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Nice cliffhanger. Always the best way to end a chapter!
Sent from my HTC Wildfire using Tapatalk
Sent from my HTC Wildfire using Tapatalk
And where were the boys of LSAH?
Geez Enewald! For a while there you had me panicking! I thought I'd forgotten a team member in Germany!
Only that acronym decoding site saved me.
It is, isn't it? However, the answer to the pilots' lounge call shall remain a mystery for the time being, and become part of the web of deceit that surrounds the buildup to war...
Part Twenty Four
September 5th 1938, Berlin, Germany
Levinson rushed through the plane and back to the door. Bradley, curious as to what Levinson was expecting to see. What he saw as he reached the door knocked the wind right out of his lungs. There were more German soldiers at the airport, a group of which were talking to the guards. The one clearly in command of the new group had a scar on his cheek. Bradley could see it clearly as the man showed the guards an official piece of paper.
“Goddamit. I should have known they’d send him”, Levinson muttered to himself.
“Who?” Bradley managed to ask.
“Maybe I can explain once we get the hell of the ground”.
Bradley followed Levinson outside, where the pilot was busy removing the stops from in front of the plane’s landing gear. He flung the last one away as the scarred officer began moving past the guards and toward the plane. They ran back inside as the co-pilot began directing the plane toward the runway.
Bradley could hear the officer shout “Stoppen!”
He hoped that it was too late to stop them from leaving Berlin. The pilot hobbled awkwardly as he fought the plane’s movements in order to get to the cockpit. Bradley tried to sit down calmly but was flung into Moss by a sudden turn as the plane moved onto the final stretch of runway.
He dived at the seat in order to avoid being flung back again just before sitting. He clung onto the handlebars and ventured a look outside onto the runway. The German officer was grabbing one of his subordinates’ rifles. Bradley instinctively ducked as the rifle was lowered. It occurred to him only seconds later that the officer was firing out of pure frustration, not of intent to kill.
He heard the bullet ping off the metal frame and observed the little dent it had left in the metal next to his legs. He was lucky to be ducking, as at that moment a second bullet shattered the window which his head had been behind mere seconds earlier. The officer was a much better shot than the dent in the metal indicated. His marksmanship impressed Bradley.
He was awoken from the state of silent reverie by the sound of the pilot screaming at the top of his lungs for Bradley to plug the hole that had been the window. Bradley grabbed one of the gun bags, emptied it, and tried holding it against the hole. The bag was almost sucked out of the plane when they took off from the ground. Bradley shouted for someone to help him hold the bag.
No one answered his call, and he feared that he would spend the entire flight back to London holding the bag. Luckily it only took Connor five minutes to notice Bradley’s plight. With the plane now stable, he walked confidently over to Bradley.
“You need a hand with that Bradley?”
“I’d really appreciate it”.
“15 minute shifts?”
Bradley nodded and readjusted the bag in a feeble attempt to indicate he would take the first shift. Connor drifted back to his seat as Bradley began trying to get occasional glimpses of Germany drifting by beneath them.
Dun Dun Duuuun...
Oh, they're not on holiday, just a mandatory coffee break.
Perhaps, perhaps. It is an entire handekerchief you know.
Part Twenty Five
September 5th 1938, somewhere above Germany
Bradley signaled Connor that his shift was beginning, so Connor let Bradley place his hands on the bag and moved to another seat. Bradley took a peek outside the window, and noticed they were over an airfield. He found some humour in the sight of the little people running around, until he realized that they were prepping a Luftwaffe aircraft for takeoff.
“Hey! They’ve got planes coming after us!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
The co-pilot poked his head out from the cockpit. He looked as panicked as Bradley felt.
“What!?”
Levinson stepped up from his seat and placed himself between Bradley and the co-pilot.
“It’s okay. They’re not going to shoot us down. Hitler’s not willing to risk a diplomatic incident over what he still believes is only his handkerchief”.
Levinson’s words seemed to calm the co-pilot, but did nothing for Bradley. He watched with a growing sense of horror as the plane began its ascent from the airfield. It climbed up and up, eventually drawing next to them. Bradley could see the pilot’s face.
The pilot was waving his hands erratically, apparently trying to signal for them to land. Levinson was signalling back with waves of his hands, and cursing fluently.
“No, you bloody idiots! We are not going to land in bloody Germany!”
Bradley felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the German plane slowed and fell behind them. His worst fears were confirmed when a burst of fire passed the window.
“Jesus Christ! They’re shooting at us!” the pilot shouted.
“Just trying to scare you!” Levinson shouted back.
The plane continued on its course, and the German plane flew next to them. The pilot was waving his hands ever more erratically, and picking up speed the farther they flew. It didn’t take long for Bradley to realize why; as he noticed they were now above the sea. The pilot seemed to be pleading for them to turn back.
Levinson let out a surprisingly loud laugh as the German plane turned back. They had gotten away with it. How, Bradley couldn’t comprehend, but they had. All that was left was for them to land at Heath Row before they ran out of fuel.
“I told you they wouldn’t do it! I’d hate to be the person who has to tell Hitler his handkerchief got away!” Levinson was saying, a wide grin on his face.
Bradley let out a deep sigh of relief. He took one last look at Germany, now far behind them.
Diplomatic warfare begins?
To prison for high treason?
Attempting to start a world war?
To prison for high treason?
Attempting to start a world war?
That German pilot was quite sensible. Why risk a diplomatic incident over a handkerchief? Mind you - potentially there was a murderer onboard that plane, so would they be warranted in shooting them down?
You'll see that there have already been consequences to Templewood's demand for reports.
Whaddaya mean murderer? As far as Addy knows, it's just a handkerchief.
Part Twenty Six
September 5th 1938, Heath Row, London, England
The plane landed much more roughly at Heath Row than Berlin. It bucked and bounced as it sped down the runway. They were almost within the aerodrome when the brakes began working properly, and the plane slid to a halt. The entire group exited the plane slightly disorientated. As the team gathered on the tarmac, the pilots headed to see what the problem was.
“Well, we got the intelligence. That makes this a success”, Levinson said.
Bradley took a long look at the others, who seemed pleased with themselves. Then he noticed Levinson’s stare. He was staring intensely at Bradley, utilising an expression that was impossible to read. With a wave of his hand, Levinson dismissed the team.
“Get back to the office. Try to get some information out of that intelligence”.
Bradley stood there for a while, hoping for an explanation for the staring, but Levinson just raised his other eyebrow.
“I thought I told you to shoo. Get back to the office Ellis”.
Bradley decided it was best to do as he was told, and began the trek up the hill to the train station. He was forced to break into a run as he noticed the train was already there. He made it just barely, and was immediately confronted by the conductor.
“Ticket, please”.
Bradley grappled around in his pockets for change, but found none. He smiled weakly and let out a light chuckle. The conductor was not amused. He waited next to Bradley until the next stop, and then pushed him out unceremoniously onto the station. Bradley sat down on a bench and unleashed a string of profanity that turned numerous gazes.
“Bloody heck! Gosh darn! Goddamn rule-Roland!”
He continued like this for a while until he noticed the small child and his mother staring at him. The kid’s mouth was wide open, and his mother had a disapproving frown on her face. They stared at each other silently. Eventually Bradley realised what the woman was waiting for.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to use such language”, he said, hoping he had interpreted the woman right.
She gave a condescending huff, clasped her son’s hand tightly and continued down the platform. Bradley could hear her lecturing the child on how to prevent himself from becoming a vulgar savage like Bradley. He smiled a little to himself before heading for the nearest telephone booth. On the way there he remembered why he had been thrown out of the train, and stopped the first person he walked past.
“Sorry to bother you, but I seem to have misplaced my wallet. Could you lend me 25 pence?”
The man gave Bradley a funny look before shoving his hand in his pocket. It emerged with a handful of shiny coins, which were promptly dropped into Bradley’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you!” he managed to shout at the man, who had quickly resumed his walking.
Bradley went into the telephone booth and dialled the number for Templewood’s office. He would ask the Chief of Operations’ aide to inform the team he was going to be late. The phone was picked up by a woman.
“Hello. Mr. Churchill is currently unavailable, but do you wish to leave him a message?”
"Yeah, we screwed up and we might have war tomorrow?"
We'll see how Mr. Schiklgruber reacts.As I said in my other AAR. Sorry for the late update, I've been having a bit of a lethargic week.
Part Twenty Seven
September 5th 1938, London, England
“Mr. Churchill?” Bradley asked incredulously.
“Yes. Mr. Churchill, Chief of Operations”, the woman answered in a suspicious tone.
“I thought Templewood was Chief of Operations”, Bradley said, more to himself than to the woman.
“Mr. Templewood was relieved of his duties three hours ago”, was the answer from the telephone.
The voice was no longer the woman’s. Someone else was now talking to Bradley.
“Winston. Are we going to get an explanation for this?” he blurted into the phone.
“Yes. You are going to receive a debriefing. Where are you?”
Bradley took a look at his surroundings.
“It looks like I’m at Chiswick Train Station”.
“Excellent. I’ll send a cab to pick you up. Wait by the ticket booth”.
The phone went silent as Bradley reopened his mouth. He placed it back in its slot, and crossed the street to the ticket booth. The salesman eyed him suspiciously.
“Yes?” Bradley asked him.
“Just because Chiswick is in London doesn’t mean we appreciate language like that. You damn politicians, couldn’t even use your own money to call a cab”.
Bradley was thrown off guard for a second, until he realised he was still wearing the formal clothes he had been given that morning.
“What makes you think I’m a politician?” he asked.
“Well, you dress well, but you don’t speak like an American. Thus, you cannot be a businessman, making you a politician”.
The man’s logic puzzled Bradley completely. How could a British person not be a businessman? He had always been taught that you could find anything in London, and that London was obscenely rich. It was at that moment that he noticed the lack of men in top hats.
When he was small, his father had taught him that the way to know a British businessman from a politician was his top hat. This philosophy had originated during the war, when the businessmen were the only ones who could afford to have chauffeurs drive them to work, and rest their top hats on their laps. The politicians had been forced to use the underground, a habit that completely crushed their top hats and their use among the lawmakers of London’s empire.
He was stunned into submission by this realisation. Even the man who had given him the money for the telephone had on his lapel a small American flag. Bradley stayed silent until the cab arrived and he got in. The entire way to the office, Bradley scanned the streets of London for top hats, seeing a few by the stock exchange, yet even those were greatly outnumbered by the younger, hatless Americans.
Nice update. Little details like the fact about the hats help bring your world to life.
The world according to Enewald:
Hats, which hide the top of the head = GOOD.
Hatless, nothing to hide = BAD.
Iain Wilson said:
Thanks. As previously stated, I'm trying to approach this like an actual novel, and the hats touch on the theme of change, and how people deal with it.
That give anyone incent to analyse?
Part Twenty Eight
September 5th 1938, London, England
Bradley stepped out of the cab and knocked on the door of what used to be Templewood’s office. A young girl, of maybe 18, opened the door. Bradley recognized her voice as the one on the phone.
“Hello, are you here for Mr. Churchill?” she asked.
Bradley was about to lift his hat and attempt to woo her, when he remembered Lillian.
“Yes, I’m here for the debriefing”, he deadpanned.
The girl let him in, and as he headed for the office door, he heard another knock. The girl opened, said hello, and Bradley heard Connor begin to stammer.
“H… hi… I’m Connor”.
“Are you here for the debriefing?”
“De-what? Oh… yes…”
Bradley smiled to himself a little as she let him in. He felt confident about himself, until he realized that Connor had acted exactly like he had upon asking Lillian out. He waited for a while, listening to Connor’s hopeless attempt, and was about to step in when Moss did it first.
“C’mon Brower, debrief time”, he said as he pushed Connor forward.
As Connor was pushed toward him, Bradley noticed Allenby confidently lean his hand on the wall, and talk to the girl. A pang of sympathy for Connor hit Bradley, as the girl smiled and mouthed “okay”. Allenby strolled over to the door.
“Levinson will be here any minute”, he said, giving the door a good knock.
“Come in!” Churchill’s voice boomed from behind the doors.
When they entered, Churchill had the look on his face that he had when talking business with Bradley. Cold sweat formed just above his hairline. Fearing he would be asked questions, Bradley shifted himself to stand halfway behind Moss.
“Excellent job. Excellent. I know you won’t have a report ready by tonight, but get it to me as soon as possible”, Churchill said.
The team looked at each other, puzzled at the speed of the debriefing.
“Aren’t you going to ask how it went sir?” Allenby asked.
Churchill looked up from the papers he had busied himself with.
“No. I’m not. If something went wrong, I’m sure I’ll find out anyway”.
“We were almost caught!” Bradley shouted, astounded by Churchill’s seeming indifference.
“I know. Mr. Ribbentrop was very clear about it when the Prime Minister and I talked to him on the phone”.
The team was stunned into silence, but only for a moment. Bradley soon followed up on his question.
“How did you become Chief of Operations?”
Churchill looked up once more. He was clearly becoming frustrated with how the debriefing was turning into an interrogation.
“When a Chief of Operations fails to realise that part of his organisation has left for a raid on international soil, it’s very easy to discredit his ability. It took me exactly three hours after you left to get the Chiefs of Staff together. The Prime Minister arrived to oversee the vote of No-Confidence, and that’s when he was informed that Mr. Ribbentrop was on line 2. Twenty minutes, and one unanimous vote later, I was Chief of Operations”.
Churchill stopped, eyeing the team as if to read them for more questions. He stopped at Bradley, and his eyes narrowed to slits. The cold sweat returned abruptly.
“Dismissed”, Churchill said tersely.