Silver Moon

by Jenny Knipfer

General Daily eyed Luis speculatively. “At ease, Lieutenant. It is Lt. Luis Wilson, correct?”

  Luis imagined he had passed whatever silent inspection General Daily had submitted him to.

  “Yes, General.”

  “Well, I assume you know who I am.” One bushy eyebrow cocked up.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The General looked to his right and left and focused on Luis front and center again. “Come in. Take a seat.”

  General Daily stepped aside and let Luis precede him into his office.

  When they were seated, the general laid out Luis’s mission. “We’ll ship you out tomorrow into the North Sea, where you’ll be let down in a lifeboat several miles from the Netherlands. There, a fishing trolley will pick you up. The trolley will be disguised as a German vessel.”

  The general looked Luis full in the face without moving and rolled out the information to him like rolling out a carpet. He took a breath and continued.

  “A uniform will be stowed aboard for you to change into, along with forged identification papers and a wallet of Reichsmarks. They’ll deposit you in Emden, and from there you’ll make your way to Hamburg where our German contact and your handler, Marcus, will be waiting to transfer you to Cologne. After that, you go to Metz as an officer under the command of General Major Wolfgang Ostermann.”

  General Daily cleared his throat, took a sip of water from a glass upon his desk, and continued. “Your official title will be Oberstleutnant Gunther Von Wolff. Any questions so far?”

  Luis’s head spun. He doubted, not for the first time, his decision to sign up for this, but it seemed he just couldn’t say no. He found himself in ever increasing depths of commission.

  “I don’t think so, sir.” Luis tried to look composed and strong, but he felt anything but.

  “Remember your training. You must commit all this to memory. You must not write anything down.” The general tapped the papers in his hands on his desk. “Now, let’s see, where were we?” He thumbed through a few pages. “Oh, yes.”

  Luis thought of something. “Sir, how do I receive news? Whom am I to relay information to?”

  “We’re getting to that, Lieutenant.” The general scanned down the top page again and looked up at him. “You’ll receive mission information at a bakery in Metz, Germany, called . . .” he looked down once more and checked his facts, “Das Pumpernickel. Go in every Tuesday. Make sure you speak with a man called Hans. Ask for a pretzel—brezel in German, of course. Hans will write any new directives on a script of paper and bake it inside the pretzel. Once you have read the missive, destroy it immediately.” The general paused. “Understood?”

  “Yes. Metz. Das Pumpernickel. Tuesday. Hans. Brezel.” Luis repeated the gist of the directive back to General Daily.

  “There will be two ways for you to get information out: a woman in Givet, France at a dairy called Shane Haus, and a dead drop in Sedan at a public house. At the dairy, you will visit Gretchen. She’s a French spy and will get the thread of verbal information you give her into the appropriate hands. Pretend a liaison with her for cover or whatever you have to do, but in an emergency, you can contact your handler. He will tell you how and when you can meet him.”

  The general paused, and Luis took a deep breath. They met each other’s eyes. Luis had an inkling the general showed some understanding of how overwhelmed he felt.

  General Daily’s brown eyes softened, and a slight curve of a smile twitched at his thin lips, making his tailored mustache tremor.

  “All this will become second nature in no time. Don’t worry,” the general said before continuing with his instructions. “In Sedan, the public house you’re to visit is called La Noir Cheval, The Black Horse. There you’ll leave information written in code. You will find a loose brick in the wall of the outhouse, near the bottom by the stool. Go there, order a drink, drink it, and then use the outhouse before you go. Repeat it back to me.”

  The general waited, a steady look in his eyes, and a tension about his smoothly shaved jaws.

  “Go to Givet and get to know Gretchen, who works at the creamery. There I relay verbal information only.” Luis took a breath and tried to remember what the general had said about Sedan. “In Sedan I’m to find the public house . . .”

  Luis left off because he couldn’t recall the name. So many details milled around in his mind.

  “The Black Horse.”

  “Ah, yes. Order a drink and use the outhouse. I’ll find a loose brick near the floor.”

  “Good. Good!” General Daily handed Luis one sheet of paper. “To ensure you remember, study this tonight. It also has a map on it. You’ll see Givet and Sedan are close to the French border. When you’re satisfied you have committed everything to memory, burn it.” The general pinned Luis with his gaze again. “This is a dangerous business. Trust no one, Lt. Wilson.”

  “Yes, General.” Luis gulped down some foreboding thoughts.

  General Daily stood and showed Luis out. “Good luck and Godspeed, Lt. Wilson.”

  The general saluted, and Luis reflected his stance.

  “Thank you, sir.” Luis nodded and turned about face. He walked away with the paper of directives gripped tightly in his hand, but then he panicked. He turned around and asked, “Sir, what if I get into trouble? What I mean to say is . . . what if I’m suspected or found out?”

  “I gather you’ve been taught to use whatever force necessary to protect yourself and the information you hold . . .” The general let the statement hang in the air but added, “even if it means your own demise, if . . . there’s no other way. This is war, Lieutenant. We must sacrifice or be sacrificed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Luis swallowed and met the general’s gaze without wavering. “I understand, sir.”

  Mid-February 1915

  Halifax

  Rose laid down her pen upon her desk and reviewed the letter she had finished to Henry. She’d gotten so used to his company. His absence left a hole in her life. She could hardly remember her life before him. Granted, she had good memories of home and family, but everything had become truer and richer since knowing him. For her, he made everything good in life shine a little brighter. Without him, the days were dimmer.

  On a whim, Rose went to her bureau and opened the little, tin pot of rouge sitting on top next to her hairbrush and comb on a little, silver tray. She opened the tin and used the tip of her pinkie finger to apply some rouge to her lips. She smacked them together and wiped the extra rouge off her finger onto a used handkerchief wadded up in her laundry hamper.

  She picked up the finished letter and held it flat against the wall. She hesitated but a moment before placing her berry-red lips on the paper after her signature. Leaning back, she admired the perfect impression her painted lips had left upon the page. Rose hoped Henry wouldn’t think that a wonton thing to do, but she wanted something more than the X’s and O’s etched after her name. She desired him to know just how much she missed him. With satisfaction, she folded the letter and sealed it up in an envelope. She wrote the address Henry had given her in his last letter on the outside of the envelope and affixed a stamp.

  There. Done, she told herself with satisfaction.

  The thought of sending the letter off made her think of the day Henry had left last August . . .

  August 10th, 1914

  Henry held her at a distance and searched her eyes. “Rose, say something.”

  “What is there to say? It’s done, and you’re going despite how I may protest.” Her usual serene attitude was marred with sadness.

  “It won’t be for long, you’ll see, and then . . .” Henry stopped mid-sentence.

  “And then?” Rose looked up at him with hope.

  “We can be together again,” Henry filled in. He pulled her to him.

  Rose wanted to hear what he’d left unsaid. She thought he might have said more than them simply being together.

  He kissed the spot in front of her ear where a wisp of her hair curled in a corkscrew tend
ril.

  “It won’t be long, you’ll see,” he promised.

  Rose said nothing and willed herself not to cry. She pushed back until she could see his face. “But why can’t you use your engineering skills? Why must you fight on the front lines?”

  She didn’t whine or plead; she simply wanted an answer to a very real question. Henry would be of more use in such a capacity. She couldn’t see him toting a gun, much less firing it to kill another man.

  I don’t want to think of him doing such things!

  “I’ll be using my training but over there.” He tried to console her. “I most likely will not be in the thick of battle. They might have me operating or even maintaining some machines. Who knows, I might even get to man a land ship.”

  Curse the tinge of excitement I hear in his voice. Land ships be hanged!

  “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  She liked that he was a man of honor, a man not afraid to do his duty, but that also meant he was willing to sacrifice their love. She watched him soberly as she searched his face for what he hadn’t said.

  “So soon,” Rose finally said.

  It came out as an observation. She had to be strong for him.

  I’ll not be a simpering idiot, Rose told herself.

  “Come and see me off?”

  “I’ll try. Matron is formidable.”

  “Enough talking.” Henry nuzzled closer and kissed her. “We must make the most of these moments.”

  “We must, mustn’t we?” Rose cradled his face with her hand and stroked his cheek, his skin rough under her caress from the shadow of a needed shave. Her eyes spoke all she wanted to say,

  I’m yours, Henry, she realized.

  It turned out Rose never did get to see Henry off. A nurse had called in sick. Rose had been needed and not allowed the time to wave farewell to her love. It felt cruel of Matron, and Rose wanted to be upset. However, her practical mind could tell Matron had done what she needed to do because there were patients to care for.

  Something had been forged in her heart that day—a call, a cry, or a need to do all she could to ensure Henry came back to her. The same week of his departure, she had heard about the white feather campaign and had signed up.

  Mabel burst into the shared space she and Rose rented from their landlady, Mrs. Hanson. “What shall we do for supper tonight, Rose? I’m tired of Mrs. Hanson’s cooking. Does the woman not know how to make anything other than fried food?”

  “Mabel, you startled me. Must you always barge into the room?” Rose tried not to be annoyed at her roommate’s tendency to plow into a place with her loud opinions in such a domineering fashion.

  “Oh. Well, I didn’t think I needed to announce myself.” Mabel dropped her purse on her bed, removed the pins from her nurse’s cap, and flung it on the bed as well. She followed suit herself. “Ahh, it feels good to lie down. My back is sore and my feet feel pinched. I think I may need new shoes.”

  Rose remained silent.

  “Cat got yer tongue?”

  “No, just . . . thinking.”

  Mabel turned on her side and propped her head up with her arm. “’Bout?” She really examined Rose. “I see that look in your eye. Henry?”

  “I finished a letter to him. I was remembering the day he left and how I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Mabel pouted.

  Rose knew Mabel wanted to be sympathetic, but it was difficult for her. She’d much rather cheer someone up and be the life of the party than a good listener. Rose considered Mabel the truest friend she had.

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  Rose gave Mabel points for trying and smiled in gratitude. “Not really, but thanks.” She tucked the envelope with Henry’s letter into her bag. She’d mail it tomorrow on her way to work. “How’s Milton?”

  Rose felt a bit of rancor that Milton had not signed up to do his bit.

  “Good.” Mabel straightened up and sat on the edge of the bed. She started to unbutton her uniform. “He had to travel to New York last week to tour his uncle’s factory, which manufactures some material called . . . baitlit. No, that's not right . . . b . . . Bakelite. That’s it! It’s some sort of artificial resin.”

  “What’s it used for?”

  “He said it could be molded into almost any shape.” Mabel hung up her uniform in the wardrobe. “I guess it’s durable and can be used for almost anything.” She reached for her hairbrush and swept through her jaw-length bob. “So, are we going out or not? If not, I won’t bother primping.”

  Rose felt she needed a bit of fresh air. It might perk up her spirits, and the dry winter air indoors had started to meddle with her sinuses.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Swell!” Mabel flicked through her clothes in the wardrobe, pulled out a deep orchid, wool skirt with matching jacket, and started to put it on.

  Rose looked at herself in the mirror and felt her brown day dress suitable. She wanted to know more about Milton’s work. “Will any of this new material be used in the war effort by chance?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know for sure. Maybe. I can ask him on Friday when I see him.” Mabel finished slipping into her new attire. Her eyes focused on Rose.

  “You wearing that?” she asked in a somewhat disgusted tone.

  “’Tis fine. I have no one to impress.”

  Mabel rolled her eyes. “Ever the demure Miss Rose.”

  Rose ignored her comment, caught up her purse, pinned on her hat, and held the door open for Mabel.

  “Won’t you be cold?” Mabel asked, noticing her lack of outerwear.

  “My jacket’s on the hook by the front door.”

  “Well, off we go, two single ladies on the town.” Mabel slipped Rose’s arm through hers.

  “Single? Don’t we both have sweethearts?”

  “We aren’t hitched yet, my darling.” Mabel winked and laughed.

  Rose couldn’t help but laugh with her. “You’re incorrigible.”

  Mabel grinned. “I’m told it’s my best quality.”

  The ladies giggled as they made their way out, which left their landlady shaking her head, most likely in wonder at the character of the young women she housed.

  Late February 1915

  Webaashi Bay

  “Now, Young Master Aimes, ain’t askin’ too much of ya. ‘Tis your job an’ all,” Jeremiah Taylor huffed.

  “But, Jeremiah . . .”

  “MR. TAYLOR, if you please.” Jeremiah had had enough of these common notions of calling folk by their Christian names and those one hardly knew to boot.

  Charles Aimes, Webaashi Bay’s young constable, sucked in a breath. “Mr. Taylor, I can hardly go arrest Miss Herman on the suspicions of an . . . that is to say, on your suspicions.”

  “The paper clearly said that those of German heritage were to be watched, and if caught engaging in suspicious behavior, citizens were to notify the authorities.” Jeremiah narrowed his eyes into mere slits. “Y’are ‘the authorities’ now, aren’t ya?”

  “Yes, Jer . . . Mr. Taylor, but that doesn’t mean I’m obliged to investigate every piece of news reaching my ears.”

  Constable Aimes sounded impatient to Jeremiah. Young folk, always lacking duty.

  He leaned heavily on his cane, raised his voice, and shook his available pointer finger in Constable Aimes’s face. “Oh, you’ll see. Then it’ll be too late. Mark my words!”

  He teetered a bit, and the constable caught his elbow to steady him. “There now, Mr. Taylor, calm yourself. I’ll look into things. Perhaps I should escort you to your home?”

  Ah, he wishes to placate me, Jeremiah figured.

  “No, I’m not going to drop over dead, if that’s what concerns ya. I . . . I must be off.”

  Jeremiah did not want to be beholden to this young fella. He’d gotten here on his own two feet, and his own two feet would take him home again. He pulled his elbow away and shuffled off. He made his way down
the boardwalk and into the alley to access the entrance to his upstairs apartment, thinking he might just have to take matters into his own hands. Then he noticed a lack of something.

  “Huff and bother!” Jeremiah muttered to himself as he looked at the empty basket upon his arm.

  He’d forgotten to get the things on his grocery list. He had come home empty-handed, but with his energy spent, too tired to return. So, Jeremiah used what little energy he had to shakily climb the flight of stairs to his little abode. He stumbled inside and dropped into his armchair with a sigh.

  My bones are gettin’ too old for all this, he confided in himself and promptly drifted off into a snooze.

  Natalie Herman had just stepped out of the café to run down to the post office to send a parcel (of some of his favorite chocolate fudge) to Luis. She’d enjoyed her time with the Parsons. Such fond memories floated to her on occasion of doing what she loved to do—cook—in the most beautiful and well-equipped atmosphere, among people who had become dear to her.

  Soon it would be March, and Luis’s birthday approached on the 9th. Natalie had made a number of fun birthday meals and treats for the family in past years. She filed through then in her mind. Her favorite had been the peanut butter and jelly birthday. That year Luis had turned twelve, and he could have eaten peanut butter and jelly all the day long. It had been her idea to have a party themed with those two foods. She had made a chocolate layer cake with peanut butter and jelly filling. Other menu items had consisted of: baked ham basted with grape jelly, maple peanut butter glazed carrots, and peanut butter and jelly finger sandwiches with white bread.

  Natalie sighed. She could hardly believe Luis would be thirty years old this year.

  Heavens, that makes me feel ancient.

  A tussle down in front of Trent’s General distracted her from her thoughts. She watched and overheard a few of the words exchanged between Mr. Taylor and Constable Aimes. “Suspicions . . . Miss Herman . . . it’ll be too late.”

  What in the world? Natalie couldn’t imagine what they talked about that had them referencing her in such terms.