Wally was just getting in the passenger side of his truck when a shot rang out. One of his men howled and fell to the ground, grabbing his thigh where blood began to gush out. A second shot and a bullet ricochet off the truck. “Down,” Wally yelled and no one needed urging. Where the hell had the shots come from?
Shit. A line of men could be seen in the moonlight crossing the field towards them and it looked they all had rifles. A couple of them knelt and fired. Another Black Shirt fell — a bullet had ripped through his skull. Damn it, Wally thought, why hadn’t Neumann let them carry more weapons? He pulled out his pistol and fired a couple of shots in the general direction of his attackers. They paused and it was enough. The Munros got their ragged and bloodied caravan on the road and headed back towards the safety of Toronto. Both brothers were mad. Instead of teaching the Pipers and others like them a lesson, it looked like the Black Shirts had been the ones whipped. Sure they had beaten and fucked the Pipers, but one of Wally’s men was dead and another was likely going to die since they couldn’t stop the bleeding from his leg.
FDR looked in dismay at the brief one page report from Camp Washington. “When did we get this?”
“It arrived at Camp Washington a couple of days ago,” General Marshall admitted. “It didn’t seem too important at first, just a change in a schedule, so it wasn’t pushed to the front of the line until someone recognized its significance. Still, we have plenty of time to do something if that’s what you desire.”
“But what do we desire?” Roosevelt said slowly.
It was difficult for him to speak at times like this and he was feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. The stress of an unprecedented three presidential terms and the thought of a fourth one were preying on his mind. Worse, were the decisions he would have to make. The message on his desk seemed to stare back at him, daring him to do something.
“Can you confirm it?”
“As well as we can confirm anything,” Marshall said. “The message is from Keitel and is directed only to von Arnim.”
Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel was head of the OKW, Germany’s supreme military command. It was understood that he was a puppet for Hitler and that anything coming from Keitel came from the Fuhrer.
Roosevelt wheeled his chair so he could look out the window of the Oval Office. The trees were beginning to come to life. Another day and it would have been beautiful.
“So the bastards are going to attack a week early, damn them. Yet you still recommend we do nothing about it, general?”
Marshall looked at the president. His features were iron. The president was trying to shift responsibility and he didn’t blame him. Still, they both knew that the ultimate decision would be Roosevelt’s.
“I do. If we do anything now to prepare for an earlier attack, the Germans might find out and then they’ll know that we have broken their codes and are reading their messages. If that happens, they will change them and we will be in the dark for God knows how long. We must keep our secret no matter how painful it might be. Just remember Coventry, sir.”
More than five hundred English civilians had been killed in Coventry during a German bombing raid in November, 1940. The English had foreknowledge of the raid yet had let it take place. They could not run the risk of divulging the fact that they had broken Germany’s codes, the same codes that Americans and British were reading at Camp Washington. Hundreds had died in Coventry, but how many thousands had survived and how many more would survive because the secret was kept?
The devil, Roosevelt thought. Did it matter very much if the attack took place on April 2 or March 25? The commitment had already been made. The United States had to be seen as being attacked and absorbing the first blow. He hoped to God that his terrible secret wouldn’t come out, until, at least, after the fall elections. He didn’t want a fourth term, but who else could lead the nation? Henry Wallace? Dear God no. His vice president was a complete ass.
He wadded the piece of paper and threw it in the trash. “I never received any such message, general. And God help us all.”
Major Charley Canfield laughed, itself a rarity in these stressful days. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. I must admit you look a hell of a lot better than you did the first time I laid eyes on you, what with your pecker all frozen and blue.”
“As the saying goes, I clean up well.”
He and Tom shook hands and the two men sat down. The each took a cup of the viscous tar that passed for army coffee. They were in a tent that served as Canfield’s office.
“So what is a spy from the Pentagon doing up here?” Canfield asked, just a little cautiously.
“Spying,” Tom responded facetiously. “Seriously, several of us are up here just trying to get a feel for the situation. Even General Truscott is having a sit down with your man Fredendall.”
Canfield rolled his eyes. “I wish Truscott well.”
“Really?” Tom and others had heard a lot of rumors about the general.
“Fredendall is, well, a truly unique individual. He’s digging in and waiting for a massive German assault. He’s turned his headquarters into a citadel defended by a whole battalion.”
Tom was surprised. “Didn’t he get the word that we consider it very unlikely that the Nazis will do anything but launch raids?”
“Let’s just say he talks a good fight but it looks like he’s actually very cautious. If the Germans do attack in any strength, we’ll have a hell of a time getting to them because of the way he’s got the army dug in. Mine is just about the only unit with any mobility and that’s because we’ve got all those radar units to protect and that ain’t going too well either.”
“Why is that?”
“Because our orders are to keep patrolling the roads and stay out of the woods. Even though I lost one of my civilian cops to possible Nazis doesn’t get those orders changed. We don’t have enough men to search the woods, or that’s what I was told. Bullshit if you ask me.”
Canfield went on to explain how a replacement deputy went missing and how his body was subsequently found when somebody noticed a flock of crows congregating a little ways off the road and got curious.
“Deputy Curran’s body was a mess. He’d been shot twice and the birds and animals had been feeding on him for a while. Back at the place he’d gone to check, one of my brighter cops brought a dog that sniffed out what might be blood that had been covered by dirt. He sent a bag of the dirt to the local high school so that one of the science teachers could examine it and see if it actually was blood. It was and it was even Curran’s blood type. Curran’s uniform and squad car are missing, too. Curran was an old fart who’d retired and came back to serve. I want to kill the bastards who killed him.”
“Christ,” said Tom. “Even a blind man could see where either would be hugely useful to any saboteurs.”
“Now it’s my turn. Just how good are the rumors that April second is the day?”
“As good as anything. In Washington, there are more rumors than there are people, but April the second seems to be the consensus. Endeavors like starting a war take a lot of time and planning and coordination, and that involves letting people in on the secret. And that, of course means people talk.”
Canfield shook his head in disbelief. “So they talk and we listen? Great. Any chance of us good guys launching a first strike to knock them on their fucking keesters?”
“The chances of that are zero. If we hit first, then we’re the bad guys, just like the Japs were at Pearl Harbor.”
“Not even if it saves lives? American lives? Jesus wept, what a way to run a war.”
Tom shrugged. “I’m just the messenger, not the message. These things are always decided way above my pay grade.”
“Could it be because somebody wants to run for a fourth term?”
“Nothing would surprise me. I know a nice young lady who likes me. She used to be a schoolteacher before she became a WAC officer and, even though some Canadian Nazis tried to kill her, she thinks
it would be terrible to strike first. Oh yeah, she also feels that FDR would be making a big mistake to run again.”
Canfield had heard the story of the attack and was impressed. He’d also read a report saying that Grant had been involved in the freeing of the Jews from the Beaufort. Grant and his girlfriend, he thought, seemed to get around. “She’s probably right on both counts. She’s also probably too good for you.”
“I just hope she never finds out.”
Tom checked his watch and stood. A C47 would be taking off from Buffalo for Washington in an hour. Truscott would be on board and, if the general was on time, the plane would not wait for any lowly major who wasn’t there. Tom had made one trip from Buffalo where he’d had to scramble and didn’t want a second. He told Canfield to use the remainder of the coffee to repair the local roads. It was time to go and he would be on the plane before Truscott showed up.
As he drove off, Tom could not help but wonder if everything was being done. Why weren’t American soldiers being used to chase down what were probably Nazis instead of digging in against an attack that wasn’t going to come? It didn’t make sense. Was Fredendall going to sit back and be a punching bag when he could be out scouring the woods for the bad guys?
On a happier note, he had more than a week to grab some time with Alicia.
The rivalry between army intelligence and the OSS was intense, almost as intense as that between the army and the navy, and despite what the president had done to calm the troubled waters. General Marshall hated the necessity of speaking with OSS head Wild Bill Donovan, but he buried his pride. Nothing less than American blood was at stake.
The two men met in a small room at the venerable Hay Adams Hotel where each had ostensibly gone for lunch with others. As neutral sites went, it was a good one and nothing the media or other rumor mongers would notice.
At first, Donovan was shocked, then hurt, that his friend Roosevelt would cut him out of the loop regarding the change of the date for the German attack. However, he calmed quickly.
“Obviously, you want something from me,” he said to Marshall.
“I want an excuse to alert my troops at the last minute in order to save lives while still keeping the secret of Ultra. Is there anything your people have discovered that would help? Have there been any significant troop movements, anything? I cannot abide the thought of our troops being attacked without at least having a chance to get to their weapons. I don’t want anything like Pearl Harbor. Even an excuse that would give us a few minutes and not give away our secrets would save countless lives. And, by the way, I know I am speaking for Admiral King as well.”
Marshall laughed harshly and continued. “I’ve even gone so far as to issue another War Warning, but that was several weeks ago. Human nature being what it is I’m sure that many are beginning to think that any threat is fading and that life will go back to normal. Of course, I did make sure every unit got it and hammered home the fact that it applied to everyone, no matter how far they might be from the Canadian border. To the best of my ability, there will be none of that it can’t happen to me mentality.”
“I rather think that attitude disappeared after Pearl Harbor. However, I’ll do what I can,” Donovan said softly. He shared Marshall’s anguish at the thought of defenseless Americans being slaughtered. “We have people monitoring airfields and army emplacements. Right now, we see nothing; however, that could change in a heartbeat. Do you agree that any initial attack will come from the air?”
“I do, although I also believe that follow-up attacks will come from ground forces and saboteurs. German submarines will, of course, do their own evil work.”
“Good. We will focus on watching the Luftwaffe. Right now, major German army and tank units are still well away from the border, but emplacements to hold them have been built just inside Canada. Right now, they are empty, but they could be filled with soldiers and tanks in very short order.”
“Give me anything that would legitimize an alert.”
“You’ll have it as soon as I do. We will agree on a code word. Why don’t we use the word ‘Lexington’ in honor of the Revolutionary War battle?”
“Excellent.”
Donovan smiled. “Now, would you like to know what we think the Russians are up to?”
Chapter Ten
Alicia hadn’t wanted to go to the ladies room with her friend Rosemary Poole any more than she’d wanted to have dinner with her and her date. But they had run into each other while waiting for a table at the crowded restaurant and she had little choice.
Now, instead of a quiet and intimate dinner for two, she and Tom were stuck in an unwelcome foursome. At least it got them a table earlier than other couples who were stuck waiting in line. Rosemary also was a WAC lieutenant who supervised clerks at Camp Washington, and her boyfriend was an overweight and self-important quartermaster captain named Stan. “The army runs on its belly,” he’d said, “and we aim to keep that belly full.” Tom rolled his eyes at that conceit while Alicia stifled a giggle.
Alicia wondered where it was written that women had to be accompanied to the john in the first place. Two guys never went together. They’d get arrested and probably beaten up if they did.
The two women sat alone in front of the mirrors and Rosemary added more lipstick than was necessary. Alicia thought it would soon be smeared all over Rosemary’s and Stan’s faces if not other parts of their bodies. It was a reminder that she should keep her own to a minimum unless they wanted to look like clowns by the end of the evening.
She and Tom had signaled each other that it was time to leave. This evening they would have a modicum of privacy. They would be dog-sitting at Colonel Downing’s place while they went to some retirement function for an over-the-hill major at Fort Meade. The colonel and Missy wouldn’t be home until about midnight. They could stay all night if they wished, although Missy insisted that they would have to be in separate rooms. Alicia wondered how firm that rule was.
Rosemary sighed as she placed her lipstick in her purse. “Is Tom as sex-crazed as Stan?”
The blunt question surprised and amused her. “I don’t know. Just how crazed is Stan?”
“We’ve got to do it every time we go out. If we don’t screw, he wants me to interesting things with my mouth. Ever do that? No, I guess you quiet types never have. As the old saying goes, don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. At least no one ever got pregnant from doing it.”
“I’ll think about it,” Alicia said. At least she knew that the proper term was fellatio.
“Seriously, Alicia, don’t go prudish on me. I know I’m not the best looking girl in the world. I’m not anywhere near you in the looks department, so I can’t be choosy. If Stan wants it, he’s going to get it. Besides, we could all be dead in a very short time and that especially means all these great guys could be in a grave somewhere. I do not want to become an old woman without having experienced life and love and, yeah, I complain about him, but I do love Stanley. And since I do love him, I don’t mind doing whatever he wants.” She giggled, “Actually, I’ve kinda grown to like it.”
Alicia wondered if Aggie Fanelli had ever thought of that. Probably not, she decided. After all, Alicia hadn’t been certain what fellatio was until she went to college, and that was not the term her friends used. She’d told her roommates that she would never ever do such a thing. They’d asked what if she truly loved the guy, and she did admit to wondering. She laughed to herself thinking how proud her parents would be of the truly liberal education she was getting both in college and as an officer in the army.
So far she and Tom hadn’t gone any farther than some high school type petting. Although very pleasurable, it was frustrating for both of them. Privacy was the problem. They’d even gone to a place where a lot of young couples made out in cars, but they’d been chased off by unsympathetic city cops. What really hurt was when one cop told them they were too old for that crap. Enough, they would go to the Downings’ and dog sit.
An
hour later, she and Tom were seated on a couch in the Downing’s finished basement. The old Labrador they were ostensibly sitting was asleep in the colonel’s bedroom, snoring and farting. Alicia lay across his chest and his arms were around her. They’d kissed several times, each with increasing passion, and Alicia called a halt to catch her breath and maybe her control.
Tom kissed her ear. “Do you think we should get married?”
The question did not surprise her. Things happened quickly in wartime when there was no time to spare. She’d been giving a lot of thought to the possibility of spending four or five decades with Tom and liked the idea. She also realized they could be together for a much shorter period of time because of the war. Did she want to be a war widow? No. Did she want to spend the rest of her life wondering at what might have been? No.
“I don’t want to be a war widow,” she said sadly.
“All joking aside, I don’t want that either. But I’d at least like there to be some time for us together, rather than nothing at all. Nothing’s certain in this life. If we waited until the war was over, we might be very old, and then get hit by lightning, and that would be a terrible waste.”
She shifted so they could kiss more comfortably, which they did. She sighed as he unbuttoned the demure collar of her dress and gently slipped his hand down and inside her bra. She’d only recently begun letting him do this, and it was as far as she’d ever gone with a man. She loved the way he caressed her breasts and nipples. She wanted him to go farther, but should they?
Tom slipped his other hand under her dress and above her knee. With girdle, garters, stockings, and panties, she thought he was going to be challenged by a terrible obstacle course, but she decided she’d let him do whatever he wished. Correction, whatever she wished, and right now she wanted him to go a lot farther.
A flash of light played across the basement window. The Downings were home. Shit, she thought as they got up, straightened their clothing and went upstairs. She hoped Tom’s erection would recede before somebody else noticed.
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