The Normandy Club

by Bill Walker

“Age before beauty,” she said, coming forward and planting a tender kiss on his cheek. She pulled back just as the door opened and the lift operator, now bearing a pot of tea, entered the room. She blushed, put down the tray, and scurried from the room.

  Churchill burst out laughing, the jovial baritone cackling filling the room. “Now my reputation as a ladies’ man is assured!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Berlin, Germany

  17 May 1944

  Sleep. That was how the Gestapo got to you. Everyone feared the beatings and the torture, but what broke you was lack of sleep. The cell they’d tossed him into smelled like the bathroom of a decrepit gas station on some flyblown highway in the States. It was nostalgia Jack could’ve done without. No more than five by five, you could not stretch out and get comfortable. That had been deliberate.

  They must put the midgets in boxes, he thought. And despite his ragged condition, he could not help laughing at the ludicrous image born in his woozy brain. At least the gray concrete walls and floor held no vermin. But that was no surprise, as the bright light that burned twenty-four hours a day kept all the cockroaches away. Jack squinted and held a hand in front of his face and glanced upwards. The damned bulb must be a thousand watts, but he had no clue as to how they could have made one that bright back in the 1940s. Halogen and Xenon lamps did not exist, and would not for another forty years. Arc lights would be impractical because someone would have to monitor the light and change the carbon pencils every twenty minutes. And he couldn’t unscrew the damned thing because it lay suspended in a wire-mesh cage over fifteen feet above his head.

  Whatever miracle the Germans discovered, they’d kept it to themselves and put it to the most efficient use. In this case, making sleep impossible. Even if he closed his eyes and covered his head, the light found its way. And then there were the guards. Every so often they burst into the cell, screaming obscenities and rousting him. They clubbed him with lengths of rubber hoses and leather saps filled with buckshot. Of course, they stopped as soon as it appeared he might pass out. Unconsciousness through brutality was just as bad for them as natural sleep.

  “Have no fear, Herr Dunham. We will break you within forty-eight hours,” Streicher had said.

  It had been a little more than thirty-six and already he felt himself losing the battle. The only comfort was the dank artesian water they fed him every so often to stave off dehydration. The worst part, besides not being able to sleep, was not being able to lie down. The cell simply wasn’t big enough. And even if it were, he didn’t think it would matter all that much. He ached all over. No matter how he tried to position himself, his body throbbed and sang with a million bruises, nerve endings protesting the repeated insults.

  Jack’s eyes drooped and he snapped them open. He could not allow himself to sleep because to do so would invite more beatings. He tried calculating ridiculous word problems in his head, he sang stupid songs, he finally thought of Denise and that cleared his mind with a rush of hormones. But it only made his predicament all the more poignant. He’d failed her—failed the whole goddamned world, past, present, and future.

  “I’m sorry, Denise,” he said, hearing his voice for the first time in hours. It sounded hoarse and ragged, as if he’d gargled with ground glass. At the sound of the cell door’s bolt sliding back, Jack scrambled to his feet, ready for another onslaught, but the two guards only stood there motioning with their MP40 submachine guns.

  “Raus. Kommen Sie,” one of them said.

  Jack stood there a moment too long and the guard reached in and yanked him out by his hair. His momentum carried him into the opposite wall of the hallway, stunning him. His legs were rubbery, and he wondered if he was about to faint. The two Germans came up on either side of him, grabbed his arms, and hauled him down the narrow hall to the room where Jack had first appeared with Kruger. Streicher sat behind a small table, smoking a cigarette, watching him with hooded eyes. The smoke curled upward through the harsh lighting, giving the room a diffuse softness it did not warrant.

  “Guten Abend, Herr Dunham,” he said, his voice soft and silky. “And how are you today?”

  The guards thrust Jack into the chair opposite the table. He winced as a bolt of pain shot up his spine through the coccyx. He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled sharply. “I’ve been better.”

  “Quite so, Herr Dunham, quite so. Are you ready to tell us what you know of the invasion?”

  Jack stared at him, but what had captured his undivided attention was a plate of food, Wienerschnitzel, if he was any judge. There was also boiled red cabbage and potato pancakes. Next to it sat a frothy stein of beer, the ceramic glistening with beads of condensation. He could actually hear the bubbles popping on the mountainous head.

  “You need not tell us everything at once. Just the day and hour of the landings. Tell me that and you may eat.”

  Jack drooled and hated himself for it. But his body had no pride and only reacted to the stimuli it received. The heavenly odor of the breaded veal and potato pancakes wafted into his nostrils and made him want to swoon.

  “Sleep?”

  “That, too, Herr Dunham.”

  For the first time in his life, Jack knew what it meant to be caught in a dilemma. If he succumbed to his body’s cravings, he would betray everyone who sought to destroy the Third Reich, everyone who had already fought and died to make Overlord happen. He would be accomplishing Kruger’s mission. Then it hit him. Hitler already believed the invasion would come from Calais. Why not tell Streicher that and help reinforce the Fortitude deceptions? Jack almost smiled, but he maintained his composure. He decided to play out the drama just a little longer.

  Jumping to his feet, he charged the table before the guards could react. Picking up the plate, he hurled it at Streicher, who snapped his head out of the way. The plate smashed against the concrete wall, splattering the food every which way. A small piece of cabbage landed on Streicher’s tunic. Apoplectic with rage, he grabbed Jack, punched him in the gut, and brought his knee up into his face. Blood gushed from his nose, staining Streicher’s jodhpur trousers. This only enraged him further.

  “Take this filthy swine back to the cell and send in the X-team!” he bellowed and stalked from the room.

  Jack feared he’d gone too far. Through his bleary eyes, he could see the look of fear on the guards’ faces when they picked him up off the floor. They dragged him down the hallway and threw him into the cell, and he thought he heard them speak the word kaput a couple of times. Apparently, Streicher was calling in heavier guns.

  Jack had no idea how long he sat in the cell before they came for him again. It could have been twenty minutes or several hours. It all felt the same. The guards were different ones, indicating he was now on the late shift. He did not wait to be dragged from the cell but marched resolutely between the two SS men. The one behind him continually prodded him forward with the barrel of his MP40, no matter how briskly he walked. They passed the familiar room, took a right down another hallway and a left into another room. Inside, two men in hospital whites stood next to a tilted gurney. They watched him, their cold, fish-like eyes betraying no emotion. Jack suddenly realized what this meant: truth drugs.

  “NO!” he said, trying to tear himself away. “Tell Streicher I’ll talk. Tell him I’ll talk!”

  The guards pulled him towards the table and Jack fought harder. He couldn’t allow himself to be drugged. If that happened, he would not be able to keep from telling them the truth about Overlord. The guards slugged him and threw him down on the gurney. It rolled slightly, prompting the two “doctors” to hold it steady while the guards strapped him in.

  “Tell him I’ll talk,” Jack said weakly.

  The doctors said something in German and one of the guards tore open the sleeve on his right arm. Jack continued to struggle, but soon realized the straps held him fast and he had no hope of avoiding the inevitable. One of the men, a tall, reed-thin man with a shock of reddish-brown hair, went over to a tray
and picked up a hypodermic needle. Used to the plastic disposable syringes of another era, Jack’s eyes bulged at the steel and glass monstrosity the doctor held.

  The man then picked up a bottle of clear liquid, plunged the needle through the rubber top, and drew in several cubic centimeters of whatever it was. Jack strained his eyes to read the label. All he could see were the characters: S... o... d... Sodium Pentothal. Could it be? Could he be that fortunate?

  He knew Sodium Pentothal was practically all they had to use in the mid-1940s. And he’d been under its influence several times for operations. Once, the anesthesiologist had given him too little, allowing him to remain conscious longer than the surgery team would’ve wanted. He remembered feeling like he was floating on a warm cloud without a care in the world. He didn’t care if they sawed off a limb at that point. Remembering that experience convinced Jack that he could beat Streicher at his own game, supply the false information and have it carry even more weight than given freely under other circumstances.

  The gaunt man, who resembled Raymond Massey, came forward, the syringe aimed upward, its steel gleaming in the harsh light. The second man, stout and hairless, said something. The thin man nodded and squeezed out the air bubble in the syringe. Then, without swabbing Jack’s arm with alcohol, Raymond Massey stabbed the needle into his bicep and pushed the plunger home. Seconds later, Jack felt the familiar warmth flood through his body. This would be a piece of cake. He smiled and giggled.

  “Hey, Raymond. You know you could have a career haunting houses?” Jack burst out laughing, the thought popping into his mind, causing tears of mirth to roll out the corners of his eyes. The doctor remained impassive. After a minute Jack began singing an old song he remembered—“Purple Haze”—at the top of his lungs.

  He began playing air guitar in spite of the straps, howling in imitation of Jimi Hendrix’s flights of feedback. The guards looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “Verrückt,” one of them mumbled, twirling his finger next to his head.

  The other smiled and was about to offer another comment when Streicher marched into the room, the glow of triumph on his face.

  “I see our patient is ready,” he said in German to no one in particular.

  The two doctors began speaking at once. Streicher ignored them and held up his hands for silence. They shut up immediately.

  “Ahh, I see you are enjoying yourself, Herr Dunham, ja?”

  Jack saw Streicher’s smiling face and broke into a rash of giggling. “Streicher, the Streicherman. King of Goon Squad!”

  “Well, do you feel like talking, Herr Dunham?”

  “Sure,” he said, drawing out the word to ridiculous lengths. “Say, Streicherman, you any relation to Julius?”

  Streicher’s face clouded for a moment, then cleared, the frown instantly replaced with a warm smile.

  “Tell me about yourself, Jack,” he said, dropping into a dead-on American accent. “Where were you born?”

  “Wilton, Connecticut-ticut-cut-cut.”

  “Ahh, that’s a great town. Isn’t it near...”

  “New York. Used to go there every weekend—go to the clubs.”

  “Nightclubs?”

  “Yeah...”

  “Who did you see? Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey?”

  Jack frowned. “No. AC/DC... Blue Öyster Cult... Ramones.”

  Streicher’s eyebrows shot up. “Was ist Blue Öyster Cult?” he said to Raymond Massey. The man shrugged.

  “And when did you join the service, Jack? Were you drafted?”

  “No...Vietnam was over by then.”

  Streicher began to lose patience. “What is your date of birth?”

  Jack screwed up his face as if trying to remember.

  “August third, nineteen fifty-six.”

  “Scheiss! What did you give this man?” Streicher yelled at the doctors. The short one recoiled, deferring to the other, who remained calm.

  “Sodium Pentothal, Hauptsturmführer.”

  “Then what is all this Blue Öyster nonsense and this birthdate that is obviously impossible? I want him to tell me of the invasion!”

  “Overlord?”

  If Streicher had turned any faster, the man would have snapped his neck.

  “What did you say?”

  “Uhhh... Overlord?”

  Streicher began to salivate, no doubt thinking that if he could deliver the time and date of the Allied invasion, his rise through the ranks would be assured.

  “Yes, Jack. Tell me about Overlord.”

  Jack frowned again, as if trying to resist the question.

  Streicher leaned forward. “Come on, Jack. Come on.”

  Jack’s face went slack as he appeared to pass out.

  “Nein!” Streicher screamed. “Awaken him. Give him more!”

  “We cannot risk an overdose, Haupsturmführer,” Raymond Massey said.

  Impatience overcoming good judgment, Streicher reached forward and slapped Jack across the face three times. Jack stirred, opening his eyes to half-mast. “Hey there, Streicherman, the baddest man in the whole damn—”

  “Right, right, Jack, it’s me. Can you tell me about Overlord, Jack?”

  Jack smiled and giggled. “They all think it’s going to be Normandy, but I know better. I know what they don’t know. Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah.”

  “Where, Jack? Where and when?”

  “Calais... Moon in June.”

  “June what, Jack? It is very important that you tell me. June what?” Streicher leaned forward, his breath smelling of garlic.

  “June... June... June...”

  “WHAT?”

  “Seven-Eleven.”

  “Which one, Jack?”

  “Seven-Eleven. Great slurpies.”

  Streicher appeared about ready to pull his hair out.

  “Seven.”

  “June seventh? Is that the date, Jack? June seventh?”

  “That’s it, daddyo. The big surprise for Adolf.” Jack dissolved into uncontrollable giggles, then pretended to pass out again.

  “Wunderbar!” Streicher said, pounding the side of the gurney. He began pacing. Finally, he stopped and pointed to Jack.

  “Take him back to his cell and when he awakens, feed him. Then take him into the courtyard at sunrise and shoot him.”

  Jack’s heart skipped a beat. For all his efforts and Academy Award performance, he was to be shot down like a dog. Again, he’d gone too far.

  Where are you, Denise?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  London, England

  17 May 1944

  The two men she dubbed Mutt and Jeff labored all the previous day and through the night on Denise’s new documents. First came the photograph. They’d dolled her up in a field-gray SS uniform, complete with party badge and the rank insignia of an SS-Sturmbannführer, given her the latest coif and the requisite amount of makeup.

  “Frown, dear, you look too nice,” Jeff said. “These SS dollies are not known for their personality.”

  Denise scowled, trying to keep from laughing.

  “Right. Perfect. You’ve got it.”

  The bulb on the Speed Graphic flashed, creating a flurry of spots swimming before her eyes. She blinked furiously. After that, the two men packed up their gear and took the elevator up to the surface.

  Now came the waiting. Expertise required time, lots of time. The problem was Denise didn’t feel she had any. But to appear at Gestapo Headquarters without the proper authorization would be tantamount to suicide. And the worst part about the waiting was that she could not go anywhere or do anything. She was trapped, as surely as Jack.

  Churchill had gone back to Downing Street at around 0400 hours to take a nap and get ready for a meeting with his staff. Denise spent the night on the sagging cot, an accomplishment that deserved a medal. She awoke when the spinster lift operator brought in a tray consisting of tea and cakes.

  “What time is it?” Denise asked.

  The woman looked at her, barely
able to conceal her disapproval. “Half past nine.”

  She then turned and walked out, her gait one of supercilious disdain.

  “Get a life, bitch,” Denise said after the door clicked shut. Wolfing down the cakes, she poured a cup of tea and gulped it down. Its orange-accented flavor soothed as it rushed down her throat. A moment later, she felt dizzy as her stomach roiled and twisted. Bolting from the cot, she ran over to the small sink and threw up, heaving until nothing of the tea and cakes remained. That was strange. She hadn’t had anything to drink, and even when she did, she rarely threw up. A sudden thought occurred to her, which she immediately buried, the images it conjured too disturbing to contemplate. A moment later she felt better and decided to go out into the main room.

  Unlike the graveyard shift the night before, the room now buzzed with frantic commotion. The noise level was appalling. Teletypes clattered, endlessly spilling out reams of gibberish that only trained cryptographers could decipher. The hive of activity both exhilarated and frightened her. All this depended on her.

  Just then, the outer door opened, and Churchill walked in flanked by two officers, one British, the other American. She recognized the American as Lieutenant Simmons. Churchill appeared completely normal, brimming with vitality.

  “How the hell does he do it?” Denise mumbled, her head answering with a painful throb.

  “Ahh, Denise, my dear,” Churchill said as he approached her. “Slept well, I hope?”

  “Whoever designed that cot should be court-martialed,” she said, a lopsided smile on her face.

  “Quite. Come. I have a surprise for you.”

  He led her back into his private office and pulled something from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed two items to her. One was the Gestapo disc ID, a sort of Nazi version of dog tags. The other was a small book, field-gray in color, with an SS eagle clutching a swastika and, underneath, the lightning runes of the SS printed in black. She opened it, her gaze immediately drawn to the stark picture.