by Lee Jackson
Turning the Storm
Lee Jackson
TURNING THE STORM
Copyright © 2021 by Lee Jackson.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Severn River Publishing
www.SevernRiverPublishing.com
This is a work of fiction based on actual events. Names, characters, places, historical events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Although many locations such as cities, towns, villages, airports, restaurants, roads, islands, etc. used in this work actually exist, they are used fictitiously and might have been relocated, exaggerated, or otherwise modified by creative license for the purpose of this work. Although many characters are based on personalities, physical attributes, skills, or intellect of actual individuals, all of the characters in this work are products of the author’s imagination.
ISBN: 978-1-64875-152-3 (Paperback)
ISBN: 979-8-54474-369-9 (Hardback)
Contents
Also by Lee Jackson
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Epilogue
Join the Reader List
Thanks for Reading
Next in Series
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Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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The After Dunkirk Series
After Dunkirk
Eagles Over Britain
Turning the Storm
The Giant Awakens
The Reluctant Assassin Series
The Reluctant Assassin
Rasputin’s Legacy
Vortex: Berlin
Fahrenheit Kuwait
Target: New York
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To the men and women who knew that their lives would likely end within weeks,
But they went anyway,
To fight our wars in dark places and shadows,
That we might live in freedom.
To them we owe a debt that can never be repaid,
And we honor them and our progeny best,
By never resting in the eternal fight for Liberty.
Prologue
September 22, 1940
Sark Island, English Channel Isles
“Must we meet yet another Nazi kommandant?” Marian Littlefield, the Dame of Sark, grumbled. “I wonder if the new one will let me keep my anti-Fascist books. Major Lanz did, and aside from that, he did a perfectly good job of making our lives wretched. I suppose in the German high command’s view, he could have been more rigorous about imposing martial law for nothing more than the propaganda value of occupying British territory. These islands are insignificant to Hitler’s war effort.”
She sat with her husband, Stephen, in the drawing room of the Seigneurie, the medieval mansion that served as both her home and the seat of government in the middle of the tiny island in the Guernsey Bailiwick. Stephen, born American but having taken British citizenship after serving with the Royal Air Force as a fighter pilot during the Great War, had found himself, upon marrying Marian, in the odd position of being the senior co-ruler by “right of wife” in this last vestige of a western feudal system. However, in matters of state and governance, he deferred to Marian.
He sat near her on a divan while she occupied an overstuffed chair. In front of them, a low fire that barely took the chill out of the air burned in the hearth and two white poodles snuggled together for warmth. The couple wore layers of clothing and sat with blankets over their shoulders and across their legs to hold back the cold.
“The Germans see our islands as a heavy gun platform to help stave off an amphibious invasion through France,” Stephen said. “Besides, we chose to stay, dear. That was your choice and your advice to our people. On the strength of your guidance and example, our entire population remained rather than evacuate to the mainland. For what it’s worth, I think you were correct.”
“I know, I know, but we had no choice. We would have lost our Sark culture and way of life if we hadn’t stayed. But these Nazis make things tedious, and that’s being kind. I hope I haven’t set our friends and neighbors on a slow plod to death.” She stood and surveyed her figure in a mirror across from the fireplace. “I’m already looking skeletal, and I don’t know how much more of that blackberry ersatz tea I can stomach. And it would be nice to know how our children are doing. The Red Cross messages don’t tell us much, and the letters are limited and censored.”
She fussed as she turned back and forth, opening her coat and observing her dress hanging on thin shoulders. “I’m glad to know that Jeremy escaped that awful evacuation in Dunkirk, but what is Claire doing in London? Do you think she’s still playing at the Royal Academy while the war is on? And where is Paul?” She sniffed as she fought back a sob. “And Lance is in that awful POW camp in God only knows where.”
Stephen rose from his seat, crossed the room to stand behind her, and embraced her. “It’s near Leipzig.”
“What?”
“Colditz, the town where the prisoner of war camp is located. I looked it up in the atlas and read about it in the encyclopedia. The last Red Cross message instructed us to send mail to Lance there. A very imposing feudal castle overlooks Colditz from a steep hill. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s in that fortress.”
“Show me.”
Stephen went to the firepl
ace, removed a book from the mantel, and opened it to a place saved with a bookmarker. The article included a small black-and-white photo of the castle in winter, with snow blanketing its roof and the ground below.
Marian peered at it. “Oh dear, it looks gloomy; centuries old.” She sighed. “And invincible. Maybe we can hope that he won’t get himself killed doing something foolish like trying to escape.”
Stephen chuckled. “He’s got far too much of you in him for us to nurse that faint hope.” He swept a finger across the photograph. “And one element might further dash that optimism.”
“What’s that?” Marian took the volume from Stephen’s hands and examined the image closely.
“The castle is nearly a thousand years old and mammoth in size. Look at it compared to the buildings that surround it and then at all of its steepled roofs and dormers. It rises to six stories above the hill it’s built on, and that’s not including the attics. The article says it has an extensive cellar too—probably used as a dungeon in times past and maybe the present too—and all by itself, the castle occupies nearly five acres. That doesn’t include all the property and outbuildings around it.”
Marian stared at the photograph. “I’m not getting your point.”
Stephen closed the book and replaced it on the mantel. “The Germans will hold hundreds of prisoners there,” he said while rubbing his forehead. “They’ll keep large numbers of guards, put weapons at key points, and string miles of barbed wire.” He cast Marian a doleful glance. “But Colditz Castle was built to keep people out, not in. If Lance decides to escape, he’ll find a way out.” He started for the door. “Come on. The new kommandant will be here shortly. We want to be ready.”
“We’re getting good at this pretense, Stephen,” Marian said.
They sat at two desks placed side by side in their grand ballroom. Low stacks of folders rested on the wooden surfaces, and when they heard a knock on the door, they each picked up a document and began studiously reading.
“Come in,” Stephen called without looking up.
The door opened, and a servant girl appeared, followed by a German officer in full dress uniform. “Major Bandelor is here to see you,” she announced.
Neither Marian nor Stephen glanced up, both continuing to peruse their documents and annotating them with pens. “Madame,” the girl called.
“Excuse me?” Marian said distantly. Glancing up, she focused on the servant, and then her gaze shifted to the major. “Ah, yes,” she said, rising. “I apologize. I had forgotten our appointment.” She turned to Stephen and leaned over to nudge him. “Dear, the new kommandant is here to greet us.”
“Oh, yes,” Stephen said, taking to his feet. “Please excuse us,” he called across the room. “We’ve both been quite busy. Nothing like trying to manage scarce resources during a war, you know.” He bestowed a gratuitous smile.
The servant gestured for the major to advance, and as he did, Marian held her hand out. Bandelor hesitated, and then took it in his own and kissed it. “My pleasure, Madame Littlefield. My predecessor, Major Lanz, told me many good things about you.”
“We’re as sorry as is possible under the circumstances to see him go, understanding that the occupation continues.”
The major smiled wryly. “I hope we can work together to keep everyone as comfortable as possible.”
“Which is going to be increasingly difficult as your army builds gunnery sites on Sark and neighboring islands, and food becomes increasingly scarce. Our island is not completely self-sustaining. You take a good portion of the vegetables we grow, and now we’re headed into autumn. Your bureaucrats try to regulate fishing hours as though sea creatures understand the concept of punching a clock; and our poultry, cows, and pigs won’t last forever, particularly when much of it goes to feed your soldiers. We need more basic supplies.”
Major Bandelor’s eyes glinted, and he turned to Stephen. “I have not yet greeted you.” He held out his hand. “Your wife certainly shows no fear of us.”
“Why would she?” Stephen said, shaking the major’s hand. “We understand our rights, and Major Lanz made plain that Germany intends to honor them.”
The major coughed again. “True, for as long as that is possible. Our führer commands our army in these islands to be good ambassadors to the British people; to convey that we neither intend nor wish them harm. He sees our two peoples as natural friends, believing that we should be allies. But the continued fighting on your mainland—how shall I say this—muddies the water.”
“I see,” Marian cut in. “You know we British get our backs up when we’re bombed every night; and that practice tends to—as you say—muddy the waters.”
The major peered into Marian’s eyes as if taking her measure. “We Germans don’t like our own cities being bombed either. The same goes for our military installations.” He gave an ingratiating smile. “But I came to make your acquaintance, not debate politics. Major Lanz complimented your leadership with the people of Sark, particularly in this war footing. I want to continue the goodwill. What needs of your people are not being met? Perhaps we can help.”
“Do you mean beyond mere food?”
The kommandant smiled sardonically and nodded.
Marian harrumphed. “There is something I hope you can alleviate. We lost our doctor. She had been visiting once or twice a week from Guernsey but chose to evacuate before your army arrived. We have pregnant women needing checkups, children with injuries to treat, elderly with ailments…”
“I see your point. Would it help if I sent our physician to spend a day here weekly? Your population isn’t large, but if that’s not enough time, we can see about doing more.”
The surprise in Marian’s gaze showed that she had considered her request futile. “Thank you,” she said with a gracious nod. “That’s most kind. The German medical profession is well known for the quality of its care.”
“Then consider it done,” Bandelor said, obviously pleased. “I have other news too. Your son will soon be at a permanent prison camp at Colditz.”
“We’d heard about that through the Red Cross,” Stephen cut in anxiously, “but the message said that he’s already there. Is he all right? Is he safe?”
Bandelor chuckled softly. “About as safe as anyone can be as a POW. For bureaucratic reasons that I don’t understand, his transfer was delayed. Somehow, he ended up in a transit facility for RAF prisoners. That’s why Major Lanz had difficulty finding him. A British army noncom among RAF pilots is rare.
“As for Colditz, that prison is a special one. It’s where they send escape artists. Your son tried to break out at least once and probably several times. At Colditz, we’ve brought such prisoners into one place under the most intense security. The intent is to keep them busy and as well treated as possible so that they have no incentive to escape.” He shrugged. “The situation is not ideal, but if he makes no more escape attempts, he should be safe.”
“I sent letters to him there. Will he receive them?”
“In due time, I’m sure. They would have been delivered to the senior British officer for safekeeping. Part of the difficulty in tracing him is that the camp was not yet set up to take in British prisoners at the time he was slotted to go to Colditz. That won’t happen until early November, at least six weeks away. And if he tries to escape again—” The major shrugged. “If he’s caught and confined in solitary, he could be looking at more time before he’s sent to Colditz. I have no doubt that’s where he’s permanently assigned, and whenever he arrives, your letters will be delivered to him.”
He watched as Stephen and Marian exchanged neutral glances. “There’s another aspect to discuss which Major Lanz brought to my attention, the fact of your son’s being a prominente. That status and his propensity to escape all but assures that Colditz will be your son’s new home for the duration of the war. Let’s hope it’s short.”
Marian scoffed. “This is a tiny island that England didn’t care enough about to defend. I hardl
y think that anyone would consider my husband or me or any of our offspring to be particularly prominent.”
Bandelor smiled unctuously. “You say that, yet you had your servant guide me through the finery of your home and bring me to your office, which you’ve set up in your grand ballroom; and then you held me at bay on entry and compelled me to kiss your hand.” He glanced around with an amused expression. “Very Mussolini-esque.”
Marian chuckled and patted her hair. “A lady must keep her airs,” she murmured. “I read that Benito used the technique quite effectively with your officers. Then again, you transferred into these islands a month ago, and we’re just seeing you.”
Bandelor laughed gently. “I respect that Sark’s fighting spirit is not vanquished. The fact is, your king knows you by name, milady, as does Adolf Hitler. These islands are strategic for propaganda and for shore-based big guns. You and the citizens of Sark chose to remain. You could set an example for people in other countries when the war is over, and Germany has won. We wish to live in harmony, not be tyrants.”
