by Will Belford
She no longer recognised that time. Now there was no room in her heart for love, only vengeance.
~ ~ ~
‘Hold on to my arm Smithy, that’s it, grab hold. Now, have a go without the crutch. You’ve only got to make it to the chair.’
Smythe steadied himself, put his weight on his left foot and leant hard on Joe. He took a deep breath and dropped the crutch, then moved his right foot forward six inches and placed his weight on it. Suppressing a grimace, he moved the left foot, then the right and staggered across the lawn to the wheelchair sitting under the willow, where he swivelled and collapsed. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and he rubbed at the ankle of his left foot.
‘Grouse effort Smithy, you’ll be running inside a week I reckon.’
‘Whatever you say sir,’ replied the sergeant through gritted teeth. ‘How’s your rehabomination comin’ along then?’
‘The doc told me this morning that physically I’m OK, nothing broken, incredibly, some bad bruises and sprains only. My brain’s taken a bit of a beating though, concussion or something, some part of it’s all inflamed. He reckons that if I rest a bit longer it’ll calm down, but there’s some chance I’ll have blackouts or some kind of fit if I get over-excited.’
‘You’d better stay away from Nurse Leslie then,’ chuckled Smythe.
‘Ha bloody ha Mr Smythe.’
‘Have you ‘eard that bloke screaming in the middle of the night?’ asked Smythe, ‘Crikey, he must be ‘avin’ bad dreams.’
‘Screaming? No I must have slept through it.’
‘Lucky for you. ‘e kept calling some French girl’s name, least I suppose it was a name, went on and on. I think they gave him shot of something to shut ‘im up in the end. Maybe this place was a nuthouse before the war and ‘e’s still ‘ere. So when do you reckon they’ll let us out?’
‘Come now gentlemen, it is nearly lunchtime.’ Nurse Leslie walked behind Smythe and gently pushed the wheelchair along the lawn towards the ramp beside the hospital entrance.
‘We will miss all of you boys when you leave us,’ she said, her blue eyes looking at Joe.
Joe had been flirting with Nurse Leslie ever since he’d woken up and realised that he was in England. She was in charge of the rehabilitation ward where Joe had spent most of the last few weeks, helping Smythe to get back on his feet. A piece of shrapnel had sliced through his left calf muscle and straight through his shin bone. The cast was about to come off and the doctor was confident that he would make a full recovery. The nurse was learning French, and Joe’s conversations with her, punctuated by scraps of atrocious French he could not recall ever having learnt, had given them both a great deal of pleasure.
This time though, Joe had no witty reply. ‘Well, we’ll come back when the war’s over, eh Smithy? Any news lately?’
‘France has fallen and Marshal Petain has set up a government in Vichy. France is all German now apparently. Now, how is your head? Any blackouts today?’
‘Nah, not so far, everything’s fine, I feel pretty good.’
‘Except you still can’t remember anything from the last few months?’
‘Nup. Last thing I remember was being in a hotel before the whole shooting match started.’
‘That is definitely not a good sign, you will need take care or the memory loss may be permanent.’
‘As long’s I can remember you Nurse Leslie, that’s fine with me.’
‘Oh you,’ she blushed and pushed him in the chest, ‘come on then, help me get him up the ramp.’
~ ~ ~
The man in the black uniform walked up and down the line of civilians, his arms behind his back, looking intently at each person. Behind him, soldiers hefted machine guns and stared into the middle distance, seemingly oblivious.
‘You are all enemies of the Reich,’ screamed the officer, ‘You have all conspired to betray the sacred mission of the Fuhrer and for this you will pay.’
Joe noticed a girl in the line. Despite the indignity of the situation, she held herself erect with a proud bearing. She looked familiar. The officer noticed her too. He walked up to her and grabbed her by the hair, twisting her head cruelly, then slapped her face viciously.
Joe leapt forward but found himself unable to move, as if his limbs were pinioned.
‘You, you pretty little thing, will set an example for the rest of them so they know what to expect if they step out of line again.’
He pulled his pistol from its holster and waved it in front of her face. She spat in his eye.
The man choked but didn’t let go, he lashed her viciously across the face with the pistol, leaving blood streaming from her cheek. Joe screamed and struggled to free himself.
The officer pulled the girl upright and thrust the pistol’s barrel into her mouth. Suddenly, Joe knew who she was.
‘Yvette! Yvette!’ screamed Joe.
The officer pulled the trigger and stepped away as the body crumpled.
‘Finish it,’ he snarled to the men. The machine guns opened up.
‘It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s only a dream Joe, only a dream.’
Nurse Leslie was on the side of the bed, sponging his head with a damp cloth.
Joe turned and found he still couldn’t move. His arms and legs were held down with leather restraints.
‘What the hell’s this?’ he said.
‘It’s for your own good Joe. When you have these dreams you scream and thrash about so terribly, the doctor was afraid you would injure yourself.’
‘Christ, I didn’t come down in the last shower, something pretty bad must have happened. Am I losing my mind?’
‘No, it’s just a concussion, but a bad one. Perhaps when you get your memory back these nightmares will stop? Here, I will untie you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Joe. ‘You know I still only know you as Nurse Leslie,’ said Joe, ‘aren’t you going to tell me your name?’
‘The doctor advised me not to tell you this, but my name is Yvette,’ she replied.
Joe had gone rigid. The colour had drained from his face and he was staring into space as if seeing something denied to mere mortals.
‘Joe,’ she was close, whispering in his ear, ‘you have been screaming my name night after night. What happened? Tell me.’
‘Oh Christ help me, it’s all coming back,’ whispered Joe, tears streaming down his face.
‘Tell me Joe, tell me what happened.’
‘What time is it?’ he asked.
‘3am’.
‘Hold me Yvette, I’m cold.’
She lay down beside him and wrapped herself around his back. She ran her hands softly over his forehead and shoulders and he started to talk. He talked for hours, until, eventually, he stopped and just lay there, rigid.
‘It will be alright Joe, it will be alright,’ she whispered over and over, as if by repetition it could be made the truth.
Gradually, the tension in the soldier’s body loosened, and his head dropped heavily onto the pillow.
As his breathing became steady, Yvette stared at the window. Outside, the black night was turning grey.
Chapter Thirty-one
England, 19 June 1940
The British officers stood before the podium, some still with arms in slings, or struggling to stay upright on crutches or new prosthetic limbs.
A little way down the line, a general and a major were escorting a third officer in a Field Marshal’s uniform. He had a lined face and prominent ears and Joe thought he looked vaguely familiar.
‘Who’s this geezer?’ he whispered to the officer beside him.
‘That’s King George the Sixth,’ hissed the man in an irritated tone.
‘The King himself eh?’ thought Joe, ‘you’ve come a long way boyo.’
‘Lieutenant Joe Dean,’ called the RSM and Joe took a step forward.
‘For acts of exemplary gallantry during active operations against the enemy in the defence of Belgium,’ read the major, ‘Lieutenant Joseph D
ean of His Majesty’s Australian Imperial Force is awarded the Military Cross.’
The king pinned the medal to Joe’s chest and said ‘You’re a l-l-long w-w-way from h-h-home, L-Lieutenant. W-w-well d-done sir.’
‘Thank you, your Majesty,’ replied Joe, then, as instructed, flung his best salute and stepped back into line.
An hour later he met Smythe in the Elephant and Castle. Smythe was now nearly fully healed and able to walk without crutches, but Joe found him nursing a pint of bitter with an unhappy expression.
‘What’s up Smithy?’ asked Joe, slapping him on the back, ‘You look like an emu’s kicked your dunny down.’ It was then that Joe noticed his friend’s sleeve: it had only two stripes.
‘Your field commission wasn’t approved sir,’ said Smythe, I’m back to bein’ a corporal. But hang on, what’s this bit o’ tin on your shirt sir?’
‘It’s a Military Cross Smithy, the King himself stuck it on there. Makes me wonder how anyone knew what went on over there that they could decide to give me a medal. Did you have anything to do with it by any chance?’
‘Well sir, I might’ve mentioned one or two things when I was bein’ debriefed.’ replied the corporal. ‘Our ‘ole company was wiped out sir, they want to know what ‘appened in those sorts of situations I gather.’
‘Well it’s bloody hard lines that I should get this and you be put back to corporal,’ said Joe. ‘Don’t worry mate, I’ll get that sorted out if it’s the last thing I do. They must be short of experienced sergeants for heaven’s sake.’
The door of the pub swung open, and in walked Major Merrivale.
‘Ah, Dean and Smythe, I was told I might find you here. Congratulations on your medal Dean, jolly good show, you met the King himself I gather? Excellent. Now listen Smythe, I was having dinner with a fellow officer at Black’s, he’s in the War Office, and he mentioned your name. It seems there’s been a mix-up with your promotion. The base wallahs don’t like it when promotions aren’t done through the usual channels, messy things like people being killed in action tend to upset their nice neat books. I’ve had a word with a few people though, and they’ve assured me that you’ll get your third stripe back.’
‘Why that’s wonderful news sir, thank you,’ said Smythe.
‘Did you hear that we managed to get more than three hundred thousand men back to Blighty?’ said the major, ‘incredible isn’t it?’
‘Unbelievable,’ said Joe, ‘can we buy you a celebratory drink Major?’ asked Joe.
‘Love to, but I don’t have the time,’ replied Merrivale. ‘Do you know Dean, that besides losing your whole platoon, we lost another forty-three men, killed, captured or missing? I’ve got to put a whole new company together and I was hoping I could rely on you two to help me.’
‘Well of course …’ began Joe.
‘Unfortunately,’ continued the Major, ’I’ve received a request to release both of you from my command for a temporary assignment. You’re to report to army HQ here in London tomorrow at 0800. That clear?’
‘Righto Major, but what’s it all about?’ asked Joe.
‘No idea, officially,’ replied Merrivale, ‘it was all hush-hush, but I’d imagine it might have something to do with your language skills. Report to the barracks in Stafford when you’ve finished whatever it is they want you to do. Best of luck to you both then, goodbye and thank you for everything you did over there, you were lucky to survive.’
The major saluted and walked out, leaving Joe and Smythe scratching their heads.
‘Language skills?’ said Smythe, ‘I can barely speak English.’
‘No point in wondering want the army wants,’ said Joe raising his pint, ‘let’s get pissed Smithy.’
~ ~ ~
The next day found two severely hung-over men sitting in the waiting room at the Army Headquarters building, an imposing stone edifice near Whitehall.
After an hour of painful waiting, a lieutenant opened a door across the hall and beckoned to them.
Inside, a colonel glowered at them from behind a desk.
‘Made it back from Belgium then?’ he enquired.
‘As you can see sir,’ replied Joe.
‘Ah, an Australian. I remember your type from ’18. I hope you fight as well as your forebears did.’
Joe couldn’t see the point of this needling. He felt as if his blood had turned to sand and someone were probing behind his right eye with a knitting needle. He wanted this over so he could go and die quietly in a darkened room.
‘What are we here for sir?’
‘In a hurry Lieutenant?’ replied the colonel, ‘I can smell the booze coming off you both in waves. Sit down and I’ll let you in on a little secret.’
‘At the PM’s orders, we’re forming a special unit called the Commandos. Its job is to conduct raids wherever the enemy is and strike terror into the Germans. The PM specifically wants us to create a reign of terror all along the French coast. He’s calling it ‘Butcher and Bolt’. Now, I’ve heard a bit about you two, I’m told you held off the assault of a German armoured battalion with one platoon, then escaped from a massacre at a town called Le Paradis?’
‘That’s right sir,’ said Joe, ‘we were lucky.’
‘Indeed Lieutenant, from what I hear luck seems to follow you around—Napoleon would have made you a general—but I’m afraid this is the best I can do. How would you like a chance to kidnap or assassinate Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter?’
Joe’s heart leapt at the hated name.
‘Like?’ he said, ‘I’d give my right arm. What about you Smithy?’
‘I’m with you sir.’
‘I was hoping that would be your response. Now, our sources in occupied France tell us that Richter’s unit is being rested in a town called Wissant, supposedly for the next month. It’s a coastal village directly across the Channel from Dover, so we thought we’d have crack at the bastard. Can I count on you both to volunteer?’
‘Yes sir,’ replied Joe, and Smythe nodded.
‘Excellent. You’ll start your training tomorrow. See the duty officer outside, he’ll tell you where to report. And gentlemen? We may never get another chance to bring this murdering bastard to justice, so don’t bugger it up, alright? Dismissed.’
The next day found Joe and Smythe swaying along on a train with six other men, heading for Glasgow. The conversation revealed that they came from all sorts of different units, but they had one thing in common: they were off to join Winston Churchill’s new elite fighting force: the Commandos.
###
So what happens next?
Thank you
A big “Thank You” from me for reading Blood and Blitzkrieg, I hope you enjoyed it. Joe’s adventures will continue in the next book, Butcher and Bolt. In the meantime, enjoy the first two chapters on the following pages.
Who is Will Belford?
Will Belford is a professional writer with twenty-five years of experience as technical and marketing writer, and director of Style and Syntax Pty Ltd (http://www.styleandsnytax.com.au)
Will is also a musician who has played in numerous bands, the most recent being The Telltales (http://wwwthetelltales.com)
Will lives near Sydney, Australia, with his wife, three children and a rapidly-depleting wine cellar. You can contact Will online at:
willbelford.com
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Smashwords
Butcher and Bolt
The second instalment in the Joe Dean series.
Chapter One
Calais, France, 3 August 1940
The room was not clean, and the woman was more witch than midwife, but there hadn’t been a lot of choice. When she’d realised she was pregnant, Yvette had despaired. Either the child was Joe’s, who was gone, probably killed or captured at Dunkirk; or it was the unwelcome spawn of the many rapes the Nazi spy Schmidt had subjected her to.
Either way, the child would be a bastard born of war that would only remind her of everythi
ng she had lost. She wanted nothing to do with it, and so she had knocked on the door of the small house in a disreputable part of the town, and now found herself lying on a table while this horrible old woman poked around between her legs.
‘How long?’ asked the crone, picking some dirt out from under a fingernail.
‘I last bled three months ago.’
‘You are sure about doing this?’
‘Oui.’
‘Very well then. This will hurt, but it’s important that you don’t flinch or move at all. If you do, you will bleed to death. Do you understand?’
‘Oui. Just get it over with will you?’
‘First the money,’ said the woman, holding out her hand.
Reaching for her bag, Yvette counted out 200 francs and handed them over.
‘Bon. Now, we begin.’
The woman went to the stove where a pot was boiling and drew a foot-long piece of wire from the water. Yvette eyed it with mounting fear as she came over to the table.
‘Now, open your legs as wide as you can girl, and don’t move.’
Yvette closed her eyes and parted her knees. When she felt the hot metal slide into her body she flinched involuntarily. The woman leaned over and slapped her viciously across the face.
‘Do not move if you want to live.’
Yvette clung to the edge of the table and gritted her teeth as the wire pushed deeper inside her.
‘You must be strong,’ she thought to herself, ‘this is no worse than the rape that caused it.’
She heard a truck pull up outside in the street, and the sounds of boots hitting the pavement. Doors were being thrown open and people were crying out. Then there was a loud banging on the door and a voice yelling in German.
‘Aufmachen! Aufmachen!’
The woman cursed, withdrew the wire and dropped it into the cutlery drawer beside the sink.
‘Get off there and get into the toilet,’ she hissed at Yvette.