A Matter of Honour (3 page)

Because of the colonel’s sudden and
unexplained departure from the regiment, fact was augmented by fiction. When
asked,
all the
colonel would offer was that he had had
enough of war, and felt the time had come to make a little money on which Susan
and he could retire before it was too late. Even at the time, few people found
his story credible, and that credibility was not helped when the only job the
colonel managed to secure for himself was as secretary of the local golf club.

It was only through the generosity of Adam’s
late grandfather, General Sir Pelham Westlake, that he had been able to remain
at Wellington College, and thereby be given the opportunity to continue the
family tradition and pursue a military career.

After leaving school, Adam was offered a
place at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. During his days at the RMA,
Adam was to be found diligently studying military history, tactics, and battle
procedure while at weekends he concentrated on rugby and squash, although his
greatest success came whenever he completed the different cross-country courses
he encountered. For two years, panting cadets from Cranwell and Dartmouth only
saw his mud-spattered back as Adam went on to become the Inter-Services
champion. He also became the middleweight boxing champion despite a Nigerian
cadet breaking his nose in the first round of the final. The Nigerian made the
mistake of assuming the fight was already over.

When Adam passed out of Sandhurst in August
1956, he managed ninth place in the academic order of merit, but his leadership
and example outside the classroom was such that no one was surprised when he
was awarded the Sword of Honour. Adam never doubted from that moment he would
now follow his father and command the regiment.

The Royal Wessex Regiment accepted the
colonel’s son soon after he had been awarded his regular commission. Adam
quickly gained the respect of the soldiers and popularity with those officers
whose currency was not to deal in rumour. As a tactical officer in the field he
had no equal, and when it came to combat duty it was clear he had inherited his
father’s courage. Yet, when six years later the War Office published in the
London Gazette
the names of those
subalterns who had been made up to Captain, Lieutenant Adam Scott was not to be
found on the list. His contemporaries were genuinely surprised, while senior
officers of the regiment remained tight-lipped. To Adam it was becoming
abundantly clear that he was not to be allowed to atone for whatever it was his
father was thought to have done.

Eventually Adam was made up to captain, but
not before he had distinguished himself in the Malayan jungle in hand-to-hand
fighting against the never-ending waves of Chinese soldiers. Having been
captured and held prisoner by the Communists, he endured solitude and torture
of the kind that no amount of training could have prepared him for. He escaped
eight months after his incarceration only to discover on returning to the front
line that he had been awarded a posthumous Military Cross. When, at the age of
twenty-nine, Captain Scott passed his staff exam but still failed to be offered
a regimental place at the staff college, he finally accepted he could never
hope to command the regiment. He resigned his commission a few weeks later;
there was no need to suggest that the reason he had done so was because he
needed to earn more money.

While he was serving out his last few months
with the regiment, Adam learned from his mother that Pa only had weeks to live.
Adam made the decision not to inform his father of his resignation. He knew Pa
would only blame himself and he was at least thankful that he had died without
being aware of the stigma that had become part of his son’s daily life.

When Adam reached the outskirts of London
his mind returned, as it had so often lately, to the pressing problem of finding
himself
gainful employment. In the seven weeks he had
been out of work Adam had already had more interviews with his bank manager
than with prospective employers. It was true that he had another meeting lined
up with the Foreign Office, but he had been impressed by the standard of the
other candidates he had encountered on the way, and was only too aware of his
lack of a university qualification. However, he felt the first interview had
gone well and he had been quickly made aware of how many ex-officers had joined
the service. When he discovered that the chairman of the selection board had a
Military Cross, Adam assumed he wasn’t being considered for desk work.

As he swung the motorbike into the King’s
Road Adam once again fingered the envelope in his inside jacket pocket hoping,
uncharitably, that Lawrence would not yet have returned from the bank. Not that
he could complain: his old school friend had been extremely generous in
offering him such a pleasant room in his spacious flat for only four pounds a
week.

“You can start paying more when they make
you an ambassador,” Lawrence had told him.

“You’re beginning to sound like Rachmann,”
Adam had retorted, grinning at the man he had so admired during their days at
Wellington. For Lawrence – in direct contrast to Adam – everything seemed to
come so easily – exams, jobs, sport and women, especially women. When he had
won his place at Balliol and gone on to take a first in PPE, no one was
surprised. But when Lawrence chose banking as a profession, his contemporaries
were unable to hide their disbelief. It seemed to be the first time he had
embarked on anything that might be described as mundane.

Adam parked his motorbike just off Ifield
Road, aware that, like his mother’s old Morris Minor, it would have to be sold
if the Foreign Office job didn’t materialise. As he strolled towards the flat a
girl who passed gave him a second look: he didn’t notice. He took the stairs in
threes and had reached the fifth floor, and was pushing his Yale key into the
lock when a voice from inside shouted, “It’s on the latch.”

“Damn,” said Adam under his breath.

“How did it go?” were Lawrence’s first words
as he entered the drawing room.

“Very well, considering,” Adam replied, not
quite sure what else he could say as he smiled at his flatmate. Lawrence had
already changed from his City clothes into a blazer and grey flannels. He was
slightly shorter and stockier than Adam with a head of wiry fair hair, a
massive forehead and grey thoughtful eyes that always seemed to be enquiring.

“I admired your father so much,” he added. “He
always assumed one had the same standards as he did.” Adam could still remember
nervously introducing Lawrence to his father one Speech Day. They had become
friends immediately. But then Lawrence was not a man who dealt in rumours.

“Able to retire on the family fortune, are
we?” asked Lawrence in a lighter vein.

“Only if that dubious bank you work for has
found a way of converting five hundred pounds into five thousand in a matter of
days.”

“Can’t manage it at the
present time, old chum – not now Harold Wilson has announced a standstill in
wages and prices.”

Adam smiled as he looked across at his
friend. Although taller than him now, he could still recall those days when
Lawrence seemed to him like a giant.

“Late again, Scott,” he would say as Adam
scampered past him in the corridor. Adam had looked forward to the day when he
could do everything in the same relaxed, superior style. Or was it just that
Lawrence was superior? His suits always seemed to be well-pressed, his shoes
always shone and he never had a hair out of place. Adam still hadn’t fathomed
out how he did it all so effortlessly.

Adam heard the bathroom door open. He
glanced interrogatively towards Lawrence.

“It’s Carolyn,” whispered Lawrence. “She’ll
be staying the night... I think.”

When Carolyn entered the room Adam smiled
shyly at the tall, beautiful woman. Her long, blonde hair bounced on her
shoulders as she walked towards them, but it was the faultless figure that most
men couldn’t take their eyes off. How did Lawrence manage it?

“Care to join us for a meal?” asked
Lawrence, putting his arm round Carolyn’s shoulder, his voice suddenly sounding
a little
too
enthusiastic. “I’ve
discovered this Italian restaurant that’s just opened in the Fulham Road.”

“I might join you later,” said Adam, “but I
still have one or two papers left over from this afternoon that I ought to
check through.”

“Forget the finer details of your
inheritance, my boy. Why not join us and spend the entire windfall in one wild
spaghetti fling?”

“Oh, have you been left lots of lovely
lolly?” asked Carolyn, in a voice so shrill and high-pitched nobody would have
been surprised to learn that she had recently been Deb of the Year.

“Not,” said Adam, “when considered against
my present overdraft.”

Lawrence laughed. “Well, come along later if
you discover there’s enough over for a plate of pasta.” He winked at Adam – his
customary sign for “Be sure you’re out of the flat by the time we get back. Or
at least stay in your own room and pretend to be asleep.”

“Yes, do come,” cooed Carolyn, sounding as
if she meant it – her hazel eyes remained fixed on Adam as Lawrence guided her
firmly towards the door.

Adam didn’t move until he was sure he could
no longer hear her penetrating voice echoing on the staircase. Satisfied, he
retreated to his bedroom and locked himself in. Adam sat down on the one
comfortable chair he possessed and pulled his father’s envelope out of his
inside pocket. It was the heavy, expensive type of stationery Pa had always
used, purchasing it at Smythson of Bond Street at almost twice the price he
could have obtained it at the local W. H. Smith’s. ‘Captain Adam Scott, MC’ was
written in his father’s neat copperplate hand.

Adam opened the envelope carefully, his hand
shaking slightly, and extracted the contents: a letter in his father’s
unmistakable hand and a smaller envelope which was clearly old as it was faded
with time. Written on the old envelppe in an unfamiliar hand were the words ‘Colonel
Gerald Scott’ in faded ink of indeterminate colour. Adam placed the old
envelope on the little table by his side and, unfolding his father’s letter,
began to read. It was undated.

My dear Adam,

Over the years, you will have heard many
explanations for my sudden departure from the regiment. Most of them will have
been farcical, and a few of them slanderous, but I always considered it better
for all concerned to keep my own counsel. I feel, however, that I owe you a
fuller explanation, and that is what this letter will set out to do.

As you know, my last posting before I
resigned my commission was at Nuremberg from November 1945 to October 1946.
After four years of almost continuous action in the field, I was given the task
of commanding the British section which had responsibility for those senior
ranking Nazis who were awaiting trial for war crimes. Although the Americans
had overall responsibility, I came to know the imprisoned officers quite well
and after a year or so I had even grown to tolerate some of them – Hess,
Doenitz and Speer in particular – and I often wondered how the Germans would
have treated us had the situation been reversed. Such views were considered
unacceptable at the time. ‘Fraternisation’ was often on the lips of those men
who are never given to second thoughts.

Among the senior Nazis with whom I came into
daily contact was Reichsmarshal Hermann Goering, but unlike the three other
officers I have previously mentioned, here was a man I detested from the first
moment I came across him. I found him arrogant, overbearing and totally without
shame about the barbaric acts he had carried out in the name of war. And I
never once found any reason to change my opinion of him. In fact, I sometimes
wondered how I controlled my temper when I was in his presence.

The night before Goering was due to be
executed,
he requested a private meeting with me. It was a
Monday, and I can still recall every detail of that encounter as if it were
only yesterday. I received the request when I took over the Russian watch from
Major Vladimir Kosky. In fact Kosky personally handed me the written request.
As soon as I had inspected the guard and dealt with the usual paperwork, I went
along with the duty corporal to see the Reichsmarshal in his cell. Goering
stood to attention by his small low bed and saluted as I entered the room. The
sparse, grey-painted, brick cell always made me shudder.

“You asked to see me?” I said. I never could
get myself to address him by his name or rank.

“Yes,” he replied. “It was kind of you to
come in person, Colonel. I simply wish to make the last request of a man
condemned to death. Would it be possible for the corporal to leave us?”

Imagining it was something highly personal I
asked the corporal to wait outside. I confess I had no idea what could be so
private when the man only had hours to live but as the door closed he saluted
again and then passed over the envelope you now have in your possession. As I
took it, all he said was, “Would you be good enough not to open this until
after my execution tomorrow.” He then added, “I can only hope it will
compensate for any blame that might later be placed on your shoulders.” I had
no idea what he could be alluding to at the time and presumed some form of
mental instability had overtaken him. Many of the prisoners confided in me
during their last few days, and towards the end, some of them were undoubtedly
on the verge of madness.