Dark Tales From the Secret War

by John Houlihan

  “Weathermen? With a wheelchair? Confort, what’s going on?” Owen looked perturbed.

  “Ah, that’s our back-up. It’s need-to-know only, sorry.” She smiled sweetly.

  Dawn was coming over the humped headline of the Great Orme as their train pulled into Llandudno. The town was small, with a pier stretching out from the deep bay, and rows of whitewashed Victorian guesthouses curving up to the Little Orme in the distance. “Llandudno”, said Owen, “‘Hardd, hafan, hedd.’ That means ‘beautiful, haven, peace’. It’s a lovely little town.”

  The train pulled in and they hurried off, with Owen shouting thanks to the train driver. Walking briskly down the promenade, he led them to a guesthouse near the pier and hurried up the steps to knock quietly on the front door. An elderly lady, with her hair in curlers, poked her head out through the front door, blinking into the early sun. Owen leaned up against the door and greeted her quietly in Welsh, smiling, but after a few words from her his affability soon changed to worry.

  A whispered conversation in Welsh broke out, rising in pitch and volume, as Owen’s arms started waving increasingly frantically.

  He turned away, sharply. “Mae hi’n siarad trwy ei het! Sorry, sorry, I mean, she’s talking through her hat. Mosley’s gone, not ten minutes ago. She says ‘that nice Mr Osbert paid up and was going for a walk on the pier, before going onto Rhyl’. That’s the only lead we have. I’ll go back to the station and phone for the local police to search the trains at Llandudno Junction — that’s the only way out except over the Orme by foot. You check out the pier.” He turned and started running back to the station.

  The pier stretched nearly half a mile into the sea. It was a typical Imperial pier, built in an Indian Gothic style, and covered in coconut shies, candy floss stalls and a mid-sized pavilion at the end. It was deserted, save for a pair of figures halfway along, walking with purpose towards the end.

  Confort peered through a pair of binoculars. “That’s got to be them.” she said. “Schweik, radio the back-up to come here. Hartington, help me unpack the guns.” She handed them out, giving Hartington a Sten, Schweik a M1 Garand and retaining a small silenced Welrod for herself. Reluctantly, she offered Peabody a Webley, but he waved it away.

  The team walked cautiously to the end. The closer they got, the slower they went — but there was still no sign of the figures. At the end, there was a wide open deck with a stage protruding over the water. “What the hell is that?” hissed Confort. “Is that a landing stage? How deep is the water here? Why weren’t we briefed about this?” She peered cautiously over the pier’s edge and recoiled in shock.

  Part way down a long ladder, Sir Oswald Mosley was climbing fast. That wasn’t what had prompted Confort’s shock though. At the bottom of the landing stage, which had presumably been built for pleasure cruises, was docked something else entirely — a small, dark U-boat. Its crew scurrying to make it ready, every hatch open to take on air and frantic minor repairs being made.

  At that moment, a crewman spotted them and a general alarm was sounded. Schweik opened fire, aiming for the crew near the AA guns first, taking them down one after another. An officer started to return fire, sending bullets ripping into the wooden boards, sending Schweik ducking. Mosley hung to the ladder, desperately avoiding the battle above his head and the flying splinters. “It’s a type II, I think. Up to 20 crew.” said Schweik. He stood and fired a round of shots, and there was a cry from below before he ducked again. “About 17 right now.” he grinned.

  Peabody, meanwhile was struggling with his equipment bag. Hartington pushed him aside and opened it to discover the force plates that had caused such devastation in the church. “I bloody hope you know what you’re doing with those.”

  Peabody grinned. “Well, even if I wasn’t going to give them to the government, I wasn’t going to miss the chance to have a play with them, right? I’ve practised a little.”

  Strapping on the heavy pack and turning it on, he waited for the humming to rise in volume until it was that same mind-numbing thrum that they’d heard in the moments before Smythe had died. Out on the water, the submarine was starting to descend, prompting panic from the crew on the surface, who frantically flung hatches shut.

  Peabody strode to the edge and aimed the twin plates at the submarine, and leaned back, straining. Bullets whistled up past him, their paths distorted by the strange force. Mosley had reached the dock then shied back in alarm, when the submarine groaned and then, impossibly, started to rise out of the water. Peabody grinned through gritted, yellowed teeth at Hartington. “They’re not going anywhere.”

  As he spoke, a great hand came over the end of the pier and grabbed his ankle. He had a chance for a startled yell, before he was yanked off his feet, and flung, tumbling, fifty feet into the sea. With the heavy pack on his back, he hit the waves hard and sank like a stone. The submarine fell back to the water, hard, scattering crewmen into the waves.

  Confort backed off as the great figure of the Nachtwölfe giant hauled himself onto the wooden deck. He towered over the team, even over Hartington. Schweik prone on the deck, turned to fire, and was knocked sprawling by a powerful kick. “Oi!” Hartington shouted. The German turned to see him pointing the Sten at him. Hartington aimed then lowered the gun.

  “Not fair.” he muttered. He put the gun down, raised his fists up and gestured at the giant. “Come on.”

  “ARE YOU INSANE?” Confort yelled. “He’s at least SEVEN feet tall! He just THREW Peabody to his death.” She fired her pistol at the German and the bullet ricocheted with a blue spark off his chest. “AND HE’S ARMOURED.”

  Hartington frowned. The German grinned, stepped forward and swung a haymaker. Hartington ducked, and aimed a punch for the German’s ribs. His hand cracked against the breastplate and he sobbed a little, dancing back. The German swung again, smacking against Hartington’s guard, sending him reeling with the impact. Ripostes were out of the question, as the German used his greater size and reach to keep Hartington at bay.

  Confort gawped, then looked at the U-boat. It was nearly ready to move off, now that Schweik’s fire had stopped. Mosley was standing in the conning tower, as the ship started to pull away from the dock, into the bright sunny day. He waved at her.

  “Damn” she said. She glanced back at the fight. Already, a battered Hartington was having trouble keeping his hands up, as the German pummelled him blow after blow. The German paused, sighted and threw an almighty punch that sent Hartington flying onto his back.

  Confort sighed. “Damn, damn, damn. I didn’t want to do this.” she muttered, as she pulled one of the dried geegaws from her wrist, bit her thumb hard, and spat blood and saliva on it. The desiccated thing started writhing in her hand, slowly at first, but faster and faster all the time, sprouting tentacles, teeth and other less familiar appendages. She yelled at the German who glanced around stupidly, as she threw it in his face. The thing latched on, wriggling and cutting, and he screamed, tearing chunks of it away even as it grew.

  Confort took her time to aim her Welrod at his head, through the thing’s centre. She fired. Both the German and the thing stopped struggling, and the entangled bodies fell off the edge, following Peabody into the depths.

  Confort looked around. Schweik was out cold and Hartington was a battered, sobbing mess. “You can’t get the staff these days.” she said to herself.

  She looked out to the bay. The sub was moving off to deeper water, picking up speed. As she looked after it, she became aware of a growing murmur behind her. “Miss Confort! I brought your back-up, but I think there’s been some — Gods, what happened?! ” Behind Owen a cluster of geriatric gentlemen and ladies were tutting at the scene, or cooing at the view.

  “Check on those two,” she said to Owen “See if you can rouse them — and see if you can see Peabody. He fell off the pier.” Owen gaped, frozen. “NOW, Owen.” He came around, and got to work on Hartington. She turned to the cluster of old folk. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Met Office!
Can I have your attention please?”

  An older lady rolled her wheelchair forward, gingerly across the boards. She was erect in the chair, with several old blankets on her lap despite the sun’s warmth.

  “Oh, hello Gladys!” said Confort. “Sorry to drag you away from your bridge. I really need to stop that boat. It’s something of a national emergency. Can you do it?”

  The old lady shuffled forward in her chair, and squinted at the U-boat through a pair of antiquated pince-nez. “Not a problem, Em. I keep losing anyway. Yes, we can do it. Though it does seem a dreadful shame to spoil such a lovely day. Can we change it back afterwards?”

  “As long as that U-boat is stopped, yes.”

  “Happy to oblige.” The old lady rolled back to the group and engaged them in conversation that prompted much mumbling and waving of ear-trumpets. Soon, she had them arranged in a circle at the pier’s end. They began to chant.

  Owen sidled up. “They’ll both be fine. Is that Peabody on the landing deck below? I can’t tell if he’s alive from here. Who are these old people?” The chant rose around their ears and the sky darkened. Clouds gathered rapidly.

  Through a rising wind, Em shouted back. “They’re the Met Office. It’s an MI18 nickname really. A bunch of old weather makers from the Severn area. They only know one spell, but they know it very well. It looks like they’re just doing the wind this time!” Owen’s incredulous retort was lost in the gale.

  The wind continued to rise, rapidly, quickly turning into a full blown storm. The pier’s iron substructure creaked and cracked alarmingly beneath them, but held. After another minute, something akin to a hurricane was lashing the sea off the Great Orme, pushing the submarine sideways. Mosley hung onto the locked conning tower for dear life, his unearthly protection keeping him alive, but not dry, amidst the tumult.

  The submarine moved nearer and nearer to the Orme, and the rocks beneath, whilst Gladys looked on benignly, her hands conducting slight changes to the group’s chanting, directing the storm. A round of bass chanting coincided with the stern of the submarine lifting for a second over a wicked-looking crag. She chopped her palm sharply, the storm died, and the sub dropped, impaled on the rock. Immediately, its hull ruptured, it started to sink.

  Thirty minutes later, the sky was clear again. From the head of the pier, Confort looked around. She could see Owen, the local constabulary and an armed Home Guard detachment heading out to the wreck of the submarine, to pick up Mosley, still clinging bedraggled to the wrecked conning tower and to see if anyone else had survived from the U-boat’s crew. An ambulance crew had rounded up Hartington, Schweik and a soaking Peabody and were carting them off to hospital. And local divers were kitting themselves out on the beach to look for the lost Nachtwölfe plates. Gladys rolled her wheelchair up.

  “Are we all done Em?”

  “Yes, thank you. Now, I’m going to call George and tell him the good news.”

  “After that, how’s about we have a nice day out on the promenade? I’ll chance my arm on the coconut shy.”

  “Sounds lovely. As long as you promise not to cheat again.”

  Gladys acted crestfallen. “It’s not cheating, it’s just using my natural gifts.”

  “Hmm. We’ll see. I’m not sure a miniature tornado counts as natural.”

  * * *

  Deep in the suburban bunker it was always twilight, but even so most people operated according to the external clock. So at this time of the evening, it was quiet, devoid of the chatter of tickertape telegrams or the clack of Morse code. Down one long corridor, though, in a single window, a light was showing — and a tired guardsman stood an endless watch.

  In his office, George put down the Bakelite phone after the last of many, many calls and steepled his hands tiredly. After a quiet moment, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out a long manila envelope. He tipped a key out of it, and unlocked his desk drawer. Inside was a large blue stone, and a single dossier, with the words ‘Project Moonchild’ handwritten on the cover. Stamps on it proclaimed that the documents it contained were quite, quite secret. George opened it, and for half an hour he smilingly browsed the photos and pages, until he was disturbed by his phone ringing.

  “George speaking. Oh, hallo Cecil! Yes, we’ve recovered Mosley… I know… I know! Confort’s team worked out after all. So. How would you feel about a second bash at the project, hmm..? Good. If we can iron out the problems for the next generation, Britain might very well become truly great again. We might even have a King to be proud of. Divine Right and all that, eh?”

  SERVANT OF THE DARK

  By John Houlihan

  HE held the gemstone up to the light between forefinger and thumb. It had a slight blue tinge, the otherwise flawless depths contaminated by perhaps just a few stray molecules of boron. He sighed, a most exquisite object, he never tired of such perfect geometry, nature’s poetry; order, in a world of chaos.

  He sighed again, returned the stone to the small heap of its fellows and regarded the gallery of faces turned toward him. Huddled around the fireplace were the Juden, resentment, perhaps even a little hate leaking from their faces, but most of all apprehension, fear, though they did their best to conceal it. No doubt they had heard the stories, the tales of what would happen if they resisted. Word circulated quickly amongst their kind.

  “You have done well to give up your treasures willingly. The Fatherland thanks you for it. These diamonds will be transformed from empty treasures to become useful tools, helping fashion the machines which assist our brave soldiers. In your own small way you are helping shorten the war, bringing about peace under the Reich’s rule. You should be proud.”

  He saw surprise slowly infect their faces. Praise? For Juden? From an SS officer? They could hardly believe it, yet there it was. All except for that one, the headscarfed, rather plain-looking daughter who muttered something incomprehensible under her breath, not in Dutch, but in that secret Hebrew tongue they favoured. That one would never believe, not even the smoothest of his lies.

  But that was unwise, Himmel had already broken away from the rest of the stormtroopers ransacking the apartment, was already raising his rifle ready to slam the stock into her face, crush even this tiny act of defiance.

  “Stand easy Feldbewel!”

  The fat Friedlander paused mid-stride and stared dumbly at him, not quite comprehending. Himmel was an oaf, occasionally a useful one, but he didn’t like being restrained.

  “Easy Feldwebel, these people are not our enemies, they have proven their loyalty, given up their treasures willingly. There is no need for… unpleasantness.”

  “Obersturmführer?” Himmel’s bovine face regarded him with a mixture of confusion and consternation but he chose not to look directly at the sergeant.

  “Here.” He began writing out a receipt, finishing with the usual illegibly scrawled signature which he handed over to the bearded patriarch. The old man regarded it dumbfounded, as if not quite comprehending what he held. The others crowded in to look closer.

  “Keep that safe, when this war is over you will be compensated for your loss. Now, you must prepare yourselves,” he said, though not unkindly. “One small suitcase each, that is all, you have five minutes. Do not spend a second longer, or the Feldwebel here will be forced to assist you.”

  For a moment they looked at him dumbly, hardly daring to move. Then the plain-looking daughter said,

  “But where will we go?”

  “You are to be resettled, with your own people. You know of the refugee camp at Westerbork? You will be taken there.”

  “But we have heard such stories…”

  “Ach, fairy tales, old wives’ gossip.” He smiled benevolently. “Why would the Führer want any harm to come to you? Why would Germany? You are amongst the most productive, the most useful members of Dutch society, your contribution today proves it.

  “We merely seek to harness your talents efficiently and where better to employ them, than amongst your own kind? You will
be taken to new quarters, better ones, amongst your own folk, where you will be safe. Hurry now.” He clapped his hands then checked his watch purposefully.

  They scurried to do his bidding, scarcely, it seemed, able to believe their luck.

  “Why are you so lenient with these untermensch Obersturmführer?” Himmel had sloped over to his corner and the sergeant’s fleshy face hissed at him, amid the bustle and noise as the family folded away its life into single suitcases. He doubted the Führer had this blotchy, sweat-stained ball of lard in mind when he conceived of the master race and he resented Himmel’s presumption: questioning me? Imbecile, I should execute you on the spot and spare myself and the Fatherland a great deal of trouble. Yet instead, he stifled a weary inward sigh and began to explain again, as patiently as he could.

  “Lenient Feldwebel? Hardly, practical rather. Think, man. Would you rather have to fight and wrestle them down the stairs, their wailing and screaming alerting the whole block so that we are here until midnight ferreting the rest out of their hiding holes?”

  “Wouldn’t your rather have them go meekly and be in the bierkeller with a tall glass and a nice willing Dutch girl by eight o’clock? Cattle, sergeant, are far more easily led to the slaughter when they go willingly. They are also much more likely to give up the hiding place of their treasures if they think they can bribe their way out.” He tapped the envelope where the gemstones now resided. “If you take away their hope, you take away any reason to cooperate with us.”

  “I suppose so… sir.” Himmel hastily added the honorific. “But it goes against the grain, pandering to these low lives like this. If I have to stomach their stupid untermensch faces for much longer, I think I’ll…”

  “Hold that thought Feldwebel and remember, you are being well compensated for your… understandable frustrations.”

  Himmel’s piggy eyes narrowed and then he gave a grunt of acknowledgement and began to harass the family in an over familiar way.