by Mark Donahue
After a thirty-minute drive, the men arrived at the worksite at 7:30 a.m. They unloaded the two sprayers and eight fifty-gallon drums of oil they would be using that week. After thirty minutes of filling the sprayers and making sure they fired, the men were ready to get to work.
Before he left the men and got some hard-earned rest, Jim, a skinny, chain-smoking, sideburned guard, decided to give the men a motivational speech. “You assholes got to get twelve mile of road oiled this week so we can get a paving crew up here next week. If you don’t get all twelve done, you’ll all be washing shit-stained underwear and dirty socks next week.”
Jim’s motivational speech elicited a question from Tom. “Mr. Jim, sir, if we get all this work done on time this week, do you think we could get some cold beer next Saturday night? You know like in Shawshank Redemption; kind of a reward for our dedication to purpose?”
“What kind of redempt… bullshit you talkin’ about, you college asshole?”
“You know Morgan Freeman and… oh, never mind,” Tom said.
“You know, you’re a smartass, Patrick. By the way, asshole, how come you got two first names; Tom Patrick.”
“I was cursed. But it gets worse; my middle name is Michael.
For a moment, it appeared that Jim the guard actually had a sympathetic look on his face at the cruelty Tom endured. Then Jim recovered. “If you want a fuckin’ beer or maybe some good old-fashioned inmate love on Saturday night, I’ll bet one of those CPEs next to you will take care of you.”
“You mean CPAs?” Tom asked helpfully.
“Don’t fuck with me, you big asshole. Now get to work all of you. I’ll be showin’ up from time to time and if I catch any of you not workin’, y’all get sent back to the jailhouse. And you, Jon Boy, since you’re in charge, it’ll be your ass if these boys fuck up.”
Offering to help, Jon said, “If you leave me a shotgun, I’ll shoot one just to set an example.”
Seriously mulling over the suggestion, Jim said, “Naw, you better not.”
Just before he left, Tom asked, “Hey Jim, wouldn’t it make more sense to drive us up the hill twelve miles and let us work down, rather than hauling all this stuff uphill for six days?”
Taking several seconds to let comprehension set in, Jim answered. “Yeah, I guess that would make it easier, now wouldn’t it.” Jim laughed, entered the air-conditioned van, rolled down his window, and told the men, “Hey assholes, you better be workin’ your dicks off when I get back.” Showing a nearly toothless grin to the men, Jim drove off in a cloud of dust and headed to Elsa’s, his favorite greasy spoon seven miles down the road.
“What an asshole,” Jon said.
“Do you think anything but an asshole would be a guard in the first place?” Tom asked.
“All I know is, I wouldn’t even be here if you weren’t such a greedy bastard,” Baker said as he pointed the nozzle of his sprayer at Anderson.
“That’s bullshit. You were the one who…”
Before Anderson could finish, Tom interrupted and said, “Guys, we’ve heard all this crap a hundred times before; why not just keep quiet about it?”
“We can talk about anything we want. Besides I’ve been a trustee longer than Jon, and I should actually be in charge here, you know.” Baker said, a certain amount of indignation emanating from what was an annoying voice in even the best of times. This was not the best of times.
For several seconds after Baker’s admonition of Tom, there was silence among the men. Baker looked at Tom and did not like what he saw. Holding the shovel which looked like a pencil in his hand, Tom fixed a baleful glare at Baker that made the gay embezzler’s stomach turn.
Attempting to hold his verbal ground, Baker rasped, “You don’t scare me, you know.”
Tom said nothing, yet never moved his stare from Baker.
“He doesn’t scare me,” Baker repeated, as he looked at Anderson and Jon, his voice at least an octave higher.
Tom remained silent as he continued to rivet his gaze on Baker.
As Tom stared, Baker seemed to visibly shrink in size. Sensing trouble, and perhaps some serious bodily injury afoot, Jon moved slowly over to Baker’s side and spoke into Baker’s ear just loud enough for the other two men to hear. “Baker, there are some things you should know. Now. The big guy there, he wasn’t just involved in point shaving. For three years he was a hit man for the Mafia and he’s killed like a hundred people, some just innocent little kids. Real cute kids too. I’ve seen him lose it before, and it can get real ugly real fast. It’s up to you since you’re a trustee and all, but I would NOT piss him off. I mean at the very least he could hospitalize you with some serious internal or spinal cord injuries. Hell, he might even kill us all and run off to Mexico. I mean look at the guy, he’s a fucking lunatic in some kind of prehistoric monster’s body.”
Peering over Jon’s shoulder with one eye, Baker was not pleased to see the same malevolent look on Tom’s face that had been there moments before. If anything, his now curled lip made him look even more frightening. “Well, you know if you let a bully like him think you’re scared of him, he’ll just keep picking on you,” Baker said with little conviction.
Putting his arm around Baker’s shoulder, Jon continued his counsel. “Baker, Baker, Baker, for the love of God, we’re not talking about some schoolyard bully who might give you a bloody nose. This is a guy capable of pulling out your spleen with one hand and shoving it down your throat with the other. This guy kills for fun, so I don’t want to see what he does when he’s mad.”
Taking his eyes off Tom and looking at Jon, Baker whispered, “If he killed all those people, what’s he doing here?”
“The judge was too afraid of him to give him hard time. Besides, Tom there, claimed self-defense.”
“Self-defense!? A hundred people…and those cute kids!?” Baker rasped.
“I know, I know, but you understand how lenient the criminal justice system is these days. I just hope if he does do something to you, you know, like beat you to death with a shovel, he is severely and appropriately punished for it. I guess that’s all we can hope for.”
Having heard most of the conversation, Eugene Anderson sidled over to Jon and Baker. “He’s right, Raymond. The man is clearly demented and looking for any excuse to kill us all. Don’t agitate him, for God’s sake. Apologize to him right now!”
“Apologize for what? I didn’t do anything!” Baker’s whisper was now approaching a shout.
“I don’t give a damn; make something up.” Anderson said. “Your foolish pride is not worth all of us being cut up into pieces and scattered over the desert.”
“Oh, you heard about that family of six over in Nevada huh?” Jon asked.
After Baker’s sincere, albeit coerced apology, there were no further discussions as to why Baker and Anderson were in ASPF.
“‘Fucking lunatic in a prehistoric monster’s body?’ That was a bit harsh wasn’t it?” Tom inquired as he and Jon began raking the road.
“I was just thinking of you, big boy, and how those guys annoy you. Geez, don’t be so sensitive; I was just trying to help.”
Chapter 15
Paris—1943
Rolle had given the order before the trip from Berlin to Brest that the Brandenburg would not use its high-pitched steam whistle at any time on the journey. So he was still asleep when the train’s lack of movement awoke him at 6:20 the next morning.
Rolle’s long and deep sleep did not dull his senses. As soon as he realized the train had stopped, he rose, showered, shaved, dressed, ate a light breakfast, walked off the train, and headed for the port all within thirty minutes. Bright sunshine and a cool gentle breeze, coupled with the rest that Rolle had gotten the night before, gave him a feeling of near euphoria as he strode toward the German steamship that would be taking the wealth of Germany to a place Rolle had only read a
bout in travel magazines. His plan was working.
The Heidelberg was a workhorse of the German Navy. Troops, trucks, ammunition, grain, and timber had sat on her wide decks for twelve years since her christening in 1931. Over one hundred-twenty feet in length, she made up in brute strength and seaworthiness what she lacked in beauty. Powered by four-3000 horsepower twin screw diesels, she could make eighteen knots with a full load in heavy seas. Even the load she would now take on was only a fraction of what she could carry if asked to.
The two hundred pallets were taken off the rail cars and transferred to the Heidelberg in less than four hours using two cranes and twelve crewmen. The remaining twelve stayed riveted to their posts scanning the empty dock for intruders.
By 12:15 p.m., the Heidelberg had its cargo secured under its decks and its engines murmured smoothly, ready for the journey across the Atlantic.
After having cast off one line, the process was halted by the emergence of a speeding car that approached the port gates nearly fifty yards away. Only the swastika markings on the vehicle made Rolle hesitate. He halted the ship’s departure.
He signaled for two of his men to go to the gate to determine who was in the car, and what they wanted. Before the men could act on his orders, the two-and-a-half ton Mercedes crashed through the gate and tore toward the waiting ship.
Rolle did not have to tell his remaining men on the ship to be ready for anything. They had already positioned themselves to be out of sight yet have clear shots at whoever was in the highly polished Benz.
The car skidded to a stop only ten feet from the now retracted gangway. At first no one exited the car, and with its tinted glass, coupled with the shadow the boat cast on the sedan, the occupants of the Mercedes remained unseen. Finally, the right rear door opened, and a German officer unfolded from the sedan.
Peering down from the first deck of the ship, Rolle didn’t like the looks of General Hans Elman.
Elman walked slowly to the front of the ship, slightly ahead of its wheelhouse, but said nothing. Instead, he looked up and down the port side of the seemingly deserted ship with its engines running and wondered what the hell was going on. He started to walk toward the aft of the ship but stopped in his tracks when he heard Rolle’s voice.
“General, can I help you?”
“And who are you?”
“I am Colonel Kurtis Rolle, Director, Financial Operations, Berlin.”
“Colonel, is it safe to assume that you arrived in our city by train early this morning?”
“Yes, General, but I am working on a top-secret project and…”
Elman interrupted, “Is it also safe to assume you came through Paris last night on your way to Brest?”
“I must repeat myself, General, I am on a top-secret mission. If you have any further questions, I suggest you contact General Becker in Berlin.”
“I know Becker and where he’s located,” hissed Elman. “But I have a problem.” As the general spoke, two muscular sergeants carrying machine guns exited the Mercedes and moved slowly toward midship. They positioned themselves next to Elman.
“My problem, Colonel, is I have French authorities screaming at me about the deaths of three young French boys who were playing near the railroad tracks last evening. They claim they were gunned down by German soldiers from a passing train. Would you know anything about that incident, Colonel?”
Without a second’s hesitation, Rolle responded, “Yes, General, I do. It was an unfortunate yet unavoidable circumstance. I regret my men may have overreacted to what they thought could have been an attack from the French underground that would have put our mission at risk.”
“Sir, to say your men overreacted is an understatement of incredible proportions. Those boys and their dogs were chopped to pieces. Did your men truly believe they were under attack by two ten-year-olds, an eight-year-old, and three dogs? Or was this simply target practice and the murder of children?”
“General, I am sorry for the incident, but it was my understanding that a curfew was in place last night, and those boys should have been in their homes rather than out where they should not have been. Where were their parents?”
“Their parents are dead. Those boys lived in the orphanage just yards from where they were gunned down.” The general’s voice was harsh as he moved toward the port side railing and glared at Rolle.
“As I said, General, it was an unfortunate incident, yet if the French Underground was under control rather than being allowed to reign terror on German troops, my men would not have been put in position of defending our operation in such a manner.”
General Elman’s face turned crimson with rage as he moved closer to the railing of the ship and through clenched teeth said, “You and Becker and your soft desk jobs, what do you know of real soldiers? What do you know of what we face every day with the French? You arrogant bastards with your reckless murderous actions, you not only killed children, you have killed maybe fifty German soldiers who will now be gunned down by French snipers seeking revenge for those boys.”
“General, I have given my apologies and condolences, there is nothing more I can say, except, that this ship is now five minutes late in departing and we must now cast off.”
“Colonel, if you are a colonel, I must check your credentials. I insist you lower the gangway and allow me and my men to search this vessel.”
“I am sorry, General, my orders are to depart at this time, and we will depart.”
“Sergeants!” barked Elman, and the two armed men took aim at Rolle. “If the colonel does not lower the gangway in thirty seconds, shoot him.” For fifteen seconds there was silence as the two officers stared at each other. Then in less than two seconds the general and his aides virtually disappeared, their bodies shredded by high-powered machine gun fire. Startled by the attack, Rolle had not been aware that his men had taken aim at the three men on the dock immediately on their arrival. Nor was he aware that no matter what the general had said or his purpose for being on the dock, the three men in the black Mercedes were going to be eliminated.
While the sounds of the machine gun fire echoed off nearby warehouse walls, four of Rolle’s men leapt onto the deck using ropes thrown over the port side of the Heidelberg, and threw the three bodies into the water. The men next moved toward the Mercedes, but as they approached the car, it was thrown into reverse by its skilled driver who, after twenty yards, put the car into a 180-degree spin that allowed it to change its north/south course in less than a second.
After completing the reverse of direction, the driver slammed the car back into first gear, stomped the accelerator, popped the clutch, and the Mercedes stormed for the gate through which it had entered the port area minutes before. Blue smoke from its spinning rear tires powered by the 550 horsepower V-12 engine put up an inadvertent smoke screen that partially hid the Mercedes from Rolle’s men. Undeterred, the guards opened fire at the roaring sedan, but its bulletproof body threw off the bullets like water off one of its black waxed fenders during a rainstorm.
Now kneeling, the men aimed at the car’s tires and successfully hit the left front tire exploding the rubber and the blood-red spoke wheel. Seeming to ignore its wounds, the 5,000-pound behemoth continued its screeching escape toward the gate with sparks and smoke coming from the left front axle as it scraped the concrete.
From the port side of the ship, a launcher lobbed a grenade at the stricken Mercedes. While missing a direct hit, the grenade sent shrapnel and concrete smashing into the left side of the speeding car. For several moments it appeared the concussion from the explosion were going to overturn the vehicle as it rose precariously on its two right wheels. But instead, its left rear wheel and what remained of its left front axle, slammed back into the pavement. The shuddering yet still powerful V-12 found its balance and with the two rear wheels continuing to burn rubber, the shiny black Mercedes, with its red, black, and white Nazi flag
s on each fender flapping in the wind, sped out of port and into the Brest downtown area.
As the cacophony of the Mercedes disappeared, the four shooters, without any signal, and as one, ran for the ropes and within seconds had reboarded the ship.
Rolle, still hearing the reverberations from the bullets and grenade, was immediately struck by three thoughts: One, the men he was commanding were trained killers who needed little or no commanding when it came to protecting their cargo. Two, Germany trained its drivers very well, and three, German automotive engineering was still the best in the world.
Chapter 16
Prison Van—2012
After five full days of working in the Arizona summer sun, the four men were exhausted. The trip back to the prison on Friday afternoon was depressing because they knew they still had one more day of oiling the road.
The two embezzlers were already asleep in the back of the van while Tom and Jon sat several rows behind Jim the Asshole, who was singing along with Merle Haggard on the All-Country/All-Classic radio station.
“I told you this would be a miserable week, Mr. Genius,” Tom said.
“Never thought I’d miss dirty underwear,” Jon mumbled.
“Next time, remember, I know everything.”
“Yeah, except how to beat a six-point spread.”
“Okay, I fucked up…once.”
“I got an idea,” Jon opined. “Why don’t we tell old Jim up there that he’s an asshole and we got pictures of his wife, naked. You think that might get us enough demerits to get to work in the laundry again?”
“First of all, it’s stipulated Jim is an asshole by the Asshole Hall of Fame, and the very thought of what Jim’s wife looks like naked is depressing as hell.”
That night the four road warriors skipped TV and slept for ten hours.
Saturday was unusually cloudy for Arizona in the summer. The actual possibility of rain raised the men’s spirits as they headed back to their now ten-mile oiled road. “Hey Jim, what happens if it rains, and we’re stuck up on this hill?” Baker asked.
