Sowerbutt's Warning

“I don’t like this, John, I’ve had a telegram to the house and a telephone call to the office. Mr Sorbay isn’t a panic merchant,” the flame-haired man snapped into the telephone. Putting his glass of Hine onto the Cabinet table, he exclaimed: “You’ve had a telegram too, addressed to you as a sergeant, very funny. Clever way to get your attention, John. Well, what have we got? The Irish - that means the damned IRA - up to no good in this village. How soon can you get there, John, from the wilds of Norfolk? Three hours, dear God. Take the camp commander’s car, matter of national security. You have Redcaps there with motor-bikes? They will escort you to clear the way. This is an emergency, you act with the authority of the War Cabinet. You outrank any official or officer apart from the CIGS, you can countermand any order and seize any property. Get there pronto, John, and take charge.”

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Sowerbutt's Marksman

As the Bedford truck pulled away, followed by wisps of smoke from the smouldering canvas, Major Hatter rolled off the roadside and grabbed a Lee-Enfield rifle, which had belonged to one of his men.He braced himself, aimed quickly at the lorry and fired. A second .303 bullet followed before the lorry disappeared behind the trees. He heard a shocked voice. “Tommy lad, Pat is dead. Some bastard has just shot him."

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Sowerbutt's Explosion

Driving steadily through the quiet Cambridgeshire countryside, the mighty blast had come from nowhere. The front of the lead lorry had been lifted almost vertically, the chassis then falling backwards on the second lorry. The RASC driver in Major Hatter’s lorry had followed orders, crashing the gears into reverse. But it was seconds too late. As the red-hot bonnet bounced onto the roof, the driver-less lorry swayed from side to side and rammed backwards into the hedgerow.

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Sowerbutt's Telegram

Sowerbutt told Nero to address the first telegram to Lord Bracken at Gingernut’s house in Lord North Street, Westminster; his office address would invite questions. He pushed the telegram form across the counter. “Your Lordship, Tracked Irish to Wilbraham off A11. Think working with friends. Will try witness, but expect trouble. Await instructions. Nero.”

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Sowerbutt's Ambush

Sowerbutt whispered. “The bastards are going to ambush a convoy, an army convoy from the sound of it. Not much we can do here with six of them and machineguns. We’ll leg it back to the village - I’ll call Gingernut from the telephone box, Nero can send telegrams from the post office.”

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Sowerbutt's Visitors

Sowerbutt froze and held his hand up. Voices could be heard, some men walking along the main road. The two men pulled revolvers out of their shoulder holsters and rolled along the bank. Sowerbutt pointed to a gap in the base of the thick hawthorn hedge. They counted six men turning out of Mill Road onto the A11. 
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Sowerbutt's Work-Out

“Tell you what, Spaghetti,” Sowerbutt said, his long frame stretched down a bank behind the hedgerow on the A11. “I thought I was reasonably fit, but I’ve found muscles today I never knew about.” The two men had been ditching since before dawn, hacking roots, digging out grass and shovelling out soil and dead leaves to open up the field ditches. The farmer was paying them 4/- a day, plus food and a barn to sleep in.

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Sowerbutt's Mirrors

Jo-Jo frowned: “The bloke talked about moving The River or making a new one. No-one can do that, apart from the Almighty.” Polly said: “They’re going to create what looks like a silver ribbon from the air. Lights and mirrors. Some Jerry bombers will follow the false trail, thinking it’s The River, and drop their loads away from the Smoke." 

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Sowerbutt's Disguise

Polly jabbed Jo-Jo in the ribs. “What the magician was saying is that you can disguise a factory or a Town Hall from the air. The paint on the tower up there hides it from the sky, he said, breaks up its shape. But London is too big. All you can do is confuse the Jerry bombers. When they look down through the clouds and see the factories and houses that we’re going to build, they’ll drop their bombs. Better landing on Canvey Island, which is mostly evacuated, than Poplar.”

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Sowerbutt's Camouflage

They walked down the marble steps of Luton Town Hall, past two elderly Home Guards, sporting Boer War rifles. The landmark white tower, soaring above their heads, was painted in black zigzags and stripes to disguise its familiar shape from the Luftwaffe.

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Sowerbutt's Magic

“That bloke is mad, barking mad, Miss Polly. First, it’s tanks made out of wood, now it is music hall magic to keep Jerry at bay. I’m not sure the Blitzkrieg boys play by kiddies’ rules," Jo-Jo said.
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Sowerbutt's Prediction

Spaghetti nodded: “Mr Sorbay’s friends reckon Jerry will switch to the East in spring, taking on the Russkies. At least that will give us a break.” His mother said: “I wouldn’t wish this terrible bombing on anyone, but it will be lovely to have some peace and quiet and get on with our lives, especially for you young ones. That building will make a lovely restaurant, Papa would have been so proud. Now finish up your Favata, I’ve made some apple crumble for afters.”

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Sowerbutt's Secret

“By the way, Lee, you won’t mention your detour here? Private business.” Gerard grinned. “I do silence well, Mr Sorbay, I owe you a lot. There’s work and a future for me here in wartime Britain and my brother is safe whereas I could have ended up at the wrong end of a firing squad in the Tower of London.”

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Sowerbutt's Rule

Spaghetti held the gun barrel close to the man's eye. Beanpole’s voice was very high. “Don’t shoot, mister, we didn’t mean any harm. We were raising money for poor Irish widows and orphans, that’s all.” Spaghetti slapped the man hard, leaving an angry welt across his cheek. “Liar. You and your dead mate were collecting for the IRA and your stupid bombings. Pay up or else, you were telling the Irish publicans and business folk. You were taking shillings from the housewives. Nobody threatens our people, nobody.”

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Sowerbutt's Patch

Spaghetti rammed the barrel of his Webley revolver into the terrified man’s mouth. The few afternoon pedestrians, mostly out searching for scarce food, knew to turn back or cross the road, eyes averted.

“You piece of Irish crap,” Spaghetti hissed. “You dare to come into the Family’s patch without asking permission. Next time, your bullet won’t miss. You understand?”

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Sowerbutt's Hit

With a long sigh, the heavy man fell backwards into the arms of a giant, who pushed a battered trilby over the hole made by the single 8x57 bullet. One-Line walked the dead Irishman to the Austin van which screeched to a halt alongside on the East India Dock Road.
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Sowerbutt's Burial

The wintry sun glinted on the signet ring as the tall, erect man rubbed his hands together. “Was he high learned, bless him, to cem all ter dis’ance? A furriner yew knew? Thass rum, yew dint mardle about ter Londoner folk afore an’ thass a fact,” the 30-something woman, making her first visit to the capital, whispered in her Norfolk accent.  Her husband nodded, his hand resting on the Beretta M 1934 in his pocket.
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Sowerbutt's Danger

Inside the shed, everything was still. Gerhard had not bothered with the Zeiss sights which were still in his oilskin backpack, the shot was close. The second he had a clear view of Wing-Commander Whittle as he came out of the front door, Gerhard would fire a double tap, then fade away, heading for the Welford Road.

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Sowerbutt's Mystery

Bob Hawks said: “This is a strange one, Jimmy. I was over in The Cock in Shaftesbury Avenue, enjoying a lunchtime beer. They’ve tarted it up and call it The Avenue now. Large as life, Sebastian Droste walks in. You probably don’t know the name. He was a German dancer and actor, bit of a wild boy. Enjoy his poetry and seen a couple of his films; I love German culture. Droste lived life on the edge, associated with some of the Berlin gangs and, it was said, was an early member of the Nazi Party. Even more important, he was supposed to have died 12 years ago or thereabouts."

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Sowerbutt's Risks

Spaghetti and Jo-Jo sat stony-faced on the sofa, they had rarely seen the guv so angry. Sowerbutt paced the floor. “What have I told you lads about never taking unnecessary risks? We always go somewhere as a group and after we’ve checked out the place. You are the eyes, Nero, not the bloody burglar." 

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Sowerbutt's Anger

The Ka-Bar knife that Sowerbutt had bought off a cash-strapped American sailor at the brothel whistled past Nero’s ear and thudded into the lounge door in the Cheapside flat. “The Irish lad’s house is empty. You went there by yourself, you idiot,” Sowerbutt shouted.
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