He was about to salute when the colonel added, ‘May I be permitted to offer you one piece of advice before you join your new regiment?’
‘Please do, sir,’ replied the newly promoted lieutenant.
‘“John Player” is a slightly ridiculous name. Change it to something less likely to cause the men you are about to command to snigger behind your back.’
Second Lieutenant Richard Ian Armstrong reported to the officers’ mess of the King’s Own Regiment the following morning at 0700 hours.
As he walked across the parade ground in his tailored uniform, it took him a few minutes to get used to being saluted by every passing soldier. When he arrived in the mess and sat down for breakfast with his fellow-officers, he watched carefully to see how they held their knives and forks. After breakfast, of which he ate very little, he reported to Colonel Oakshott, his new commanding officer. Oakshott was a red-faced, bluff, friendly man who, when he welcomed him, made it clear that he had already heard of the young lieutenant’s reputation in the field.
Richard, or Dick as he quickly became known by his brother officers, reveled in being part of such a famous old regiment. But he enjoyed even more being a British officer with a clear, crisp accent which belied his origins. He had traveled a long way from those two overcrowded rooms in Douski. Sitting by the fire in the comfort of the officers’ mess of the King’s Own Regiment, drinking port, he could see no reason why he shouldn’t travel a great deal further.
Every serving officer in the King’s Own soon learned of Lieutenant Armstrong’s past exploits, and as the regiment advanced toward German soil he was, by his bravery and example in the field, able to convince even the most skeptical that he had not been making it all up. But even his own section was staggered by the courage he displayed in the Ardennes only three weeks after he had joined the regiment.
The forward party, led by Armstrong, cautiously entered the outskirts of a small village, under the impression that the Germans had already retreated to fortify their position in the hills overlooking it. But Armstrong’s platoon had only advanced a few hundred yards down the main street before it was met with a barrage of enemy fire. Lieutenant Armstrong, armed only with an automatic pistol and a hand grenade, immediately identified where the German fire was coming from, and, ‘careless of his own life’ — as the dispatch later described his action — charged toward the enemy dugouts.
He had shot and killed the three German soldiers manning the first dugout even before his sergeant had caught up with him. He then advanced toward the second dugout and lobbed his grenade into it, killing two more soldiers instantly. White flags appeared from the one remaining dugout, and three young soldiers slowly emerged, their hands high in the air. One of them took a pace forward and smiled. Armstrong returned the smile, and then shot him in the head. The two remaining Germans turned to face him, a look of pleading on their faces as their comrade slumped to the ground. Armstrong continued to smile as he shot them both in the chest.
His breathless sergeant came running up to his side. The young lieutenant swung round to face him, the smile firmly fixed on his face. The sergeant stared down at the lifeless bodies. Armstrong replaced the pistol in its holster and said, ‘Can’t take any risks with these bastards.’
‘No, sir,’ replied the sergeant quietly.
That night, once they had set up camp, Armstrong commandeered a German motorcycle and sped back to Paris on a forty-eight-hour leave, arriving on Charlotte’s doorstep at seven the following morning.
When she was told by the concierge that there was a Lieutenant Armstrong asking to see her, Charlotte said that she didn’t know anyone by that name, assuming it was just another officer hoping to be shown round Paris. But when she saw who it was, she threw her arms around him, and they didn’t leave her room for the rest of the day and night. The concierge, despite being French, was shocked. ‘I realize there’s a war on,’ she told her husband, ‘but they hadn’t even met before.’
When Dick left Charlotte to return to the front on Sunday evening, he told her that by the time he came back he would have taken Berlin, and then they would be married. He jumped on his motorcycle and rode away. She stood in her nightdress by the window of the little apartment and watched until he was out of sight. ‘Unless you are killed before Berlin falls, my darling.’
The King’s Own Regiment was among those selected for the advance on Hamburg, and Armstrong wanted to be the first officer to enter the city. After three days of fierce resistance, the city finally fell.
The following morning, Field Marshal Sir Bernard Montgomery entered the city and addressed the combined troops from the back of his jeep. He described the battle as decisive, and assured them it would not be long before the war was over and they would be going home. After they had cheered their commanding officer, he descended from his jeep and presented medals for bravery. Among those who were decorated with a Military Cross was Captain Richard Armstrong.
Two weeks later, the Germans’ unconditional surrender was signed by General Jodl and accepted by Eisenhower. The next day Captain Richard Armstrong MC was granted a week’s leave. Dick powered his motorcycle back to Paris, arriving at Charlotte’s old apartment building a few minutes before midnight. This time the concierge took him straight up to her room.
The following morning Charlotte, in a white suit, and Dick, in his dress uniform, walked to the local town hall. They emerged thirty minutes later as Captain and Mrs. Armstrong, the concierge having acted as witness. Most of the three-day honeymoon was spent in Charlotte’s little apartment. When Dick left her to return to his regiment, he told her that now the war was over he intended to leave the army, take her to England and build a great business empire.
‘Do you have any plans now that the war is over, Dick?’ asked Colonel Oakshott.
‘Yes, sir. I intend to return to England and look for a job,’ replied Armstrong.
Oakshott opened the buff file that lay on the desk in front of him. ‘It’s just that I might have something for you here in Berlin.’
‘Doing what, sir?’
‘High Command are looking for the right person to head up the PRISC, and I think you’re the ideal candidate for the position.’
‘What in heaven’s name is...’
‘The Public Relations and Information Services Control. The job might have been made for you. We’re looking for someone who can present Britain’s case persuasively, and at the same time make sure the press don’t keep getting the wrong end of the stick. Winning the war was one thing, but convincing the outside world that we’re treating the enemy even-handedly is proving far more difficult. The Americans, the Russians and the French will be appointing their own representatives, so we need someone who can keep an eye on them as well. You speak several languages and have all the qualifications the job requires. And let’s face it, Dick, you don’t have a family in England to rush back to.’
Armstrong nodded. After a few moments he said, ‘To quote Montgomery, what weapons are you giving me to carry out the job?’
‘A newspaper,’ said Oakshott. ‘Der Telegraf is one of the city’s dailies. It’s currently operated by a German called Arno Schultz. He never stops complaining that he can’t keep his presses rolling, he has constant worries about paper shortages, and the electricity is always being cut off. We want Der Telegraf on the streets every day, pumping out our view of things. I can’t think of anyone more likely to make sure that happens.’