I was stiff from being cooped up in the car all day and it took me a long time to ease myself out on to the gravel surface, supporting myself with my stick. The two men I was travelling with watched with some sympathy, but I was determined to manage on my own. Sharp daggers of pain stabbed into my legs and back.
Gradually the pain eased. Group Captain Dodman was by my side as we went through the door, his hand lightly supporting the elbow of my right arm. We were met by a man wearing black trousers and a white shirt, neatly pressed, not in the least casual. He greeted all three of us by name, then asked if we would please wait a while.
We were shown to a side room: a long, dim, panelled chamber, with dark landscape paintings, trophies and bookcases lining the walls on each side. A table ran down the centre of the room, well polished, with a great number of chairs arranged neatly around it. The windows were draped with thick tapestry curtains, the dark fabric of blackout material visible behind them, covering the glass panes. The three of us stood in a nervous group just inside the door, waiting for what I at least assumed would be a summons in the next few minutes.
We were still there two hours later, having long since taken seats at one end of the table. During the time we were waiting callers to the house came and went, some merely delivering or collecting various things, others arriving on apparently urgent missions and being conducted straight away to other parts of the building. About an hour after we arrived we were brought a tray of tea and biscuits. We conversed little, all drained by the long day in the car and expecting to be called at any moment.
At about twelve-fifteen the summons finally came.
Stiffly again, I climbed to my feet. Leaving the other two in the waiting room I hobbled after the man who had come for me, feeling I should hurry so as not to keep the Prime Minister waiting, but put under no pressure to do so.
We crossed the hall where we had entered, then went along a short, darkened corridor. I was led into a room where there were four desks bearing large typewriters, with women working on two of them. The room was sparsely and cheerlessly furnished: bare floorboards, no curtains apart from the inevitable blackout screens, harsh overhead lights, a multitude of filing cabinets, telephones, in-trays, trailing wires, paper everywhere. Again, I was asked to wait. The secretarial work went on around me, with the two typists paying no attention to me at all. The clock over the door said that it was twenty minutes past twelve.
‘The Prime Minister will see you now,’ said the man who had brought me from the waiting room, holding open the door. As I limped through he said, ‘Mr Churchill, this is Group Captain J. L. Sawyer.’
After the bright unshaded lights of the office I had left, the large room I entered felt at first as if it was in darkness. Only the centrally placed desk was illuminated, by two table lamps placed at each end. In the light reflecting up from the papers I saw the famous visage of Winston Churchill leaning forward across his work. Cigar smoke shrouded the air. As I walked painfully towards the desk he did not look up but continued to read through a sheaf of papers, a thick fountain pen in one hand. He held a cigar in the other. An almost empty cut-glass tumbler was on the desk, glinting in the light - a decanter of whisky and a jug of water stood beside it. Mr Churchill was wearing half-moon reading spectacles. He read rapidly, pausing only to inscribe his initials at the bottom of each page, then turning the sheet with the hand that held the pen. On the last page he wrote a few words, signed his name and turned the sheet over.
He tossed the papers into an over-full wire basket under one of the lamps, then took another wad from his dispatch box.
‘Sawyer,’ he said, looking up at me over his spectacles. I was only a short distance away from him, but even so I wondered if he could see me properly, so deep was the shade in the room. ‘J. L. Sawyer. You’re the one named Jack, is that it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Not the other one.’
‘Do you mean my brother, Mr Churchill?’
‘Yes. What’s happened to him? My people had the two of you muddled up for a while.’
‘My brother is dead, sir. He was killed last year during the first few weeks of the Blitz.’
Churchill looked startled. ‘I hadn’t heard that dreadful news. Words are always inadequate, but let me say how appalled I am to hear it. I can only offer you my sincerest condolences.’ The Prime Minister was staring straight at me, saying nothing. For a moment he seemed genuinely lost for words. He put down his pen. Then he said, ‘This war . . . this bloody war.’
‘Joe’s death happened several months ago, sir,’ I said.
‘Even so.’ He shook his head slightly and pressed his hands flat on the desk. ‘Let me at least tell you why I have asked to see you. I’m in need of an aide-de-camp from the RAF, and your name was put forward. You won’t have much to do for a while, but I might have a more interesting job coming up for you later.
For now, when we go anywhere I would require you to walk behind me, stay visible and keep your trap shut. I see you’re on a stick. You can walk, can’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The staff here will give you the passes you need. Be at Admiralty House first thing tomorrow morning, if you will.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said again. Mr Churchill had returned to browsing through his papers, the hand and the pen moving steadily down the margin. After a few seconds of indecision I realized that the interview had ended, so I turned round painfully and went as quickly as I could towards the door.
‘Group Captain Sawyer!’
I paused and looked back. The Prime Minister had put down the papers and was now sitting more erect behind his desk. He added whisky and water to his glass, more of the former than of the latter.
‘They tell me you and your brother went to the Berlin Olympics and won a medal.’
A bronze, sir. We were in the coxless pairs.’
‘Well done. They also tell me you were introduced to Rudolf Hess afterwards.’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Was that you alone, or was your brother there too?’
‘Just me, sir.’
‘Did your brother ever meet him?’
‘Only briefly. Hess handed us our medals at the ceremony’
‘But I gather you spent some time with him after that. Did you form any kind of impression of the man?’
‘It was a few years ago, Mr Churchill. I met Herr Hess at a reception at the British Embassy. I didn’t spend long with him, but I would say that I didn’t like him.’
‘I didn’t ask if you liked him. I’m told you speak fluent German and held a long conversation with the man. What did you make of him?’
I thought before answering, because since that evening so long ago I had not dwelt on my memories of what happened. Larger and more interesting events had followed.
Mr Churchill took a sip from his glass of whisky, watching me steadily.
‘From the way he was acting I would have thought him drunk, but he was not drinking alcohol. I came to the conclusion he was used to getting his way by bullying people. He was with a crowd of other Nazis and he seemed to be showing off in front of them. It would be difficult for me to say what I really learned about him.’
‘All right. Would you recognize him again if you saw him now?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll never forget him.’
‘Good. That could be invaluable to me. As you possibly know, Herr Hess has acquired a certain notoriety in recent weeks.’
I had no idea what Mr Churchill meant by that last remark. The news of Hess’s sensational arrival in Scotland had apparently been overtaken by events. I was stunned by the realization that the Germans were seeking peace, but after the first blaze of publicity there was no follow-up in the papers and Hess was never mentioned on the wireless. I had discussed it with some of the other patients at the convalescent hospital, but none of them knew any more about it than I did.