Wig Betrayed by Charles Courtley

the doors.
    â€œThat’s where Hitler used to stand taking the salute when he came to the games, sir.”
    Fascinated, I studied the balcony; no doubt specifically designed so that the Fuhrer would be the focus of everyone’s attention whenever he visited – and received quite a shock! For a moment, I thought I was seeing a ghost. A broad figure strutted out and stood at the edge, looking out over the scene. However, instead of possessing the tell-tale toothbrush moustache and limp flop of hair of the dictator, this person merely wore a khaki pullover and peaked cap covered in gold laurel leaves. It was General Hudibrass taking the air.
    Seeing me, he called down cheerily, “It’s Courtley, isn’t it? The JAG chappy I met the other night. Colonel Kayward told me that you were now officiating in the case. I hope this whole damned thing will be over today. I’m supposed to be playing in a golf tournament tomorrow and I need my club back!”
    Jag chappy indeed
!
    I was furious but, not being able to think of the right riposte, replied pompously instead, “Judges aren’t permitted to talk to witnesses,” before hastily retreating indoors.
    I was still feeling prickly when the court orderly told me that the president of the board wanted to have a word and I was not prepared to allow my dignity to be compromised further.
    â€œI’ll see him together with the others when I’m ready,” I snapped.
    â€œIt’s a
she
, sir – and a very determined lady who’s quite insistent she...”
    At which point, a formidable-looking woman bustled in.
    â€œBrigadier Joella Drubb, sir. My normal job is the Matron General of the Army Nursing Corps. I need to talk to you about certain procedures in advance.”
    Well, you could not argue with a
matron
general, I felt, particularly this one who looked as if she would not stand any nonsense from anyone – be it another general or indeed a judge. After all, to anyone in the nursing profession, we all look the same under hospital bed sheets.
    Dutifully, I outlined our respective duties.
    * * *
    Half an hour later, we were due to begin. But before the court opened with its full complement, I was asked to sit alone. As I already knew, Cyril Clibbery was representing the accused but to my surprise there was no sign of Sir Fred Borler. Instead, a lanky figure sprung to his feet.
    â€œMajor Rashleigh at your service, sir – junior counsel for the prosecution and,” he waved a languid hand in his opponent’s direction, “my learned friend, Mr Clibbery, defends Private Merse.”
    After saluting smartly Major Rashleigh removed his cap with a flourish, revealing a mane of black hair which seemed overlong by military standards. What was most striking though were his eyebrows: arched and seemingly etched with black pencil. His other hand, I could not help noticing, rested on one hip in a distinctively camp fashion.
    â€œMy learned leader, Sir Frederick Borler, is regrettably unwell this morning. The prosecution apologizes on his behalf but feels it has
no
alternative,” he wiggled his midriff a little, “but to request an adjournment until tomorrow morning.”
    I was not going to accept this at face value.
    â€œI’m very sorry about Sir Fred’s condition, but perhaps you would be good enough to supply me with more detail. What’s actually wrong with him?”
    â€œRegrettably, my leader, whilst waiting for his flight last night, was taken ill in the VIP lounge at Heathrow Airport. He was unable to continue his journey but I’m reliably informed that he is sleeping it off...I mean recovering in an airport hotel and will be catching a flight this afternoon.”
    Too much free booze,
I suspected but as both counsel still had many things to discuss before the trial could actually start the time was not really wasted and I reluctantly agreed to the request.

Eight
    The next day, Sir