Message For Hitler

by Cate M. Ruane

  “Union Jack flying nobly from the top mast,” said Kennard.

  “Two men on the deck saw us buzz over and ran into the cabin,” said Sel.

  Fritz and the phoney-bologna RAF navigator. I didn’t have to say it.

  Kennard radioed to my brother, who was the flight lieutenant: number two guy. They debated what to do. Technically the boat wasn’t an enemy craft. And Fritz was a downed airman: regulations said not to shoot on him in cold blood. I breathed a sigh of relief, not because I was pally-pal with the Luftwaffe pilot, but because I’d be the one who would have to break the news to his grandmother if he died. Her, I liked.

  “Then out of the sea—what should arise?” said Jack.

  “Like a whale,” said Sel.

  “A German U-Boat!” I said, my eyes bugging out.

  “Bingo,” said Jack.

  “They would have been better off heading straight for France in the tugboat. Stupid, if you ask me,” said Sel.

  “The two men had just jumped in the water and were swimming for a ladder up to the U-Boat deck,” said Jack. “The hatch was opened and a sailor waited for them to hop onboard. Thing was, the moment he got a lookie-lookie at us, the hatch slammed tight. Next thing you know, they got the anti-aircraft guns working. So, all bets were off.”

  “I gave the order,” said Kennard.

  “Our cannons don’t make much of a dent on a submarine,” said Jack, “but the little tug got caught in the crossfire. Blown to smither—”

  “No!” cried Daphne. She put her hands over her ears. Mine were sticking 90 degrees from my head.

  “That’s our job, honey. No two ways about it.”

  “Maybe they’re good swimmers,” said Kennard with a shrug of his shoulders.

  I was going to have to break the news to Mrs. Wigglesworth after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE MP’S FOUND HER broken body on a path under the cliffs and alongside the seashore. I didn’t have to see the body to know who she was. An MP came into the dressing station carrying a suitcase.

  “Do you recognize this? Found it in the boot of the maroon vehicle.”

  “I recognize it,” I said.

  “What’s in here, bricks?” he said.

  I recognized the stickers. Pasted all over the battered leather case: Ceylon, India, New Zealand, and all the other British colonies. As they say in England, The sun never sets over the British Empire. It was a brilliant idea to disguise the case to make it look like it belonged to an English girl.

  I racked my brain for a second, trying to remember whose room I’d first seen the suitcase in. Dot and Alice’s—that was it. Under one bed was the suitcase and under the other were nothing but dust balls and a pair of pink quilted slippers.

  “You might say I’m an intrepid traveler,” she’d said.

  So it wasn’t Geraldine who answered the phone when Mrs. Wigglesworth called the base. It was someone claiming to be Geraldine. Promising to send a rescue party to save me, when it was Fritz she was meaning to help.

  “Daphne, can you break the case open?”

  She removed a pin from her wet hair and felt around in the left lock. I pulled another pin from her hair and got to work on the right side lock. One after another the two clasps sprung open.

  “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” said Jack, when we all peered into the case.

  Two WAAFs came into the dressing station just then. One pulled a power cord from the suitcase and plugged it into a socket. She flicked on a switch and consulted a cart that was taped inside the lid. Then she turned a few dials. “Let’s take it outside,” she said, “We’ll get a better signal.”

  I was given a pair of crutches. We filed out the door and into the fog, Jack carrying the suitcase. He laid it on the ground and opened the lid again. An extension cord was run from inside the building. The WAAF pulled the ear muffs from the suitcase and attached them to her head. Another WAAF took a set of folding rabbit ears from a specially made compartment and set up the transmitter. The radio operator turned the dials this way and that. All we heard was a crackling sound coming from the transmitter. She began tapping out a message.

  “She’s trying to transmit using German code, I think. You see the chart inside the lid?” said a woman standing next to me. I looked close and saw that the markings on the instruments were in English. “Done so that if your landlady has a peek, she shan’t go running to the Home Guard.”

  “No wonder the U-Boat knew precisely where to meet the tug,” said Squadron Leader Kennard.

  The radio operator said, “They’re sending a message back in code. I think we may have Hamburg on the other end.”

  “Anyone have a message for Hitler?” I said.

  Everyone had a message—but none that can be repeated.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Back at MI5 Headquarters,

  Wormwood Scrubs, East London

  THERE IS A KNOCK ON the door, three quick taps. “If you have a moment, sir,” says Agent Ellis, craning his head around the door. “Thought I’d bring you up to date on the Rochford Ring.”

  “Is that what we are calling it now, the Rochford Ring?” says Brigadier A.W.A. Harker, Deputy Director General of MI5. He has yet to make eye-contact with his subordinate. He opens a desk drawer and shuffles things around to no purpose.

  By now Ellis is impervious to these hints. Uninvited, he steps into the office and takes a seat. “I interviewed the lad, that American boy responsible for uncovering the Rochford Ring.”

  Hacker looks up finally. “Two Nazi spies do not make a ring, Ellis.”

  “There might be others, sir, planted deep in our ranks. RAF Command is seeking ways to tighten base security. There’s an effort on to reconfirm the identity of all personnel—both civilian, auxiliary, and military—make it impossible for the Abwehr to infiltrate one of our military installations again. Won’t be at all surprised if these new measures extend to the entire British Armed Forces. The whole affair has caused quite a shake-up.”

  “Well, I should hope so,” says Hacker. “I mean, letting a 12-year-old boy onto a Royal Air Force base during wartime! Unheard of.”

  “Clever lad that one. I should warn you, sir, that the chaps over at the Ministry of Information have got wind of the story and think it might be of value…to encourage civilian vigilance and what have you. Of course, I told them that I’m not at liberty to discuss the case without your express permission, sir.” He taps his pen against his notepad and leans forward expectantly.

  Hacker grips the arms of his desk chair until his knuckles turn white. He loosens his neck-tie and runs a finger around his starched collar. No one but his wife—and their family physician—knows that he suffers with ulcers. He finds a bottle and spoon in his desk drawer and mixes a teaspoon of powder into a glass of water.

  “Vitamins,” he says.

  Ellis reads Sodium Bicarbonate on the bottle’s label.

  “Well then…shall I let the Ministry of Information see the file, sir?” Ellis lifts a manila folder; on the tab is penned THOMAS R. MOONEY/ROCHFORD RING. “The lad’s brother is with the Eagle Squadron, you see. So, naturally, the Ministry of Information is chomping at the bit. They’ve suggested asking Pathé to make a newsreel. Issue the lad a citation, what have you. Have him meet the king and the princesses. The Americans will love this, they say. Just the story, they suspect, for Life magazine. I should mention, sir, that 10 Downing has heard rumors.”

  “The prime minister? Good God!”

  “I’m afraid that one of our secretaries mentioned it to one of his. We’ve issued her a strong reprimand.”

  “Give me the file, Ellis. I’ll take this from here.”

  Ellis reluctantly hands over the folder. He has a strong suspicions that it will not be forwarded to the Ministry of Information.

  “That will be all,” says Hacker. “Do shut the door as you go.”

  He waits for the click of the latch before flinging the folder into a rubbish can.

&
nbsp; EPILOGUE

  LORD AND LADY SOPWITH insisted I come home with them. “Your studies,” explained Lady Sop. So it was only later that the whole mystery was explained to me.

  Back at RAF Rochford, Henry Wilson came forward and confessed. Turned out he’d been standing beside the staircase the morning Jimmy Donavon came flying down the stairs and fell, causing the rest of the squadron to trip over him. Wilson’d seen a broom laying on the stair, but didn’t say anything. He was sick and tired of Jimmy ribbing him about being a lowly mechanic. No one blamed Wilson. All the guys agreed that Jimmy’s stabs were out of line. Squadron Leader Kennard did an about-face and recommended Wilson to RAF command. He was leaving for flight training in Canada—not that he needed it. Dot’s fancy-pants family stuck up their noses when they met him. Even though their future son-in-law would be a Spitfire pilot and an officer to boot.

  The blindfold—that chichi silk pilot’s scarf—belonged to Dot. She’d left it in the mess hall by mistake. Soon as she got it back, she stuffed it into a “Dear John” letter and mailed it to the Millionaire pilot stationed in Egypt. I didn’t feel too sorry for him. He’d probably find the tomb of Nefertiti before I had my shot at it.

  Jack cornered a cook in the base kitchen and got a confession from him. The kidneys had been left out overnight by mistake. But when the cook smelled them the next morning he judged them to be A-Okay. Problem was, he was coming down with a nasty head cold and his nose was stuffed. When I started snooping around, he got the jitters and threw me into the Frigidaire while he got rid of the evidence. The refrigerator wasn’t cold enough to kill me, he said, and he’d meant to let me out eventually.

  The box of spark plugs I’d seen while snooping around Alice’s closet turned out to be little German explosives, made to replace airplane spark plugs. They were designed to blow up when the engine reached a certain temperature. One of them spark plugs almost murdered my brother, which justified chasing Alice off a cliff.

  Blanche, it turned out, had a long list of dream husbands penned into her prayer book, “It is a prayer book, after all,” she explained. “I had a thing for that German chap before the war. So tall he was, and ever so debonair. I suppose I ought to cross his name off the list.”

  And Alice? The church in Bramhope where she claimed to hail from is called St. Giles, not St. Nicholas. St. Nick, it turns out, is the big cathedral in Berlin. If only I’d known my churches better. And her name wasn’t Skinner, even though it said so on the identity card found soaked in her blood. Daphne put herself in the line of fire by letting on that she knew the real Alice Skinner, a WAAF from RAF North Weald, who was last seen boarding a train for Glasgow, visiting home before reporting for her new assignment at RAF Rochford. A little more hemlock in Daphne’s tea and…I can’t even write it.

  In the end, everything we knew about that awful, blaspheming woman—who, on top of everything, was stingy with the chocolate—wouldn’t fill a teaspoon.

  Lady Sheffield would never get over the shock of learning that her son’s fiancée was a Nazi agent and likely his murderer. She wept an ocean of tears when she learned the truth. It wasn’t fair, but then again, not much in this crazy war is.

  Take my case, for example: I’m still waiting for the Victoria Cross—preferably cast in solid gold. So far, all’s that’s happened is a visit from the British Security Service: a man identifying himself as Agent Charles Ellis.

  My brother rewarded me though—in the form of a burger and fries at the American Eagle Club in London. The fries came with real American Heinz ketchup. On top of that, I got a genuine Coca-Cola straight out of a chilled glass bottle. That’s something, anyway.

  And we never did figure out who hit my brother on the head in the pub up in Garsington. Could’ve just been a mean drunk.

  Or maybe…

  (Read a sample of the next book in the series…just a few clicks away!)

  GOOD REVIEWS ARE BETTER THAN MARASCHINO CHERRIES

  If you enjoyed Message For Hitler, kindly write a review.

  It will make the author do an Irish jig.

  Just go to this link and type in the title of the book: https: www.amazon.com

  And, while you’re at it, write one at: www.goodreads.com

  Thank you!

  And now clink on for a sample of the next book in the series…

  THE ADVENTURE BEGINS:

  Telegram For Mrs. Mooney

  By Cate M. Ruane

  With only a telegram to guide him, Tommy Mooney leaves his Long Island home in search of his big brother Jack—a RAF Spitfire pilot missing in action somewhere in Nazi occupied Europe. He cycles to the Brooklyn Harbor where he spots a yacht flying a British flag and stows away in a Louis Vuitton trunk—discovered only when the ship is mid-Atlantic. Once ashore, he heads for London where he enlists the help of Daphne Clarke—Jack’s British fiancée. Making off with a speedboat, the two cross the English Channel, dodging German U-boats.

  Hope turns to foreboding as it begins to look as though the two are being deceived by the Gestapo —used in a plot to expose a Resistance network created to help downed airmen evade capture. “What a conundrum,” says Daphne, as it becomes clear that by continuing the search for Jack, they risk the lives of many like him—as well as their own.

  THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES!

  LETTER VIA PARIS

  By Cate M. Ruane

  PROLOGUE

  Somewhere in Berlin

  THE FÜHRER, MAN OF middling height, leans over a marble-topped conference table, running his stubby hand over a blueprint that is spread out before him, pressing down on the curled edges. “Bring me a paperweight!” he shouts.

  His secretary hurries toward a set of colossal oak doors; an Ardabil carpet silences her steps. With the brunt of her weight, she pushes the doors open. Her eyes fix on the golden eagle perched above the doorframe. Outside can be heard the shuffle of jackboots against a marble floor. Whispered voices, eager to obey, echo down a 480-foot reception gallery:

  “The Führer requires a paperweight! Which paperweight? Any paperweight!”

  Within seconds, heels click together and the sought after paperweight is produced, balanced upon an outstretched palm, biceps straining to hold up the cast bronze object.

  The Führer continues to examine the blueprint, having forgotten his request.

  At his shoulder, but a step behind, stands a tall and lanky architect, his hands grasped behind his back, his fingers opening and closing nervously. “Well, put the paperweight down you fool,” says the architect, slamming his hand on the table. Contain yourself, Albert, thinks the architect, immediately regretting the outburst, which still rings from the stone walls. I ought to have specified mahogany paneling, he thinks, surveying the 400 square meter office. The echo fades, replaced with library-like silence.

  Then finally—the verdict: “You are a genius Speer,” says the Führer, patting the architect’s forearm.

  “No, mein Führer,” says Speer. “The genius is yours. The Führermuseum will be your crowning achievement, the greatest art collection since the destruction of the Alexandra Library.”

  “Greater than the Louvre,” says the Führer.

  “Greater than the Hermitage or the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” says Speer.

  The Führer pauses. A smile lifts below his square mustache. He motions to his secretary, “Bring me an inventory for both the Moscow and New York museums.”

  “Very wise, mein Führer,” says Speer. “Perhaps we ought to add two more wings to the Führermuseum?”

  The Führer leans over the blueprint again, taking up a pencil and drawing an X. “Here is where we will hang my centerpiece.”

  “Ah, the Vermeer, mein Führer,” says Speer. “And where is it now? Here in Berlin, I hope?

  “Somewhere safer, Speer. Never you mind,” says the Führer.

  CHAPTER ONE

  England

  CLINCHING MY TEETH and crossing my fingers did no good at all. The airplane was descending with too
much velocity. Its fuselage tilted at the wrong angle and it wasn’t banking tight enough. The wing grazed a pillar, and I flinched. The nose tilted downward and the plane went into a tailspin.

  The phone rang right then. O’Reilly, the butler, stepped into the path of the spiraling aircraft. I crossed myself. There wasn’t time to shout a warning. The airplane hit O’Reilly square in the head. He screamed at the top of his lungs:

  “Tommy Mooney, you rascal!”

  I crouched behind the banister, four floors up the spiral staircase. Peering between the railings, I saw O’Reilly crane his neck. “Homework, my foot,” he said. At his feet were dozens of paper airplanes, all failed experiments.

  The course was called The Principles of Aviation Mechanics, and I was the only student. Lord Thomas Octave Sopwith—my reluctant guardian—was my tutor. He was an aviation pioneer and owner of Hawker Aviation: manufacturer of fighter planes and light bombers. “Safer to learn the principles with paper models, what,” he said after our first lesson seated in a real airplane. I wouldn’t pass until I designed a paper airplane able to descend like a vulture going for a wounded rabbit—circling the floors without hitting the railings and landing belly down. Lord Sopwith wanted the results of each launch recorded in a notebook: wingspan, fuselage length, and aileron configuration—also the paper’s weight, as seen on the watermark. This way, once I hit on a successful design, it could be reproduced. Mass-production, Lord Sopwith called it: the secret to getting an air fleet built fast enough to keep up with the German Luftwaffe.