by C T Glatte
She leaned forward and put her hands out palm up. Jimmy pulled his hands from his lap and placed them in her palms. She squeezed and he felt her warmth. “I know I’ve told you how sorry I was to hear about Hank. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.” She hesitated and bit her lower lip, “If you ever want to talk, I’ll listen.”
Jimmy nodded and looked her in the eye. His eyes were hard and she nearly pulled her hands away in fright. They were not the eyes of the son she’d watched march off months before. They were dangerous eyes. “I appreciate the sentiment, Mom, but I don’t need to talk about it.” He forced a smile and it felt awkward and strained. I need to kill more of the bastards responsible, he thought.
She shook her head, “First Hank and now Rex — I mean your father.” A tear formed in the corner of her eye and she couldn’t keep the grief from spilling. “Oh,” she put a hand to her mouth but couldn’t stifle the tears or wracking breaths.
Jimmy reached for her and placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. He realized, he might not need to be comforted, but his mother certainly did.
The man in the apron sauntered over with two steaming cups of coffee on a tray. He was concentrating on not spilling them. “Here you go,” he said in a jovial voice. “Two hot coff…“ he noticed the attractive woman crying and he pulled up short, sloshing coffee onto the table and onto Jimmy’s uniform shirt. He looked mortified. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.” He finished putting the coffee cups down and whipped his towel off his shoulder, dabbed at his shirt and wiped the spill off the table.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” Jimmy said. Miriam kept her head down, her shoulders bouncing as the sorrow wracked her body.
The waiter’s voice turned low and worried, “Are you okay, ma’am?”
She didn’t respond and Jimmy answered for her. “She lost her husband — my father.”
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry to hear that.” He looked from the top of her head back to Jimmy. “So tragic.”
“We’re here for his funeral.”
The waiter looked at Jimmy’s uniform, “You’re from the West Coast then? You both are?” Jimmy looked confused for a moment, and the waiter explained. “Your uniform. I know the 45th Division’s out there in Anchorage, right?”
Jimmy nodded, “You know your insignia.” He looked to his mother who seemed to be getting control of herself.
“It’s kind of a hobby of mine. Well, and you boys have been in the news a lot. You really put a stop to those damned commies.” He looked nervously at the woman then lit up with a beaming smile. “Food’s on the house.”
That brought Miriam’s head up. She dabbed her eyes and shook her head. “That’s not necessary, sir. We can pay.”
He threw his hand at her, dismissing her suggestion as being ridiculous. “Least I can do.” He looked serious for a moment. “Hey, not to be brash, but where’s your husband’s service. I can arrange a ride for you. Being from the West Coast and all…” he trailed off.
Miriam started to protest but Jimmy spoke first. “Actually, that would be great.” He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a card with the information he’d gotten about the service. “It’s at,” he read off the card, “St. Luke’s On the Estuary?”
The waiter pulled his chin into his neck and scowled. “St. Lukes On the Estuary? You sure it’s not Arlington, down in Virginia?” He leaned over trying to get a look at the card. Jimmy turned it so he could see it better. The man’s happy face turned to something far different as he read the service notice. He leaned back, crossed his arms across his sizable chest and said, “Get outta my establishment.” Miriam and Jimmy looked at him in astonishment and when Jimmy tried to protest, the waiter raised his voice, “Now!”
Jimmy shot to his feet, not knowing what was happening but damned sure he wasn’t going to be thrown out of an establishment without earning it. “What’s the big idea?”
The waiter scowled. “I’m not gonna tell you again, get your traitorous asses out of here before I throw you out myself.”
Jimmy’s face turned purple with rage and he pointed a finger. “You watch your mouth in front of my mother, you son-of-a-bitch.”
The two men at the counter stood and turned toward the fracas, “What’s going on, Carl?” the bigger of the two asked.
“These two are attending a funeral for her husband and his father at St. Lukes On the Estuary.” The two men looked at one another and Carl looked annoyed, “You know, where they bury military members after execution… for treason.” The last word dripped off his tongue.
The color drained from Miriam’s face and Jimmy saw the pain Carl’s words caused. He didn’t hesitate. “My father isn’t a traitor!” his left hand was already moving. Carl reeled back as Jimmy’s fist smashed into his jaw. Jimmy followed it with a crushing upper-cut, which lifted Carl off his feet and sent him crashing into another table.
Miriam screamed for him to stop, but he was already leaping forward to continue beating him. He never made it. The two stunned men at the counter saw their friend being assaulted and sprang into action.
The first man tackled Jimmy and they both went to the floor. Jimmy pounded on the man’s head with balled fists until the second patron kicked Jimmy in the side of the head, sending blood and bits of teeth across the floor. Jimmy roared in rage and pushed himself out of the first man’s grip.
He staggered to his feet and gave a half-assed kick, but his head was swimming. He missed and nearly fell down. The two men grabbed Jimmy’s arms and pinned them behind his back. Carl had recovered and was walking with murder in his eyes toward the struggling Jimmy.
“Stop this!” Miriam screamed and lunged toward Carl.
He saw her coming and put his meaty hand on her face and pushed her down, growling, “You’ll get yours. Wait your turn, darling.”
Jimmy saw his mother crash to the floor and his vision narrowed. The only sound was the blood rushing in his ears. He focused on Carl’s bleeding face. He relaxed his arms and stopped struggling. He felt the men holding him relax their grips slightly and he acted. He yanked his right arm away while stepping on his captor’s foot with his heavy combat boot.
The man yowled and reached for his foot. The other man tightened his grip and Jimmy used all his strength to swing the man forward. He crashed into Carl and all three of them fell over a table. Jimmy was free. He rolled away and came up quickly, all grogginess gone, replaced with solid focus.
He gripped the back of a chair and hurled it at Carl, who was just getting to his feet. Carl yelled in pain as the solid wood chair broke over his back, cutting his shirt and the skin beneath.
Jimmy reached for one of the spilled coffee mugs and threw it at the second man. Jimmy hadn’t played baseball in a long time, but the muscle memory was still there. The heavy porcelain mug broke on the side of the man’s face and he dropped and didn’t get up.
Jimmy was about to leap onto the injured men and continue doling out pain, when the world outside the shop suddenly erupted, shaking the ground and sending him to the floor.
Shards of glass, wood and bricks, inanimate objects a second before, became lethal projectiles. Something hit his head and he saw stars. He saw his mother on the floor only feet away watching him. A fountain of blood was squirting from her neck as though a hose had burst and her eyes were filled with fear. He reached for her, but felt something heavy keeping him from moving. Dust filled his lungs and he suddenly couldn’t breathe. He yelled, but the only thing he heard was the rushing sound of fire. A moment later his world went black.
Jimmy’s eyes fluttered open and the scene before him didn’t make sense. He was on his stomach staring at a dusty wood floor. He turned his head and saw the rest of the room in complete shambles. Chairs, thick wood beams, bricks and crushed tables were strewn everywhere. He shook his head trying to figure out where he was. Dust filtered into his eyes and he was forced to squint.
He tried to move, but felt a weight on his back. He looked behind and
saw a heavy wood beam across his back. His mind was fuzzy and his head pounded as he tried to remember what happened. Then he saw caked blood only feet from his face. He followed it to its origin, but whatever caused it was behind or beneath the other part of the beam.
Then he remembered. Mother! He tried to speak but his mouth felt like he’d fallen asleep beneath a belt sander with his mouth open. He opened and closed his cut lips trying to get a word out, but it was no use. Anger flooded him and he lunged forward. The beam shifted slightly. He dug his boots into the floor, trying to get enough purchase to push himself forward. He strained, but only achieved an inch at most.
He heard distant sirens. He strained, but soon felt exhausted, as though the only possibility was sleep. His eyes drooped, despite trying to keep them open. He heard something. A voice. His eyes shot open and he closed his mouth and tried to wet his throat. He croaked, “Over here. Over here. My Ma’s over here.”
The voice was closer and he realized it was many voices. “Anyone here?”
“Here,” he croaked but this time it had more volume. “Here. I’m here. Please help my Mom.”
The voice called to someone else. “Got a live one inside this mess. I heard a voice.” The voice got louder as the searcher turned back his way. “Keep talking buddy, we’ll get you outta there.”
“I’m here.”
Jimmy saw a black shape scuttling toward him. He was confused and thought perhaps he was seeing things. Suddenly a warm tongue lapped his face and he realized it was a dog. The dog barked excitedly and spun in circles as though it had found it’s favorite plaything. Jimmy reached up and touched his black snout. The dog promptly licked the dirt, grime and blood, then turned and barked.
Soon he heard more voices and dust-filled light filtered into the space as beams and boards were moved. The dog continued to wag his tail and bark. Soon Jimmy saw a man’s face peer through a hole in the debris. He smiled and reached for the dog, “Good boy, good dog.” He leaned away from the hole and the dog shot through it and the man caressed and pet him, then shooed him away.
He poked his head in again and caught Jimmy’s eye. “We’ll get you out of there in a jiffy. Can you move?”
Jimmy tried again, but couldn’t. He shook his head, “No. I’m stuck.” He pointed to the blood. “Do you see my mother? She’s under here too.”
The man shook his head. “We’ll get you out first. Is she alive?”
The question stunned Jimmy and he nearly lashed out angrily, but an image flashed through his mind. His mother’s terrified eyes and the blood spouting from her neck. Tears filled his eyes as he realized he was alone in the world.
Jimmy sat on the sidewalk in front of what was left of the diner. The train station, the next block over, was a smoldering pile of burning debris. The only part still standing, a brick fireplace connected to a pot-bellied wood stove.
The rescue team had moved on and now he was being attended to by a man with a Red Cross armband over his sleeve. “I’m gonna pull up your shirt and get a look at your back.”
Without waiting for a response the medic pulled up his shirt and Jimmy sucked in air as the shirt was peeled away from his bloodied back. He felt the medic run a wet rag, which must’ve had soap or some kind of antiseptic because it burned like fire. Jimmy bit his lip and took the pain. He’d felt worse, this was nothing. The pain actually felt good, sharpened his mind.
“Sorry,” the medic mumbled.
“What the hell happened here? Gas main?”
The medic stopped scrubbing. “You don’t know?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Been trapped in there for who knows how long.”
“We’re at war. There’s been attacks all up and down the coast. Bombers and fighters strafing and dropping bombs.” He pointed at the destroyed train station. “Targeting train hubs like that one and airfields and barracks. Even factories. And of course, this is the capital.”
Jimmy was stunned. He shook his head. “Russians?”
The medic shook his head, “Nah, Germans for sure. I saw one of those yellow nosed Messerschmitts and saw the iron cross with the fucking alien thingy too.” He continued scrubbing the dirt and grime from the deep cuts in Jimmy’s back. “I’ve heard about troops too. On the coast, paratroopers and landing craft. They’re landing all over.”
Jimmy tensed. “Holy shit! Hurry up with that. I need to report in.”
“Yeah, you and me both. I was on leave. My parents don’t live far from here. When the bombs hit I came running, but it’s time to get back to my unit.” He placed a large bandage over Jimmy’s back and wrapped cloth around his torso to keep it in place. “What unit you in?”
“I’m West Coast. With the 45th Division. I was here to — doesn’t matter now.” He shook his head. “Can I tag along? I’m orphaned from my unit.” He thought, my parents too.
“Sure thing.” He pulled Jimmy’s shirt down and stepped in front of him and thrust his hand out. “Name’s Tom Grothing, Corporal. Nice to meetcha.”
Jimmy gripped his hand. “Jimmy Crandall, PFC.”
Grothing helped him to his feet and held him steady. “You sure you’re okay? You were buried quite a while.”
Jimmy looked back at the destroyed diner. His mother’s remains were still inside. The rescue crew confirmed she was dead, along with everyone else who’d been inside, but she was too deeply buried to extract. They promised she’d be dug out eventually but they had lots more people to help first. Jimmy turned away feeling anger welling in his gut. “Yeah, I’m sure. Let’s get to your unit. I need some payback.”
8
First Lieutenant Ricker Rommel was in the front of the JU-25 transport at the head of his platoon, ready to lead them out the door and into combat. The weeks of waiting were finally over. He and his Wolf Company, along with the rest of the 1st Parachute Division had been cooped up in the hulls of various surface warships while they waited for the promised break in the weather.
The big Naval ships as well as the troop carriers and small LVTs could be used in rough seas, the Korth had seen to that, but the airplanes were still vulnerable to weather, especially the light JU-25 transports, which the Fallschirmjäger relied on to get them over their targets.
The Korth, with their advanced Meteorology, assured the high brass that a break in the weather was coming, so Field Marshal Rommel immediately put to sea with the largest naval force the world had ever seen, screened and protected by hundreds of Hunter Killer Wolfpack submarines.
They’d crashed across the Atlantic in some of the worst weather Ricker had ever experienced. His men were sick and weak by the time the weather passed. Another week of relatively calm seas and the elite force of paratroopers regained their strength and were ready to get off the ships and into combat. Just as the Korth predicted, the weather broke. Now all the training, all the grueling marches with full packs, all the strains and sprains would all come together in the next few minutes.
Lieutenant Rommel gazed out the open door, which he would jump through once the light above his head turned green. They were low, only one-thousand meters. Despite the greater danger from ground fire, being low allowed them much better success at actually landing on their target. Todays jump had very little wiggle room for pilot error. If they jumped too early, they’d land in the frigid Atlantic, if they jumped too late, they’d land amongst the high buildings of the city and die hanging hundreds of feet above the streets, or worse, their chutes would collapse and they’d fall to their deaths.
He watched the gray waters flash by below. German, British and Norwegian warships stretched as far as the eye could see. The waters were peaked with white caps, telling him the wind had not yet settled down. He hoped it wouldn’t be too windy to jump. Their Korth enhanced, state-of-the-art steerable chutes could cut into a fifteen-knot wind effectively but more than that and they’d be swept away and scattered.
He looked across the short distance to the next plane. He could clearly see the pilot and copilot and the silho
uettes of paratroopers in the windows. More Wolf Company boys.
The wind bit against his face as he leaned out and peered forward, but the view was enough to make him take the pain. He could see the mainland. There were plumes of dark smoke rising into the sky everywhere. A booming sound made him look down just in time to see a ship, he thought it was a cruiser, firing its main guns, softening up the target for them. He could see the arcing shells. He lost sight of them, but they soon ignited a section of the island they were streaking towards…Long Island.
The light over his head turned yellow. He pulled his head back in and looked down the aisle. The seats were packed with faces staring back at him. The faces were streaked with camouflage and they wore their non-brimmed style helmets, tight. Their eyes were wide with excitement, some with fear. Their MP-40 sub-machine guns were secured against their midsections with two sets of straps. They wore thick, wool coats over many layers of long underwear and they were hunched forward by the bulk of their parachutes pushing against the metal skin of the airplane.
Lt. Rommel stood and raised his voice and signaled at the same time. “Stand up.” As one unit the men stood and faced forward. “Sound off.”
The men sang out, starting from the back, “One okay, two okay…” until it was his turn, “Lead, okay.” He unclipped his static-line hook and held it up. The men mimicked his movement. “Hook up,” he shouted. He watched carefully, making sure each man hooked up properly. He adjusted his machine-gun.
A flight crew member’s voice crackled through his head-set. “Two minutes, Lieutenant.”
He nodded, knowing they wouldn’t see it and held up two fingers. “Zwei minuten.”
