Comrades of Deceit

By Anthony Hulse

During WWII, Frankie Broderick at the age of eighteen tastes his first experience of warfare on the beaches of Normandy. Captured by the SS and believing his time in a prison camp would be more comfortable, he decides to impersonate his dead doppelganger, Captain Simon Carey. He feigns amnesia to cover his deception. What he did not count on was that Carey is a murder suspect. Playboy, Lieutenant Patrick Starkey's drinking habit spirals out of control when he learns of his sister’s murder. Dissatisfied with the police investigation, he decides to pursue the murderer himself. These two men with dissimilar backgrounds are brought together in bizarre circumstances, which results in a horrific and unbelievable scenario. Frankie not only has to endure the starvation and the brutality in Stalag IV-B, but also must convince friends and enemy alike that he is indeed a British officer. A tense thriller packed with twists, which will keep you guessing the identity of the murderer until the final pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291763256

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Comrades of Deceit

Comrades of Deceit

Anthony Hulse

Copyright @ Anthony Hulse 2015

ISBN: 978-1-291-76325-6

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Chapter One

Castleford, Yorkshire, 1944.

Frankie Broderick gazed with downcast eyes at his family, huddled around the old, battered radio set. The mordant voice of Lord Haw Haw reverberated around the small, squalid room, and professed how close Germany was to ending the war.

The depressed teenager focused on his younger twelve-year-old brother, George, who pushed his toy fire engine across the threadbare carpet, seemingly unaffected by the rambling of the master of propaganda. Though George’s bruises were not visible, Frankie knew they were there, hidden beneath the frayed grey shirt and green tank top.

Frankie’s father, Tom was careful in the abuse of his youngest son, and always ensured he delivered his powerful punches to the body, and not the face. George’s constant bed-wetting fuelled his father’s anger, which provided him with another excuse to beat the youngster. To his friends, Tom Broderick was a kind, loving, family man, whose loyal service to the coalmines prevented him from military service. Only, his family knew the truth.

The strapping, retired coalminer had developed a mysterious back injury, just days before the outbreak of the war. His guilt probably contributed to the beating of George, his mother would say to Frankie. Not that she approved of the cruelty, oh no; Mary Broderick had on more than one occasion stepped between father and son, only to receive a savage beating herself.   

Frankie had begged his mother repeatedly to leave, but the answer was always the same. But, where would we go, Frankie? This here’s our home.

Several times, Frankie had returned in the evening to witness his mother sobbing her heart out. At first, he put it down to the hours his mother toiled at the arms factory. Her excessive overtime covered for her husband’s bogus frailties. Frankie now suspected the frequent beatings had inwardly scarred his mother for life. Woe betide if she could not supply the animal with enough beer money to intoxicate him.

Mary often hid her wages from her husband, understanding the alcohol would no doubt induce another beating for George. Besides, the extra money would supply the family with foodstuff such as meat, cheese, and butter, which seemed a luxury nowadays.  

Frankie, in his desperation turned to burglary; always handing over his ill-gotten gains to his mother. Of course, he never divulged to her how he had come across the money. On hearing the German aircraft overhead, the seventeen-year-old boy would often pray that one of the bombs would kill his father; such was the hatred for him.

Why his father had never laid a finger on him, Frankie was at a loss. It was not as though he smothered him with affection. On the contrary, Tom Broderick had a tongue in his mouth that would put Satan himself to shame, but his curses were as severe a punishment as Frankie ever received. Perhaps the fact that Frankie now stood six feet tall contributed to his father’s leniency, but that would not explain the earlier years.

Anyone fancy some bread and dripping? asked Mary, daring to interrupt the radio bulleting.

Aye, lass, and a mug of tea would go down nice, grunted her husband, obviously in one of his milder moods.

Any Marmite, Mam? squeaked George.

For you, my angel, anything... How about you, Frankie…? Lucy?

They shook their head in unison and Frankie sidled up to his sister, who browsed through a comic. Are you okay, sis?

She looked towards her father, and rolled her big saucer shaped eyes upwards. I’m fine.

Frankie sensed the tension and the fear that his sister generated. As far as he could determine, his sister was also immune to his father’s wrath, so what ailed Lucy, he was uncertain.

Lucy returned to her comic, and Frankie’s eyes for the first time recognised that his fifteen-year-old sister was turning into a woman, her developing breasts testament to the fact.

Frankie had for the last four or five years assumed the mantle of protector and confessor in the Broderick household, such was their real father’s inaptitude. He had once more taken the role upon himself. He joined his mother in the kitchen and watched as she placed the frying pan onto the stove with trembling hands.

What’s going on, Mother? Have you been crying?

Frankie, Frankie. You’ll make someone a fine husband one day. Mary brushed back the floppy brown hair from her son’s eyes, before she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the head. You’re becoming more handsome by the day.

True, Frankie was a good-looking, young man. A crooked nose, compliments of a strapping fly half the only blemish to his rugged features. Though he had his female admirers, the teenager had managed to keep his virginity intact, but not for the want of trying.

Has he been hitting you again?

No, not me... Listen, Frankie; it’s just a phrase your father’s going through. He wasn’t always like this, as well you know.

No! Don’t make excuses for that beast. I swear, if he lays another finger on George, I’ll...

Shhh! motioned his mother, placing her slender finger to her lips. He may hear you.

Frankie thrust out his chest. Am I bothered? What’s the problem with Lucy? I’ve never seen her so uptight.

Oh, she’s going through a difficult time for a young girl.

Frankie could see in his mother’s eyes that she hid something. What is it, Mother?

Mary held her son’s hands. This here war will be over someday, and then we’ll consider our future. Be brave, Frankie… be brave.

I’m joining the army, Mother.

What? No, don’t you even joke about such things.

I’m eighteen next Wednesday, and the age of enlisting has been lowered.

Please, Frankie…don’t.

And end up that like shit? I’ll be called up regardless, so I volunteered instead. I’m joining the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. I leave for Berwick next Wednesday.

Mary broke down and cried. Once a beautiful woman, the years she lived with her cruel husband had taken its toll. Her once chestnut mane turned prematurely grey. At the age of forty, Mary wilted before her family’s eyes.

Frankie placed a consoling arm around her. Don’t cry. You said yourself that the war will soon be over… Hitler won’t know what hit him.

Mary feigned a smile. You can say that again.

There, that’s better, said Frankie. He wiped away the tears from his mother’s eyes. Are you singing at the Crown tonight?

I’ve no choice if we want to eat.

Frankie dipped into his pocket and produced a wad of notes. Here, buy a nice joint of meat from Hadley’s, eh?

Wherever did...

Don’t ask... Perhaps I’ll have a cup of tea after all.

Mary again kissed her son, before she stashed away the wad of notes in a coffee jar.

The wails of the air raid siren were sudden, but not alarming. Over the years, they had grown accustomed to the intrusive din. Mary turned off the stove and the family calmly collected their coats, before they made their way to the air raid shelter; all that is except Tom. As usual, the ex-miner refused to be intimidated by the bombing of the industrial town, and opted instead to remain in his bedraggled armchair by the fireside, smoking his Gold Flake cigarettes.

To Mary, it was a means to meet up with her friends and catch up with the gossip, as well as a precious hour or so away from her sadistic husband. Frankie herded his family quickly along the wet cobble-stoned street, passing homes that had not been so lucky in previous bombing raids. That the Germans had mustered up the courage to fly daytime sorties did not encourage them, though the fact that London had suffered far worse attacks appeased them somewhat.

The Broderick family left Harlow Street, and each of them wished for the same thing…that their residence would be no more when they returned.

******

Winchester.

The towering, uniformed, blonde man demanded, rather than ordered yet another whisky. This was one of life’s luxuries exempt from rationing. To the swinging music of ‘Glenn Miller’, Lieutenant Patrick Starkey of the King’s Royal Rifle Corps drank himself into oblivion; the bloody war forgotten for now.

Starkey, a renowned playboy and failed author, who was an incessant bar fly around the club circuit of London, ignored the cordial greetings of other revellers, and instead preferred the company of the soothing whisky. His training at Sandhurst had ended prematurely, due to his excessive drinking, but desperate times called for departure measures, and Starkey was recruited as a commissioned officer.

A familiar voice intruded on his privacy, and he swivelled on his barstool to face a beautiful redhead, who wore a navy blue trouser suit, her expression one of bewilderment.

Oh, it’s you, he moaned, and cradled his whisky glass as he would a lover.

Charming. Couldn’t you at least have had the courtesy to let me know you were home; after all, I am your fiancée, Patrick, in case you’ve forgotten?

Please, not tonight, Martha, slurred Starkey. He drained the contents of his glass and ignored his peak cap that he accidentally knocked to the ground. With his groomed moustache, the handsome, blonde soldier certainly looked every inch the military man, but the highborn officer prepared to wave the white flag in his futile battle with his resolute wife to be.

Would you like a drink, darling? was his peace offering.

No, I bloody well would not. I think you’ve had enough for both of us, don’t you? How on earth did you manage to organise some leave?

Starkey ignored Martha and clicked his fingers to summon the portly barman. Make it a double, would you, Barney, that’s a good chap, and a martini for my sweetheart?

Martha clasped the intoxicated man’s hands and gazed into his vivid blue eyes. Patrick, you haven’t answered my question. Why have you been granted leave?

He smiled half-heartedly and revealed the prominent gap between his teeth. Crystal has been reported missing.

Missing? squeaked Martha. When?

Starkey swallowed another mouthful of vodka and Martha instinctively reached for her martini.

Apparently, she’s been missing for a week…since 12th May, but the police contacted me only yesterday.

Crystal lives with your parents, Patrick, right?

Yes, of course she bloody does, or at least she did... According to my mother, Crystal told her she was meeting some friends on the day she went missing.

Did she have a regular boyfriend? asked Martha, stooping down to pick up his peak cap.

Yes, bloody Oliver Saunders. He’s a doctor who was introduced to Crystal by my father. He was treating some wounded patients at a bombed factory when Crystal said she was meeting friends… Christ, poor Crystal; she’s only eighteen; three years younger than I am.

Martha kissed her distraught fiancé on the cheek, before she sipped her martini. What did the police have to say?

Not a great deal. They think perhaps that Crystal may have lied. Her friends deny arranging any such meeting. The police reckon she may have had a date with a young man; someone not old enough for military service.

Or perhaps he was a serviceman on leave? countered Martha. Listen, maybe Crystal was romantically involved. She’s probably in love and was cheating on Oliver.

Starkey shook his head. Martha, Martha, always the calming influence. I can see why you’re a nurse... There have been no sightings of Crystal. According to my parents, her picture is displayed on every street lamppost and wall from here to Southend... Listen, Martha; I enlisted with the King’s Rifles, willing to sacrifice myself for my country. Being killed in action is acceptable and honourable, but for a young girl to be murdered on the streets of London, that irks me and gnaws at my innards.

No, Patrick! yelled Martha, above the din of the music. Erase that absurd notion from your mind. Crystal will return home, just you wait and see. .. How much leave have you been granted?

The bloody weekend, would you believe? The sanctimonious bastards were so sympathetic; they allowed me a whole two days leave.

The couple turned to face the interior of the club and observed the loving couples, smooching on the dance-floor to the lyrics of ‘Gracie Fields’.

I shouldn’t be telling you this, said Starkey, but I’m being shipped out to France very soon.

France?

It appears so. We’ve been training for something big, and the word is that France is to be our destination."

Oh my... You listen to me, Lieutenant Patrick bloody Starkey. You come back to me safe and sound, and if any of those Krauts even as much as harm a hair on your head, they’ll have me to answer to... This god forsaking war will be over one day, and I look forward to the day I can call myself Martha Lydia Starkey. We’ll have a big house in the country with a herd of horses, and of course three beautiful children.

Starkey again managed a smile. A herd of horses? I now have my incentive to return. Hitler and the Third Reich will not prevent me from returning to these shores.

Martha playfully punched her fiancé on the arm before she led him to the dance-floor. He shared his troubles in the arms of a beautiful woman. 

Chapter Two

In a not so alluring establishment in Yorkshire, Frankie Broderick savoured his third pint of ale and captivated his audience with his witty impressions of ‘George Formby’, ‘Gary Cooper,’ and ‘Noel Coward’. In the Rose and Crown, Frankie’s reputation as a comic and an impersonator flourished. His friends and impressed bar dwellers would often encourage him; a pint of beer a reward for his efforts.

Such was his popularity; it was rare for Frankie to pay for his own beer. Where his gift of mimicry had evolved from, he knew not. Certainly not from his solemn father, he reckoned. More likely, he inherited his light-hearted manner from his mother.

Midstream through his act, he turned when hearing the red-nosed compere introduce his mother onto stage. Through the hazy smoke, Frankie watched his mother approach the microphone, happy at the applause, but not so with the wolf-whistles and sexist remarks directed towards her. Granted, an application of make-up and a wig transformed Mary Broderick into a blonde bombshell. Her skirt split to the waist did not please Frankie.

The applause eventually died down, and Mary serenaded the regulars of the Rose and Crown with her passable rendition of the White Cliffs of Dover.

Here, what’s this about you joining up, Frankie? asked a pimply-faced youth, donning a flat cap to help enhance his years. Frankie, however had no problem passing for the legal age.

That’s right, Simmo. I’m joining the King’s Own on Wednesday. Fighting for my country I am.

Jammy bugger. Can’t wait for my eighteenth birthday," whispered Simmo, who ensured the bar staff could not hear his incriminating remark.

Frankie focused on his mother, her usual cheerfulness absent, replaced instead by a sombre look. Her voice seemed uncharacteristically out of tune, her lyrics out of synch with the band. Occasional slurs cried out from the callous audience, and Frankie stepped forward to seek out the mockers.

Mary broke down in tears and fled from the stage. Her worried son followed closely behind. The night air was cool, but refreshing, a contrast to the stifling, smoky interior of the pub. 

Mother, what is it?

It’s nowt, Frankie. I’ve a bit of a head cold, that’s all.

Frankie placed his hands on his mother’s slender shoulders, and her deviating eyes told him she was lying.

Please, Mother; if there’s something wrong, tell me.

Again, she avoided eye contact, her shame apparent. Haven’t I always been a good mother, Frankie?

The best. You’re mustard, Mother.

But not a good wife? she asked.

At last, her tearful eyes met his.

A good wife? It’s that bastard! He doesn’t deserve you... What’s he done?

Mary sobbed uncontrollably. It’s Lucy.

Lucy?

She nodded and Frankie made the connection. He turned and sprinted into the darkness. His unsteady feet pounded the cobblestone street as the alcohol inhibited his progress. Frankie took a short cut and ran across a mound of rubble that was once a church.

After he reached his home, he paused for breath, the rage inside him building. He opened the door quietly and entered the lounge. The coal fire burnt fiercely, but nobody was there to appreciate its warmth. His head jerked involuntarily to the left when the muted whimpers reached his ears.

Frankie instinctively picked up the poker and ascended the rickety staircase, his fists clenched and his mouth dry. He glanced in little George’s room to see he was sleeping soundly. Frankie walked unsteadily towards his sister’s bedroom and the source of the whimpers. The squeaking of the rusty bedsprings projected evil and unnatural images into his blemished mind.

He pushed open the door, his fears confirmed. Lucy was pinned to the bed, the lower part of her clothing removed, and her brassiere pushed up to her chin. The menacing shape of his father groped at his daughter’s breasts with his free hand, and his whisky breath repulsed Lucy.

Frankie, without warning lashed out with the poker. He struck his father powerfully on the back of the head. The dull crack brought with it a spray of blood that showered the distraught Lucy.

Tom Broderick slid from the bed and massaged the deep wound to his head. He knelt on the shabby carpet, a dazed look of confusion etched on his leathery features. You little bastard! I’m gonna kill you for that.

Before the ex-coal miner could rise to his feet, Frankie delivered another blow of the poker to his cranium. This time, the rapist screamed and plummeted to the ground. Frankie commenced kicking his father, each boot administered with hysterical rage.

Animal! You fucking animal! Leave us alone, will you? Get out and leave us alone.

Frankie, no!

The tearful teenager turned and faced his shaking mother. Mother, he was... He was...

I know, Frankie.

Tears streamed down the face of Frankie when he watched his sister gather up her clothes and bound from the room. He turned back towards his mother. You knew this was happening?

Mary removed her blonde wig and her lips trembled uncontrollably. No… I only suspected. It was only yesterday when...

The furious son delivered another forceful kick at his father’s groin and raised the poker.

Mary wrestled with her son and seized his arm. Please, Frankie! No more, ah say.

He reluctantly hurled the poker to the ground. I want you out of here, do you hear me? He delivered the threatening words to his cowering father.

Frankie watched in disbelief as his mother consoled the injured man.

He’s sick, Frankie. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

I want him out, Mother or I’ll go to the police. God help me, I will.

Frankie entered his bedroom to see Lucy curled up on his bed. He sat down beside her and placed a consoling arm around his distressed sister. Are you all right?

She nodded rapidly without speaking.

How long has this ere been going on?

About three months, she sobbed. Don’t blame Mam. She didn’t know owt about it.

He won’t touch you again, Lucy, I swear... Listen, how about if I take you and George to Wakefield with Aunt Dorothy? You can stay there for a while, just until you’re well. You and George liked the farm where you stayed during the bombing, didn’t you?

You’re going away, Frankie, aren’t you? Lucy sat up in bed, her large brown eyes red-rimmed.

Aunt Dorothy will look after you until I return. It’ll only be for a short time.      

Lucy embraced her brother and sobbed. I don’t want you to go. You’ve been more of a father to me than that beast.

"Be strong, Lucy. I’ve no choice but to join the army, you must realise that. This war will be over in no