Read Online Dangerous in Love - Dangerous Davies 02 by Leslie Thomas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leslie Thomas
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some considerable time.'
Davies regarded him with sadness. 'Do you ’ he ventured, 'live here by yourself?'
'Absolutely!' exclaimed the colonel cheerfully. 'Except for this bloody dog.' He prodded the sprawled animal with his carpet-slippered toe. 'Only way, old boy. Wife passed on ten years ago and, frankly, I didn't want to live with anyone else. Perfectly happy. Can't stand staff around the place. Anyway, can't afford the blighters now. So here I am. Just waiting, really.'
Mod coughed awkwardly. 'I discovered your whereabouts from the Stalag 62 Ex-POW Club, sir,' he said. 'They send their best wishes and asked me to tell you that you would be an honoured guest at the annual dinner.'
'I know, I know ’ sighed Colonel Ingate. 'But I won't go now. I'm not going down to London to hear a lot of museum pieces talking about dead men and dead battles.' Regret crossed his strong face. 'Being a soldier is like being in a club ’ he said. 'And being a prisoner too. Nobody else is interested. So I don't go. It was all such a long time ago.'
Leaning forward, Davies said: 'We were hoping that you would be able to recall something of it for us. About the prison camp.'
'The old Clickety-Duck,' smiled the old man.
'Pardon, sir?'
'Clickety-Duck. Stalag 62. Housey-Housey, you know. Played a lot of Housey-Housey, there. The Boche used to love it.'
'You let them ... er, join in then?' asked Davies. 'Play ... ? The Germans?'
'Oh, gracious yes. They weren't so bad, you know, and we were all stuck there together. And the Boche were the only means we had of getting prizes, apart from the stuff we'd saved from Red Cross parcels and so forth. Cigarettes mostly. But you didn't come to talk about that.'
Davies smiled. 'It's all related. We wondered if you could remember a British soldier called Wilfred Henry Brock.'
The old man started to shake his head. 'There were three thousand British in the camp . ..' he began.
'Known as Lofty,' prompted Davies.
The colonel's face brightened. 'Ah, yes ... Lofty Brock! Deuce, I do remember him! Yes, young Lofty.'
Davies leaned forward. He felt the thin firelight touch on his face. 'Anything you can remember might be useful. He died a couple of months ago ... in rather odd circumstances ... and it may have a long history ...' From his pocket he took the small bag and slid from it the medal they had found with Brock's papers. 'He won this,' he said.
'Ah, the DCM,' said Colonel Ingate. He held the medal in the palm of his hand, tenderly, it seemed. He turned it over and read the name. 'Fancy that,' he said. 'I don't recall it. Won just before Dunkirk. It's a long time ago now.' He handed the medal back. 'So he came to a bad death, did he? What a shame,' he said. 'Now let me see. He wasn't there all that long, because, I seem to remember, he was one of the contingent shipped off to Silesia.'
'Oh, they moved?'
'Half the camp. Went off early in 1945, as the Russians were advancing. It was very bad. Some of them died, not always at the hand of the enemy. There was warfare within the camp among the prisoners of different nationalities. But I remember young Brock, right enough , when he was with us in Stalag 62. You could hardly miss him ... He was the camp goalkeeper.'
Davies felt his mouth drop. 'Goalkeeper?' he said. 'Brock?'
'Indeed, very agile too for his size, as I recall.' On a thought he rose. 'Wait a moment. I might even have a picture of him. In the team. I've got a whole lot of rubbish from those days in the next room.' He put down his sherry glass and stumped off towards the adjoining room.
Davies eyed Mod. 'A goalkeeper?' he muttered. 'He must have worn springs.'
'Or they had small goals ’ said Mod.
From the other room came a muffled crash, a shout, and a low discharge of dust through the open door. They rose anxiously but the colonel appeared, newly coated but triumphantly carrying a bound album. 'Got it ’ he said. 'Put my hand on it at once. Unfortunately it was half-buried in
Davies regarded him with sadness. 'Do you ’ he ventured, 'live here by yourself?'
'Absolutely!' exclaimed the colonel cheerfully. 'Except for this bloody dog.' He prodded the sprawled animal with his carpet-slippered toe. 'Only way, old boy. Wife passed on ten years ago and, frankly, I didn't want to live with anyone else. Perfectly happy. Can't stand staff around the place. Anyway, can't afford the blighters now. So here I am. Just waiting, really.'
Mod coughed awkwardly. 'I discovered your whereabouts from the Stalag 62 Ex-POW Club, sir,' he said. 'They send their best wishes and asked me to tell you that you would be an honoured guest at the annual dinner.'
'I know, I know ’ sighed Colonel Ingate. 'But I won't go now. I'm not going down to London to hear a lot of museum pieces talking about dead men and dead battles.' Regret crossed his strong face. 'Being a soldier is like being in a club ’ he said. 'And being a prisoner too. Nobody else is interested. So I don't go. It was all such a long time ago.'
Leaning forward, Davies said: 'We were hoping that you would be able to recall something of it for us. About the prison camp.'
'The old Clickety-Duck,' smiled the old man.
'Pardon, sir?'
'Clickety-Duck. Stalag 62. Housey-Housey, you know. Played a lot of Housey-Housey, there. The Boche used to love it.'
'You let them ... er, join in then?' asked Davies. 'Play ... ? The Germans?'
'Oh, gracious yes. They weren't so bad, you know, and we were all stuck there together. And the Boche were the only means we had of getting prizes, apart from the stuff we'd saved from Red Cross parcels and so forth. Cigarettes mostly. But you didn't come to talk about that.'
Davies smiled. 'It's all related. We wondered if you could remember a British soldier called Wilfred Henry Brock.'
The old man started to shake his head. 'There were three thousand British in the camp . ..' he began.
'Known as Lofty,' prompted Davies.
The colonel's face brightened. 'Ah, yes ... Lofty Brock! Deuce, I do remember him! Yes, young Lofty.'
Davies leaned forward. He felt the thin firelight touch on his face. 'Anything you can remember might be useful. He died a couple of months ago ... in rather odd circumstances ... and it may have a long history ...' From his pocket he took the small bag and slid from it the medal they had found with Brock's papers. 'He won this,' he said.
'Ah, the DCM,' said Colonel Ingate. He held the medal in the palm of his hand, tenderly, it seemed. He turned it over and read the name. 'Fancy that,' he said. 'I don't recall it. Won just before Dunkirk. It's a long time ago now.' He handed the medal back. 'So he came to a bad death, did he? What a shame,' he said. 'Now let me see. He wasn't there all that long, because, I seem to remember, he was one of the contingent shipped off to Silesia.'
'Oh, they moved?'
'Half the camp. Went off early in 1945, as the Russians were advancing. It was very bad. Some of them died, not always at the hand of the enemy. There was warfare within the camp among the prisoners of different nationalities. But I remember young Brock, right enough , when he was with us in Stalag 62. You could hardly miss him ... He was the camp goalkeeper.'
Davies felt his mouth drop. 'Goalkeeper?' he said. 'Brock?'
'Indeed, very agile too for his size, as I recall.' On a thought he rose. 'Wait a moment. I might even have a picture of him. In the team. I've got a whole lot of rubbish from those days in the next room.' He put down his sherry glass and stumped off towards the adjoining room.
Davies eyed Mod. 'A goalkeeper?' he muttered. 'He must have worn springs.'
'Or they had small goals ’ said Mod.
From the other room came a muffled crash, a shout, and a low discharge of dust through the open door. They rose anxiously but the colonel appeared, newly coated but triumphantly carrying a bound album. 'Got it ’ he said. 'Put my hand on it at once. Unfortunately it was half-buried in
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