Chapter 10

BUNTER THE SPY

Major Jenkins sat sweating behind his desk in Regimental barracks in New Delhi. He was a thin, cadaverous man with jug ears which earned him the nickname “Jumbo”. It denoted no affection from the men under his command. The ceiling fan and open windows scarcely mitigated the early afternoon heat.

“Anything else?” he asked a subaltern, Lieutenant Meadows, lounging in a chair at the side of the desk.

“Yes, one thing. I kept it to the end. Private Bunter has been discharged from his convalescent hospital and is back with us,”

“Bunter, eh!?”

“Yes indeed. He’s been certified as unfit to return to frontline duties. He was hardly fit to start with. But now we’re stuck with him,”

“Better bring him in then I suppose,”

Lieutenant Meadows opened the door and said. 

“Bring in Bunter now, Sergeant Major,”

Bunter was marched in at the double and stood to attention in front of the desk.

“Bunter you’ve condescended to join us again?” Said Major Jenkins glaring over his half-moon glasses which, he imagined, gave him a certain gravitas.

“Yes Sir,”

Major Jenkins pretended to examine the papers in front of him. 

“I have here a report on your behaviour in the battle of Maikal,”

“Yes Sir,”

“From Captain Longmore.” Here he looked up at Bunter.

“You are lucky he didn’t carry out his threat to shoot you,”

“No sir,”

“What!”

“I mean yes sir,”

“Had it been me, it’d be a very different story,” said Major Jenkins, who had never seen a shot fired in anger. “And since then, you’ve been skulking around in hospital,”

“I’ve been diagnosed with shell shock sir,”

“What rubbish.”

“Yes, sir... I mean no sir” responded a confused and nervous Bunter.

“Running away from the line. Letting your colleagues down. Letting your country down. Sergeant Major, we know how to deal with cowards, don’t we?”

“Yes sir,”

“You’re a disgrace, Bunter. You’ve been slacking while we continue with the war,” he barked from the comfort of an easy chair 500 miles from the front line, “But Sergeant Major Gentoul will get you back up to full fighting fitness, won’t you?”

“Yessir,” Gentoul replied with relish.

When Bunter had left, Meadows asked.

“Why the leniency?”

Jenkins shrugged, “You know the way they touted Maikal. A gallant band of cooks, clerks etc. gathered together and sent to the front to plug a gap and repelling the Japs. With the disasters in Malaya, Philippines and so on it was a minor victory but got a lot of positive publicity. The brass thought that court martialling a survivor for cowardice wasn’t the message they wanted to send out,”

“Lucky for Bunter,”

“Yes, lucky for Bunter, though he mightn’t feel so lucky over the next few weeks with Gentoul,” 

The next several days were a nightmare for Bunter. Gentoul forced him to get up an hour earlier than his colleagues and to double up around the parade ground on his own in full gear. He assigned him the most menial of chores around the camp. But the worst was in the afternoon when, in the heat of the day, he forced him to run, walk or crawl up a hill just at the edge of the camp. Bunter, neither fit nor strong, wilted under such treatment. Sometimes when forced to run around the parade ground, he’d stagger and collapse to the ground. Gentoul, watching at his ease in the NCO’s messroom, would rush out and apply a few well-aimed kicks at Bunter’s rear until he resumed. The torture lasted from when he rose until he collapsed into his bed. Exhaustion ruled Bunter’s day. He hadn’t the energy or desire to eat, for, perhaps, the first time in his life. 

Bunter’s fellow soldiers hadn’t liked him. His haughty attitude and the fact that he had let his colleagues down in Burma combined to ensure his unpopularity. Even so, the treatment he was receiving induced an unlikely sympathy. It helped that Gentoul was even less popular, well known as a bully, most having suffered at his hands. Bunter grew weaker day by day, although his fellow soldiers did their best to ameliorate his condition. When he collapsed at night, they changed him out of his sodden clothing and made sure his bed and equipment were in tip-top condition, ensuring there could be no excuse for further punishment. Not that an excuse was needed. They tried to get as much liquid into him as possible, to avoid dehydration.

Despite this aid, Bunter was visibly deteriorating. One morning Captain Lodge, the unit Doctor, walked into the parade square. He halted and stared at the sight of a hunched figure, with full gear, shambling his way, stooped over, around the perimeter of the otherwise empty ground. He watched transfixed until eventually Bunter came up to his position.

“Stop there private. What are you doing?”

Bunter raised his head to look up at the officer. His face was bathed in sweat, his eyes were wide open and lugubrious, and he just stared, panting, unable to respond. He staggered slightly and Lodge put out a hand to steady him, being rewarded with a hand damp from Bunter’s sweat. Just then two squaddies passed, and the Captain shouted to them.

“You two. Over here on the double,”

“Yessir,”

“Who is this man, and why is he in this condition?”

They looked at each other before one replied.

“His name’s Bunter and he’s under orders,”

“Whose orders?” he demanded.

As if in answer, a roar came from a window.

“I can’t hear the sounds of a Bunter. Do you want me to come out to give you a helping boot?”

Silence.

“Alright the boot it is,”

This pronouncement was followed by the appearance of a burly florid faced man who, upon seeing Captain Lodge, straightened up and walked towards the small group.

“What’s the meaning of this Sergeant Major?”

“This is private Bunter under punishment, sir,”

“You two men get him over to the hospital this instant,”

“He’s under the orders of Major Jenkins, sir,” Gentoul said sullenly.

“He’s now under the orders of me as a medical officer. This man is on his last legs. Are you stupid? If anything happens to him, I’ll see it you’ll pay for it,” he replied with increasing anger.

“I was obeying Major Jenkins’ orders,”

Bunter was being held up by the two soldiers. 

“You two get him to the hospital ... NOW!”

They looked at Gentoul who nodded, and they headed off with him. 

“I’ll now go to see Major Jenkins. You haven’t heard the last of this,” was his parting shot.

He stormed to the admin building and having ascertained that the Major was in ignored the

“I’ll check if he’s available,” burst in, as Jenkins and the adjutant were relaxing with a cigarette after a hard morning of administering. They looked up, startled.

“What the devil do you mean barging in here like that?” demanded Jenkins.

“I’ll bloody tell you why. Do you know the treatment one of your men is going through?”

Jenkins and Meadows looked at each other.

“I see you do. I’ve sent him to the hospital, and I hope for your sake that he recovers. He’s badly dehydrated and suffering from heat exhaustion.” 

“Who the hell do you think you are? Remember, you’re speaking to a superior officer,” Jenkins shouted back, rising from his seat to confront the irate medic.

Lodge stood his ground.

“If he doesn’t recover you better worry about a court martial,”

He left, slamming the door behind him.

“That’s torn it” commented the subaltern.

“Bloody Bunter. Assuming he’s OK, what the hell do we do with him? The Colonel has made it clear he doesn’t want him around and where could we possibly post him to. Ideally, I’d send him to the front, but he’s deemed unfit,” here he snorted, “Unfit indeed. Too damn lazy is nearer the mark,”

“I’ve an idea. We just received a request for a secondment of a chef to the Viceroy’s House. Bunter fits the bill, I suppose,”

“They want a chef, not an army cook. Would Bunter be what they’re looking for?” Major Jenkins seemed dubious.

“I’m not sure that’s necessary. I think they want Britishers on the cooking staff to monitor the Indians in case any nationalist, or worse Bose supporters, may have been infiltrated in.”

“To make sure no one puts powdered glass in the Viceroy’s rice pudding?”

“That sort of thing,”

They put Bunter on a drip to be rehydrated, and he spent three weeks in the hospital. One week to recover and two weeks of restful malingering. Then, to his immense relief, he began his reassignment, which involved him moving into the Viceroy’s House where his accommodation, though far from luxurious, provided him with a small private room and a degree of freedom. He had to report once a week at HQ and otherwise came under the administration of the House. 

He reported to the kitchens and met the head chef, Davy Llewellin Barry. Barry, a Welshman, had, almost comically stereotypically, three interests: cooking, singing and rugby, in no particular order. Bunter was a disappointment in that he was uninterested in music, went to a soccer school (“game for pansies” sneered Barry) and as soon became apparent, was no skilled chef. 

The kitchen was well run by Barry, with several Indian chefs working under his direction. Bunter was not skilled enough to join their ranks, so Barry put him under Ahmed as a sous chef.

“I’m not sure even that isn’t above your abilities,” 

It outraged Bunter to be under the supervision of an Indian. When he expressed his objections, he got short shrift. Barry was a large portly man and not the sort to argue with, so with ill grace he began his duties. Ahmed was a perfectionist and Bunter wasn’t which led to friction. Bunter took any criticism as intolerable, not only because it was unjustified in his opinion, but even if it was because it came from a “native,”. He then resorted to vulgar abuse against Ahmed. Barry stepped in.

“Now see here, boyo. Ahmed is worth ten of you, and you will not abuse him because he’s a Muslim. He works for me. You work for me and any more of this and you’ll have me to answer to,” 

Barry’s large runcibund face glowed red with indignation as he pressed close to Bunter’s. 

“Do you understand I will not have you supposing you are superior just because you’re English. Do you get it, Bunter?”

“Yes, Chef,”

Bunter’s behaviour improved, though he seethed at the humiliating role reversal. He reacted with a sullen acquiescence and frequent absences. It became obvious that Barry didn’t care whether or not he came in for work. Eventually he confronted Bunter.

“Bunter, I know why you’re here. I don’t want you, but since you are here, you obey my rules. Now you be here in the morning. Your new duties will involve stewarding under Rajiv Singh. Report to him tomorrow. You’re no damn use to me here,”

Bunter found himself banished from the kitchen, but dressed in a steward’s uniform helped, after a fashion, in the running of the House. Singh’s regime was a relaxed one, and Bunter found himself with ample leisure time. 

Unexpected events outside work profoundly affected Bunter’s future. The first was a letter he received from a London Solicitor.

“Dear Sir

I regret to inform you, if you are not already aware, of the demise of your uncle Mr. George Ebenezer Cooke. In his will, of which we are executors, he has left you 1,000 pounds. This money we retain pending your further instructions.

We have in the interim authorised the Metropolitan and Empire bank, in New Delhi, to make available the sum of 50 pounds (the maximum allowable under currency restrictions) should you choose to open an account……..”

The Bunters and the Cookes were not a close family and Bunter scarcely knew his uncle George who had died unexpectedly and, equally unexpectedly, flush. Having no family of his own and as he expressed it “I don’t like dogs and the government even less so I may as well leave my money to the family”. Bunter spent no time in securing the 50 pounds and, despite currency restrictions, had a few additional hundreds of pounds sent to him. His father’s letter advising him to put the money in the stock market or to buy a couple of houses as an investment went unheeded. Money, in Bunter’s view, was for spending, which he set about doing with a will. He had two tropical suits made for him and, in his view at any rate, cut a dashing figure about town. He frequented the Planters Club; his membership having been maintained by Andrews and Son. One evening he turned up, uninvited, at a social event organized by the younger members of the club, a mixture of servicemen and locals. 

There he met Mildred, Millie to all except her parents. She spotted Bunter, sitting at the bar on his own, drinking and smiling benignly at all and sundry. It was a slimmed-down version of Bunter she saw. His ill treatment by Gentoul and a recurrence of dysentery caused a substantial weight loss. Sporting a tan and in his new white suit he was almost svelte looking. Millie looked at him with interest.

“Who’s that chap at the bar?” she asked one of her companions.

He replied, “Oh, that’s Bunter. Know little about him, although I’ve seen him in here a few times and I believe he works at the Viceroys,”

“Why not invite him over?”

“Why not indeed? But why?”

“He looks a bit lost,”

And so, Bunter received an invitation to join the company, which he accepted with alacrity. After cursory introductions, Millie dominated his time. She had one thing in common with Bunter; she liked to talk. However, in deference to Bunter, she allowed him to take centre stage. He told her of his military exploits, his aristocratic connections, the wealth of the Bunter family and his own important (though unspecified) job at the Viceroy’s House. She was impressed, and whilst she made allowance for exaggeration, it was nothing like enough as she later found out. 

Millie Parker was a slim 28-year-old with a thin face and prominent nose on which were perched thin wire spectacles. Those from Greyfriars, who met her in subsequent years, thought she bore more than a passing resemblance to Bunter’s old schoolteacher and headmaster, Mr. Quelch. She was an only child and lived with her parents and worked in a local junior school as a teacher. Her father was an official in the Indian Railways Board, whose pastimes, so Millie said, were cricket and complaining, not necessarily in that order. Millie was only too well aware that the attractiveness of youth, such as she had, was a diminishing asset and having no wish to spend her days with her parents, a “good” marriage was essential. Bunter seemed promising material. Bunter, not quite realising how it came about, found himself as one part of a couple. He was pleased since up to then, whilst he had regarded himself as something of a ladies’ man, none of the ladies he encountered shared that view. That he now had a girlfriend, whom he imperiously referred to as his “memsahib”, was a matter of satisfaction. He found her, on closer acquaintance, to have a strong will and dominating personality which he found considerably less satisfying. 

Around the same time, again in the club, a chance encounter was to have a profound effect on Bunter’s war. It began innocently enough when one afternoon he was perched on a stool at the bar. It was a quiet time when a young man with a slight limp wandered to order a drink. He noticed Bunter and introduced himself as Martin Erickson. Bunter was uninterested and nodded until Erickson said.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

He could. Erickson engaged Bunter in conversation and discovered, not that it took much effort, that he had been in the Maikal battle. He asked for more details, which Bunter was happy to supply. He had learnt his lesson and toned down his story to make it sound more realistic. It was still a very Buntercentric account, which Erickson listened to intently. He was also interested in the injustices heaped upon Bunter when he returned to be hospitalised, maltreated at HQ, and then shunted off to the Viceroys House. Erickson then came clean.

“I should tell you I’m a journalist. I think you’ve a story to be told if you agree,”

Bunter preened, “A story about me?”

“Well, yes, in the context of the battle, of course. Do you mind if I take a few notes and tomorrow bring a photographer? I think one of the papers back home may be interested,”

Bunter didn’t mind. 

Erickson knew Maikal was yesterday’s news and needed a fresh angle, and he thought he had one. 

Two weeks later, Bunter was summonsed to Jenkins’ office.

“What is the meaning of this Bunter?” he demanded, pointing at two newspaper articles displayed on his desk.

“I don’t know, sir,”

“Well read them man,”

Bunter looked at the extracts with interest. The first was an inner page from the Daily Mirror from the previous week. Under the banner “Army Class Bias” was a picture of Bunter. It showed him staring with a wide eyed, startled expression at the camera. The flash washed out his features so that his face melded into the bland background. There was a full front page spread in the second paper, The Daily Worker. The same photo of Bunter, though much larger, appeared with the associated legend.

“Working-Class Hero Mistreated,” given equal prominence with “Second Front Demanded Now.”

“Read it,”

Bunter scanned the story. It described a Bunter version of Bunter’s heroics in Maikal and recorded the medals handed out to several officers and continued.

“…. Private Bunter having sustained such serious injuries requiring lengthy rehabilitation might have expected a warm welcome upon his return to his regiment. Far from it. He was met with resentment by his Commanding Officer, a man who had never seen action himself. Although promotion might have been expected, he was instead subjected to humiliating menial tasks and then packed off to work as a steward in the Viceroy’s House.

Why, you may ask? While they handed medals out to officers involved in the siege Bunter, a working-class lad who worked in a warehouse in the East End of London was ignored. He has been discriminated against by upper class ‘superiors’.

Is this another example of a class ridden military?……..”

Bunter stopped reading.

“What do you make of that Bunter?”

“I didn’t realise you read the Daily Worker, sir,”

Jenkins’ eyes bulged, and he snapped

“I received these from London. You know you shouldn’t give press interviews without permission? Where did this nonsense come from? Bunter the ‘hero’, working-class lad and so on?”

“I didn’t say those things, sir,”

“I take it I’m the CO? Get out of my sight. You haven’t heard the last of this, I promise,” 

Unbeknownst to Bunter, other interested eyes were reading the articles.

“It’s time,” announced Millie.

“What for?” asked Bunter between mouthfuls of cake.

“For you to meet my parents. We’ve been going out for three weeks now and they want to meet you,”

A few nights later, Bunter arrived at the Parker house for dinner. 

“Welcome my boy” was the affable greeting from Mr. Parker. Mrs. Parker also made him welcome and invited him to join them on their veranda for pre-dinner drinks. An Indian servant brought these. Rather unexpectedly, Bunter and Mr. Parker hit it off rather well. Mr. Parker held strong views on the Indian Nationalist movements which coincided with Bunter’s own.

“The place would fall apart without us,” asserted Bunter “We have organized the country, given them a stability and peace that they had never known. And do we get any gratitude? Not likely. Get me another gin and tonic,”

This peremptory demand was directed to one of the servants.

“I had a short way with my servants when I was in Assam, I can tell you. But were they grateful? No. They showed me no loyalty whatsoever,”

“Perhaps they didn’t like your short way?” suggested Mrs. Parker mildly.

“They must know their place Mrs. Parker or there can be no order. That’s true of servants, and it’s true of the Indian. Don’t you agree, sir?”

Even Mr Parker was taken aback by Bunter’s extreme views.

“Up to a point. But it’s always better to get cooperation than to rely upon confrontation, if possible,” he replied, “But I agree that a firm hand is often necessary,”

When Bunter left, Millie said.

“That went well. Much better than I thought,”

“Why shouldn’t it have? Your father seems a sensible sort,” replied Bunter.

“If there are any brain cells in that head of his, they lead a lonely existence,” commented Mr. Parker to his wife

“I thought he was a nice boy. You were getting on well,”

“I suppose he’ll do for our Millicent. Public school with money behind him. Can’t be too fussy, I suppose,” he added gloomily.

Although Bunter found Millie’s attention flattering, in its way, he found it could be oppressive and escaped with relief to the bar in the Planters Club whenever he could. He was sitting there, alone, a few days later when a thin-faced man, smartly dressed, sallow in appearance, approached him. He asked in an undefined foreign accent.

“Are you Mr. Bunter by any chance?”

Bunter looked up in surprise, “Yes. Do I know you?”

“Let me introduce myself. My name is Jose Rodriguez. I read about you in the report of the battle for Maikal. Might I be permitted to buy you a drink?”

He was. He was permitted to buy Bunter several more, for although Bunter was not mean neither, by habit, was he averse to being treated. And it was a treat to have an audience as he recounted, yet again, his version of events in Maikal. He treated Rodriguez to his views on the war, the political situation and the injustices heaped on him by the military. Rodriguez listened sympathetically, only intervening to ask the odd question. He was particularly interested in Bunter’s current employment. After a pleasant couple of hours, he took his leave of an inebriated Bunter.

“It’s been pleasure to have met you Senor, but I must get back to my work. Perhaps I could have the pleasure of your company again?”

Bunter, suspicious after his earlier encounter, asked.

“Are you a journalist?”

Rodriguez laughed, “No indeed. Here is my card. I’m in the import/export business. Might I invite you to dinner at The Kwality?”

Bunter looked up in surprise. It was one of the most prestigious restaurants in Delhi. 

Rodriguez, noticing his surprise, added, 

“I haven’t been long in the city. You’d do me a favour as I hardly know anyone here in Delhi,”

Bunter agreed with alacrity.

The next evening Bunter resplendent in a just cleaned suit presented himself at the restaurant. He ordered unrestrainedly, both from the food and wine menus, assuming Rodriguez was standing the bill. He accepted the offer of an apéritif and several large glasses of wine. Food followed in prodigious quantities as Bunter spoke at length on his favourite subject – Bunter. Though he gave Rodriguez the benefit of repeating his views on several other topics. Rodriguez’s smile became more fixed as the evening worn on and while waiting for the dessert asked.

“Tell me, how you find work in the Viceroy’s House?”

“Oh, it’s not too bad. Nice building and all that. But as I was saying…”

“You must be trusted to have access to the entire building the way you describe it,”

“Well yes,”

“You have access to some very interesting information,”

“I suppose so,” he responded cautiously.

Rodriguez breathed deeply; He was coming to the point, and even Bunter sensed it.

“I will, as you say, put my cards on the table. We are both sophisticated men of the world. I work for a friendly government,”

Bunter paused, a glass of wine halfway to his mouth.

“Which one?”

Rodriguez paused before answering “The Soviet,”

“I say,” responded Bunter in alarm, “I don’t care for that at all. I remember I need to report back to barracks,”

“No, please wait, you have your dessert to come. Here, let me fill up your glass. What problem is there? England and Russia are allies, and friends,”

“You don’t sound very Russian,”

“I’m not. I am from Portugal,”

“Why are you working for them?”

“I’m a businessman. This is business. And it pays well.”

 Here he looked carefully at Bunter and getting no response continued.

“If you help me, it would be much appreciated.”

“What do you mean?” asked a now alarmed Bunter.

“You can get information that would interest my bosses. Now you may wonder why allies might check up on each other,”

Bunter hadn’t but responded, “Yes, why?”

“The Russians are, by instinct, a distrustful people. I wouldn’t ask you to give information that your government hasn’t already revealed, but as I say, the Russians are distrustful. We can make money out of that. You would only give them information that they already have. It’s just confirming the truth of that information,”

He looked closely at Bunter. Was he really stupid enough to believe him?

“In fact, you’d be doing your government a great favour. Once the Russians know they are being told the truth, it will promote trust between the two governments and help the war effort,”

A befuddled, Bunter brain struggled to come to terms with this argument. Eventually he asked, “Why do they want to know what happens in India?”

Rodriguez shrugged, “I don’t know. They are just interested in anything that their friends are doing. But you’ll be doing me, your government and of course yourself a great favour,”

“Well, if it’s for the good of our side, what could be wrong with it? And how would I benefit?”

Rodriguez smiled, relieved it had gone more easily than he thought possible.

“I am authorised to advance you this,” and removing an envelope from his jacket handed it to Bunter. “It’s 10,000 rupees. Just as a gesture of friendship. You can get for me information on troop movement, munitions, appointments of generals and so on. The sort of information that allies swap as a matter of course,”

“If that’s all,” said Bunter pocketing the envelope, “I’ll do my best. I say, would you order another Gin and It?”

“With pleasure,”

As a steward, Bunter had access to several areas of the House, but that didn’t mean he could obtain the sort of information Rodriguez wanted. After a week he found himself alone in an Ops room. He saw documents referring to a promotion of an officer to colonel and his posting as liaison officer to the American/Chinese forces in the north of Burma. He could easily remember the details and by arrangement met Rodriguez and passed on the information.

“Good. That’s intelligence of interest,”

Bunter waited.

“We shouldn’t meet like this, though. In future if you have anything to pass on, we must have an arrangement to contact me. Have you ever heard of a dead letter box?”

“No,”

Rodriguez arranged a drop off point. The cloak and dagger element intrigued Bunter, but he then asked.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Rodriguez stared at him and then gave a short laugh.

“You get paid for information. Once it’s been looked at and assessed, you’ll be paid. I’ll meet you at the club next Thursday at 5,”

At the club the next week, sitting at a table in a secluded corner, Rodriguez bought the first and only drink.

“My people seem satisfied. But you can’t be expected to memorise the information I need. So, take this,”

He handed Bunter a cigarette lighter.

“What’s this?”

Rodriguez explained it was a small camera to take photographs of documents of interest and showed him how it worked. Bunter had a shiver of apprehension. What had appeared to be a bit of a lark was now taking on serious overtones. Bunter was feeling out of his depth. 

“I say I’m not sure I’m cut out for this sort of stuff,” he began.

Rodriguez looked at him and his face hardened as he placed his hand firmly on Bunter’s forearm and said quietly.

“It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?” His grip tightened. The understated menace was obvious. “You realise that my contacts have decided to rely upon you, upon us, and they don’t take disappointments well,”

But then he let go of Bunter’s arm and reverted to his friendly manner.

“Remember, you are helping the war effort in your own way. You’re helping to foster good relations between allies,” He smiled benevolently at Bunter.

“I suppose so,”

Over the next few weeks Bunter took a series of photographs of various documents lying around showing little discrimination in his choices. He inundated the Soviets with photos of menus, old newspaper cuttings and other detritus but also the odd military document of interest. Rodriguez seemed satisfied and started to meet Bunter in his own apartment to receive the films and to pay him. 

It was a useful additional income for Bunter as Millie, taking Bunter at his own word about his wealth and impressed by his free spending, expected to be treated accordingly. She had spent her life having to be careful with her pennies, and spending Bunter’s money came as a delightful change. Then, Bunter never was sure how, transitioned from boyfriend to fiancé and marriage plans were being discussed. Mr. Parker started dropping heavy hints about his relative poverty and his inability to pay for an extravagant wedding. Bunter, afraid he might be expected to pay, suggested a modest affair. Between Millie and Rodriguez, Bunter felt he was on a roller coaster and one over which he had no control.

One Friday when he attended the barracks for his weekly reporting in, he was summonsed to Jenkins’ office.

“What have you been up to now, Bunter?”

“I don’t know, sir,”

“Fortunately, perhaps, I don’t know either, but there’s brass coming to see you. You’ve to stay in the anteroom until you’re sent for. And Bunter don’t think I’ve forgotten your Daily Worker exploit.”

Bunter sat outside Jenkins’ office for several hours, with an increasing sense of apprehension, until at last he was told to go to an office along the next corridor.

He knocked, opened the door, and was taken aback to see behind a desk Harry Wharton and Huree Singh, his former school friends. The former in the uniform of a full colonel and Singh in that of a major.

If Bunter expected a warm welcome from his old school friends, he was disabused of the notion, as Wharton said coldly.

“Take a seat private Bunter.” 

“Yes sir,”

Wharton then pushed over the desk a photograph of Rodriguez.

“Do you recognize that man?”

“No sir,”

“What! Be very careful and tell us the truth,”

Bunter pretended to look at the image more carefully.

“I might have met him in the Planters Club,” he conceded.

Huree Singh intervened and said quietly.

“Bunter, we know what’s going on. You would be well advised to tell us everything you know,”

Bunter felt an emptiness in the pit of his stomach and a growing feeling of panic.

“He told me it would be alright. He told me it helped the alliance if the Russians could confirm that what the British were telling them was true, and so….”

Bunter tailed off, realising how absurd it sounded, and added plaintively.

“Then there was no harm…?”

He looked up hopefully.

“Can you actually be that stupid?... I suppose you can,” Wharton answered his own question “We know about Rodriguez, including the fact that it’s not his name,”

He pushed over another photograph, this time of Rodriguez and Bunter sitting together on a park bench. Bunter drew breath, realising the full seriousness of his position.

“You realise this is treason?” Wharton said quietly. “The ultimate penalty for which is hanging,”

Bunter was close to tears, “But he’s acting for our allies,”

“And how do you know that?”

“He told me…” again Bunter tailed off.

“Fortunately for you he is, but that doesn’t alter the basic fact of your treachery. You cannot sell secrets even to the closest of allies,”

Bunter winced.

“There’s a way out for you though,”

Bunter almost collapsed with relief as Wharton continued,

“You will continue to meet Rodriguez as before, but we will give you the information to bring to him. You have a camera. Do you have it with you?”

Bunter nodded miserably and handed it over.

“This is how it’s going to play out,” said Singh, “You still meet Rodriguez every week (we’ll stick to that name) and hand over your film. I’ll meet you and provide the papers for you to photograph every Thursday morning. You will still take the photos as they will only get suspicious if their quality improves.”

Wharton added, “This is not to be revealed to anyone. Anyone. Do you understand the importance of that? You’re getting a chance. Don’t mess it up.”

“You can trust me,” gasped Bunter

“That’s anything but reassuring,” observed Wharton grimly, “But if you let us down, the protection we’re giving you goes. Is that understood?”

Bunter nodded.

“Major Singh will be your contact point throughout this. Any problems you will need to liaise with him.”

Again, Bunter nodded.

Wharton sat back in his seat and relaxed.

“On a lighter note, we hear you’re about to be married. Congratulations,”

Bunter smiled, “Yes. Next month,” 

Then he had a thought.

“What about the money I’m getting from Rodriguez? I’ll have to continue to get it, won’t I?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, of course. It’d be suspicious otherwise,”

“And what do I do with it?”

Wharton scowled, “Hand it over to us, of course. You don’t think you can profit by treachery,”

Bunter thought for a second, “Will it not look suspicious? I’m relying on that money to pay for things. Rodriguez might notice if suddenly I’m living on a few bob a day,”

Huree Singh laughed, “Never underestimate the cunning of Bunter, Harry,”

Wharton scowled again, “I suppose we can allow you to keep some of your ill-gotten gains,”

Then changing his tone, “Well Billy, where are you getting married?”

“St Stevens on the 25th.” 

Then, as an afterthought, “I don’t have a best man. Would you do the job?”

“Sorry Billy, but I’ll have returned to London by then. But why don’t you ask Huree here?”

Bunter hesitated, thinking of the reaction of his father-in-law to be, and then, smiling, said. 

“Why not?”

“I am honoured by such a gracious request, my esteemed Bunter,” laughed Huree Singh.

All went as planned and Bunter, immensely relieved, resumed his relationship with Rodriguez, who seemed ever more pleased with the information he was receiving. This was reflected in a slight increase of the money being paid to him, which as it turned out he kept. The spectre of punishment for his newspaper interview was banished.

“I don’t know how you do it, Bunter. But I’ve received orders from up the line to forget about your indiscretion. Now get out of here,” shouted an irate Major Jenkins.

In one respect, however, he didn’t follow instructions. Millie was getting increasingly curious about his actual job in the Viceroy’s Palace. She had been impressed, initially, by his “I can’t possibly tell you” response but was becoming suspicious after she had heard that he was to be seen in a steward’s uniform carrying trays about the building. Bunter, loath to tell her of his menial job, told her instead about Rodriguez, or at any rate a carefully adapted version, in which he was acting as an agent for military intelligence. She was dubious at first but after being introduced to Major Singh, the best man to be, whom Bunter correctly described as his contact she was persuaded.

Relations with his father-in-law to be became strained. The greater the contact Mr. Parker had with his future son-in-law, the more disillusioned he became. One night after Bunter ate and drank heavily and treated the Parkers to his conversation, he commented to his wife and daughter.

“My God. That man is an Olympic class bore. And whatsmore I’ve heard that he’s only a steward in the Viceroy’s not some bigwig as he keeps implying,”

Millie was indignant.

“I can tell you a thing or two about Bunter, he hasn’t told you,”

“Humph. If there was anything worth telling, he would have told us already. Several times,”  

Millie shared several of her father’s reservations about Bunter but, as his fiancé, felt an attack on Bunter was an attack on her judgment and her future.

“I know for a fact that he’s an intelligence officer for MI6 on important undercover work. I’ve met his superior and contact Major Huree Singh,”

Mr. Parker sat back and closed his eyes.

“My God. If Bunter represents the most intelligent of the next generation and takes orders from an Indian nig nog this is the end of Empire. Mother, get me a gin and tonic,”

Millie glared at him indignantly.

Bunter and Millie were duly wed, in a quiet ceremony to suit Mr. Parker’s pocket, with Huree Singh as best man. As a wedding gift Singh provided, free of rent, a bungalow in a prestigious area of the city. He also provided, from the resources of the Indian Army, a servant/bodyguard to monitor Bunter. This long-suffering individual found it an anything but pleasant posting with the arrogant and condescending Bunter and a demanding Mrs. Bunter. Bunter found married life anything but a pleasant posting either. Far from being an agreeable companion, Millie became a demanding and domineering partner. The Rodriguez front was going smoothly, however. Life for Bunter fell into an easy, predictable pattern.

LONDON JANUARY 1944

Harry Wharton entered an office in Whitehall. He had been summoned to a meeting the purpose of which he wasn’t told. Around a table were several senior officers, including some in American uniforms. At the head was an older man, grey-haired with glasses. He introduced himself as Sir Ronald Wingate. No other introductions were made. He addressed Wharton directly.

“Thank you for attending. We want to ask you questions about a Private William George Bunter.”

“Yes, sir” was the puzzled response.

Wingate puffed on his pipe, “How reliable is he?”

Wharton taken aback answered, “He’s not very intelligent!”

“Can he be instructed to carry out simple instructions without query?”

“Simple instructions are the only ones he can follow,” replied Wharton with a smile “As to querying. He’s inquisitive if that’s what you mean,”

“Has he ever shown any interest or understanding of the papers he’s been providing to this chap of yours?”

Again, Wharton smiled, “Not the remotest interest. He doesn’t understand a word of what we are giving him, and some is in cypher anyhow,” 

“I think that’s what we wanted to hear. Thank you for your attendance. Now if you don’t mind waiting outside. I may require you to return to Delhi at short notice,”

“Yes sir,”

NEW DELHI MARCH 1944

At a routine meeting Harry Wharton accompanied Huree Singh. 

“Harry,” Bunter said in surprise. Wharton grinned.

“Yes, Private Bunter, since we’re being informal,”

“Oh, sorry sir,”

“Never mind. Now take a seat myself and Huree need to talk to you,”

Bunter looked up apprehensively.

“There’s nothing to worry about. You’ve been performing just as we asked of you. Except telling Mrs. Bunter about your work,” Here Wharton frowned.

“I spoke to Mildred,” said Huree Singh “and she knows the necessity of complete confidentiality,”

“There’s a particular message to be delivered to Rodriguez in two weeks’ time,” continued Wharton “You’ve to approach him and say that the C in C Mountbatten is to attend the building and you have been assigned to look after his quarters. You are to offer to get classified information from his office. To make it sound authentic, emphasise that you’re taking added risks and therefore expect extra money.”

That sounded alright to Bunter, but he said.

“He won’t give me extra money outright. It’ll depend on results,”

“Hells Bells,” expostulated Wharton, “I haven’t come here to get you a pay rise. This is important,”

“Yes, I get that, but why?”

“Never mind. Just do exactly as you are told. That’s all,”

“You can rely on me,”

In another two weeks, Bunter presented himself as usual with the camera containing a new film. Wharton produced from his briefcase the documents he had brought from London and they went through the photographing routine.

“You said to Rodriguez what we had agreed?”

“Yes, and he was very interested and said payment depends on results,”

“Good,”

“You will keep up the routine for a few weeks. Then we may take you out for a while. You’re due leave so we will arrange a holiday for you in Shimla,”

“That sounds nice,”

“And Mildred also, of course,” added Singh.

“Does she have to go?”

“Yes,”

After Bunter left, Wharton said to Huree Singh.

“Not everything hunky dory in the Bunter household?”

“You haven’t met her. If you had, it may be easy to understand. She has Saurav, our man in the house, demented with her pernickety demands. And she has Bunter totally under her thumb,”

“A formidable woman?”

“Indeed. She approached me demanding danger money for herself because of Bunter’s work with us. Worth a try, I suppose. It was virtually impossible to get her out of my office. Changing the subject, what’s going on? Why this effort, not only today but over the last several months?”

Wharton hesitated, “You must know the basics,”

“I have a pretty good idea,” 

“Rodriguez is reporting to the Russians, as we know. And as I suspect, you’ve guessed the Japanese are intercepting the information. We’re not altogether sure how. Since it’s unnecessary for us to know, we have decided not to jeopardise things by trying to find out,”

“I have noticed that information about ship movements and convoys are in the dispatches we supply to Bunter,”

“We give them accurate information about matters not deemed important or which we believe they know already but the shipping information we think, indeed we’re sure, has resulted in Jap subs being diverted away from contact,”

“Bunter has finally been useful,”

“Hard to believe, but yes,”

“And what’s so important about today’s info?”

“You saw it. It’s a query concerning the availability of spare parts for landing craft of a certain draft under the South East Asia Command and to make enquiries from the Yanks in the Pacific,”

“So that’s it. The invasion of Europe,”

“Indeed. Wherever we don’t intend to land must have beaches that need this type of craft. When the Japs get this, they’ll realise its importance and send it to the Germans,”

“This is deep stuff indeed. It’s as well Bunter has no idea of what he’s doing,”

“And he must never know. As soon as it’s clear that the info is false, we must get Bunter out of here. Rodriguez, we’ll deal with in our own way,” 

NKVD OFFICE OF COMMISSIONER OF STATE SECURITY FIRST CLASS MOSCOW

Vladimir Krassilnikov was sitting at his desk chain smoking and examining files when a knock came on the door and a subordinate entered. Vladimir looked up.

“Yes,” he demanded curtly.

“We have received information from India which we thought you should see comrade,”

“India? What has that to do with me? Or this office?”

They put the file before him. At the front was a reference to Bunter under the codename “Zhirny” (fatty) accompanied with the photograph of Bunter that had appeared in the Daily Worker. Vlad (as he was unaffectionately known by his subordinates) asked.

“Was this photo taken before or after he died? What are you showing me?” 

“The important documents are on the front of the file comrade,”

Vlad read through the request about landing craft spares. He then asked.

“Do you have the information about the beaches in France?”

“Yes. They are suitable for the Pas de Calais but as best we know, nowhere else in Western France,”

“It confirms other information we have,”

Vlad gave a nod of dismissal.

“Comrade Beria needs to know this,” he murmured to himself.

20 JUNE 1944 INDIAN OCEAN.

“Groan!!”

Mildred Bunter paced up and down the austerely furnished inner cabin on board the RMS Gloucester. It wasn’t a long journey. She had to turn on her heels every four paces. Bunter lay on the narrow bed suffering from seasickness and if Bunter suffered, he liked to share it.

“What have you done, Bunter?” his wife demanded for the umpteenth time.

“Groan…. Uurgh” was the only response.

On the 6th of June 1944 the Allied forces launched Operation Overlord, the invasion of Europe, by landing British, Canadian and American forces in Normandy. The following day the Bunters were told to pack up their possessions and were moved to barracks and ordered not to leave. 

“They’ve finally caught up with you” observed Major Jenkins with unconcealed pleasure.

 Two weeks later they left by train, under escort, to Calcutta and put on the Gloucester, a liner converted to troopship to return to the UK. The Bunters were puzzled and indignant in equal measure. Major Singh had a brief meeting with Bunter.

“I’m sorry Billy, but these are orders nothing to do with me,”

“Can you not appeal to Harry Wharton on my behalf? I don’t want to go home. I’m quite comfortable here,”

Huree Singh smiled, “Yes I’m sure you are, but this comes from higher authority than Harry so again I can only say I’m sorry,”

“Where am I to be posted?”

Singh consulted a file “Barmouth,”

“Where is that?”

Singh looked again “West Wales,”

A disconcerted Bunter moaned 

“But I don’t want to go to West Wales, or any part of Wales for that matter. And what am I to do there?”

“The good news is that they have promoted you to Corporal. You will oversee an ammunition dump along with a section of seven men. You will be an integral part of the Western defences against a Nazi invasion,”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Sorry, that’s what it says here,” 

“Mrs. B isn’t going to take this well,”

She didn’t. 

In the confined space of the cabin, she railed on again about the injustice of her position.

“What have you done to get sent to England. Or even worse Wales?”

“I don’t know. I told you. Huree wouldn’t tell me,”

Millie snorted, “And why do I have to go?”

“You’re my wife,”

“Huumph,”

This didn’t seem to be a sufficient reason. 

“I could have stayed, and they could have sent you back to India as a tea agent after the war. I’ve lived most of my life in India, apart from a horrible couple of years in a boarding school. What am I supposed to do while you’re enjoying yourself in Wales?”

“You can stay with my parents and then join me in Wales?”

“Hmmph. I’ll use our money, there’s still 600 pounds in the account, and see if I can buy a house somewhere in London.”

“Groan” Bunter’s suffering increased.

“I’ll not let you forget this, Bunter,”

Bunter didn’t doubt it

“Groan!!”

LUBYANKA MOSCOW

Vladimir Krassilnikov looked sullenly at his subordinates.

“How has this happened? How were you fooled by this Bunter?”

They shifted uneasily in their seats.

“The information he gave us, as far as we could check it, was accurate. We had no reason to suspect it or him,”

“And what of this, this Lithuanian, Lucas Petronis, or Rodriguez, did the British intelligence turn him?”

“No, we’re certain not. He disappeared a week after the French invasion and we have it on good authority that the English liquidated him,”

“Good authority?”

“The best,”

Krassilnikov nodded. 

“This leaves us with Bunter. How could we not have heard of such a top operative?”

“I don’t know. Should we ask our London contacts?”

Again, Krassilnikov nodded. He continued as if speaking to himself.

“And I told Commissar General Beria that our information pointed to Pas de Calais as the invasion point, and he told Secretary Stalin.”

He gave an involuntary shiver.

“Just so long as the Commissar doesn’t invite you to dinner, you’ll be alright,”

Vladimir Krassilnikov stared coldly at him. Beria had a reputation for poisoning guests whom he distrusted or regarded as rivals.

“Any trouble for me will be trouble for you. You can be sure of that. Now get out,”

When alone, he produced a bottle of vodka and pondered his position. Beria was not the forgiving type and being made a fool of in front of Stalin was not readily forgiven. A mistake can be characterised as treachery with torture and exile or execution the result. High standing in the hierarchy was no guarantee of safety. He rapidly swallowed two glasses of vodka, lit a cigarette, and opened the file again.

There he saw the guileless features of Bunter, so innocent and yet….so deceptive. He nodded in understanding, took a drag on his cigarette, and leant forward to confront the photograph.

“So, Mr. Bunter, you think you make a fool of Vladimir Krassilnikov. We shall meet again. That I promise.”