This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Final Mission: Zion
Amazon Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2018 by Chuck Driskell
Published by Autobahn Books
Cover art by Nat Shane
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
First Edition: January 2018
In honor of Martin Nils “Marty” Richert, my uncle and a retired Air Force colonel. A kind and humble man, he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for bravery during the rescue of a Marine pilot in the Vietnam War. Marty later served with distinction in Berlin, Germany before the Berlin Wall came down. He regularly traveled into the former East Germany and has told me many fascinating tales that captivate me to this day. I credit Marty for planting the initial seeds of my love and fascination for Germany. He’s a great man.
Never was anything great achieved without danger.
-Niccolo Machiavelli
PART ONE
The Call
CHAPTER ONE
1915, the Ottoman Empire
The feeling in the field tent was one of bitter defeat. It was seconded only by the anger that comes with it, especially to a group of men accustomed to winning. Neil Reuter, easily the youngest person in the tent and only four months removed from basic training, situated himself in the darkest shadows at the rear of the shelter, listening as the normally refined Brits argued vehemently with one another. It was readily apparent that things here in Gallipoli were not going as planned. The intense heat of the humid Turkish night did nothing to help the situation, covering each man in a film of irritating sweat.
Breathless runners came and went, carrying messages from the bloody battle line. Neil watched as the lead British general, a man whose name he didn’t know, read the most recent message, cursing and hurling the balled note at his nearest subordinate. Outside, small arms fire crackled in the distance. The distant sounds of the battle were overpowered by the nearby screams of the wounded, making Neil’s seventeen-year-old skin crawl. From the triage area he could hear a man begging someone, anyone, to shoot him, to please put him out of his misery. Neil pressed himself against the musty canvas of the tent, closing his eyes, trying to envision himself back in the cool sanctuary of the Shoshone reservation in the Sierras, surrounded by family and friends, free from this stench of death that hung in the air like an evil fog.
A fresh argument shook him from his reverie. Neil opened his eyes and looked to the stately figure that was General Horace Yeager, puffing his pipe as he coolly watched the impassioned exchange between his British counterparts. Yeager was known as a brilliant field tactician, invited here by the British commander whom he had come to know at an international war college of some sort or another. For the moment, so it appeared, General Yeager was keeping quiet, allowing the Brits to wrangle with one another unhindered.
Just four short months earlier—although, at this moment, it seemed a lifetime ago—Neil had been chosen as the general’s driver and assistant following his basic and advanced training at Camp Redwood. As another runner pushed through the folds of the tent, carrying a note that must have been worse than the former, Neil again closed his eyes, recalling the early May day he’d been selected for what now felt like a Godforsaken duty.
They’d just graduated training and were given weekend liberty—their first time off in three months. Every man in Neil’s platoon headed into town with pockets full of money, prepared to unleash holy hell on the saloons and women of unsuspecting Eureka, California. Every man but Neil, that is—he stayed back. He’d been summoned to the unit dayroom, reporting as ordered at rigid attention. His senior drill sergeant appeared from around the corner, moving toe-to-toe and staring at Neil through gun-slit eyes. From nowhere, the drill instructor unleashed a solid right to Neil’s stomach, dropping him to a knee, leaving him gasping for precious air.
“That’s to bring your highfalutin ass down a notch,” the drill sergeant inexplicably admonished, his rigid finger pointing down at Neil.
Neil had opened his mouth wide, unable to breathe for a full half-minute as his stricken diaphragm spasmed. He finally managed a few wispy breaths, gasping a dutiful query about what he’d done wrong.
“Ain’t done nothing wrong other than got yourself a cherry-ass job right outta the chute, private.”
Neil, breathing raggedly by this time, turned his purple face questioningly up to the drill sergeant. The NCO grasped the shoulders of Neil’s uniform blouse, lifting him back to the position of attention. He moved close enough to clue Neil into the fact he’d eaten something heavily laced with onions for lunch.
“I just don’t want you thinkin’ you’re somethin’ special,” the instructor growled, eyes slightly twinkling.
“Drill sergeant,” Neil managed to croak, huffing glorious quantities of air by this time. “Might the private inquire as to what this job is?”
“General’s driver and assistant,” the normally coarse drill sergeant replied crisply. “You’re gonna be carryin’ a Tinker Bell briefcase around while the rest of your platoon’s out soldierin’ like men.”
Neil’s head had begun to shake back and forth as he mouthed the word “no,” processing this unheard of change of plans. He’d joined the Army with his best friend Jakey—Jakey was off in town having a blast by this time—and the Army just couldn’t separate them this soon.
I won’t allow it.
“No, drill sergeant,” Neil finally managed. “You can’t let them do this. All due respect, but I don’t want to be a damned general’s driver. That’s not why I joined. Private Herman and me joined up to serve together.”
The senior drill sergeant jabbed his finger at a poster depicting the familiar flag-festooned, stony-faced human symbol of American pride. “You know what G.I. stands for, Private Reuter? Do ya know? Stands for ‘government mother-fuggin’ issue,’ and what it means is good old Uncle Sam there can do whatever the hell he wants with you, whenever the hell he wants, however the hell he wants. Got that?”
Neil managed to quietly assent.
“And guess whose name, rank, and serial number is on your recommendation?”
“I’m guessing it would be yours, drill sergeant.”
“Bet your narrow injun ass, it is. I recommended you only because you learn damned fast and stand taller than most of them duds in your platoon. Fact of the matter is, it was gonna be you or Jew-boy Private Herman, but you edged him out. So either way, you two was gonna be split up.” He again stepped in, striking Neil’s nose with his campaign hat. “None of this talk matters, ‘cause you ain’t got no say-so. You got that, boy?”
Neil blinked several times, mind racing. “I understand, drill sergeant.”
The drill sergeant almost smiled. He walked Neil to his bunk, had him gather his things, and took him straight to the train station without giving him a chance to say his goodbyes. Neil reported for duty the following day.
While at first he had felt ambushed, he’d grown to appreciate his new assignment, traveling, hearing important conversations, being exposed to life outside of California. He wasn’t quite ready to call it an honor, especially not now, not here in Gallipoli. But before his arrival here, things had been bearable, building toward something, though
what it was he didn’t quite know.
Through it all, Neil had corresponded with Jakey Herman by post. Jakey, who had a special way with words, never once failed to make Neil laugh out loud with his letters. Neil’s mind came back to present, back to this battle, morosely wondering if Jakey could make him smile at this moment.
Along with Neil in the general’s entourage were two other soldiers who served between Neil and the commander. Neil’s direct chief, and the general’s retinue—his bodyguard—was a grizzled old master sergeant, Jimmy “Buck” Wingo, a Tennessean and veteran of the Spanish-American War. Wingo often bragged in his hoarse voice about how he once beat President Teddy Roosevelt, then a soldier, arm wrestling “not once, not twice, but three damn times!” Each time Wingo would exuberantly relay his favorite tale, ever-present brown tobacco juice would dribble from his grinning mouth as he finished by saying, “Sumbitch couldn’t stand losin’. Jus’ kept comin’ back fer more.”
Senior to Wingo was Major Frederick Hamilton, the general’s attaché and a man who Neil quietly studied due to his ubiquitous polish and razor-sharp wit. Even with prestigious degrees from Washington University and Northwestern, the well-educated major knew his place, always standing several paces behind the general, ready when needed. In his four months of traveling in this oddly matched quartet, Neil typically turned to Major Hamilton for advice, respectfully addressing the refined officer and appreciating his willingness to share occasional unsolicited counsel with him.
The American visitors had now been in Gallipoli for four days, since the start of the current battle. Earlier in the day, when the sun was still up, the tide had begun to turn for the worse. It was then that Major Hamilton and Sergeant Wingo sought permission to join the fray, hesitantly agreed upon by General Yeager. But when Neil had attempted to join them, he was promptly stopped by all three men.
“You got a few more years’a growin’ a’fore you go wadin’ in to somethin’ like this,” Wingo had said to Neil with a wink. “Don’t worry, boy. We’ll bust that cherry soon enough.”
Major Hamilton had nodded his agreement. “It’s the big leagues out in those sooty trenches, sport. Be patient—we’ll find you some fun soon enough.” And with that, the two men had waded into the lead-filled fight. Other than wearing the same uniform, the two men couldn’t have been more different: a hard-boiled war veteran with a grade school education, side-by-side with a classically educated, distinguished officer. The two soldiers drew from two completely different, yet equally effective, sets of expertise.
They’d been out there now for eight hours, through the heat of the August afternoon and into the blackness of the sticky night. Neil had worried about them until another messenger arrived. This one burst into the tent, his right hand holding a blood-stained muslin bandage to his helmetless head—a folded note in his other hand. He handed it to a British colonel who, grim-faced, passed it to the commanding general. The general’s face and body sagged upon reading it. He pressed his lips together, whitening them before finally speaking to General Yeager.
“Horace…your two men…” The British general looked up, collecting himself. “They’ve been killed.”
“Dear God,” General Yeager breathed, stumbling backward before falling onto a cot. He sat there and took large, steadying breaths as the messenger muddled his way through an explanation.
“It’s the Turkish bastards up in that pill box, sir,” the messenger said. “They’ve got two field guns and a sniper with a blooming perfect eye.”
General Yeager ground his teeth together, staring up at his friend. “Why don’t you hit them with your damned artillery?”
“We’ve got no artillery!” the British general replied, opening his arms in exasperation. “This was supposed to be a doddle, not a bloodbath!”
“The Turks in the lower trenches are softened up, sir,” the messenger persisted. “It’s the demons in that pillbox that are shredding us. We knock them out and we’ll take the whole of the high ground, billy-o.”
It was almost as if Neil were hovering above, watching the scene from an opera box, like the ones at the Gunter Theater back in San Francisco. He saw himself hiding in the corner, turning his head at the mention of the unchallenged pillbox. Then, taking slow steps forward—not unlike the mysterious character appearing at the end of the critical first act—Neil saw himself step into the middle of the tent. He didn’t come back to his own body until he heard the soft words escaping his mouth, occurring spontaneously as he said, “I can take that pillbox, sir.”
“Who the hell are you?” the British colonel boomed.
“Private Neil Reuter, sir. I’m the fourth soldier with General Yeager.”
Yeager lowered his head into his hand, seemingly still stunned over the tragic news he’d just received. “Reuter’s my assistant,” he muttered. “He’s just young.”
“I may be young, sir,” Neil replied in a respectfully challenging tone. “But I can take that pillbox.”
The second in command, the British colonel, took a step in Neil’s direction, cocking his head in a warning manner. “You’re out of line, private. I’d suggest you belt up and move outside with the rest of the attachés before you do get sent out on that line.”
Neil’s adrenaline surged as he took his own step toward the threatening colonel, staring at him while addressing General Yeager. “General Yeager, sir! I said I can take that pillbox, and I beg you to allow me to try.” He snapped to attention and turned his heterochromatic eyes to his superior. “Your verdict, please, sir!”
General Yeager stood, linking his thumbs in his Sam Brown belt. His chest expanded as he inhaled, looking Neil up and down before turning to the British commander. “George? You mind if my boy here makes what will probably be his death run to that pillbox?”
The British general snorted. He moved his objecting colonel back with his right arm while his mouth turned upward at one corner. “Cheeky lad. Guess we were all like that once. Makes me a mite envious.” He removed his Webley revolver, flipping it around and proffering it to Neil by the barrel. “Here, boy, take this for close range, assuming you make it that far.”
Neil stared at the revolver a moment, carefully reaching around the general and, in a deft movement, spiriting the general’s bolo knife from his pistol belt. He took several steps backward, eyes downward as he began to disrobe, ignoring the surprised protests as he hurriedly stripped to his undershorts.
“Private,” the colonel yelled, “what in God’s name are you doing?”
Neil ignored him, stepping from the tent, one side of his sweaty body illuminated by the flashes of fire in the distance. Next to the tent were the bullet-riddled bodies of Wingo and Hamilton, arranged on two medical litters. Neil glanced at them before searching the dim area, finding a muddy puddle underneath a portable water reservoir used to fill canteens. He dove into the shallow puddle, rolling and squirming, covering every inch of his body in the tiger paste of Gallipolian mud.
As the assembled cadre stood around him, mouths collectively agape, Neil walked to the messenger. “Where’s the pillbox?”
Wide-eyed, the messenger gestured to a small rise on the horizon and spoke a few words. Neil nodded before lifting the bolo knife, pressing it to the back of his own left forearm and slicing across. He lifted the bloody gash to his mouth, sucking his own blood as the whites of his eyes glowed in the black of the night. Afterward, he stepped to the corpses of his fallen comrades, covering both hands in their warm blood, combining it with the mud on his face and head.
“He’s a bloody fockin’ savage!” the colonel yelled. Even General Yeager gaped at Neil as if he were otherworldly.
Neil gripped the knife in his right hand, blade back in icepick style, moving before the British general. Neil’s eyes were wide and alert, his voice as sharp as the bolo knife. “Keep watching, sir. When you see my signal, you send everything you’ve got.”
“What signal?” the Brit asked. But it was too late. Neil Reuter was already gone,
his mud and blood-covered figure gliding silently away on bare feet, melding into the war-torn night like a vapor.
~~~
General Yeager, bewildered at the display he’d just witnessed from the normally unassertive Private Reuter, hurried back into the tent, retrieving his field glasses. Back outside, shoulder-to-shoulder with the assembled group, he pressed the field glasses to his face, scanning the battlefield, able to see glimpses of figures during the brief flashes from grenades and Bangalore torpedoes. He peered through the field glasses for a period of minutes, his eyes aching from the intense concentration.
There was no sign of Reuter.
The machine guns in the pillbox continued to fire, spraying the battleground with lead. Occasionally a tongue of flame could be seen darting from the pillbox, followed by a single report from what was probably the sniper’s Turkish Mauser. True to the messenger’s testimony of the sniper’s accuracy, the rifle would fire and the cracking report would be heard after a moment, usually followed by agonized screams or, worse, deadly silence.
Even a crawling man would have reached the pillbox by now. As the assembled officers began to murmur that the crazed American private had most likely met his end, Yeager felt his chest tighten with ache. What had begun as an exciting jaunt to the Ottoman Empire to see his old friend had resulted in the loss of his entire personal staff. These were men with families and, in the case of young Private Reuter, futures.
The general lowered the field glasses, allowing his chin to dip to his chest. He stayed that way, eyes closed, trying to make sense of this dreadful day.
Why were humans so destructive? Why kill each other when what this world needed was extreme cooperation? Yeager attuned his ears, saddened by the dreadful cacophony.
Curses.
Shooting.
Final Mission: Zion - A World War 2 Thriller Page 1