A Matter of Trust
Sentinel X Garrison’s
Gorillas Story.
In the 1990’s I saw a documentary
about war time crime in
My thanks to Izzie and Luv’es Fiction, without you this story
would never have been written. Any mistakes are mine.
Garrison’s Gorillas was created by Morte Green for
ABC.
August 1947
General Richard Edwards looked
across the room at G13, his specialist unit. What was the old saying? “War is hell, but the peace will kill
you.” Very apt.
He studied his team of
twelve, thirteen if you counted the Professor.
There was something special about them.
Three of them were sentinels and three of them guides. To begin with he
hadn’t believed the sentinel voodoo, men with enhanced senses that made them
the ultimate soldiers, guides a steadying influence that helped the sentinels
apply their senses without tumbling into a black void that could kill them. A
pairing joined by something called a bond, a living force, the Professor had
told him again and again. It was what
propelled the sentinel into what one of his men, Dr Blair Sandburg, called the
blessed protector condition, where the sentinel was beyond logical or civilized
conduct. They would tear a man apart
with their bare hands to save their guide, and in that condition only their
guide could control them.
The General studied the
men. Major James Ellison, ex-cop and one
of the best investigators in the old G2 unit, was standing over a map, deep in
tactical argument with Lieutenant Colonel Craig Garrison, a
The man watching the
Colonel’s every move was his sentinel, British Sergeant Major Richard
Lewis. At 6 foot 8 and powerfully built,
he towered over his 5 foot 11 guide.
Lewis was the most dangerous of the Sentinels. According to Professor
Faulkner and Dr Sandburg, he was a primal sentinel, and his type was possibly
the forerunner of the Werewolf legend. With him, all bets were off where his
guide was concerned. He had already
walked through hell to get him. General Edwards shuddered. He had seen what was left of the black
marketer who had attacked the Colonel; there hadn’t been enough of him to put
in a bag.
Handing his own sentinel a
cup of coffee was Dr Blair Sandburg, one of the smallest men in the room at 5
foot 9; he wore no uniform, still remaining a civilian, a highly respected
academic, and Professor Faulkner was his mentor. He was, Edwards smiled fondly,
one of the most hyperactive people he had ever met and for a man who didn’t
like violence he never hung back, in a fight he was a good man. Finally the last
remaining Sentinel. Dark-haired, he
moved with the grace of one of the big cats.
His eyes were on Garrison, the officer glanced across, nodded to the
sentinel as if to confirm that everything was alright and then turned back to
the tactical argument with the other senior officers.
One day, Edwards mused,
when all this was over and he had retired back to his family home in
The City was in the middle of all the excitement of the Olympic Games
which had just started. Wise heads had agreed that Hitler was attempting to
hijack the Games, turn them into the largest propaganda exercise ever seen. The
Winter Games, also held in
The events called the Night of the Long Knives in 1934 had been
forgotten, or so it seemed, by the foreign powers, and now the Olympics were
giving a seal of respectability to the Government in
The streets were crowded with people of all nations hurrying. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go,
something to do. At a pavement café, Jean Faulkner sipped her coffee and took
the time to watch the world go by. At eighteen, the Englishwoman had the whole
world in front of her. Her friends were talking about coming out into society,
being presented at court, then finding a husband. All she thought about was
being in the position to further her education and help her parents in their
field of research. But that seemed a
long way off. At the moment, her parents
were meeting with their German colleagues at the Institute before dining
together at the Hotel, after which the more important private meeting would
take place.
Her job was to locate Blair Sandburg, an American academic, and get him
to the meeting on time. But that was later; now she could take the time to
watch the world go by and take in the hustle and bustle that was the Olympic
Games.
It seemed that every house and shop was flying either the swastika or
the Olympic flag, and it also seemed that every tenth person was in uniform,
although it was hard to keep track of what they were. Jean was flipping through
the official guide book until she found what she wanted, the location of the
swimming events. It was going to be
exciting, especially with the American record holder being excluded from the
team at the last minute. It would throw the race open. She was to meet her
contact, Dr Sandburg, at the swimming event, a chance meeting or so it would
seem. Looking down at her watch she
checked the time, made allowances for the people and the lack of transport, and
draining her coffee decided to make a move.
Leaving a tip on the table she entered the flow of people, reminding
her of salmon swimming downstream.
Letting her mind wander was not a good thing to do, the man heading
towards her zigged when she thought he was going to zag and they collided. He
made a grab to catch her before she fell, but only got a grip on the front of
her blouse, and there was the horrible sound of tearing material as she landed
on her backside on the pavement. In a
last ditch attempt to save herself, she had grabbed hold of him, but instead
hauled him off his feet and forward onto her.
He tried to avoid landing on her, but all he managed to do was straddle
her as he landed face first into her cleavage.
For a moment there was stunned silence, then a clamour of people asking
if they were alright. The man pushed himself
up with muttered apologies, and for the first time Jean got a look at the cause
of her embarrassment, a young man in his early twenties with dark blond hair,
good looking, with a smile that was devastating. His apology would have worked
better if his gaze hadn’t slipped from her face to admire two of her other
assets and he couldn’t keep the grin from his face.
Quickly he reached down to pull her to her feet, but she halted him,
“You’re on my skirt.” Jean used German which she spoke fluently, having spent
winter holidays in the German region of
It was only then she caught sight of her image in the shop window and
just stopped short of swearing, a very unladylike habit she had at times. The
black jacket had the SS runes on one collar, on the other his rank. He was a junior officer. Of all the people
she had to have banged into it was an SS officer. She looked down at the cuff band: Adolf
Hitler. He belonged to the Leibstandarte
SS, the Bodyguard Regiment.
The officer was bending to pick up his cap; he gave her a smile, his
hand going out to stop her as she tried to shrug off his jacket. Only he caught her hand, taking a step closer
to her, she quickly took a small step back, giving her a little breathing space
from him.
Richard Alfred Lewis at 23 was a big man, powerfully built with a quick
and keen mind, who was representing
“Miss Faulkner, are you alright?”
An unbonded Sentinel, he took his protection of his clan very
seriously, and Jean Rose Faulkner was, by her father’s adoption into the Clan,
his responsibility.
The young officer spun round, “We
are alright,” The German
officer’s English was stuttering.
Richard looked him up and down, towering over the lean German’s 5 foot
11, and fixed him with a cold look, meeting the icy grey blue eyes levelly.
“With due respect, mate, I wasn’t talking to you,” he deliberately broadened
his working class accent. Turning his attention to Jean, he slipped off his own
jacket, and handed it to her, and she gladly took the black uniformed jacket
off to return to the officer.
“Thank you, but I am alright now.” She pulled the British blazer more
tightly round her even though it swamped her.
Richard reflected that if looks could kill he would have dropped dead
that instant. He opened his senses and scanned the officer’s vital signs
carefully, detecting the scent of sexual interest on the younger man. This was an accidental meeting, nothing
more.
The German officer bowed slightly to Jean. “Obersturmfuhrer,” then he added “Lieutenant
de la Maziere,” putting his hand out as he introduced himself,
“Jean Faulkner.” She shook
hands.
Richard saw the delay before the officer extended his hand to him.
“Richard Lewis.” As their hands met he felt a jolt like static
electricity running through him and he saw the officer’s eyes widen slightly as
they broke the handshake. Then he was
ushering Jean along the road, away from the German officer left watching them
go.
“You alright, Jean?”
“Fine, a few bruises, but that’s all. That pavement is damn hard,” she
added as she saw the look on his face.
It was almost vacant, no hint of the smile her comment would normally
have produced
“Yeah, right,” he finally said as he realized she was waiting for a
reply.
“Richard, you’re miles away, what is it?”
“Nothing.” He lapsed into
silence as they carried on walking.
Richard had felt it, the sudden rush like adrenaline through his body,
only at the last moment had he been able to call it back, even so he could see
that the German had felt it. The man was a guide, a strong one, and now he knew
that was what had been calling him. He
had congratulated himself on finding Jean among all those people, but the
little voice in his head was calling him a liar. He had found Jean because the
Officer was near her. It was a
combination of the two of them. Her scent was known to him, but... He felt
himself falling into a black void.
“Richard!” Her voice was urgent
as she tugged at his sleeve, struggling to keep him upright.
“Let me help,” the German accented voice came through to Richard, and
he felt another pair of hands grabbing hold and the scent flooded through
him. He came out of the darkness like a
train coming out of a tunnel into the light of day. At the last moment he pushed the man away
from him violently; needing to break the connection that he could feel forming
between them and the German officer went flying backwards, colliding with the
wall with a sickening thud.
Then Jean was between them, and Richard was back, “Oh shit.” He reached past her and caught the German
just as his legs began to buckle. “Sorry,” he added as he realized what he had
said.
Jean was looking round her, thankful that she had managed to pull
Richard off the main street and into an alleyway. Assaulting an SS officer must
be high on the things not to do list, but it looked as though no one had seen
what had happened.
Richard kept a firm grip on the younger man, even as he turned all his
senses down, clamping them tightly. “I
had to break the connection.”
“What connection?” Jean asked. Then the penny dropped, “Richard, you
can’t, not with him, please.”
“It’s alright, I broke away, had to get him away from me, I didn’t want
to hurt him.”
There was real anguish in his voice.
“One of them can’t be a
guide, Richard, he can’t.” She broke off as she saw his face. Taking a deep breath, she wondered what the
hell they were going to do.
Jean kept a firm grip on him as Richard found a taxi, the driver
looking none too sure as they manhandled the SS Officer into the back.
“Do you know the General Hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Good, can you drop him off, the Obersturmfuhrer had an accident. I think he hit his head, he’s probably got
concussion.” She pressed money into his
hand.
Then she was gone.
0-0-0-0
Blair Sandburg took his seat at the Swimming. He could feel the nerves running through him
and glanced at his watch, then his programme. Where the hell was she?
“Excuse me.” The voice was English and he looked up as a pretty girl
took a seat next to him. It was a few years since they had last met, and Jean
was still as pretty as before, but there was an added vitality to her. She was
here to escort him to the meeting with her father and Professor Schiller.
To anyone watching it was a typical example of a young man chatting up
a pretty girl. It was going on all over
the Olympics, and no one would have been surprised to see him escort her away
from the venue.
The meeting took place just over an hour later, and at the end of it
Professor Schiller handed over a copy of his work to Professor Faulkner and
Blair Sandburg. He explained that he had
destroyed his own copies, and that it was something he never wanted his own
government to get their hands on. “Lindsay, they would pervert it, instead of
helping humanity. They will use it to create the elite soldier, this must be
stopped.”
When they parted it was the last time that the four of them would meet.
Professor Schiller went home, kissed his wife and children and went into his
study. Two hours later the police were called when Frau Schiller found the door
to the study locked and was unable to get a response. When the police broke in
they found him dead, poisoned by his own hand.
His papers burned, Schiller had known at the end that he had passed his
research to people who would use the knowledge wisely, and that it would not
fall into the hands of those who would pervert it for their own evil ends.
1938
Blair Sandburg was a
pacifist. He had spent his early life with a mother who followed the free love
ideals of the Bohemian set of the 1920’s, and had had a number of different men
filling the role of father. None of them
had stayed long. Some had been damaged by the Great War, both in body and soul,
and so he had pledged never to take up arms in any conflict. Nothing could be
worth the damage he had seen inflicted on those men made old before their
time. Blair had joined Rainer University
at 14, and had soon gained a BA, and MA, then his PhD; he had followed the work
of Richard Burton, the Victorian explorer and politician. He had recently
returned from Peru, where he had tried to find a living example of his thesis
topic. Reluctantly, Blair had parted company with one of his mentors, Dr Kurt
Warner, and they had separated with bitter words, no longer able to ignore what
was going on back in Germany, and the need for Dr Warner’s work to fit within
the Nazi party lines. When he had
returned to the US he had pursued his efforts to find the embodiment of his
thesis. Now on his desk lay his file on
sentinels, an age-old form of tribal guardians, men with enhanced senses they
used to protect the tribe from their enemies. Trying to find a sentinel was
like finding a needle in a haystack. Depressed, he reached into the drawer of
his desk and took out a bottle of whisky, briefly contemplating the level in
the bottle before fishing out a glass and filling it almost to the top. Dean
Collins was talking of cutting off his grant if he didn’t get a result soon,
the clock was ticking, and he had been told that he had to find a sentinel if
he wanted to stay at Rainier University. Taking a deep drink of the whisky,
Blair looked at the file broodingly, and then finished off the whisky in two
big gulps. A sentinel was supposed to be a tribal guardian, but the man
detailed in the file was a thief and a killer. How the hell could he be a
sentinel? But he was all he had to work
with if he wanted to save his research.
0-0-0-0
Nuremberg, Germany
Professor Lindsay Faulkner was among the party of academics that Dr
Warner had taken to the Nuremberg Rally Stadium. The doctor was full of the
great things that the Nazi Party would do and how it was making a difference to
the people as he showed them round the empty stadium, likening it to the
impressive buildings of antiquity. Shaking his head slowly, Lindsay turned
round to see how his wife and daughter were getting on, ready to apologise for
dragging them off on such a boring afternoon. It was then he realised that Jean
was missing. He saw her some distance away, partly hidden from view, and
started towards her, quickening his steps as he saw that she was not alone. The
man had his back to him, the black of the uniform merging into the shadows of
the giant columns supporting the upper galleries. He called out to his daughter, his voice
echoing off the columns, and she started to move away from the man, only for
him to catch her hand and pull her back. The momentum brought her into his
arms, one arm going round her waist, the palm of his hand resting on her bottom
as he held her close, the other supporting the back of her head as they kissed,
long and hard, before he released his hold and disappeared among the columns
before her father reached her. With a sigh and a smile, Jean turned to face her
father, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes as she walked towards him.
“Sorry, dad. I got caught up.”
“Who was that?”
“A friend,” was the cryptic reply and then she was gone. heading back
towards her mother.
September 1942
Cascade
Blair sipped his coffee and
pulled a face. It was cold and bitter, and he put the cup down in disgust,
reaching for a research file of possible sentinels. He had been gathering the information for the
last five years in the hope of finding his own test subject. In all that time
he had found only one man that had come close to being a sentinel, he had
scored well on sight, smell and touch. But the man had had the basest nature,
he had liked to inflict pain, dominate the men round him, using his strength to
crush and degrade weaker men. His very name, Maggot, seemed fitting; he was
currently serving life in San Quentin man might have had enhanced senses, but
he didn’t share the heart of the sentinel that the old books had talked about.
Blair was just reaching for the whisky bottle in his desk drawer when he
realized that the papers were out of order and a cold feeling of dread ran
though him. Someone had broken into his office. Concerned now, he went round
the room checking, his dismay increasing as he confirmed that someone had gone
over his office with a fine toothcomb, but only the sentinel files had been
touched.
Just then there was a knock
on the office door. Blair called for
whoever was there to come in. A glance at the clock told him it was too early
for one of his students, but he was surprised to see two Army Officers standing
there. His gaze slid over the smaller of the two to rest on an older man, tall,
his face showing nothing, his eyes ice cold, and Blair all but shivered from the
force of the stare directed at him. He felt the man could see right through him
to his very soul and he was being weighed and found wanting.
“Dr Sandburg,” the smaller
man said.
“Yes.”
The man smiled. It wasn’t
very reassuring. “We want to speak to you about your research.”
“Er, the thin blue line?”
Blair tried to move the sentinel file; the thin blue line, about police
interaction, was his cover for his sentinel work.
“No, Doctor,” the smaller
man put in smoothly, “your real research, the one about sentinels.” He saw the
look on Blair’s face, and his smile became chilling as in one stride his hand
pinned the younger man’s hand to the desk as he extracted the file. Taking a
seat without asking he opened the file and began to page through it. Blair was
on his feet and half way round the desk when he was caught and slammed up
against the wall, his feet only just scraping the floor. He found himself looking into the older,
larger man’s face; the anger he saw there was only barely suppressed.
“Who… are… you… guys?”
Blair demanded, his words coming out in a breathless whisper. It was the
smaller man that answered “Your tax dollar at work, Dr Sandburg.”
“I am Colonel Coleman, and
this is Captain Ellison. Doctor, meet
your sentinel.” Coleman’s smile was
smug, he had Sandburg just where he wanted him, and if Sandburg didn’t go for
the deal, he was sure he could make him. Over time, the younger man had bent
the rules, and one of them was about to bite him in the ass if he refused. Then
the Colonel added “So what do you say Dr Sandburg?”
Blair looked towards the
Colonel and then back at the grim faced Sentinel. “Okay, okay, but we do it my
way, right?”
Colonel Coleman’s smile
widened “of course, Doctor. Then he added “Within reason.”
The big mans grip slackened
on his shirt, and Blair was lowered back down, then surprisingly there was a
smile that tugged at the Sentinels lips. “Welcome to the Army, Darwin” Captain
Ellison said. Then for the first time since the two Army officers had come into
his office, Blair began to believe that this might just work.
0-0-0-0
London
Evening 4th December 1942
Lucy Morgan was walking
down the street; in her hand she held a flash light, its face taped leaving
only a small beam, just enough so that she could pick her way home. She gave a
gasp as a man stepped out in front of her, but relaxed and smiled as she
discovered that he was polite and was lost, totally turned around in the smog
and the blackout. He seemed lonely and she accepted his invitation to go out
for a drink. After all, he was a long way from home, he looked like he needed
some company and he was an officer.
Besides, she smiled to herself; she had always liked them tall and
blond. He had taken her arm to escort her. The pub was the Carpenters Arms, and
its wood-panelled walls made it dark and somehow more private. She still felt guilty for dumping her
boyfriend when he was called up and she knew that some of her neighbours would
give her grief for being seen out with a Yank. But what the hell, tonight she
didn’t care and soon one thing lead to another and she had boldly slid her hand
down his body under the table, making her intention very plain as she leaned
into him, draining her drink. She had felt his body respond to her touch, and
looking up into his green-flecked amber eyes, she had seen the flair of lust
and need and had laughed softly. It had
been a long time, and she knew she needed this release as much as he did. When she whispered her suggestion in his ear
he nodded his agreement.
As they left the pub, he
slipped an arm round her, accepting the invitation to go home with her. After all, what harm could it do? No one would be using anyone, and theirs was
a mutual need.
0-0-0-0
Morning of the 5th December 1942.
First Lieutenant Craig Garrison
stepped out into the early morning light.
It was at times like this, when London was quiet, that it was hard to
think that there was a war going on. The City was slowly coming to life, and he
thrust his hands into his coat and headed down the street. The girl last night had been something
special and if for a few hours they had forgotten the horrors of the war as
they took a tumble between the sheets, then maybe it hadn’t done any harm; no
one had used anyone, and it had been mutually satisfying. In his pocket was her
name and number, maybe he would look her up next time he was in Town. He paused
to light a cigarette and caught his reflection in the window of the shop front.
At 29 he was a career soldier, having graduated from West Point in 1937 when he
was 23 years old, and had gone into the US Army Air force[1];
before a crash had finished his military flying career two years later and he
had transferred into the infantry in 1939, later seeing action in North Africa[2]. For a moment the anger swept through him, a
senior officer fouls up and it gets passed down the line. He had been lucky not
to be court martialled; instead he had been busted down from Captain to 1st
Lieutenant. He took a deep pull on the cigarette. He had accepted the punishment and waited it
out. Garrison started walking, lost in his memories. Since then he had worked as a commando with
allied units, until a burst of machine gun fire had ripped through his body,
but now, fully fit again, rumour from HQ was that he was being considered for a
Special Forces unit. Fluent in German, it wasn’t hard to guess where that unit
was going, he just hoped he had some good men under him; one rotten apple would
send him to an early grave. The tall blond officer dropped his cigarette,
ground it out with his foot and headed down to HQ.
0-0-0-0
6th December 1942
Air Raid Warden Howard saw
the light spilling from the upstairs window and banged on the door, when were
people going to take the blackout seriously?
He hammered on the back door and to his surprise it opened. Calling out,
he carefully stepped in, slowly making his way from room to room, before
tentatively knocking on the bedroom door. When there was no answer, Howard
pushed it open and walked in. Instantly, his hand flew to his mouth and he spun
round, only just making it out of the room before he was violently ill. He had
seen a lot of horrors since the war started but the sight in the room turned
his stomach. He staggered out of the house to the nearest phone box and called
999, his voice shaking as he said, “I’ve found a woman…she’s dead.” In his hand he held a badge showing two
crossed rifles; the badge of the American Infantry.
0-0-0-0
7th December 1942
London
G2 Headquarters.
Three
senior officers sat round the table, three files in front them. Colonel Edwards reached out and pulled one
towards him before looking at his colleagues. “General Miller has authorised
the creation of this group, code name G11.
The team will be made up of five convicts gathered from the State
Penitentiaries across America, selected for their abilities; it will be up to
the officer in charge to handpick his own team. In return for volunteering,
each of the men will, if they survive the war, be given parole[3],
and their records will be wiped clean.”
Major
Wyatt shook his head. “With respect, sir, we can train ordinary soldiers to do
the things that these convicts can do, and they would be less of a flight
risk.”
“General
Miller wants G11 up and running in as short a time as possible, recruiting men
who already have the skills we need is the quickest way to do that. If this idea fails all we lose are five
convicts and unfortunately one officer,
but if it works then I see no reason why G11 should not be the only
group activated.”
Colonel
Kerr tapped the files in front of him, representing three men’s careers.
“Captain Joseph Reynolds, infantry officer.
Speaks fluent German, married - I suggest that he is dropped for the
moment.” He saw that they were in
agreement and moved onto the next candidate.
“Second
Lieutenant Robert Cole, speaks fluent German, single, and was third in his year
at West Point, a good steady officer, I would think.”
Colonel
Edwards shook his head. “I think that we
need someone with more experience. First Lieutenant Garrison has been in North
Africa, and has worked as a commando parachuting twice into occupied Europe
with an allied group.”
“Garrison,”
Kerr put in, “was busted down from Captain to First Lieutenant for his conduct
in North Africa.”
“We
have all read his record and I think we are in agreement that if he lives long
enough, Garrison will be a Captain again by the end of the year. Discipline has
to be seen to be done gentlemen, we all know that.” He paused, “and we know that the person who
takes on these convicts has to be someone that thinks outside of his orders,
thinks on his feet, and I believe that Garrison has the best chance of the
three men to stay alive.”
“He’s
fluent in German, so in occupied Europe...”
“No,
Brad.” Colonel Edwards corrected Colonel Kerr, “I mean that he might survive
his own men, we all know that he is more than likely going to get his throat
cut the moment he sets foot on Occupied Soil. Garrison might just manage to
keep alive.”
Once
briefed, Garrison had two weeks to pick his team of five, get them trained so
that they would not break their necks on the first parachute jump, and try and
get a feel for how his men were going to react when they landed in Europe.
Because if he got it wrong, then all bets were off and he would be lucky to walk
away with his life.
Garrison
flew back to America and called the State Penitentiaries and within 72 hours he
had the names of 15 convicts. His mission would take him across the country,
but in the end he had the five men he wanted. Their names would be hidden
behind the nicknames they worked under as criminals; only he would know their
real names.
The
first selected was his safe cracker. Casino from Brooklyn was abrasive and
would be likely to challenge Garrison’s authority, he had been found in Leavenworth. Next was Goniff, cat burglar and
pickpocket. He was English, having moved
to America six years before, and was now doing time in Sing Sing. He was never
known to have carried a weapon on any of his jobs. Chief, an Native American Indian, a hot car
specialist, mechanic and knife man, had been found in Attica. Fourth was Actor,
an Italian professional conman, and the only one of the group that spoke
German, he was also fluent in English and French and seemed to get by in
several other languages as well. Finally
Wheeler. Like Actor, he was from San
Quentin, but he was in for armed robbery and murder. Of the five, Garrison was
almost sure that he didn’t have to worry about a physical challenge from Goniff
and Actor. But Actor could be dangerous in a different way, he was the one that
once in Europe could blend in and disappear, also he had the ability to talk
the others into making a break for it if he wanted. He would have to be watched, but Garrison
thought he might be able to turn his back on those two. Casino was mercurial,
would give a verbal challenge, but there was a question mark over whether he
would attack. That left Wheeler and Chief, neither of whom he would turn his
back on, not unless he wanted to feel a knife in his back. Garrison knew he was going to have to keep on
his toes with that group; any loss of concentration and it could be his last.
The
first mission had also brought about their first and so far only fatality, when
Wheeler had been stabbed to death and left in a burning rail wagon containing a
million dollars worth of forged currency. Garrison had resisted selecting a
replacement, instead content to continue with his original four. Introducing a
new member to the team would be introducing an unknown element. The team seemed
to be settling down, and he couldn’t afford to jeopardise that. The missions had taken them across occupied
Europe, and against the odds they had been successful even though some of the
recent missions had been blown. Things
had seemed to be improving - that was until the last mission.
0-0-0-0
February 1943
Italy
Jean Faulkner was woken by the heavy throbbing engines and the rumbling
of vehicles from the courtyard. She pushed open the bedroom curtains and looked
out across the large courtyard which was filling with tanks, as they fanned out
into a protective shield for the rest of the trucks to arrive.
She swore. Just what she needed: the krauts to arrive, and by the look
of it they were here to stay. She closed
the curtains, careful not to attract attention to herself , Working for the War
Refugee Committee, she was using a neutral Irish passport but it was only a
cover to allow her to help get people out of occupied Europe into neutral
Switzerland.
Later that morning she met Mrs Martha Reilly, and the older woman
looked as if she had just smelt something unpleasant. “Did you hear all that
noise last night?”
“Yes, it seems we have some company,” Jean tried to make light of it.
“You might smile but they are SS, the Donar Regiment.”
“Oh boy.”
“Exactly,” Mrs Reilly put in levelly, “and we have our flock to get to
safety.”
“Well we can’t move them until we find out just how we stand. If they
are here for a reason we are screwed.”
“Jean,” Mrs Reilly put in quickly, “Your mother would be shocked by
that language,” she paused “even if it does sum up our situation.”
“If they’re just travelling through, our flock sits tight and we move
them as soon as they are a dot on the horizon.”
Jean nodded towards the harassed hotel owner. “Let’s find out which one
it is.”
Jean headed towards him only to pull up short when someone said her
name.
“Well, Fraulein Faulkner.”
She turned fast, her face blank for a moment before she
remembered. It was the handsome young
officer from Berlin.
“Obersturmfuhrer de la Maziere.”
“You remember me.”
“It’s hard to forget someone that ripped my blouse off.”
“An accident,” but his smile showed that he didn’t exactly feel sorry
about it. He took a step closer to her, and she waved him back.
“Given our history, I think we need to keep a good distance between
us.” Even as they spoke Jean was
studying him. His uniform was dirty, the leather jacket well worn and there was
no rank insignia visible. The sole of his left boot was flapping even though it
had been tied, his left hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage, and there was no
mistaking the exhaustion etched on his face.
By the look of him, she guessed he had just been pulled back from the
Russian Front.
“You’re stationed here?”
“Rest and refit, so we’re going to be neighbours,” and he waved a hand
at the hotel.
“So it seems. Well, I’d best be off.”
“I’ll see you later, Fraulein.”
She smiled and was just turning when he said, “One question, why are
you here?”
Jean kept the smile in place as she turned back. He had taken a packet
of cigarettes out and tapped out one before offering it to her.
“No thanks.”
He lit the cigarette and then inhaled the smoke.
“I have an Irish passport and we are neutral.”
Whatever he said was lost as one of his troops came up, saluting, which
De la Maziere returned casually.
“Sturmbannfuhrer de la Maziere, Obersturmbannfuhrer Kruger’s
compliments, sir, he is in the Mayor’s office.”
De la Maziere gave Jean a slight smile, “We will talk later, Fraulein.”
His hand came up to touch the peak of his cap in a casual salute. He waited for
her to walk away, admiring the view.
0-0-0-0
Cascade Washington USA
Blair Sandburg looked up
from his report, and reached for his coffee. It was already stone cold. He and
his sentinel, he still felt that burst of pride when he said the word, had so
far been sent on several missions, from one end of the country to the next.
They had broken two Fifth Columnist Groups, one in a ship building firm and the
other in a small sleepy town that had nearly cost them their lives. Jim was in
the officers’ mess enjoying a drink and shooting the breeze with his fellow
officers and gentlemen, men that already had made it clear they had no time for
pacifist civilians. It didn’t matter that he had helped crack the ring, he was
looked at with mistrust. Jim had wanted him to come to the Officers’ Mess with
him, but he had pleaded that he had a report to write. Let Jim unwind the only way he could with his
own kind.
He felt rather than heard
the footfall behind him, and spun round. “Jim, you scared a year’s growth out
of me.” He ducked as his sentinel reached out and ruffled his hair. “Why aren’t
you with the others?” Blair tried not to sound bitter.
“I am with the one person
that matters, my guide.” It was the first time that Jim had ever acknowledged
him as anything more than an academic that couldn’t find his dick with both
hands. Looking up, Blair was surprised to see a smile breaking the older man’s
usually stoic expression. “Cat got your tongue, Darwin?”
It was at this moment that
Blair knew this partnership was going to work.
0-0-0-0
Italy
The flock had been gathered together. “The bad news is that the Donar
Regiment is here for at least six weeks, on a rest and refit, and there is no
way that we can wait that long to get you out. On the plus side, they’re only
posting a light guard, as they don’t any expect trouble.” She paused, “but they could attract the
partisans and then all bets are off.”
Rabbi Leibman shook his head and looked round at his flock. They had
risked everything in making this escape attempt, they were now tantalisingly
close to the Swiss border. During their run for freedom they had been aided by
brave men and women and because of them they had made it this far. He had to
trust that the two women could get them out.
“What do you suggest, Jean?”
“We try and get you out in the next couple of days, let them get
settled first and then make our move.” She looked round, “Where are the twins?”
Just then Lydia came hurrying up, white with fear “I told them not to
go out but they, they must have slipped out.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll go and look for them.” Under her breath she was
cursing. The twins were nine years old and brats, there was no other word for
it, they seemed not to be able to understand the danger, and now they were on
the loose.
Once outside Jean started looking round the square, wondering where the
two of them would go. Answer: the panzers, naturally.
She ignored the wolf whistle with a toss of her head and started
walking round the square, then swore and hurried over. The children came
running round the side of one of the panzers, accompanied by some good natured
yelling; with luck they would be considered just one of a score of children
that were looking at the panzers with unconcealed interest. Jean had nearly reached them when their
headlong flight brought them into a collision with Sturmbannfuhrer de la
Maziere, and Obersturmbannfuhrer Kruger.
Major de la Maziere caught Rachel before she fell but Joseph landed on
his backside on the pavement. Rachel looked up and froze, all she could see was
the death’s head badge. The Major put
her back on her feet and smiled, “Are you alright?” He bent so that he was
looking her straight in her face, “It’s alright, little one, no one is going to
hurt you.”
Joseph was getting to his feet and from the look on his face for the
first time he could see the danger.
“Hello Major,” Jean smiled, “local children, sorry let me get them out
of your hair.”
De la Maziere straightened, his hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “Jean,” and
then he turned to his commander, “Obersturmbannfuhrer Kruger, allow me to
introduce Fraulein Jean Faulkner from the War Refugee Council.”
The Colonel put his hand out, and she accepted it, smiling at him,
“Pleasure to meet you, Colonel Kruger.” She quickly took in the commanding
officer, a tall plump man in his forties, who, she noticed, unlike de la
Maziere, still hadn’t been awarded the Knight Cross, Germany’s highest award
for bravery. She could almost feel sorry for him; he must feel de la Maziere, a
Major at 27, was snapping at his heels.
“The children are alright?” Kruger seemed genuinely concerned.
“Fine, sir.”
Jean reached out and pulled Joseph against her, keeping a firm grasp on
him. “I’ll see they get back to their mother and don’t bother you again.” All the time she could feel De la Maziere’s
eyes burning into her. “Colonel, Major.” She hurried her little charges away.
“Oh and Fraulein,”
Under her breath Jean muttered before she turned. “De la Maziere?” She
faced the two men with a smile.
“Yes, Major.”
“The hotel owner was saying that you have been singing. I hope we get
to hear you tonight, or do you just sing for the Italians? I am sure you’ll
find a German audience is more appreciative of your talents, of which I am sure
you have many.” His gaze moved over her in a way that was blatantly sexual.
“Singing, yes, Major; my other talents, no. Colonel.” she nodded and ushered her charges
away.
The Colonel smiled as he watched
Jean’s retreating figure. Catching the younger man’s look, he said, “I know I
am married, Sturmbann, but I am not dead. You would have to be three days cold
in your coffin not to look at that one.” He paused “Only you could meet such a
delightful creature in this god forsaken place, so how do you know her?”
“I made rather an impression on her, sir.”
“A good one, I hope.”
“I ripped her blouse off, in the middle of the street in Berlin.”
“Memorable.”
“The making up afterwards was.”
The smile that accompanied the words was one Kruger recognised. “You
lucky dog, Detlev.” The Colonel laughed and clapped his young second in command
on the back. Kruger’s gaze followed the young woman just as she turned and gave
a backward look towards them, or rather towards De La Maziere, before turning
back with a toss of her dark hair. Colonel Kruger added “I wish you luck with
that one, Detlev, she is certainly worth the chase.”
Once out of the reach of prying eyes, Jean turned on the children,
“What on earth do you think you’re doing, didn’t your mother tell you about the
soldiers?”
“We just wanted to look.” Now
they were safely away from them, Joseph was all arrogance.
But Jean was fuming, “They are SS, and if they found out, you and your
family would be dead, do you understand me? Do you understand anything that is
going on, because if you don’t then your mother is going to have to tell you!
Because your rank stupidity could not only kill your family, your entire
group, but all the people that have put
their lives on the line to help you. If anyone found out, they would be put
against the wall and shot, killed because you and your sister think this is a
game.” The venom was biting in Jean’s words. It was all very well their mother
trying to hide the horror, but it was time they faced reality, or at least a
healthy chunk of it. Keeping a firm grip
she manhandled the children along.
0-0-0-0
Jean leaned on the counter in reception, “Thanks a lot for telling the
Germans about the singing.”
“They asked what entertainment we had and I told them about your
singing, and that you were a professional singer.” He trailed off, his
expression appealing to her.
"Alright, I’ll sing,” shaking her head she went up the stairs to
her room.
0-0-0-0
It was early evening when she came down, but the room was already
crowded.
Jean was surprised when Obersturmbannfuhrer Kruger came up to her,
“Will you join me, Fraulein?” Jean nodded and accepted the chair he had pulled
out for her.
Once seated he poured her a glass of wine from the bottle already on
the table. The Colonel had been thoughtful since he had spoken to De La
Maziere, wishing him well in his pursuit of this young woman. It didn’t matter
that she might have already bedded the Major in Berlin, that was then, this was
now. He had a daughter her age and looking at her picture had made him realise
that Jean Faulkner needed to be warned off De La Maziere. The Major’s words had
made him think she was too good a woman to be bedded for no reason other than
to give the Major a bit of sport. His
mind made up, he decided to try and make things right.
“You know, Fraulein, the only reason I joined the SS was for my wife.”
The Colonel looked bemused, “I was on half pay in the regular army with no
possibility of promotion, and the one thing you can say for the Black Corp is
that they promote quickly on merit. We will do anything for the people we love,
even sell our souls to the devil.”
Kruger eased back in his seat, “What I am trying to tell you, my dear,
is that you need to be careful about Sturmbannfuhrer De La Maziere. He’s a good
soldier but an arrogant bastard, but then all the young officers in the Black
Corp are.” He noticed that she didn’t
take offence, and continued, “He can be very charming, but in Berlin, pictures
of our Knight Cross winners are sold at tobacconists, the young ladies will do
anything to get an autograph,” he leaned forward, “anything. Young men like Detlev would not be human if
they didn’t take advantage of the situation.”
He took a sip of his wine, and looked over to a group of his new junior
officers fresh from cadet school replacing those lost in Russia, his face for a
moment becoming grim. The piano began to
thump out one of the Black Corp songs. “Half of my job is keeping a firm hand
on those young firebrands, and Detlev is no different, he went through SS
Junkerschule at Bad Toelz..” With a sigh he conceded, “But he is different, he
cares for his men and doesn’t just use them to win these,” Kruger tapped his
rank badge with his finger. “The Knight’s Cross he got in Russia, the black wound
badge in Poland in the invasion, he transferred from the Body Guard regiment to
the SS Donar to see action, that must tell you something of his commitment to
the Cause.”
“What are you trying to tell me Obersturmbannfuhrer”?
“I have a daughter your age, my dear. No one is ever what they seem. He
is not the same young man you met in Berlin, he’s a hardened professional
solider and a cynic, don’t let him into your heart or your bed, my dear,” he
patted her hand “I am sorry if I shock you, but you’ll be better for knowing
it.” Looking up he saw his second in
command coming towards them. “I look forward to hearing you sing.” Kruger got up, his heels coming together as
he bowed to her and then waylaid the younger officer, turning him with a firm
touch to one of the other tables.
0-0-0-0
Jean was wearing a green dress that was cut just right and her hair was
down around her shoulders. She took a seat near the piano and looking round at
her audience noticed De la Maziere sitting nearby.
Her first song was a sentimental ballad, of love.
At
last, my love has come along
My lonely days are over
And life is like a song.
Ohhh at last
The stars above are blue
My heart was wrapped up
in clover
The night I looked at
you
I found a dream that I
could speak to,
A dream that I, can call
my own,
I found a thrill, to
press my cheek to,
A thrill that I, have
never known,
Ohhh you smile, you
smile
And then the spell was
cast
And here we are in
heaven
For you are mine, at
last [4]
As she sang her eyes lingered and swept over De la Maziere, the sexual
pulse of the song nearly a physical force surging between them. The next song was more up beat and the sexual
tension seemed to ease . She caught a
called request for Lili Marlene, a favourite with troops on both
sides. As she sang, she looked straight
at the Major, a smile touching her lips.
Sometime after midnight, in a land not mine
Somewhere near our
mud-strewed battle line
Sleep would not lull my
soul tonight.
And so awake, I long to
write.
To you Lili Marlen, to
you Lili Marlen.
In this battered
shelter, lashed by icy rain
Thoughts of you are
sunshine, that banish grief and pain.
Soft burns my candle,
soft yet bright
My love for you is like
that light.
So true Lili Marlen, so
trust Lili Marlen.
My beloved darling, I can’t forget that day.
The last we were together before I went away.
Rain fell like tears, from sorrowing skies
But tears, not rain, were in your eyes.
I knew Lili Marlen, I knew Lili Marlen
Is your hair still golden, are your eyes still
blue
Would your
voice enchant me, as it used to do?
I’d trade
the world to see your smile
And hold
you close, just for a while.
Just you
Lili Marlen, just you Lili Marlen.
Lower flames the candle, grey the Eastern Sky.
One more day of battle,
another day to die.
God, how I hate this
warring hell
But I endure each
screaming shell.
For you Lili Marlen, for
you Lili Marlen
Wait for me my darling, till I return to thee.
When the guns are silent,
in hush of Victory
Even the flaming gates
of hell
Against we two cannot
prevail.
Adieu Lili Marlen, Adieu Lili
Marlen
Martha caught the look being exchanged between the two young people,
and she felt herself go cold. Whatever game Jean was playing could go terribly
wrong. The emotion in her voice as she sang the next chorus was one of
bitterness coupled with sorrow.
The applause was deafening. The version she had sung was the one a
trooper had written for the Eastern Front, and that she would sing it for them
was well appreciated. Martha had to admit that when it came to interpreting a
song few could do it better than Jean Faulkner. She frowned as the SS Major got
up and invited Jean to join him. For a moment Jean hesitated and then took a
seat, accepting a drink, but keeping a distance all the same, avoiding his hand
when he reached out to touch her. It was done with a smile and a shake of the
head, no offence given, none taken. Half
an hour later, Jean made her excuses and left him, joining Martha for a late
meal, but refusing to discuss what she and the Major had talked about. Martha
laid a maternal hand on the younger woman’s, “Jean, if the Major has tried to
force you into his bed you have to tell me, just because he’s SS he can’t make
you .”
“He didn’t, just leave it at that alright,” Jean snapped, before taking
a deep breath and saying “Sorry,” as she reached for her drink. But Martha
couldn’t help but notice that there was something on the younger woman’s mind.
0-0-0-0
March
London
Carol Smyth was on leave from her air base, she was a WAAF [5] and had come down to London to meet up with a school friend who was working at the local telephone exchange. It was while she was waiting in vain for her friend that she met the American officer, a Lieutenant. He was friendly and before she knew it she was agreeing to drinks and a meal. He was the first man she had ever been to bed with, and he turned out to be a considerate lover. She blushed in recollecti