The Fourth Estate (20 page)

Second
Lieutenant Richard Ian Armstrong reported to the officers’ mess of the King’s
Own Regiment the following morning at 0700 hours.

As he walked
across the parade ground in his tailored uniform, it took him a few minutes to
get used to being saluted by every passing soldier.

When he arrived
in the mess and sat down for breakfast with his fellow-officers, he watched
carefully to see how they held their knives and forks. After breakfast, of
which he ate very little, he reported to Colonel Oakshott, his new commanding
officer. Oakshott was a red-faced, bluff, friendly man who, when he welcomed
him, made it clear that he had already heard of the young lieutenant’s
reputation in the field.

Richard, or Dick
as he quickly became known by his brother officers, reveled in being part of
such a famous old regiment. But he enjoyed even more being a British officer
with a clear, crisp accent which belied his origins. He had traveled a long way
from those two overcrowded rooms in Douski. Sitting by the fire in the comfort
of the officers’ mess of the King’s Own Regiment, drinking port, he could see
no reason why he shouldn’t travel a great deal further.

Every serving
officer in the King’s Own soon learned of Lieutenant Armstrong’s past exploits,
and as the regiment advanced toward German soil he was, by his bravery and
example in the field, able to convince even the most skeptical that he had not
been making it all up. But even his own section was staggered by the courage he
displayed in the Ardennes only three weeks after he had joined the regiment.

The forward
party, led by Armstrong, cautiously entered the outskirts of a small village,
under the impression that the Germans had already retreated to fortify their
position in the hills overlooking it. But Armstrong’s platoon had only advanced
a few hundred yards down the main street before it was met with a barrage of
enemy fire. Lieutenant Armstrong, armed only with an automatic pistol and a
hand grenade, immediately identified where the German fire was coming from,
and, “careless of his own life”-as the dispatch later described his action –
charged toward the enemy dugouts.

He had shot and
killed the three German soldiers manning the first dugout even before his
sergeant had caught up with him. He then advanced toward the second dugout and
lobbed his grenade into it, killing two more soldiers instantly. White flags
appeared from the one remaining dugout, and three young soldiers slowly
emerged, their hands high in the air. One of them took a pace forward and
smiled. Armstrong returned the smile, and then shot him in the head. The two
remaining Germans turned to face him, a look of pleading on their faces as
their comrade slumped to the ground.

Armstrong
continued to smile as he shot them both in the chest.

His breathless
sergeant came running up to his side. The young lieutenant swung round to face
him, the smile firmly fixed on his face. The sergeant stared down at the
lifeless bodies. Armstrong replaced the pistol in its holster and said, “Can’t
take any risks with these bastards.”

“No, sir,”
replied the sergeant quietly.

That night, once
they had set up camp, Armstrong commandeered a German motorcycle and sped back
to Paris on a forty-eight-hour leave, arriving on Charlotte’s doorstep at seven
the following morning.

When she was
told by the concierge that there was a Lieutenant Armstrong asking to see her,
Charlotte said that she didn’t know anyone by that name, assuming it was just
another officer hoping to be shown round Paris. But when she saw who it was,
she threw her arms around him, and they didn’t leave her room for the rest of
the day and night. The concierge, despite being French, was shocked. I realize
there’s a war on,” she told her husband, “but they hadn’t even met before.”

When Dick left
Charlotte to return to the front on Sunday evening, he told her that by the
time he came back he would have taken Berlin, and then they would be married.
He jumped on his motorcycle and rode away. She stood in her nightdress by the
window of the little apartment and watched until he was out of sight. “Unless
you are killed before Berlin falls, my darling.”

The King’s Own
Regiment was among those selected for the advance on Hamburg, and Armstrong
wanted to be the first officer to enter the city. After three days of fierce
resistance, the city finally fell.

The following
morning, Field Marshal Sir Bernard Montgomery entered the city and addressed
the combined troops from the back of his jeep. He described the battle as
decisive, and assured them it would not be long before the war was over and
they would be going home. After they had cheered their commanding officer, he
descended from his jeep and presented medals for bravery. Among those who were
decorated with a Military Cross was Captain Richard Armstrong.

Two weeks later,
the Germans’ unconditional surrender was signed by General Jodi and accepted by
Eisenhower. The next day Captain Richard Armstrong MC was granted a week’s
leave. Dick powered his motorcycle back to Paris, arriving at Charlotte’s old
apartment building a few minutes before midnight. This time the concierge took
him straight up to her room.

The following
morning Charlotte, in a white suit, and Dick, in his dress uniform, walked to
the local town hall. They emerged thirty minutes later as Captain and Mrs.
Armstrong, the concierge having acted as witness.

Most of the
three-day honeymoon was spent in Charlotte’s little apartment. When Dick left
her to return to his regiment, he told her that now the war was over he
intended to leave the army, take her to England and build a great business
empire.

“Do you have any
plans now that the war is over, Dick)” asked Colonel Oakshott.

“Yes, sir. I
intend to return to England and look for a job,” replied Armstrong.

Oakshott opened
the buff file that lay on the desk in front of him. “It’s just that I might
have something for you here in Berlin.”

“Doing what,
sir?”

“High Command
are looking for the right person to head up the PRISC, and I think you’re the
ideal candidate for the position.”

“What in
heaven’s name is. . .”

“The Public
Relations and Information Services Control. The job might have been made for
you. We’re looking for someone who can present Britain’s case persuasively, and
at the same time make sure the press don’t keep getting the wrong end of the
stick. Winning the war was one thing, but convincing the outside world that
we’re treating the enemy even-handedly is proving far more difficult. The
Americans, the Russians and the French will be appointing their own
representatives, so we need someone who can keep an eye on them as well. You
speak several languages and have all the qualifications the job requires. And
let’s face it, Dick, you don’t have a family in England to rush back to.”

Armstrong
nodded. After a few moments he said, “To quote Montgomery, what weapons are you
giving me to carry out the job?”

“A newspaper,”
said Oakshott. “
Der Telegraf
is one
of the city’s dailies.

It’s currently
operated by a German called Arno Schultz. He never stops complaining that he
can’t keep his presses rolling, he has constant worries about paper shortages,
and the electricity is always being cut off. We want
Der Telegraf
on the streets every day, pumping out our view of
things. I can’t think of anyone more likely to make sure that happens.”

“
Der Telegraf
isn’t the only paper in
Berlin,” said Armstrong.

“No, it isn’t,”
replied the colonel. “Another German is running Der Berliner out of the
American sector-which is an added reason why
Der Telegraf
needs to be a success. At the moment Der Berliner is
selling twice as many copies as
Der
Telegraf
, a position which as you can imagine we’d like to see reversed.”

“And what sort
of authority would I have?”

“You’d be given
a free hand. You can set up your own office and staff it with as many people as
you feel are necessary to do the job. There’s also a flat thrown in, which
means that you could send for your wife.” Oakshott paused. “Perhaps you’d like
a little time to think about it, Dick?”

“I don’t need
time to think about it, sir.”

The colonel
raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll be happy
to take the job on.”

“Good man. Start
by building up contacts. Get to know anyone who might be useful. If you come up
against any problems, just tell whoever’s involved to get in touch with me. If
you’re really stymied, the words ‘Allied Control Commission’ usually oil even
the most immovable wheels.”

It took Captain
Armstrong only a week to requisition the right offices in the heart of the
British sector, partly because he used the words “Control Commission” in every
other sentence. It took him a little longer to sign up a staff of eleven to
manage the office, because all the best people were already working for the
Commission. He began by poaching a Sally Carr, a general’s secretary who had
worked for the Daily Cbronicle in London before the war.

Once Sally had moved
in, the office was up and running within days.

Armstrong’s next
coup came when he discovered that Lieutenant Wakeham was stationed in Berlin
working on transport allocation: Sally told him that Wakeham was bored out of
his mind filling out travel documents. Armstrong invited him to be his second
in
 
command, and to his surprise his
former superior officer happily accepted.

It took some
days to get used to calling him Peter.

Armstrong
completed his team with a sergeant, a couple of corporals and half a dozen
privates from the King’s Own who had the one qualification he required. They
were all former barrow boys from the East End of London. He selected the
sharpest of them, Private Reg Benson, to be his driver. His next move was to
requisition an apartment in Paulstrasse that had previously been occupied by a
brigadier who was returning to England. Once the colonel had signed the
necessary papers, Armstrong told Sally to send a telegram to Charlotte in
Paris.

“What do you
want to say?” she asked, turning a page of her notepad.

“Have found
suitable accommodation. Pack up everything and come immediately.”

As Sally wrote
down his words, Armstrong rose from his seat. “I’m off to
Der Telegraf
to check up on Arno Schultz. See that everything runs
smoothly until I get back.”

“What shall I do
with this?” asked Sally, passing him a letter.

“What’s it
about?” he asked, glancing at it briefly.

“It’s from a
journalist in Oxford who wants to visit Berlin and write about how the British
are treating the Germans under occupation.”

“Too damn well,”
said Armstrong as he reached the door. “But I Suppose you’d better make an
appointment for him to see me.”

NEWS CHRONICLE

I OCTOBEIZ 1946

T
he Judgment of
Nuremberg:

Goering’s Guilt
Unique in Its Enormity WHEN KEITH ToWNSEND arrived at Worcester College, Oxford
to read Politics, Philosophy and Economics, his first impression of England was
everything he had expected it to be: complacent, snobbish, pompous and still
living in the Victorian era. You were either an officer or other ranks, and as
Keith came from the colonies, he was left in no doubt which category he fell
into.

Almost all his
fellow-students seemed to be younger versions of Mr. Jessop, and by the end of
the first week Keith would happily have returned home if it hadn’t been for his
college tutor. Dr. Howard could not have been in greater contrast to his old
headmaster, and showed no surprise when the young Australian told him over a
glass of sherry in his room how much he despised the British class system still
perpetuated by most of the undergraduates. He even refrained 174 from making
any comment on the bust of Lenin which Keith had placed on the center of the
mantelpiece, where Lord Salisbury had lodged the previous year.

Dr. Howard had
no immediate solution to the class problem. In fact his only advice to Keith
was that he should attend the Freshers’ Fair, where he would learn all about
the clubs and societies that undergraduates could join, and perhaps find
something to his liking.

Keith followed
Dr. Howard’s suggestion, and spent the next morning being told why he should
become a member of the Rowing Club, the Philatelic Society, the Dramatic
Society, the Chess Club, the Officer Training Corps and, especially, the
student newspaper. But after he had met the newly appointed editor of Cberwell
and heard his views on how a paper should be run, he decided to concentrate on
politics. He left the Freshers’Fair clutching application forms for the Oxford Union
and the Labor Club.

The following
Tuesday, Keith found his way to the Bricklayers’ Arms, where the barman pointed
up the stairs to a little room in which the Labor Club always met.

The chairman of
the club, Rex Siddons, was immediately suspicious of Brother Keith, as he
insisted on addressing him from the outset. Townsend had all the trappings of a
traditional Tory-father with a knighthood, public school education, a private
allowance and even a secondhand MG