Lancashire Life: An account of The Great Patriotic War
- Thread starter Nick NWO
- Start date
a bit of a pre-epilogue
It’s Just a Song!
Agent Montgomery viewed the man warily. He’d seen his type before. Cocky and self-assured, so safe in the newly restored democracy. Agent Montgomery wished on many levels that time would go backwards and take them all back to the time when things were more simple. The time of Chief Patton! Then, he’d have beaten the man senseless until he talked. Now it was all about rights and ‘innocent until proven guilty!’
“Ok, sonny, let’s start again, shall we?”
The young songwriter inhaled on his cigarettes and looked at the agent. He’d see his type before. (Just watching his false persona at trying to remain calm), he knew that this man would like nothing better than to beat his skull in. The songwriter felt safe enough; felt as though the possibility of arbitrary violence against his person wouldn’t – shouldn’t – occur, yet on another level was never quite sure that things had changed for good.
If America had teetered on the edge of the abyss of fascism, how easily could that state of affairs return to the land of the free?
The agent continued:
“You were commissioned to write a song for this new movie. Yes we know that already! What I am trying to get at is the particular lyrics you have written!”
“Which ones in particular, sir.”
“You know the ones! Don’t push me boy!”
“I’m sorry sir. I really don’t know what you are getting at.”
The agent stared at him again, imagining grabbing his head and smashing it against the desk:
“Mr Simon, throughout the song, you refer to a character called ‘Mrs Robinson’, then it suddenly switches and says 'Alma Robinson' and then it talks about a ‘Mrs Morris’ and ‘young John’. What is the significance of those names?”
“None at all. Really it’s just names that have been grabbed out of the air. I really don’t understand sir, what all this is about. It’s just a song.”
“Ok, so this name – ‘Jimmy McKendry’ – this name is just plucked out of the air as well, I take it?”
“It’s the beats sir. I just came up with a name that had five syllables, or five beats, to go with the rhythm of the music. Its ‘Jim-my-mc-ken-dry’” he sang the words and drummed it out on the desk with his fingers as he did so. “It just works.”
Thirty minutes later, the songwriter smiled to himself as he left the building. He was told not to leave town, as the CIA may very well wish to speak with him again.
The Pittsburgh Post Gazette
September 12th 1962
Editorial: Censorship still rife?
As candidates hit the hustings for the first full United States Presidential Election since 1948, what are the issues that they are talking about?
The Republicans are focussing, it seems, almost entirely on strong foreign policy alone, with their continued mantra against East Asia. The Democrats are expounding the virtues of the vague but compelling philosophy of the ‘New Frontier’. The Socialists just seem to want to constantly rake up the past and examine forever the terrible years we have come through. And lastly, the New Conservatives, as far as this publication can make out, wish to see a return to these terrible years!
As our readers will know, this newspaper has openly endorsed the candidature of Bobby Kennedy for the Democrats. Not only is he the only presidential candidate to be a decorated veteran of the ongoing South Asian war, but he is the only candidate who does not currently hold any political office.
The elections of 1960 have undoubtedly set us back on course to return this country to its democratic ideas, finally restoring elected governors, senators and congressman, albeit under the watchful eye of the military. But, nonetheless, questions still hang in the air over the validity of some of those results, and it is for this reason The Gazette says ‘to hell with political experience!’.
The Gazette says we need a fresh start. The Gazette says’ Kennedy for President!’
However, we also ask the question – why are none of the candidates talking about the ongoing issue of censorship? Despite the major reforms undertaken by the Chief and rubber stamped by the new Congress, it would seem that censorship is still raging firm, and we warn Bobby that despite our support, should he win the day, we will challenge him each and every day to bring an end to this remnant of fascism in our country.
It has come to the attention of this editor that an obscure song, written originally for a movie, has been banned – and with no reason given – other than the ‘catch-all’ of National Security. We have been informed that the songwriter, who’s name we shall protect, has been bullied and harassed on account of his imaginative writing.
We say enough!
The song seems to be a simple ditty, with a religious base. There’s mention of the upcoming election, and other random lyrics. We see no harm in these lines. We don’t know who Mrs Robinson, Mrs Morris or Jimmy McKendry is or was; imagined or real, but what we do know is that artistic license for newspapers, books and novels, films and plays and indeed – songs, cannot any longer be controlled by the state. That why we say ‘dam your censorship’!
We print the words of the obscure but banned song below, and say to the Boston Government, bring on your lawsuit! We will see you in court!
And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa, whoa, whoa
God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey hey hey, hey hey hey
He’d like to know a little bit about you for his files
He’d like to help you learn to help yourself
Look around you, all you see are Jimmy’s questioning eyes
Run around the beach until you feel at home
And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa, whoa, whoa
God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey hey hey, hey hey hey
Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes
It's a little secret, Mrs Morris’s affair
Most of all, you've got to hide it from young John
Coo coo ca choo, Alma Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa, whoa, whoa
God bless you, please, Alma Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey hey hey, hey hey hey
Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates' debate
Laugh about it, shout about it when you've got to choose
Every way you look at it, you lose
Where have you gone, Jimmy McKendry?
A nation turns its lonely eyes to you
Woo, woo, woo
What's that you say, Mrs Robinson?
Shootin’ Jim has left and gone away
Hey hey hey, hey hey hey
It’s Just a Song!
Agent Montgomery viewed the man warily. He’d seen his type before. Cocky and self-assured, so safe in the newly restored democracy. Agent Montgomery wished on many levels that time would go backwards and take them all back to the time when things were more simple. The time of Chief Patton! Then, he’d have beaten the man senseless until he talked. Now it was all about rights and ‘innocent until proven guilty!’
“Ok, sonny, let’s start again, shall we?”
The young songwriter inhaled on his cigarettes and looked at the agent. He’d see his type before. (Just watching his false persona at trying to remain calm), he knew that this man would like nothing better than to beat his skull in. The songwriter felt safe enough; felt as though the possibility of arbitrary violence against his person wouldn’t – shouldn’t – occur, yet on another level was never quite sure that things had changed for good.
If America had teetered on the edge of the abyss of fascism, how easily could that state of affairs return to the land of the free?
The agent continued:
“You were commissioned to write a song for this new movie. Yes we know that already! What I am trying to get at is the particular lyrics you have written!”
“Which ones in particular, sir.”
“You know the ones! Don’t push me boy!”
“I’m sorry sir. I really don’t know what you are getting at.”
The agent stared at him again, imagining grabbing his head and smashing it against the desk:
“Mr Simon, throughout the song, you refer to a character called ‘Mrs Robinson’, then it suddenly switches and says 'Alma Robinson' and then it talks about a ‘Mrs Morris’ and ‘young John’. What is the significance of those names?”
“None at all. Really it’s just names that have been grabbed out of the air. I really don’t understand sir, what all this is about. It’s just a song.”
“Ok, so this name – ‘Jimmy McKendry’ – this name is just plucked out of the air as well, I take it?”
“It’s the beats sir. I just came up with a name that had five syllables, or five beats, to go with the rhythm of the music. Its ‘Jim-my-mc-ken-dry’” he sang the words and drummed it out on the desk with his fingers as he did so. “It just works.”
Thirty minutes later, the songwriter smiled to himself as he left the building. He was told not to leave town, as the CIA may very well wish to speak with him again.
The Pittsburgh Post Gazette
September 12th 1962
Editorial: Censorship still rife?
As candidates hit the hustings for the first full United States Presidential Election since 1948, what are the issues that they are talking about?
The Republicans are focussing, it seems, almost entirely on strong foreign policy alone, with their continued mantra against East Asia. The Democrats are expounding the virtues of the vague but compelling philosophy of the ‘New Frontier’. The Socialists just seem to want to constantly rake up the past and examine forever the terrible years we have come through. And lastly, the New Conservatives, as far as this publication can make out, wish to see a return to these terrible years!
As our readers will know, this newspaper has openly endorsed the candidature of Bobby Kennedy for the Democrats. Not only is he the only presidential candidate to be a decorated veteran of the ongoing South Asian war, but he is the only candidate who does not currently hold any political office.
The elections of 1960 have undoubtedly set us back on course to return this country to its democratic ideas, finally restoring elected governors, senators and congressman, albeit under the watchful eye of the military. But, nonetheless, questions still hang in the air over the validity of some of those results, and it is for this reason The Gazette says ‘to hell with political experience!’.
The Gazette says we need a fresh start. The Gazette says’ Kennedy for President!’
However, we also ask the question – why are none of the candidates talking about the ongoing issue of censorship? Despite the major reforms undertaken by the Chief and rubber stamped by the new Congress, it would seem that censorship is still raging firm, and we warn Bobby that despite our support, should he win the day, we will challenge him each and every day to bring an end to this remnant of fascism in our country.
It has come to the attention of this editor that an obscure song, written originally for a movie, has been banned – and with no reason given – other than the ‘catch-all’ of National Security. We have been informed that the songwriter, who’s name we shall protect, has been bullied and harassed on account of his imaginative writing.
We say enough!
The song seems to be a simple ditty, with a religious base. There’s mention of the upcoming election, and other random lyrics. We see no harm in these lines. We don’t know who Mrs Robinson, Mrs Morris or Jimmy McKendry is or was; imagined or real, but what we do know is that artistic license for newspapers, books and novels, films and plays and indeed – songs, cannot any longer be controlled by the state. That why we say ‘dam your censorship’!
We print the words of the obscure but banned song below, and say to the Boston Government, bring on your lawsuit! We will see you in court!
And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa, whoa, whoa
God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey hey hey, hey hey hey
He’d like to know a little bit about you for his files
He’d like to help you learn to help yourself
Look around you, all you see are Jimmy’s questioning eyes
Run around the beach until you feel at home
And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa, whoa, whoa
God bless you, please, Mrs. Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey hey hey, hey hey hey
Hide it in a hiding place where no one ever goes
Put it in your pantry with your cupcakes
It's a little secret, Mrs Morris’s affair
Most of all, you've got to hide it from young John
Coo coo ca choo, Alma Robinson
Jesus loves you more than you will know
Whoa, whoa, whoa
God bless you, please, Alma Robinson
Heaven holds a place for those who pray
Hey hey hey, hey hey hey
Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon
Going to the candidates' debate
Laugh about it, shout about it when you've got to choose
Every way you look at it, you lose
Where have you gone, Jimmy McKendry?
A nation turns its lonely eyes to you
Woo, woo, woo
What's that you say, Mrs Robinson?
Shootin’ Jim has left and gone away
Hey hey hey, hey hey hey
Last edited:
McKendry
A thousand iced needles penetrated McKendry’s body as he plunged into the cold sea. His entire body shuddered from the sudden shock to his system, as the momentum from his dive sent him hurtling deep into the water. He was an experienced swimmer and knew that he could hold his breath for at least ninety seconds in ordinary conditions, but he knew instinctively that his lungs would not hold out for that length of time in the freezing Irish Sea.
The agents eyes stung with the salt and disturbed sand as he kicked his legs and pushed himself further under the waves, searching for John.
And they were there; just a few metres below his position. He could see the hideous red mass that masqueraded as a face on the deranged female killer. One arm was locked around the knees and lower legs of John as the other fanned out below her, trying to swim deeper and pulling the boy down with her. Johns face was pale in the murky water. He thrashed uselessly against her whilst the tendrils of blood swept lazily outwards from the gunshot wound in his shoulder, discolouring the surrounding water and blending with the fetid blood of Maria. McKendry was close enough to see that Johns cheeks were puffed. He knew that the boy had had the sense to take a deep breath before he was pulled into the sea.
The agent continued to kick his legs to propel himself forward; his frame shooting through the water to dive like a missile directed at the two struggling forms.
He reached them, and instantly turned his body around, so that he became level with John. He could see the boys wide eyed stare of fear, air bubbles beginning to escape from his mouth, and he touched the boy’s cheek briefly and reassuringly as he swivelled his body and began to kick out at Maria, striking her shoulder and chest. The blows were useless, the mass of water slowing down the impact, and McKendry instead reached down and began to prise the woman’s fingers from John’s legs, bending them back one by one, sensing the crack of at least one of them snapping backwards. Air bubbles hit him from below, momentarily blocking his vision, as the woman pushed herself upwards towards him. He saw through the foam the vile thing that used to be a face, just one swollen pallid eye ball staring out at him with venom, the position of the other eye, now just a gaping black hole. The lower jaw was still hanging loose, and there was no upper lip or any flesh on her shattered cheeks, which allowed the uninjured tongue to loll outwards from her mouth, flapping in the water. McKendry was horrified by the ghoulish image before him that seemed to be laughing whilst all around him, the water turned a dirty pinkish colour, further restricting his vision.
The agents lungs were beginning to labour, and he knew that John had little time left before his own lungs gave out and the sea water would flood into them. Using all of the strength that he could muster, he grabbed the boys trouser belt and heaved him upwards, finally releasing him from the woman’s manic grip, sending the boy quickly floating upwards away from him, towards the surface. He gave one more kick that barely glanced off the woman’s head, before kicking his legs to follow the form of John in front of him. His lungs would not hold out for much longer; he needed more air; he could come back for the crazy bitch, if she still lived
His legs never made the wading movement, as the woman in a storm of new air bubbles wrapped herself around his own legs, attempting to pin him there; to take him with her to her own impending drowned death. McKendry’s lungs felt as though they were on fire, as he feebly kicked out at her. Her strength was insane; abnormal and unhuman. With panic waiting impatiently to take hold of his senses, and his vision beginning to cloud, he knew that there was only one thing he could do. He stopped struggling and allowed himself to be pulled down, the force of her grasp sending him towards her swiftly, so that her arms were yanked away from his legs.
McKendry looked in abject horror at the blind, half dead thing that still attempted to reach out at him; still attempted to grasp at him. He pulled her towards him by the throat before thrusting his fist into the centre of the open wound of her face, where her nose should have been. He felt sickened as his fist travelled inwards before coming to a stop against her skull. He felt the squelch as he pulled his arm backwards, and blood and mucus followed in a string of horror. The blow snapped whatever remaining sinews held her eye in place, and the ball drifted lazily outwards to join the stream of mess that circled around his head.
The spent air was now attempting to force its way from his lungs, but McKendry had not yet finished. With disgust and rage now driving him onwards, he grabbed the back of the woman’s head and pulled her towards him. Her body was limp, as the remaining air bubbles exploded around them, and his hand reached inside of her lower face, pushing the jawbone even lower and plunging downwards until it was inside her throat. With all of his might, he grabbed and pulled backwards, cracking and then ripping the windpipe from her throat, along with several major arteries. The water around him became an inky black as he finally pushed her away from him and kicked himself towards the surface.
The revulsion of the scene almost caused him to expel the remaining air from his lungs, as he frantically kicked his body upwards, his eyes never leaving the form of Maria. The distance between them grew, as he watched her lifeless body slowly drift downwards, her arms floating outwards in a scornful embrace; the mockery of a grin still hanging from her head; an unholy halo of blackness around her body. There was no life left in the monster, but he continued to watch until her form became a pale blob, and then nothing.
The bright morning sunlight almost blinded him as his head burst through to the surface of the water, immediately looking around him for the boy, even as his lungs protested nosily before greedily sucking in huge mouthfuls of air, coughing and retching as he flailed about in the water.
An arm from behind him grabbed and held him underneath his armpits, as his eyes came in contact with the boy. Johns young and traumatised eyes locked themselves on his own, as McKendry tried to move towards him:
“OK, son, OK. It’s done now.”
The arm held him in place, and he swivelled his head to see the face of a marine, soon joined by two more as they attempted to firmly hold McKendry in place above the water. Agent Nathan Connor had one arm around John, the other gripping one of the support beams of the legs of the pier, as he shouted orders upwards for the ropes and harness to be lowered.
“You came into my dreams sir.” John was trying to speak through chattering teeth and trembling body.
“It’s OK John, we have a lot to talk about with your mother when we get somewhere warm and dry. Try not to worry….”
“You were cutting my wrists, taking blood out of me sir. In my dreams. But I wasn’t scared. You needed my blood for something important I think”
McKendry looked upon the pale face before him. He was stunned to the core as the words of the boy came home to him.
“I……It’s just a dream John. Just a dream….”
“No, sir, it was real, and Father Herbert said that I must trust you…he said that I must go with you…”
“John, I…..”
“I think the bad dreams you have been having will stop now sir. I think your family and all those other people won’t haunt you anymore.”
McKendry was speechless. He shivered and grasped the shoulders of the three soldiers holding him steady as he stared at the child, trying to understand how on earth he could have known of Father Herbert and his recent dreams. He had told no-one.
He could not answer. He simply looked back into the boy’s innocent and watchful face as the ropes and harness were slowly lowered from the pier above. A connection was instantly made between them. McKendry had experienced this unsettling phenomenon only a few times in his life, the last being with the boy’s mother Sheila, two days earlier. As they watched each other, an unconscious and unexplained supernatural link seemed to form between them. He could hear Johns voice in his head; the boy was telling him to be careful.
They continued to stare at each other, as Connor quickly attached himself and John to the harness and gave the instruction to the men below to begin to pull them up. The agent watched as the boy moved inch by inch away from him until the opening distance between them brought an end to their eye contact.
A splash in front of him brought his mind back into morning sunshine as another soldier plunged into the water, before quickly surfacing. This one was a medic, and he immediately began to wade towards him. The three soldiers already holding him above the water, suddenly tightened their grip around his body.
“I’m OK guys. Thanks for your help, but can we get the hell out of this water, and onto….”
The sharp pain in the side of his keck stopped his words mid-sentence, and he spun his head around to watch with confusion as the medic retracted the needle and moved back away from him. His face was impassive as he watched the agent.
“What the….. hell……what…..are…..” were the only words that came from his mouth as his mind went blank, his eyes heavily closed and his world entered a soothing and dark peace.
A thousand iced needles penetrated McKendry’s body as he plunged into the cold sea. His entire body shuddered from the sudden shock to his system, as the momentum from his dive sent him hurtling deep into the water. He was an experienced swimmer and knew that he could hold his breath for at least ninety seconds in ordinary conditions, but he knew instinctively that his lungs would not hold out for that length of time in the freezing Irish Sea.
The agents eyes stung with the salt and disturbed sand as he kicked his legs and pushed himself further under the waves, searching for John.
And they were there; just a few metres below his position. He could see the hideous red mass that masqueraded as a face on the deranged female killer. One arm was locked around the knees and lower legs of John as the other fanned out below her, trying to swim deeper and pulling the boy down with her. Johns face was pale in the murky water. He thrashed uselessly against her whilst the tendrils of blood swept lazily outwards from the gunshot wound in his shoulder, discolouring the surrounding water and blending with the fetid blood of Maria. McKendry was close enough to see that Johns cheeks were puffed. He knew that the boy had had the sense to take a deep breath before he was pulled into the sea.
The agent continued to kick his legs to propel himself forward; his frame shooting through the water to dive like a missile directed at the two struggling forms.
He reached them, and instantly turned his body around, so that he became level with John. He could see the boys wide eyed stare of fear, air bubbles beginning to escape from his mouth, and he touched the boy’s cheek briefly and reassuringly as he swivelled his body and began to kick out at Maria, striking her shoulder and chest. The blows were useless, the mass of water slowing down the impact, and McKendry instead reached down and began to prise the woman’s fingers from John’s legs, bending them back one by one, sensing the crack of at least one of them snapping backwards. Air bubbles hit him from below, momentarily blocking his vision, as the woman pushed herself upwards towards him. He saw through the foam the vile thing that used to be a face, just one swollen pallid eye ball staring out at him with venom, the position of the other eye, now just a gaping black hole. The lower jaw was still hanging loose, and there was no upper lip or any flesh on her shattered cheeks, which allowed the uninjured tongue to loll outwards from her mouth, flapping in the water. McKendry was horrified by the ghoulish image before him that seemed to be laughing whilst all around him, the water turned a dirty pinkish colour, further restricting his vision.
The agents lungs were beginning to labour, and he knew that John had little time left before his own lungs gave out and the sea water would flood into them. Using all of the strength that he could muster, he grabbed the boys trouser belt and heaved him upwards, finally releasing him from the woman’s manic grip, sending the boy quickly floating upwards away from him, towards the surface. He gave one more kick that barely glanced off the woman’s head, before kicking his legs to follow the form of John in front of him. His lungs would not hold out for much longer; he needed more air; he could come back for the crazy bitch, if she still lived
His legs never made the wading movement, as the woman in a storm of new air bubbles wrapped herself around his own legs, attempting to pin him there; to take him with her to her own impending drowned death. McKendry’s lungs felt as though they were on fire, as he feebly kicked out at her. Her strength was insane; abnormal and unhuman. With panic waiting impatiently to take hold of his senses, and his vision beginning to cloud, he knew that there was only one thing he could do. He stopped struggling and allowed himself to be pulled down, the force of her grasp sending him towards her swiftly, so that her arms were yanked away from his legs.
McKendry looked in abject horror at the blind, half dead thing that still attempted to reach out at him; still attempted to grasp at him. He pulled her towards him by the throat before thrusting his fist into the centre of the open wound of her face, where her nose should have been. He felt sickened as his fist travelled inwards before coming to a stop against her skull. He felt the squelch as he pulled his arm backwards, and blood and mucus followed in a string of horror. The blow snapped whatever remaining sinews held her eye in place, and the ball drifted lazily outwards to join the stream of mess that circled around his head.
The spent air was now attempting to force its way from his lungs, but McKendry had not yet finished. With disgust and rage now driving him onwards, he grabbed the back of the woman’s head and pulled her towards him. Her body was limp, as the remaining air bubbles exploded around them, and his hand reached inside of her lower face, pushing the jawbone even lower and plunging downwards until it was inside her throat. With all of his might, he grabbed and pulled backwards, cracking and then ripping the windpipe from her throat, along with several major arteries. The water around him became an inky black as he finally pushed her away from him and kicked himself towards the surface.
The revulsion of the scene almost caused him to expel the remaining air from his lungs, as he frantically kicked his body upwards, his eyes never leaving the form of Maria. The distance between them grew, as he watched her lifeless body slowly drift downwards, her arms floating outwards in a scornful embrace; the mockery of a grin still hanging from her head; an unholy halo of blackness around her body. There was no life left in the monster, but he continued to watch until her form became a pale blob, and then nothing.
The bright morning sunlight almost blinded him as his head burst through to the surface of the water, immediately looking around him for the boy, even as his lungs protested nosily before greedily sucking in huge mouthfuls of air, coughing and retching as he flailed about in the water.
An arm from behind him grabbed and held him underneath his armpits, as his eyes came in contact with the boy. Johns young and traumatised eyes locked themselves on his own, as McKendry tried to move towards him:
“OK, son, OK. It’s done now.”
The arm held him in place, and he swivelled his head to see the face of a marine, soon joined by two more as they attempted to firmly hold McKendry in place above the water. Agent Nathan Connor had one arm around John, the other gripping one of the support beams of the legs of the pier, as he shouted orders upwards for the ropes and harness to be lowered.
“You came into my dreams sir.” John was trying to speak through chattering teeth and trembling body.
“It’s OK John, we have a lot to talk about with your mother when we get somewhere warm and dry. Try not to worry….”
“You were cutting my wrists, taking blood out of me sir. In my dreams. But I wasn’t scared. You needed my blood for something important I think”
McKendry looked upon the pale face before him. He was stunned to the core as the words of the boy came home to him.
“I……It’s just a dream John. Just a dream….”
“No, sir, it was real, and Father Herbert said that I must trust you…he said that I must go with you…”
“John, I…..”
“I think the bad dreams you have been having will stop now sir. I think your family and all those other people won’t haunt you anymore.”
McKendry was speechless. He shivered and grasped the shoulders of the three soldiers holding him steady as he stared at the child, trying to understand how on earth he could have known of Father Herbert and his recent dreams. He had told no-one.
He could not answer. He simply looked back into the boy’s innocent and watchful face as the ropes and harness were slowly lowered from the pier above. A connection was instantly made between them. McKendry had experienced this unsettling phenomenon only a few times in his life, the last being with the boy’s mother Sheila, two days earlier. As they watched each other, an unconscious and unexplained supernatural link seemed to form between them. He could hear Johns voice in his head; the boy was telling him to be careful.
They continued to stare at each other, as Connor quickly attached himself and John to the harness and gave the instruction to the men below to begin to pull them up. The agent watched as the boy moved inch by inch away from him until the opening distance between them brought an end to their eye contact.
A splash in front of him brought his mind back into morning sunshine as another soldier plunged into the water, before quickly surfacing. This one was a medic, and he immediately began to wade towards him. The three soldiers already holding him above the water, suddenly tightened their grip around his body.
“I’m OK guys. Thanks for your help, but can we get the hell out of this water, and onto….”
The sharp pain in the side of his keck stopped his words mid-sentence, and he spun his head around to watch with confusion as the medic retracted the needle and moved back away from him. His face was impassive as he watched the agent.
“What the….. hell……what…..are…..” were the only words that came from his mouth as his mind went blank, his eyes heavily closed and his world entered a soothing and dark peace.
Jack Brisco
Banned
Whoa! Another home run!
Folks, this needs to be nominated for a Turtledove Award next time.
Folks, this needs to be nominated for a Turtledove Award next time.
cheers jack! I'm now on the home run now for the remainder of the story. A bit busy this week, but we'll get there.
Speer
The Reich Minister for Economic Affairs climbed out of the back seat of his chauffeur driven car, and made the short walk to the waiting hanger, as several detachments of Wehrmacht infantry placed themselves in position around the entire airfield.
He looked up briefly into the sky as he heard the low drum of the approaching diverted aircraft, and smiled as he contemplated what was to happen.
Speer's rise had been meteoric since his appointment as Reich Minister for of Armaments and Munitions in 1949. Under his leadership he had brought about a huge and impressive improvement into the war economy production capacity of the country. Speer’s reforms of the labour force, whilst unpalatable with Heydrich and the SS, had reaped the intended results. Slave labour and harsh working conditions was all but ended and instead replaced by more reasonable hours of work, rest breaks and decent food and accommodation. He successfully challenged the Nazi ideology of not to allowing women to work in the factories, and Heydrich reluctantly agreed to allow certain specialisms within the fairer sex to be employed and put to use. Speer overhauled the entire management and bureaucracy of the government, manufacturing and research systems throughout Germania and its occupied territories leading to record production levels, not just benefiting the war economy but also feeding the appetites of the burgeoning middle classes, so eager to fill their materialistic lives with ever more consumer goods.
Within just a few years, Speer had created a name for himself and had gathered many influential friends, such as the Luftwaffe Chief, Filed Marshall Erhard Milch, who persuaded Karl Wolf, who in turn persuaded the increasingly isolated Fuhrer to further expand Speer's powers.
By the time he had received an instruction in August of 1957 to attend Wewelsburg Castle, the Fuhrers official residence, for what he had assumed would result in his arrest, and possible death, Albert Speer was the master of the entire German economy, and widely considered by many to be a possible natural successor to Heydrich. His underlings, Karl Hanke, who oversaw armament’s and munitions, and Fritz Todt, who successfully implemented Speer's labour force reforms, would take every opportunity, along with Field Marshall Milch, to promote and expound the name 'Speer' across all echelons of the armed forces as well as with the economic chiefs that owned the likes of Junkers, Messerschmitt, Henschel and BMW. For the SS, the successor would be Ernst Kaltenbrunner or possible even Karl Wolfe, but for the army, and the masters of industry, it could only be Albert Speer, and Albert Speer was not prepared to take any risks with his future destiny.
The Minster strode into the hanger, raising his right arm in response to dozens of saluting soldiers, before warmly shaking the hand of Field Marshall Milch.
“Did he manage to make it?” he smiled as he greeted the Field Marshall.
“He most certainly has Albert! We’re all waiting for you.”
The two men continued their walk to the far end of the empty hanger, and into a small room that would usually serve as a kitchen and refectory for the hanger’s workers. Today, all of the usual Luftwaffe personal and other workers were absent; replaced instead by loyal soldiers of the army.
The elderly man, seated at one of the plastic chairs that were arranged around a well-worn table, immediately stood to his feet as the two men entered the room.
“Albert! This will be a day to remember my friend!”
The Minister strode forward and hugged the man to his chest:
“Wilhelm! I am so pleased that you could make it. It wasn’t absolutely necessary for you to be here, as we know, so I am personally immensely gratified by your presence, my friend!”
The Reich Marshall of the German Reich, Wilhelm Keitel, his ruddy face beaming with pride, held his friend by his shoulders to look at him in the face:
“What! I would not miss this for the world my dear friend! The tyrant is a dangerous and deranged lunatic, and you – only you - my wonderful genius can ensure the complete survival of the Reich!”
“Thank you so much Reich Marshall” replied Speer, barely containing the tears that welled up in his eyes.
“Oh nonsense” Keitel warmly responded, “Now let’s get on with this and get it over with!”
Less than an hour later, a handcuffed and restrained Heydrich was led into the room.
The two soldiers held him by both shoulders and guided him to the chair, unceremoniously pushing him into the seat. All the while, the dictator stared at Speer, until the Minister averted his eyes.
“You will all pay for this, you fucking traitors.” It was said in a quiet and menacing manner.
“Be quiet Reinhardt! You are in no position to make any threats!” the ageing Reich Marshall responded.
Heydrich continued to stare at Speer, ignoring all others in the room:
“I made you what you are Speer! You would be nothing without me! Nothing! And this is how you choose to replay your Fuhrer!”
“You are no one’s Fuhrer, Reinhardt” responded Keitel, “in fact, my dear fellow, you are dead.”
The deposed despot turned to look at, and deliver a contemptuous smirk at the Marshall, before returning his stare to the Minister.
Keitel continued:
“It appears that you plane went down on the way to Wewelsburg. Sabotage, it would seem, and such a terrible tragedy. The news of your death will be released shortly, after, of course, all of your key allies have been arrested and disposed of. The news of the sabotage will inevitably lead to more arrests as it becomes apparent that you have been assassinated by your own SS”
“The SS are loyal to me, they will avenge….”
“The SS will be crushed! “shouted Field Marshall Milch.
“In time” interjected Keitel. “in time, they will be crushed, but for now, let’s just say that there are many elements within your own SS that agree with us – agree with the army – its time for a new Fuhrer. It’s time for a new man! A Fuhrer at last who is not psychologically unbalanced, as you are Heydrich!”
Heydrich suddenly shuddered as an hallucination struck his mind, these disturbing events now part of his daily mental regime. The boy, who he now assumed to be his illegitimate son was again before him in the room, smiling at him, the spectres of his wife and children swimming around his form.
“Get him away from me! He should never have been born” the prisoner shouted, as he thrashed around in his chair and struggled to lift himself, firm hands back on his shoulders pushing him back in place.
“Look at you!” shouted Milch, “You’re an absolute disgrace….”
“Get Speer here now” Heydrich screamed. “I want his head on a platter! And Goring as well! Bring him here! I want him dead too. Wolfe will see to it….Goring…..he….. where’s Himmler?”
The men in the room looked at one another in incredulous alarm; Milch shaking his head; Keitel with raised eyebrows and Speer, a drawn face of frowns.
“Reinhardt” Speer spoke for the first time, “the ghosts of the dead will haunt you until the day you die…..”
“Make that day soon!” he shrieked. “Kill me now and be done with it!” he glared defiantly into Speers face, as his body continued to tremble.
“But I am not one of those ghosts. You will die and I will live” continued the Minister, “but not before you have been interrogated and all that you know, all of your little plots and secrets are known to me also.”
Speer nodded his head to the soldiers, which in turn triggered Heydrich’s sweating and shaking frame to be hauled onto his feet. He turned his head quickly in Speer's direction and spat fully into the man’s face. Keitel, himself shaking with rage by what he had witnessed, strode quickly around the table to face the former dictator. He in turn spat into Heydrich's, now laughing face, before striking him firmly across the face with his fist.
Heydrich, a moment of lucidity now controlling his actions, continued to smile at the Marshall:
"I should have had you killed when I had the chance, you old bastard. It will not be long now though, as i am sure you know. You'll soon be shitting in your own bed as your dried up wife looks upon your face and wishes death to the stinking decrepit heap that you are."
The Marshall, red in the face, struck him again across the other cheek, his own aged body trembling with anger:
"Get this filth out of here!" he ordered.
Speer took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, as he watched Heydrich being dragged from the room, his voice screeching out threats and warnings - that they were all going to die, all going to die in pain. He turned to look at the other men present, who had witnessed the final showdown:
“I hadn’t fully realised how bad he had become.”
“The man is completely mad” responded Milch. “How has he been allowed to remain in position for so long?”
Keitel ignored the implied accusation and turned to Speer:
“Albert, the rest of the operation has already begun. Before the day is out, full control of Germania will be in your hands! “
He then stepped backwards a few paces, before clicking his heels and raising is right arm and proclaimed:
“Heil Speer.”
The others in the room took up the cue, as Speer looked each man in the face and beamed.
......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Ernst Kaltenbrunner lay dead on the floor of his office. His body riddled with the dozen bullets that had sliced across his frame from pelvis to shoulder
“Traitorous bastard” said the SS Colonel as he fired three more shots into the head of the dead man. The colonel was more than happy that the operation had gone well with little resistance. Less than an hour earlier, he had received the telephone call by Keitel himself with the terrible news that the Fuhrer was dead, his plane having crashed in suspicious circumstances. Keitel informed him that some kind of coup was taking place, but that the leaders of the coup had not yet began the takeover, and would not do so until news of the Fuhrers death had been released. The colonel, who was the commander of the Nuremburg SS garrison, had been assured by the Reich Marshall that secret documents had been found that showed his own name on the death list, and that the Head of Reich Security, Ernest Kaltenbrunner, had initiated the assassination and coup and was shortly to be proclaimed the new Fuhrer. As a professional solider, with no original thought of his own, and accustomed only to obeying orders, the colonel had sprung to work immediately.
He looked at the bloodied body on the floor and shook his head. By all accounts, Kaltenbrunner was close friends with the Fuhrer – the late Fuhrer. Heydrich had obviously been taken in by the man’s subterfuge, but he had not! He had raged at the face of the traitor as he had wept and pleaded for his life – insisting he was entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. He had raged as he sprayed the bullets into his body.
“Sir”, the SS Sergeant interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes sergeant?”
“The Reich Security building, the Chancellery building and the Propaganda Ministry are all secure sir. There are dozens of ministers and SS personal in custody, including the Fuhrers Secretary, Karl Wolfe.”
“Good. Keep them all alive until we receive new instructions.”
“Very good sir. Also, to confirm, the army is on the streets of Nuremburg, and I understand, other cities as well. The word is that we are going to be asked to stand down and return to barracks once our operation is complete.”
The colonel didn’t like the sound of that for one moment, but sighed as he turned to the sergeant:
“Yes, as I said, we will await our instructions. The army are leading on the operation to crush this coup. The SS, it seems, have been caught unawares. That is not good for our reputation!”
The sergeant clicked his heels and began to leave the room.
“One more thing” said the colonel. “Get the secretaries and switchboard people rounded up immediately. Kaltenbrunner was in the middle of a phone call, when we kicked in the door. I want to know who he was speaking to immediately.”
“Yes sir, right away sir.”
The colonel had not been entirely sure what the Head of Reich Security had been saying as he had entered the room and the telephone had clattered from his hand, but he distinctly remembered the term ‘Blut Spenden’.
……………………………………………................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Across Germania, from Essen to Danzig, from Hamburg to Munich, from Amsterdam to Zurich, a hundred telephones began to ring.
A hundred men and woman left their homes and their workplaces, to move to their designated locations.
Across Germania, in factories and offices, school classrooms and universities, theatres and restaurants a hundred glass phials were smashed to the floor.
OTL
Albert Speer https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Speer
Ernst Kaltenbrunner https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernst_Kaltenbrunner
Wilhelm Keitel https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilhelm_Keitel
Erhard Milch https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erhard_Milch
Karl Hanke https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Hanke
Fritz Todt https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fritz_Todt
Karl Wolff https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Wolff
The Reich Minister for Economic Affairs climbed out of the back seat of his chauffeur driven car, and made the short walk to the waiting hanger, as several detachments of Wehrmacht infantry placed themselves in position around the entire airfield.
He looked up briefly into the sky as he heard the low drum of the approaching diverted aircraft, and smiled as he contemplated what was to happen.
Speer's rise had been meteoric since his appointment as Reich Minister for of Armaments and Munitions in 1949. Under his leadership he had brought about a huge and impressive improvement into the war economy production capacity of the country. Speer’s reforms of the labour force, whilst unpalatable with Heydrich and the SS, had reaped the intended results. Slave labour and harsh working conditions was all but ended and instead replaced by more reasonable hours of work, rest breaks and decent food and accommodation. He successfully challenged the Nazi ideology of not to allowing women to work in the factories, and Heydrich reluctantly agreed to allow certain specialisms within the fairer sex to be employed and put to use. Speer overhauled the entire management and bureaucracy of the government, manufacturing and research systems throughout Germania and its occupied territories leading to record production levels, not just benefiting the war economy but also feeding the appetites of the burgeoning middle classes, so eager to fill their materialistic lives with ever more consumer goods.
Within just a few years, Speer had created a name for himself and had gathered many influential friends, such as the Luftwaffe Chief, Filed Marshall Erhard Milch, who persuaded Karl Wolf, who in turn persuaded the increasingly isolated Fuhrer to further expand Speer's powers.
By the time he had received an instruction in August of 1957 to attend Wewelsburg Castle, the Fuhrers official residence, for what he had assumed would result in his arrest, and possible death, Albert Speer was the master of the entire German economy, and widely considered by many to be a possible natural successor to Heydrich. His underlings, Karl Hanke, who oversaw armament’s and munitions, and Fritz Todt, who successfully implemented Speer's labour force reforms, would take every opportunity, along with Field Marshall Milch, to promote and expound the name 'Speer' across all echelons of the armed forces as well as with the economic chiefs that owned the likes of Junkers, Messerschmitt, Henschel and BMW. For the SS, the successor would be Ernst Kaltenbrunner or possible even Karl Wolfe, but for the army, and the masters of industry, it could only be Albert Speer, and Albert Speer was not prepared to take any risks with his future destiny.
The Minster strode into the hanger, raising his right arm in response to dozens of saluting soldiers, before warmly shaking the hand of Field Marshall Milch.
“Did he manage to make it?” he smiled as he greeted the Field Marshall.
“He most certainly has Albert! We’re all waiting for you.”
The two men continued their walk to the far end of the empty hanger, and into a small room that would usually serve as a kitchen and refectory for the hanger’s workers. Today, all of the usual Luftwaffe personal and other workers were absent; replaced instead by loyal soldiers of the army.
The elderly man, seated at one of the plastic chairs that were arranged around a well-worn table, immediately stood to his feet as the two men entered the room.
“Albert! This will be a day to remember my friend!”
The Minister strode forward and hugged the man to his chest:
“Wilhelm! I am so pleased that you could make it. It wasn’t absolutely necessary for you to be here, as we know, so I am personally immensely gratified by your presence, my friend!”
The Reich Marshall of the German Reich, Wilhelm Keitel, his ruddy face beaming with pride, held his friend by his shoulders to look at him in the face:
“What! I would not miss this for the world my dear friend! The tyrant is a dangerous and deranged lunatic, and you – only you - my wonderful genius can ensure the complete survival of the Reich!”
“Thank you so much Reich Marshall” replied Speer, barely containing the tears that welled up in his eyes.
“Oh nonsense” Keitel warmly responded, “Now let’s get on with this and get it over with!”
Less than an hour later, a handcuffed and restrained Heydrich was led into the room.
The two soldiers held him by both shoulders and guided him to the chair, unceremoniously pushing him into the seat. All the while, the dictator stared at Speer, until the Minister averted his eyes.
“You will all pay for this, you fucking traitors.” It was said in a quiet and menacing manner.
“Be quiet Reinhardt! You are in no position to make any threats!” the ageing Reich Marshall responded.
Heydrich continued to stare at Speer, ignoring all others in the room:
“I made you what you are Speer! You would be nothing without me! Nothing! And this is how you choose to replay your Fuhrer!”
“You are no one’s Fuhrer, Reinhardt” responded Keitel, “in fact, my dear fellow, you are dead.”
The deposed despot turned to look at, and deliver a contemptuous smirk at the Marshall, before returning his stare to the Minister.
Keitel continued:
“It appears that you plane went down on the way to Wewelsburg. Sabotage, it would seem, and such a terrible tragedy. The news of your death will be released shortly, after, of course, all of your key allies have been arrested and disposed of. The news of the sabotage will inevitably lead to more arrests as it becomes apparent that you have been assassinated by your own SS”
“The SS are loyal to me, they will avenge….”
“The SS will be crushed! “shouted Field Marshall Milch.
“In time” interjected Keitel. “in time, they will be crushed, but for now, let’s just say that there are many elements within your own SS that agree with us – agree with the army – its time for a new Fuhrer. It’s time for a new man! A Fuhrer at last who is not psychologically unbalanced, as you are Heydrich!”
Heydrich suddenly shuddered as an hallucination struck his mind, these disturbing events now part of his daily mental regime. The boy, who he now assumed to be his illegitimate son was again before him in the room, smiling at him, the spectres of his wife and children swimming around his form.
“Get him away from me! He should never have been born” the prisoner shouted, as he thrashed around in his chair and struggled to lift himself, firm hands back on his shoulders pushing him back in place.
“Look at you!” shouted Milch, “You’re an absolute disgrace….”
“Get Speer here now” Heydrich screamed. “I want his head on a platter! And Goring as well! Bring him here! I want him dead too. Wolfe will see to it….Goring…..he….. where’s Himmler?”
The men in the room looked at one another in incredulous alarm; Milch shaking his head; Keitel with raised eyebrows and Speer, a drawn face of frowns.
“Reinhardt” Speer spoke for the first time, “the ghosts of the dead will haunt you until the day you die…..”
“Make that day soon!” he shrieked. “Kill me now and be done with it!” he glared defiantly into Speers face, as his body continued to tremble.
“But I am not one of those ghosts. You will die and I will live” continued the Minister, “but not before you have been interrogated and all that you know, all of your little plots and secrets are known to me also.”
Speer nodded his head to the soldiers, which in turn triggered Heydrich’s sweating and shaking frame to be hauled onto his feet. He turned his head quickly in Speer's direction and spat fully into the man’s face. Keitel, himself shaking with rage by what he had witnessed, strode quickly around the table to face the former dictator. He in turn spat into Heydrich's, now laughing face, before striking him firmly across the face with his fist.
Heydrich, a moment of lucidity now controlling his actions, continued to smile at the Marshall:
"I should have had you killed when I had the chance, you old bastard. It will not be long now though, as i am sure you know. You'll soon be shitting in your own bed as your dried up wife looks upon your face and wishes death to the stinking decrepit heap that you are."
The Marshall, red in the face, struck him again across the other cheek, his own aged body trembling with anger:
"Get this filth out of here!" he ordered.
Speer took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, as he watched Heydrich being dragged from the room, his voice screeching out threats and warnings - that they were all going to die, all going to die in pain. He turned to look at the other men present, who had witnessed the final showdown:
“I hadn’t fully realised how bad he had become.”
“The man is completely mad” responded Milch. “How has he been allowed to remain in position for so long?”
Keitel ignored the implied accusation and turned to Speer:
“Albert, the rest of the operation has already begun. Before the day is out, full control of Germania will be in your hands! “
He then stepped backwards a few paces, before clicking his heels and raising is right arm and proclaimed:
“Heil Speer.”
The others in the room took up the cue, as Speer looked each man in the face and beamed.
......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Ernst Kaltenbrunner lay dead on the floor of his office. His body riddled with the dozen bullets that had sliced across his frame from pelvis to shoulder
“Traitorous bastard” said the SS Colonel as he fired three more shots into the head of the dead man. The colonel was more than happy that the operation had gone well with little resistance. Less than an hour earlier, he had received the telephone call by Keitel himself with the terrible news that the Fuhrer was dead, his plane having crashed in suspicious circumstances. Keitel informed him that some kind of coup was taking place, but that the leaders of the coup had not yet began the takeover, and would not do so until news of the Fuhrers death had been released. The colonel, who was the commander of the Nuremburg SS garrison, had been assured by the Reich Marshall that secret documents had been found that showed his own name on the death list, and that the Head of Reich Security, Ernest Kaltenbrunner, had initiated the assassination and coup and was shortly to be proclaimed the new Fuhrer. As a professional solider, with no original thought of his own, and accustomed only to obeying orders, the colonel had sprung to work immediately.
He looked at the bloodied body on the floor and shook his head. By all accounts, Kaltenbrunner was close friends with the Fuhrer – the late Fuhrer. Heydrich had obviously been taken in by the man’s subterfuge, but he had not! He had raged at the face of the traitor as he had wept and pleaded for his life – insisting he was entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. He had raged as he sprayed the bullets into his body.
“Sir”, the SS Sergeant interrupted his thoughts.
“Yes sergeant?”
“The Reich Security building, the Chancellery building and the Propaganda Ministry are all secure sir. There are dozens of ministers and SS personal in custody, including the Fuhrers Secretary, Karl Wolfe.”
“Good. Keep them all alive until we receive new instructions.”
“Very good sir. Also, to confirm, the army is on the streets of Nuremburg, and I understand, other cities as well. The word is that we are going to be asked to stand down and return to barracks once our operation is complete.”
The colonel didn’t like the sound of that for one moment, but sighed as he turned to the sergeant:
“Yes, as I said, we will await our instructions. The army are leading on the operation to crush this coup. The SS, it seems, have been caught unawares. That is not good for our reputation!”
The sergeant clicked his heels and began to leave the room.
“One more thing” said the colonel. “Get the secretaries and switchboard people rounded up immediately. Kaltenbrunner was in the middle of a phone call, when we kicked in the door. I want to know who he was speaking to immediately.”
“Yes sir, right away sir.”
The colonel had not been entirely sure what the Head of Reich Security had been saying as he had entered the room and the telephone had clattered from his hand, but he distinctly remembered the term ‘Blut Spenden’.
……………………………………………................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Across Germania, from Essen to Danzig, from Hamburg to Munich, from Amsterdam to Zurich, a hundred telephones began to ring.
A hundred men and woman left their homes and their workplaces, to move to their designated locations.
Across Germania, in factories and offices, school classrooms and universities, theatres and restaurants a hundred glass phials were smashed to the floor.
OTL
Albert Speer https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albert_Speer
Ernst Kaltenbrunner https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernst_Kaltenbrunner
Wilhelm Keitel https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilhelm_Keitel
Erhard Milch https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erhard_Milch
Karl Hanke https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Hanke
Fritz Todt https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fritz_Todt
Karl Wolff https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Wolff
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He's basically been mad since he killed his family.
In much the same way Hitler ordered a scorched earth policy when he finally accepted he was losing the war (IOTL), so too does Heydrich. The reasoning behind both men's actions is that the German people are not worthy of their greatness, and so must be punished.
The transcript of Karl Shultz letter coming up on next post.
I think, once the antidote has been identified, tested, a serum distilled, tested and certified by the AMA or whichever federal agency licences medicines, then the Americans will happily sell some to the new German Government.
The Schulz Letter
Transcript
If this letter reaches the United States of America, then I pray to God that you will read the following information and use whatever I have given you in a way that will protect the German people. I have, for my sins, allowed the German people to come before all others and I openly admit to you that had I not become aware that the German people themselves were in grievous danger, I would never have sent this letter. God Himself shall judge me on my own judgement on this matter!
My name is Karl Shultz. I am a Major within the German army. I was stationed in Britain between 1944 and 1950. I was Head of Supplies and Resources, attached to the Reichs Protectors Office.
In April 1947, shortly before the British War between our two nations, a young Lance Corporal named Johan Weber, came to see me at my office. I had known the boy previously and it was for only that reason I heard him out. What he told me has stayed with me all these years.
I don’t know why I tell you his name, because surely I have already condemned him to death. I am loyal to Germany and Germany first and always and I could not allow what he said to me to be told to others. I could not allow it! I made sure he could tell no one else, but I did not kill him. Compassion is still within me!
Weber undertook catering duties for the then Reichs Protector, often based at Windsor Castle. He was in a position to overhear or to spy (!) on many confidential conversations. He heard the Fuhrer talking with Dr Blome and heard them discussing Operation Blut Spenden. It is only after all these years that I have become fully aware of what Blut Spenden entails. In your country that has been ravaged by this sickness, you call it the Red Death.
I uphold and honour any method by which the Thousand Year Reich can achieve its aim of and I wish to make it absolutely clear that I consider the disease attacks on you to be legitimate warfare. However what Johan heard was what Heydrich himself described at his insurance policy.
In short, this policy was to arm hundreds of loyal agents across Germania with the deadly disease. If Heydrich was ever deposed by the military, then these agents would obey their orders and would unleash the red Death on countless millions of innocent civilians across the Fatherland.
I have pondered this plan for years. I have always doubted my own resolve. I have always had second thoughts on the matter. I have always wrestled with my conscience. And now as my body fails me, I wonder if the death of the Fuhrer, no matter how, will unleash this horror.
History may judge me as a hypocrite, and that is for history. God himself has now judged me for keeping this secret to myself. My stomach is being eaten away by the illness of Gods vengeance.
I have told you this because I do not want on my conscious the deaths of millions of decent German people. I do not care what you think of me. I only want you to save my people.
Johan, I had to send away to save him from himself. I should have killed him, but perhaps I am not the evil man you may think I am, nor the solid man I think I am. Perhaps after all I just a man?
Karl Shultz
PS Heydrich is my Fuhrer, and I have served him, but Johan also told me that he had taken his girlfriend, a young English woman, against her will, and had made her pregnant. My respect for the position Fuhrer could not be held up high for such a dishonourable man.
Transcript
If this letter reaches the United States of America, then I pray to God that you will read the following information and use whatever I have given you in a way that will protect the German people. I have, for my sins, allowed the German people to come before all others and I openly admit to you that had I not become aware that the German people themselves were in grievous danger, I would never have sent this letter. God Himself shall judge me on my own judgement on this matter!
My name is Karl Shultz. I am a Major within the German army. I was stationed in Britain between 1944 and 1950. I was Head of Supplies and Resources, attached to the Reichs Protectors Office.
In April 1947, shortly before the British War between our two nations, a young Lance Corporal named Johan Weber, came to see me at my office. I had known the boy previously and it was for only that reason I heard him out. What he told me has stayed with me all these years.
I don’t know why I tell you his name, because surely I have already condemned him to death. I am loyal to Germany and Germany first and always and I could not allow what he said to me to be told to others. I could not allow it! I made sure he could tell no one else, but I did not kill him. Compassion is still within me!
Weber undertook catering duties for the then Reichs Protector, often based at Windsor Castle. He was in a position to overhear or to spy (!) on many confidential conversations. He heard the Fuhrer talking with Dr Blome and heard them discussing Operation Blut Spenden. It is only after all these years that I have become fully aware of what Blut Spenden entails. In your country that has been ravaged by this sickness, you call it the Red Death.
I uphold and honour any method by which the Thousand Year Reich can achieve its aim of and I wish to make it absolutely clear that I consider the disease attacks on you to be legitimate warfare. However what Johan heard was what Heydrich himself described at his insurance policy.
In short, this policy was to arm hundreds of loyal agents across Germania with the deadly disease. If Heydrich was ever deposed by the military, then these agents would obey their orders and would unleash the red Death on countless millions of innocent civilians across the Fatherland.
I have pondered this plan for years. I have always doubted my own resolve. I have always had second thoughts on the matter. I have always wrestled with my conscience. And now as my body fails me, I wonder if the death of the Fuhrer, no matter how, will unleash this horror.
History may judge me as a hypocrite, and that is for history. God himself has now judged me for keeping this secret to myself. My stomach is being eaten away by the illness of Gods vengeance.
I have told you this because I do not want on my conscious the deaths of millions of decent German people. I do not care what you think of me. I only want you to save my people.
Johan, I had to send away to save him from himself. I should have killed him, but perhaps I am not the evil man you may think I am, nor the solid man I think I am. Perhaps after all I just a man?
Karl Shultz
PS Heydrich is my Fuhrer, and I have served him, but Johan also told me that he had taken his girlfriend, a young English woman, against her will, and had made her pregnant. My respect for the position Fuhrer could not be held up high for such a dishonourable man.
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EDIT
have changed the date of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette editorial (POST 342), relating to the upcoming Presidential elections to 1962, instead of 1966. Also changed the reference to the initial elections for Senators and Governors etc. from 1964 to 1960.
I realised that the period of time for transition back to full democracy needed to be much shorter.
we will end the pier scene in next post, and then 3 epilogues.
have changed the date of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette editorial (POST 342), relating to the upcoming Presidential elections to 1962, instead of 1966. Also changed the reference to the initial elections for Senators and Governors etc. from 1964 to 1960.
I realised that the period of time for transition back to full democracy needed to be much shorter.
we will end the pier scene in next post, and then 3 epilogues.
John
The monster was holding him by his legs, trying to pull him further to the bottom of the ocean.
He had never seen the sea until the day before, let alone been in it, but he was nonetheless a competent swimmer, having splashed about in the various ponds, lakes and reservoirs that his town had provided him and his friends. He knew enough to have taken a deep breath before his body cut through the surface of the water and was dragged down by the woman. But he also knew that his lungs would only hold out for so long before he was forced to draw in the water.
John could barely move his left arm, despite the small mercy offered by the chilling water that helpfully dulled the sharp pain in his shoulder, were the bullet had struck him. With his right arm, he feebly tried to beat the head of the fiend that gripped him; with his feet he equally feebly kicked out, all to no avail.
And then he was there. The American man, who had appeared in their lives and seemed to want to help him. John had never stopped running since that first meeting, and the American, Mr McKendry, never seemed to be far behind. Now his eyes were looking into his own, and even through the blood smeared water, John could see the reassuring message in those eyes; instantly bringing about a sense of profound trust. McKendry briefly and gently touched John’s cheek before he disappeared beneath him.
The water churned underneath him, his body being billowed as his legs were tugged from one direction to another, his vision obscured by black blood that swirled around his face, his lungs bursting to breath, until at last he felt his waist band being pulled, yanking his body away from the woman, and sending him roughly and swiftly upwards. John’s eyes were tightly closed as his lungs finally gave way, and he inhaled the fetid water, all the while his body continuing to propel towards the surface. Through the screaming pain in his chest and neck, he briefly opened his eyes to see the struggling forms beneath him, before the stinging caused them to involuntary close once more.
John felt that he was floating, but floating in a peace that had nothing at all to do with the freezing cold water all around him, which he could no longer feel or sense, but a peace that was entirely to do with his mind slowly beginning the process of separating itself from his body. The thought briefly entered his head – ‘so this is what it feels like to drown’- as the muscles of his eyes relaxed and they slowly opened; the last of the air bubbles expelling themselves from his mouth. A little voice seemed to speak to him; seemed to say ‘yes, this is what it’s like. Not too bad is it?’ It was a pleasant voice thought John, and he really did want to accept the peace that the small voice, somewhere deep in his head, was offering him. John asked the voice – ‘who are you’ - and the voice just seemed to cheerfully say – ‘don’t worry about that, just let go and don’t resist’. When John sensed rather than felt the unseen hands that grabbed at him and hoisted his body above the water, he felt a sense of relief; he knew he didn’t want to die, and the small voice now sounded unhappy, sulky even. It seemed to be saying – ‘well I offered you warmth and peace and you are choosing not to listen to me’ – even as Johns lungs, aided by invisible hands that pressed against his stomach, expelled the salty sea water from his body.
“.....with me…..breath kid…..goddam……work with….”
This new raw voice came from somewhere else, somewhere that seemed more real. It sounded strong, not like the other, now petulant, voice that called him a fool for choosing to live. John decided that he didn’t trust the other voice any longer, as his lungs inhaled deeply, causing more residual sea water to spurt from his mouth. The sulky voice disappeared, as bright sunlight penetrated John’s consciousness.
“Breath John! That’s it, get it out and breath son!”
His eyes opened and he blinked away the water to see the face of the man who held him. He reminded him a little of Mr McKendry – white shirt, dark tie, but no jacket.
“You OK?” said Agent Connor.
John nodded his head, as his teeth began to chatter uncontrollably.
The agent appeared to be reassured by his answer, and began to attach his small body to a hoist, quickly shouting instructions above to start to “lift!”
“Wait!” shouted John. “Where’s Mr McKendry? We have to wait for him!”
“It’s alright son” replied the agent, “he’ll be with us soon. Now pull!”
John felt himself swinging from side to side, in the harness, as he slowly moved out of the water in short and abrupt jerks upwards. The agent was firmly gripping onto a separate rope twisted around one arm, whilst the other held John steady as he moved upwards with the boy. John gazed back down to the water. He could see three other men, they looked like soldiers, treading water as they periodically made small dives under the surface, only to re-emerge seconds later, sputtering and shaking their heads. The agent by his side shouting back down to the men below “keep looking, dam you!”
The distance between himself and the sea grew wider, and John closed his eyes as the salty tears that ran from his face mixed with the salt water that dripped from his hair and head. The boys eyes suddenly snapped back open as he looked back down towards the sea.
“You came into my dreams sir” he said as he looked upon the floating body that had suddenly emerged to lie on the surface; the three soldiers in the water desperately twisting the body around so that McKendry lay on his back.
John watched as the soldiers lifted McKendry upright and held him above the water; one of them trying to pump the sea from his body, the others shouting for help and for more ropes to be lowered. “You were cutting my wrists, taking blood out of me sir. In my dreams. But I wasn’t scared. You needed my blood for something important I think” said the boy to the unseeing eyes that looked back up towards him.
“Christ! We need help back down in the sea” Conner was shouting over the lip of the pier as they reached their destination. Another two soldiers immediately lifted themselves over the rail and plunged into the water.
Somewhere in the boys mind, he felt as if the man had responded; had told him it was just a dream and not to worry. But it wasn’t just a dream and John responded to the lifeless body below him that was now being dragged closer to the piers legs, a soldier trying to swim to keep up, whilst struggling to breath air into McKendry’s lifeless body.
“No, sir, it was real, and Father Herbert said that I must trust you…he said that I must go with you…”
Agent Connor and John were unceremoniously hauled over the railing of the pier, hands reaching out to steady the boy, and to lay him gently onto the stretcher that lay in wait on the piers wooden floor.
“I think the bad dreams you have been having will stop now sir. I think your family and all those other people won’t haunt you anymore.” He spoke out loud.
Agent Connor, breathing heavily, gripping the rail of the pier as he watched the sea below him, looked anxiously back at John. The Commander, who had couched to his knees, to help the boy down, a face drawn with concern, stared at his pale face. The medic who was by their sides giving a quizzical look at the Commander before quickly examining the gun-shot wound on his shoulder.
“John? John Morris, can you hear me?” said the Commander into his blank face. “John!” now shouting and clicking his fingers to try to get a reaction from his glazed eyes.
“He’s drifting in and out of consciousness” shouted the medic, as he covered John with thick blankets, “the poor kid’s lost a lot of blood, and is freezing to death. We need to get him to a hospital quickly, or he’s not going to make it.”
“Where’s mum?” came the sudden and lucid question from the boy, as his eyes became focused and he began again to cough up more remnants of the sea water from his lungs.
“Your moms just fine John. Here look.”
John arched his head to see his mother lying still on another stretcher, blankets covering her body, just a few feet away from him. She seemed to have some kind of tube coming out of her, and one of the soldiers was holding a plastic bag, as they lifted her from the wooden decking and began to move off.
“No! Please don’t take her away! Please sir!” John grabbed the Commanders hand, and with tears flowing freely down his cheeks he begged the men around him, “She’s my mum! Please! Please I don’t want you to take mum away from me. Please sir please. I promise I’ll be good. I’ll be good from now on! I won’t run away anymore, please….”
“John…..” the Commander felt a lump in his throat and his eyes misted over as he listened to the inconsolable boys pleading and bargaining. The medic trying to treat Johns shoulder wound as the stretcher was being raised to follow the one that carried Sheila, quietly muttered “Lord have mercy” whilst shaking his head. Agent Connor looked back on the scene with a face wretched with grief, even as he helped hoist the other body over the rail on to the pier.
The Commander squeezed the boys hand: “We won’t separate you John, I swear it!”
John looked directly into the Commanders eyes and pleaded with him through his tears:
“Please don’t hurt her….please don’t hurt my mum…..I won’t run away again…..I’ll be good…..”
The Commander, a single tear falling from his eye onto his cheek:
“Listen to me son, we won’t hurt your mom, and we won’t separate you. You’re going to go in the same ambulance to the same hospital, but we have to go now. Both of you are injured. You understand don’t you son? We need to take you both away now.”
John, bottom lip trembling, eyes red, nodded his assent, as the two stretchers swiftly made their way towards the pier entrance where the ambulances awaited.
John looked back up to the face of the Commander who was walking quickly alongside his stretcher:
“Mr McKendry?”
The Commander looked back over his shoulder, to see a clearly distraught Agent Conner, hands on hips, head bowed, look up and shake his head; a medic on the pier floor desperately pumping McKendry’s chest muscles and breathing into his mouth.
“John…..Mr McKendry, Jim…. He’ll be OK….you don’t worry about that son……let’s just get you somewhere safe….You’re going on a journey now John, and I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”
He gently touched Johns forehead through tear filled eyes “I’m sure you’ll see McKendry again.” He lied.
“I know” said John quietly as he closed his eyes, and exhaustion finally took his body.
………………………………….........................................................................................................................................................................................................................
In a small seaside town in Lancashire, in US Occupied Britain, a mother and her son - a boy who carried the future of the human race in his veins - were gently lifted into the back of an ambulance.
The stony faced Commander sat in between the two stretchers, holding the hands of the two innocents, staring into space as he contemplated the decisions he had made in his life; the lives he had ended. He squeezed John’s unconscious hand, and prayed for the first time in years.
On the pier, Agent Connor sat with head in hands and wept.
“Where’s John?” came the voice from his right.
The End.
The monster was holding him by his legs, trying to pull him further to the bottom of the ocean.
He had never seen the sea until the day before, let alone been in it, but he was nonetheless a competent swimmer, having splashed about in the various ponds, lakes and reservoirs that his town had provided him and his friends. He knew enough to have taken a deep breath before his body cut through the surface of the water and was dragged down by the woman. But he also knew that his lungs would only hold out for so long before he was forced to draw in the water.
John could barely move his left arm, despite the small mercy offered by the chilling water that helpfully dulled the sharp pain in his shoulder, were the bullet had struck him. With his right arm, he feebly tried to beat the head of the fiend that gripped him; with his feet he equally feebly kicked out, all to no avail.
And then he was there. The American man, who had appeared in their lives and seemed to want to help him. John had never stopped running since that first meeting, and the American, Mr McKendry, never seemed to be far behind. Now his eyes were looking into his own, and even through the blood smeared water, John could see the reassuring message in those eyes; instantly bringing about a sense of profound trust. McKendry briefly and gently touched John’s cheek before he disappeared beneath him.
The water churned underneath him, his body being billowed as his legs were tugged from one direction to another, his vision obscured by black blood that swirled around his face, his lungs bursting to breath, until at last he felt his waist band being pulled, yanking his body away from the woman, and sending him roughly and swiftly upwards. John’s eyes were tightly closed as his lungs finally gave way, and he inhaled the fetid water, all the while his body continuing to propel towards the surface. Through the screaming pain in his chest and neck, he briefly opened his eyes to see the struggling forms beneath him, before the stinging caused them to involuntary close once more.
John felt that he was floating, but floating in a peace that had nothing at all to do with the freezing cold water all around him, which he could no longer feel or sense, but a peace that was entirely to do with his mind slowly beginning the process of separating itself from his body. The thought briefly entered his head – ‘so this is what it feels like to drown’- as the muscles of his eyes relaxed and they slowly opened; the last of the air bubbles expelling themselves from his mouth. A little voice seemed to speak to him; seemed to say ‘yes, this is what it’s like. Not too bad is it?’ It was a pleasant voice thought John, and he really did want to accept the peace that the small voice, somewhere deep in his head, was offering him. John asked the voice – ‘who are you’ - and the voice just seemed to cheerfully say – ‘don’t worry about that, just let go and don’t resist’. When John sensed rather than felt the unseen hands that grabbed at him and hoisted his body above the water, he felt a sense of relief; he knew he didn’t want to die, and the small voice now sounded unhappy, sulky even. It seemed to be saying – ‘well I offered you warmth and peace and you are choosing not to listen to me’ – even as Johns lungs, aided by invisible hands that pressed against his stomach, expelled the salty sea water from his body.
“.....with me…..breath kid…..goddam……work with….”
This new raw voice came from somewhere else, somewhere that seemed more real. It sounded strong, not like the other, now petulant, voice that called him a fool for choosing to live. John decided that he didn’t trust the other voice any longer, as his lungs inhaled deeply, causing more residual sea water to spurt from his mouth. The sulky voice disappeared, as bright sunlight penetrated John’s consciousness.
“Breath John! That’s it, get it out and breath son!”
His eyes opened and he blinked away the water to see the face of the man who held him. He reminded him a little of Mr McKendry – white shirt, dark tie, but no jacket.
“You OK?” said Agent Connor.
John nodded his head, as his teeth began to chatter uncontrollably.
The agent appeared to be reassured by his answer, and began to attach his small body to a hoist, quickly shouting instructions above to start to “lift!”
“Wait!” shouted John. “Where’s Mr McKendry? We have to wait for him!”
“It’s alright son” replied the agent, “he’ll be with us soon. Now pull!”
John felt himself swinging from side to side, in the harness, as he slowly moved out of the water in short and abrupt jerks upwards. The agent was firmly gripping onto a separate rope twisted around one arm, whilst the other held John steady as he moved upwards with the boy. John gazed back down to the water. He could see three other men, they looked like soldiers, treading water as they periodically made small dives under the surface, only to re-emerge seconds later, sputtering and shaking their heads. The agent by his side shouting back down to the men below “keep looking, dam you!”
The distance between himself and the sea grew wider, and John closed his eyes as the salty tears that ran from his face mixed with the salt water that dripped from his hair and head. The boys eyes suddenly snapped back open as he looked back down towards the sea.
“You came into my dreams sir” he said as he looked upon the floating body that had suddenly emerged to lie on the surface; the three soldiers in the water desperately twisting the body around so that McKendry lay on his back.
John watched as the soldiers lifted McKendry upright and held him above the water; one of them trying to pump the sea from his body, the others shouting for help and for more ropes to be lowered. “You were cutting my wrists, taking blood out of me sir. In my dreams. But I wasn’t scared. You needed my blood for something important I think” said the boy to the unseeing eyes that looked back up towards him.
“Christ! We need help back down in the sea” Conner was shouting over the lip of the pier as they reached their destination. Another two soldiers immediately lifted themselves over the rail and plunged into the water.
Somewhere in the boys mind, he felt as if the man had responded; had told him it was just a dream and not to worry. But it wasn’t just a dream and John responded to the lifeless body below him that was now being dragged closer to the piers legs, a soldier trying to swim to keep up, whilst struggling to breath air into McKendry’s lifeless body.
“No, sir, it was real, and Father Herbert said that I must trust you…he said that I must go with you…”
Agent Connor and John were unceremoniously hauled over the railing of the pier, hands reaching out to steady the boy, and to lay him gently onto the stretcher that lay in wait on the piers wooden floor.
“I think the bad dreams you have been having will stop now sir. I think your family and all those other people won’t haunt you anymore.” He spoke out loud.
Agent Connor, breathing heavily, gripping the rail of the pier as he watched the sea below him, looked anxiously back at John. The Commander, who had couched to his knees, to help the boy down, a face drawn with concern, stared at his pale face. The medic who was by their sides giving a quizzical look at the Commander before quickly examining the gun-shot wound on his shoulder.
“John? John Morris, can you hear me?” said the Commander into his blank face. “John!” now shouting and clicking his fingers to try to get a reaction from his glazed eyes.
“He’s drifting in and out of consciousness” shouted the medic, as he covered John with thick blankets, “the poor kid’s lost a lot of blood, and is freezing to death. We need to get him to a hospital quickly, or he’s not going to make it.”
“Where’s mum?” came the sudden and lucid question from the boy, as his eyes became focused and he began again to cough up more remnants of the sea water from his lungs.
“Your moms just fine John. Here look.”
John arched his head to see his mother lying still on another stretcher, blankets covering her body, just a few feet away from him. She seemed to have some kind of tube coming out of her, and one of the soldiers was holding a plastic bag, as they lifted her from the wooden decking and began to move off.
“No! Please don’t take her away! Please sir!” John grabbed the Commanders hand, and with tears flowing freely down his cheeks he begged the men around him, “She’s my mum! Please! Please I don’t want you to take mum away from me. Please sir please. I promise I’ll be good. I’ll be good from now on! I won’t run away anymore, please….”
“John…..” the Commander felt a lump in his throat and his eyes misted over as he listened to the inconsolable boys pleading and bargaining. The medic trying to treat Johns shoulder wound as the stretcher was being raised to follow the one that carried Sheila, quietly muttered “Lord have mercy” whilst shaking his head. Agent Connor looked back on the scene with a face wretched with grief, even as he helped hoist the other body over the rail on to the pier.
The Commander squeezed the boys hand: “We won’t separate you John, I swear it!”
John looked directly into the Commanders eyes and pleaded with him through his tears:
“Please don’t hurt her….please don’t hurt my mum…..I won’t run away again…..I’ll be good…..”
The Commander, a single tear falling from his eye onto his cheek:
“Listen to me son, we won’t hurt your mom, and we won’t separate you. You’re going to go in the same ambulance to the same hospital, but we have to go now. Both of you are injured. You understand don’t you son? We need to take you both away now.”
John, bottom lip trembling, eyes red, nodded his assent, as the two stretchers swiftly made their way towards the pier entrance where the ambulances awaited.
John looked back up to the face of the Commander who was walking quickly alongside his stretcher:
“Mr McKendry?”
The Commander looked back over his shoulder, to see a clearly distraught Agent Conner, hands on hips, head bowed, look up and shake his head; a medic on the pier floor desperately pumping McKendry’s chest muscles and breathing into his mouth.
“John…..Mr McKendry, Jim…. He’ll be OK….you don’t worry about that son……let’s just get you somewhere safe….You’re going on a journey now John, and I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”
He gently touched Johns forehead through tear filled eyes “I’m sure you’ll see McKendry again.” He lied.
“I know” said John quietly as he closed his eyes, and exhaustion finally took his body.
………………………………….........................................................................................................................................................................................................................
In a small seaside town in Lancashire, in US Occupied Britain, a mother and her son - a boy who carried the future of the human race in his veins - were gently lifted into the back of an ambulance.
The stony faced Commander sat in between the two stretchers, holding the hands of the two innocents, staring into space as he contemplated the decisions he had made in his life; the lives he had ended. He squeezed John’s unconscious hand, and prayed for the first time in years.
On the pier, Agent Connor sat with head in hands and wept.
“Where’s John?” came the voice from his right.
The End.
Thanks guys.
the story is essentially over now, so cant promise anymore cliffhangers or surprises (although I'll try). We're into the 'what happened next' phase really.
I did consider killing Sheila, but backed off at the last minute. I have my reasons for that, which will be revealed later.
I was also aware that I was doing the 'McKendry is dead' scenario, and that I'd already done this. So rather then repeat it, I decided to tease it along and then kill the theory there and then. I thought that was better than a cliffhanger which - quite frankly - no-one would have believed anyway!
Update coming up soon.
the story is essentially over now, so cant promise anymore cliffhangers or surprises (although I'll try). We're into the 'what happened next' phase really.
I did consider killing Sheila, but backed off at the last minute. I have my reasons for that, which will be revealed later.
I was also aware that I was doing the 'McKendry is dead' scenario, and that I'd already done this. So rather then repeat it, I decided to tease it along and then kill the theory there and then. I thought that was better than a cliffhanger which - quite frankly - no-one would have believed anyway!
Update coming up soon.
3 weeks later.
Commander Ronald Truman, casually seated in an armchair, studied the medical notes as McKendry watched him from his hospital bed.
“So let me see” began the Commander, “hypothermia, fractured skull, deep tissue injury to the neck, septic shock, infected wound in the chest – that you didn’t allow to heal properly – and a whole range of other things I can’t even begin to pronounce…..”
“How’s the boy?”
“....plus the fact that you were officially dead for a few minutes. You do know that don’t you? They’d given up trying to revive you. Connor said….”
“Ron, how’s John? Is he OK?”
“You know, you pretty much said those words when you woke from your assumed death! Frightened the bejesus out of Agent Connor, you did!”
“Ron?”
“You’ve gotta learn to leave it now, Jim. I’ve said it often enough, but I’ll say it again, you’re lucky to still be breathing my friend.”
“For heaven’s sake man, just answer me!”
“What do want me to say? It’s been classified, as you know, and also, as you know, you’ve been deemed to be a – and I quote – ‘an unhelpful influence’. You’re out of the loop boy, and if you ask me, it’s just what you deserve.”
Commander Truman had heard the news that McKendry still lived shortly after arriving at the local Blackpool hospital with John and Sheila. “Thanks Christ” he had shouted down the telephone, as a wave of relief swept over him. Transport had been arranged for him to join them at the Blackpool hospital, but the Commander, instead, issued immediate instructions to send his wayward friend to the military hospital in Preston, away from John, and he was to remain there under lock and key until further instructions were given. As it turned out, the lock and key were unnecessary as James McKendry danced the fine line between life and death over the next week, whilst his body, aided by the doctors, attempted to fight the multiple infections he had acquired. Only when those infections were under control, could they attempt the intricate task of repairing the back of his skull which was cracked in two places, courtesy of the traitor Liam Oliver; some skull splinters actually penetrating into the soft tissue underneath. Finally, they had removed the sharp object that was embedded in McKendry’s neck, just millimetres from a major artery. The surgeons had raised their eyes at each other, as the object had been identified as a thin sliver of human bone.
The Commander had remained at the side of mother and son almost exclusively over the next three days, moving his forward base to the hospital. At his first opportunity, he had contacted Boston and informed an ecstatic Chief that the package had been secured. They would have been on the next flight out from Burtonwood Airport had not the doctors informed him that Sheila was in no fit state to fly – “maybe in a couple of days, at best” he had been told. He, in turn had argued incessantly with the CDC and other Boston officials who were demanding the immediate transportation of John to their research facilities. He had finally won the argument when he had informed the Chief that he had made a promise to John, and he would not break it. If Sheila was not fit to travel, then they would have to wait until she was. The Chief wasn’t happy, he knew, and perhaps he would have to justify his actions at a later stage, but for now he wasn’t going to frighten an already petrified little boy any more than was necessary.
Three days later, Sheila, although still quite weak, was judged fit enough to fly, and the three of them, under heavy military guard, had finally made their way to the United States. They were escorted straight to the new CDC research facilities at Langley, Virginia, which would now operate under the direct supervision of the CIA, in view if their new VIP guest. The Chief and his entourage were waiting for them, but Eisenhower chose not to meet John in person. It was felt that he would be recognisable from the ‘Who do you Love’ posters, and the Chief wanted John and his mother to feel as comfortable and unthreatened as possible. Commander Truman despaired at how unthreatened they could possible feel, as he handed John and Sheila over to the care of a group of clearly over excited doctors, who gaped at John as if he were some kind of exhibit in a zoo. He’d later joined the Chief and they had both watched in silence behind the two way mirror that separated them from the comfortable ‘parlour’ style room that Sheila and John endured the first of many gentle debriefings from agents and doctors alike. The Chief had waited until a blood sample had been taken from John’s arm, and quickly studied - causing a wave of amazement around the facility - before deciding to head back to Boston. Truman had been told to join him in 24 hours with a full report on the events of the last few days, concerning the Morris family and Special Agent McKendry. In the meantime, he could get some rest before saying his goodbyes to the kid and his mother.
McKendry looked wistfully out of the window, and wondered how fast the leaves seemed to have changed from a vibrant green to a golden brown in just a few weeks. The weather was changing outside; the long summer finally looking to be over.
“Ron, I’m not asking for any special privileges, I’m just asking if he is OK - both John and Sheila - that’s all!”
The Commander took a deep breath, and smiled down at McKendry, enjoying the fact that he was, for once, fully in control:
“Yeah, he’s OK Jim. They’re both doing just fine. Being treated real good and, from what I hear, have settled down reasonably well, considering the circumstances.”
“Well that’s good to hear. Thanks for breaking your oath” he replied acidly, as he turned his head away from the window and looked back at Truman.
“You know, I told them that you were dead, don’t you? That you died right there on that pier?”
McKendry shifted his position, pushing the tube from the drip away from his field of vision so that he could get a better view of Ron Truman. He was as much angry as confused by what he had just heard:
“Why…..why on earth would you do that?”
“Why? Where do you want me to start Jim? You did a lot of fine work locating that boy, but let’s be honest here, you’re actions almost led to his death on more than one occasion. As I said…..no wait, let me finish….as I said, I don’t deem you to be a helpful influence….”
“Now just wait a minute, keeping me out of the loop is one thing, but telling them I’m dead….well, that’s just plain wrong….”
“…and besides, it was the Chief who authorised it. He felt as I did, after I had given my report, that as the boy had already thought you were kaput, there was no point in confusing matters anymore.”
“You can’t be happy with this Ron!”
“Happy? I don’t know about that sonny. I just know that it’s probably for the best that others now take care of the kid. We’ve both done our bit Jim, but now let’s just let the experts take it from here eh?”
McKendry did not speak; he’d again turned his head away from the Commander in disgust and continued to watch the changing scenery outside of the hospital, pondering what he had heard, until eventually turning back to Ronald Truman who was watching him in silence:
“And…”said the agent.
“And what?”
“And does the kid believe you. Does he actually believe I’m dead?”
Truman narrowed his eyes, and gave a small smile as he looked back at his friend:
“That’s an odd question. Why would you ask that?””
McKendry smiled back at the man, and the Commander gave a short laugh, before shaking his head and responding:
“No of course he doesn’t! He dam well told me as much!”
He continued to watch McKendry with interest as he continued, “I mean, what is it with you two? You got some kind of weird telepathy or something eh?”
“Why would you say that?” replied the agent.
“OK, how’s this Jim – have the nightmares stopped yet? Have the ghosts – which I understand included your wife and family, God bless their souls, - as well as the spectre of Heydrich himself – stopped visiting you?”
McKendry shifted his position in the bed, and examined his fingers as he thought on what Truman had just said:
“I can’t explain any of it Ron. I just know that I heard, or I suppose I dreamed it now; John saying that very thing when I was in the water at the pier. I thought I was talking openly to him, but by all accounts, I was actually clinically dead at the time. Even the syringe I imagined I had been jabbed with, turned out to be a vengeful splinter of a bone from Marias face that had stuck in my neck as I beat her.”
The Commander pulled his face in mock disgust, muttering “gruesome” before continuing, “I really shouldn’t be discussing this with you now, but, well, John said it out loud on the pier before we took him away, and he said the same thing to me again when I last saw him, before heading on back over here. He said to tell you that the dreams will stop, that he had been having the same dreams since he met you, and a certain Father Herbert had told him to trust you. When I reminded him that I couldn’t pass on a message, because you were dead, the little bastard and his mother just smiled at me!”
McKendry looked back at his fingers. He was picking at the nails; his forehead a furrowed brow. Commander Truman continued to watch him with a mix of admiration and concern, until after long seconds he reluctantly spoke again:
“And have they stopped Jim? Have the dreams stopped?”
“It would seem so my friend…..it would seem so”. His response was barely audible.
Truman stretched his legs out, before pulling himself up straight in his chair, and picking up his military cap from the side cupboard:
“I’ve gotta get back to Manchester Jim, but before I go, let me leave you with this little mystery; see if you can get that big brain of yours around this one.”
McKendry looked at him, intrigued. “Go on” he responded.
“This Father Herbert - your old ethics teacher from Canterbury, yes?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you presumed that the kid must have somehow heard the name, and that’s why he’s connected it with you in these shared dreams?”
“It’s the only explanation, isn’t it?”
“Well now”, he almost sounded excited, “we did some digging, and the kids part time Sunday School teacher, a couple of years ago was none other than the same Father James Herbert!”
“What…”
“I know! What are the chances eh?”
“That’s some coincidence there.”
“Well you’re the one who talks to God! I’ll leave it for you to decide whether or not there’s been any divine intervention along the way. You’ve been taken out of the loop now Jim, but I suppose if it weren’t for the kid trusting you, it may never have turned out as it did. I reckon, a part of that trust was the shared dreams and this Father Herbert. Think on that one man!”
“I never did find out what happened to him. Do we know?”
“Yep, we know” he sighed, the smile quickly leaving his face, “seems he was saying some stuff to the kids he taught, telling them – according to the report I read - that we – us occupiers, I mean - can never beat the essence of what it means to be human; that the Nazis as well as ourselves will always lose if people keep true to themselves and their loved ones and continue to speak up for a better future. Obviously, he was dragged away as a communist, and it seems he died shortly afterwards in a prison.”
“Communist!” McKendry gave a wry laugh, “it was the central message at my theology classes with him; it’s what led me on the path to becoming a priest! Hell! How did we lose our way so much?”
Truman raised his arms and flopped them back to his sides, choosing not to respond, but instead rose to his feet, and stretched his back:
“Gotta get back to base Jim. Since Eichmann received a bullet in his head as a part of the Speer Coup, things have gotten a little tetchy on the border.”
McKendry appreciated the change of subject, and allowed himself to put all thoughts of John out of his mind for now:
“Germany’s still in a pretty bad state, I take it.”
“Bad? That’s not the half of it man! Germania is in the grip of one monumental fuck up. We’re not quite sure what happened, we only know that it wasn’t us that unleashed the Red Death on them. Maybe its multiple leaks from their labs or something, but we are talking over a million and a half estimated to be dead, and it’s still going on.”
“Will it topple, do you think?”
“I doubt it to be honest. Speer was quick to secure their nuclear arsenal, and besides, the armed forces remained largely unaffected, as the Red Death outbreaks occurred in heavily populated civilian areas only. However, as a result, they’ve had to pull back tens of thousands of troops from the Asian and African front lines and thin-out their occupying forces, so that they can try to bring order back to Germania itself. We’re hearing of rebellions in Switzerland, Serbia, Greece, Norway, Italy, and even some reports of uprisings in Britain! It’s great to watch all this unfold Jim!”
“It was Heydrich. It was Heydrich’s revenge.” Said McKendry quietly, unimpressed by the other man’s obvious delight at the deaths of millions.
“Really? You know this?”
“Blome intimated enough to me before I killed him, and besides it was in a letter that we received.”
“Oh this mysterious letter that you won’t tell me about….”
“Classified, Ron, you aren’t in the loop.”
“Huh! Have it your way then.”
He leaned forward to pat McKendry gently on the shoulder:
“Doc said you should be ready to leave in a few more days. Make arrangements to come see me when you get out eh?”
“I will Ron. Thanks for stopping by.”
“But don’t leave it too late Jim-Bob. I’m not gonna be here much longer.”
McKendry threw him a puzzled look, as he continued.
“I’m tired Jim. All this with the kid and his mom, and you too, well I don’t know really, but I sat in that ambulance with that kid three weeks ago, and I knew I was finished; knew I’d had enough.”
“What happened? It has to be more than just ‘tired’?”
Truman shifted uncomfortably, as he looked at his shoes:
“I, well I err, I held the kids hand and shed a little tear if you must know Jim, and I dunno, I just had this pretty bad feeling come over me. Things I’d done, authorised in the past – you know what I mean. But, you were right all along Jim, these poor bastards in this country had every right to hate us….”
“We went too far, Ron. I said it all along. Just look at my old teacher – Father Herbert as an example of how wrong we were. But, what’s done is done; don’t beat yourself up too much, I know for a fact that you personally intervened to stop some of the worst behaviour of our soldiers.”
“I did” he said quietly, still staring at his shoes.
“You been to speak to somebody Ron? Like a counsellor or a clergyman? These things can sometimes catch you up you know? They stay there festering until the soul is healed.”
Truman looked at him sharply before laughing:
“Get the hell out of here with your religious mumbo jumbo and your Goddam psychology babble!”
“I’m just saying” McKendry smiled.
“Yah”, he waved his friend away with his hand and pulled the door handle, the guard outside immediately looking around to check, before resuming his position on duty.
“Catch you later, Jim Bob” and the Commander was gone.
McKendry waited a few minutes until he was sure his ‘nominal boss’ was out of the corridor before shouting “Nick…. Nick, you there?”
The door opened and the guard entered, closing it quietly behind him.
“Is he still saying no communication?”
“Ah, my instructions sir, are to remain here - for your own protection - until the doc says you’re well enough to leave, and then you’re on your own. But no telephones sir.”
“Hmmm. Can you go fetch me a phone. Is that OK Nick?”
“No problem sir. I’ll get it sorted out straight away. Anyone in particular you will want to call sir?”
“Yep, I just need a quick chat with the Chief, that’s all.”
Commander Ronald Truman, casually seated in an armchair, studied the medical notes as McKendry watched him from his hospital bed.
“So let me see” began the Commander, “hypothermia, fractured skull, deep tissue injury to the neck, septic shock, infected wound in the chest – that you didn’t allow to heal properly – and a whole range of other things I can’t even begin to pronounce…..”
“How’s the boy?”
“....plus the fact that you were officially dead for a few minutes. You do know that don’t you? They’d given up trying to revive you. Connor said….”
“Ron, how’s John? Is he OK?”
“You know, you pretty much said those words when you woke from your assumed death! Frightened the bejesus out of Agent Connor, you did!”
“Ron?”
“You’ve gotta learn to leave it now, Jim. I’ve said it often enough, but I’ll say it again, you’re lucky to still be breathing my friend.”
“For heaven’s sake man, just answer me!”
“What do want me to say? It’s been classified, as you know, and also, as you know, you’ve been deemed to be a – and I quote – ‘an unhelpful influence’. You’re out of the loop boy, and if you ask me, it’s just what you deserve.”
Commander Truman had heard the news that McKendry still lived shortly after arriving at the local Blackpool hospital with John and Sheila. “Thanks Christ” he had shouted down the telephone, as a wave of relief swept over him. Transport had been arranged for him to join them at the Blackpool hospital, but the Commander, instead, issued immediate instructions to send his wayward friend to the military hospital in Preston, away from John, and he was to remain there under lock and key until further instructions were given. As it turned out, the lock and key were unnecessary as James McKendry danced the fine line between life and death over the next week, whilst his body, aided by the doctors, attempted to fight the multiple infections he had acquired. Only when those infections were under control, could they attempt the intricate task of repairing the back of his skull which was cracked in two places, courtesy of the traitor Liam Oliver; some skull splinters actually penetrating into the soft tissue underneath. Finally, they had removed the sharp object that was embedded in McKendry’s neck, just millimetres from a major artery. The surgeons had raised their eyes at each other, as the object had been identified as a thin sliver of human bone.
The Commander had remained at the side of mother and son almost exclusively over the next three days, moving his forward base to the hospital. At his first opportunity, he had contacted Boston and informed an ecstatic Chief that the package had been secured. They would have been on the next flight out from Burtonwood Airport had not the doctors informed him that Sheila was in no fit state to fly – “maybe in a couple of days, at best” he had been told. He, in turn had argued incessantly with the CDC and other Boston officials who were demanding the immediate transportation of John to their research facilities. He had finally won the argument when he had informed the Chief that he had made a promise to John, and he would not break it. If Sheila was not fit to travel, then they would have to wait until she was. The Chief wasn’t happy, he knew, and perhaps he would have to justify his actions at a later stage, but for now he wasn’t going to frighten an already petrified little boy any more than was necessary.
Three days later, Sheila, although still quite weak, was judged fit enough to fly, and the three of them, under heavy military guard, had finally made their way to the United States. They were escorted straight to the new CDC research facilities at Langley, Virginia, which would now operate under the direct supervision of the CIA, in view if their new VIP guest. The Chief and his entourage were waiting for them, but Eisenhower chose not to meet John in person. It was felt that he would be recognisable from the ‘Who do you Love’ posters, and the Chief wanted John and his mother to feel as comfortable and unthreatened as possible. Commander Truman despaired at how unthreatened they could possible feel, as he handed John and Sheila over to the care of a group of clearly over excited doctors, who gaped at John as if he were some kind of exhibit in a zoo. He’d later joined the Chief and they had both watched in silence behind the two way mirror that separated them from the comfortable ‘parlour’ style room that Sheila and John endured the first of many gentle debriefings from agents and doctors alike. The Chief had waited until a blood sample had been taken from John’s arm, and quickly studied - causing a wave of amazement around the facility - before deciding to head back to Boston. Truman had been told to join him in 24 hours with a full report on the events of the last few days, concerning the Morris family and Special Agent McKendry. In the meantime, he could get some rest before saying his goodbyes to the kid and his mother.
McKendry looked wistfully out of the window, and wondered how fast the leaves seemed to have changed from a vibrant green to a golden brown in just a few weeks. The weather was changing outside; the long summer finally looking to be over.
“Ron, I’m not asking for any special privileges, I’m just asking if he is OK - both John and Sheila - that’s all!”
The Commander took a deep breath, and smiled down at McKendry, enjoying the fact that he was, for once, fully in control:
“Yeah, he’s OK Jim. They’re both doing just fine. Being treated real good and, from what I hear, have settled down reasonably well, considering the circumstances.”
“Well that’s good to hear. Thanks for breaking your oath” he replied acidly, as he turned his head away from the window and looked back at Truman.
“You know, I told them that you were dead, don’t you? That you died right there on that pier?”
McKendry shifted his position, pushing the tube from the drip away from his field of vision so that he could get a better view of Ron Truman. He was as much angry as confused by what he had just heard:
“Why…..why on earth would you do that?”
“Why? Where do you want me to start Jim? You did a lot of fine work locating that boy, but let’s be honest here, you’re actions almost led to his death on more than one occasion. As I said…..no wait, let me finish….as I said, I don’t deem you to be a helpful influence….”
“Now just wait a minute, keeping me out of the loop is one thing, but telling them I’m dead….well, that’s just plain wrong….”
“…and besides, it was the Chief who authorised it. He felt as I did, after I had given my report, that as the boy had already thought you were kaput, there was no point in confusing matters anymore.”
“You can’t be happy with this Ron!”
“Happy? I don’t know about that sonny. I just know that it’s probably for the best that others now take care of the kid. We’ve both done our bit Jim, but now let’s just let the experts take it from here eh?”
McKendry did not speak; he’d again turned his head away from the Commander in disgust and continued to watch the changing scenery outside of the hospital, pondering what he had heard, until eventually turning back to Ronald Truman who was watching him in silence:
“And…”said the agent.
“And what?”
“And does the kid believe you. Does he actually believe I’m dead?”
Truman narrowed his eyes, and gave a small smile as he looked back at his friend:
“That’s an odd question. Why would you ask that?””
McKendry smiled back at the man, and the Commander gave a short laugh, before shaking his head and responding:
“No of course he doesn’t! He dam well told me as much!”
He continued to watch McKendry with interest as he continued, “I mean, what is it with you two? You got some kind of weird telepathy or something eh?”
“Why would you say that?” replied the agent.
“OK, how’s this Jim – have the nightmares stopped yet? Have the ghosts – which I understand included your wife and family, God bless their souls, - as well as the spectre of Heydrich himself – stopped visiting you?”
McKendry shifted his position in the bed, and examined his fingers as he thought on what Truman had just said:
“I can’t explain any of it Ron. I just know that I heard, or I suppose I dreamed it now; John saying that very thing when I was in the water at the pier. I thought I was talking openly to him, but by all accounts, I was actually clinically dead at the time. Even the syringe I imagined I had been jabbed with, turned out to be a vengeful splinter of a bone from Marias face that had stuck in my neck as I beat her.”
The Commander pulled his face in mock disgust, muttering “gruesome” before continuing, “I really shouldn’t be discussing this with you now, but, well, John said it out loud on the pier before we took him away, and he said the same thing to me again when I last saw him, before heading on back over here. He said to tell you that the dreams will stop, that he had been having the same dreams since he met you, and a certain Father Herbert had told him to trust you. When I reminded him that I couldn’t pass on a message, because you were dead, the little bastard and his mother just smiled at me!”
McKendry looked back at his fingers. He was picking at the nails; his forehead a furrowed brow. Commander Truman continued to watch him with a mix of admiration and concern, until after long seconds he reluctantly spoke again:
“And have they stopped Jim? Have the dreams stopped?”
“It would seem so my friend…..it would seem so”. His response was barely audible.
Truman stretched his legs out, before pulling himself up straight in his chair, and picking up his military cap from the side cupboard:
“I’ve gotta get back to Manchester Jim, but before I go, let me leave you with this little mystery; see if you can get that big brain of yours around this one.”
McKendry looked at him, intrigued. “Go on” he responded.
“This Father Herbert - your old ethics teacher from Canterbury, yes?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you presumed that the kid must have somehow heard the name, and that’s why he’s connected it with you in these shared dreams?”
“It’s the only explanation, isn’t it?”
“Well now”, he almost sounded excited, “we did some digging, and the kids part time Sunday School teacher, a couple of years ago was none other than the same Father James Herbert!”
“What…”
“I know! What are the chances eh?”
“That’s some coincidence there.”
“Well you’re the one who talks to God! I’ll leave it for you to decide whether or not there’s been any divine intervention along the way. You’ve been taken out of the loop now Jim, but I suppose if it weren’t for the kid trusting you, it may never have turned out as it did. I reckon, a part of that trust was the shared dreams and this Father Herbert. Think on that one man!”
“I never did find out what happened to him. Do we know?”
“Yep, we know” he sighed, the smile quickly leaving his face, “seems he was saying some stuff to the kids he taught, telling them – according to the report I read - that we – us occupiers, I mean - can never beat the essence of what it means to be human; that the Nazis as well as ourselves will always lose if people keep true to themselves and their loved ones and continue to speak up for a better future. Obviously, he was dragged away as a communist, and it seems he died shortly afterwards in a prison.”
“Communist!” McKendry gave a wry laugh, “it was the central message at my theology classes with him; it’s what led me on the path to becoming a priest! Hell! How did we lose our way so much?”
Truman raised his arms and flopped them back to his sides, choosing not to respond, but instead rose to his feet, and stretched his back:
“Gotta get back to base Jim. Since Eichmann received a bullet in his head as a part of the Speer Coup, things have gotten a little tetchy on the border.”
McKendry appreciated the change of subject, and allowed himself to put all thoughts of John out of his mind for now:
“Germany’s still in a pretty bad state, I take it.”
“Bad? That’s not the half of it man! Germania is in the grip of one monumental fuck up. We’re not quite sure what happened, we only know that it wasn’t us that unleashed the Red Death on them. Maybe its multiple leaks from their labs or something, but we are talking over a million and a half estimated to be dead, and it’s still going on.”
“Will it topple, do you think?”
“I doubt it to be honest. Speer was quick to secure their nuclear arsenal, and besides, the armed forces remained largely unaffected, as the Red Death outbreaks occurred in heavily populated civilian areas only. However, as a result, they’ve had to pull back tens of thousands of troops from the Asian and African front lines and thin-out their occupying forces, so that they can try to bring order back to Germania itself. We’re hearing of rebellions in Switzerland, Serbia, Greece, Norway, Italy, and even some reports of uprisings in Britain! It’s great to watch all this unfold Jim!”
“It was Heydrich. It was Heydrich’s revenge.” Said McKendry quietly, unimpressed by the other man’s obvious delight at the deaths of millions.
“Really? You know this?”
“Blome intimated enough to me before I killed him, and besides it was in a letter that we received.”
“Oh this mysterious letter that you won’t tell me about….”
“Classified, Ron, you aren’t in the loop.”
“Huh! Have it your way then.”
He leaned forward to pat McKendry gently on the shoulder:
“Doc said you should be ready to leave in a few more days. Make arrangements to come see me when you get out eh?”
“I will Ron. Thanks for stopping by.”
“But don’t leave it too late Jim-Bob. I’m not gonna be here much longer.”
McKendry threw him a puzzled look, as he continued.
“I’m tired Jim. All this with the kid and his mom, and you too, well I don’t know really, but I sat in that ambulance with that kid three weeks ago, and I knew I was finished; knew I’d had enough.”
“What happened? It has to be more than just ‘tired’?”
Truman shifted uncomfortably, as he looked at his shoes:
“I, well I err, I held the kids hand and shed a little tear if you must know Jim, and I dunno, I just had this pretty bad feeling come over me. Things I’d done, authorised in the past – you know what I mean. But, you were right all along Jim, these poor bastards in this country had every right to hate us….”
“We went too far, Ron. I said it all along. Just look at my old teacher – Father Herbert as an example of how wrong we were. But, what’s done is done; don’t beat yourself up too much, I know for a fact that you personally intervened to stop some of the worst behaviour of our soldiers.”
“I did” he said quietly, still staring at his shoes.
“You been to speak to somebody Ron? Like a counsellor or a clergyman? These things can sometimes catch you up you know? They stay there festering until the soul is healed.”
Truman looked at him sharply before laughing:
“Get the hell out of here with your religious mumbo jumbo and your Goddam psychology babble!”
“I’m just saying” McKendry smiled.
“Yah”, he waved his friend away with his hand and pulled the door handle, the guard outside immediately looking around to check, before resuming his position on duty.
“Catch you later, Jim Bob” and the Commander was gone.
McKendry waited a few minutes until he was sure his ‘nominal boss’ was out of the corridor before shouting “Nick…. Nick, you there?”
The door opened and the guard entered, closing it quietly behind him.
“Is he still saying no communication?”
“Ah, my instructions sir, are to remain here - for your own protection - until the doc says you’re well enough to leave, and then you’re on your own. But no telephones sir.”
“Hmmm. Can you go fetch me a phone. Is that OK Nick?”
“No problem sir. I’ll get it sorted out straight away. Anyone in particular you will want to call sir?”
“Yep, I just need a quick chat with the Chief, that’s all.”
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