No Dawn for Men

by James Lepore

  “Someone sent him on a wild goose chase, and now he’s back,” said Fleming. “His troops can’t be far behind.”

  “No time to waste,” said Dowling.

  “I agree,” said Fleming. “Vaclav, is there a road near the landing field?”

  “Yes, east-west. The pilot used it as a landmark.”

  “How far?”

  “A half-kilometer.”

  “How long will he wait?”

  “Say 5:00 a.m. He needs to fly back in the dark.”

  “Trygg, can you help us one last time?”

  “Of course.”

  “Go around to the left. Make some noise. Draw the guard to you. Vaclav, you and I will get into that stand of trees there. We kill the guard when he gets near. No guns, no noise.”

  A few moments later, the sound of stones hitting the left side of the abbey could be distinctly heard. The German soldier looked that way and was about to take a drag from his cigarette when the sound came again. This time he flipped the cigarette away, shouldered his rifle, and headed over to take a look. He stopped at the corner of the abbey and unslung his weapon. Now more stones came flying right at him and he flattened against the building’s massive stone wall. He was edging back to the portico when the handle of an ax suddenly appeared in his chest. He slumped where he was.

  At the front door a German officer appeared.

  “Kurt,” said Billie, who was crouching at the gate with Dowling. They watched as Bauer looked left and right, then peered into the car. He stepped back and walked slowly around the car. When he made his full circuit, he started walking slowly to the left. Fleming, Dagna, Trygg and Gylfi were now approaching the gate at a crawl, hugging the wall.

  “They didn’t see Bauer,” Dowling said.

  Before Billie could answer, the American stood and began running straight at the German lieutenant. Hearing the sound of this running, Bauer turned and, seeing Dowling racing toward him, tried to get his pistol out of its leather holder. Before he could unsnap the ebony clasp that held it closed, Dowling leaped on him and they tumbled to the ground amidst the rubble. They got to their feet and again the German went for his gun, this time getting it out. Dowling ducked and lunged at him and they both hit the turret wall. Bauer’s gun went clattering onto the cobblestones.

  At the gate, Fleming unslung his machine gun, but could not take a chance on hitting Dowling. All three dwarfs had their hands on their axes, but were likewise stymied. They watched as Dowling took a blow from Bauer’s fist and staggered back, hitting the ground hard and rolling onto his stomach. As Dowling got to his knees the German lowered his head and rushed him. As the blow struck, Dowling grabbed Bauer’s head and wrenched it violently to the left. Bauer landed on top of the American, but the fight was out of him. Dowling shoved him off, got to his knees and looked down at the German whose head was sideways, his neck obviously broken. He was still breathing.

  Fleming and Vaclav now appeared at Dowling’s side. They could hear Bauer’s ragged breathing. “Finish him,” said Fleming, but Vaclav was ahead of him. He had already drawn his knife. “Gladly,” he said, as he bent and slit Kurt Bauer’s throat with one silky stroke.

  “Gentleman!”

  They turned toward the front door, toward the sound of this voice, where they saw a monk walking toward them.

  “Are there other German soldiers in the abbey?” Fleming asked when the monk, a short, stout man in his forties, reached them.

  “No,” the monk replied, “but they are on their way. The whole battalion will be here any moment. The lieutenant came ahead to prepare.”

  “What did you do with all the bodies?”

  “We dragged them into the woods. Father Wilfrid we buried.”

  “Do you know this area, Father?” Fleming asked.

  “Yes,” the priest replied. “I was born and raised in Deggendorf.”

  “There is a farm about four kilometers east. Do you know it? How do we get there? What road?”

  “Yes, the Kruger farm. It’s the same road you came in on,” the monk answered. “Go east—left—when you exit the abbey. It goes directly to Czechoslovakia.”

  “How will we know the farm?”

  “The farm is deserted. No lights. But you will see a silo—a round barn—in the distance on your right. They grew wheat there once. Excuse me now,” the monk said, kneeling over Bauer. “I must pray for this man’s soul.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Fleming said, “he doesn’t have one.”

  Then, turning to Dowling, he said, “it would be nice if the keys were in the car.”

  57.

  The Kruger Farm, Outside Deggendorf

  October 9, 1938, 3:30 a.m.

  “That’s a roadblock up ahead,” said Vaclav.

  “And there’s the silo,” said Billie.

  Fleming slowed to a stop. “Have they spotted us?” he said.

  “Maybe not,” said Dowling. “Without headlights.”

  They had slowly made their way in the dark to what they guessed would be the vicinity of the farm, the thick forest on either side of the road having given way to open fields. The half moon that had been dodging storms and storm clouds all night now shone brightly through a clear, still night.

  “I’ll look,” said Fleming.

  The others, Vaclav in the front, Billie, Dowling, and Tolkien in the back, and the dwarfs in the third row of seats, facing the rear, watched as Fleming got out his blacklight glasses, exited the car, and climbed onto its roof. He was back in under a minute.

  “Well,” said Vaclav.

  “I think they spotted us. They’re scurrying around.”

  “Where did you get those glasses?” Vaclav asked. “Marvelous.”

  “A friend at MI-6. He’s inventing things all the time.”

  “They’re marvelous,” said Dowling, “but what do we do?”

  “Let us off here,” said Korumak.

  “Let you off?” said Fleming.

  “Yes. And turn your headlights on.”

  “I assume you’ll be leaving us,” said Professor Tolkien.

  “Yes, we will be,” Korumak replied. “But we will do you one last turn.”

  “Which would be?” said Fleming.

  “The Germans will see you stopped with your lights on,” the dwarf replied. “They will approach. When they get close, head quickly across this field into the farm. We will delay the Germans.”

  “And then be on your way?” Dowling said.

  “One ride in a plane is enough for one lifetime I assume,” said Tolkien. “However long that lifetime may be.”

  “Correct, Professor,” said Korumak. “We flew once to help Professor Shroeder, but now he is dead and our mission is done. No more flying for dwarfs.”

  “Thank you,” said Fleming. “Farewell.”

  “I’ve given Professor Tolkien a farewell gift,” said Korumak. “It may come in handy.”

  “How will you get away?” Billie asked.

  “Easily,” Korumak replied. “No man alive can track us.”

  “Goodbye then,” said Korumak. He had been standing, facing the front. Now Gylfi and Dagna stood as well. All three were holding small axes—their backpacks were full of them—in each hand. Dagna and Gylfi nodded goodbye as well, and the dwarfs leaped from the car and dove quickly into the high brush that had run alongside the road for miles.

  Fleming turned the Daimler’s headlamps on and put his night vision glasses to his eyes. “They’re coming,” he said, a moment later.

  “What’s coming?” Vaclav asked.

  “An open troop carrier.”

  “What do they hold?”

  “How many, you mean?”

  “Yes, how many troops?”

  “Twenty probably.”<
br />
  When the troop truck was about fifty feet away, it stopped and ten or twelve soldiers jumped out of the back and fanned out on either side, their machine guns aimed at the Daimler. When they started to approach, the Englishman hit the accelerator hard and turned to the right. The Germans immediately began firing, but, looking in his rearview mirror, Fleming saw that six of them were felled with axes in the blink of an eye, and that the truck, when it tried to turn to give chase, could not move. Axes to the tires, Fleming thought, grinning. Then he hit the accelerator even harder.

  Within seconds they were flying past the abandoned farmhouse and silo, heading toward a thick line of trees, on the other side of which Fleming hoped was the landing field and the plane to extract them.

  “Can we drive through those trees?” Vaclav asked.

  “No, too thick,” Fleming answered.

  In another moment they were stopped and leaping out of the car. In another they were at the edge of the landing field, which was bathed in silvery moonlight, but which did not contain an airplane.

  “No plane,” said Dowling.

  “What’s that, there on the right, under the trees?” said Vaclav. “Is that it?”

  “It could be,” said Dowling.

  “Let’s go see,” said Fleming.

  Suddenly, behind them, they heard the sound of multiple truck engines approaching; then, in quick succession, the slamming of doors and the sound of many harsh voices barking out in German.

  “They radioed back,” said Fleming.

  The fellowship turned and crouched in unison, and now could plainly see perhaps sixty or seventy soldiers spread out and walking slowly into the tree line, about fifty yards away.

  “Spread out,” said Fleming. “Fire on my command.”

  Only Fleming, Vaclav, and Dowling had machine guns. Billie had her Luger. Professor Tolkien had no weapon, but as the Germans approached he pulled the small glass vial that Korumak had given him in the car out of his tunic pocket. Break it on a rock and throw it, the dwarf had said.

  “Fire!” Fleming said.

  The Germans hit the ground at this initial burst, some of them dead or wounded, but most of them just taking cover. One or two fired in the fellowship’s direction from their prone positions.

  “They can’t see us, we can’t see them,” said Vaclav.

  “What’s that?” said Billie.

  A rocket had risen from the German line. A mortar this close, thought Fleming, but when it burst above their heads he realized it was a flare, its bright light exposing them for several excruciatingly long seconds.

  “Look!” said, Billie. “The plane.”

  They turned quickly and saw the Avia lumbering out of the woods on the left, heading toward them.

  “They’re coming!” said Dowling.

  All turned again to see a swarm of German infantrymen charging directly at them through the trees, crouching low, firing their weapons.

  Professor Tolkien, remembering the night he failed to go back for Major Val Fleming, remained calm. He broke the vial on a nearby rock and flung it at the oncoming German soldiers. At first it trailed a streak of blue flame behind it, then it suddenly burst into an immense cloud of smoke, a thick gray cloud that covered an area fifty yards in all directions, from the ground to the treetops.

  Seeing this huge cloud blinding and disorienting the Germans, hearing them calling out helplessly in its midst, the fellowship, now down to five, rose as one and raced headlong for the plane, which had reached their end of the field and was turning to line up for takeoff. Tolkien was the last one to reach the door in the belly behind the cockpit. Fleming and Dowling grabbed his hands and hoisted him up.

  With just a few feet to spare at the end of the field, the plane lifted off, skimmed over the forest, and began to climb.

  EPILOGUE

  Prague

  December 20, 1938, 7:00 p.m.

  Ian Fleming stood—scotch in one hand, Morland’s Special in its holder in the other—at the room’s floor-to-ceiling French doors, looking down at Prague in its Christmas glory. The Mala Strana, just below, the Charles Bridge in the mid-ground, and the Old Town Square in the distance, all sparkled like clusters of many-colored jewels on a velvet carpet. In Wenceslas Square, to the right, the gold sheathing covering the equestrian statue in its center seemed on fire as it reflected the white lights that were strung in thickly woven strands all around it. Fleming had walked to Old Town Square in the morning, to a tobacconist’s to pick up his weekly shipment of cigarettes from Morland. The small shop was on a narrow street off the square, more of an alley than a proper street, but nevertheless still garlanded from storefront to storefront on both sides with holiday green and red and gold. He had paused when he saw the grim set of the shop owner’s face, and thought, yes, your last Christmas before you are enslaved. The real madness is about to start.

  In Fleming’s jacket pocket was a letter from Professor Tolkien, brought round that morning by the British Embassy courier. Patting his breast, he thought now of Tolkien’s penultimate paragraph. I did not think I’d make it home, but now that I have, I feel it is the sweetest place on earth, made infinitely sweeter because in England we breathe the air of freedom. I had forgotten the cost of this freedom until our glimpse into the dark heart of Nazi Germany. Though neither young nor spry nor trained in anything useful, I would consider it a great favor if you would contact me in future if you think my services could be of even the slightest assistance, at home or abroad.

  Ian Fleming had never taken to the stiff-necked type of freedom practiced by his father and grandfather, both more Scotsmen than Englishmen. Too much responsibility, too much self-denial. Too little fun. No fun, really. But now, recalling the old tobacconist’s face and reading Tolkien’s unabashedly sentimental words, responsibility and self-denial did not seem like such bad things, especially given the alternative of servitude to Hitler and his madmen.

  A movement to his left shook Fleming from his reverie. Turning, he was shocked to see Eldridge White standing at the room’s one doorway looking in his direction. He took a step toward White, but stopped when he saw the tall, white-maned, former marine raise his right hand palm up. Stay put. There were only three other people in the hotel’s small sitting room, a couple in a rear corner and a waiter in a white waist jacket handing them a bill to sign. When they did and were gone, the waiter as well, White pointed to a set of comfortable chairs near the fireplace.

  Not to worry, old chap, Fleming said to himself, as he walked to the chairs. You’ve met him before; he and your dad were chums. Still, the chief of MI-6, his identity known to the king, the prime minister, and perhaps a dozen other people in the world, old Ellie White himself, here to see him? Not possible. Must be some other business. They reached the chairs at the same time, shook hands silently, and sat.

  “I must say . . .” said Fleming

  “You’re surprised.”

  “Shocked. What brings you here?”

  “You.”

  “Me. I daresay . . .”

  “How are you?”

  “Fine. Couldn’t be better. Waiting for Billie. Hot soak, makeup, you know the drill. Having a smoke and a drink.”

  “Fraulein Shroeder.”

  “Yes, that’s the one.” Fleming attempted an offhand smile, but he knew he didn’t get it right. What in God’s name?

  “I have some news,” said White, “that I felt obliged to deliver personally.”

  Mother, Fleming thought, Peter, Michael, Richard.

  “Your family is well,” said White. “It’s not that.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Sorry to frighten you.”

  Ian shook his head and smiled a real smile. “Mother’s not quite done molding me yet, you see. They all have their whack at it.”

  “You had quit
e an adventure, I’m told, in Germany.”

  “Quite.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I sent a full report.”

  “It’s something the Americans have brought up. Something new.”

  “I can’t guess.”

  “I suppose not. Indeed, I’m delighted you can’t guess.”

  Fleming was still a bit confused, but now more confident. His mother and brothers were alive and well. Though he had made no mention of heroics of any kind in his report to Bletchley House, he had been given decent marks by his superiors there, who had said, in effect, that though the occult wasn’t usually their game, all had turned out well. They had even talked, jokingly, of he and Tolkien working together in future. Or were they serious? Old John Ronald had done rather well, they had said, a mad scientist of sorts. Smart, too, well above old Fleming’s rank.

  “Well . . .” said Fleming.

  “The Americans,” said White. “They’ve been in touch concerning an extraction operation they were supporting in Bremen. Ring a bell?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “There was supposed to be a Krupp engineer in Magdaberg. Working on a tank coating.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Fleming, his brow knitted.

  “They passed a number to you, and a contact code.”

  “Yes.”

  “While you were in the woods in Bavaria, the operation was raided by the Gestapo. Four killed, four took cyanide.”

  Fleming had not really been looking at White, the hero of the Great War, the man who in 1928 had infiltrated Mussolini’s inner circle, seduced his mistress, and assassinated the head of his secret police, the infamous OVRA. Not the front man, Francesco Nudi, but the real head, a deeply secret madman even the most hardened fascists were afraid of. It was too much like looking at the sun. You’d go blind. But now he looked, and did not like what he saw.

  “Who did you give that number to?” Ellie White asked.

  “I gave it to . . .”