Comes the War

by Ed Ruggero

  According to Stowe, Kerr is meeting with possible Soviet contact at Berkhamsted School. If that’s true, we’ll bring Kerr in. Otherwise we’ll keep you posted. Harkins.

  He sat down at his desk and took another hit of bourbon.

  “Shit,” he said to himself. If Harkins and Wickman arrested Kerr in front of some Soviet, Sechin would know that Kerr was exposed and Sinnott’s leverage would be gone. He wanted Harkins to find evidence; he didn’t want him to arrest Kerr.

  “Goddamn it.”

  He looked at the note again.

  “Where the fuck is the Berkhamsted School?”

  * * *

  Pamela Lowell sat in the driver’s seat of the sedan, quite sure she’d never been this angry before. A half hour earlier Harkins had appeared in a jeep driven by an American MP, followed by a second jeep with Wickman in the front, an MP driving and another in the back. At least two of the GIs carried Thompson submachine guns. Harkins had asked for directions to the Berkhamsted School, then told her she was staying behind.

  “I think you would agree that I’ve been a help to you,” she said. “A big help, even. And now you’re just going to leave me behind?”

  “You have been a big help,” Harkins said. “But for this part I need gunfighters, and that’s not you.”

  Angry tears clouded her vision; she swiped at them with the back of a hand, determined not to cry. “I’m not one of your little sisters, you know,” she said, surprised to hear her own raised voice.

  Harkins had not even answered her; he just climbed into the front passenger seat of the jeep, spread a map on his knees, and said to the driver, “Let’s roll.”

  Lowell sat like that for thirty minutes, breathing deeply and slowly and trying to ride herd on her rage. She’d been told she was part of the team, that she was making a contribution. Her twenty-eight months in the ATS had been the most trying, the most exciting and rewarding of her life thus far. But now she realized that it would all come to an end soon, when all the boys came back and shoved the women back into the homes and nurseries. She’d probably wind up as a schoolteacher. She was so angry she pounded the steering wheel and very nearly said, “Fuck!”

  She was still sitting there, parked on Grosvenor Street, when she saw Major Sinnott come out of OSS headquarters carrying a large insulated bottle and a long weapon of some sort. She considered getting out and talking to him, but she didn’t want to give Sinnott a chance to quiz her, since Harkins told her more than he was supposed to. Angry as she was, she still didn’t want to get Harkins in trouble. Sinnott turned in the opposite direction and so did not pass her car. She was sitting there, watching him hurry toward the square when a man knocked on her passenger side window, startling her. It didn’t help that when she looked over, the man had a black patch over one eye. Colonel Novikov.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” she said.

  She got out of the car, saluted.

  “Sorry to frighten you like that,” he said. “It’s Lowell, right? Are you waiting for Lieutenant Harkins?”

  “No, sir. He left in another vehicle thirty, forty minutes ago.”

  The colonel looked over Lowell’s shoulder at the front of the OSS headquarters. Lowell noticed the holster, the butt of a large handgun sticking out. She had never seen a high-ranking officer carrying a weapon.

  “Have you seen Major Sinnott?”

  “He came out of the headquarters after Lieutenant Harkins left.”

  “Do you know if they spoke to one another?”

  “I don’t think so. Lieutenants Harkins and Wickman weren’t in the headquarters, at least as far as I saw. They came from the direction of the square, but I didn’t see them go inside.”

  “Do you know where Harkins went?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you take me to him?”

  Lowell stood perfectly still, looking over the roof of the staff car at this one-eyed Soviet with the big pistol at his waist, who might or might not have a legitimate reason to want to track down Harkins. She desperately wanted an excuse to head out to the Berkhamsted School, but she had also been ordered to stay behind.

  “Sometimes you just gotta say, ‘fuck it.’”

  “What’s that?” the colonel asked, putting a hand to his ear. “My hearing is not what it used to be.”

  “Oh, it’s just an expression that Lieutenant Harkins uses, that he told me I should use more often.”

  * * *

  “Does that say sixteen forty-two?”

  This from the MP who had been Harkins’ driver, a nineteen-year-old from Oklahoma named Tallent. They were on foot, doing a reconnaissance to determine the layout of the school, and Tallent had spotted a plaque on one of the gateposts.

  “They sure do have some old stuff over here,” the private said.

  It had turned out to be a fifty-minute ride north and west from London to the banks of the Bulbourne River, but after a few wrong turns and two stops for directions they found themselves parked in a wood on a rise above the school. To their left, about a hundred meters away, was the open gate. Below them, in a shallow bowl of lawns and muddy playing fields, Harkins could see a circular driveway and three large buildings arranged at right angles to one another, forming three sides of a quadrangle. The building on the far left was dark—he took that to be an academic hall. The three-story brick structure in the middle, with its ranks of symmetrical windows, looked more like a dormitory. On the right was a large white house he figured for an administration building or the headmaster’s cottage. Beyond those lay dark woods, though he could just make out a slash of dull silver that he took to be the river.

  Harkins and Tallent waited fifteen minutes for Wickman and the other two MPs to complete their look around and rejoin the group. The two jeeps were stashed amid the trees, parked in a small ravine that should hide them from view, in case anyone came out of the school looking for them.

  “River is over there,” Wickman said, pointing north. “About five hundred yards or so. There’s another road—more of a trail, really—that runs from behind that big house. There’s a car parked behind, then a couple smaller houses behind the big house; you can’t see them from here, maybe faculty houses. Then the trail heads east. It’s another approach to the campus, or another way out.”

  “When we stopped for directions that last time,” Harkins said, “the pub owner told me this was a fancy boarding school before the Depression, then it went tits up. In 1940 they moved a bunch of kids out here from London, to get away from the Blitz. He said a lot of kids moved back to the city.”

  “Anybody left?” Wickman asked.

  “Orphans,” Harkins said. “And some kids who survived the Blitz but were so traumatized they kept them out here.”

  “Jesus,” Wickman said. “Makes you think about how lucky we are back in the States.”

  “I’m going to position myself near the gate, see if I can spot Stowe coming in with Kerr,” Harkins said.

  “Then what?” Wickman asked.

  “If we see her, or at least see a car, we’ll watch where she goes. I’m thinking that they might meet in that building on the left, the one that’s dark right now, or possibly in that house on the right. Then we’ll want to get closer, see if we can figure out who’s in there with her.”

  Harkins and Tallent got to within about twenty yards of the gate, where they could stay hidden among some undergrowth but still had a clear view of whatever drove onto school grounds. The woods here were dark, so Harkins was not optimistic about being able to see inside any vehicles. He and Tallent lay on the pine needles, just a foot or so apart.

  “What are we looking for, sir?”

  “There’s supposed to be a meeting here. Couple of Americans from the mission in London, maybe somebody from the Soviet mission.”

  “Are we talking about spies and stuff?”

  Harkins looked at the soldier. He probably should have brought along an OSS agent or two instead of young GIs.

  “I won’t know until late
r,” Harkins said. “You’re here to provide backup to me and Lieutenant Wickman.”

  “Holy crap,” Tallent said. “You think there’s going to be shooting?”

  “It’s possible. For now, just watch the road.”

  Tallent was quiet for a moment. Then, in a low voice, “I only shot paper targets before.”

  Harkins looked over and—because it was what the kid needed to hear—said, “You’ll be okay.”

  A few minutes later it began to rain, a cold, light drizzle.

  “The weather in this country is just awful,” Tallent said. He reached around to where he had rolled a raincoat on the back of his pistol belt. “You got a raincoat, Lieutenant?”

  “No.”

  Tallent scooted closer so they were lying side by side, then threw the raincoat over his own and Harkins’ shoulders.

  “You an MP, sir?”

  “Yeah,” Harkins said.

  “I was thinking of volunteering for one of the divisional MP units,” Tallent said. “Get closer to the action. I don’t want to spend the whole war parading around in a white helmet and locking up drunk GIs.”

  “It can be pretty boring in a divisional unit, too,” Harkins said. “You spend a lot of time breaking up traffic jams and guarding prisoners.”

  “Did you see any fighting? I mean, actual combat?”

  “I saw the results,” Harkins said. He looked over at the kid, just barely visible in the darkness. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “That’s what my older brother told me. He’s in the First Division. Already fought in North Africa and Sicily. Too bad I can’t take his place and let him go home.”

  Harkins thought of Patrick and his paratrooper comrades, getting ready for their third major campaign, and all the aviators out in East Anglia, who went to war night after night.

  “How long you reckon we’ll be out here, sir?” Tallent asked just as Harkins thought he heard something.

  Harkins held up his hand. “Shhh.”

  A black car rolled slowly through the gate. As it was about to pass Harkins and Tallent, someone in the front passenger seat used a cigarette lighter. Harkins thought he saw Stowe in profile, leaning into the flame. When the car passed onto school grounds, Harkins stood and tapped Tallent on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  He walked back to where Wickman and the other two MPs waited. All three MPs had raincoats, which probably meant their sergeant checked on them before they left the barracks. Wickman, who—like Harkins—did not have a raincoat, huddled with his shoulders pressed up to his ears.

  “See anything?” Wickman asked.

  “A sedan went in. American-made, driver on the left side of the car. I think Stowe was in the passenger seat.”

  “That last car parked in front of that cottage,” one of the MPs said.

  “What do we do now?” Wickman asked.

  “What indeed?” Major Sinnott said as he appeared from the woods behind them, holding a rifle by the balance point. Two of the startled MPs reached for their pistols.

  “Hold on,” Harkins directed, raising his hand.

  “How did you find us?” Wickman asked.

  “A blind man could have found you, all the noise you’re making out here,” Sinnott said. He wore a stylish trench coat. “You two geniuses didn’t bring raincoats? It’s fucking England in May.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Harkins saw Wickman glance at him. Probably thinking the same thing. Sinnott had been drinking. Maybe drunk, maybe not, but juiced.

  “We have a lot of work to do on your fieldcraft if you’re going to avoid getting hauled in by the Gestapo,” Sinnott said.

  Harkins studied the rifle, which was a bolt action. There was a removable canvas cover over the center of the weapon.

  “Is that a sniper rifle?”

  Sinnott cocked his ear toward Harkins. “What’s that, Lieutenant?”

  “Is that a sniper rifle, sir?”

  Sinnott stood for a long two or three seconds. It was too dark to see his eyes, but Harkins felt his stare. Then he lifted the weapon, pulled off the canvas cover, revealing a scope.

  “Springfield ’03, sniper configuration.”

  “Plan on doing some shooting out here?” Harkins asked.

  “You never know,” Sinnott said. “Hey, I brought you guys some coffee. Warm you up a bit.”

  Sinnott had an insulated metal bottle slung on a strap over his shoulder. “You men have canteen cups?” he asked the MPs. They pulled their cups out and Sinnott poured some coffee in each. Then he poured some into the thermos cap and offered it to Harkins. “You’re all wet,” he said.

  Harkins took a few sips, then handed the cap to Wickman. When everyone had been served, Sinnott turned to Harkins.

  “So what’s your big tactical plan?”

  * * *

  Sinnott and Wickman set off to watch the trail that led from the back of the headmaster’s cottage and through the faculty houses, while Harkins and the MPs kept an eye on the gate. Wickman, who had scouted the area earlier, took the lead when they started walking, Sinnott just behind. They used the wood line to cover their approach, emerging behind a storage shed at the edge of an athletic field. They hugged the little building, and by leaning out slightly they had a clear view of the main house, one room brightly lit, a door on the back wall.

  “We don’t actually know who is in there,” Wickman whispered. “I’m worried we put Annie into a dangerous situation.”

  Sinnott pulled out a small telescope and trained it on the window. There were curtains, but he thought they were fairly sheer; if someone moved around in there, he’d see.

  He heard a low rumble next to him, turned to see Wickman leaning forward, hands on his knees.

  “I don’t feel so good,” he said.

  “Come around back,” Sinnott said, holding Wickman under one arm and moving him to the side of the shed away from the house. “Just sit here. I’ll let you know what’s going on.”

  Suddenly Wickman leaned over and vomited onto his shoes. His left leg buckled and he pitched forward, landing on hands and knees.

  “Ohhhh.”

  Sinnott helped him to an upright sitting position, pushed his shoulders back to the wall.

  “Don’t lie on your back,” he said. “You’ll choke.”

  Wickman locked eyes with him, grabbed Sinnott’s arm in a weak grip. “You did this.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Sinnott said. He stood and moved closer to the shed’s corner so he could watch the house.

  33

  2 May 1944

  2145 hours

  Harkins had no sooner put the two MPs in position to watch the gate when one of them—he thought the kid’s name was Grant—leaned over suddenly and vomited.

  “Jesus,” Tallent said.

  “You going to be okay?” Harkins asked.

  By way of an answer Grant fell to his knees, took off his helmet, and threw up again, an entire meal, maybe two, hurtling from his belly and splashing on the pine needles. Tallent moved next to Grant and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, careful to stay clear of whatever was going to come out next.

  “I feel like shit,” Grant said, then promptly threw up again.

  “Did you drink any of the major’s coffee?” Harkins asked Tallent.

  “Nah. Smelled like horse piss, so I tossed it. You think that’s what’s making him sick?”

  By way of an answer Harkins stuck three fingers down his own throat, a trick that had the desired effect. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so the result wasn’t as spectacular as Grant’s effort and he only vomited up a dark liquid.

  “Take him back to the vehicle and check on the guy with the jeeps,” Harkins said. “If he had any of that coffee, tell him to vomit it up. Anyone who’s sick, make sure he sits upright.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tallent said. He helped Grant to his feet, draped one of the sick man’s arms over his own shoulder, then started shuffling back toward the jeeps.

  “Tallent,”
Harkins said. The GI looked over his shoulder.

  “If Major Sinnott comes back to your location, keep an eye on him. He’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous how?” Tallent asked.

  “He did this—poisoned us—to take the five of us out of the picture, so I’m not sure what he has in mind. Just be careful.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant,” Tallent said. When he turned away, Harkins heard the private say, “Fucking officers.”

  * * *

  Sinnott left the incapacitated Wickman by the shed and made his way to the back of the headmaster’s cottage, crawling the last few yards until he reached the deep shadows of the shrubs that were hard against the wall. When he stood, he could see into the kitchen. It was empty.

  He crouched back down, crawled to a corner by the south side yard. There were two windows in this wall, but no shrubs; if Harkins or any of the others were still upright and watching from the hill it was possible they would see him silhouetted against the whitewashed cottage. He trusted the ipecac he put in the coffee to do its work; what he couldn’t be sure of was how much any of the men had drunk.

  He made his way to the back wall again, crossed under the kitchen window to the north side of the house, nearest the dormitory and away from the hill where Harkins had positioned the MPs. No shrubs, but it was a bit darker here, the only light a rectangle shining from one of the cottage windows and some weak illumination from a few dorm windows about twenty yards away. Apparently the blackout wasn’t enforced out here in the country.

  Sinnott duckwalked along the side of the house until he was beside the window and could look in without any of the light spilling onto his face. Inside, crammed into a tight parlor, were Sechin and Stowe, and another man seated next to Stowe on a settee.

  That must be Kerr, he thought. He vaguely remembered seeing him in a pub, talking to Harkins.

  A movement close to the window startled him and he dropped quickly. When he chanced another look he saw a fourth person, a big man in a dark coat, much younger than Sechin, probably his bodyguard and driver. He, at least, would be armed.