Avenging Steel: The First Collection

by Hall, Ian

  Running in a crouch, I crossed the twenty yards to Balfour’s wall. The German didn’t shoot at me. “Do you think we got him?”

  “I don’t know.” Balfour looked at me with some interest. “Does it hurt?”

  I shook my head, and soon stopped that, as I felt a little dizzy.

  Balfour pushed his head over the top, and I was surprised to see a look of revilement. “Hey, we didn’t get him. Well, not completely.”

  I rose, and saw the German, staggering past the truck towards our position. Helmetless and bloody-faced, one arm was obviously unusable; the other carried a rifle with a small scope, although he hardly seemed to be in a condition to use it.

  With the nearby flames illuminating his every nuance, he gritted his teeth to walk closer to our position. Twice he stumbled, and used the rifle as a crutch.

  I could stand it no more. I rose, aimed and fired.

  He was less than ten yards away.

  The bullet took him high in the chest, he buckled, staggered, and fell.

  Looking around, I considered the battle over. “Think there’ll be more coming?” I asked.

  “Well if there is, I’m not sitting here like a duck in a searchlight.”

  I agreed, there seemed no point in allowing the fire to give our enemies an advantage.

  We made our way back to the comparative darkness of the cars, continually glancing at the hill.

  Ivanhoe stood nearby. He looked at my face, held my head in his hand, turned it to see better, then grimaced. “Have a nice chat with Jerry did we?”

  The cars were empty. “The scientists?” I asked.

  “All on a wee dinghy, heading out to the sub.” He placed his hand on my head, near the throbbing part. “I think you should get this seen to.”

  “I’m okay.” I said, dismissing their gazes, but I could see their faces. I put my hand to my head, felt around, yes my head hurt, it stung, but I didn’t consider it life-threatening. When I brought my hand back down to look I could see thick blood on my hand, shining in the distant glow from the burning truck. “Aye, maybe I need a bandage or something.”

  But first we had to get out of the area.

  “I’m not going without that rifle.” I said, my thought processes were clear; it was by far the best piece of ordnance we’d seen, and I wanted it.

  With the rifle in the boot, and sacrificing a further haul of weapons for a speedy exit, we drove past the smoldering truck, up the hill, and off into the countryside. Balfour drove carefully, and using the small vanity mirror as a guide, I wrapped my head as good as I could with the bandage Ivanhoe had supplied. Once I’d got it tight, I tucked the end in somewhere at the back. It certainly wasn’t the best job, but it did stop the bleeding.

  It didn’t, however, stop the pain.

  The drive back to Edinburgh must have taken three days; it never seemed to end.

  On the journey I never fell fully asleep, but did doze from time to time. When I began to recognize the world outside me, the rising sun was already showing the first dim signs of dawn.

  I directed Balfour to Bruntsfield, and with much care, and we circled the house a couple of times, looking for any signs the apartment was under surveillance. “Nothing,” I said through slotted eyes, my head spinning.

  “Right,” he said, parking the car right outside the door. With His Fedora on my head, hopefully hiding any of my bandaging, and the rifle under my shoulder, acting as a crutch, I slunk inside. I had brushed away all form of help on my journey, but had to admit to being a little thankful for Balfour’s steady arm on the staircase inside. By the time I’d reached the apartment door, I was hanging on for dear life. I don’t remember the door being opened.

  We only got five feet inside the hallway of the apartment before Mother’s bedroom door opened. I recall the aggressive stance, the accusations of me being drunk, the lashing out at Balfour for his part in my debauchery.

  And her words… “Oh, my God.”

  I got laid gently on mum’s bed, and immediately pulled upright, my upper clothing removed. I remember my pistol falling out of my jacket pocket, tumbling onto the wooden floor, and my mother’s gasp of fear and astonishment. I have no idea where my rifle ended up. I even remember Balfour’s last look at me, all concerned and such, and his face morphing into Francis, poking her head in the door. I had no idea why.

  Alice was soon on the scene too, and I grinned, or tried to.

  “Get scissors…”

  “… needs woken up completely every two hours.” Alice’s voice, the bane of my next day.

  “You need to wake up James.” Cold water on my face, a wet towel. Damn the interruption of my dream was annoying. “What’s your name?”

  “Baldy Bain.” I grinned at my infantile, five-year-old humor.

  “James, Baird, be serious!” My mother’s you’re-in-trouble voice. I opened my eyes. If I was in that much trouble, I’d better not try joking again.

  “Yes, mum.”

  “What happened?”

  “Veronica!” Alice’s snappy tone jarred me; she shouldn’t be talking to mother like that. “He can’t tell you anything that happened. He’s not allowed to.” I felt a hand on my cheek. I recognized her touch. “James, what’s your address?”

  “Nine Barclay Terrace,” I replied dutifully.

  “Good boy,” Alice’s voice, very close to me. “Now, without telling me anything of what happened last night, it would be handy to know what kind of injury we’re dealing with here.”

  Ah. No telling tales. Loose lips sink ships. I nodded. “Ricochet.” I managed, my mouth dry. “A sniper rifle bullet ricochet.”

  I heard mother gasp, and her feet running out of the bedroom. Then peace, sleep. Wonderful.

  When Mum and Frances woke me, I felt much better. Sun was streaking past the drawn curtains, proclaiming a beautiful day outside. My head throbbed, but my vision was clearer. “Where’s Alice?” I asked.

  “She’s gone to work,” Mum’s tone was matter of fact. “She said if she got your work done, and explained your absence, it would be better.”

  I nodded, and regretted the action immediately. “Ooh.” I lay my head hard back on the pillow.

  “James Baird.” Mum’s voice soothed my throbbing skull. “I’m proud of you. Your Father would be proud of you.”

  I felt the cooling towel compress on my forehead. “That feels good, mum.”

  As I lay there, mum soothing my brow, I smiled up at her still-concerned face. Somehow I felt relieved that my secret was a little-bit out into the open.

  That morning, Biggles, the master-spy, had been introduced to Mrs. Veronica Baird.

  And it felt good.

  Avenging Steel

  Part Three: The Final Solution

  The Fallen Circus Performer

  “So tell me, Herr Baird, how exactly did you achieve such an injury?” Leutnant Möller had a strange expression for a fierce Nazi conqueror. His face showed a spark of humor, perhaps he even considered the question cheeky, impertinent. It was the first time I had seen any sign of humor from the German.

  He referred, of course, to the bullet ricochet high above my temple, gained helping four nuclear scientists get onto a British submarine. The wound had six hastily construed stitches in it, a small patch of my hair shaved back for the nurse’s access. In the week since it had happened, the swelling and redness had died down, but my skull still looked pretty bad.

  “It was mother’s fault,” I began, as I had so many times before, to the neighbors, to the workmates, my classmates, teachers; none of whom would ever know the real story. “We live in a first floor apartment, you see, and when I came home from the Student’s Union last Friday, there she was, hanging out the window like some circus high-wire act.”

  Möller was swallowing every word. “She was…?”

  “Trying to wash the windows!” I said in mock disdain, beginning the pantomime actions to illustrate my supposed mishap. “You have to unfasten the bottom one, you see, the
n reach out, sit on the windowsill, and wash the top one from the outside.” His head began to cock to one side, as if he weren’t hearing me properly. “I ran upstairs, pulled mum from the window ledge, and began berating her for her act of pure terror. ‘Well, how, James Baird, my boy, am I going to get them clean?’ she said.” I mimicked my mother’s matter-of-fact voice to a T.

  “And that, Leutnant Möller, is how I volunteered to save my mother’s life, and proceeded to try to wash the offending window, lost my grip and fell, hit my head on the wall below, and almost broke my neck on the pavement.”

  He clapped like I’d just barked, rolled over and played dead. I’ve never seen him looking so animated. “Well told, well told!”

  I acted suitably abashed, gathered the stories and was about to leave. “I have one more story for you.” He rose to the shelves behind, and pulled a thin folder. In bold print under a faded swastika were the words Streng Geheim; Top Secret. “This work details the fall of Kiev. The glorious Third Reich are mere meters from capturing the rich oil fields of Russia. This is a story to be told, Herr Baird.”

  From flippant and funny to dead serious in seconds.

  The next day, my column, The War Through German Eyes, told the story in the language that Leutnant Möller enjoyed; lots of praise for the glorious Third Reich, and a huge amount of honey sticking to my already heady account.

  Charlie Chambers, my editor, grabbed me early that morning. “I’ve got a job for you.” He said, looking at Alice. “Well, for the both of you.”

  “Oh yes?” I looked up from my writings.

  “The new radio station; Radio Heartland. Seems the bosses want a story on it, a real puff-piece, you know, ‘glorious Germans’ etc.”

  I looked at him suspiciously. “So why us?”

  “Because you’re the fawning toad, laddie.” He skyed his eyes. “You’re the one with the German silver spoon in his mouth.”

  “Oh,” I reacted as if I’d been shot in the heart. “I’m not sure I like that, boss.”

  “Too bloody bad, sunshine.” He laughed. “I’m serious though. In the week you were off, we had real problems getting stories passed by that weasel Möller. Then you return, and he’s handing you stories.”

  “So I get a reporter’s job?”

  Charlie shook his head. “No, Jimmy-me-lad. You get chosen by the ‘bosses’ to go and do the work you get paid for! Get it?”

  “Yes, Charlie.” I felt suitably chastised. “When do we do it?”

  “That’s more like it.” He gave me an understanding wink. “This afternoon. Appointment’s set at two.” He swept away, leaving Alice and I looking at each other, shaking our heads.

  “He doesn’t mean it, you know.” Alice said, a smile spreading onto her face.

  “It doesn’t make me feel any better,” I replied. “You know I got handed a white feather the other day?”

  “What?” She looked shocked. “You never told me.”

  “Oh,” I shook my head, having let my own security down for a second. “It was on a job. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  She smiled, and for a second we both regretted the secrecy we both had to work under, never letting our guard down, our whole relationship conducted with two invisible veils between us.

  “Frances would have loved going to the radio station.” I said, changing the subject, knowing my younger sister’s love of music.

  “Then we’ll bring her.”

  I shook my head, getting back to my story. “She’s at school.”

  “Then break her out for the day,” Alice now grinned widely. “It’ll make her week. Plus, maybe we can use her as a decoy for their questions, maybe if she keeps them busy, I can dig something up.”

  So at twelve thirty, I set off as usual for George Heriot’s School, the new Headquarters of the Germans in Edinburgh. When Leutnant Möller had done with me, and ‘passed’ my stories, I hurried across town to Frances’ school. It only took a gloomy expression, and the phrase ‘family emergency’ to allow her to cut classes for the rest of the day.

  “We’re going where?” she asked excitedly.

  “Radio Heartland,”

  Her eyes opened to the size of teacups. “We’re actually going into the radio station?”

  “Aye,” I said with some pride. “Just a wee perk of the job, my dearie.”

  Radio Heartland was situated in a nondescript building on Leith Walk. If I’d been expecting something ostentatious, I was way disappointed.

  “This is it?” Frances decried.

  “That’s the number I was given.” I knocked on the glass door, then tried the handle. Opening the door, I shouted inside. “Hello?”

  A man in full double-breasted suit met me. “Yes?” he looked professional, yes, but he was built like a wrestler, a body-builder; his suit bulged impressively in all the muscly places. He would have been more suitable at the front door of a nightclub.

  “James Baird,” I stuck my hand out like a rapier. “From The Scotsman.”

  “Ah, yes, we were expecting you.”

  I did the introductions, listing Frances as a junior assistant, and we were shown to a foyer, reminiscent of a large hotel. From that moment, we got bombarded. Three men, two very tidy women, all talking, facts figures. I took notes, Frances’ wide eyes never closed. In all we were in the building for half an hour, and I don’t think I’d ever been assaulted worse.

  We got the tour, in which the guides again never stopped talking, their incessant rhetoric almost making me sick. We got playlists, Frances got posters, Alice disappeared for a bit ‘to the powder room’, and we watched two old paunchy men play 78’s behind a glass screen. We got the history of Radio in Germany, then the history of Radio in Scotland. Follow that with the future of radio, and my head was turning to mush. It was all very underwhelming for me, but poor Frances soaked it in like a dry sponge. When Alice returned to the party, she was smiling, which bode well.

  Then Frances started talking music. Records. Recordings.

  Oh crap.

  I nearly looked around for something sharp to cut my wrists with; it was boring as hell, but give them their due, she got led into what they called the ‘archives’, and was given some choice records; all very nice, but the display was see-through. They wanted to make a good impression, and by Jesus, Frances was certainly fooled.

  When we eventually landed on the pavement outside, Frances was doing pogo-stick jumps with joy, jabbering about some American band leader I’d never heard of.

  “That’s the point!” she hammered home. “I’ve got it before anyone!”

  I shook my head. When Alice suggested we go get a cup of tea, I nearly grabbed her and kissed her. A large café was only a block up the hill, and I sent Frances to the queue at the self-service with a pound. Even if she spent it all, just to be rid of her chatter for a moment was worth every penny.

  “Whew,” I said, as she walked away.

  “She is a little high.” Alice leaned close as we neared an empty table. She kissed my cheek. “The radio station is a front.”

  “Okay,” I was instantly ready for more.

  “I got into the manager’s office.”

  We sat, and I could hardly believe my ears. “A front for what?”

  “Well, it’s hardly major news, but it just emphasizes we need to keep up the good fight.” She looked up at Frances, still busy. “They’re at the front of the anti-Semitic movement in Scotland. I saw documented proof. Playlists would never include any Jew, not even in American bands. They have a timetable for the introduction of specific words in their broadcasts. Talk about invasive.”

  A waitress arrived with a pot of tea, setting three cups on the table.

  “And I have to write a piece of good propaganda for them.” I stared into the bottom of my empty cup.

  Frances appeared, and handed me my change. I hardly gave any thought to it. There was a ten bob note, and a crown and some slush; that was good enough for me. Frances spent the next few mi
nutes flicking through her new possessions, crooning over every centre label. At least she’d quietened down.

  Then a waitress arrived with three rolls. I looked at the arrivals suspiciously. “What’s this?”

  “Oh,” My sister suddenly looked contrite. “They had Lorne.”

  “Lorne?” That hit me right in the taste buds. “Lorne sausage?”

  She nodded and grabbed hers before I could refuse or cancel the order. Her fingers were dusty with the flour on top of the bun, but inside was a steaming square of Scottish sausage. I hadn’t had such a luxury for quite some time. I didn’t hesitate in grabbing mine. For a moment, as the sausage hit my mouth, and the melted butter ran down my chin, I swear I was in heaven.

  “How much were they?” I asked cautiously, my mouth full, chewing every bite, savoring every morsel.

  “Sixpence each,” Frances stuffed the last piece into her mouth in case I could refute her judgement. It had cost me a whole night of beer, but oh my, it was worth it. “Sorry,” She said, the bread puffing her cheeks out.

  I shook my head. “I don’t give a crap.” I laid the crown firmly on the table. “Go get three more, and some broon sauce too.

  And off she went.

  “What does this mean?” Alice asked, finishing her roll. “Fresh produce? Is the economy lifting?”

  I turned round to see Frances back in line. “Maybe. Or one of the staff has a contact with a butcher. Maybe we’re eating roadkill or something.”

  At the end of the day, I didn’t care.

  I got a second roll, another slice of Lorne sausage. A bottle of sauce followed the rolls. My mouth drooled. This time I savored it more. The bottle with the Houses of Parliament blue label said HP Sauce, but the inside liquid was runnier than it should have been, so I assumed watered or vinegared down. I didn’t care. I opened the bun, folded the lid back, and drizzled the steaming meat with the brown sauce.

  For the next few moments I was a man in sausage paradise.

  A Whole Lot of Something