Alicia smiled warmly. “I’d love to be there to see that. Please make sure that he acknowledges his paternity and pays Aggie’s bills. She’s now in a home for unwed mothers and, when the baby is delivered, she’ll be discharged from the army. It won’t be honorable, which doesn’t seem fair, but maybe it’s the best thing.”
“Nothing’s ever fair, lieutenant, especially in the army. You did do the right thing with this Langford creep. Now you can go back to your major and tell him what a great day you had.”
“Thanks. What will happen to Stahl?”
“Probably nothing, although I’d like to see him sent home. I think he’s up to no good. However, he did refuse Langford’s proposal and he does have diplomatic immunity. Yeah, we could send him back to Germany and then they’d send one of ours back here in a diplomatic tit for tat. Nah, this Stahl guy will get to stay, at least for the time being.
Admiral Sir Philip Vian stood on the bridge of his flagship, the battleship King George V. It was the second ship named after Britain’s beloved king. Unlike American ships where the bridge was enclosed, Royal Navy warships were open to the wind and Vian liked that. At least he liked it most of the time, he thought with a smile as he recalled some frigid days in the North Atlantic.
The battleship, Vian reluctantly admitted, was as obsolescent as the British Empire. The Americans had bigger and mightier battleships, as did what remained of the Royal Navy after being bled by the German navy, the Kriegsmarine.
The fifty-nine year old Vian had chosen the King George V because he liked the ship and her history. She had been instrumental in the sinking of the German super battleship, the Bismarck, in May of 1941. Even though she displaced forty-two thousand tons, the King George V was slightly under-gunned with only ten fourteen-inch cannon. Most modern battleships carried sixteen-inch guns and many of the older ones carried fifteen-inchers. Vian wasn’t concerned since it was highly unlikely that she’d be fighting other battleships. Germany’s fleet of capital ships consisted entirely of the admittedly mighty Tirpitz and two much smaller battleships, the Scharnhorst and the Gneisnau. No, the battleship was now the escort to the carrier, not the other way around.
He was sadly confident that no battleship would be named after King George VI, the current monarch, no matter how beloved he was. Vian was certain that the Royal Navy would build no more of the giant battlewagons.
Vian wanted to fight and the long months of waiting in the Chesapeake for war between the U.S. and Germany to break out had been hell on his nerves. He understood the American position and appreciated the fact that the Yanks had provided shelter and succor for his ships and their crews. He further understood that it would have been awkward at best for the United States to have permitted the Royal Navy ships to steam to the Pacific to fight the Japanese, even though both nations were at war with them. At one time, the Royal Navy’s presence would have been welcome, but the Americans appeared to have the Japanese navy well in hand. Of course, his handful of aircraft carriers would have acquitted themselves well against Japanese suicide planes because of their armored decks. That armor, however, weighted down the carriers, which meant they carried fewer planes than the American ships.
When war came, if it ever came he thought angrily, the carriers, escorted by battleships and cruisers would seek out and destroy the growing horde of German U-boats.
However, the situation was changing. Tonight’s dinner on Vian’s flagship would be a very significant signal of that. Admiral Ernest King, Chief of Naval Operations, would be his guest at dinner tonight. Tall, lean, abrasive, hard-drinking, womanizing, and rude, King appreciated the danger Germany presented. Despite the rage King felt by the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, he’d come to see Hitler as the ultimate enemy. Japan would be defeated soon, although the Japanese seemed to be hell bent on committing national suicide before they did and dragging the United States into a monumental bloodbath.
Dinner with King was intended to present Vian’s wishes and hopes that, when war started, America would support the Royal Navy’s sorties out into the Atlantic. It galled Vian to admit it, but the Royal Navy was totally dependent on American good will for food, fuel, and even ammunition.
He was also concerned that the still-functioning government in London would order him to stay put so as not to upset the Germans and cause them to retaliate.
Vian was reasonably confident that he could win over the crusty Anglophobic admiral. He had a secret weapon with which to charm the irascible King — liquor. It was served on Royal Navy ships.
Now all he had to do was convince London to turn him loose when the time came.
Deputy sheriff Wally Curran hated squatters. Since the Depression, they’d been a bloody damn nuisance. He sympathized with the fact that many of them had lost homes and jobs, but that didn’t mean they could go around taking over other people’s property. It was stealing, no matter how you sugar-coated it. Thus, when the report of a bunch of strangers hunkered down at a hunting cabin came in he decided to check it out.
The county’s five year old Chevy patrol car creaked and banged down the rutted dirt road like something important was going to fall off, making Curran realize that he might have made a mistake. He was just too old for this kind of shit. He’d been retired for several years when he was asked to fill in for one of the younger guys who’d been called to active duty in the army. Curran was as patriotic as the next man, so how could he refuse? He was too old to serve in the army, but he could take the place of a man who could. Hell, if his old boss, Sheriff Charley Canfield could serve, so could he, although in a different manner.
The phoned-in report said that a small group of men had taken over a hunting cabin about ten miles from where he was when he got the report. Since it wasn’t hunting season for anything, it meant that they could be poachers. Under any circumstances, it was highly unlikely that the men had a right to be in that cabin. There was a slight possibility that the owners, a family who lived in New Jersey, had loaned out the cabin to some men for a week of drinking and card-playing away from work and wives, but he thought that was unlikely. However, if the guys were indeed legit, he’d tell them to enjoy themselves and drive on.
Curran had given thought to asking for backup, but the department was short-staffed and, what the hell, if he couldn’t scare a handful of drifters into leaving someone else’s premises, he didn’t deserve a badge. His real concern was that the squad car would break down leaving him in the woods until he could be rescued by other deputies who would laugh their asses off at his predicament. Well, his radio worked and headquarters knew where he was. It would be embarrassing, but not a disaster.
At least the roads had been plowed, he thought. The latest round of snow blown in from Lake Erie had been pushed to the sides of the roads. He turned off the main road and drove up a gravel driveway to the small white wooden cabin. A battered pickup truck was parked a few yards away from the building. A couple of men got up and looked at him. They didn’t seem too concerned, which surprised Curran. Now, where were the others? The report said there were at least four men.
Curran got out awkwardly. His hip was killing him. “Okay, boys, who are you and what’re you doing here?”
The two men looked at each other and said nothing. Curran began to get angry. He did not like smartasses giving him the silent treatment. “Enough. Now answer my question.”
Two other men, each carrying military style rifles that Curran recognized as Mausers entered from the woods to his left. The first two men seemed relieved, while Curran began to feel decidedly uncomfortable. Damn it, maybe he should have radioed in for backup and just sat tight until it arrived.
Curran stared at one man who was being deferred to by the others while shifting his hand towards the holstered revolver at his side. “Who gave you authority to be here?” he asked.
“I gave it to myself,” the man said in accented English as he swung his rifle and fired. The bullet hit Curran in the chest, knocking him on his back. The pain w
as intense and he couldn’t breathe. His vision began to fade.
“I’m sorry,” the shooter said coldly. “You are brave but very foolish. This will make it faster.” The shooter stood over him and fired again, this time into Curran’s skull.
The leader of the group calmly lowered his rifle and spoke in German to his men. “Drag him far into the woods. Then drive that car into the woods as well. It’s time to pack up and leave. He will be missed and other policemen will be here before long. Now move.”
“A thought, captain,” said the oldest of the three other men.
Captain Albers smiled tolerantly. He and Sergeant Gorbach went back a long ways, even to the frozen suburbs of Moscow where Albers had lost a couple of toes to frostbite. “I have never been able to stop you from speaking your thoughts, sergeant.”
“Then may I suggest stripping the policeman’s body and dumping the corpse in the woods a few miles from here. I would also suggest putting the uniform and the car someplace where we can find them. Who knows, both might come in handy.”
Albers nodded agreement. A local police car and a uniformed driver might just prove useful.
“As always, an excellent idea, sergeant. I think it might be at least a couple of hours before the local police either miss this man or can even come out here.”
Albers gave quick orders to disassemble their priceless radio and load everything else, uniforms and weapons, into the truck. His men were all veterans and they moved with swift efficiency. Within minutes they were driving down the road with the squad car following. The half-naked body of the unfortunate Deputy Curran was in the trunk. Gorbach had even shoveled dirt and snow over where the policeman had bled onto the ground. With a little luck, other policemen might think that their comrade hadn’t even been the cabin. That would buy them some time and they didn’t need all that much to disappear into the woods.
Albers had four other teams in the area awaiting final orders, and he would join with one of them and await the day they were turned loose on the Americans.
General Heinz Guderian eagerly accepted the invitation to meet with von Arnim for dinner at his headquarters. He’d been out in the field inspecting troops and trying to stay out of von Arnim’s way while he prepared for the coming battles. It wasn’t easy. Guderian had a large number of suggestions he hoped he’d be able to make. He had to admit, however, that von Arnim had done a solid, professional job of preparing his growing army for the monumental task ahead.
Von Arnim greeted him cordially and, after an excellent dinner featuring the quality of steak long since unavailable in Germany, the two men sat across from each other on large leather chairs. A fire burned in a fireplace as they enjoyed their brandies.
Von Arnim spoke first. “Tell me, in your opinion approximately how many people know the attack will take place on April second?”
“Of necessity, dozens, perhaps more. The closer we get to the target date the number will grow and grow. It has to. Our men have to be prepared.”
“Yes, and that number will begin to include junior officers and enlisted men until practically the whole army will know the secret. And if they know it, the Americans will surely find out if they haven’t done so already.”
“But will they know or merely suspect?” Guderian asked. “Apparently the Americans had some warning of the attack on Pearl Harbor and chose to ignore the possibility. Stalin had some foreknowledge of our attack on the Soviet Union in 1941, but he too ignored it. Both countries chose to adhere to their preconceived notions and the results were disastrous. Will the Americans act on their suspicions and attack preemptively? I certainly would. However, they will not.”
Von Arnim laughed. “As would any reasonable man. The Americans are not always reasonable, however. Their military and political focus is on the destruction of Japan. Based on intelligence from our embassy in Washington, the American government wishes that any German problem will go away. I agree that they will not move preemptively. It goes against their absurd sense of morality.”
“Even so, you are not comfortable, are you?”
“No, I am not. Do you recall when I said that the time for the attacks could not be changed? Well, I didn’t quite tell the truth. The Fuhrer gave me some latitude in the matter. While I could not attack any later than April second if I wished to retain my rank and my head, I could accelerate the timetable. Today is Tuesday, the twenty-first of March. We will attack on Saturday, the twenty-fifth, only four more days from now.”
Guderian lifted his glass in salute. “Excellent. Now, how many of your men know of the new date?”
Von Arnim grinned in satisfaction. “Counting you, less than a score and all of them are sworn to secrecy. All commands have been ready in all aspects for several days and all have been told to commence hostilities at or after midnight on hearing the code word. The word, by the way, is Grendel, the name of the monster from Beowulf.” He sighed happily, “I always liked that tale.”
“As do I,” said Guderian. He was pleased. The April second date had been bandied around just a little too much for his comfort. The Americans had a phrase — Loose Lips Sink Ships — and he felt that loose lips also destroyed tanks and killed soldiers.
“Of course, not everyone will get the word,” added von Arnim. “In particular, I doubt if the men we’ve planted deep in the United States will all get the message of the change. They will begin their war on April second or any time after the twenty-fifth of March when they realize it has commenced. Who knows, staggering our efforts might just be more effective.”
“What about Neumann, the Gestapo, and the Black Shirts?”
“The Gestapo will recover. Neumann will be angry for a while, but my orders come directly from Adolf Hitler. He will not question them. As to his Black Shirt Brigade, they can all rot in hell for all I care.”
Wally and Jed Munro let their men stretch and get ready. There was a full squad of Black Shirts with them, and they were excited at finally being let off the leash. For too long they felt they hadn’t been permitted to hurt either the enemies of the Reich or those Canadians who hated the Black Shirts. The racially mongrel population of Toronto had begun to make fun of them because of their inactivity, and that was intolerable. They’d even lost a few of the brawls that had taken place. The Munro’s were beginning to lose both heart and manpower as several of the Black Shirts simply quit.
Now they were looking forward to both revenge and fun. They had parked down the dirt road and behind some trees so they could not be seen from the two story Victorian house located in a rural area just outside the city boundaries of Toronto. The house was the home of Steve and Sherry Piper, brother and sister, and they were suspected of printing and disseminating anti-Nazi propaganda. Neumann wanted them shut down, but he didn’t want the Gestapo directly involved, not after the uproar surrounding the ship taking the Jews to Germany. The Munros still didn’t understand all the concern about a bunch of kikes on a boat.
Jed nudged Wally and grinned wickedly. “Brother and sister? Hell, I’ll bet they’re doing each other.”
Several of the others heard and laughed. Yes, it would be good to kick the Jew lovers until they squealed. They knew little about the Pipers except that she was thirty and he was in his mid-twenties and that they were both single. If Neumann wanted them punished, that was fine with the Black Shirts. Hell, maybe they actually were doing each other.
Neither of the Munro brothers was a stranger to incest and molestation. Their father had abused them until they were old enough to strike back at him and make it stick. They didn’t mourn when he fell into a sewage pond on the Don River that was so filthy that no one wanted to go in and rescue him. When somebody finally did pull him out, he was dead. No big loss, they thought.
Wally gave a signal and the dozen men charged the house. A sledgehammer crumpled the front door and they surged in, yelling and brandishing baseball bats and clubs. Only the two Munros carried guns. Neumann wanted no killing unless it couldn’t be avoided.
While the Pipers lay on the floor and writhed in pain, Wally saw to it that their hands and feet were bound tightly. The other men carried the press outside and systematically smashed it.
“She’s not that pretty,” said Jed. “But it is pussy.”
Wally disagreed. Even though scared, she was attractive enough and had a decent figure. He wondered if she really was fucking her brother.
Wally began to beat the brother while his sister moaned and begged him to stop. Neumann had taught him well, so his blows were designed to cause agony rather than break bones or cripple. Tomorrow, Wally thought happily, Steve Piper would be a wreck who’d be bleeding and pissing blood for weeks, and whose face would be so swollen not even his mother would recognize him. But he would be alive and the message would be delivered — fuck with the Black Shirts and this is what happens.
“Enough,” Wally said. He grabbed Sherry Piper and dragged her into a first floor bedroom. He threw her on the bed and, while Jed held her down, cut off her clothes with his razor-sharp hunting knife. She screamed in anger and pain when he raped her and then it was Jed’s turn.
When the brothers were through, they let the others in their crew have their turns, “Only once each,” Jed admonished them with a smirk, “we don’t want her dead.” Only a couple of the Shirts took them up on the offer. The woman was too bloody.
They finished their evening by breaking everything in the house. They untied both Pipers and left them to console each other. The Black Shirts, satisfied and sated, went back to their trucks. Wally and Jed looked forward to a pleasant evening of beer and discussions of what they’d accomplished.
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