Sowerbutt's Sandwiches

Churchill growled: “Jerries dropping in all over the place. First, you organise the Swansea Ferry, paratroopers popping in for a chat. Now you are saying some high-level emissaries are coming over for afternoon tea. Pray what have you arranged? Orange Pekoe and cucumber sandwiches?”

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Sowerbutt's Warning

“Please pay more attention, Mr Sorbay. You are expected to set an example to the boys,” Madame Komarovski snapped. A loud cough covered Coach’s snigger.

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Sowerbutt's Lessons

Coach said: “The ballet lessons have improved the boys’ balance and reflexes out of sight, Jimmy and we’ve only been going a week or two.”

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Sowerbutt's Luton

Luton, famous for its millinery and motor vehicles, suffered its first and its worst air raid on Friday, August 30, 1940. 
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Sowerbutt's Messenger

A mile or two to the north of the Leather Bottle, an SS Brigadefuhrer, also dressed in Luftwaffe overalls, had landed safely in a small meadow near the River Lea.
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Sowerbutt's Secrets

The Brigadier said: "I must ask you to keep all the events of the last few hours strictly to yourself. As a serving member of His Majesty’s Armed Forces, you are subject to all the provisions of the Official Secrets Act of 1911."
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Sowerbutt's Invasion

The 55-year-old stopped, almost dropping his Boer War-issue Lee Enfield rifle. “Gawd’s sake, it’s a bleeding parachutist. Must be a Jerry invader.” 
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Sowerbutt's Home Guard

A khaki figure appeared out of the dark, puffing and swearing to himself. “Can’t see my bleeding hand in front of my face in this blackout,” Lance-Corporal Alf Duggett of the Hyde Home Guard muttered.
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Sowerbutt's Papers

By the time the body hit the roadway with a sickening crunch, the letters and other papers secured in a calfskin pouch hanging around the dead man’s neck had burnt to ash.
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Sowerbutt's Body

The smoking body swayed in the light wind, the billowing parachute above shielding what had happened from the Heinkel 111 bomb-aimer, peering through the Plexiglas several thousand feet above.
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Sowerbutt's Sky

The sudden white and yellow burst in the night sky was the last thing the SS Standartenführer saw; red-hot shrapnel from the 3.7-inch AA shell shredding through his chest.
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Sowerbutt's Mission

The Brigadier said: “My masters are concerned about a couple of unpleasant gentlemen from the old firm who have holed up somewhere in Spain. Swiss bank accounts full of Jewish gold, plenty of plunder and suitcases full of secrets. Would you keep an eye out for them?" 
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Sowerbutt's Spain

Sowerbutt glanced along the medieval street, bathed in sunlight. Always sunshine in Spain, not like the Smoke. Rain, rationing and rubble everywhere.
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Sowerbutt's Resort

The Coronel smiled. “With your help, Benidorm will become the holiday capital of Europe. Your English factories are working again, as are the French and even the Germans with all their damned American money. The workers want their sun, their San Miguel and, above all, their sex.”

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Sowerbutt's Knife

The Englishman palmed his razor-sharp clasp-knife and tapped it on his leg, he remembered lifting it years earlier from a girl guide during a brief encounter at Poplar Rec. 
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Sowerbutt's Plan

Sowerbutt said: “I’ll pass the word on that the Mexicans are involved. El Caudillo’s most hated country since they gave refuge to the Republican exiles. Kiss of death.” The Coronel laughed. “You always knew how to deal with the opposition. King-hit, finish.”

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Sowerbutt's Friend

“A third party is nosing around in Benidorm. Said he was Swiss. Which is what all the Swastika boys claim these days.” The overweight Guardia Coronel smiled at his old friend and refilled their glasses from the bottle of Penedès Cava. “We could arrange for an accident.”

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Sowerbutt's File

The file’s former occupants were reclassified “Never To Be Released”, checked, placed in an acid-free archival storage box and driven under close escort from Kew to a tightly-guarded anonymous facility, designated under the Official Secrets Act of 1989. 
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Sowerbutt's Archivists

The weeders, as a small section of high security-cleared Home Office archivists are called, hurriedly replaced the contents of the file with some foolscap sheets about wartime public morale, compiled by Cooper’s Snoopers.
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Sowerbutt's E-mail

The email's arrival elicited a spectacular explosion in a well-furnished office, overlooking Horse Guards, more familiar with learned conversations about high matters of state and the acquisition of KCBs than decades-old road accidents in the East End.
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Sowerbutt's File

The original burial form, a closely-typed foolscap sheet with the printed heading of Poplar Coroner’s Court  and a cutting from the London Evening Standard reporting a fatal road accident, together with some loose foolscap sheets and other material, were contained in an  HMSO-issue file, inaccurately marked KV 2/1221C. It had inadvertently been added to the disposal list of files for release by the National Archives.

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Sowerbutt's Eyes

A curious assortment of eyes watched the coffin being lowered into the grave at the old cemetery, a stone’s throw from Mile End Road in the East End, still flattened after the recent war.
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Sowerbutt's Suggestion

"Our much-loved Royal Family are growing their own vegies and eating austerity meals, perhaps politicians and bankers should do the same.”
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Sowerbutt's Bombing

Bracken paused to wave to a couple of attractive women, arm-in-arm with two Guards officers. “The bombing goes on night after night, Sorbay. It is relentless."
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Sowerbutt's Nightclub

The atmosphere in the Café de Paris in Coventry Street was different. A lot of the men were in uniform, one with a black patch over an eye, another with his sleeve neatly pinned across his chest, glinting with several medals. 
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