Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  It was a rather generic collection of vehicles, truth be told, and seemed on the whole to be a disorganised amalgam of German and commandeered British lorries interspersed with the occasional Puma or Fennec armoured car here or there along with at least one Marder infantry fighting vehicle and two Weisel light tanks so far. The windows of the nearby houses and shopfronts were shaken and rattled by the deafening thunder of their progress, and the Kings Road bridge shuddered under the onslaught as the mass of trucks and AFVs rumbled across, most of the civilian vehicles backed up in the other direction behind Harry’s cab forced to move to the extreme left on the eastern side to allow them passage.

  The troops seated in the open-topped trucks looked bored and completely unfazed by the chilly evening air or the overcast blanket of grey cloud above, rifles propped between their knees and their eyes staring directly ahead at the soldier opposite as they sat along each side of the trucks’ rear cargo beds. The trucks rumbled on as dusk fell over London, their headlights blaring as each trundled past in turn.

  Harry was late… very late. All the same, he wasn’t stupid enough to attempt forcing his way through or to even honk his horn in protest. The yellow unit numbers painted on the turrets and hulls of the armoured cars that passed were as clear an indication as the runes on the trucks’ licence plates: the convoy belonged to the Waffen-SS, and average Londoners valued their lives far too greatly to make the mistake of interfering or impeding the progress of the Schutzstaffeln in any way.

  The convoy’s origin or ultimate destination mattered little to Harry or any of the other civilians about. The nearest SS barracks was just a few kilometres away at Hurlingham Park but it was unlikely to be large enough to hold such a huge collection of vehicles. Troop movements of that size were rare but were not unheard of, and in any case, the hard lessons of past experience had taught the civilian population the benefits of discretion and feigned disinterest in such matters.

  It seemed an age but was probably no more than another five minutes before the Puma armoured car bringing up the rear of the group passed by and Harry was finally able to turn into Wandon Road and continue on his way. He cursed softly under his breath as the Austin trundled off at a moderate pace, frustrated that he’d been detained so close to his destination yet at the same time decidedly nervous over the presence of such a large concentration of Nazi troops for exactly the same reason. Wandon Road was little more than a hundred and fifty metres long running between Kings and Fulham Roads, and it was halfway along its length that he pulled the black sedan into the forecourt of the Chelsea and Fulham Railway Station.

  Originally christened Chelsea Railway Station and part of the West London Line, it’d been officially opened in March of 1863 and subsequently renamed as Chelsea & Fulham in 1902. Situated roughly halfway between Fulham and Kings Roads, the majority of the station buildings opened out onto a large forecourt on the eastern side of Wandon Road. Constructed of dark brick with corrugated iron sheets for roofing, the structure was quite common for stations of the time. While the platforms were over 120m long, only small sections were sheltered to provide protection from the elements while a covered footbridge built near the Kings Road end connected the north- and southbound sides.

  Stamford Bridge stadium, home of Chelsea FC was just a few hundred metres away off the Fulham Road, and in the years between the club’s founding in 1905 and the outbreak of war, the station had always been swamped with masses of soccer fans on Chelsea home game days. Looking south there was little to be seen from platform level save for a nearby quartet of towering factory smokestacks however to the north, the stadium itself was easily visible from the footbridge overpass and the howls and cheers of the crowds were clearly audible when standing on the platforms on match days.

  All of that had changed of course following the German invasion of two years earlier. No longer was heard the roar of hysterical soccer crowds now. English Football League competitions had been suspended upon the outbreak of war in any case and Stamford Bridge stadium had remained empty and unused ever since, as had many of the professional-level football grounds around London and the rest of England (although there were some notable exceptions; one being Wembley Stadium, which was currently in use as a marshalling yard and barracks for the 3rd Panzer Division).

  The station itself had also fallen into disuse following the invasion. Although the inner city boroughs had generally been spared the devastation meted out by the invading Wehrmacht forces during the Siege of London, Luftwaffe air raids at the time had destroyed the nearby Battersea Rail Bridge, closing the line as a result. Although occupation forces had subsequently repaired the crossing and reopened the tracks to military traffic, a total lack of civilian patronage had left no requirement for the station’s continued operation.

  Once a hive of activity, the station buildings were now dilapidated and run down with their windows boarded up and sections missing from the iron sheeting on the roof; lost either to the elements or to the predation of scavengers in need of building materials for repairs of their own. As he turned in, the forecourt itself was empty save for Harry’s taxi and two other vehicles – a blue, 1931-model Ford Model A Tudor sedan and a nondescript, 30’s model Morris Minor painted in the faded red livery of the Royal Mail service, both parked by the covered veranda above what had once been the main station entrance.

  Harry Jenkins was a small, somewhat rotund man in his early forties. Balding, he sported greying sideburns and a similarly-coloured handlebar moustache that he’d kept in the same out-of-date style he’d worn throughout his short career driving trucks with the Royal Army Service Corps during the First World War. Never married, he’d spent his entire life in London’s East End (save for his brief time in army service) and lived with his widowed mother in a flat on the top floor of a terrace house on Hackney’s Sigdon Road.

  Harry had never been considered a well-educated man, having departed elementary school the moment he’d reached the legal leaving age of fourteen. He’d quickly managed to forget most of anything he’d learned of any real use and had taken to petty theft as a means of support through his later teen years. It was only his enlistment in the British Army – at the behest of his mother as it was – that had finally gone some way toward teaching him a trade. He’d joined a transport unit based in London and had driven trucks during the last two years of the First World War; something that was to stay with him once he was ‘de-mobbed’ following the Armistice.

  Following discharge he found that he’d saved enough of his army wages for a down-payment on a second-hand, horse-drawn hackney carriage. He immediately started a taxi service, utilising the intimate knowledge of London Streets he’d picked up during his two years’ military service. He’d worked hard – hard enough to make a good profit – and within a few years he traded up to a brand new Austin Seven, followed later by the 12/4 sedan he still owned.

  Old acquaintances being what they were, however, it wasn’t long after the outbreak of war that he first received a call from one of several ‘friends’ he’d known during his days of petty crime in his younger years. There was money to be made and many uses for a cab driver; a man with access to a vehicle and regular access to all parts of the city at any time of night. There were the occasional fares from German military customers since the occupation, but his legitimate business overall had taken a dramatic slump during the war and its subsequent drain on the economy. Harry still had his widowed mother to support and he’d quickly fallen back in with his old crew and the ‘easy’ money to be made shifting illegal and/or stolen goods on the black market.

  Harry cursed inwardly as the cab came to a halt directly in front of the other vehicles already present, extremely unhappy about the timing of their arrival. He’d been expecting the Ford – its occupants were exactly the people he’d come to meet – but the presence of the Royal Mail van was an annoying and unnecessary complication.

  “Just keep yer heads down and stay put,” He snapped irritably to the trio of passen
gers he’d kept hidden beneath blankets in the rear of the cab. “Best I make sure everything’s kosher before you lot show yer boats…!” Harry’s cockney accent was as clear as his use of a shortened version of the rhyming slang term ‘boat-races’ instead of ‘faces’, and it was also clear by the tone and inflection that he was extremely nervous about the situation.

  His passengers made no sound as he killed the engine and stepped from the cab, the drivers of both the Ford and the Morris mail van almost simultaneously climbing from their own vehicles and walking quickly toward him, each throwing clearly unguarded glances of disdain and suspicion at the other as they drew near.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing, Nobby?” Harry snapped angrily at the driver of the mail van the moment they drew together as a group. “You’re not supposed to be here until after ten!”

  “Got our jobs done early, didn’t we,” Chester ‘Nobby’ Nobbs replied with an unapologetic shrug. “Had nothing else to do so we came down thinkin’ we might get the night off…” He cast a glare in the other man’s direction. “Didn’t know you’d have company, did I?” Nobbs was a tall man but relatively slight of build, with unpleasant, mousey features and lank, lifeless brown hair that hung in strings about his face.

  “It’s a similar surprise for all of us then,” Captain Seán Michaels of the Irish Republican Army shot back with equal displeasure. The trip south had been a long and arduous one since meeting up with Richard Kransky in Northumberland four days earlier, and he was in no mood for dealing with people he’d correctly deduced to be petty criminals and black marketeers. He turned his steely gaze back toward Harry. “Mister Jenkins, you were given specific instructions regarding the requirements for discretion in this matter and you’re being well paid as a result. The Council was very concerned about using you because of reports of your nocturnal activities, but I was willing to give you the benefit o’ the doubt: it’d be a real shame now for you to be makin’ me think my confidence in ye was misguided, and that’s a fact.”

  “Leave it out, ‘Paddy’,” Nobbs growled with a distinct tone of disdain and superiority. “You’re not in bloody Belfast now; maybe you should watch yer mouth…!”

  “Me name’s not ‘Paddy’, fella, and I’m no’ from Belfast either,” Michaels snarled softly, turning to face Nobbs fully as Jenkins caught the dangerous glint in the man’s eye and began to raise his hand in warning. “… And if you want to get home tonight to whatever rock ye crawled out from under with your tongue still in your mouth, I suggest you keep yours bloody shut! Me business here’s with Mister Jenkins, not you, and you’d do well to stay out of it…”

  “Cheeky fookin’ Leprechaun… !” Nobbs began, a rage born of self-righteous superiority flashing in his eyes as his fingers reached quickly into his trouser pocket. It was the last move he was able to make as Michaels’ left hand instantly locked his right wrist in a vice-like grip, preventing him from drawing the gun he’d reached for. In that same moment a straight razor appeared in the Irishman’s other hand, the gleaming blade pressed hard enough under Nobbs’ chin to draw a thin trickle of blood.

  Upon sight of his partner being assaulted, the passenger in the mail van instantly threw the side door open and began to climb out, intending to render assistance with a sawn-off shotgun in one hand. As tall as Nobbs, the second fellow was substantially broader and looked like he could handle himself. An angry brute of a man known as Arthur Rowe, he carried a low-set brow that overhung a pair of dark, piggy eyes, a square, jutting jaw and an uneven nose, the shape of which suggested a history of having it broken. All in all, he didn’t seem the type to be adverse to violence or its application when the need arose.

  He’d moved no more than a few steps however before an incredibly-tall figure appeared out of the darkness behind him and he froze as he felt the cold steel of a gun muzzle pressed into the back of his neck.

  “Don’t you move a muscle, buddy,” Kransky hissed softly in the man’s ear, “or I might have to blow your goddamned head off!” Glancing over his hostage’s shoulder at the shotgun, he checked its condition and continued to speak in a soft, calm manner that exuded pure malevolence. “Now… I’m gonna ask you to very carefully lower the hammers on that shotgun you’ve got there, break it and drop it at your feet. Make any kind of smartass move while you’re doing it and you’ll feel the wind whistling between your ears!”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” The thug replied nervously, his whole body shaking in equal parts fear and rage. “One shot and the bloody Jerries’ll be down here on the lot o’ us like a ton of bricks!”

  “That bit of metal you’re feeling at the back of your neck right now…” Kransky explained coldly, prodding the man’s spine with it for emphasis, “…is a silencer. I could empty an entire clip into your piece-o’-shit ass without any sound likely to be heard past fifty yards with all that traffic up on the main road. Doubt anyone’d know what it was even if they did hear...” He gave the man’s neck another vicious jab with his machine pistol. “I reckon I’ll take my chances.”

  Rowe complied readily, taking great care not to antagonise the man behind him as he slowly uncocked the shotgun and broke the action at the breach, causing both cartridges inside to eject and clatter softly to the asphalt at his feet. The weapon itself followed soon after, Kransky reaching a foot forward and kicking it away a few metres the moment it hit the ground.

  “You wanna think about your attitude there, Mister Nobbs?” Michaels enquired softly, his own face close in as he whispered the words. “It looks like you’re fella back there’s out of action and I’m about a sixteenth of an inch away from slicing open your jugular.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as if offering a simple opinion on the weather. “I already know all about you and your little black market operation – we did a lot of research into Harry and his mates before we started all this – and I figure now you know a bit more about me, too… maybe a bit more than you or I wanted. You think maybe we should start over and try bein’ a little more civil to one another?”

  “I… reckon… that… might be… a good… idea…” Nobbs hissed slowly through clenched teeth, desperately trying to move as little as possible in deference to the razor-sharp blade pressed against his throat.

  “Now, I’m going to let you go,” Michaels advised in a warning tone, relaxing his grip ever so slightly in preparation, “and when I do, I want you and your fella there to get back in your truck and take a bit of a drive – maybe around the neighbourhood a few times – while we sort out our business with Harry here. Just drive past, and if you see us still here keep driving… if we’re gone, feel free to turn on in and get on with whatever you need to do here yourselves.” He gave the man’s wrist a powerful squeeze, the pain quite substantial and drawing a halting gasp from Nobbs. “If you’ve a weapon, leave it in your pocket and we’ll get along just fine…” he raised his voice as he continued, the next sentence intended for Kransky’s ears. “Try and do anything silly and my friend over there will shoot you full o’ holes in an instant.” For the first time he released some of the pressure of the razor against Nobbs’ skin, allowing him to speak clearly. “We understand each other?”

  “We do… we do…” Nobbs breathed hoarsely, quickly drawing his empty hand from his pocket as Michaels released his wrist. “I guess we’ll be on our way then…”

  Trying to regain as much of his shattered pride as he could muster – something that was extremely difficult considering the humiliation Nobbs had just been subjected to – he drew himself up to his full height and turned on his heels, walking stiffly back toward the Morris Minor at a moderate pace as he fought to hide the nervous shake that threatened to show itself in his gait.

  Kransky released Rowe as Nobbs passed, neither man stupid enough to make any move toward retrieving the fallen shotgun as they climbed back into their van. Only once back inside the relative safety and privacy of the cab did Nobbs allow himself the embarrassment of fishing inside his other trouser pocket for a handkerchief.
He pressed the piece of dirty cloth against his throat, making some effort to stifle the thin line of blood that had been trickling down onto his shirt the whole time as he fought with his free hand to start the Morris and slot it into gear.

  “I think you need to be more careful who y’ keep the company of, Harry,” Michaels observed with false geniality a moment later as the Royal Mail van pulled out into the street and trundled slowly away south down Wandon Road. Kransky took a moment to collect the shotgun and cartridges from the bitumen surface of the forecourt and throw them onto the passenger seat of the Ford through the open side window. That done, he carefully secured his MP2K out of sight beneath the long, black greatcoat he wore and ambled slowly over toward the pair, looking to all the world like a workmen out for an evening stroll before dinner.

  You lot’ll be the death o’ me, I swear,” Harry moaned plaintively as he stood beside the Irishman, hands on hips. “Did y’ have to make such a show of him, for Christ’s sake? He’ll be impossible to deal with, now!”

  “That’s not my problem, Harry,” Michaels shot back with a flash of anger in his eyes, completely unaware of how wrong about that statement he would soon come to be. “The only thing I care about is the person you’ve been charged to collect from the London Docks.” His eyes narrowed as he threw Jenkins a pointed stare. “I’m hopin’ you’re not goin’ to disappoint me now…?”

  “I’ve got the bugger you’re waiting for,” Jenkins replied quickly, a little too much nervousness clearly evident in his tone. “It’s not quite as simple as all that though,” he continued to explain, physically cringing at the expression of displeasure that flickered across Michaels’ face. “I found the bugger all right but he weren’t on his own… he had two bloody ‘bin lids’ with him and refused to come with me unless I brought them along too!”