1939

1 Zeppelins over England England, January 1939 THIS IS THE BBC CALLING: German Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop visited Paris recently, where French Foreign Minister Georges Bonnet allegedly informed him that France now recognizes all of Eastern Europe as being in Germany"s exclusive sphere of influence. Bonnet denies making the remark. Rishaan Finch knew he would never forget the war years; he had lost many people close to him. The storm of events that had swept across the globe in those turbulent years had changed him. He had learned skills that no normal boy should ever need to use and been in adventures that could fill several lifetimes of any other man. He had been a part of History and had seen History made around him. His story involved, among other things, an Indian Princess, a secret torn photograph, Nazi spies and a phantom Zeppelin. However, it first began with a strange telephone call that cold January day in 1939. The day had already started oddly. He had heard on the radio that the Thames River had frozen over, and he wanted to see that for himself. First he had promised his grandfather - the sergeant major - to recharge his radio battery at the local garage. His grandfather never left the house, due to his "war wounds", and his home had not yet been wired for electricity. His grandfather would give him sixpence, but Rishaan was always happy to visit the sergeant major. The roads were slippery and soot from the chimneys covered the London snow in a grey hue. The sky was overcast and the color of lead. As he turned the corner of the road he was almost bowled over by a huge man carrying coal to the houses. The man was covered in coal dust and growled at Rishaan to get out of his way. Rishaan found him fascinating. It was really cold, yet the man was sweating from his labor. The sweat made white rivers down his black coal-dusted face that made it look like he was wearing war paint. The man returned from the neighbor’s house after tipping the coal into the coal shed and returned to his horse and cart to get another load. “Please sir, can I take your photograph? It’s my hobby,” said Rishaan. He had decided that he wanted to be a photographer and a friend of his mother, a famous photographer, had told him the only way to get a good photograph was to be fearless. “What’s it worth to me?” growled the coal man. He had the same heavy London accent as his grandfather. “I’ve got sixpence,” said Rishaan, pulling out the coin his grandfather had given him. The coal man smiled, his white teeth set against his blackened face. “Okay then, give me the money,” he said, seemingly intrigued by this posh, well-dressed teenager with an expensive camera and sixpence to spare. Rishaan snapped some pictures as the coal man threw a sack of coal onto his back, then growled at Rishaan, making faces. They both laughed, and Rishaan thanked him. He knew the photographs would be great; he was looking forward to developing them. “Thank you, sir,” said Rishaan, and the coal man nodded. As Rishaan left, the coal man mumbled under his breath, “b****y rich kid,” but then put the sixpence into his leather waistcoat pocket. He would be having a pint at the pub on his way home. Rishaan turned and watched the man leave. His horse followed him slavishly down the street, without any prompting from the coal man. Rishaan wondered what it must be like to be a coal man - to work so hard, in this cold, with little pay. He wanted to ask the man many questions, but he knew that he was lucky just to get the photograph. His was a different life from that of the coal man. Rishaan"s mother was an English journalist and photographer. His father was an American specializing in European affairs who worked as adviser to the American ambassador to London. They said he was President Roosevelt’s eyes and ears in Europe, but Rishaan’s father was always dismissive about this. “Never listen to gossip – or repeat it,” he said. “The walls have ears!” his father always added, which just confirmed more about his father’s status as a secret agent than dispelled it. Rishaan had spent his early years in Washington, D.C., Berlin, Africa, Madrid and Paris. He loved traveling with his father and mother around the world. When he was ten years old, they moved to England for a quieter life, but Rishaan knew there were other reasons. Rishaan loved London the most. His mother had told him so many stories about knights and castles and damsels in distress. He shared her love of history. Now he lived near Buckingham Palace, and he could visit the castles in England, including his favorite, the Tower of London. Best of all, he could visit his mother’s father, the sergeant major, whenever he liked. The sergeant major would tell him stories about his life in the army, his travels with Lawrence of Arabia, the Great War, and his escapades with the Air Force in the Sudan and the Boer war. The sergeant major had served in several wars, and had scars from every campaign to prove it. He looked very much the sergeant major, with a large walrus mustache, waxed at the tips. He was a thin, sinewy man, with big hands (missing a few fingers) and a large scar running down one side of his face. He knew everything there was to know about horses, guns, poisonous snakes, Africa, Queen Victoria (whom he had met), and ancient Egypt. He had the tendency to tell long stories about the past and he would drift off into the worlds he had seen, sometimes staring into the distance, a sentence unfinished. However, when he told stories of the battles he had been in, he would bark his sentences like drill commands and his eyes would bulge as if he was blowing a bugle. Rishaan was a bit afraid of the sergeant major’s house. It was old and large, and had many rooms, even though the sergeant major only lived in the front room. The house had many smells, from a range of Oriental spices to strange smells of gunpowder and rotting military equipment. The sergeant major still lived in the 19th century; he sat at home at the window, wearing his pith helmet, and saluted strangers as they walked past his house. The sergeant major would keep watch on the area for attacking tribesmen, figments of his imagination. He slept in a tent pitched in the middle of the living room floor. Rishaan loved the old tent. It was dirty from many years of use, and even had a few bullet holes in it. Rishaan’s father said that the sergeant major had “lost his marbles”, but Rishaan thought the sergeant major was just doing what he liked best, and that was living in his memories. The old man found it comforting. He had lost so many friends. “Tell me what you saw on your way here,” the sergeant major questioned him as he arrived. “I saw two lions and a herd of wildebeest! I also saw a coal man who looked like he was wearing war paint,” offered Rishaan. “Any Zulu tribes – did you hear any drums?” “Not a soul. It’s quiet in Notting Hill today; only the vultures and the apes were making any noise.” The sergeant major was reassured and placed his blunderbuss in the corner next to the stuffed baboon. “Oh, before I forget, Rishaan, don’t go swimming in the Serpentine, it’s infested with crocodiles.” “Are you sure, Grandfather?” “Why else would they call it the Serpentine?” “I promise,” said Rishaan, unable to think of a reply. This comforted the sergeant major. “Then you may make me a cup of tea,” he commanded. “Yes sir!” Rishaan saluted and went to the pitched tent in the middle of the living room and started the Bunsen burner to boil some water. “Boil the water good; we don’t want to catch any nasty tropical diseases. Then make the char strong son, it could be our last.” Rishaan liked the sergeant major’s mustache – marbled with nicotine stains, it did make him look like a walrus when it was not waxed. Rishaan wanted to have a mustache like that when he was older; he wondered how much he would have to smoke to achieve the same effect. “When I was in Cuba I smoked cigars,” said the sergeant major, “in Belgium I smoked shag, in the Middle East I smoked hookah. You could tell which continent I was on by the color of my mustache.” He had been awarded many medals, and he wore them with pride. Rishaan had never seen him without them, and maybe he would not have recognized him without them. It was the sergeant major"s wish to be buried with his medals, his rifle, and a bottle of whiskey. In his coffin should also be a candle, a pair of scissors, a mirror, and a picture of the Queen. It was his fear that, after burial, he would come back to life again. The whiskey was to give him solace. The scissors, candle and mirror were so that he could keep his moustache respectable for the Queen. Rishaan loved the sergeant major’s stories. Whenever Rishaan had a problem, or a dilemma, the sergeant major always had a story to help him with the situation. However, his favorite story was about the sergeant major"s socks. According to the sergeant major, his socks smelt of cheese. “The cotton ones smell of cheddar; the woolen ones smell of Wensleydale. My old army socks smell of Gorgonzola, except the ones I had in the trenches: they smell of Brie, but that’s probably because we were in France. I once won a contest where I could sort my socks simply by the smell. Now if that were an Olympic sport!” Ever since Rishaan had known him, since he had been invalided out of the army, the sergeant major had never left the house. Rishaan once asked the sergeant major, with his trademark honesty and innocence, why he was keeping lookout for Zulus in the center of London. “Yes, I know your father thinks I’m as mad as a hatter, and I know that there are no marauding Zulus in London; it just comforts me to keep a lookout. If you were there, at the Battle of Isandlwana, you would understand. I was about your age then.” The sergeant major never talked about Isandlwana. Rishaan always knew it was better not to ask. Maybe one day, when the sergeant was ready. “Dad didn’t say you were as mad as a hatter, he just said you had lost some of your marbles.” “Only you could get away with saying that, Rishaan,” the sergeant major laughed. “Anyway, when you’ve been chased around the world by the enemy as much as I’ve been, you’re bound to lose some things along the way.” The old man picked up a battered blunderbuss and started to clean it. Rishaan knew that whenever grandfather cleaned his g*n the memories would flood back, so he sat cross-legged on the floor and waited patiently for his grandfather to tell another story. “I’ll never forget how your grandmother died,” he said. “She was the sweetest woman you could ever meet. She practically brought up your mother all on her own. There I was--wherever there was a war, wherever there was danger--there I was, being shot at. Always looking for trouble, I was, always up to no good. All the while your grandmother was safe at home, here in London. Then one day she goes to the post office to pick up a telegram from me, and then she’s no more. Hit by a tram. I never usually sent her telegrams. I knew she always worried about me, so for once, I thought I would send her one. I was told she was very nervous about getting the telegram, as she just assumed it was bad news. I couldn’t believe it. I just didn’t have the stomach for war after that.” Rishaan let his grandfather talk.