Sowerbutt's Anger

Few people had seen Sowerbutt lose his temper; over the years he had learnt to keep tight control on his emotions. Spaghetti and WO jumped as the half empty bottle of Old Bushmills was smashed on the desk. Shaking the neck of the bottle, Sowerbutt shouted: “Got Tipper? By all that’s sacred, this is war. I’ll gut that teacher myself and string his mates up twitching.”

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Sowerbutt's Message

WO smiled wryly: “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, old son. The Reds - the Stepney lot - have got young Tipper. That smart-mouthed teacher and his mates. They set him up and snatched him."
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Sowerbutt's Friend

Sowerbutt looked up with a start from his desk in the private office of the East India Dock Road brothel. “WO, what a pleasant surprise. Good to see you, my friend, take the weight off and have a glass of something."
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Sowerbutt's Adversary

Leopold Gerhard sat in the Captain’s cabin of U-boat 99 which had left Lorient in southern Brittany a couple of days earlier. He wore the uniform of a Leutnant zur See, but the crew had noticed that Kapitänleutnant Otto “Silent” Kretschmer listened to him carefully. 

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Sowerbutt's Submarine

Billy Boyle was tired of mouldy bread and dehydrated cabbage, the stink of oil and urine and, above all, the overcrowding on HMS Otus, an Odin-class submarine. But as he told his friend, the torpedo petty officer: “Light at the end of the tunnel, Dusty. We’ll be tied up in Pompey in a couple of days."
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Sowerbutt's Stick

The long stick thwacked down across the white buttocks, leaving a red stripe across the flesh. The sweating body shook in shock and the burly man’s head snapped around. “Madame Komarovski, to be sure,” the Irish voice gasped. Preoccupied, the Irishman had not realised a third person had entered the room.

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Sowerbutt's Bomb

Tipper’s world dissolved into an artist’s palette of yellow, orange and black. Wide-eyed, the teacher flew backwards onto a wall, the knife somersaulting away in the air. The bushy-haired docker stood rigid with blood running down his face and his shirt in shreds. Shockwaves from the bomb blast blurred Tipper’s vision.

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Sowerbutt's Agony

The hawk-faced teacher, who was wearing a bright blue blazer with yellow stripes, spat in Tipper’s face. “Bourgeois sell-out. Fascist scum. I’ll teach you to cross our path, the proletariat’s path of destiny. I’m going to put my mark on you, swastika boy.”

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Sowerbutt's Enemies

Two stocky ex-dockers punched, slapped and kicked the half-naked man in front of them, his badly bruised body hanging down in a crucifixion pose. Blood dripped from his nose and his swollen mouth, his lips split.
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Sowerbutt's Mate

The young man with a blond crew-cut hung between two concrete columns in the ruins of a Whitechapel factory, his swollen wrists lashed high with ropes.
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