A Twist in the Tale Read online

  Christopher wanted to protest but he couldn’t get a word out.

  “A mistake?” managed Margaret.

  “Yes, madam. The bills you presented don’t make any sense to him.”

  “Don’t make any sense?”

  “No, madam,” said the senior customs officer. “I repeat, we feel certain a mistake has been made.”

  “What kind of mistake?” asked Christopher, at last finding his voice.

  “Well, you have come forward and declared two carpets, one at a price of ten thousand pounds and one at a price of five hundred pounds, according to these receipts.”

  “Yes?”

  “Every year hundreds of people return to England with Turkish carpets, so we have some experience in these matters. Our adviser feels certain that the bills have been incorrectly made out.”

  “I don’t begin to understand…” said Christopher.

  “Well,” explained the senior officer, “the large carpet, we are assured, has been spun with a crude distaff and has only two hundred ghiordes, or knots, per square inch. Despite its size we estimate it to be valued around five thousand pounds. The small carpet, on the other hand, we estimate to have nine hundred knots per square inch and is a fine example of a silk hand-woven traditional Hereke and undoubtedly would have been a bargain at five thousand pounds. As both carpets come from the same shop, we assume it must be a clerical error.”

  The Robertses remained speechless.

  “It doesn’t make any difference to the duty you will have to pay, but we felt sure you would want to know, for insurance purposes.”

  Still the Robertses said nothing.

  “As you’re allowed five hundred pounds before paying any duty, the excise will still be two thousand pounds.”

  Christopher quickly handed over the Kendall-Humes’ wad of notes. The senior officer counted them while his junior carefully rewrapped the two carpets.

  “Thank you,” said Christopher, as they handed back the parcels and a receipt for the two thousand pounds.

  The Robertses quickly bundled the large package onto its trolley before wheeling it through the concourse and onto the pavement outside where the Kendall-Humes impatiently awaited them.

  “You were a long time in there,” said Kendall-Hume. “Any problems?”

  “No, they were just assessing the value of the carpets.”

  “Any extra charge?” Kendall-Hume asked apprehensively.

  “No, your two thousand pounds covered everything,” said Christopher, passing over the receipt.

  “Then we got away with it, old fellow. Well done. One hell of a bargain to add to my collection.” Kendall-Hume turned to bundle the large package into the boot of his Mercedes before locking it and taking his place behind the steering wheel. “Well done,” he repeated through the open window, as the car drove off. “I won’t forget the school appeal.”

  The Robertses stood and watched as the silver gray car joined a line of traffic leaving the airport.

  “Why didn’t you tell Mr. Kendall-Hume the real value of his carpet?” asked Margaret once they were seated in the bus.

  “I did give it some considerable thought, and I came to the conclusion that the truth was the last thing Kendall-Hume wanted to be told.”

  “But don’t you feel any guilt? After all, we’ve stolen—”

  “Not at all, my dear. We haven’t stolen anything. But we did get one hell of a ‘steal.’”

  COLONEL BULLFROG

  THERE IS ONE cathedral in England that has never found it necessary to launch a national appeal.

  * * *

  When the Colonel woke he found himself tied to a stake where the ambush had taken place. He could feel a numb sensation in his leg. The last thing he could recall was the bayonet entering his thigh. All he was aware of now were ants crawling up his leg on an endless march toward the wound.

  It would have been better to have remained unconscious, he decided.

  Then someone undid the knots and he collapsed head first into the mud. It would be better still to be dead, he concluded. The Colonel somehow got to his knees and crawled over to the stake next to him. Tied to it was a corporal who must have been dead for several hours. Ants were crawling in and out of his mouth. The Colonel tore off a strip from the man’s shirt, washed it in a large puddle nearby and cleaned the wound in his leg as best he could before binding it tightly.

  That was February 17, 1943, a date that would be etched on the Colonel’s memory for the rest of his life.

  That same morning the Japanese received orders that the newly captured Allied prisoners were to be moved at dawn. Many were to die on the march but Colonel Richard Moore was determined not to be counted among them.

  Twenty-nine days later, one hundred and seventeen of the original seven hundred and thirty-two Allied troops reached Tonchan. Any man whose travels had previously not taken him beyond the playgrounds of southern Europe could hardly have been prepared for such an experience as Tonchan. This heavily guarded prisoner-of-war camp, some three hundred miles north of Singapore and hidden in the deepest equatorial jungle, offered no possibility of freedom. Anyone who contemplated escape could not hope to survive in the jungle for more than a few days, while those who remained discovered the odds were not a lot shorter.

  When the Colonel first arrived Major Sakata, the camp commandant, informed him that he was the senior ranking officer and would therefore be held responsible for the welfare of all Allied troops.

  Colonel Moore stared down at the Japanese officer. Sakata must have been a foot shorter than himself but after that twenty-eight-day march the British soldier couldn’t have weighed much more than the diminutive Major.

  Moore’s first act on leaving the commandant’s office was to call together all the Allied officers. He discovered there was a good cross-section from Britain, Australia, New Zealand and America but few could have been described as fit. Men were dying daily from malaria, dysentery and malnutrition. He was suddenly aware what the expression “dying like flies” meant.

  The Colonel learned from his staff officers that for the previous two years of the camp’s existence they had been ordered to build bamboo huts for the Japanese officers. These had had to be completed before they had been allowed to start on a hospital for their own men and only recently huts for themselves. Many of the prisoners had died during those two years, not from illness but from the atrocities some Japanese perpetrated on a daily basis. Major Sakata, known because of his skinny arms as “Chopsticks,” was, however, not considered to be the villain. His second-in-command, Lieutenant Takasaki (the Undertaker), and Sergeant Ayut (the Pig) were of a different mold and to be avoided at all cost, his men warned him.

  It took the Colonel only a few days to discover why.

  He decided his first task was to try to raise the battered morale of his troops. As there was no padre among those officers who had been captured he began each day by conducting a short service of prayer. Once the service was over the men would start work on the railway that ran alongside the camp. Each arduous day consisted of laying tracks to help Japanese soldiers get to the front more quickly so they could in turn kill and capture more Allied troops. Any prisoner suspected of undermining this work was found guilty of sabotage and put to death without trial. Lieutenant Takasaki considered taking an unscheduled five-minute break to be sabotage.

  At lunch prisoners were allowed twenty minutes off to share a bowl of rice—usually with maggots—and, if they were lucky, a mug of water. Although the men returned to the camp each night exhausted, the Colonel still set about organizing squads to be responsible for the cleanliness of their huts and the state of the latrines.

  After only a few months, the Colonel was able to organize a football match between the British and the Americans, and following its success even set up a camp league. But he was even more delighted when the men turned up for karate lessons under Sergeant Hawke, a thick-set Australian, who had a Black Belt and for good measure played the mouth organ