The Brass Compass

by Ellen Butler

  Magruder. That name also rang a bell, but I just couldn’t place it. I forced myself to retain the genial smile on my face, though I felt such disappointment on the men’s behalf. After all, they’d given so much for their country. I listened to the address with only half an ear as I gazed on proudly at the fine-looking group of soldiers in front of me.

  They all deserved medals.

  The General finished and returned the paper to his pocket. “Now I would like to move on to the main reason I’ve come to be here with you today.”

  He surveyed the troops and crooked a finger at his driver, who handed over a small black box. “I’m here to present the Distinguished Service Cross to one of you who showed gallantry and determination against all odds. Someone who not only risked life and limb for their country but also provided vital intelligence to the Allied cause, which saved hundreds, if not thousands, of lives, including innocent civilians back at home.”

  I listened with interest.

  “This person’s selfless acts saved not only American lives but foreign ones as well. I’m pleased to be able to present this award today in front of you men because it is my understanding, if not for the precise actions from certain men in the five-oh-second, this person might not have survived to continue work so valuable to the Allied cause.”

  My brows furrowed as I searched the ranks, trying to figure out who the general spoke of.

  “Today it is my honor, as Deputy Director of the Office of Strategic Services—”

  Of course, General John Magruder! We’d never met, but I’d seen his photograph at OSS headquarters on Navy Hill in D.C. next to Director Donovan’s...

  “—to Lillian Saint James.”

  My head snapped up at that. My musings had distracted me so completely, I missed the rest of Magruder’s speech. It was Lieutenant Colonel Kincaid, on my left, who took my hand and helped me rise, propelling me to where Magruder waited, holding a brass cross that hung from a blue-and-red-striped ribbon between his fingers. Thunderous applause rang in my ears, and I stood in mute astonishment while he pinned the prestigious award to the lapel of my jacket. Officers in the stand came forward to shake my hand. My head reeled. I staggered and would have fallen if Charlie hadn’t come to my rescue.

  Scooping up my elbow, he escorted me back to my seat. “Congratulations.”

  “Did you know about this?” I asked.

  He shook his head. Pride shined through his eyes and his warm grip settled my whirling confusion.

  The rest of the ceremony went by in a blur. Many of the troopers, including Charlie, were awarded for their actions in combat. My heart warmed when Magruder posthumously awarded Feinberg the same British Medal Nigel pinned on me in April. Finally, the ceremony wound down and the men dismissed.

  I gathered my things and straightened to find the general at my elbow. “Miss Saint James, I’ve got to be moving on, but I was wondering if you could give me a moment of your time before I leave.”

  “Of course, General.”

  He drew me away from the crowd to an empty bench at the far side of the grassy field. “I understand you turned in your resignation after Operation Gumdrop was canceled.” He didn’t look at me as he spoke, instead stared at the American flag fluttering in the breeze.

  “I did, sir.”

  “Why?”

  I sighed. What could I tell him? I couldn’t stand the thought of returning behind a desk while my beau battled Nazi’s? “Well, sir, I felt that my ... usefulness at the OSS had run its course. I knew you would never send me back in, and when the opportunity to see the inside of one of the concentration camps came up ... I took it. I’m sure my file tells you everything you need to know.”

  “As a matter of fact, it does. It also tells me that your impulsive actions acquired some unparalleled intelligence. That you’re quick on your feet. Did you really fix a car with your stocking?”

  My cheeks burned. “Well ... I didn’t fix the car, Sergeant Feinberg did.

  “The man who you performed field surgery on with a sewing kit from your handbag?”

  I fidgeted with the medal and cleared my throat. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “And is it true you escaped the Black Forest riding bareback on a German Army draft horse?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Finally, he turned his gaze on me, and those piercing eyes raked me up and down, pausing for a moment at the ring on my finger. “You are an incredibly resourceful young woman, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I understand congratulations are in order. You’re to be married.”

  “Hopefully in the fall, yes.”

  “Will you be returning to Washington?”

  “In two weeks.”

  “I hoped I could convince you to return to work at the OSS offices there.”

  I folded my hands over my knee. “I’m not sure how useful I would be.”

  “I can find a dozen jobs for a resourceful woman like you. But I would consider it a personal favor if you would help me out.”

  I twisted the ring on my finger.

  “At least until your wedding. Afterwards ... well, I suppose that would be up to you and your husband to decide.”

  How could I refuse the man in charge of OSS Intelligence this favor? I imagined I’d go back to manning a desk, maybe providing translation services. It wouldn’t hurt to continue to help out. I’d be safe at home in America, which would make Charlie happy, and it would give me something to do until he was released from the army.

  “Who do you need me to report to, General?”

  “When you return, contact your old roommate Jane.”

  “Very well.”

  Magruder rose and offered his hand.

  “I look forward to reconnecting with Jane. Who does she work for these days?”

  “Me.”

  My eyes widened at his revelation.

  “Thank you for your service, Miss Jolivet. I’ll see you in a few weeks.” He tipped his hat, pivoted on his heel, and strode to the waiting jeep.

  Charlie found me standing in the same position, watching the empty road where the general’s car once stood.

  “What did the general want?”

  “To offer me a job in D.C.

  “What kind of job?”

  “I’m not sure, something in his office. A desk job.” I turned to Charlie, whose furrowed brow told me everything I needed to know. Cupping his cheek, I assured him, “I agreed, but only until the wedding, darling. After that, it’ll be smooth sailing. I’m all yours.”

  Charlie’s features lightened, and he took the compass at my neck in his fingers, rubbing a thumb across the glass face. “I have a feeling with you, quiet and calm is never going to be in our future.”

  Glossary

  Ausweis – Identification card.

  Danke – Thank you.

  Ersatzkaffee – Coffee made from wheat or other grains, not coffee beans. Drunk during the war due to rationing and lack of access to imported coffee beans.

  Frau – A title for a married woman. Equivalent to the title missus.

  Fräulein – A title for a girl or young unmarried woman. Comparable to the title miss.

  Gasthaus – An inn or tavern providing lodging and food.

  Gestapo – Hitler’s private militarized police force used for interrogation and infiltration to ferret out spies and other dissidents against the Nazi Party policies.

  Hauptmann – German Army Captain.

  Heer – German Army.

  Herr – A title for a man. Equivalent to the title sir or mister.

  Luftwaffe – German Air force.

  Maginot Line – French first line of defense, it was built in response to WWI and as a defense against future invasion from the east. It was made of concrete fortifications, obstacles, an underground bunker system, and weapon installations. Construction began in 1929 and continued until 1938. In WWII the invading German Army simply went around it by going through Belgium.

  Marke
n – Ration coupons made for specific items, e.g., eggs, bread, meats.

  Marktplatz – A marketplace or town square.

  Oberst – German Army Colonel.

  Reichsmark – The money created and used during the Third Reich.

  Reichseierkarte – The Third Reich’s ration card booklet.

  Schutzstaffel – Also known as the SS. Specialized paramilitary troops within the Nazi Party responsible for general policing and enforcing the policies of Nazi Germany. Waffen SS were combat troops within the Army. The SS was also responsible for running the concentration camps. The Gestapo was a subdivision of the SS.

  Schwarzwald – Black Forest region in southern Germany bordering France. Known for its dense evergreen forests, rolling hills, and quaint villages. Its western boundary is the Rhine River.

  Siegfried Line – A mirror to the French Maginot Line, it was the Germans’ first line of defense against invasion. Built during WWI along the west German border, it included concrete barriers, defensive forts, tunnels, and anti-tank ditches filled with water. After the D-Day invasion, Hitler commanded able-bodied civilians and children to reinforce its construction.

  Sturmmann – Stormtrooper rank within the SS.

  Volkssturm – Also known as “The People’s Army,” it was the German national militia, established near the end of the war by the Nazi Party as a last resort to guard the homeland. It was comprised of old men, young boys, and women who were not already a member of the German military. Training was limited, organization and communication haphazard, and uniforms were often makeshift paramilitary or simply civilian clothes with an identifying armband. They played many roles including police, border guard, and frontline fighters.

  Wehrmacht – The Armed Forces of the Third Reich and Nazi Germany. It includes the Heer (Army), Kriegsmarine (Navy), and Luftwaffe (Air force).

  Zigaretten – Cigarettes.

  Guided Reading Group Questions

  Find them on Ellen’s website at, www.ellenbutler.net/book-clubs.

  Acknowledgements

  The Brass Compass has been a long time in coming and, as my first foray into historical fiction, couldn’t have come about if it weren’t for the help and support from many people. My gratitude and love goes out to my 93-year-old grandmother, a member of the “Greatest Generation,” and patron supporter of this publication. I am indebted to Oscar Burchard, a teenager able to escape a Nazi work camp with his integrity intact when others would have turned on their fellow man in order to survive. Your story, memories, and historical knowledge of Germany were invaluable to my research. The wonderful accounts of Army Air Corps Veteran Charles L. Childs stoked my imagination and gave me an insight to the minds of military personnel of the times. Historical knowledge from reenactor Robert Arnett gave a me both a reason and location to base my heroine. A heartfelt thank you goes out to Michaela Johnson and Alice Rachel for your translation services. To my content editor, Kelly Eadon, who talked me off a cliff and steered me in the right direction when I felt the manuscript rudderless, and my copyeditor, Amy Knupp, thank you for being a part of this journey to publication. As always, I am indebted to my family, for their constant support for The Brass Compass and encouragement even though it took over ten years for the kernel of an idea to become a published novel. Thank you all for your input, love, and support.

  About the Author

  Ellen Butler is an award-winning novelist writing critically acclaimed suspense thrillers, and sassy romance. The Brass Compass was inspired by the brave women who served in the OSS, British Special Operations Executive and French Resistance. Ellen is a member of The OSS Society and her original interest in WWII history piqued when her grandfather’s role as a cryptographer during the war was revealed. Ellen holds a Master’s Degree in Public Administration and Policy, and her history includes a long list of writing for dry, but illuminating, professional newsletters and windy papers on public policy. She lives in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, D.C. with her husband and two children.

  You can find Ellen at:

  Website ~ www.EllenButler.net

  Facebook ~ www.facebook.com/EllenButlerBooks

  Twitter ~ @EButlerBooks

  Goodreads ~ www.goodreads.com/EllenButlerBooks

  Novels by Ellen Butler

  Suspense

  Poplar Place

  Contemporary Romance

  Love, California Style Trilogy

  Heart of Design (book 1)

  Planning for Love (book 2)

  Art of Affection (book 3)

  Second Chance Christmas

  An Excerpt from Poplar Place

  Chapter One

  March

  “I think I’m in love,” I whispered with quiet reverence. It was a mistake. I knew that immediately. A mistake and irresponsible to fall in love at first glance. After all, what did I know about the inside if all I could see were the beautiful luscious lines on the outside? Besides, I knew better. When you fall in love with a house on the spot, you lose perspective. Heaven forbid the seller realized you loved the home because then you’d lost your bargaining power, especially if you were willing to pay anything to get it. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of paying anything to get it.

  The house was built in the style of an old Victorian, but I knew from the price sheet it was only sixteen years old and thus wouldn’t provide me with the headaches of a turn-of-the- century home. It was located in a small town called Denton, South Carolina, about an hour northwest of Charleston. The house had quaint gingerbread molding with a wrap-around front porch, a style usually seen more often in the New England area, and it was probably one of the reasons I loved it so much. It felt like a bit of home to me amidst the southern belle-flavored houses normally seen throughout South Carolina. The street appealed to me too. It was quiet and shady with rows of Bradford Pear trees lining the sides like soldiers at attention. In early spring, the trees would bloom with their fluffy white blossoms announcing the end of winter. I could easily envision strolling down the tree-lined sidewalk on my way to work.

  A recent transplant to Denton, I had become the newest librarian at the Denton Regional Library. South Carolina was my new home. Or maybe a better description would be the place I had run to, away from a former life—a life I was doing my best to put distance and the memory of far away. I was looking for a place to reinvest the money I’d received from the sale of my downtown loft. The market was up when I left the steel town of Pittsburgh and the Denton housing market was slightly depressed. Money would go a long way toward buying a house down here. Although, it did seem slightly ridiculous for one person to be thinking of living in a 3,000 square foot home...alone. Dismissively, I shook my head; I wouldn’t allow thoughts like that to distract me from this gorgeous dwelling.

  To me, the house represented salvation, a new beginning in small-town America. I wished to shed the memories of my old life as a snake shed its skin when it grew. Perhaps I, too, would grow a new skin in Denton. Looking over the front porch, I pictured myself sitting on a rocker watching the neighborhood kids ride their bikes up and down the street.

  Perhaps I’ll get a cat to keep me company. Great, I’ll become the crazy cat lady living alone in the big house. What was I thinking? Shading my eyes with a hand, I turned to look at the upper stories and thought I caught a faint movement in the third-story window on the far right—possibly a curtain fluttering from a draft. Perhaps the owner was inside watching me.

  My daydreams came to an abrupt halt as my realtor parked on the street behind my car. Jackie Barnes stepped out of her cream Cadillac with a wave and peachy southern smile aimed my way. As usual, she was dressed to the nines in a deep blue dress and drool-worthy pink stilettos. Her hair was shellacked into a blonde helmet that would take hurricane force winds to displace. The classic style suited her age, I guessed at mid-forties, and her looks. I felt a bit frumpy next to her wearing khaki shorts and a red polo. My realtor was a striking woman and compared to her I blended into the realm of ave
rage. Thick chestnut brown hair fell to my shoulders and blew gently in the breeze. I inherited the hair from my mom and loved its natural body and reddish highlights. On the other hand, my eyes were your average brown. Romantics might call them luscious chocolate, but to me they were just boring brown eyes. My figure could best be described as an hourglass.

  Jackie arrived at my side, chattering away. “Isn’t it fabulous?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s only sixteen-years-old, but the architect did such a wonderful job with the wrap- around porch and gingerbread accents you’d never know it wasn’t designed at the turn of the century.” She let out a rush of air. “So, what do you think?”

  I liked Jackie for her perkiness and southern accent, which exuded hospitality and charm. She became my realtor when I literally walked off the street into her office with no appointment and very little idea exactly what I was looking for—much like the rest of my life lately. Jackie, with unflappable good humor and what seemed to be inexhaustible patience, showed me home after home for about three weeks. I supposed that was the difference between realtors in the big city versus my new small town. I thanked my lucky stars for it. In Pittsburgh, I have no doubt a realtor would have dropped me like a hot potato or pawned me off on her most junior recruit. Jackie seemed to feel something motherly toward me and kept plugging away trying to find just the right “thang” for me.

  I smiled at Jackie. “It looks perfect.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you like it.” She had a look of relief. “It just came on the market yesterday. I believe it’s vacant. The former owner passed away a few months ago and the heirs are just now gettin’ around to sellin’. Let’s go ahead to see if it looks as good on the inside, shall we? The selling agent said she is going to meet us here and explain some sort of condition to the sale.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not sure what that means. I hope it doesn’t mean the interior is a wreck or the foundation is falling apart.” Jackie looked back at me as she trotted up to the front door, her heels tapping against the brick walkway, gesturing madly with her hands. “If it’s the foundation, let me tell you, honey, it’s just not worth it. I have all sorts of horror stories about poorly laid foundations that crack and every time it rains the water pours into the cellah.”