“PSST” hissed Mick Devaney as My Friend Harry walked into the public bar of the College Arms pub, Camberley, one morning. Mick was by no means your average ‘Psster’ being short, tubby, ruddy of visage and amiable of disposition. Mick was Liverpool-Irish and the regular companion of My Friend Harry on jaunts to the London boxing promotions. He also knew that Harry ran his own news-agency and that, if a tip yielded good ‘copy’ for the national newspapers, Mick was on to a good thing by way of a back-hander.
Harry wore two hats in Camberiey. One was as the regional editorial man for the Reading Mercury weekly newspaper published at Reading, 12 miles away, and the other was as the founder-owner of a newspaper service which covered all the national morning and Sunday papers, the three London evening papers, many of the big regional groups and a whole raft of trade magazines. The news-agency made his salary from the Mercury look like peanuts, but it was his standing as the Mercury’s front man that gained him admission to places that would otherwise be denied him.
One of these places was the Staff College, Camberley, right next door to the Royal Military College, Sandhurst. Every week, Harry, as the Mercury man, would dance attendance on the adjutants at those eminent establishments to garner domestic and sport news, details of passing-out parades, promotions, social events and so on and so forth. All of this was given due prominence in the highly respectable Mercury and, from time to time, Harry would ensure that photographs were taken of special social functions or college people in the news. All very cosy and useful - particularly at the Staff College, where the adjutant was wont to offer a ‘tot’ of whisky. His idea of a ‘tot’ being about a third of a pint, the business was done in great style.
The Staff College was, and is, the mighty place where officers of the rank of Major and above are given training for posts as staff officers. There is no parade ground. No raucous voice of a drill sergeant disturbs the calm and the only Service menials are those few who act as commissionaires. All the rest are civilians. Cooks, waiters, bar staffs, domestic staff, clerks and administrators are Crown employees.
Mick Devaney was a Crown employee - one of the most responsible of the lot. He was in charge of the numbered Course papers which were kept under lock and key until required for distribution to the Directing Staff and ‘students’. Hence his “Psst” at Harry in the College Arms. He asked, sotto voce, if Harry knew that the Duke of Gloucester was due to receive staff training at the College and would Harry be interested in having a quick shufti at the Course papers with which the Duke would soon be confronted?
Trying not to appear too eager-and thus alerting Mick to a possible upping of the eventual back-hander-Harry said he might. All depended what was in them. Thereupon, Mick said he’d sneak a set of the papers out the next morning for Harry to have a quick run-through. He’d have to be quick, for Mick would have to get the papers back in the cupboard in his office without delay. All he wanted in return, he said, was a Cup Final ticket.
“Cup Final ticket?" exclaimed Harry.
“Come off it," said Mick. “As secretary of Camberiey and Yorktown Football Club, you’re entitled to a couple - and I know for certain that you’ve already got them. We could go up to Wembley together in your car."
Harry didn’t argue. The Course papers were the top priority. So next morning, there they both were again, back in the College Arms, but this time in the deserted saloon bar. One glance, and Harry didn’t bother with the actual Course papers. The story was right there in the preamble to the Directing Staff.
Next morning, the Daily Express carried the story on Page 1. “Is the Duke of Gloucester a bright boy, a dull boy or a lame duck," it squealed delightedly. “That’s what the Directing Staff at the Staff College, Camberiey, hope to discover in the next four weeks after His Royal Highness presents himself at the lecture room with pencil, rubber, ruler, protractor, set-square, dividers, compass, mapping pen, rough book, fair book, graph paper . . ." And so on and so on and so on. Similar stories fronted the Daily Mail and the Daily Mirror and many other papers. My Friend Harry had rung the bell.
But while he was happily reading his words in the newspapers, all hell was breaking loose in the Staff College as a version of the Spanish Inquisition was launched to discover the source of the leak. Naturally, Mick was the first to be questioned but was at once exonerated when he produced his complete set of numbered Course papers on demand. Meanwhile, My Friend Harry was getting guarded calls from News Editors in London to watch his step. Editors, no less, were being quizzed from Whitehall, but naturally they were saying nothing.
Then, out of the blue, Harry got a phone call from the adjutant of the Staff College. Could he possibly spare a minute or two to call in? Right away would be simply splendid. Full of apprehension, he presented himself. The adjutant was profusely apologetic. Harry, he suggested, must have seen all those vile stories in the national newspapers.
“Yes," said Harry. “Couldn’t believe my eyes."
“Absolute bloody pandemonium here at the moment, as you’d expect," continued the adjutant. “What I wonder is if you could suggest any way in which that information could have got out? As a newspaperman, I mean. I know that you are employed by a local paper but I daresay you have some knowledge how the national papers operate."
Much relieved, Harry uttered soothing words - words he knew the adjutant and the Commandant, come to that, would wish to hear. “If I may say so," he began, “I think you are on quite the wrong track if you’re searching for the leak in the College. No-one in his right mind would dare to pass on secret information from here. No, I think you have to look in Whitehall, itself, for the leak."
“Whitehall?" exclaimed the adjutant.
“Certainly. I can just see some exalted military character chuckling about the Duke over gins and tonics with some eminent newspaper magnate at, say, White’s or Boodle’s. Bit of haw-hawing about HRH going back to school. That sort of thing. Next thing you know it is all over Fleet Street. You know what these top-level twits are ..."
Much relieved, the adjutant reached for the Glenfiddich and they were on their way.
THERE was a sequel. Three weeks later the Duke fell from his pony while playing polo at Aldershot and broke his wrist. The Duchess ran to his side . . .A Staff College groom was there, saw what happened and rang My Friend Harry. Within the minute, Harry was pouring it all out to the Daily Express. Scarcely had he put his phone down when it rang. It was the Express news desk. “Not on your bloody life, chum," was the message. “Not you and the Duke again. We’ll wait for the agency." Meaning the Press Association.
Couldn’t blame them, Harry supposed. Still, out of one pocket and into the other. He also represented the Press Association ...