The 'Accident' on Stamford Street

It's London 1941, the full force of the Blitz is being felt. Gerry Morgan, renowned criminal turned bomb disposal expert is under investigation for an 'accident' on the job.

 

I was half submerged and completely disguised in that dreadful barrel as Hitler began levelling the other side of the river. Undercover, I waited for my man to arrive at his usual evening haunt.

            They appeared just as I was about to call it a day, almost as if they had been dropped in from a Heinkel.

            “Have a seat chaps, I’ll have it up in a flash.” That unmistakable voice. Gerald Morgan. He addressed two men I didn’t recognise. Morgan was walking with a noticeable limp. He picked up a shovel that was propped against the crumbling walls, then spoke again.  “It’s not as financially rewarding, that’s for sure, but I like to think I’m doing some good. There’s a hell of a lot less running involved. Unless I c**k up like the other day.” 

            “And you’re a free man again, Gerry. That’s what’s most important, right?” The taller of his two accomplices butted in.

            “It’s not just about that. I’ve got a chance to make up for a few things.” The few things I knew amounted to countless robberies, police brawls and upset husbands. Not long ago Morgan was locked up where people like him belong. But in the eyes of His Majesty’s Government, rigging a safe to blow is a similar task to defusing German explosives. (That last bit is strictly off the record, you understand). Morgan’s criminal past might shed some light on just why this particular railway arch remained occupied by only three individuals, despite the heaving bombing. The locals were highly distrustful of him. And there I was hiding, hoping to prove their suspicions correct.

            He looked as rough around the edges as usual; his hair groomed by the wind and it was clear he had not shaved in at least a week. To top it all off he was wearing that coat. The same old brown coat he wore everywhere he went. It was far too big for him, dragging through the mud, just like his abuse of the trust of the Powers That Be. So I thought at the time.

            I’d failed to notice he’d managed to dig up a small suitcase from somewhere. He placed it on a table and began doling out its contents. It was dark at this point but I was able to identify what it was using the light from explosions across the river. Morgan had stashed a near endless supply of alcohol. 

            I was not at all surprised. I started to note this down for use at a later date when a much closer blast startled me. I twitched, dropped my pencil into the rancid water at the bottom of the barrel and then scrambled around looking for it. When I was finally upright again Morgan was relaying the week’s events. I turned my ear to a small crack and copied his speech more or less word for word with my wet pencil.

           

            “…You’re right it could’ve… Could’ve been a hell of a lot worse, but those Nazi buggers aren’t going to get one over on me. Can be damn sure of that.” The whole table let out a boisterous grunt and brought their bottles together with what would have been a clink, but another blast drowned it out.

            “Day started normal enough. Had no bloody sleep as you lot well know. It’s nothing a bit more Yank whiskey couldn’t fix though. Am I right? I had to meet the Major see, find out where the day’s excitement was. So I started my walk over to where the posh sod was holding up. No matter how many times I go there, there’s always something that’s hit me hard. People don’t deserve what’s happening to them.”

            I noted down at this point that people also did not deserve to be robbed, conned or hit with crowbars.

            Morgan continued. “There was a woman a few weeks back, when we had all that snow, who survived the bomb that struck her home, only to get trapped in the outside lavvy.”

            Morgan was interrupted. “I heard she’d left her shelter - an Anderson I think " would’ve thought you’d just hold it in, or go in a bucket like.”

            “She was probably nervous. Poor girl was killed in the end, when her neighbors disturbed the rubble and well… You can guess what happened. She was thirty four I heard, life just snuffed out in an instant. She never did anything.” Morgan paused and I thought to myself at this point how the innocent are often unfairly treated, while the guilty linger on. Following that thought caused me to lose track of Morgan. I was quite certain the men had coldly dismissed the woman’s death as her own fault; I was sure that sympathy wasn’t a trait you associated with people like them. I refocused, only to find him still rattling on about the horrors we all must witness every day, as if his experiences were somehow special.

            “There was a kid I saw this week sat by the road looking bloody terrified. I thought the worst so I knelt down beside him to see if I could help, thought it was the right thing to do, no? After about a second I was smacked round the back of the head by the lad’s mother. She screamed at me, stupid woman. Wanted me away from her nipper.

            You won’t get at our kids. She kept shouting. They’ve been through enough as it is. So you see boys, it’s either tragedy, or the people I’m trying to help treating me as if I was one of the dirty b******s that caused the tragedy. That walk to the Major can really f**k your day.” Morgan took a lengthy drink and hastily rolled a cigarette with his free hand. He was obviously feeling sorry for himself. It occurred to me at that moment that he must be even more self-obsessed than I imagined. He shared the cigarette around the table, then moved off topic, much to my frustration. He began to ponder the fate of his beloved football team now the war had really begun. Of course this was of no interest to me, so I began to wonder whether I too could successfully light my pipe and enjoy a smoke while remaining incognito. I weighed up the situation, but eventually concluded that smoke " no matter how little " seeping from a lone barrel half full of water may raise suspicions. I placed my pipe back into my jacket and peered out once more.

            As it turns out Morgan had returned to his story some time before. I had lost focus and missed his account of him meeting the Major that morning. I refocused to find him describing the young cripple who often accompanies him.

            “Don’t think you’ve met Jack, have you?” Morgan didn’t give them a chance to answer. “He’s supposed to be my assistant, but he’s really just a young lad trying to do his bit. Was born with a busted leg see, so following me about is all he can really do.”

            “Always good to have a bit of help I guess.” The man who until now had been silent spoke up.

Morgan let out a sudden laugh “I don’t know about help. Spends most of the day scribbling nonsense in his notepad or reading anything he can salvage from the destruction. Oh, and correcting my bloody grammar. Caught him writing a sodding war poem the other day. How can you write war poems if you’ve never been to war?” Morgan laughed again and hit the table. “Anyway, he’s a good lad; I met up with him that day on the way to sort a bomb in an old girl’s house, end of Stamford Street.”

            Stamford Street, at last things were getting on topic. I wasn’t interested in the early parts of the job, but the bombing had become more intense. Concentrating on Morgan and his tales " relevant or not - was the only thing keeping my thoughts from wandering. I was glad in a way that the man never seemed to shut up.

            “We arrived at the house in no time. It had a hole in the roof the size of a bloody Austin.”

The taller man interrupted “Wouldn’t be surprised if they start dropping motors on us soon. Got to run out of bombs some time, the B******s.”

            Morgan ignored the comment and continued, “Jack walked over to talk to the old girl who owned the place. She was leant on her garden wall reading a paper with a huge hole in it, like nothing was wrong. He’s good with people, that Jack; they respond a damn sight better to him than they do to me. After about five minutes he shuffled over to let me know what was what.

            Sounds like a big one. It fell straight through the roof, then through the ceiling and landed right in the middle of the dinner table. Almost as if the poor thing was hungry.

            I asked him what it's called when he makes out like the bomb is a sodding bloke.            It’s personification, Gerry. He looked a bit smug.

            It does my head in, so I told him not to do it. I wasn’t sure the Germans are really people, let alone their f*****g bombs. Anyway he apologised, as he does, and as I was about to walk towards the house, he grabbed my arm.

             One more thing before we go in. Mrs Wilson says that you are not to touch anything. I didn’t reply at the time but, for God’s sake, there’s a bomb in her front room and she’s worried about me nicking her china.”

            I was enjoying Morgan’s tale, but was beginning to become frustrated. So far his apparent hatred for all things German was the only thing that may have helped my investigation, and to add to my misery, I was starting to lose the feeling in my toes. I shuffled my feet around hoping that the chorus of chaos would disguise the water sloshing around. I was sure it had done, but it took an age for my feet to regain feeling. This small break worked in my favour.  When I returned to Morgan’s tale, things had become very relevant.

            “This is where things started going south, lads. I had been fiddling with that bomb for ages, I’d never seen anything like it before, and to tell you the truth, I really wasn’t sure how to sort it.”

The quiet man inhaled sharply “You told me that you’re never really sure, you just go with your gut.”

            “I’m all for hit and hope, but there’s a time and a place. Staring down an angry looking five hundred pound bomb makes you think twice. Sometimes.”

            The quiet man was gaining confidence; alcohol fuelled no doubt, “You know that was personification?”

            Morgan laughed, “Give me a f*****g break will you. Anyway, I wasn’t happy, so I sent Jack to ask the Major for some advice while I had a smoke. You won’t believe what he brought back with him.” Morgan paused at this moment and looked down. The pause was long enough to ensure everyone " including me " had reached the end of their patience.

            The smaller of the two men gave in, “Spit it out then, Gerry. What was it?”

            Morgan raised his head as a flash of light reflected off of the river, “It was a bloody German.”

            The men around the table looked shocked, but I was delighted. This was what I had been waiting to hear. My feet stopped feeling the cold and my body stopped reacting to bomb blasts. I drew a small knife from my inside pocket, and made sure my pencil was sharp enough to catch every word

He continued, “Jack didn’t say anything. He knew I wasn’t going to be happy, and he was right. This tall girl, never seen her before, walked slowly up to me. Curled brown hair, glasses, you know the sort.”

            The short man interrupted, now slurring his speech, “Sounds like your lucky day Gerry, bet she was looking for a man to save her from that German walking about.”

            “She was the German, you stupid sod.” Morgan continued, stopping any further interruptions, “She spoke to me straight away, no hand shake or nothing, you know what they’re like.

            Having trouble Mr Morgan? She spoke clear enough, but that accent… If she wasn’t a woman, it would’ve got ugly. Anyway, she didn’t give me a chance to answer.

            Is it that house there? She said pointing to the bloody great hole in the roof, smiling. I stopped her as she tried to walk past; I didn’t have a clue who the hell she was, so I asked her, just like that.

            My name is Elke, and I’m here to help you, unless you have finished already? Cheeky b***h knew I hadn’t, this was when Jack piped up.

            Elke is an expert with German ordinance apparently. The Major said she’ll be working with us today, to teach us a thing or two. Bring us up to speed, I think is what he said. I had no words. I couldn’t bloody believe it.

            Morgan paused again, inviting interruption, “Me either Gerry, a woman as a bomb expert. Crazy if you ask me.”

            Morgan hit the table, “I didn’t. I didn’t care that she was a woman, I didn’t trust her because she was a German. I mean what the hell was she doing, all cosy with the Major in the middle of London? Never did find that out.”

            I wasn’t surprised that Morgan had no idea who Elke was.  She was a prized German mathematician and engineer, responsible for the designs of many pieces of kit. So we’re told anyway. Strangely for someone in her line of work, she apparently didn’t like military aggression and saw the war coming long before anyone else. So she ended up here and the Higher Ups were keen to get her involved in any way they could. She was becoming invaluable, making this investigation incredibly important.

            After highlighting in my notebook that Morgan’s reactions to Elke were as expected, I returned to eavesdropping.

            “I had another smoke and by the time I’d finished, a few coppers had shown up and moved people away from the area. Bit odd really, I’ve hit bombs with hammers while dinner was being served in the next room.”

            I wonder if Morgan would have admitted this so openly if he’d have known I was there. A worrying image that one.

            He continued, “I headed back inside and found Jack and Elke. She was stood with her hands on her hips and pointed to her watch when I got inside.

            No wonder your trains are always late, she said, looking bloody smug. Jack laughed but I gave him a stare. I told Elke to get on with it.

            She smiled as she seemed to do all the time and replied. Look, I know you don’t like me Mr Morgan, but you are going to have to work with me. My apologies for being born with less between my legs than you would like. I piped up quickly and told her I didn’t like her because she was German. Couldn’t have her thinking I think less of women.

            She raised an eyebrow. I see. You dislike people because of where they have come from then. Again I had to set the record straight. I told her I didn’t give a damn where anyone was from, as long as they weren’t German. Nothing wrong with that. She seemed to find that funny. But I don’t understand how they think. I just let her get on with it. She pulled a screwdriver out from my front pocket.”

            Morgan was interrupted, “Sounds like she liked you a lot Gerry.”

            “Just shut up and listen will you. She wedged the flathead underneath a panel on the side of the bomb and asked me to give it a pull.  It was on tight. I leant back, putting all my weight into it. The pressure built up, and the thing finally gave. Problem was, so did I. I fell back into the bloody wall. There was silence for a second, then roof tiles starting raining down into the room. Elke darted into the doorway and Jack scrambled under what was left of the table. I, on the other hand, don’t think that fast, so I had to roll over, cover my head with the panel I just ripped off the bomb, and hope for the best.”

            Morgan stood up slowly from the table and removed his old coat. He rolled up his trouser leg, revealing what even in relative darkness appeared to be some very shoddy looking medical work. It looked like he had a nasty looking wound behind his knee and a dark stain on his calf that could only have been blood.

            “That’s what happens when you’re not quick enough,” he said. The other men voiced half-hearted concerns, but Morgan wasn’t interested, “Oh rubbish, I’ve had worse.” As he spoke, he folded his coat and threw it. It landed on top of the barrel, and made the rest of my job very difficult. My view was completely obscured, and from then on I had to rely on Morgan’s muffled voice to piece together my evidence. I couldn’t believe it was that bloody coat, of all things.

            A chair scraped along the ground; I can only assume Morgan sat down before continuing. “Hoping wasn’t enough. One of the bloody tiles had landed corner first on the back of my knee. There was so much dust in the room, I could barely see how bad it was.

            Elke shouted. Is everyone alright? Gerald, Jack? I didn’t answer for a while because I couldn’t get my head around being called Gerald. Jack shot up from under the table, not even a speck of dust on him. I dragged myself up using the fireplace. I could walk, but it hurt like hell and was bloody slow going.

            Elke spotted my leg, You’re hurt, we need to get you some help. She scanned the floor. I told her straight away, I was feeling fine and we had a job to finish.

            She looked confused, You want to stay and finish the job. Really? I knew what she was thinking. I told her just because of who I was or what I’d done, it didn’t mean I was going to cut and run. Sure maybe someone else could’ve done it, but this was my Job, my chance to do something, you know?

            She replied pretty forcefully, I don’t care where you have come from; I only care about what you are doing now. If you wish to stay then we will finish this. I remember thinking, if only everyone round here thought like that. But I didn’t let on it meant something to me. Elke bent down and picked up a small part of what had been her glasses. She looked at me with those wide eyes of hers, and I knew what it meant. You can have all the knowledge in the world, but if you can’t see, you can’t mess around with bombs.

            You’re going to have to do it, she said, calm as anything. I nodded trying to look as calm as her. I told Jack to head home at this point. It was close to the lad’s tea time and he’d seen enough.  

Before he left he tied his scarf round my knee. Don’t c**k it up. He said it with a smirk, but I think he meant it.”

            Morgan’s story was getting close to the end, and the bombing had almost stopped completely. I could hear well enough, but with every bit of good comes a bit of bad. I had nearly run out of paper and would soon be forced to work with memory alone.

            I ignored this concern and returned to Morgan’s tale. “She started giving me instructions. Move this, don’t touch that. Easy enough to follow but I was nervous, and the roof had been creaking on and off ever since I fell. I think Elke knew. She put her hand on my shoulder and passed me a cigarette she’d started smoking a few minutes before.

            She spoke to me quietly, and I remember every word, You’ll need to be calm for the last part. You see those three wires. When you cut them we have ninety seconds to finish the rest. It’s to stop people like you, but it’s plenty of time. Trust me.  The roof creaked, louder this time and dust fell slowly into the room. Elke brushed her coat. I wasn’t sure if I trusted her or not, but it was too late to back out now. I pulled a pair of cutters from my belt, raised them to the three wires Elke had pointed to and cut them.”

            Morgan’s smaller associate " now incredibly drunk " struck the table judging by the sound, and then shouted, “BOOM.” He laughed but stopped quickly after a thud. Something must have been thrown at him I think.

            Morgan carried on as normal, “A ticking kicked in and just as it did a plane flew overhead, real low. Amazing it missed the barrage balloons, thinking about it. The whole bloody place shook. Dust dropped down. There was a sound of stone grinding on stone, a sound of wood bouncing off wood. It went quiet, then that really nasty sound happened. A couple more tiles had fallen and Elke was in the wrong place.

            From the way she had fallen I knew she was either out cold, or dead. Neither one helped me, but I was really hoping she was alright. I hobbled over, my leg really giving me trouble. I shouted, no response. Blood was pouring from her head, but I think I felt a pulse. I remember feeling relieved, and that’s when I could suddenly hear that ticking again.”

            The taller man’s voice interrupted, “Jesus, Gerry, someone should write this down. Quite a story.” The irony wasn’t lost on me, but I still needed to hear the rest.

            Morgan spoke again, ignoring the comment, “That f*****g ticking was driving me mad. Elke hadn’t told me what to do, and I couldn’t just guess. I had to get out of there. I looked towards the front door; a bloody beam had fallen, blocking it off. I had to chance it and go through the back. I moved across the room then looked around. I couldn’t leave her there, so I grabbed her under the arms and starting dragging her towards the door. We made it out to the garden but my leg was done, and I was knackered. I couldn’t go any further and drag her with me at the same time. There was a shelter. I was sure it was too close to the bomb to work, but it was all I could do for her. With my last bit of strength I dragged her in. I clawed my way over the fence and just kept moving forward. I was a good distance away when it went off, and I was shaken up big time. I told a copper I thought someone was in there, and I haven’t spoken to anyone since.”

            The group were quiet after that, and left shortly after. Nobody has been found at the bomb site so far. Because of who Elke is, or was, Higher Ups want someone to blame. I’m not convinced that more could have been done after things began going wrong. But could they have been prevented in the first place? Morgan will likely take the fall for this one, whether I think he should or not. I’ll be commended and the war will go on.  Espionage isn’t the same when you’re spying on your own side. Especially when you’re half-submerged in a barrel. Putting myself forward for this was a mistake.

Author's Note

Be interested in knowing if the voices of the two narrators (Framing and framed) are distinct enough to avoid any confusion with who is speaking.