Cast No Shadow: A Thrilling WW2 Adventure (Dragan Kelly Book 1)

by Peter Alderson Sharp

  He jerked to a stop. His face was against the door of the house; he had made it! Light shone through a window to his right. Perhaps it was one of the lights he had seen from his lookout point on the boat. When had that been? It seemed so long ago now. Shaking his head vigorously, trying to clear his fuddled mind, he banged heavily on the door.

  “Help me,” he rasped. “Help me!”

  He heard raised voices and the sound of movement. He raised his voice and cried out again in desperation,

  “Help me!” He thumped the door harder.

  The door opened a fraction and he glimpsed a face. With all his remaining strength he lunged at the light spilling through the crack of the door and fell into warmth … and unconsciousness.

  Sybilla Thorstaadt stared down in shock at the creature that had just landed on her carpet. She observed the tall half-naked young man with the body of an athlete. His fair hair darkened by the water, matted with slowly thawing icicles. His skin had a bluish hue and was speckled with salt, his arms and legs covered with fresh bruises and scratches and his fingernails torn. His feet were disfigured, almost pulp.

  Sybilla looked outside to see if anyone else was around or had witnessed the incident. She called for her husband to help move the young man into their lounge and hastily closed the front door. Without effort, Gunnar Thorstaadt lifted the unconscious man and carried him through into the lounge, laying hm on gently on the floor. That achieved, Gunnar rushed off to fetch towels and blankets, while his wife removed the sodden, ripped underpants.

  When Kelly crawled briefly out of unconsciousness, his first thought was that he had died and gone to heaven. He was looking into eyes of the purest, clearest blue. He became aware that he was lying naked on the floor being rubbed down by the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and yet all he could think about was how bloody cold he felt. The irony was not lost on him and it almost produced a smile.

  “Sind Sie Deutsch?” the woman asked, her voice soft but edged with concern.

  “Nein” he replied weakly, “Ich bin Brite”. Then realising even in his semi-conscious state how foolish that response had been, added in English, “I’m British. A Seaman.”

  “You’re safe for the moment,” she said with only the faintest trace of an accent. “But we must get you into a hot bath quickly to get your temperature up. My husband is preparing it now.”

  The Seaman could not prevent a spasm of disappointment at the mention of ‘husband’. He was clearly beginning to feel better already.

  “By the way,” she smiled at him, “what is your name?”

  “My name?” he repeated. “It’s Kelly, Second Lieutenant Dragan Kelly.”

  Interrogation?

  Dan Kelly awoke in pain. Every muscle in his body ached and his feet were on fire. He tried to recall the events of the previous evening, but a mist swirled in his head. Visions floated in and out of focus. A heavy thick set man with a beard. A woman with the face of an angel and a soft voice to match.

  He recalled being half dragged and half carried by the man into a bathroom and being gently lowered into a bath of what felt like boiling water. He had screamed in pain and the man and woman had quickly pulled him out, the man clamping an iron hand over his mouth.

  “Be silent, Dragan!” the woman had remonstrated. “For your own safety you must be silent!”

  “Look,” she urged and plunged her arm into the water up to the elbow, holding it there.

  “The water is only tepid. It is because you are so cold that you feel such pain.” She pulled her arm out and held her palm on his cheek.

  “See! We are not wanting to hurt you, Dragan, but we must get your temperature up quickly or you will die.” She looked deep into his eyes and smiled. “Will you trust me, Dragan?”

  Kelly could not remember assenting, but he did remember the torture of being lowered into the water. He had bitten his lip to prevent himself crying out. He recalled what seemed like an eon of pain until that discomfort gave way to an almost unbearable tingling before that in turn retreated into numbness. Then he felt a wave of exhaustion sweeping through his mind and body, after which he remembered absolutely nothing.

  Kelly tried to take stock of his situation. He was in a small wooden room with curtains across the two windows. A slight chink in one of the curtains allowed bright light to stream through the window, illuminating the room with a blade of sunlight. Burning wood glowed in the hearth of a stone fireplace, diffusing the room with the scent of pine. He was lying naked in what, he surmised, was a pine bedstead on an extremely soft mattress. The only bed clothing was a duvet of feathers, eiderdown at a guess.

  Slowly, painfully, he eased himself onto one elbow and pulled back the duvet. He gazed at the lacerations on his arms and legs and the crude bandages on his feet. Gently he swung his feet out over the side of the bed, placing them gingerly on the brightly coloured carpet. Determinedly he pushed himself off the side of the bed and stood up. Immediately he collapsed back onto the bed with a cry. His feet felt as if hundreds of needles had been simultaneously thrust deep into them.

  He lay spread-eagled on the bed panting. He was waiting for the pain to subside when the door opened, and the woman walked in. She glanced away discreetly as he tried to regain his dignity by pulling the duvet about his person.

  “Good morning, Dragan,” she smiled, then added in mock chastisement, “you haven’t been trying to get up, have you?” She waved a finger at him and added more gently, “The soles of your feet are badly cut from the rocks and the road I suppose. There is no lasting damage, but it will be painful for a few days.”

  As she fussed about him, adjusting the pillows and duvet, he observed her. She was wearing a checked blouse and a light skirt, which reached to her knees. She moved with the grace of an athlete and had a classical figure which was slim rather than thin. She was a little older than himself, he guessed that she must be in her mid-twenties.

  The most notable feature of the woman was her face. She smiled frequently, displaying perfect white teeth when she did so, but she didn’t just smile with her mouth, her whole face lit up and her beautiful blue eyes sparkled. Her face was prettily edged by hair that was cut to shoulder length with a light natural wave. It was the almost white blonde rarely seen outside of Scandinavia. Her skin was lightly tanned and flawless.

  She was quite exquisite.

  “How do you know my name?” he asked.

  “You told me last night,” she replied, “but you were in such pain that I don’t suppose you remember.”

  “Did you tell me your name?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t think I did. That was very rude, wasn’t it?” She giggled. Smiling, she walked over to him and sat down on the bed. Taking his hand and holding it gently, she told him, “My name is Sybilla Thorstaadt. You are in my house.”

  “And the man?” asked Kelly.

  “That was my husband Gunnar; he has gone to work now.”

  “He’s very strong.” Kelly clearly remembered how the man had lifted him in and out of the bath.

  “Yes, he is,” Sybilla agreed. She was still smiling but the sparkle had gone from the eyes. She rose from the bed, releasing his hand, and walked to the foot of the bed. Holding onto the pine bedpost she turned, radiant once more.

  “When I spoke to you in German last night you replied in German. Do you speak German, Dragan?”

  “I have a little colloquial German,” he replied. “Oh, and it’s ‘Dan’ by the way.”

  She was slowly pacing now at the foot of the bed. “Colloquial, colloquial.” She repeated the word quietly, turning it over in her mind. Finally, she asked, “That means like a native, doesn’t it?” She shot him a glance that he was able to interpret instantly.

  “I’m not German and I’m not a spy,” Dan Kelly told her, his voice firm. Sybilla seemed to relax slightly, but her brow creased in concern, as she walked back to the bed and sat with him again.

  “I’m sorry Dan. I didn’t mean to imply anything. It does
n’t matter to me if you are German, English, or Norwegian. I would still look after you if you were hurt.” Then smiling, with laughter in her voice, she said,” I would even look after you if you were Swedish.”

  Kelly smiled with her.

  “It’s just that I need to know where I stand,” she continued. “I don’t want to have secrets in my house.”

  “I am a British sailor,” he confessed. “My ship was torpedoed last night. I think I was the only survivor.”

  Her face fell. “Yes. We saw several explosions out at sea, and one much closer in. That was yours?”

  “Yes.” Kelly swallowed, thinking of his shipmates. “That was us. You must know that I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  “Of course.” She gently patted his shoulder. “You have been very brave.”

  They were quiet for a moment before, brightening, she asked, “Will you help me, Dan?”

  “If I can,” he replied. “What can I do?”

  “I want you to talk with me in German! I need to improve.”

  “Why?” Kelly raised his eyebrows.

  She was serious now, looking intently into his eyes. “Because I work for the Germans, here in Grense. I have to, there is no alternative.”

  Kelly pondered for a while before answering, then replied in German, “Very well, what would you like to talk about?” He knew he was being tested and it disappointed him. It was irrational, but he so wanted this woman to trust him.

  Then again, could he really trust her? Perhaps the simplest way to resolve this was to play along.

  They conversed in German for about half an hour, talking mainly about themselves. Kelly explained how he had visited Germany before the war with his Serbian mother, and recounted stories of his summers working for his mother’s friend in the vineyards of the Mosel Valley. Sybilla became excited when Kelly mentioned that he had lodged in the village of Burgen. She herself had been born in Bergen in Norway, wasn’t that a coincidence?

  As they talked his mind occasionally went back to those days by the Mosel and he thought of the many friends he had made. He wondered if some of these same friends were now submariners torpedoing English merchantmen. What sort of madness had brought the world to this? Deterrence and prevention had to be better than war.

  He talked easily and did not attempt to disguise his exceptionally good command of the language. It soon became clear that he spoke German far better than his companion. At length she reverted to English and thanked him for indulging her.

  “Did I pass?” he asked.

  She smiled, albeit unconvincingly. “It wasn’t a test Dan, really.” He knew she was lying.

  She became solemn. “Dan? Promise me you won’t move from this room? Keep the curtains closed and make no noise. I have to go to work.”

  “I promise,” he said.

  She smiled at him, running her hand through his hair. “You’re safe here, I promise you. Trust me.”

  “Of course I do,” he said. He hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt. As things stood, he had few options at this time.

  “I’ve made you some breakfast,” she said and started to leave the room. “Fresh cereals and fruit with delicious Norwegian milk and German bread. The best of both worlds!”

  She returned with a tray, which in addition to the promised items also included a piping hot mug of black coffee and, delight of delights, a small jar of marmalade. Placing the tray on the table by his bedside, she proceeded to help him into a sitting position. Between them this was accomplished, not without some difficulty and a great deal of pain. As she lifted the tray onto his lap she bent over and kissed his forehead.

  “I’ll be back at midday,” she told him, then turned and left the room. A few moments later he heard the front door slam and the sound of a key turning in the lock. He was alone with his thoughts as he sipped the strong American coffee and bit into the delicious German bread, spread with Norwegian butter and smeared with Scottish marmalade.

  The irony of the breakfast, happily co-existing on his tray, was not lost on him. What the hell has gone wrong with the world? wondered Dragan Kelly.

  Gunnar had arranged the meeting for the 10 am break. Gunnar and Sybilla sat together on one table in the works canteen whilst Erik Jorgsen sat at the next table, ostensibly talking to a work colleague who politely nodded and smiled at intervals. In reality, he was observing the other workers in the canteen.

  “Well,” Erik asked in a low voice, “what is your view? Is he genuine or a German fifth columnist?” He directed the question to the man sitting opposite, smiling broadly. He finished by slapping his comrade’s shoulder. To any casual spectator, it would have looked for all the world as though he was recounting some risqué anecdote.

  His comrade responded in kind, rocking backwards in his chair and chuckling gently, mirth evident in his blue eyes which, while hardly moving, were constantly observing his surroundings.

  The question had of course been meant for Sybilla at the next table. She placed her arms on her husband’s shoulders, hence hiding her mouth from view and replied, “I can’t be sure. His German is good, better than mine, but his grammar is poor. Of course, that could be deliberate.”

  “What about accent?” asked Erik, continuing the charade with the man across the table.

  “Certainly different from the Germans here, but they are mainly Northerners. I’m not sure about the accent in Mosel.” Gunnar bent forward and kissed Sybilla lightly after she finished speaking as if some tender moment had passed between them.

  “The injuries? What about the injuries? Are they genuine?” asked Erik.

  “Without question,” answered Sybilla. “But you know how determined the Germans can be. Would they not be prepared to suffer so that they could infiltrate the group?”

  “Possibly,” answered Erik, “but I think there has to be a limit. Perhaps we should let Otto Amundsen have a look at those injuries. Otto spent some time in England before the war. Perhaps he can advise us on the injuries and comment on the Englishness of your new friend.”

  “In any event,” Gunnar spoke for the first time, apparently directly to his wife, but meant for the little group as a whole, “we need to make a decision. If we think he is a German spy, then we have to hand him over to the Germans stating our belief that he is a British spy. That should deflect suspicion from Sybilla and me.”

  “And if we believe him to be a genuine English sailor?” asked Sybilla with an edge to her voice.

  “Then I think we still hand him over,” said the fourth man, Thomas Borg. He sat up and waved at a friend across the room. “We can’t be too careful.”

  “No!” said Sybilla, a little too loudly. Catching herself, she lowered her voice. “What is the point of this group if we don’t help the allies who are trying to liberate us?”

  “I can’t say I’ve noticed much activity in that respect,” Borg said, with a touch of sarcasm.

  “Sybilla’s right,” said Erik. “The English may have made only a token gesture to liberate Norway, but they are helping in other ways. Any help we can return is a step closer to liberation.”

  The meeting ended and Erik and Borg moved away to join another group of workmates. Gunnar was left looking thoughtfully at his wife. Sybilla was clearly distracted.

  Kelly awoke with a start at the sound of the key turning in the lock. Without thinking about what he was doing and ignoring the pain, he was out of the bed and underneath it in seconds.

  Peering out from under the bed he recognised the slim ankles and beautiful legs of Sybilla as she strode into the room.

  “Dan?” she called in a loud whisper, anxiety clear in her voice. “Where are you? Oh no!” She almost sobbed in panic and was turning to leave the room when Kelly moved.

  Suppressing his embarrassment as best he could Kelly eased himself painfully out from under the bed, concealing his nakedness but not his embarrassment as he did so. Realizing that Sybilla was staring at him, he turned half sideways and wriggled back into
bed, under the duvet.

  Behaving as though nothing had happened, Sybilla told him, “I’ve brought the Doctor.” Peeping round the door, she called gently, “Otto!”

  Doctor Otto Amundsen was a small man with receding hair and small metal-rimmed spectacles. Unlike the majority of his countrymen, Amundsen had grey eyes; penetrating and intelligent grey eyes.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Kelly.” Amundsen shook the young sailor’s hand. “I understand you have had a slight mishap? Perhaps if Sybilla could leave us I might examine your injuries without you dying of embarrassment.”

  Sybilla giggled slightly as she left the room. A little late for modesty now, thought Kelly wryly.

  “Lieutenant Kelly?” Amundsen started to say something but stopped abruptly. He gazed deeply into Kelly’s eyes. “May I call you Dan?”

  “Of course,” said Kelly.

  “Dan,” the doctor continued, “let me explain to you that I am a doctor of medicine. I don’t care what you are or who you are, I am here to help you. I have no other interest in you than that. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” replied Kelly.

  “That said, could you tell me precisely how you came by these injuries so that I can the better treat them?”

  Kelly recounted the tale in as much detail as he could, leaving out the name of his ship only. All the while the doctor gazed at him with those penetrating eyes, magnified by the spectacles.

  After Kelly had concluded his tale, Amundsen continued to regard him for some minutes before finally speaking. “What an extraordinarily resourceful young man you are.” He lifted the duvet back and began to examine the wounds.