A Farewell to Baker Street (15 page)

Luckily, I encountered no soldiers of any kind and by late morning I stood on the outskirts of the town. I do not know what I expected to see at that point, but the sight I was faced with came as a big surprise. The area had been heavily shelled, with numerous buildings levelled and debris scattered all over. So bad was the damage left by the fighting, that I could scarcely work out the layout of the town compared to what I had learned back in Suffolk.

This was without doubt the lowest point of my journey so far, as I imagined that the townhouse in which your family had lived all those years before had been raised to the ground by the artillery shells. If this was the case, all of my efforts would have been in vain and my quest would be over. I stopped to rest at a large white gatepost that stood proudly and alone amidst the rubble of a former home, a large residence, judging by the size of the plot. Occasionally I would see local people coming and going through what remained of the town, none of them paying much attention to me. I am sure that they had more pressing concerns.

Having eaten some of the bread and cheese given to me by Xavier, I made my way into what remained of the town, still unsure what to do. I felt confident that I had reached the part of the town in which the house had stood, although I could not be sure. But as I scoured the buildings and rubble in desperation, my gaze centred on the remaining two stories of an impressive townhouse standing close to a small orchard. The walls of the house were dark blue and in an earthenware pot to the right of the main doorway I could see a single topiary tree. This had to be it
.

My pleasure at finding the house was short-lived. The front door was locked and as I walked around the property on the side nearest to the apple orchard, I could see that very little of the building was still standing behind the front wall of the house. Without much thought for the dangers I faced, I began to climb over the mountain of debris. I felt strangely uneasy walking on what remained of the interior fittings and beautifully crafted furniture - one moment stepping over a child's wooden horse, the next climbing up and over what looked like a large marble fireplace.

I am able to recollect that scene with incredible clarity as I write these words to you. And I am sure that you will understand how elated I was when, towards the rear of the house, I looked down amid the debris and saw beneath my feet the metal casing of a small green box. Dusting off the front of the box with my sleeve, I could see a maker's name etched clearly in one corner and realised with joy that I had indeed found a safe. With the collapse of the interior walls of the house, the safe that had lain hidden for so many years, had finally been exposed - and only I knew of its existence.

I checked to make sure that no one was watching me, aware suddenly of the vulnerability of my situation. I tried to move the safe, thinking that it may be better to try and open it elsewhere. But even though the casing itself was less than one foot square, I could not move it at all and it remained fixed firmly among the brick rubble. I had to take a chance and open it there and then having come this far.

With some trepidation, I removed the key chain from around my neck and held the small safe key in my hand. I was a little surprised to find that it fitted the lock tightly and precisely and turned with relative ease - so well engineered was the lock, that I heard only a faint clicking sound as the mechanism released the bolts around the door. Gripping the small recessed handle above the keyhole, I lifted the door open very slowly until it would open no more and rested in its upright position. At first, I could see nothing inside, but as my eyes raced eagerly around the inside of the safe I saw a small, velvet-covered case, about five inches wide, tucked away in the bottom left-hand corner. I removed the case with both hands, gently rubbing its red velvet covering with my thumbs and realising as I turned it around that it was exquisitely made. The hinges and clasp of the case were made of gold and the expensive velvet on the lid was embossed with the initials ‘F G D'. Jean Descartes had clearly planned your father's inheritance with every last detail in mind.

I confess that I could not resist the temptation to open the clasp of the case to see what lay inside. But I was not prepared for the remarkable sight that greeted me. The case contained dozens of diamond stones, of various sizes, shining and glistening like stars in the night sky. I lifted the case closer to get a better look at the gems and marvelled at the way the light on the cut stones created a rainbow of colours against the deep, blood-red silk lining of the case
. I had never seen anything so mesmerising or so precious and understood in that moment how passionate and dedicated Jean Descartes must have been in his work.

Having finally found the diamonds, I realised that my adventures were far from over and now had the difficult task of thinking about how I might escape from France and get back to England. I even wondered if it was such a good idea to return to my homeland, given that I was now a deserter and faced the very real risk of being shot by my own side. I did not know what to do for the best and decided that I would try to find a safe haven until I could make firmer plans. But fate was to intervene once more.

For the first few days after leaving Albert, I began again to travel at night, sleeping where I could during the day and surviving on whatever food and water I could lay my hands on. I decided to head away from any land held by the Germans, but progress was slow and my initial caution meant that I could only travel a few miles each night. Despite my best efforts to avoid detection I was eventually caught one evening as I stumbled across a camp set up by a detachment of four British soldiers close to the village of Martinpuich. The man that discovered me hiding in a ditch was Private David Harker, a young soldier from Essex who was to save my life and provide me with a way of escaping France
.

It happened like this. Harker continued to point his rifle and shouted at me to climb out of the ditch. He was nervous and I could see the rifle shaking. His three colleagues immediately joined him. They pulled me bodily from the trench, kicking and punching me until I passed out. When I came around I could see that the four had searched my rucksack - the contents were scattered in the mud and they were passing round the opened bottle of red wine. As I had passed out face down, lying on my chest, they had not searched me in person and I could still feel the case of diamonds pressing into my ribs, hidden within an inside pocket of my thick smock.

I felt drowsy and weak. My chest ached and I could taste blood in my mouth
. One eye was swollen and I had some trouble focusing on the four as I came around. In view of the beating I had just received, I decided to come clean and admit that I was British and a deserter, thinking (accurately as it turned out) that this might at least prevent them from searching me. They were surprisingly sympathetic to the news, at one point passing me the wine and offering me a cigarette. The oldest of the four, a sergeant referred to only as ‘Simmo', explained that they would have to turn me in. “Orders is orders,” he said, “...can't have you running around the countryside scaring the Germans now, can we?”

Harker explained that they were the only survivors from their original Essex company. As a result of their earlier service, they had been moved into logistics, driving a couple of two-ton Guy trucks, supplying troops at the front with much needed ammunition and supplies. Their only concern now was to sit out the war, avoid being killed and to return home to their loved ones. Simmo said that they were heading for the town of Arras the next morning, and would hand me in to a senior officer at that point. I had no choice but to go along with their plans
.

That evening, Simmo built a small fire and over some food and hot tea we chatted about our various experiences of the war. I told them my background, but was careful to avoid telling them much about my movements in France and was more content to listen to their stories. Feltham and Price were single men and gardeners by trade; both had worked on a large private estate on the coast near Harwich. Simmo was also from Harwich, but married with four children. He seemed to have done a variety of jobs in a colourful and highly amusing career. Harker was the closest to me in age and had grown up in Maldon, cut off from most of the world and devastated by the exodus of working men to the battle trenches of western France. His parents had both died when he was in his teens and his only close relative was a distant great-uncle, who was serving in the Royal Navy.

The next morning, the soldiers roused me at dawn with a cup of black tea. Thirty minutes later, we climbed into the trucks heading for Arras
. I rode in the second of the vehicles, between Simmo and Harker. For the most part, the journey was uneventful and we made reasonable progress in spite of the poor state of the village roads we encountered. By this stage I had grown to like both men and the three of us laughed together as Simmo told us stories about his days back home, working as a baker.

I cannot readily recollect where we were when the first explosion turned the truck ahead of us onto its side. Simmo hit the brakes hard and Harker and I shot forward. I was dazed, cracking my head on something inside the cab. I remember Simmo shouting loudly at both of us to get out of the truck and the sound of rapid machine gun fire outside. Harker jumped down from the vehicle, and then reached back in, grabbing me by my left arm and pulling me down, roughly, from the cab. I fell headlong and heavily onto the ground below at the same time as a second explosion lifted our truck off the ground and deposited it away from us to the right.
I looked up briefly, to see Harker drop to his knees and then fall to one side holding his stomach. At that moment I passed out.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I came round to find myself in strange circumstances. The air was choked with thick black smoke from our burning truck, but I could hear no sounds other than the crackles from the fire near to me. Little remained of the first truck, which was, by this time, a burnt-out blackened shell. Beside me lay the body of Harker. His face was turned towards me and his eyes were staring, blankly, without emotion. I rolled him onto his back, realising that he was dead, shot through the chest by the machine gun fire. About fifteen feet in front of me, I could see the body of what looked like Price, similarly twisted and motionless.

I was fearful that our attackers were still close by and did my best to crawl, firstly behind the burning truck, and then into a thicket of bushes on the edge of some woods. I waited there, cold and weak, hiding for about an hour, until I was certain that no one else was around. I was not sure why the Germans had left without checking that we were all dead. Perhaps they had and wrongly assumed that I had also passed away.

Walking over to the first truck, I was shocked to see Feltham's charred remains, his body still sat at the wheel of the overturned truck. Nearby, Price was also dead but not burned. I guessed that he had managed to escape from the vehicle, but had been shot in the head. Despite my searches, I could not find Simmo.

I held no grudges against the four British soldiers, recognising that not so many weeks before, I would have been forced to do what they had done and arrest any suspected deserter. In the aftermath of the attack, I decided to bury Harker and Price in a shallow grave, having first removed their few remaining belongings, intent on returning these to their families if I could. But as I thought more about this, I realised, from what Harker had said the previous evening that nobody but a distant relative was going to miss his death. I did not wish to dishonour the man, but realised that his unfortunate death had provided me with a good opportunity to escape my present predicament. I changed into Price's uniform and boots, which fitted me well, and put all of the men's papers and possessions into my pockets. I then buried the pair in the woods, marking the grave with a crude cross that I assembled from two pieces of wood and some wire I salvaged from the remnants of the truck. From that point on, I assumed the identity of David Harker, a soldier from Maldon in Essex.

This transformation proved to be easier and more fruitful than I could have imagined. As Harker's company had been largely wiped out during the Battle of the Somme, I imagined there would be few, if any, that would remember him. Even if they did, I could always claim to be a different David Harker - it was not such an unusual name. Given that Harker's great-uncle was serving in the Navy, I also imagined that communications with him were likely to be infrequent if they existed at all.

I walked throughout that night on towards the town of Arras, as the Essex men had originally planned. On arrival at the town and the British defences, I presented myself to a senior officer and explained what had happened, identifying myself as Private David Harker and handing him Price's papers and possessions. I also told him that to my knowledge I was the only surviving member of my company. From that point on, I was attached to a new company, fighting thereafter in both France and Italy. And all the while, I fought as David Harker and carried with me your father's diamonds.

I hope that you will indulge me a while longer Heinrich, as I still have some further elements of the story to share.

My final months of the war were spent in Holland, running food supplies to troops and civilians. During this time, I met a Dutch girl called Katerina Plokker, who I very quickly fell in love with. With the end of the war, we made plans to marry and I decided that I would continue to live in Holland, fearful that any return to England might risk the exposure of my secret past. In December 1918, Katerina and I married in Giethoorn and moved into a small house given to us by her father. The marriage was well attended by Katerina's family. I stuck to my story, that the only close relative I had was a great-uncle, who was still serving in the British Navy.