Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Thief
On a clear, dry night in late September with clouds adrift and the moon climbing the sky, Corporal Peter Newkirk picked his way through a dense patch of the Hammelburg woods. Clad in black, he was carrying an empty rucksack and heading for the spot Sergeant James Kinchloe had called Y-15.
It was a surprisingly energizing hike to the east side of the woods, where soaring pines and oaks briefly gave way to a narrow clearing before continuing their lofty march. Newkirk had been here on a mission in the spring, when the clearing was dotted with wildflowers—a rare burst of color and scent in a bloody dreary existence, he thought wistfully. It was too dark tonight to see much, but with one deep breath, Newkirk knew the pretty wildflowers were dead. The clearing must have turned a sorry shade of brown.
Finding his coordinates at the edge of the woods, Newkirk crouched in the shadows, scanned the sky, and fought the urge to light a cigarette. Instead, he turned his thoughts to a distraction: Numbers.
It had taken 30 minutes to reach his destination. It would be at least 10 minutes before the drop, and then he'd still have to reach his man and get him sorted out for the walk back to camp. That could be a long slog, because his package was a right old Julius Caesar by now. With the geezer in tow, he could easily be gone from camp for two hours. And an awful lot can happen in two hours.
Suddenly, above the trees, a plane glided into view almost silently. A package dropped and floated across the sky at a hard angle as the airplane arced away. A parachute opened. Newkirk watched and nodded with respect as the man drifted earthward. It took one hell of a navigator and jumpmaster to drop an aging British civilian into a field in Germany on a dark night. Come to think of it, it took one hell of a civilian, too.
The package was down and safely in the clearing. Newkirk held back to ensure that no one was close enough to have spotted it, and then dashed into the field, knife at the ready to cut loose any equipment. A small figure with what appeared to be a large potbelly was dusting himself off, clad in a gray jumpsuit and helmet.
"Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor," Newkirk called out softly.
"Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief," came the reply.
"It's good to see you, Alf," Newkirk said with a grin.
H=H=H=H=H=H
It took every bit of 15 minutes to get Alfred Burke out of his harness and helmet, pack the parachute equipment into the rucksack, and fish Alf's "doctor's bag" of tools and his fedora out of his jumpsuit, where they had been strapped securely to his waist. So much for the potbelly.
"Thank you, dear boy," Alf said softly. "Nasty business, that helmet. This hat is much better. Now about this jumpsuit…"
"Best to keep that on until we get back to the Stalag," Newkirk whispered, suppressing a smile. "We're covering some rough terrain. You'll be glad of it when you're not snagging your shins on a tree limb."
Into the woods they went quietly, stopping when they were 10 minutes along, in the thick of the forest, to finally allow themselves a moment to catch their breath. In a sliver of moonlight, Newkirk could see Alf was gray, trim, and barely up to his shoulder. Had it really been 20 years since their first meeting, when Newkirk, as a boy of nine, was chest-high to the legendary safecracker?
"Is it safe to talk?" Alfred asked as they resumed their journey.
Newkirk hesitated. "Hard to say," he told Alfred. "The woods could be crawling with Krauts. It's better if we wait until we're in the camp. Won't be too long. And I'll make you a nice cuppa when we get there."
"That would be very nice," Alfred said. He had waited this long; a little more time wouldn't hurt.
H=H=H=H=H=H
Despite his advancing years, Alfred Burke kept up such a brisk pace that Newkirk, encumbered by a three-stone rucksack and a pair of smokers' lungs, wondered if the old man was slowing down for his benefit. They reached the tree stump in under 40 minutes. Alf descended the tunnel ladder with ease, even with the doctor's bag dangling from one hand. Newkirk followed with somewhat greater effort, silently cursing the heavy parachute equipment he'd had to drag back to camp.
Newkirk led the safecracker to a corner of the tunnel, where Alf clambered out of his jumpsuit while Newkirk changed back into his uniform. He sized up the smaller man, whom he last saw seven years earlier on a job in Lewisham. There he stood in his tweed suit, fedora, and tan gloves, with a blue woolly muffler around his neck. Alf could pass for a shop owner … a bookseller … maybe even that brain surgeon his parents wanted him to be. But a safecracker? It seemed bleeding unlikely, even though Newkirk knew better.
Newkirk stood in the doorway and beckoned to his visitor. "The boys are waiting for us upstairs, Alf. It's just back this way. Let's go."
"Just a moment," Alf said, grabbing Newkirk's arm. "It's been so long since I last saw you. I want to know how you're getting on."
Newkirk's smile was tinged with sadness. Alfred Burke was a gentleman to the core. The first time he'd met nine-year-old Peter Newkirk, Alfred Burke spoke to the boy with a keen interest and kindness that few adults besides his mother had previously shown him. That was right before he taught the boy how to break into a theater undetected and how to raid a safe without getting caught. In dark moments, Peter thought of Alf as the second person, after his dear old dad, to steal his innocence. In even darker moments, he chided himself: How could you lose something you never had?
Newkirk finally replied. "I'm all right, Alf. You'll meet the Guv'nor in a few minutes." He tried to keep it short, but found himself going on. "We couldn't have a better officer. Clever, decent, and he's got the devil's own luck. He's sticking it to the Krauts from right inside a POW camp."
Alf studied him, and continued. "And the family, Peter? I saw your father in Pentonville. How are your mother and the children getting by?"
Pentonville? Newkirk could feel himself flushing, and the damp, earthy smell of the tunnel suddenly felt oppressive. He craved the fresh air and the scent of flowers – even dead ones. He didn't know his old man was back in the nick, though he wasn't surprised either. A life of drunkenness and petty crime has a way of catching up with a chap.
"Ahhm, ahh," he stuttered before composing himself. "They're still in London, Alf. My mum tried evacuating the kiddies to the country, but they wouldn't have it. One by one, they made their way back to London," Newkirk said.
"Well, except for Harry," Alf said with a smile. "I heard he was in Sheffield with Lenny Stubbs." His expression darkened. "He does have to be careful, Peter. It's a rough life for a boy."
"Nobody knows where Harry gets to," Newkirk said ruefully. His next-younger brother, not yet 18, was living on the edge and had Peter worried sick when he dared to think about him. He wished he could be home to give that nipper a piece of his mind. He'd march him straight off to enlist in the Army – it couldn't be riskier than the path he was on, and he might get some self-respect in the bargain.
Returning from his reverie, Newkirk searched Alf's eyes and saw nothing but concern.
"Anyway, they get my pay and I hope it's enough, between that and what Mum and the girls bring in," he told the old man. Suddenly feeling the sting of tears, Newkirk bit his lip hard to stifle the emotion. "Can't do anything about it now, can we?" he added. "Let's go topside."
Alf clapped him Newkirk on the back and followed. Newkirk was grateful for the gesture, but his demons kept taunting him. It had been a long two hours.
"Don't be so bloody weak," Newkirk scolded himself as he led Alf through the tunnel and up the ladder to the barracks to meet Colonel Hogan and the team. "You can't change who you are. I'm a thief, just a ruddy thief. And I've got a job to do, just like Alf taught me."
Author's note: This is conceived as a missing scene from "The Safecracker Suite," S1E27. The story also connects to my current project, "In the Name of the Father." In this story and that one, I am indebted to dust on the wind for the kind loan of the Newkirk children from her excellent story "Esk Road: The Rest of the Family." Do yourself a favor and READ IT!
Julius Caesar is Cockney rhyming slang for an old man ("Geezer").
"Three stone" is 42 pounds or 19 kilograms. That is about what a pile of WW2-era sky diving equipment stuffed into a WW2-era rucksack would weigh. They couldn't very well leave it out in the field, right?