Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  And Brandis had made reference to ‘Buddy’ – Eddie hardly ever told anyone about Buddy – and although again that might’ve been purely in reaction to Eddie’s own preceding words, the American private somehow knew that there was much more to it. If the curate knew about Buddy then maybe he knew about some of the things Buddy had done back in Melbourne, and that just wouldn’t do at all.

  Twenty-four-year-old Private Edward Joseph Leonski of the United States 52nd Signals Battalion knew nothing of psychology or the science of reading body language, but he nevertheless possessed a well-tuned level of ‘animal cunning’ that had given him a clear warning that day. He’d make sure Eliza Morris and her daughter got what was coming to them – he had a day off soon and he’d fix them up good when the time came – but in that moment, Eddie also knew for a fact that beneath those robes and priest’s collar, Brandis was a dangerous man and a far greater threat… one that couldn’t be ignored.

  Schnellboot S-59

  Irish Sea, 5 nautical miles north of Castlerock,

  Northern Ireland

  Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien

  It had been a long night and everyone was looking forward to it coming to an end, Toepfer included. The schnellboot was heading north-east now at a steady and quite leisurely fifteen knots, leaving behind a quite unseasonal shroud of heavy fog that had rolled in across the coastline a few hours before midnight. Devoid of any radar of its own, S-59 was instead forced to rely on reports from nearby land-based units operating along the coast of Northern Ireland with the closest being a little more than nine kilometres away to the south, situated close to the Mussenden Temple, a circular, late-18th Century structure built atop the cliffs above Castlerock, County Londonderry.

  Although resource and budgetary constraints meant the radar installations were generally few and far between, they were backed up by airborne search and anti-submarine units flying out of airfields and seaplane bases around Campbeltown on the Scottish Mull of Kintyre, and the combination of both worked hard to cover most of the Northern Irish coast and the Irish Sea leading south into the Straits of Moyle.

  The OKW was paranoid about the ‘defection of traitors’ (as Berlin called it) from the occupied British Isles using the wilds of Scotland as a launching place for an exodus to the safety of the neutral Republic of Ireland, and although the initial flood of refugees in the months directly following the September 1940 invasion had gradually dissipated to the point of almost non-existence there were still the odd one or two making an attempt for freedom here or there, most generally using the hours of night to facilitate their movements unseen.

  There was also the fear of insurgents and enemy agents transported either by fast, small surface vessels or by submarine, and although again the frequency of occurrence was quite low, there’d already been several inconclusive night engagements in the last nine months that had left one of S-59’s sister S-boats with moderate damage and resulted in the confirmed sinking of one Allied submarine and possible damage to another.

  Although the allocation of fuel and resources to such outer districts of Occupied Britain had become much less of a priority for the OKW since the cessation of hostilities in Europe, the vague paranoia nevertheless remained and it was the mission of Kriegsmarine commanders such as Toepfer and his colleagues in the S-boat service to do their best to work with what little they were given.

  They’d finished their third patrol for the night about five nautical miles to the south-west off Magilligan Point and the mouth of Lough Foyle. The lough itself was formed by the estuary of the River Foyle and began some distance to the south at the Northern Irish city of Derry. A large but otherwise unremarkable body of water in a strategic sense, its only significance was in the simple and quite important fact that its entire length from Derry to Magilligan Point acted as a natural border between Northern Ireland to the south-east and the Republic of Ireland to the north-west. River patrol units of the Germanische-SS were charged with border control of any inland waterways, but everything beyond the coast lay under the responsibility of the Kriegsmarine and men like Toepfer and his crew.

  The entire patrol has thus far been completely uneventful; the situation aided no doubt by the fact of the thick fog that had rolled in across most of the Northern Irish coastline throughout the night. Following their third approach to what would have been ‘within sight’ of Magilligan Point had any vision been possible, they were warned off at a safe distance by the nearby radar station at Castlerock and sent on their way home for breakfast and a well-earned rest. The fact that it was ludicrous to expect any effective patrolling of such fog-bound waters was largely irrelevant: if Toepfer’s logs didn’t list a sufficient number of patrols for the month supported by a matching consumption of diesel fuel, he’d not only he be reprimanded by his superiors but would also more than likely find his monthly supplies of fuel reduced accordingly as a result, neither eventuality sounding particularly palatable.

  Much to the dismay of the entire crew, it was just after five o’clock on that icy morning, with just the faintest hint of the approaching dawn glowing on the eastern horizon, that an alert was received from another of the radar installations on the coast, this one over forty kilometres away at the East Lighthouse on Rathlin Island.

  “Contact report, Kaleun,” his communications officer inside the wheelhouse called out immediately upon receiving the message, momentarily lowering his headphones. “Report from Rathlin Lighthouse: slow-moving surface contact detected close in to shore heading north-west – range approximately twenty nautical miles.”

  “Visual sighting, Wagner…?” Toepfer called back down through the open hatch from his position on the open, flying bridge above.

  “None, sir: visibility nil over there because of the fog just like everywhere else…” There was a pause as he gathered further information. “Otto says the signal is very weak, but he thinks it might be our ‘Geisterschiff’ again.”

  ‘Geisterschiff’, or ghost-ship, was the title the local radar operators had given an elusive, semi-regular radar contact that was often fleetingly picked up while making transits of the Irish Sea and/or the Straits of Moyle during the hours between midnight and dawn. Although no hard evidence had ever been confirmed, the small Kriegsmarine intelligence unit at Campbeltown suspected the infrequent contacts related to the same vessel each time.

  The speed at which the contact often disappeared made it most likely to be a small, fast-moving water craft such as a motor-torpedo boat and the faintness of the returned radar signal also suggested that whatever the craft was, it was probably constructed mostly of wood or some other similarly radar-absorbent material.

  “Just another occasion when radar of our own would be a huge help,” Toepfer muttered under his breath in frustration, cursing the ongoing lack of resources the Kriegsmarine had allocated to their flotilla for maintenance and upgrading of equipment. “Set course for the East Lighthouse…!” He ordered aloud a moment later, directing the command toward the helmsman beside him on the flying bridge. “…Best possible speed! Let’s see if we can ‘exorcise’ our little Geisterschiff once and for all…

  “Wagner!” Another idea suddenly blossomed in his mind, and he shouted a new order down through the hatch at his radio operator as his petty officer pushed the throttles forward and the S-boat surged ahead with a roar of its engines. “Get hold of Lemke over at Machrihanish and ask him if there’s any chance our esteemed Marineflieger might have some ‘assets’ in the area that are be able to assist…”

  Flying-Boat K6 + BK “Bruno”

  2. Staffel, Küstenfliegergruppe 406

  North Atlantic, west of Colonsay, Scotland

  80km north of Rathlin Island

  Although the Blohm & Voss A-138 patrol flying boat had been christened the Seedrache (Sea Dragon) by its manufacturer, most of its crews instead knew it by the affectionate title of Der Fliegende Holzschuh – ‘The Flying Clog – in direct reference to its quite unique and distinctive appearance. A
twin-boom design with an engine fitted into the forward end of each tail-boom, the aircraft also carried a third engine mounted centrally above a main fuselage that indeed looked very much like a large clog in side elevation.

  Introduced in 1938, the aircraft had replaced a number of varying earlier models of Heinkel seaplanes and Dornier flying boats within the ranks of the Küstenfliegergruppen. It had quickly become the mainstay of the Luftwaffe’s coastal patrol groups prior to their absorption during 1941 into the newly-created Marineflieger – the Kriegsmarine Naval Air Arm. The Seedrache had come to shoulder the bulk of the Kriegsmarine’s long-range maritime reconnaissance requirements; something it was well suited to with an unrefuelled range of around five thousand kilometres.

  The Blohm & Voss model 138B (classified by its ‘A-’ prefix denoting its status as an ‘Aufklärungsflugzeug’ or reconnaissance aircraft) was almost twenty metres long and possessed a wingspan of twenty-seven. With a loaded take-off weight of almost fifteen tonnes, it was powered by three 670kW Junkers Jumo diesel engines and could carry a crew of six and a bombload of 800kg (or up to ten passengers in lieu of bombs). Power-operated turrets at its bow and stern mounted 20mm cannon while a second rear defensive position mounting a pair of 13mm machine guns was also nestled in above the cabin behind the central engine nacelle.

  Leutnant zur See Oskar Haas and his crew were tired, worn out and more than ready for a well-earned rest as flying-boat K6 + BK cruised south toward its home base at Campbeltown harbour. They’d spent the better part of the last twelve hours patrolling the open skies above the dark, icy expanses of the North Atlantic, flying as far as US-occupied Iceland and then back down to the southern tip of the Irish Republic in search of any sign of enemy submarines or surface craft.

  They’d of course remained over international waters at all times – the OKW was clear in its directive that the sovereign airspace of neutral countries never be violated (especially American airspace) – and such long, generally-uneventful flights were particularly difficult ones at night when crews were forced to endure seemingly endless hours of darkness above waters devoid of any sign of life.

  The radio call from Machrihanish came through as the A-138B was no more than forty minutes or so from touch down at Campbeltown, Ensign Haas slouched in his seat and ‘resting his eyes’ while his co-pilot, Midshipman Schilcher held the controls during that last leg of their patrol. Neither were pleased as his radio-operator’s announcement came through their headsets.

  “Urgent message, Herr Leutnant: open alert call from Kapitänleutnant Lemke over at Machrihanish requesting assistance from any radar-equipped aircraft within Mull of Kintyre airspace…”

  “Scheisse…!” Haas growled softly, forcing himself to sit upright once more and rubbing at his eyes. “What’s that whining old bastard want…?”

  “Radar station at East Lighthouse has picked up an unidentified surface vessel close in shore off Rathlin and heading west. They think it might be the ‘Geisterschiff’…”

  “Scheisse…!” Haas repeated, this time with more intensity as his attention was now engaged completely and he quickly checked his fuel gauges. “We’ve got a few hours’ worth of fuel left yet… enough to lend a hand, at least…”

  The pilot was suddenly very interested in lending their assistance: the elusive nature of the renowned ‘Ghost Ship’ had accorded it an almost mythical status which would by definition bestow huge honour and ‘bragging rights’ for the crew of any ship or aircraft that finally managed to hunt the enemy vessel down. It was only a combination of insufficient manpower and pure bad luck over the last twelve months that had left no suitable aircraft available to aid pursuit at times of prior ‘sightings’.

  With the bulk of the war effort now focused in North Africa, and a slow but steady build-up of military power in Bohemia-Moravia (formerly Poland) that stretched the entire length of Germany’s border with the USSR, what was left of Wehrmacht resources was needed to control an entire continent. Occupied Europe, Britain included, was a huge land mass and those resources were spread very thin in some areas as a result. The Irish Sea and the upper reaches of Scotland, with only neutral nations anywhere to be found within thousands of kilometres’ range since the British surrender of December 1940, was considered by the OKW to be a ‘low-risk’ zone and as such it received far less than what otherwise might’ve been considered a fair share of men and materiel for use in maintaining security.

  “Rathlin’s only about fifty nautical miles south…” Schilcher observed softly as his CO took over the controls once more.

  “The radar station there only went live a couple of weeks ago,” Haas observed softly, deep in thought. “If the Tommis’ reports are even a little out of date they probably don’t know they’ve been detected.” He suddenly snapped back to the present, renewed excitement showing in his eyes. “Tell Lemke we’re twenty minutes away,” he called to the radio operator over the intercom, making the appropriate calculations in his head. “Ask him if East Lighthouse has some firm co-ordinates they can give us: we’re not going to miss catching the sneaky bastard this time!”

  Junction Hotel, Tocumwal

  New South Wales, Australia

  A light but steady rain had settled in across the Murray and Riverina basin as noon passed, although the ever-present flicker of distant lightning behind the blanket of cloud across western horizon was all the locals would see of the morning’s threatened thunderstorms. Maude still wasn’t back from the shops, which was unusual, but Eliza wasn’t in the mood to deal with her sister-in-law’s condescension and stupidity that afternoon and she was happy to enjoy a few hours’ respite as she worked about the hotel in silent solitude.

  Although reluctant to leave Eliza’s side after the confrontation with Leonski, even with Brandis’ calming presence, Briony had eventually acquiesced to her mother’s kind but firm directive that she be off to her lessons as normal. Learning was important after all and Eliza’s also knew that having the poor girl hanging about the pub all afternoon, brooding over what had happened would do more harm than good. Better Briony spend the afternoon working on her lessons with Father Brandis, her thoughts consumed by knowledge rather than unpleasantness.

  “What did you do…?” Maude’s unexpected words were filled with such hatred that they seemed almost to have been shouted despite having risen from behind her at little more than a venomous whisper.

  Her attention had been so singly focussed on the noisy stacking and cleaning of glasses behind the bar that she’d not even heard the side door open as Maude had entered. As Eliza whirled in momentary fright at the sound of her voice, her eyes took in the sight of her dripping wet sister-in-law standing in the doorway, sodden brown bags of shopping strewn at her feet as if dropped there the moment she’d come in, which was exactly the case.

  “Ran into him and his buddies down the street… said it was best he didn’t come ‘round for a while… said he didn’t want any trouble… didn’t feel welcome…”

  “That bloody Yank had no problem comin’ ‘round here this mornin’ causin’ trouble!” Eliza shot back instantly, knowing full well who Maude was referring to. “That nutcase needs his bloody head read!”

  “You stupid cow,” Maude snarled, her lip curling into a self-righteous sneer as she left the supplies where they lay and took a few steps forward, again asking: “What did you do…?”

  “You’d be better off asking him what he’s been up to!” Eliza snapped back instantly, any initial shock she’d experienced over Maude’s unexpected appearance dissipating instantly and immediately supplanted by the same rising rage she’d felt earlier, fuelled in equal parts by her protective maternal feelings for her daughter and the intense disdain she held for her sister-in-law. “Came up from downstairs and caught him up here all alone, tryin’ to act a bit too bloody friendly with my bloody daughter.” She placed the tray of glasses she was holding down and stepped around to the other side of the bar, tea towel slung over one shoulder and hands on hi
ps. “I told the dirty bugger off – that’s what I did – and quick as a flash he turned nasty and started threatenin’ me and Briony! Lucky Father Brandis turned up and sent him packing; we might’ve been in trouble otherwise!”

  “You both jealous… jealous…!” Maude screamed, the full desperation of her own lack of companionship and frustrated search for sexual satisfaction boiling over into wild irrationality as she thrust an accusatory finger at Eliza and advanced toward her. “The pair of ya just couldn’t stand seein’ me happy… couldn’t stand it that I had just a little company with someone decent for a change! I seen the way she looks at him… seen the way she plays up to him, the dirty little whore…!” That that last statement was not only false but also patently ludicrous didn’t seem to faze Maude in the midst of her hysteria.

  Something snapped within Eliza in that moment. She’d suffered through hardship all her life… suffered abuse both mental and physical… the racism, the bullying… the rapes. And she’d learned through all of that never to fight back… never to raise a complaint or create a single ripple of disharmony. In a society where the dogma of white stereotypes reigned supreme and Indigenous Australians were legally classified as ‘flora and fauna’ rather than human beings, any Aboriginal who dared to speak out against the establishment ran the very real risk of beatings or imprisonment… or worse.

  Eliza was used to Maude’s insults, which were all-in-all quite tame by comparison to other traumas she’d experienced throughout her life, and she’d always ignored them along with the condescension and the thinly-veiled racism. Had her sister-in-law merely continued to use her as the target of her unhinged outbursts, Eliza Morris might well have remained calm and shrugged off the verbal tirade in her stride.