The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “I’ve seen the letter, Gustav…!” Detmers shook his head angrily, every part of his thoroughly German upbringing railing against the idea of such an act of outright rebellion. “It’s signed by The Führer himself…!”

  “And you’re certain it’s real? You know what it’s like in Berlin… politicians, generals and gauleiters alike trying to knife each other and climb over the bleeding bodies in a chance to get closer to Him! What if that letter’s a fake, aimed at discrediting some poor sod at the Reichstag, and here we are stuck right in the middle: a willing ‘sacrifice’ for a means to an end?”

  “And if it’s not a fake?” Detmers pointed out, fear showing in his eyes over the dilemma they currently faced. “It that is Hitler’s signature, and we disobey the direct orders of The Führer…? How long do you think we’d live once we made port? I have a responsibility to keep this crew alive and safe, and I will not jeopardise that without some kind of real proof!”

  Two hundred miles south-south-east of their position, the Leander-class light cruiser, HMAS Sydney, came about off the north coast of the uninhabited Heard Island and turned back to the east, awaiting the return of the reconnaissance flight it had launched two hours earlier. Captain John Burnett stared out at the sea beyond the forward windows and was thankful for the uprated climate control systems that had been installed as standard since the ship’s last major refit, twelve months earlier.

  The ‘Polar Patrol’ as it was colloquially known was an onerous and thankless task that was assigned to suitable warships at random and generally involved a long and completely uneventful cruise south into arctic waters, only to carry out a pointless aerial reconnaissance of a set of islands no one wanted and almost as few ever visited. No one ever expected to actually encounter enemy warships of any kind, and many ships’ captains didn’t believe intelligence reports suggesting that the Kerguelen group had ever been used by surface raiders as a stopover point while transiting the Indian Ocean.

  Their aircraft would be back on deck within another two hours, after which they could had back toward far warmer climes in the north… back to their usual hunting grounds of Australian Home Waters and the Dutch East Indies, where the threat of U-boats operating out of Cam Ranh Bay in French Indochina was far more real and far more important.

  St Mary's Training College

  Falls Road, Belfast

  November 4, 1942

  Wednesday

  The cell was always dark. He was fairly certain it was in a cellar somewhere: there were no windows, no natural lighting of any kind, and unless the interrogators were visiting, no artificial lights left on either. There was a pile of rags in one corner that he was able to use for a bed and blankets, an old sink with intermittent cold water close by and, amazingly, in the far corner of the room, a separate cubicle with a flushing toilet. He presumed that it was a left over from a time before the Nazi occupation, when the normal operations of the training college above – whatever they may have been – required the installation of bathroom facilities downstairs, perhaps for the use of maintenance staff.

  He couldn’t bring himself to believe that the Nazis had fitted the bowl and cistern: that kind of common human decency was generally well beyond their capabilities; a fact that was borne out by the reality that not a single one of the other fifteen cells that took up space down there beside his had the same plumbing installed. He supposed he’d just been lucky… if that’s what you could call it…

  He almost laughed out loud as he considered the concept of luck. He’d had plenty of luck these last few weeks… all of it bad. As far as he could tell, every single part of Eoin Kelly’s body hurt… the parts that he had left, at least. He suspected that the darkness was a kindness in one sense: had he been given access to a mirror, he suspected he’d not have been happy with what he saw.

  The gunshot wound in his side had proven to be superficial – at least one small mercy given the situation - but he’d been given no treatment whatsoever and it had taken the better part of a week for the bleeding to stop fully. The torn up shirt he’d used as a bandage had been filthy at best, and he was fairly certain it had become infected as a result, judging by the excessive pain and occasional fever he was experiencing, along with the rancid smell.

  They’d also knocked out at least half of his teeth, and it had taken the better part of a week before the swelling and tenderness had subsided enough for him to gulp down some of the rancid swill they brought around once a day, laughingly referring to it as ‘food’ as they handed it out to desperate men who’d never had fed it to a rabid dog under other circumstances.

  Eating had become markedly more difficult after they’d broken two of the fingers on his right hand, then cut off two more on the left, taking them off at the first knuckle using an extremely blunt hacksaw. He’d passed out within the first few minutes because of the pain, something he’d been thankful for, although waking up again later hadn’t been so great. His left hand was wrapped in a stained bandage of filthy rags torn from the leg of his own pants. Like the wound in his side, the angry, weeping appearance of the remaining stumps suggested the presence of infection, but he somehow suspected that wouldn’t be a problem in the long run: it was unlikely he’d live long enough for bacteria to get any real hold of him.

  “Kelly…! Kelly…!”

  The hushed whisper came from O’Hanlon, two cells down on the same side. Another IRA volunteer, he’d been taken during the Belfast uprising, the same day Kelly had been captured, and that he’d been caught early probably saved his life considering the fate of many who’d suffered through the air attacks that had been called in upon the rebels of The Shankill Road.

  “What d’ ye want, O’Hanlon…?” He mumbled awkwardly through shattered teeth and tender gums. “What are y’ botherin’ me for now: can’t ye see I’m in the middle of readin’ Tolstoy here?”

  That drew a faint murmur of subdued laughter from the rest of the inmates there. It didn’t pay to be too loud, as that generally drew the attention of the guards (which was bad), but they all enjoyed a rare opportunity for a laugh all the same. There wasn’t a man present in those cell who didn’t know of Eoin Kelly, and all of them had developed huge respect for the man as they’d watched him dragged out of his cell time and time again over the last few weeks, return more bloodied and beaten each time, and still joking and throwing barbed insults at the guards that brought him back, often earning him another beating into the bargain.

  “When they dragged me upstairs earlier, I heard ‘em talkin’… heard ‘em talkin’ about a message from Berlin!” Teddy O’Hanlon was one of the few men currently locked up there who spoke a little German; a fact he’d so far managed to keep secret, enabling him to keep his eyes and ears open to the benefit of all.

  “Oh, aye?” Kelly replied, vaguely interested now but finding it difficult to concentrate due to a blow to the head he’d received the day before that he suspected had given him concussion. “Anything interestin’, then? Reuters’ bollocks have dropped off? Goebbels caught wearin’ ladies dresses? Hitler’s blown his own, stupid head off, doin’ us all a fookin’ favour?”

  “There’s been hell to pay over the Yanks landin’ in Ireland… the head fella, von Neurath… he’s blaming Barkmann for flyin’ off the handle and sendin’ troops across The Finn… they was arguing, and he was sayin’ it was Barkmann’s fault the Americans were there ‘cause he gave ‘em an excuse.”

  “Jaysus, Teddy, you think the US Army just happened to have a division of troops nearby? Dublin set the whole thing up – there’s nothin’ more certain – and all they had to do was let the Germans play right into their hands…” He snorted with frustration. “Now leave me alone, will ye? Me mouth’s hurtin’ and I’m sick o’ talkin’…”

  The fluorescent lights above the walkway between the cells flared to life in the moments that followed, the stark, white illumination forcing all of them to shield their eyes in pain. There was fear there also, as the only time those lights came on
was if the guards were bringing food or someone was about to be dragged away for interrogation, and it was nowhere near dinner time.

  “Oh for fook’s sake,” Kelly muttered softly, already certain it would be him they were coming for.

  Sure enough, the sound of many booted feet stomped slowly and inexorably across the concrete floor, of course coming to a halt directly outside the door to his cell.

  “Well, you fuckers are consistent, I’ll give you that…” he observed with sarcasm, trying to smile up at them with his shattered teeth. “Pains in the fookin’ arse otherwise, but definitely consistent...”

  “Get him up,” Stahl ordered curtly, waving a hand at him through the bars as one of a pair of troopers moved to unlock the door. “Drag this filth up to the infirmary so we can make a thorough job of it.” As was his wont, he’d used English to give the orders, something that was as malicious as it was completely unnecessary.

  There was a collective intake of breath at that news from every prisoner. Being taken upstairs for interrogation was bad enough, but the infirmary meant torture – somewhere where all the appropriate medical implements were available to make a proper job of mutilation. It was a place every man dreaded, and every other man there at that moment felt for Kelly and what he was undoubtedly about to endure.

  “Aye, that’d be a fine idea, Fritz,” he quipped brightly, attempting quite unsuccessfully to keep the terror from his voice. “I could do with a check-up and all.”

  “We’re going to have a little talk…” Stahl advised, ignoring him completely, “…and I’m going to hurt you – badly – whether you tell me what I want to know or not. The fact is, I enjoy hurting you, and any useful information we get out of you is nothing more than an additional bonus. Take him…” he added, directing that order at the guards.

  Armed with billy clubs Kelly had seen used time and time again to great effect by the RUC prior to the German invasion, they ducked under the arm he raised in self-defence and gave him a good half-dozen solid whacks to the chest and sides, winding him and cracking a few ribs into the bargain as he cried out sharply in pain and writhed beneath their blows. Now that he was suitably limp and compliant – and silent, more to the point – they each took hold of one of his arms and dragged Kelly physically from the cell, leaving a thin trail of blood across the concrete floor as he was taken right along the walkway and straight out the door at the far end.

  Insults rained down, vile profanities howled in English and Gaelic as ineffective as so many floating feathers as they passed by with Stahl at the rear of the group, pistol in hand. At a whim, he stopped at the door, turned and gut-shot a man in the first cell on the left, smiling contentedly to himself as the prisoner collapsed to the concrete floor and screamed in agony. With a single nod of recognition for a ‘job well done’, he flicked off the light once more and closed the exit door behind him, leaving the rest of them in complete darkness once more with only the dying cries of their compatriot for company.

  1st Aircraft Research and Development Unit

  Tocumwal, New South Wales

  November 7, 1942

  Saturday

  The small country town of Tocumwal sat astride the northern banks of the Murray – the great, meandering Australian river that for most of its length delineated the border between the south-eastern states of Victoria and New South Wales. Prior to white settlement, the region formed part of the traditional lands of the indigenous Ulupna and Bangarang Aboriginal clans, with European settlement of the town and surrounding pastoral areas developing over the period spanning the 1840s to 1870s.

  Roughly 170 miles north of the Melbourne by road, the township had become a regional freight centre by the end of the 1930s due to the convergence of the extended Melbourne-Shepparton Victorian broad gauge line from the south with the NSW standard gauge Narrandera/Junee branch line from the north. The resultant ‘break of gauge’ connection created numerous military and civilian jobs involved in the transferring of loads to-and-fro between freight trains on both the Victorian and New South Wales sides.

  The end of the Thirties brought with it a new decade, a World War and a huge build-up of Australian military forces across the nation. Great expanses of pastoral land to the east of the township were acquired by the Australian Commonwealth in 1939 for the construction of one of the largest RAAF bases on the continent – a facility that included four intersecting concrete runways, the largest almost 10,000 feet long.

  A thousand yards east of town along Hudsons Rd, the outer perimeter of the RAAF base stretched away to the north and east for many miles, ultimately forming a huge, irregular ‘square’ surrounding the entire facility. An eight-foot chain-link fencing capped by coils of razor wire kept out unwanted visitors and prying eyes, the entire fence line bordered by an unsealed service road that followed the fence around the entirety of its boundaries.

  Two Land Rovers were waiting ready as YC-29 Forever Now taxied onto a large, concrete hardstand directly out front of one of the main hangars that afternoon. Even as the side door opened and Thorne climbed down the steps out onto the tarmac, an RAF officer had already climbed from one of the vehicles and started walking across to meet him wearing standard CWD (Combined Working Dress) that comprised an RAF-blue shirt sporting rank and insignia over DPCU fatigue pants and boots.

  Disruptive Pattern Camouflage Uniform was the standard-issue for front-line Commonwealth military forces and comprised irregular blotches of orange-brown, mid-brown, leaf-green and dark green over an overall background of a light greenish sand colour. Colloquially referred to by the men themselves as ‘Auscam’ or ‘hearts and bunnies’ (due to the shapes of some of the coloured blotches), it had proven incredibly effective in most Australian temperate and tropical zones. Troops currently serving in North Africa wore a modified pattern with colourings altered to better suit a desert environment.

  “Welcome back, Max,” Group Captain Alec Trumbull said with a smile, shaking hands with him as Eileen also stepped down onto the concrete behind him. Thinner but of similar height, the RAF officer kept his dark hair cut regulation-short and looked to be suffering in the afternoon heat judging by the light sheen of perspiration already gathering on his forehead. “I trust you had a pleasant trip…?”

  “Sure,” Thorne shot back with sour sarcasm, “if you call having your arse reamed by most of the Australian War Cabinet and General Staff ‘pleasant’?”

  “Mister Gold remained in Melbourne, then?” Trumbull enquired innocently, and Thorne almost thought he’d slipped his previous, profane remark past his more conservative friend until he belatedly picked up on the potential, offensive mental link a more devious mind might’ve made between those two statements.

  “Yeah…” he replied cautiously, narrowing his eyes slightly as he stared closely at Trumbull, trying to make up his mind if the man had made the remark on purpose. “He’s making sure Briony gets sorted for school…”

  “Surely the schools are almost out for the year?”

  “Normally, you’d be right, but we’ve unexpectedly found she’ll be attended to by a private tutor instead… don’t ask…!” He added quickly as a questioning frown crossed his friend’s brow. “I’ll explain later when I’ve had a shower and a bloody cold drink.

  “We’ll have your bags brought across later, Max – I’ve got rooms ready for you and Eileen so you can freshen up before mess call. Glad to see you too, my dear,” he added, exchanging a quick, friendly embrace with Donelson and receiving a welcomed kiss on the cheek as a greeting. “Let’s get you both inside and cooled down.”

  “Thought you’d never bloody ask!” Thorne grinned, forcing himself back into good humour as all three began walking back toward the waiting vehicles.

  Trumbull automatically fell in behind, a few paces back and watching the pair walk ahead. He was momentarily stunned as Thorne instinctively reached out a hand as they walked on, Eileen’s also reaching out almost automatically to accept it. It was a sight he’d never before witne
ssed from either of them, and the action had seemed completely natural, something in itself that was as surprising as the fact that it was even happening at all. A friend of both since they’d arrived in the past, two years earlier, Trumbull visibly released a sigh of relief at such a display of simple intimacy from two people that in his opinion were perfect for one another.

  “I got Rupert’s message regarding Lowenstein…” Trumbull advised as they all rode in the same vehicle moments later, Thorne and Donelson seated in the back while he remained up front with the driver. “If this is true, then surely the end of your mission within reach?”

  “We don’t know yet if the bugger actually knows what date and time they arrived,” Thorne growled back, not happy about being unable to give a positive answer. “And besides that, the Yanks look like they may be trying to stuff us about… maybe not hand him over straight away… or at all…”

  “Why would they do that?” Trumbull frowned. “Why would they dare?”

  “‘Dare’…? If only it were that simple. You forget, despite all these lovely technological miracles we’re conjuring up over here, we need their manufacturing capabilities and their endless bloody resources one hell of a lot more than they need us! They have us by the balls: they know we’ll do anything to get Lowenstein back on the off chance he has the information we need.” Thorne paused and grimaced over another thought. “And if he doesn’t have that information, all the more reason for them to drag their friggin’ heels and milk us for all its worth before we find out! Anyway, the knobs in Melbourne are dealing with that,” he added, referring to his British political allies and not sounding at all happy about the fact. “We on the other hand have been told we’ll have to put up with a bloody watchdog from now on…”

  “I beg your pardon…?”

  “Canberra’s sending up some scunners from the War Department to keep an eye on us and go crying back to mummy the moment we step out of line…” Eileen explained sourly, no happier about it than Thorne.