MAJOR THURLBY AND WEMBLEY AT WAR - THE COLLECTIVE WORKS

MAJOR THURLBY AND WEMBLEY AT WAR - THE COLLECTIVE WORKS


NAZI OUTRAGE AT HOME OF ENGLISH FOOTBALL

Recently uncovered documents have revealed the alleged sordid double life of a wartime Nazi spy, living amongst the inhabitants of John Betjamins leafy suburban metroland.

The north west London  town of Wembley is famous throughout the world for its status as home of English and world football. The original Wembley Stadium was built in 1923 as part of the British Empire Exhibition, that was built across sprawling park land to the north of the sleepy village of Wembley.

 The land was previously the private estate attached to the local Manor House known as the White House, and as well as the stadium consisted of an array of marvellous pavilions and and building mimicking the architectual style from across the British Empire.

 During the 1930's the small village grew in to a small town but continued to be a quite retreat from the hustle and bustle of nearby metropolitan London. Easy rail links enabled commuters to live an elysian life in the leafy avenues of Wembley, with easy access to both the nearby open countryside, and the office in the City.

By the start of the 2nd World War, Wembley was a favourite place of residence for the middle class with its neat semi detached and detached freehold properties, inter mingled with spacious bungalows and well built mansion flats.
These well built properties, together with the parades of well provisioned shops and stores, ensured that the population of Wembley was a mixture of the professional elite upper middle class and the middle of the road artisan who worked hard and prospered in the leafy suburbs of Wembley and its nearby small towns of Kingsbury, Harrow, Kenton, Preston and Sudbury.

However, as the bombs began to fall on the red tiled roofs, if the recently uncovered evidence is to be believed, amongst the well healed and King loving English populace was a heinous Nazi spy, who had ensconced his way in to the local fabric of the town and even managed to create close links to the local police.

Thurlby Road was a short road built at the turn of the last century, located close to the junction of the Ealing Road with Wembley High Road. The red brick Victorian houses lining the road were typical of those built at the end of the Victorian era and the start of the Edwardian age. The houses were stoutly constructed although relatively small compared to the larger villas constructed in more attractive parts of the town.

As the local populace gathered about the wireless awaiting news of the impending attack on their homeland by the Nazi war machine, the resident of the humble Thurlby Road property was seated at his small kitchen table perusing his code book prior to sending encoded messages to Berlin.

This alleged evil Nazi was known to those who knew him as either Alf or the Major, but unknown to them his real name was Herman Von Ruderham, a holder of the Iron Cross and former Reichs Commander of the Wehrmacht.

Having fought in the first world war on the Russian Front he has slipped in to England at the start of the financial crisis known as the Wall Street Crash.

 His code book was a guide to German Grammar, with his German commanders using an identical book for the translation and decipher of the coded message. 

As an elected member of the borough council he had quietly assimilated himself in to the local community and had obtained access to the local police station by way of making acquaintance's with the local Sergeant and a number of constables.

 However, using this screen of respectability, he was quietly recording the comings and goings of the police officers and recording the times and dates in a paper log.

 A paper copy of the log has now been recovered by the Military Intelligence division of the Duck Flay Cap Society, and is reproduced here for your perusal.

 The details of this log would then be transmitted by radio to his handlers in the Berlin high command, and would be invaluable information as and when the proposed invasion of England by the Nazi war machine took place.

 

The Major was also allegedly involved with recruiting Japanese spies from the local community and was greatly concerned that Chinese nationals were not recruited in error, as they were the sworn enemies of the Japanese who were controlling huge areas of China after their military invasion.

Evidence of this recruiting has been uncovered by way of a communication detailing how to differentiated the Japanese race from that of the Chinese. This document has been discovered along with other incriminating documentation, and is also reproduced here as evidence of these heinous crimes against the English nation.
 
Further investigations in to this sordid affair are to be conducted by the Military Intelligence division of the Duck Flat Cap Society, and reports will be posted in due course.


THE ABOMINABLE MAJOR THURLBY

The lonely Nazi spy was known to occasionally enjoy a few beers and often sat alone in the Railway Hotel, now known as the Village Inn, located on the corner of Ealing Road and Wembley High Road.

He soon became known to the regulars as the “Major” or “Major Thurlby” and became the subject of various rumours regarding his sexuality and his actual profession or job.

He was never short of cash for a pint of best bitter or a large scotch whisky, but none of the clientele had ever noticed the well dressed Major acting in any professional capacity or even as a senior clerk in the many affluent stores that then lined the High Road. 

However, most pushed their thoughts to the back of their heads as the air raid siren screamed the alarm, alerting the unlucky imbibers to the fact that the Nazi Luftwaffe were again unleashing their explosive load upon the defenceless populace below their dive-bombing stukers and Junkers.

They were off course unaware that just a few hours earlier; the Major had radioed the coordinates of the large Power Station located at the end of Copeland playing fields and adjacent to the main line railway link with Euston.

He was confidently aware that the target of the high explosives raining from the bellies of the Luftwaffe’s finest was not for the benefit of the High Road but would fall approximately a mile away, wreaking destruction and mayhem amongst the cooling towers and turbines of the power station.

The Major sunk the dregs of his pint, picked up his trilby and exited the pub via the street entrance and strolled fifty yards down the street to wards St Johns church and the Police Station.

Pausing briefly to adjust his trilby, he stepped up the steps at the entrance to the police station and extended his hand to the desk sergeant. The sergeant lifted his head and smiled at the Major.

Unknown to the Major, these very acts were being secretly observed by an associate of the Duck Flat Cap Society known only as “Bolt foot Jones”.

Bolt Foot Jones was a regular of the Mitre Public house, and was originally enthused by the Majors care free manor whilst contesting a three way Green Bowls competition, between the Railway Hotel, the Century and the Mitre.  

The sergeant was well acquainted with The Major, and due to his feeble lack of authority had allowed the Nazi spy access to the Police Files and ledgers and had granted the Major auxiliary policing powers, that extended to use of police boxes and whistles during the Black Out.   

The close friendship enabled The Major to make detailed notes of the operation of the Police Station, which like all others in the UK was on a war footing. However, Bolt Foot was on the Majors trail and continued to log his movements throughout the early months of 1941. 

Among the documents recently uncovered by the Duck Flat Cap Society was a copy of Bolt Foots log and this is how we know of his counter clandestine activities. The log was, however stored with the personal papers of The Major, which unfortunately indicates that Bolt Foots activities were discovered by the Major. The records continue to be perused and details of the outcome of his discovery will be published in due course.

Further reading of the documentation discovered in the Thurlby Road residence indicates that the Major was also involved with the unsuccessful assassination of Adolf Hitler in 1944 at the Wolfs Lair, in a plot that involved Claus Von Stauffenberg and a certain Von Blumenthal.

 The record books show that the assassination plot was planned by a Major Hans-Jürgen von Blumenthal. The intriguing point being that the recently uncovered documentation indicates that Blumenthal was a known alias of the Major, therefore implicating the same Nazi spy who guided the Luftwaffe to destroy a Wembley Power Station as a main player in an assassination plot of the fuhrer.

Further details of the Duck Flat Cap Societies research will be released in due course.

  

MAJOR THURLBY AND THE HOUSE OF MILK

Major Thurlby sat in his usual seat at the Railway Hotel. His pipe clenched in the corner of his angular mouth, and a pint of Guinness resting on the round table wedged before his ample stomach.

He drained the glass, and after a furtive glance about the bar, left the premises by the side door, adjacent to the public conveniences. Turning right heading towards Killips, he strode out quickly reaching the crest of the steep incline, and immediately turned left towards the police station.

Marching quickly down the slight incline he soon reached St Johns Church, and wavered slightly as he passed the Undertakers positioned on the left side of the road, situated next to Woodys of Wembley.

He quickened his gait and was soon at the entrance of Barham House, originally built by the Copeland sisters, and the former home of Sir George Barham, the founder of milk suppliers and purveyor of dairy products, Express Dairies, and an early Mayor of Wembley.

The property was built in the grounds of the far more historic Crabs House which was owned by the father of the Copeland sisters. The Copeland sisters are commemorated to this day in Wembley by way of the secondary school named in their honour, and Copeland road.

The mansion was sited to the west of Wembley, on the road to Sudbury, and still retained a number of the sweeping green acres that had previously surrounded this stately home.

The lush meadows had supported herds of dairy cows during the eighteenth century, which provided ample supplies of milk to Wembley and the surrounding villages and hamlets. During the middle of the century, the provision of a railway station at what became Wembley Central, provided convenient and easy access to the centre of London and an eagerly waiting market for fresh milk and dairy products.

The house had however, recently been under the control of the local urban district council, and had become somewhat dilapidated, although was still inhabitable.

Major Thurlby turned in to the driveway and pushed open the once magnificent wrought iron gates, which were no longer locked due to the apathy shown by those chosen by the council to tend the gardens and house. He marched forward towards the entrance and strode up the couple steps leading to the balustrade and open walkway that surrounded the building.

He pushed his right hand in to his overcoat pocket and retrieved a long key that he placed in to the aperture next to the brass fittings bolted to the mahogany door.

His left hand pushed the door slightly ajar and a shaft of light played across his overcoat and the cracked grey floor tiles which covered the balustrade.

Due to the war time blackout, and lack of street lighting, the light was strangely extenuated, and glowed eerily in the dark.

He placed his head around the door jamb, and the rest of his body followed in a slow and cautious manner.

On entering the premises, his eyes quickly became accustomed to the gloomy light and he swiftly made his way to the stairs and preceded to climb them two stairs at a time.  On reaching the first floor he entered the first door to the right of the landing and sat at a small table. After checking that the blackout curtains were in place, he switched on the table lamp and removed his hat.

Seated opposite him, in an ancient black wheel chair was the twisted and feeble figure of Lord Chard, the owner of the power station, cooling towers and electricity generating station, which had been partially destroyed the previous evening by the Luftwaffe.

He offered his hand to the Major and they touched hands in a brief discourteous way.

 “Now, now, Lord Chard”, “that’s no way to treat your colleague and master in this game of intrigue and subterfuge!”

The Major looked sternly at the old man and started to talk swiftly but in a hushed tone. The words were in German, and it was clear that the wheelchair bound Lord was able to understand the speech, as he occasionally nodded his head towards the Major, or raised his fist as if to dismiss the fetid vocabulary spilling from the German spy’s mouth.  

After a few minutes the Major finished speaking and walked across to the seated Lord and shouted;

”VON CHARD!” “Do you now understand?”

He turned to the door which he strode through with a swish of his trailing coat and rapidly descended the stairs before exiting the way he had entered the semi dilapidated building.   

Back on the first floor, Lord Chard, or as his German ancestors would have entitled him “Von Chardz” pulled a soiled handkerchief from his pocked and wiped a tear from his eye. He then grabbed the hand wheels of his chair, and propelled himself towards a small chest of drawers, which he unlocked with a small key concealed in his left palm.   

He opened the box and removed a number of documents, and carefully placed an old blue envelope marked “Par Avion” on his lap. He withdrew a number of black and white photographs and stared at them with his red rimmed cold old eyes, now filled with tears. 

He spread the photographs across his legs and let out a small laugh as he picked up the picture of himself and a young Hitler youth  boy scout, stark naked and in a compromising position, in front of a roaring fire roasting their nuts and sausages.

 Next t the photo was a paper note typed in Germanic script and stamped with the seal of the Fuhrer. The note consisted of a couple of lines that simply read;

 “We have the negatives and we will be contacting you soon so that you can assist the motherland in its glorious fight against the British Bulldog in our struggle for Liebensteaum”.

He ran his fingers across the photograph and then grabbing the crisp note, crumpled it in his soft pink hands and threw it in the dying embers of the open hearth. The bureau together with its open box of tricks sitting upon its unpolished surface,and the tearful Von Chardz throwing a shallow shadow across the silent room.

Back outside Major Thurlby was striding towards Sudbury Town and  an appointment with a representative of the Duck Flat Cap Society at The Mitre public house, so as to vet his application for membership.

 However, he was unaware that as well as the anticipated warm pint of best bitter and a stale cheese roll, another far more sinister entity awaited his arrival in the snug of the quite, semi rural retreat. 

The Mitre was almost empty apart from two old men playing darts in the public bar and a youngish couple in the saloon. Adding to this loose confederacy was a small, thick sett man, with thinning hair and huge belly, standing at the snug bar slowly draining a pint of strong Ale.

 

Dr Doyle had been a regular at the pub for many years and was well known by all who frequented the establishment on a regular basis. However, he was also known to venture a number of miles along the Harrow Road towards leafy Harrow Weald, and had become a member of the committee of the locally infamous, Duck Flat Cap Society.

Also, unknown to Major Thurlby at this time, Lord Chard, or should we say “Von Chardz”, was also a member of this society and had been the acting President and Chairman since before the onset of the war. Chard was also a good friend of Dr Doyle, and they had recently exchanged pleasantries and convened a very long conversation, in a local hostelry in Sudbury Town, known as “the Swan”.

MAJOR THURLBY AND THE RED FACED DOCTOR

Doctor Doyle sat at the bar on his usual stool, a stool that had been specially strengthened to take his enormous weight, and shortened by four inches, so that his miniature legs could reach the floor.

He was seated at the end of the snug bar, with his broad back positioned so that he filled the right angle between the bar and wall. He slowly lifted his balding head and visually scanned the bar. His eyes darted about the smoke filled room searching out his prey.

At first he missed the grey mackintosh clothed Major seated in the window bay, but quickly recognised his nemeses after a further review of those present. Major Thurlby was clutching a pint of best bitter and smoking a non filtered cigarette with his hat sat upon his head at a jaunty angle.

Dr Doyle turned his head as a dart thumped in to the cork dart board but quickly turned back to the Major.

 Major Thurlby reached in to his coat pocket and retrieved a small red coloured notebook and proceeded to read the contents.

 Dr Doyle could see from his seated position that the script was written in a foreign language, and quickly deduced that it was German. This was seemingly confirmed by his realisation that the cover of the notebook was adorned with a stylised Prussian Eagle.  

The overweight Doctor turned towards his pint and slowly drained the glass. A set of wire rimmed spectacles adorned his bulbous and ruddy nose, and were attached to a chain that circumnavigated his elephantine neck.  His pudgy middle finger pushed the spectacles back of the tip of his nose and beckoned to the barman to pour him a further pint of ale.

With his fresh pint of best bitter in his hand, the grotesquely obese Doctor Doyle slid of his seat and motioned towards the Major who was still seated with his comical hat set upon his head reading his notebook. The Doctor coughed as he approached the Major and was quickly acknowledged with an outstretched hand.

Their hands met for the briefest of moment in a sweaty embrace as the corpulent Doctor sat down next to the Major.  “Your business Sir?” retorted Major Thurlby as he scanned the red faced Doctor seated beside him. “You know what I want….” was his quite but forceful retort. “Give me the note book now, and all will be ok – do you fully understand me?”

Major Thurlby sat back in his seat and stared at the overheated Doctor. “Ahh….. I see you are Doctor Doyle then”

 “I expected a fitter and younger man, but if it is you, let us do business”.

“The Book, let me see it” demanded the Doctor, as he held out his hand motioning towards the red notebook in the Majors left hand.

Major Thurlby tossed the small book across the table to the gasping outstretched hands of the Doctor, who swiftly opened the cover and began to read the pages.

He initially struggled to read the text, but soon became accustomed top the Germanic script scrawled upon the lined pages. It soon became apparent that the vast majority of the script described the addresses of various properties within a couple of miles radius from Wembley. The addresses were divided in to localised groups of four and were a mixture of commercial and residential properties.

Major Thurlby lifted his glass and drained the container with a flourish, indicating to the Doctor that a refill was required.

The ruddy faced Doctor shouted across to the bartender and asked for two more of the same. This was met with a hiss and snarl by the elderly gentleman behind the bar and a shrug of his crumpled shoulders.  However, the pints were pulled and delivered to the table where the notebook was being scrupulously studied by the corpulent Doctor Doyle.

Thurlby threw his shoulders back and asked Doyle why he wished to help the Reich, and how long he had detested the British. The Majors handlers in Berlin had only briefly appraised Major Thurlby of the background and nature of his treacherous contact, and his thirst for further details was getting the better of him.

Dr Doyle put down the scarlet notebook and stuffed his left hand in to his jacket pocket and removed a three inch piece of shrapnel. “This is the reason” he exclaimed, throwing the ragged metal on to the table. “This was removed from my knee in Dublin” he continued to shout at the Germanic interloper.

He went on to explain that his family was from Dublin, Ireland, and that the British “Black and Tan” had killed various friends and members of his family during the Easter uprising. During and after this event, Doctor Doyle had fought for the Free Irish and was present when a large bomb exploded near the General Post Office in Dublin, and that the shrapnel in his knee was a direct result of that blast.

“That’s why I hate those bastards” he relied with his eyes full of tears and his purple face almost exploding with rage.

He settled back and took a long gulp from his glass and placed his hands behind his neck as he surveyed the pub looking to see if his outburst had been witnessed by fellow imbibers. He quickly satisfied himself that all was ok, as the only other person currently within earshot was mad Pa Bumfold, who was as drunk as a bohemian parrot and would not remember being in the pub, let alone what the Doctor had retorted.

The Doctor rose to his feet and placed the notebook in his pocket and moved slowly back to the Bar.

The Major followed him and enquired as to his payment for the information that he had bestowed upon the Doctor. The Doctor laughed and poked his finger towards the Major. “You” he whispered, “first tell me who or what enabled you to establish such a detailed list of properties”.

The Major stepped back a pace, and explained that the night sergeant at Wembley Police station was a  third generation expatriate from Heidelberg, and had been supplying the Major with useful information, including details for the successful recent bombing of the Stonebridge Power station. 

With this a bundle of white five pound notes were exchanged and the Major swiftly left the premises, hurriedly walking back towards Sudbury and the harrow road.

The Doctor waited until he was a hundred yards down the road and motioned to the barman to pass him the phone. He picked up the hand set and asked the operator for Acorn 4444 and waited for the rhythmic hum of the ringing tone after the operator had made the connection.

The phone rang for three rings and was answered by a deep voiced man who enquired “is it done”. The Doctor quickly intimated the affirmative and retorted in a whisper “we have him Sir, we have finally got the German bastard” and gently replaced the receiver with a huge red smile about his round face.

He pulled out the Red Book from his pocked and scribbled some notes in the margins and proceeded to leave the Mitre, glancing behind to wish the barman well, before striding out in to the dark cool air and turning right towards the “Carlton Lodge” and further mystery.