Snapshots of War

Snapshots of War

Michael Gouda

• Part 3*

Saturday 22nd February 1941

It hadn't been much of a Christmas that year of 1940 though the churches were understandably full. The bombing of London had continued without ceasing and in November the cities of Coventry, Birmingham, Bristol and Southampton had been devastated, while in December Sheffield and Manchester had been similarly attacked.

But since that night on his birthday in the Underground at the Elephant and Castle station, William hadn't seen Peter again. That 'half promise' - Perhaps there will be another time. Perhaps you can come back to my flat and we can really make love - remained in his mind over the months that followed. He looked out for him when the family went to the shelter in those long nights as September dragged into October, November, December and the bombs rained mercilessly down. At times during the day - on his days off - he walked the streets around the Elephant and Castle area - 'back to my flat' surely meant that Peter lived somewhere near - but never saw him again and gradually the hope receded, though the remembrance of that furtive episode persisted and provided much of the stimulus for his solitary sex.

The New Year had come and gone - also without much celebration - England might be 'grinning and bearing it' but there was not much cause for revelry unless it was to go to the local pub and drink yourself silly. Even that though was difficult. Spirits were very scarce and though beer was available, it was weak and sour. For some inexplicable reason, glasses were in short supply and occasionally it was necessary for would-be drinkers to wait until someone else had finished and left before they could be served.

Now it was the weekend - two days of freedom, well a day and a half as he'd slept in late and his breakfast had really been instead of lunch.* *William wondered what to do. He could go to the flicks but he was saving his money, apprentice pay hardly made you as 'rich as creosote'. For a moment he envied Adele's friendship with girls of her own age from the factory. His own work mates were old. He'd nothing in common with them outside work hours and he'd lost touch with the boys from school. "I'm going to the park, mum," he told Teresa, though there was little to do there. Even the old swings and roundabout had been removed to help the War Effort with the metal and a brick shelter had been built there which was locked at times other than raids and anyway smelled sourly of piss.

There was a new pile of rubble replacing number seventy-four at the other end of the street and the smell of burning wood and brick dust still hung in the air as he passed.

"Oi, Chinky," said a voice from behind him. William hadn't been called that since the he'd left school but even now the remembrance caused momentary annoyance. He'd turned to see a tall young man with an attempt at a pencil-thin moustache on his upper lip. He was carrying a suitcase. For a moment William didn't recognise him, so smartly dressed in suit and tie was he. But the sneer on his lips reminded him.

"Stringbean," he said.

"Where you off to?" asked Stephen Briggs.

William didn't want to admit that his destination was only the local park. It seemed very lame. "Just walking," he said. " You?"

"Business," said Stringbean airily.

William gave him a sceptical look. "What sort of business you in?" he asked. It would no doubt be something trivial and casual down the market.

But the answer took him by surprise. "Buying and selling. Gotta meet a man up Islington way." There was a pause and Stringbean looked William up and down. "Hey," he said, as if making a decision, "You can give me a hand if you want. I'll make it worth your while. Would ten bob be useful?"

Ten bob, thought William. What could he buy with that? It was certainly more than he could save each week from his pay. He nodded, he hoped not too enthusiastically.

They took the Underground and Stringbean paid. They sat side by side and stared at their reflections in the opposite windows as the train rumbled its way through the tunnel. Their part of the Northern line went through the City and of course wasn't particularly crowded on a Saturday. William felt a little embarrassed but Stringbean chattered away about the war, bombing experiences, food shortages, the flicks, the Dance Hall, which, of necessity, led to girls, of whom, it seemed, he had a good deal of experience. He seemed much less condescending than he had been at school and William had to revise his opinion of him. On the surface at least he was a much more sophisticated person even than the older men who worked at the Deptford works.

They got out at the Angel and emerged into a blustery squall of rain falling from a grey sky. Apart from the public house, the Angel, which was large and Victorian, the houses around them were tall and looked almost derelict, their windows, three storeys above the shops beneath, almost opaque with dirt. There had been bombing here as well and there were blank spaces where buildings had been destroyed. Will hadn't often been north of the river (apart from occasional visits to the West End) and if this was typical, he was not impressed.

Stringbean looked around as they emerged from the Underground For a moment William thought he was looking for someone but after checking the streets in all directions, he beckoned William to follow him, and disappeared up a side alley populated by dustbins and a faint smell of boiled cabbage. There was an empty tin of Argentinean Corned Beef on the ground. William kicked it and it rebounded from the wall, the sound echoing. He wondered how anyone had managed to obtain such an item; convoys across the Atlantic, especially from South America were few and far between - if indeed any at all got through the German U-boat blockade.

"Keep it quiet," said Stringbean.

A door in one of the buildings opened and a man stood in the space, as wide as a barn door, no smile on his bald, almost round head. He looked menacing and William wished he hadn't been so free with his football skills. Seeing Stringbean though the man nodded and stood aside to let them enter.

"Tell your young centre forward to keep 'is practice for the field," he said as they passed.

Inside it was like a warehouse. Boxes were piled up everywhere all around the walls leaving only a tiny central 'cave' where another man sat at a desk. A bottle of whisky stood on it together with a glass. He was talking on the telephone and making notes on a pad in front of him. He looked up as William and Stringbean entered and gestured to them to come closer.

"Fourteen should be OK," he was saying. "I'll have them ready by Wednesday. Send round a van."

He had short, sandy hair and wore a blue suit in the buttonhole of which was a sprig of white heather. He put down the receiver and took a sip of the whisky.

"So who have we here, Mr Briggs?" he said to Stringbean.

"This is William, Lucky. He's a mate of mine. From school. Well, we met at school. He isn't at school now of course."

Suddenly William realised that Stringbean was nervous. He wasn't sure why. The man seemed harmless but then he looked again at the man whom Stringbean had called 'Lucky'. His eyes were the palest of blue and were empty, devoid of emotion. Not a man to get on the wrong side of, thought William.

Lucky looked from one boy to the other, a slow calculating look and William felt a twinge of fear himself. He turned back to Stringbean and said slowly, "Don't bring new people to see me in future, not without asking, Stephen."

William felt sorry for him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Stringbean wilting, the cocky attitude knocked out of him. "Sorry, Lucky.," he said. "I needed a carrier and William wasn't doing anything. He's all right, Lucky. Really he is."

Lucky stopped staring. and, as if he had come to a conclusion, nodded briskly and said. "Right. So what can we do for you today, Mr Briggs?"

"I've got a list, Lucky." He took out a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and handed it over. The man looked at it, crossed through a couple of items and then passed it to the big man who had let them in. "Cyril will get them for you." It seemed a singularly inappropriate name for such a brick wall of a man but obediently the big man went round consulting the list and picking things out of boxes. There was silence until he came back and placed a collection of items in front of Lucky. It was an oddly broad range of objects, make-up, stockings, tinned food, cigarettes, some packs of sugar, packets of what smelled like real coffee.

"I think that's all I can do for you today. You seem to be getting through a lot of lipstick."

Cyril giggled - it was a strange sound coming from that hard-looking man. Stringbean produced a wad of notes and started to count them out. William was amazed. He'd never have thought his former school companion would have had that sort of money.

When he had finished, Lucky said, "Add an extra ten for not obeying the rules." He nodded at William. Stringbean put down two more notes and loaded the goods into his suitcase. There was more than would fit and Cyril found a paper carrier bag for the rest. There was silence and William realised that the audience was over. He turned to go but Lucky was talking to him.

"You're a good-looking lad, William," he said. "Perhaps we could have a drink together." He patted the seat beside him.

"No thanks," said William.

Lucky leaned across the desk towards him and stroked William's cheek with the back of his hand. The skin of the man's hand was warm but the fingers were crooked in a predatory way. It was all William could do to stop jumping away. "Perhaps another time."

Cyril giggled again.

"Come on," Stringbean said. "Let's get out of here." He handed William the carrier bag and picked up the suitcase himself.

William felt confused and Stringbean hustled him out into the open air.

Lucky watched them go in an almost calculating way.

It hadn't taken William too long to work out for himself what was going on. Stringbean was obviously part of the Black Market. Lucky was the supplier, Stringbean sold the goods on to the people in the street, making as much money as he could. It was against the law of course but William knew everyone did it - well, almost everyone. Some people said that rationing was fair; no one got any more than anyone else but who did it harm if you paid a little extra for the occasional luxury. His mum no doubt would love to have some of that coffee. The ten bob note crackled in his pocket. Stringbean had paid up quite happily even though it had cost him an extra ten quid for the goodies.

The relationship with Lucky though was another matter. William hoped that he wouldn't have to see Lucky again.

Stringbean, though, seemed to be in good spirits. "It went well, eh Chinky," he said as they sat in the train. "Perhaps we should set up together. What do you do? Have you got a job?"

"Apprentice," said William. "It'll be a good job when I finish."

"So, how much do you get a week?"

"Two pounds."

Stringbean laughed. "Cripes. I make ten times that amount," he said. "We could work together. The more customers we have, the more stuff we can move."

"I don't know," said William. "It's against the law, isn't it. What if we get caught?"

Stringbean grinned. "The police have enough to do, what with the raids and everything. They haven't got time to pay attention to the wide boy on the corner, and his pair of silk stockings and pound of sugar. Trust me, Chinky. This war's a spiv's paradise."

"I don't know," said William again. "I'll have to think about it."

"Don't leave it too long, mate," said Stringbean. "There's others that'll jump at the chance."

Friday 28th February 1941

The 28th February saw Bert home on embarkation leave. He couldn't say where he was going - didn't in fact know - and he had brought with him a 'mate', Gunner Frank White - 'Chalky' to his friends of course. Chalky also had leave but no relatives - not any to whom he was speaking anyway - to stay with.

"Come back home with me, mate," Bert had said. "My Theresa will make you welcome."

So the five of them sat around the table. Chalky, a well set up 25 year old with curly blond hair, white teeth, a ready smile and a roving eye, which 'roved' often in the direction of Adele eating her apple pie and custard and well-aware that she was the object of 'attentions'.

Theresa, who hadn't seen Bert for almost eight months and had no idea when she would next see him, was almost as skittish as her daughter and William felt distinctly left out, almost embarrassingly aware of the sexual messages being transmitted between the two pairs as they munched their way through the sausages - a great treat - and the pudding.

"Cup of tea anyone?" asked Theresa when they had finished.

"What do you say we leave the young'uns alone for a bit?" asked Bert raising one eyebrow suggestively.

Theresa at least had the grace to blush but she was clearly not unwilling. They went upstairs leaving the three in a rather embarrassed silence.

"Where do you think you'll be posted to?" asked Adele, making conversation.

"Could be the Far East," said Chalky. "We've been issued tropical kit."

They fell silent, sitting together on the sofa and, though he tried not to notice, William could clearly see the young soldier's hand resting on his sister's thigh. He thought he could also see a conspicuous bulge in the man's trousers.

At last he could bear it no longer. "I'm going out for a walk," he said shortly and though Adele made a token objection, she was obviously relieved - as well as excited - at the prospect of being alone with Chalky.

A full moon shone from a cloudless sky - ideal weather for a raid. Presumably when the sirens went, they would go to the nearest shelter - or perhaps be so involved that they would ignore the warnings. Although William did not know it, the raid on London would not be that severe that particular night as most of the enemy action would be centred on Portsmouth.

There were few people about of course. The blackout made wandering around the streets dangerous, and traffic accidents had increased fourfold since the regulations came in, but tonight the moonlight made everything clear and William did not have to worry about the dangers of tripping over unseen curbs or knocking into unlit lampposts. Not quite sure where he was aiming for, William made his way west, passing through the Elephant and Castle, then towards the Thames, over Hungerford foot/railway Bridge, looking down at the murky waters of the river though the railings as he did so, the moon making a corrugated pattern on the swirling tidal surface. Villiers Street, Charing Cross, Leicester Square and there were more people here, for some theatres were still open, restaurants still provided meals for the well-off and the buses still crawled, headlights just a slit and directed downwards through the darkened streets. Then up the long stretch of Tottenham Court Road and parallel to it, Charlotte Street and the area called 'Fitzrovia'

Fitzrovia, once known as Upper Soho being located just a few minutes north of that rather better known if notorious neighbourhood. Traditionally associated with the more bohemian elements of society, Fitzrovia, centre of London's pub-culture for much of the period between the wars, owes its name to the Fitzroy Tavern, situated at the heart of the area. Famous 'Fitzrovians' included amongst others Augustus John, Nina Hamnett, Constant Lambert and Dylan Thomas - none of whom William had ever heard of.

Indeed he might never have found the Fitzroy Tavern, the sign being invisible in the gloom, had not a burst of high-pitched - though apparently masculine - laughter attracted his attention to a building into which a group of giggling men of indeterminate age were about to enter. The door led into a small glass cubicle, suitably blacked out, and then through another door into the pub itself. All this William could see in the brief interval between their entry and the closing of the outside door before the revealing of the light inside could summon up the stentorian cry of 'Put out that light!' from any patrolling ARP warden.

William debated with himself. Should he go in? He was underage of course but he was tall and had several times thought he could pass for a young-looking twenty-one year old. To come all this far and not at least see what was going on in the notorious 'Fitzroy' seemed an action of pure cowardice. It was cold and inside looked warm.

A relic of almost Victorian times, the decor was old-fashioned mahogany and nicotine-stained paint, with etched glass mirrors for light relief. There was a great bar in the shape of a long semicircle sticking out into the centre of the room. The lights were low but reflected in mirrors, both around the room and behind the bar so that the whole place appeared suffused with soft yellow light.

It was crowded and the buzz of conversation filled the air, warm from the number of customers - mostly male - and presumably from some form of heating system.

The clientele was of all ages - there were some wounded, uniformed Service men, others in their twenties and thirties, presumably in reserved occupations, as they were dressed in civvies. The majority though were middle-aged and there were a few elderly gentlemen with little coteries of dependants who hung on their every word with deferential attention. Were these the bohemian 'greats', the famous legends of the 20s and the 30s now holding court in the reduced circumstances of the war years?

William merged with the crowd, not daring to go up to the bar in case he was refused service and told to leave. Conversation ebbed and flowed about him punctuated by bursts of laughter. The air was full of cigarette smoke with the occasional more exotic aroma of cigar. From time to time William caught the eye of one man on his own, regarding him speculatively, but he was too shy to hold the gaze for long.

Then he saw him. Leaning negligently against the bar towards the back of the room. A smile on his face revealing that gap in his teeth. Dark hair glossily reflecting the lights above his head. It was Peter. And William felt his guts contract. Who said that the seat of the emotions was the heart? It was obviously the stomach. Peter was with another man with startling red hair for he was chatting agreeably to someone who had his back to William.

But should he go up to him and speak? What if Peter didn't even recognise him? What if the other man was 'someone special'? What if ... ? He made a brave decision, probably influenced by his hormones rather than his good sense.

To Hell with it ... He battled through the conversation and smoke.

"Hello, Peter. Remember me?"

Peter swung round, startled, his smile changing to surprise, then the smile returning.

"Bill!" - He did remember. "Do you want a drink?" He turned to the bar and ordered a half pint of beer without asking what he wanted - perhaps there was no choice. "This is a friend," indicating the other young man. "Charles meet Bill. We met in the Underground and then lost touch. I despaired of ever seeing him again - and now he has found me."

Any uneasiness was dispelled under Peter's easy conversation. "Where have you been? Obviously you have escaped the bombing. You are free tonight? We will have lots to 'talk about'..." He gave the last comment considerable significance. "You can come back to my flat later?"

The other man, Charles, spoke for the first time. What he said was spoken softly and was obviously not English. "Ich wuerde lieber meinen Mund halten, der Junge hoert zu."

William looked questioningly at Peter who was staring angrily at Charles.

"Oh forgive my friend. He is such a wet blanket."

"Was he speaking German?" asked William.

Peter laughed, it seemed a little uncomfortably. "Of course not," he said. "We are Dutch and unfortunately there is a connection between the two languages. So that to a foreigner they might sound similar. You do not speak German?" he asked. "He says I talk too much... but I am happy tonight..."

"Careless talk costs lives," said William, repeating the words of the Ministry of Information posters which appeared on walls all over the country.

"You tell Piet that," said Charles. William noted that he had red eyebrows too and strange yellowy-brown pupils.

"Piet?"

"That's my name in Dutch - Piet Kees - Peter in English."

"You speak very good English," said William politely.

"All Dutch people speak English," said Peter. "Even the street sweepers."

"How did you escape from the Nazis?" asked William.

"It is a long story - perhaps a bedtime story."

"Huh!" said Charles dismissively, his tone clipped and pedantic. "I cannot stand around here while you cradle snatch. Vergiss nicht die Nachricht." He went out.

"Is he cross?" asked William.

"No, perhaps just a bit jealous."

"Because of me?"

"Perhaps."

"What is 'cradle snatch'?"

"He thinks you are too young."

"I'm seventeen and a half," said William indignantly.

"Exactly." There was a pause and then Peter asked, "Do you want to come back to my flat?"

William was momentarily taken aback. It was of course just what he had been wanting ever since the night of the Underground meeting. Something he had pictured in his mind, fantasised over in his dreams. Now the moment had arrived and he was suddenly a little nervous, unsure. What would going back involve?

Peter's face was in front of him, smiling, his hand, slim and brown, reached out and held his, resting on the bar. It felt warm and comforting.

Yes he wanted.

"Yes please," he said.

"Drink up your beer," said Peter.

It didn't taste all that pleasant but William swallowed the last half glass and they left the smoky bonhomie of the Fitzroy for the cold outside, where the full moon still shone palely in the clear sky.

"Is it far?" asked William.

"Just round the corner."

"Oh I thought you lived near the Elephant and Castle." He shivered a little, from the cold and the expectation.

"I used to... perhaps more bedtime stories," Peter laughed and put his arm round William's shoulders companionably. His body was warm through the two sets of clothing. They cut through a couple of streets and then turned left under an arch into what the moonlight revealed as a mews, cobbled courtyard and the dark shapes of small houses on either side and at the end.

"The smart end of Soho," said Peter, allowing his hand to run down William's side until it clasped him round the waist, then turning him so that they were face to face, drawing him close and kissing him on the lips. It was too dark for anyone to see. It had clouded over and even the stars were hidden.

"Come in," he said leading William to the first house on the right.

He opened the front door and the pair of them climbed a flight of stairs. The room at the top was pleasant, the windows overlooking the Mews and facing South so that in the afternoon it would be lit by the afternoon sun. Now of course the windows were curtained with thick red velvet acting as blackout. Comfortable chairs and the settee were covered in a bright floral cretonne. Two mahogany book cases filled with books stretched from floor to ceiling, standing each side of a polished desk, the sort with a front that pulled down to provide the writing surface. An antique-looking clock ticked away on the mantelpiece. Occasional tables held some porcelain figurines - someone would have to be careful dusting, thought William. In fact the room had more than a touch of the feminine about it, everything polished, everything dusted. A door in one corner led off to a tiny kitchen, another one was shut, presumably to the bedroom. There were rugs on the floor and some pictures, framed views of sea coasts, on the walls.

The only thing that looked out of place was a complicated looking piece of electrical machinery equipped with numerous knobs and dials standing on a mahogany table against the wall opposite the windows.

"What's that?" asked William.

"Oh just a wireless. It belongs to Charles." Peter took off his jacket. William, unexpectedly uneasy, stood uncertain what to do next.

"Do you want some schnapps?"

"I don't know. What are they?"

"A drink. It's strong. Or perhaps some coffee. Real coffee."

William didn't really want anything to drink but the time taken in preparation would give him the opportunity to settle.

"Yes, please - a cup of coffee."

Peter went into the kitchen. "Sit down," he said through the doorway. "Make yourself comfortable."

William considered the easy chair, then chose the sofa. There were sounds of activity from the kitchen, a kettle being filled, cups and saucers assembled.

William got up to look at the wireless. It didn't look anything like his, the one the Fosters had given him for his birthday. There were identification labels against the knobs. He tried to puzzle them out but the set must have been foreign for the words were unintelligible. He was about to try a switch when there was a sound behind him.

Peter was standing there, a cup of coffee in each hand.

"I thought there might be some sort of music," said William, feeling a little uncomfortable.

"It's not that sort of wireless," said Peter. He put down the coffee, took William's hand and drew him to the sofa, sitting down beside him, just a handspan between them.

"Hungry?" Peter asked.

"No thanks," said William thinking, almost saying, Come on. Let's get this thing started. Make love to me.

Peter moved closer so that their thighs were touching and then leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, lips closed, for a moment the sort of kiss an aunt might give. Then, when William responded, he let the lips open and Peter's tongue pressed against his own lips so that he opened up to the peaceful invasion.

Gently Peter pulled up his shirt and ran his hands over his chest and then down to his stomach. William lay back, happy to be caressed. The hands felt under the waist band of his trousers and then the elastic of his underpants, delving into the pubic hair. William wanted him to go further, to touch him, hold him. Peter opened the top button and then the others revealing his white underpants swelling with the ridge of his erection. Peter lowered his face to the bulge taking it sideways and nibbling it with his teeth, then licking it through the material.

William spread his legs wide, throwing his head back. Peter pulled down the waistband so that the cock was revealed, the skin soft and sensitive covering the rigid core. He cupped the ballsack in his palm and took the shaft into his mouth sliding down over the head, the foreskin peeling back. His mouth was moist, warm, wildly irresistible.

William's eyes were closed but his hands were fumbling at Peter's shirt, then lower at his belt and flies. The clothes were getting in the way. "Let's take them off," he said, trying to get up but Peter pushed him back.

"Let me do it," he said.

He took off William's shirt pulling it over his head, William lifting his arms, revealing the fair hair in his armpits. Then, kneeling at his feet, Peter undid his shoes, taking them off and then his socks, his tongue cat-licking the soles and between the toes so that William twisted and turned with the sensation which was both almost unbearable and yet at the same time too exciting to deny. At long last he stripped off his trousers and underpants.

Then he stood up and took off his own clothes. William, lying on the sofa, hands behind his head, legs bent, knees up and open, cock standing up over his stomach. For a moment he felt a qualm of unease but then Peter's naked body was on top of him and the feel of skin against skin, cocks together, hard flesh against hard flesh was like an electric charge, driving out every other feeling. He pushed his body upwards holding Peter and pulling him down on top of him. They held each other, their tongues and hands exploring each others' bodies.

Peter, on top, slowly inched down William's body, kissing and licking. He paused and sucked at the nipples, then went down and put his tongue in William's navel. William giggled and wriggled so Peter went even lower so that he could feel the fuzz of pubic hair around that sprouting cock.

"Turn round," said William's voice, high with arousal, "so I can do the same to you. Soon both their faces were buried in each other's groins. He could smell Peter's maleness. Peter ran his tongue up and down the erect shaft and then licked the firm young balls, taking each one into his mouth and gently mouthing them one at a time. Then he moved back and enclosed the prick as far as he could into his mouth. He could feel his own erection being taken into William's warm mouth.

He put one arm over William's legs and gently explored his arse. He found the sensitive hole and rubbed it with his finger. He heard William gasp and then felt him doing the same. He pushed harder, at the same time sucking and rubbing with his free hand.

William gasped, "I'm coming," and then clamped his mouth down again.

At the same time there was a warm, salty spurt into William's mouth but all he felt was his whole being centred in his own groin as a source of pleasure, exploding and pulsing again and again. He knew ecstasy.

That night the old Portsmouth, a townscape of Georgian houses with a maritime history dating back to the age of Nelson, to all intents and purposes, ceased to exist. The Guildhall and Civic Centre built in classical style, the Museum and Art Gallery, the shopping centres of both Portsmouth and Southsea, the quiet early nineteenth-century residential squares, the garrison churches and others were either extensively damaged or quite destroyed.

In London the siren went at eleven minutes past midnight but William in the arms of his lover felt safe enough to ignore the warning. For a change it was only a light raid and though a bomb went off near enough to rattle the windows, it scarcely disturbed the two.

The morning came, pale and grey, and William awoke with the thought that he was no longer a virgin - or at least he assumed he wasn't. Beside him was the warm body of his lover. He could just make out his features, the forehead hidden by a tangle of dark curls mussed by their strenuous lovemaking, the eyes, closed and almost hidden in the shadow, the straight nose, the lips slightly parted. He wanted to kiss them but feared he would wake Peter and then the day would really start and he would have to go home.

Home! He suddenly realised that his parents would be worried but would presumably decide he had been caught out when the siren went and had taken cover in the nearest shelter. Besides he was a man now. He had actually made love with another person. All of a sudden he felt a surge of excitement. He wanted to tell people but realised he couldn't. Not his parents, certainly not his workmates. What would they say if he told them he had had sex with another man? But he was no longer a virgin. He cradled that thought in his mind.

He didn't want to leave that bed, and, as if Peter knew what was going on in his mind, he stirred, wrapped his arms around William's body, pulling him closer, kissing him, and muttering something in his strange foreign language.

End of Part 3

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