Avenging Steel: The First Collection

by Hall, Ian

  Once again, my routine went from humdrum to hectic in the space of a day.

  Although late into the office, I put in a full morning before taking our stories to the new German Headquarters. I then arrived late at my lecture, where I was given an assignment to be handed in a week later. Alice met me right outside the lecture-room door, and whisked me away in my car to sit outside a railway yard down off Portobello Road.

  By eight o’clock I was tired, starving and in need of a quick pint or two.

  Mind you, our cover-story would be two lovers in a car, so we had to do some play-acting when we observed railroad cars move from one track to another. Not exactly the most boring of cover-stories, trust me.

  The next day was more of the same, but we’d remembered to bring a packed tea, sandwiches, yes, but better than nothing.

  I’d love to report that we made a groundbreaking discovery, but alas, the next day at work, Ivanhoe again arrived in the office, and announced that word had come from his contacts in the south. The men were not going to join up. The whole idea was a plot by the Germans to cream off the most fervent men, and throw them into work-camps. The men, so rabid in their desire to join the allied war effort were in fact building German factories in the industrial belt of England.

  “And Carstairs.” He said, exchanging glances.

  I had passed through the village of Carstairs in the dark, just a few weeks ago, on my way to getting my head shot at. I was instantly interested. “That’s not in England.” I stated the obvious.

  “No, it’s just thirty miles away.” Ivanhoe stated.

  “What are they building at Carstairs?”

  “That we don’t know,” Ivanhoe didn’t often look worried, but I caught a flash of something, some concern floating near the surface. “And what bothers me, is that the information came from England, not from our mob.”

  So that was it. His ‘sources’ had let him down. “Isn’t Carstairs in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Yes, that’s why they built the Correctional Center there in the first place. Their so-called Home for wayward Boys. No witnesses, easier clean up if any breakouts occurred.”

  “So the Nazis are trying to hide something.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, Biggles old chap.”

  There he was again with the military type talk. “What did you do before the war?” I knew my question was bold, but I thought I might get an answer.

  “Hmm,” Ivanhoe smiled, a rare commodity indeed. “I was born into this stuff, old bean. I was recruited straight from officers school, Sandhurst. Never set a foot in the army like my Dad wanted… grabbed from the final passing out parade, right into the vaults of Naval Intelligence. Well, that’s what they called it before the Old Man formed the S.O.E.. Every facet of military intelligence thrown together in the same building and told to work together. What a bloody mess that was.”

  I almost fainted. Ivanhoe had just divulged more about himself in a thirty second blurt that in all the months I’d known him. “Naval Intelligence, huh?”

  “Yes, I know all about picking fluff from my belly-button.”

  Amazingly we laughed. Not the nervous stuff I’d been so used to, but a real warm belly-laugh that cemented friends.

  “So what now?”

  “Well. I have to contact the cells nearest Carstairs, and find out the facts. Until then, it’s business as usual.”

  I suddenly remembered a memory from my head-getting-shot trip. “Carstairs is also on a railway line.”

  Ivanhoe’s eyes lit up. “Of course! Carstairs Junction! It’s where the main line from London splits; one side for Glasgow, one side for Edinburgh. That’s brilliant!”

  “It was just an idea,” I said, amazed at his praise.

  “No, not you, you ninny!” Ivanhoe swept to his feet in a blur of motion. It’s the perfect place for a secret factory; out in the middle of nowhere, yet having a major railway line. Oh those crafty buggers.”

  It seemed the spy business was always going to be ordinary for periods of time, punctuated with frantic spells of activity; what my dad used to call ‘snails ‘n’ bees’.

  Using that analogy, we had a snail of a weekend, which stretched quite successfully into Monday. That afternoon, as I prepared to leave the office for Uni, a team of men kitted in matching overalls arrived with boxes and drums of cable.

  As my time for University loomed I watched them hammer cables along skirting boards and up walls.

  “Looks like we’re getting a telephone,” I said to Alice who stood as spellbound as I.

  I watched as a black ceramic device was placed on my desk, then connected at the floor behind my chair. I viewed the new addition with compounding suspicion, wondering where the directive had come from.

  As I walked up the Bridges to my class, although the sky was clear ahead, I could not help but think the world had gotten darker, more sinister than just hours before. Even the class that day could not dispel the dark mood from me, and I took to my room like a hermit into a cave. In the depths of my supposed despair, I gave thought that even the Prophet Peden, born just a mile or so from my father’s Ayrshire family village of Sorn, could not have felt so low.

  Little did I know the troops were gathering.

  The Scottish Auxiliaries

  Once again drawn into Ivanhoe’s web of intrigue, I found myself in Balfour’s car. Our destination, to no one’s surprise, was the small village of Carstairs.

  But once we rounded the last bend, the village directly in front, I knew we’d made the wrong decision. Up ahead, was more German activity than I’d ever seen at one time. The railway yards were full of industrial open-topped bogies and cattle cars. Swarming around them were a most bedraggled workforce; it seemed the entire population of Scotland were here, guarded by the whole German Army.

  Balfour slowed, but up ahead lay a roadblock, and doing a U-turn would have given us away immediately.

  I readied my ID card and my story. I was going to see a friend of the family; a farmer, living nearby.

  There were only three cars in front of us, and the guards went through them quickly.

  “Papiere.”

  I handed mine over.

  “Ver you go?” the man asked. I’m not sure he would have understood the answer in English anyway.

  “Ich besuche einen Freund von meiner Frau. Er wohnt in der Nähe.”

  He gave me a long stare. “Ihr Deutsch ist gut.”

  “Danke. Meine Frau ist halb Deutsch. Ihr Vater war ein Gefangener aus den Großen Krieg.”

  He handed my papers back, winked, then let us through.

  “Do we stop in town like we planned?” I asked, hoping not.

  “With so many Jerry around? Not on your nelly,” Balfour said with venom.

  Driving through the middle of the village, I felt reluctant to grant it such lofty status. Basically apart from the massive railyard, Carstairs was no more than a few buildings and a church. And even the church was just a small rectangle, a sharply pointed roof, with tall thin arched windows. It stood deserted, next to the small manse next door.

  We drove the length of the hamlet, before continuing back into moorland and farmland. “Considering all the railway yards, I’m surprised it doesn’t have a pub.” I said, my eyes glaring back into the evening’s gloom.

  Balfour gripped the wheel with stiffening knuckles. “I’m not sure the workforce would get time off at night anyway.”

  He was probably right; they moved sluggishly, little more than slaves.

  We drove out of town, plan B coming into immediate effect; the Auxiliary contact in Wishaw. It would be my first contact with the British resistance force, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. “Why a minister?” I asked.

  Balfour laughed. “They’re perfect for the units; each unit needs a commander who has access to a car, reason to be driving and reason to have access to petrol when it’s rationed heavily; hence who’s more innocuous that a preacher, visiting his flock?”

  According
to the map on my lap, the small town of Wishaw was only ten miles away, and we got there before sunset. Balfour parked in front of the first church we came across, the South Wishaw Parish Church. He wasted no time in finding the minister, walking right through the large church, into the offices beyond “Trevor?” he asked, sticking his head in the door.

  The minister, in plain civilian clothes apart from his dog collar, looked at us awkwardly. “Yes. Who wants to know?” I realized instantly that we’d crossed the invisible north-south line that changes the Scots accent from proper Edinburgh to the more lilting Glasgow.

  Trevor, I’m Dennis Ferguson. I’ve been told to tell you, I’m a friend of Captain McLennan, KOSB’s.”

  The minister grinned. “Oh, you are, are you? And tell me, how is Captain McLennan these days?”

  Balfour’s time to grin. “Oh, Trevor, we both know he’s lang deid.” I almost broke into a smile myself as Balfour’s accent changed into deeper Scots.

  “Come, on. This isn’t the place to talk.”

  We followed the man out of the church, and next door to the manse, where his wife soon bustled herself into getting the kettle on. I could smell the odor of fresh baking and I hoped we’d be the recipients.

  “So what unit are you from?” Trevor asked.

  “One of the official ones.” Balfour replied. “Official enough to know to contact you if Carstairs ever went dark.”

  “Okay, you’ve got my attention. What do you want to know?”

  “What’s going on at Carstairs.” Balfour asked.

  Trevor nodded, looked down in his lap for a moment. “So our messages haven’t been getting out?”

  Balfour shook his head. “Not that we know of.”

  “I suspected as much. We’ve heard nothing coming in for almost two weeks now, we were almost at the stage of sending someone out, you know with the radio.”

  “So perhaps the Germans have been blocking your signals somehow?” I offered. “Both out and in.”

  Trevor looked at me for a second, as if appraising me. “Yes, we’ve suspected as such.”

  “So, Carstairs?” Balfour asked again.

  “We simply don’t know.” Trevor shook his head. “A lot of concrete getting poured, some industrial buildings, the foundations for lots of wooden huts. It could just be an extension of the existing camp, but they are clearing brush from the perimeters, as if they’re going to set a install a wider fence.”

  “Industrial buildings?”

  “Yes, concrete floors, maybe some kind of smelter, I really don’t know any more. Two of our Carstairs boys got out just last week. Poor Jerry. He can’t get enough food to the workforce, and their guards are at their wits end keeping the workforce interred.”

  I could see our trip hadn’t been a total waste of time, but it hadn’t exactly spilled the beans either. “And that’s all the details you can give?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so, young man.”

  “Could we insert someone on the inside?” I asked. It was an idea I’d considered for a few days.

  “Now that’s a risky enterprise.” Trevor shook his head. “The two boys that escaped were lucky, and they were trained too, not your common or garden Commando.”

  The conversation fell silent, and I, for my part, pondered Trevor’s words.

  “Here’s what we know so far, and feel free to pass this on; it’s fact.” Balfour said. “The Germans have been spreading rumors of resistance ships taking fighting men to Canada, but it’s just a trap. The men get shoved into cattle-cars and taken to work camps, like the one in Carstairs. Basically, the headstrong element are being weeded out of society and used as cheap labor. We’ve got details of sites in the middle of England, and now we know, here in Scotland too.”

  We drove back to Edinburgh in darkness, Balfour dropping me off high on Morningside hill. I strolled down the dark deserted streets in quiet reflection. Things were afoot, and we had no idea what the heck was going on.

  Thankfully Winston Churchill put an end to the passionate ones volunteering themselves for Hitler’s work parties. The next night, right across our existing radio network, he spoke to the nation.

  People of Britain, it has come to my knowledge that word is spreading of a secret underground route to join me in Canada. Let me tell you, such a route does not exist. It is a lie spread by the Nazis, and anyone who volunteers themselves for such a journey is placing themselves into the Nazi war machine. You will be imprisoned and put to work for the good of the Third Reich.

  People of Britain, we do not have the facilities to accept your service at this time, but let me assure you, we soon will, and when we do, we will ask you to rise, not with thoughts of joining us in Canada, but joining us on the beaches, joining us on the landing grounds, joining us in sending Mister Hitler and his minions back to where they came.

  People of Britain, stand firm with patience, stand firm in resolve, for soon we shall stand together in arms!

  Yup, good ‘Old Man’ Winston; sitting in safety in Canada, while the rest of us stood as slaves. But I cheered, danced round the kitchen with April, danced a jig with mother, swung Francis, arm-in-arm, and arrived breathless as the radio station lost its temporary parasitic controller, and broke into the middle of a Glenn Miller tune.

  After midnight, as I watched out of my double windows, watching the quiet yellow-lit streets, Alice slipped into my room and we forgot the war for a brief moment in time.

  Well, probably more like an hour.

  Later, we lay in the afterglory, bathed in the dim street light breaking through the thin lace curtains. “We are making a difference, you know.” She offered in a whisper. I brushed her curls back from her face, and lay in silence, happy just to have someone I could share a moment with.

  As I fell asleep, the images of weary prisoners flooded my dreams. Unfortunately they did not all survive the building of the large white Nazi temple, its columns like a Roman amphitheater, each chisel mark lined with blood.

  I awoke to mum’s tapping on my door. “James? Breakfast.”

  I opened my eyes and shot bolt upright. Thankfully Alice had gone, although I cannot remember her parting. “Okay, mum. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  We were in the office bright and early that day, just after eight, and I wasn’t the slightest surprised when a street kid arrived, cap clutched to his chest. “Hot Baked Potatoes.” He looked right in my eyes.

  “Okay you’ve got my attention,” I answered, my pencil poised over my latest story.

  “Platform 7 in ten minutes.”

  I nodded. “I can do that.” The boy smiled, and slipped away. His bright blue eyes seemed to be burnt into my retinae. He’d have to lose that stare if he was going to go far. “Can you look after things?” I asked Alice.

  “Sure, go; have your boy’s club meeting.” She grinned, but once more I thought I caught something in her teasing remark that lingered.

  I left the building by the print-shop exit, right onto Market Street. The southern entrance to the train station was almost opposite; a long tunnel that dropped onto each platform with wide stairways. It was only minutes after nine o’clock, the station was busy. On Platform seven I caught sight of Balfour standing next to an open carriage, and approached slowly. When he saw me, he stepped onto the train, and made the smallest of ‘follow-me’ gestures. I climbed aboard.

  I found myself in an empty compartment, Balfour my only companion. He closed the door behind me, and stood holding on to the handle. “Get the other door.”

  I did the same with the internal door, thus shutting it off from anyone entering, although our actions would encourage ire from anyone trying to board.

  “We have to get someone into the Carstairs facility.” He began. “Any ideas?”

  “I could do it.”

  “You’re too important.” Balfour’s head-shake was undeniable. “Not a chance.

  “How about watching from outside?”

  Again the headshake. “Not enough cover, and the Ge
rmans patrol the outside, even into the farmer’s fields.”

  “The get someone into the fields!” I said, frowning. “Why is it so difficult, heck, Alice and I could do it.”

  “How?”

  “She worked in a bloody farm,” I almost said ‘you idiot’ after it… glad I stopped myself.

  To my surprise, he swept the door open and walked out onto the platform. Interview over. Shaking my head at the organization’s inability to see the bloody obvious, I got out of the carriage, and I too walked away.

  Back in the office, I told the whole story; probably not a good idea from a security standpoint, but I’d been so flummoxed by the little get-together I had to get it off my chest, and she was by far my safest option.

  “So I can expect to be contacted sometime soon, then?” Alice asked.

  “Probably, maybe both of us…” I stopped, suddenly knowing it would be unlikely. The surveillance could take weeks to shed any light on the subject, and I could hardly leave the newspaper after a week off with my head-wound. That would be way too suspicious.

  She shook her head, reinforcing my growing depression that she’d be on a mission without me. “I don’t see them letting both of us go, darling.”

  And considering I’d put the idea into Balfour’s head, that put me into a funk for the rest of the day.

  Alone Again, With Benefits

  Alice was called away before I left for my daily meeting with Leutnant Möller in the old George Heriot’s School. We didn’t embrace, I’m not sure if I’d have let her go if we’d gotten close. We gave each other a serious look, then I told myself I’d see her later before she went for good. I mean, if she were going for a few days, she’d have to come home and pack, right?

  She didn’t turn up for dinner that night, her chair sitting ominously empty at the table. Not that Mum or Frances noticed, their conversation swam around my head like empty bees, I paid scant attention.

  I read into the evening, sitting in dad’s chair. I read our newspaper first, then a copy of The Last of the Mohicans, but my heart wasn’t in it. I needed something light, so set off to the large closet at the end of the hall. No more than a box room, we’d littered it with everything we couldn’t keep in our rooms. I was on a mission; to find my stash of Biggles books. Pulling old golf clubs from the corner, my attention was taken by a strange, yet familiar tube. I pulled on it, immediately feeling its considerable weight.