the window panes rattled to a long drawn out roar bearing a faint resemblance to the name "Kingston". Surely it had not come from that placid bundle of misery blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling? And yet it must have, because a second hatch just opposite me slid open showing a bespectacled young face graced by the complexion of a dairy maid.
"Get us a cup of tea, Corporal!"
"Yessarge," rasped the boy his eyes fixed on me, before shutting the hatch again quietly.
"Be prepared for a long wait," Gutsley warned me. "Young Kingsley's in the passive resistance phase." He called it a common phenomenon in a national serviceman's career, not unlike teenagers' acne. The warning turned out to be justified for, instead of tea a procession of visitors dropped in on us, their overalls plastered with streaks of paint and seemingly drenched in lubricating oil. Patiently the sergeant answered a medley of questions, dealt with any number of complaints, never at a loss and able to solve each problem with ease. I marvelled at the way he invariably discovered exactly the right document, despite the utter confusion on his desk. Yet there was something robot-like about his gestures and his features seemed frozen in an expression of deadly boredom. Only rarely would the corners of his mouth twitch in a kind of sneer, causing the dangling cigarette to dip alarmingly. It would happen, for example, if one of the mechanics got worked up about some administrative shortcoming, a late delivery or some other problem Gutsley considered too petty to bother about. Even then a word from him usually sufficed to settle the matter and the indignant individual would withdraw mollified. I had never come across anyone so skilful at nipping trouble in the bud, and he performed these miracles without ever raising his voice or letting himself be stirred from what seemed to be a state of natural apathy.
When Corporal Kingston finally appeared looking around sheepishly with the second mug of tea, my companion bellowed, "don't act the fool, boy! Put it down there for Miss Wiegel - never seen a girl at work before?" The connivance between them was unmistakable as the smirking recruit beat a retreat, apparently inured to the tone.
That was my first day in Sergeant Gutsley´s office and its successors were not much different. He too seemed to have a great deal of leisure and so far the dreaded Captain remained invisible. "Some course or other...", mumbled Gutsley in response to my question and did not fail to repeat, "better make the most of it! Once the little pest is back, you won't have a minute's peace."
In my heart of hearts, I found his disrespectful way of talking about the officers somewhat alarming although he did it in such a dry impersonal way that I grew accustomed to it. Saurig, Kulinsky and Miss Niewirsch were fast receding into oblivion. Even Pfronzig and Kleinmann never showed their faces around here since I was the only German in the whole of Maintenance and, at most, of speculative interest to Personnel. More puzzling to me was the unfailing courtesy of the young recruits in the office next door. Never so much as a fresh look if I met them in the corridor. For all those men from the workshop visiting Gutsley's office I was Captain Walter's secretary. What a long road I had covered in a few days!
The CO now showed up every day without fail. One could hear him approaching a mile off from the way the floorboards in the corridor groaned under his steps. He would crash in on us like a plundering Cossack, or rather a whole horde of them assailing some sleepy rural community. His way of overwhelming Gutsley and me with boisterous cheerfulness made it harder and harder to keep up my mask of icy disapproval. He usually appeared in the course of the morning, would lean against the breast-high filing cabinet arms crossed, legs apart while embarking on long technical discourses with the Sergeant. As soon as one subject was exhausted, he would switch to another, never missing a chance to include me with a glance or a bit of gentle teasing. Without realising it, I started to look forward to his visits and maybe Gutsly did too. The only disconcerting thing was that, just as suddenly as he had dropped in, he would be off again - with a somewhat tortured looking Gutsley in tow. I did have my doubts, though, whether the Sergeant really disliked being dragged along on their inspection tours as much as he appeared to.
When the door had closed behind them, the office would seem eerily still despite the muffled sounds of thumping, grinding and hammering that vibrated across from the nearby workshop. A hurricane of conflicting emotions assailed me. It would have been difficult to say whether it was relief or regret that prevailed, but disconcert me they did.

Returning from his rounds with the Major, Sergeant Gutsley again looked the gloomy Don Quixote of our first encounter. He seemed to have a deep-rooted aversion to physical exertion of any kind and never looked more content than when, squeezed into his corner between the wall and his desk he could retreat behind a cloud of smoke. It was then, talking to me, that the intricate mechanism of his mind would start humming. Fired by his own rhetoric and intoxicated by the ideas he unfolded for my benefit, much as an artist daubs at his canvas, he would create all sorts of original scenarios, mixing reality with imagination. One got the impression that he had concentrated all his energies on studying the hearts and minds of those around him, snuffling out their most hidden motives. No trait of character, however odd, could withstand his scrutiny for long; he invariably found a plausible explanation. At first the thought of being analysed in this way rather disturbed me. After a while, however, I came to see its comforting side. When all is known you are spared the trouble of having to conceal it.
My mind flashed back a few months - those escapades to the Administration building would never have deceived Sergeant Gutsley for a moment, let alone their effect on me! Partly out of boredom I suppose, I had been drifting into a state of ecstatic infatuation for the new Commanding Officer. He had managed to egg me on at the same time as keeping me at arm's length. I never knew which weighed the heavier.
"Ah, the young lady from Stores!" he exclaimed the next time we met in the Chief Clerk's office and beckoned to me to follow him to his office. Even now the sheer dexterity with which he arranged this tête-à-tête astounds me. Had he done that sort of thing before? On entering his office I had felt like a figure from a fairy-tale to whom wondrous things would happen. Instead I was up against one disappointment after the other. Why did he leave the communicating door ajar? Weren´t we going to have a very private conversation then? Placing himself behind his massive wide desk and me in front of it, the words we exchanged could hardly have sounded more innocent to casual ears. Even so, while he pressed upon me a highly important file to be handed to Captain Billington-Jones personally, he did seize the opportunity to squeeze my fingers and look meaningfully into my eyes. At least that is what I imagined. As it turned out, I must have got it all wrong, because these innocuous advances never went any further. So, in the end, it was probably frustration on my part that induced me to take the incredibly daring step to which I owed my dismissal.

"Pretty lousy, this tea!" commented Gutsley as the Corporal set down before me the second mug full to the brim of the usual brew.
"I’m enjoying it."
"Just as well - can't offer you anything else."
I marvelled at his choice of words - it sounded as if I were an honoured guest.
"Still suffering from pangs of conscience, are you? Feel you have to justify your existence?" asked the Sergeant, his expression somewhere between amusement and disdain. "You Germans will create complications. I suppose you think you're the only one the British Army pays for their mere presence." After a while he added, "I can see it's of no real comfort to you."
"It just feels wrong."
"Heavens above, child, this is the army! A little more wrong, won't make much difference you know!"
Changing the subject, he asked how I had come to be here anyway, what my personal circumstances were, my father's job and so on. My answers seemed to depress him.
"Well, yes, that's the seamy side of all these glorious battles. The real implications you notice much later, when one's got over all the tangible losses. Your dad was an officer you said?"
I told him what I knew. Most of the men on both sides of the family had served in the Air Force. Daddy had never actually been at the front but had trained as a paratrooper. Then, for some reason or other, they had transferred him to U boats. The end of the war had found him in the Air Ministry. I even mentioned his current job as a lorry driver. Gutsley nodded in sympathy. Secretly, I suppose, he thought like the rest of them that we had deserved it, all of us. You could never be sure with the British. By now even I knew their expressions were nothing to go by.

On my way home that evening I was surprised by a sky painted in pastel shades, pink and turquoise and a powdery blue uncommon in these northern parts. Shiny edges to the clouds in the west were a sure sign that the sun was setting later than usual. Nest building, too, seemed to be in full swing where thorny hedges lined the way. Wading through the sodden field already brightened by the scents of spring, my thoughts circled around this peculiar new boss of mine and the many facets of his personality. Was it sympathy he felt for his fellow beings? Or was it merely the desire to fill an inner void, to seek solace for some personal mishap that inspired his curiosity? Already the Unit lay behind me in a misty twilight and for a minute or so I fervently wished I knew as much as Sergeant Gutsley did of human nature, forgetting how this knowledge had affected him. I was a raw beginner, yet my desire to find out about life was all consuming. The trouble was I had not the faintest idea where it would take me, and worse still what I really wanted to achieve. If only I could tell the Sergeant everything that had happened…
My telephone call to the Major's private quarters for example, which had turned out to be such a fatal error. “Utterly reckless,” was the term Kleinmann had used but, dammit, MacAdams himself had given me the idea the morning before when he casually remarked: “You'll come up with some bright idea, I'm sure.” This was in reply to my question whether I should not be seeing him again before he went to hospital the following week. Had he not encouraged me to continue with these most unorthodox visits to his office until they became a regular feature? Nobody was allowed in there without the Chief Clerk’s permission. We both knew this and yet he had led me to believe I was an exception. How else could it have gone on for weeks after Miss Niewirsch´s recovery?
In the hours of boredom at my desk in the horrible Stocktaking Office, I had pursued a will o' the wisp idea of happiness that seemed to become ever more tangible. God knows I had been an easy victim! Had it all been a game for him? If so, why that jagged break? Was it the fear of discovery that had finally induced him to throw me to his henchmen?
There had been an occasion when I was perched on the arm of the chair close to his desk, my heart beating fast while drinking in his every word, wondering whether he would at last make up his mind to kiss me, when his adjutant had surprised us.
"Oh, so sorry, sir!"
It was clear that Captain Carey had taken in the situation at a glance. He was about to withdraw, when the Major stopped him.
"Come on in, Ronald! You know Miss Wiegel, don't you?"
To a naive onlooker, it might have seemed the most natural reaction, even if his voice was a wee bit more breathless than usual, the overtone of comradely bonhomie a shade overdone. An indefinable gleam in the eyes of the Captain, who himself was considered no mean Casanova, told me his imagination reached a good deal further than my Scottish hero's initiative had so far. Admittedly, quite apart from the yawning hierarchical gap, there was a very concrete obstacle in the shape of this particularly broad desk and a window directly behind him. There were also two doors, one giving on to the corridor and the other to the Chief Clerk's office. And as if that had not been enough we were watched closely by the inscrutable gaze of Queen Elizabeth II - a grandchild of Victoria!
Probably the whole thing had simply become too risky for this upright Scotsman. Had he not told me himself he was a regular churchgoer? He might have been assailed by moral misgivings, and a backcloth of righteous indignation to my telephone call had been a welcome pretext to rid himself of temptation. His motives will always remain a mystery to me. It was the method employed, his betrayal of me to his two minions that in my eyes constituted his most heinous crime. `Typical´, Daddy would have said. `They don’t dirty their own hands if they can pay someone else to do it for them.'
The very next morning I had been summoned to the Personnel Office. I had a foreboding it must be about my telephone call - he had sounded really annoyed.
"Who's that...? Hallo, hallo!"
My heart was beating so hard I could hardly breathe. The irritated tone of his voice made me forget the few English sentences I had prepared.
"It's me, Lena Wiegel..."
"Are you out of your mind! What do you want at this time of night?"
"I just thought... You did say..."
"I said what...? I don't understand a word!"
A muffled voice in the background made me think of his wife and I grew frantic. My throat felt as if I were being strangled, I could not utter another sound. How differently I had imagined it all, his surprise, his pleasure, the way we would work out a plan so we could see each other during his fortnight in the British Military Hospital! But, as I stood there with the receiver in my hand, I realized that to him I was not at all what I had imagined, and that, in reality, he bore no resemblance to the hero of my dreams. Behind his curtness and alleged incomprehension there had lurked fear. My intuition, not my head, told me there was something for which he would disown me at the drop of a hat. Was it his wife? He had mentioned her only in passing so my perception of her was dim. To me her role was similar to that of Miss Pütz in the office. I had never tried to imagine the Major's life outside the unit, why should I? It did not concern me.
What had occupied my attention since our brief farewell on the eve of his going into hospital for what he called “a trifle” was the phrase he had murmured, for me full of significance, `you'll come up with some bright idea, I'm sure.' I had seen it as his parting message because, just at that moment, we were interrupted by the Chief Clerk, so I had to withdraw. No, I most certainly had not misunderstood him. Even if I did not keep a diary, every word, every glance, any gesture, however slight and apparently insignificant, that might have borne within it the seeds of a caress, were etched on my memory.
"What on earth possessed you to telephone the CO at his home last night? Have you no shame? Don't you know he's a married man? Never heard the likes of it in all my born days!"
How Kleinmann had revelled in his role as the watchdog of Public Order and Morality! How easy it is to turn any well-fed, well-drilled creature into a savage beast ready to attack on command! This time too Pfronzig had been present and had not failed to come up with his contribution.
"Whatever will the British think of us? They'll imagine there's not a decent woman left in the whole of Germany!"
It was the only time I broke my self-imposed silence.
"Only decent men, I suppose ?"
"That's enough of your cheek!" Kleinmann hissed. "You're dismissed and don't count on a reference from us! You won't be working for the British again, my girl - I'll see to that!"
How had MacAdams known I would not give him away? Until this day I have no idea why I maintained such a stubborn silence. Probably it was just as well. There would not have been much hope of convincing his lackeys of my relative innocence and their CO's not inconsiderable share of the blame. There was no tangible proof but, even if my accusations had failed to show him up for what he was, they might well have caused both Kleinmann and even the less cunning Pfronzig, to doubt his integrity. Why had I not defended myself? After all, I had nothing more to lose. I believe the idea of vengeance simply never entered my mind; I was too numbed. The unveiling of my idol's feet of clay had thrown me into dark despair. Compared with that everything else seemed trivial. What did I care about justifying myself in the eyes of others? I had let them huff and puff and spew forth their venom, in a state of numbed indifference. It meant that for him everything had run according to plan. A particularly favourable circumstance was that he had already started his stay in hospital. "It's nothing important," he had explained to me, "just an old piece of shrapnel - should have been taken out ages ago. It'll only take a week or two!"
Even the best strategist can make a mistake. Presumably he had not reckoned with my notice period, which meant that, after his return, I still had a week to go. During this week he came across me at least once a day, purely by chance, because once dismissed, you are much less restricted in your movements. I knew his itinerary quite well and made sure I would cross the Major's path, as a living reproach. It must have seared his puritanical soul. Even so, I never seriously imagined it might bring about my reinstatement. It was then I learned that you simply cannot set your sights too high. Would Gutsley be able to explain why the Major had decided, at the eleventh hour, upon a strategic volte face? Whatever possessed him, despite his fears, to compromise himself like that for me? Did my contempt achieve what all my adulation had not? If only I could ask the Sergeant whether his Commanding Officer had been in the habit of turning up in Maintenance every day before my arrival on the scene!

Early the next morning, I had just slipped out of my coat and was warming my hands on the radiator under the window, when I heard - most unusual for that time of day - the sound of heavy footsteps approaching up the corridor. They stopped in front of our door... Gutsley never showed up before nine, and it was too early even for the boys next door. Whoever it was outside seemed undecided whether or not to knock. I stood very still watching the doorknob until it finally turned. Against the background of the dimly lit corridor an unmistakable figure loomed. My features froze into the mask I held in readiness for such an occasion, forgetting that I had my back to the window against the light.
"Sergeant Gutsley not come in yet?" he mumbled, closing the door behind him ever so quietly.
"At this time in the morning!" came my scornful reply.
Nonetheless, he took a couple of steps towards me and came to a stop near my desk. The telltale twitch appeared in the left-hand corner of his mouth while the butt end of his officer's cane was clapping a nervous tattoo against his thigh.
"Aren't you just a wee bit happier now, Miss Wiegel?"
Although I replied in the same low key my voice cut the air between us like a knife:
"Do you really expect thanks, Major? Isn’t it rather a free pardon you're after?"
He drew in his breath sharply. For a moment, it looked as if he were going to retort in the same vein... But he thought better of it, gave a brisk nod and turned on his heel.
"I'll be back later."
That hit home, I thought. I ought to tell Gutsley about the visit. I ought to ask innocently: `Whatever was it the CO wanted you for at that ungodly hour?´ It would have exposed him for what he was. God knows why I didn´t!
Although another visit seemed unlikely that day, I never stopped pricking my ears all morning. When he did eventually stroll in our visitor was as amiable as ever. I heaved a sigh of relief. The glances he gave me, however, were thoughtful rather than playful. Again and again he steered his conversation with the Sergeant into channels that would draw me into it.
"Miss Wiegel is looking a bit down in the mouth, don't you think?"
Gutsley hurried to jump into the breach, explaining I had still to become accustomed to the typewriter.
"She won't take long to learn," smiled the Major.
Hypocrite! I fumed inwardly, relieved in a way that without further ado they went back to discussing workshop matters and soon left the office, taken up by a lively discussion. It was later on that day when we were sipping our tea that Gutsley ventured, "you've got it in for the Major, haven't you? What's he done to you?"
"He's deceitful!"
"Mmm..." he pondered, "that's something we British are often reproached with - not entirely unjustified, I expect."
"You can't say that!"
"Can't I? My nationality doesn't oblige me to be altogether complacent, does it? Self criticism may bear within it the seeds of destruction but destruction can be the prerequisite for a fresh start, as the example of your Fatherland is proving so eloquently."
I accepted the cigarette he offered and leaned across the distance that separated our desks to let him give me a light.
"You know," he said, "I find it rather difficult to look upon what is generally described as hypocrisy - presumably that’s what you mean - as so objectionable. Is your true idealist, prepared to immolate himself and others on the altar of his convictions - quite apart from the practical snags - really that much better?”
"But one doesn't betray a friend!"
The words were barely out before I thought to myself, `you idiot, Lena, will you never learn to hold your tongue?'
There was a glint of amusement in my companion’s eyes.
"Betray? You know, people's motives tend to be so hopelessly mixed. They hardly know themselves why they act as they do."
Let him bore on, I thought, it will make him forget my slip of the tongue all the more quickly.
His eyes followed a cloud of smoke drifting through the room. "There aren't many truly unscrupulous people about, you know. Most just go by what they've been taught is right. Ask yourself how often something considered immoral was done with the best of intentions - and vice versa! Remember, this is the man’s first command, so he needs to tread most carefully." Gutsley sighed.
"I've seen so many new brooms come and go, all determined to make a clean sweep wearing themselves out in the process. I think he means well. After all, he's younger than average and therefore more likely to come unstuck sometimes, but he still has illusions and a touch of human kindness."
"Human kindness!" I snorted. "A facade, that's all that is! You don't believe he really cares about us, do you? All he wants is an audience when he throws his weight about!"
He let my outburst fade while puffing away at his cigarette until it almost singed his moustache! Then, his face even more impassive than usual, he murmured, "of course he doesn't care about us - but do we care about him?"
That "we" of his made me feel distinctly uncomfortable. It did not help when he added, "even assuming his human kindness is only superficial, it's none the less pleasant, is it?"
Wise old Gutsley, I thought, you’ll find out for yourself what lies behind that worthy citizen's façade. Then I shall be intrigued to hear your comments. With this thought in mind I returned his gaze in an unusually challenging way. Never before had we remained so eloquently silent for such a long time. Finally, he detached the glowing stub from his lips with an air of utter resignation and squeezed it into the ashtray, which was already brimming over.
"The young always expect too much of others," he mused – and had I closed my eyes it could have been Daddy speaking - "it inevitably leads to disappointment. It’s by facing up to your own shortcomings that you attain a measure of tolerance."
My feeling of scorn ebbed away at the sight of those melancholy eyes, which could have belonged to an immensely old tortoise. I heard him speak without realizing his was the voice of reason. "Believe me, Lena, others disappoint us only as long as we expect them to be better than ourselves."

© Sibylle Voss, August 2004

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