Doctor Who_ Just War - Lance Parkin [27]
Computers made sure that each flitter conformed to the rigorous safety and emissions standards required by law. The car in front of him wouldn’t. It was the fossil fuel this car used that contributed to the fog that shrouded London every morning. The tyre treads were worn, the vehicle had no back-up computer. In a crash, all that metal would crumple, all the glass would shatter. It must weigh several tonnes; most of that huge engine would surely be needed just to move it.
Chris changed his mind: this car would move. This car would be one of the fastest things on the planet at this time. He loved this car.
He looked back at Roz. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, great. But trust me, it’ll never get off the ground.’
Roz didn’t share his love of machines, and in the past had proved unwilling to acquire it. Chris turned back to the car, and saw the driver holding the rear door open for him.
‘It belongs to a lord of the realm, sir,’ the driver said. ‘He volunteered it for military service. We were hardly going to turn him down.’
‘It’s a beautiful vehicle,’ Chris breathed. ‘Do you think I could sit in the front?’ There was a snort of derision from somewhere behind him.
‘Yes, sir.’ The driver sounded delighted at the admiration his car was receiving, and was closing the rear door as Chris clambered into the driver’s seat. The driver looked around helplessly.
George Reed shrugged. ‘Let him drive if he wants to, Harry. Just don’t let him get lost.’
‘No, sir.’
Chris was running his hand over the black leather seats and the walnut trim. ‘This is just superb. Hey, Sergeant, how do you start the engine?’
The driver showed him. The engine surged into life.
‘And then?’
‘Drop the handbrake, put it in gear and push down the pedal, sir.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come for a spin with us, Roz?’
‘Chris, there’s a war on.’ Her tone was sharp, but there was an underlying tenderness there that Chris couldn’t fail to spot. She was worried about him.
‘Don’t worry, Roz, I’ll be OK.’ He grinned reassuringly.
Then he slammed the driver’s door shut, pushed the pedal right down to the floor, and the Bentley roared away. Harry, the driver, was thrown back into his seat, grabbing for his cap. When he had recovered, he grinned at Chris, who grinned back. The car threw itself past St James’s Park.
‘How long will it take to get to Plymouth?’ Chris asked, shouting over the roar of the engine.
‘About half as long as it should take!’ laughed Harry.
An islander had killed a German officer: there was only one possible course of action. At a quarter-past nine, on the cold morning of 2 March 1941, German troops silently moved into position, blocking off Smith Street in front of the post office.
Islanders were allowed to enter the area, but none were allowed to leave. They had become used to such inconveniences and thought little of it. When the Germans insisted on checking the identity papers of everyone present, most people in the crowd concluded that this was simply a routine security matter. Accepting this, the crowd did as they were asked, and stood in line. Then, a senior SS officer, Sturmbannführer Schern, came forward. Reading from a typed sheet of foolscap paper, he informed the crowd that a German officer had been shot and killed in the course of his duties that morning near the airstrip at St Jaonnet. The crowd became noticeably more anxious at this news. A reward was now offered for information leading to the arrest of this traitor: 25,000 Occupation marks. The crowd murmured at this figure. Some had already calculated that this would be enough to buy a car, no, enough to buy a house. The German continued to speak: as a reprisal for this action, firstly, rations were to be cut further. The officer read out the precise details of which foods and materials would be affected. Secondly, half a dozen villagers were to be shot. Six shots were fired. Six islanders were killed instantly. Any future resistance would be met with a similar response.