DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE

by Doug Dollard

  I had to ensure nothing I said or did would have any bearing on this period of history. I needed to be out from under the control of others who would treat me as a threat or a resource, neither of which portended well for the outcome of the Normandy invasion. That meant I’d have to take out the guard without killing him. Tricky, especially considering my condition, but unavoidable.

  When I calculated it had been nearly an hour since Lieutenant Wellington’s departure I moved to the door and pounded loudly on it, calling out for the guard. I stood back and to the side, knowing the guard would want to verify I did not pose a threat before entering my quarters. He’d have his side arm drawn so I’d have to move quickly as soon as he crossed the threshold. I could not afford getting into a tussle with him so when I heard the guard’s key in the lock I prepared to subdue him in one swift motion.

  When the door burst open I had already begun to move but came up short when I saw Lieutenant Wellington standing in the doorway pointing the guard’s forty-five pistol squarely at my chest. She looked confused and uncertain of herself, her eyes wide as if she were in shock.

  “You have a pistol pointed at me,” I remarked, a concession to the obvious.

  “Oh, sorry,” she answered, pointing the forty-five away from me toward the floor. I moved quickly to her and gently took the weapon from her shaking hand.

  “The guard?” I asked, concerned she may have done something frightful.

  “He’s out there,” she indicated with a nod of her head. I pressed past her and out into the hut where I found the guard slumped over in his chair beside the stove. He wasn’t alone. Close by was another soldier draped over one of the crates, his arm dangling down to the floor. I placed my fingers against the first man’s throat, searching until felt the rhythmic beat of his pulse. On the floor next to the guard’s chair was an empty cup of tea the contents of which had spilled out.

  “I drugged them,” came a voice from directly behind me. I turned and found her standing on the narrow walkway with her arms clasped tightly around her chest. “The other man was my driver.” She was shivering and staring obliquely at the guard’s inert body.

  I eased the unconscious soldier out of his chair onto the floor and then did the same for the other soldier, checking for his pulse as well. I didn’t want either of them dying from an accidental overdose.

  “They’ll be okay,” I assured her. She nodded but continued to shiver. I went back into my room, collected my winter jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

  “You should take one of their uniforms,” she advised me coolly. I shook my head.

  “Not if I can find a uniform in one of these crates,” I countered, already allowing my eyes to transverse the vast array of marked crates piled up on either side of the hut. I spotted one with the stencil reading Tunics, RAF, Men’s on it and another marked for trousers.

  A brief search rewarded me with a crowbar that I used to pry open several crates. I found my size in an RAF Flight Lieutenants uniform and quickly donned it. Sitting on a crate I stripped down to my underwear and dressed in the RAF uniform I’d just pilfered. I took the drivers jacket that lay draped over one of the supply crates and put it on.

  “What will you do with them,” Mary asked, staring down at the unconscious soldiers.

  “Shouldn’t you tie them up or something?” Again I shook my head.

  “The guard is on a four hour watch,” I told her. “He’s not going to come around before his relief shows up which will be,” I leaned down to check the guard’s watch, “Less than two hours. I’ll need to be as far from here as possible by then.” Mary was staring into the distance, her face pale even in the harsh glow from the overhead lights. She appeared to be in a trance, numb to what was happening.

  “I’m going to steal a truck or jeep, whatever I can find,” I told her. “But first I need to tie you to a chair so whoever finds you will think you played no part in this.” Her eyes locked onto mine and her face took on an expression of incredulity.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she quipped sharply. “No one will ever believe I had nothing to do with this when they discover both these men were drugged. Besides, I have a car so you don’t need to steal one.” I was at a loss for words, taken aback by her foresight as well as her audacity.

  “You can’t go with me,” I stammered callously. “My chances of being caught are,” I didn’t finish before she spoke over me saying,

  “Your chances of being caught are absolute if you don’t take me with you. You don’t know this area or the customs, you have no money and you have nowhere to go. You’ll be caught before nightfall.” I had to admit her logic was impeccable, but I was still not willing to place her at risk.

  “My uncle has a summer cottage out in the country in Danesfield,” she continued, sensing I was wavering. “It’s isolated, the freezer is stocked and there’s even a carriage house for the car. No one will take notice of us as so many Londoners have taken to the countryside to avoid the bombing.”

  There was logic in her argument and I needed somewhere safe to heal and work out what to do next. I hated to place Wellington in the middle of my problems but it was obviously my best chance to avoid capture at least for now.

  “Okay,” I relented. “But if we are stopped you must promise me you will say I abducted you and that you had no part in any of this.” She nodded her agreement but I had little confidence she would keep her word. Wearing the oversized military jacket and collecting her medical bag

  she joined me at the front door to the Quonset Hut. Cautiously I pressed open the door and peered out into the early morning mist.

  Other than a few soldiers and airmen making their way to morning mess there was little commotion outside. Stiffly, with Wellington close beside me we stepped outside where I used the lock from my room to secure the door to the Quonset Hut. I didn’t want anyone finding the unconscious soldiers until the guard’s relief showed up an hour and a half from now. It was still quite early but already many of the base personnel were up at their duties. We walked briskly but not so fast as to draw unwanted attention.

  Fortunately Lieutenant Wellington was the focus of attention for those men nearest us while I might as well have been invisible. Women were not numerous on military bases and especially bases from which combat operations were launched. Wellington’s presence was likely to be both a blessing and a curse for it would draw attention away from me, but it would draw attention.

  Parked on the gravel drive fifty meters from the Hut was a khaki staff car that had brought Wellington out from London.

  “You think I should drive?” she asked, clearly suspicious of my ability to manage the narrow country roads. As the British drove on the left I reluctantly took her advice and took my place on the passenger’s side. The keys were in the ignition and the Packard’s eight-cylinder engine roared to life. With extraordinary deftness Wellington guided the Packard out on the narrow road leading to the airfield’s front gate.

  “I don’t have papers,” I warned her as I caught sight of the guard shack and road barriers blocking the road.

  “The soldiers only check your papers when you enter the base,” she informed me confidently. I hoped she was right or this was going to be a very short trip.

  As we drew near the gate the two soldiers on guard raised the wooden pole that served as a barrier and waved us through. Their attention was riveted on Wellington so again I received little notice. I breathed a sigh of relief as we passed safely onto the same dirt road I recalled from my previous trip. We drove directly west, staying on small back roads that took us through rolling fields and densely wooded areas. Occasionally we passed military vehicles filled with supplies or troops, but these sped by without incident.

  “How far is your uncle’s place,” I asked, wondering how much distance we would put between the airfield and ourselves in the next hour.

  “There is a little town about four kilometers from here,” she assured me. “That’s halfway.” Sure enough before
we had driven another three miles we came to a small village of stone buildings and cobbled streets.

  Almost as soon as we entered the village we were leaving it behind. Wellington was holding the Packard at as fast a pace as she dared given the narrow and winding roads. I noticed the fuel gage registered dangerously low.

  “Can we stop for petrol,” I asked, keeping the concern from my voice. She looked down at the dashboard, confirming our need for fuel.

  “I’m sorry, I should have checked it earlier. My ration card doesn’t authorize petrol.”

  “We’ll make it on what we have then,” I said confidently. She flashed me a look but said nothing. We continued along country roads that wound through empty pastures until we reached an intersection where Mary finally turned off onto a dirt road leading into a dense woodland.

  The road twisted through the wood for several more miles until we came upon a turnoff that led us to an old wooden bridge. A short while later I caught sight of a stone building nestled against a heavily wooded hillside. Pulling up to the side of the house Mary brought the Packard to a halt but left the engine running.

  “This is it,” she said cheerfully. There is an old carriage house where we can hide the car,” she said, indicating a second, smaller stone building on the far side of the first.

  “I’ll get the door,” I said, exiting the vehicle. The carriage door was a large wooden double door built a hundred years before when horse drawn wagons were the predominant means of transportation. I unlatched the door and swung it open as Wellington eased the Packard forward into the darkened interior and cut the engine.

  Inside the carriage house had a musky smell reminding me of damp hay. I closed the doors to the carriage house leaving the Packard completely hidden for view and headed for the cottage. It was significantly colder now even though the sun had risen near its apex. Mist still clung to the ground in places and the air was damp and scented with the smells of the woodland.

  The cottage had a recessed porch with two sets of oak doors the outer of which served as a barrier to stormy weather.

  “Do you have a key?” I asked.

  “No need, the door is unlocked,” she told me confidently. The inner doors had glazed panels providing light to the interior. I tried the door handle and it opened just as predicted. With Wellington following closely behind I stepped inside to the vestibule. The floor was laid in encaustic tile, the ceiling was groined while the walls were finished in stone. Wellington magically regained her enthusiasm and began to lead me through the cottage as if I were a prospective buyer.

  Toward the rear of the house was the kitchen where a refrigerator, stove, sink and pantry dominated the room. The living room was connected to the parlor by sliding doors with recessed bookcases on either side. A large stone fireplace with a massive hearth and wide mantel dominated the room that at present was as cold as a meat locker.

  “We need to start a fire and then see to some food,” Wellington asserted, seemingly excited about the prospects of a night in the cottage.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as I watched her lift up on her toes to check the mantel for matches. The fireplace was already filled with split and aged oak logs as if someone had left it that way purposely. Nearby on the hearth was a large pile of cut wood ready for burning.

  “I never intended to involve you in this,” I told her, feeling guilty now I had ever agreed to allowing her to accompany me. She hesitated but did not respond. Instead she busied herself searching for something with which to light the fire. Finding a box of matches tucked up near a large stone protruding from the wall over the mantel she struck one, quickly kneeling to hold it under the dry wood. It wasn’t the proper way to start a fire but surprising the logs took the flame and began to burn, slowly at first but with increasing vigor.

  “We’ll have some heat soon,” she claimed cheerfully, still hunkered down in the winter jacket that appeared several sizes too large for her frame. I had a surge of regret, knowing her career in the military and in the medical field was probably irretrievably lost. She would be court marshaled and at a minimum dishonorably discharged. It would be impossible for her to find work in the medical field after that. It was a horrible price to pay for a momentary lapse in judgment.

  I wondered if this were a forecast of the harm my presence would cause. As the flames began to reach up to encompass the logs she rose and turned toward me, her face partially reflecting the glow from the fire.

  “We should eat,” she said simply, choosing to ignore my apology.

  “Okay,” I agreed, allowing the subject to wait on another time. The freezer was stocked with beef and lamb but we had little patience to wait on thawing meat. The cupboard yielded a rough meal of canned beef and canned corn.

  Wellington set places for us in the dining room just off the kitchen. There was a long wooden table on which she laid out plates, silverware, water glasses and wine glasses she found in the china closet. We heated our meager fare on the stove and I set out a pitcher of cold spring water.

  I uncorked a bottle of New Forest red wine Wellington retrieved from the wine cellar. We sat opposite each other, Wellington with her wine and me with my spring water and enjoyed a not altogether unpleasant meal. She appeared happy and strangely disassociated from the day’s events. She poured liberally from the bottle of wine and drank eagerly from her glass as if its contents were a palliative for her distress. Perhaps her dissociation was a natural defense mechanism. However it made me wonder.

  My guilt over dragging her into this mess had temporarily blinded me to her odd and inexplicable behavior. On reflection her entire demeanor was slightly off. Or maybe it was just her way of dealing with the situation. After all she had drugged two soldiers, stolen a staff car, assisted in the escape of a British POW and gone AWOL. I suppose that would be unsettling for anyone.

  “You’re pensive,” Wellington observed after a few minutes of silence. Her eyes were shiny and her words slipped from her tong with imprecision.

  “I’m sorry. I was thinking about what I need to do next.”

  “Can’t we stay here?” She protested, pouting her lips. I noted the bottle of wine near her elbow was empty as was her glass.

  “For a short while. But I suspect Commander Whitley already has the dogs on our trail. I need to disappear until this is all over.”

  “Until what is all over? Do you mean the war? Do you expect to remain in hiding until the war is over?” She was clearly in the throes of her wine.

  I couldn’t really blame her. She’d been through a lot today. I feared I didn’t have an answer for her. I didn’t know how to answer her question without revealing the truth. And I wasn’t at all certain what the truth really was.

  “Why are we doing this Michael? Why are we hiding from Commander Whitley? What have you done to warrant being locked away as a prisoner of war?” It was the first time I could recall her using my Christian name.

  “Perhaps we should both get some rest,” I counseled. It was clear the wine had gone to her head.

  “No, no I don’t want to rest Michael. I want you to be honest with me. Can’t you be honest with me? I broke you out of prison after all.” She placed both of her palms flat on the table top and attempted to rise, immediately finding her legs were far from cooperative.

  I pushed back my chair and moved to her side, helping her unsteadily to her feet, her arm draped over my shoulder. I wasn’t strong enough to carry her but together we managed to totter to the bedroom where I eased her onto the bed. The mattress had been stripped of its bedding but I found some blankets in a linen closet and spread them over her.

  “You’re not going to leave me Michael,” she pleaded, grabbing onto my arm.

  “No, I won’t leave you,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing away an errant strand of hair that had fallen across her face. Her breath carried the scent of grapes.

  “Good,” she murmured and within seconds she slipped into a restless sleep. I stood up and shed my tunic.
Kicking off my shoes I rounded the bed to take a spot next to her. We both needed to rest and this was the sole bed in the cottage.

  Feeling my presence she moved close against me and I placed my arm around her shoulders. I could feel her heart beating against my chest, her breath coming in long, labored bursts, her breath pungent with the scent of wine.

  Gradually her breathing slowed, became deeper and more rhythmic. Her body heat warming with mine, the sound of her breathing and the rhythmic beat of her heart was soothing. Before I had given it more thought I lapsed into a deep and contented sleep.

  Chapter 42

  CHANDLER’S REVENGE

  With the telex clenched in his fist Major Chandler burned with a cold fury that ate at his core. Standing stiff legged and alone in his office his anger simmered inside him. His vary nature was marked by suspicion and a cunning intuition for danger, and every fiber in him was warning him there was something very wrong about the American. Almost as soon as the prisoner Riley had departed Chandler began to regret releasing him.

  A man with an incredible attention for detail the Major sent a routine message back to Washington requesting verification of their last communication with his headquarters. The response he received only moments ago set his teeth on edge.

  The communication was a copy of the original. It read:

  No known agent Michael Riley STOP No known person with name Michael Riley per your description STOP Neither person connected with Office of Strategic Services END

  Crumpling the telex in his fist Chandler cursed his stupidity. His failure to confirm the original communication’s authenticity had cost him his prisoner. He had literally turned his prisoner over to strangers posing as American soldiers. His commanding officer, Colonel rMansfield would take a harsh view of his inexcusable lapse in judgment.