Rich Man, Poor Man, Every Man in Line
The old man was whistling a song from deep in his boyhood memories as the RAF aircraft soared through the clouds above hostile territory. It was a good distraction as he contemplated the task ahead.
Tinker, tailor, every mother's son,
Butcher, baker, shouldering a gun.
Funny thing, that, the old chap thought to himself. How well he remembered the old Irish rebel song that his father and uncles sang as they downed their pints and railed against oppression and British rule back in the auld sod. He never saw himself as a soldier, and the truth was, he wasn't. Yet here he was, in a jumpsuit with a parachute on his back, ready to leap into enemy territory.
Alfred Burke was on the plane because he was British through and through. He was born and bred in London, after his family decamped to a place where even the poorest Irishman could eke out a living—by some means—instead of worrying about their next meal. Yes, Alfred shared his family's affection for Ireland, but his loyalties were with the crown. He was too short and slight to serve in the Army in the Great War, or he would have shouldered a gun. He was too old to serve in this war, so sorry again, old chap. But fortunately he had other weapons at his disposal: Sharp hearing, light fingers, and cunning.
So when then the warden summoned him to his office with a proposition—step up to serve King and Country and there will be lenience for you—he had no difficulty saying yes. That 12-year sentence for a bank job that had gone horribly bad in Lewisham back in 1938 would be reduced to time served. He'd be out of Pentonville, and back in a cozy flat in Whitechapel, with his patient old missus, Vera. His fingers itched at the possibilities.
He was decidedly pleased when, during a briefing at the Ministry, he was sworn to secrecy and told who had recommended him for this assignment. That dear boy, Peter Newkirk. From the time he met him, he had known he would go far. Even as a child of nine, Peter was quick and clever. Alfred was surprised when old Freddy Newkirk had told him during exercise time at Pentonville that his oldest boy had been captured by the Germans.
If anyone could have eluded capture, it would have been that boy, he thought as his mind ticked through his personal photo album. Peter at 9, climbing through a window. Peter at 11, deftly lifting wallets in a crowd. Peter at 13, learning to pick a lock. Peter at 15, with a black eye and a duffel bag, sitting with Vera for a cup of tea and sympathy.
Peter in his 20s, giving Alfie a concerned look as he climbed out the back window just before the police broke through the front door of that bank in Lewisham. Oh, no, best not to think about that. He had told him to go, after all.
"I told him to stay the hell out of France," Freddy had groused in the exercise yard. "Never listened to me once, that little scoundrel."
"Oh, you must be worried sick," Alfie had replied. "But you know Peter. Resourceful."
"Resourceful? Hmmph. That's one way of describing him. Well, I have to worry. He's me flesh and blood," Freddy had answered. "'Course, I hear Mary's beside herself. She always thought that boy walked on water." He shrugged. "Well, it can't be helped, and maybe them Germans will bring him to heel. I never could keep him in line."
Oh, he's not coming to heel, Alfie thought, but he said nothing further. He had every confidence that Peter would run circles round his captors before he would sit, stay, or obey. Now he knew it was the case. Fancy that, that little boy, all grown up and part of a spy ring operating inside of Nazi Germany. Alfie's larcenous heart swelled with paternal pride.
Alfred Burke was shaken from his reverie as the plane swooped lower. The jumpmaster appeared at his side.
"Ready for your mission, Burke?" the airman asked with a touch of apprehension. "You're sure you can do this?"
"Quite ready, dear boy," Alfred replied. "Life is such a grand adventure, isn't it?"
"If I may ask, Sir, what exactly is it they need you to do?" the airman inquired. What was this war coming to if they were recruiting a man who looked like an elderly shopkeeper for a top-secret mission?
"So sorry, dear boy, I couldn't possibly say," Alfred answered. "I'm afraid that's between His Majesty and me." He smiled, patted the bag of tools strapped to his midsection, and took his place at the jump door. He was honored to be asked to do his bit for the war. Being reunited with a bright pupil was icing on the cake. And freedom. Well, that would be lovely, too.
Over the speaker, he heard the navigator: "Y-15 is in sight, Sir."
"Time for your jump, Burke. All you need to do is leap out, count 15, and then pull the ripcord. Got it? Now remember, the landing may be rough…"
The jumpmaster didn't have to ask twice. Before he could call "3-2-1," Alfred Burke was out the door, drifting earthward, and whistling as he went.
Rich man, poor man, every man in line,
All together just like Auld Lang Syne!