Turning the Storm (The After Dunkirk Series Book 3)

by Lee Jackson

  Paul tried to duplicate Damian’s action, resting his left foot on the top edge of the driver’s seat and pressing against the back of his own, but the heavy door kept falling on him as he sought to bring his weapon to bear.

  The Vizzola sprayed down hot lead, its bullets striking the trunk and the hood.

  Then another fighter engine roared overhead, but this one was steady, several hundred feet above them, and speeding toward the Italian fighter now climbing to their front.

  Paul felt a surge of adrenaline. He knew that engine sound from the dogfights over London. Managing to push his head, neck, and upper chest through the door, he looked up and saw the unmistakable silhouette of a Spitfire in hot pursuit.

  The Vizzola pilot had seen it too. He banked out of his loop, rolled into straight and level flight toward his lines, and then tried to climb.

  Too late.

  The Spitfire, already in the chase, closed the distance. Fire and smoke spat from its nose, accompanied by the rhythmic pump of its guns.

  The Vizzola’s engine hiccupped, and the aircraft stalled. For a moment, it looked to Paul as though it slid backward in the air, then its nose fell and it plunged to earth, smacking the ground in a ball of fire. No parachute descended.

  Paul let out a celebratory whoop. Below him, he heard stirring and looked back inside to see Donovan rubbing his head and trying to climb to his feet. Paul held the door up, managed to sit on the edge of the frame, and reached inside to help the general. After lending a hand, he swiveled and lowered himself to the ground. Donovan, groggy and struggling, appeared on the car’s edge. As Paul reached to help him, Damian, having climbed out of the front seat, stepped next to him, and together, they lowered Donovan to the ground, where he leaned against the undercarriage and slid down to sit in the snow.

  Paul turned to Damian. “Let’s help your driver.”

  Damian stood still, staring distantly, and shook his head.

  Several moments passed before Paul understood Damian’s unspoken meaning. “No,” he protested. “He can’t be.”

  Damian covered his face with his hands and nodded.

  Paul ran around the car to look through the windshield. Sprawled on the door of the upended Humber, the driver stared back, sightless, his neck bent at a peculiar angle.

  Damian approached and stood next to Paul, his head hanging low. He closed his eyes and murmured, “When the vehicle turned over, his neck fell against the steering wheel. I fell on top of it.”

  Behind the Greek, Donovan walked over on unsteady feet. He gazed through the windshield at the limp figure and then wrapped an arm over Damian’s shoulder.

  Numbness overtook Paul. Try as he would, for a few moments he could not tear his eyes away from the dead man’s face. War had ceased to be an ethereal notion read about in reports, heard about on radios, or watched from Fighter Command control rooms. He suddenly realized that, despite Luftwaffe attempts to destroy the RAF, regardless of the blitz, notwithstanding reports he compiled for MI-6, this was the first time he knew of that a man had died within inches of him. And across the snowy field, smoke rose from the probable demise of yet another man in the Italian Vizzola.

  “What’s his name?” Paul murmured. He stood at Damian’s side opposite Donovan and wrapped an arm over the Greek’s shoulder. “We’d be dead now but for his getting off the road so fast, and I don’t know his name.”

  “It’s Elias Ariti,” Damian whispered in a hoarse voice. “He was a good man. A good soldier.”

  Overhead, the Spitfire circled back and waggled its wings. The three men watched it, standing side by side, the British captain on one end in US combat fatigues and the American general on the other, their arms stretched between them across the shoulders of the Greek evzone in the peculiar uniform. Then the plane disappeared over the horizon, beyond the wide-open, snow-covered fields and the smell and pounding of the sea against the shore only yards away.

  Paul turned to face the general. “Sir, we have to get you to safety.”

  37

  February 19, 1941

  Sofia, Bulgaria

  Getting Donovan to safety proved to be less difficult than Paul had expected. The Spitfire pilot called to his controller and requested that he radio the Greek forward-headquarters and relay that an aerial attack on a ground vehicle had occurred between Sarande and Himarë with survivors needing aid. On determining who had been the victims of the attack, the corps commanding general ordered a quick reaction force to the area, where they found the three soldiers supporting each other as they trudged along the road toward Himarë. While one vehicle took Paul, Damian, and Donovan into the village, two others were dispatched to recover Ariti’s body and the wrecked vehicle.

  Waiting for Donovan and Paul at the Greek headquarters in the seaside village was a US Army Air Corps pilot who had flown in a transport plane to a nearby airfield. He delivered a classified message to Donovan. Dismissing concerns for his head injury and proclaiming his mental soundness, the general read the message, whereupon he told Paul, “Don’t settle in anywhere, bud. We’re on the road again.”

  “Aren’t you going to see the commanding general, sir?” Paul’s tone struck a challenging note.

  “For a few minutes,” Donovan replied ruefully.

  “Is that all?” Paul asked, visibly disturbed.

  Donovan peered into his face. “I’ll give him my verbal analysis of the situation, the obstacles he faces, and the fighting abilities of his army. I’ll thank him for his hospitality and that of Major Bella, offer condolences for Elias Ariti, and explain that I have orders to go elsewhere.” He smirked slightly. “Don’t think ’cuz you saved my life that now you can get into my knickers.”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, and I didn’t save your life. All I did was help you down from the Humber.” He paused, fiddling with his fingers. “It’s just that—” His face tightened. “Sir, we suffered a casualty—” His voice caught.

  Donovan studied Paul’s demeanor. “Was that your first one?”

  Paul nodded. He took a breath, but when he spoke, his voice nevertheless broke. “The first one up close. Shouldn’t we stay around to pay our respects?”

  “All casualties are tough,” Donovan said gruffly, “particularly the first one, and especially when it happens right next to you. When you stop caring is when I don’t want you around me.” He clasped Paul’s shoulder. “We have a mission, soldier, and when we complete it, we’ll have honored Elias Ariti in the best way we could.”

  Paul nodded again. “Do I have time to bid Damian farewell?”

  Donovan smiled. “I wouldn’t think of leaving without doing that.”

  “Where to now?” Paul asked when they were airborne.

  “Sofia, Bulgaria,” Donovan replied. “And this is where you earn your keep.”

  “I thought I did that when I saved your life,” Paul quipped.

  Surprised, Donovan laughed. “It’s good to see you back up on top of your game. Next thing you know, you’ll be callin’ me ‘Wild Bill.’”

  “I’m not impertinent enough to do that, sir.”

  Donovan laughed again and shook his head. “You’re a good man, Paul Littlefield. I’m glad to have you on our team.” He leaned toward Paul. “Now, here’s what we’re going to do.”

  When they landed, Paul left the aircraft by himself. He had changed back into civilian attire, and he made his way into the commercial side of the terminal. There, he placed an anonymous call to the local office of the Associated Press, reporting in German of having seen a man looking very much like General William Donovan leave a US Army transport plane that had just landed in a secluded part of the airfield. “If it’s him, I think he’s trying to travel incognito, because he’s not wearing a military uniform.” He listened, and then responded, “Yes, he’s wearing a brown fedora hat and a matching greatcoat.”

  After hanging up, he caught a taxi from the airport to the American embassy, arriving in time to see a gaggle of reporters
around the front entrance anxiously watching the driveway. Instructing the driver to let him off a block farther on, he walked back, slipped inside the building through the consular entrance using his diplomatic passport, and made his way to the front lobby, where he expected to rejoin the general. A few minutes later, he heard shouted questions outside the entrance and knew the general had arrived to contend with the press.

  “That worked,” Donovan told Paul when he was safely inside and away from the journalists. “They feel like they’ve tripped me up again, and they’ll report that I’m in Bulgaria on a secret mission for talks.” He looked at his watch. “We have two hours to go over our next steps ahead of a reception with the ambassador to meet and greet Bulgarian diplomats. You can go with me or rest up. Your choice. The real show starts tomorrow when we move to Vrana Palace as King Boris’ guests.”

  “I’d like to come, if my presence won’t add to the stir.”

  “I’m the guest. You’re my aide. The focus will be on me as President Roosevelt’s eyes and ears over here. When cameras appear, you disappear, and if you need to approach me, do it from the rear and speak to me quietly with your body canted toward those I’m facing, like we practiced. You’ll get the hang of it, but don’t fret too much. If anyone gets curious about who you are and starts digging, they’ll run into a dead end, which will probably cause whoever it is to dig deeper. By then, our mission will be accomplished, and we’ll be gone. Are my ‘secret’ papers ready?”

  “All nicely folded. I’ll put them in the pocket of the dinner jacket you’ll wear tomorrow night.”

  “Good. I’ll handle things myself this evening, but when we’re at the palace, keep those drinks coming. Now remember, if we get even a twenty-four-hour delay of Germany’s invasion into Soviet territory, we’ve succeeded, and every day after that is another cherry on the pie. What you need to know is that the palace will be chock-full of Nazi agents.”

  Paul chuckled. “I’ll remember, sir.” Even as he said the words, his stomach tightened.

  The drive the next day to the royal palace, situated outside Sofia’s city limits on the east side, took less than half an hour. Paul enjoyed the drive along Tsarigradsko Shosé, the capital city’s largest boulevard. The wide thoroughfare offered grand views between stately buildings, war monuments, and parks, but he noticed that the city seemed in decline, with needed repairs evident along the way.

  Twenty miles outside the city, the car turned into a driveway. They drove under tall trees past two grand fountains and circled around in front of them below a terrace that ran the length of a magnificent, white, two-story palace with a red Spanish-tile roof. Inset along the second floor were columns and arched windows. A grand entrance graced the first floor at its center.

  A Bulgarian army general met them, and after formal greetings, ushered them to their rooms. “The king will receive you privately and then you’ll be seated next to him for dinner,” he told Donovan. He added, with an appraising view of Paul, “Your aide may accompany you for your visit with the king and will be seated close by for dinner.”

  “Please, can you tell me where I can send a cable to my president? I need to let him know I’ve arrived.”

  “By all means. But we won’t be able to encrypt it for you.”

  With a quick glance at Paul, Donovan smiled and turned his full charm on the Bulgarian general. “I don’t think that will be necessary. It’s just a short note.”

  “Then, if you like, I can take it down and deliver it to our message center, and they can send it for you.”

  “That will work.” Donovan smiled ingratiatingly. “Just say, ‘Dear Mr. President, I have arrived in Bulgaria for talks with King Boris. Will keep you apprised.’”

  The Bulgarian looked up swiftly and with a slight frown. “Are you sure of the message?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Donovan furrowed his brow as if in thought. “That should be all. And can you provide me with a confirmation that it’s been received at the White House?” He laughed. “I don’t want to be in trouble with Mr. Roosevelt for failing to keep him informed.”

  The Bulgarian general came to attention. “Certainly, sir. It will be done.”

  When the Bulgarian had left, Donovan grinned at Paul. “Show’s on.”

  Forty-six-year-old King Boris was a slender man of medium height, dark hair cut very short, a high forehead, and deep-set eyes; and he sported a heavy mustache. He stood to greet General Donovan while Paul waited at the back of the room with an orderly.

  Boris had acceded to the throne when his father abdicated in 1918 after losing a great deal of territory in the Treaty of Versailles, the agreement ending the Great War. He now stood in the center of his throne room on a raised dais, bedecked in a military uniform composed of a deep blue jacket over darker blue trousers, and a grand sash crossing his chest from his left shoulder to the right side of his waist with all manner of colorful military decorations and regalia. His countenance spoke volumes of the seriousness with which he considered his position.

  “Greetings,” he said, extending his hand as Donovan strode forward and shook it. “I hear that Americans bow their heads to no one.”

  “That is correct, sir, but we don’t make a big issue of it unless someone else does. My president sends his warmest greetings.”

  Boris listened to Donovan, steely-eyed, and then gestured to two chairs in the center of the room. They took their seats. “I understand that you’ve communicated your arrival to Mr. Roosevelt?”

  “I have, sir, and I appreciate your staff’s services to accomplish that.”

  The king looked slightly perturbed. “You indicated in your cable that you were here for talks.”

  “Of course, sir. I wouldn’t think of coming to your country without the courtesy of a sit-down. When I received your invitation to come and stay at the palace, I assumed that was your intent. If I presumed too much, I apologize.”

  Boris remained silent a moment, studying the general. “You just came from Greece.”

  “Yes, sir. I was there to observe the battlefield and the Vlorë-Pogradec defensive line.” He looked around the room. “Your palace is so beautiful, and so is your country; at least what I’ve seen of it. I was hoping to stay a few days and see more of it.” He fixed his eyes back on the king. “We can conduct business now, if you like, or we can wait. I’m in no hurry.”

  Boris regarded him without expression. Then he smiled and stood. “Tonight, we dine. Tomorrow, I will sign the Tripartite Pact with Germany and Japan. You may attend the ceremony if you like. We and our new allies are very pleased that the United States has remained neutral in this conflict. It’s none of America’s business. Land wrongfully taken from us by the Treaty of Versailles must be restored, and our access to the Aegean Sea seized from us in the Balkan War by Greece must be returned. We have no quarrel with Mr. Roosevelt or America, but we will defend what rightfully belongs to Bulgaria.”

  Donovan nodded. “And you should have what rightfully belongs to Bulgaria. I’d like to suggest, though, that you wait to sign that treaty until after you and I have spoken again. I have a message from the president, but it should be delivered when we have time to discuss it fully, and early tomorrow might be a better time, if your schedule permits.”

  The king nodded. “I have time. My first state obligation is at noon, and that is to sign the treaty. I can postpone whatever comes ahead of that.”

  Dinner was a grand affair with Donovan feted as a guest of honor. From a nearby table, Paul kept abreast of his movements, watching who came to speak with the general and taking note of who engaged him in conversation. As the evening wore on after the meal, the pronouncements, and speeches, the king retired. Then, while music played and guests danced, Paul noticed that Donovan seemed wobbly on his legs. His face grew slack, his eyes drooped, and when Paul drew close, he heard the general’s speech slur.

  At one point, Paul approached Donovan from his rear as instructed, and stood next to him. “Sir,” he said in a lo
w voice, “maybe you should retire for the evening.”

  Donovan lifted his head sharply and glared at Paul. “What? No!” he stormed, and shoved Paul backwards. “I’m having fun and making new friends.” With that, he grabbed a woman by the arm and pulled her toward the dance floor. “Maybe I should have two dance partners,” he called back to Paul while laughing uproariously, and grabbed another lady.

  Paul watched the general, wide-eyed. The two women tried to pull away from him, but Donovan kept firm grasps around their wrists until two Bulgarian officers came and helped release them. Then Donovan emerged onto the floor and danced alone.

  Late in the evening, having apologized profusely to other guests, Paul helped a stumbling Donovan back to his room. The next morning when he returned to escort the general, Donovan answered his knock on the door with bright eyes and a big smile.

  He grinned at Paul. “I had visitors last night.”

  “They took the documents from your jacket?”

  “They did.”

  King Boris seemed in a light mood when he received Donovan and Paul at the appointed hour. “I didn’t stay through the entire festivities last night, but I hear that you enjoyed yourself immensely.”

  “Yes, and I must apologize,” Donovan replied. “I let myself get carried away.”

  Boris regarded him with an edge of contempt and gestured toward Paul. “You have a very able aide. He took care to see that you arrived safely back in your room.”

  Donovan half-turned and glanced at Paul, who still stood near the door. “Having good help is always a good thing.”

  Boris’ eyes gleamed. He turned and picked up something from a desk behind him. “One of my staff members found this while cleaning up the ballroom,” he said, holding up the envelope Donovan had carried in his jacket pocket. “You must have dropped it last night while celebrating.”