Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  “Yes… a daughter… thirteen or fourteen, I believe. She’s staying with the local priest and his housekeeper until more permanent arrangements can be made. It’s unfortunate, but I believe her aunt didn’t seem particularly interested in looking after her… lovely young girl by all accounts… it’s rather a shame the fact that she’s a half-caste seems to put some people off…”

  Rupert, sitting opposite, made a concerted effort not to roll his eyes over that remark, knowing full well that although Trumbull worked hard to conceal his own prejudices, the discomfort the officer felt in the presence of homosexuals was as clear to the trained eye as the open displays of racism of others that the group captain so openly deplored.

  “‘Leonski’…!” Thorne said aloud after a moment of pregnant silence, the single name spoken as much as an accusation as a statement. He raised his eyes again for the first time and stared directly at Trumbull, his gaze piercing and intense. “You mentioned the name ‘Leonski’…!”

  “Yes, Max… Leonski’s an American private posted to Tocumwal with the Third Bombardment Group.” He phrased his next sentence as delicately as he could manage. “He was – how shall I put it? – visiting Eliza Morris’ sister-in-law and happened to be on the scene to raise the alarm, as I mentioned already.”

  He’s coming for her… never forget your oath…! The words that had echoed in his mind as Arthur Morris had died came back to him once more, sending an involuntary shudder through his entire body. What Trumbull had just said suddenly became incredibly important.

  “‘Leonski…?” He knew that the Germans had a term for it – ‘synchronicity’ – and he was suddenly very certain that it had just reared its ugly head right in front of him. “Would that be a Private Eddie Leonski…” he continued, struggling to dredge up information long forgotten within the depths of his historical knowledge. “Private Eddie Leonski… of the US… Fifty-Second Signals Battalion…?”

  “I – I believe that’s the case, yes…” Trumbull stammered, uncomprehending, “but, what…?”

  “Oh, fuck me…!” Thorne snarled, his temper and sanity seemingly at breaking point as he rose unsteadily to his feet, the chair propelled backward behind him and crashing into the next table. The action had seemed so awkward that Rupert momentarily held an outstretched arm behind him, fearing he might collapse backward.

  “What the hell’s going on, Max?” Lloyd asked worriedly, also rising almost out of reflex.

  “Leonski… Eddie-fucking-Leonski… the bloody ‘Brownout Strangler’… Death of a Soldier…?” He released a snarl of exasperation. “Jesus Christ, what did your bloody generation even learn in history class?” Without waiting for a response he turned his attention back to Trumbull, the man seeming as perplexed as the others. “Alec, how many… how many spare drop tanks have we got for the Lightning?”

  “I – I’ve got the two six hundred gallon units already fitted, plus two three-fifty gallon tanks in the Galaxy that I can have fitted to the outboard pylons, but – !”

  “So, that’s… that’s… twenty-one hundred gallons all up…” he continued, cutting Trumbull off as he carried out the mental calculations in his head, taking more time that usual due to his levels of exhaustion. “That’s basically doubling the fuel load… take a bit off for the extra weight and… and it probably gives me about twenty-five hundred miles… maybe three thousand, if I’m lucky…” He turned back to Trumbull again. “Jet fuel…! I know we’ve got stocks at China Bay… what about… what about Singapore or Darwin?” All three men were now noticing that he was repeating himself frequently now, as if having trouble keeping his mind on the subject at hand.

  “Yes… yes, Max, we’ve had storage tanks installed at both airfields for at least twelve months, but what on earth are you talking about…?”

  “Ceylon to Singapore’s easy... easy hop… then Darwin… then on to ‘Toc’…” he muttered to himself, pronouncing the town’s diminutive name as ‘toke’. “No worries making the range on… on those legs… it’s from here to Ceylon that’ll be a bitch, but I don’t… I don’t think… we’ve got anywhere else I can fill up…” As he spoke, he reached back and carefully, haltingly pulled his chair in again, seating himself down as he stared blankly at the food in front of him.

  “Max, you’re not making sense!” Rupert broke in, shaking his arm gently and finally obtaining a reaction. “What are you talking about?

  He’s coming for her… He’s coming for her…!

  “Leonski…” he muttered again, suddenly feeling very tired as he turned to stare at Gold, barely able to keep his eyes open. “Eddie… Eddie Leonski is… is… a killer… serial killer… Killed a couple… maybe three women, I think…? …In Melbourne, during the war… Hanged at Pentridge in late ‘Forty-Two…” He blinked, grinning faintly as if realising some great irony. “About a month from now, maybe…” His eyes closed for a moment and struggled to open them again as all three men looked on with deep concern on their faces.

  Lloyd quickly realised that his level of exhaustion must be such that he was losing grip on where he actually was – that he was starting to slip in and out of the current reality and speak of Realtime as if such events were once more in the past. The other two, neither possessed of the lieutenant’s unique perspective, had no idea what Thorne was talking about, although both men could clearly see that their friend and Commanding Officer was most definitely in a bad way.

  “He coming for her,” Thorne repeated, this time out loud and thinking about what he’d just said as if needing to verify the sentence himself. “He’s coming for her…! Don’t… don’t… don’t ask me how I know that… but… but I know it…!” Another pause as he fought to retain his consciousness and a line of thought. “Need to get back there… gave my word… get back to Tocumwal… fast…! Need to…”

  Max Thorne’s words trailed off into nothingness as he slumped forward onto the table, Lloyd expecting the movement and darting forward just in time to drag the tray of food out of his way as he fell. Alec stood and reached across, checking the sleeping man’s pulse to reassure himself everything was all right even as one of the doctors from a nearby table quickly walked over and performed his own checks regarding Thorne’s health.

  St Eugene’s, Ardstraw

  County Tyrone, Northern Ireland

  Reich-Protektorat Grossbritannien

  October 3, 1942

  Saturday

  The village of Newtownstewart lay on the Strabane Road, eighteen kilometres north of Omagh and sixteen south-east of Clady and the border with the Republic of Ireland. A small hamlet of perhaps a thousand or so inhabitants, it was overlooked by the nearby Bessy Bell and Mary Gray Hills and was surrounded by sweeping pastures of vibrant green. Originally known as Lislas prior to Plantation of Ulster during the time of James I, it lay across the confluence of the rivers Strule and Owenkillew and was a generally quiet place, the current Nazi occupation notwithstanding.

  St Eugene’s Church lay situated between Main Street and the Mourne Park, perhaps 150m from the nearest bend in the Strule River. It was built upon a low hill and from Main Street was accessible by a set of stone steps straight up to the church itself. On the Mourne Park side the hill sloped gently down to a pair of iron gates set into a low, stone wall with the main path back up to the church threading its way between dozens of graves and headstones. The church had been built during the mid-1700s and was part of the Church of Ireland’s Derry Diocese.

  Normally there would’ve been Vespers or some other prayer service performed, particularly in anticipation of the next morning’s Sunday Mass, however the pews and confessionals were empty that particular Saturday evening, excepting of course for the presence of Kransky, Lowenstein, Kelly, Michaels, Behan and the two children, all spread about the wooden seats and taking some much-needed rest while another IRA volunteer stood at the tall, framed windows overlooking Main Street.

  From Dunluce they’d been moved into nearby Coleraine and then on down the Drumcroo
n Road to Carvagh, before heading west across to a small farm near Dungiven, huddling in one corner of a draughty cellar that first night. Another morning of travelling in interrupted bursts as they avoided frequent local patrols had taken them 50km south-west to Newtownstewart, where tired, wet and hungry, they’d spent the rest of that grey, dismal afternoon hiding inside the church.

  The parish priest, a humble old man of God who abhorred violence in all forms, had been no friend of the IRA in the time before the German invasion. The Nazi occupation had brought about a mild thawing of his feelings regarding Volunteers, although he even now tolerated their presence under sufferance. Violence only begot more violence in the opinion of Father Terry O’Dowd, but there was something to be said for looking after one’s own for all that, and the IRA, for all its failings, might well be considered a benevolent society when compared to the callous and indifferent brutality of the Germanische-SS.

  Father O’Dowd had made himself scarce that afternoon and had cancelled the evening prayers, having first made sure that a suitable excuse had been spread about the parish as to the reason for the cancellation. Some basic food and drink had been provided, along with clean clothing for all of the newly-arrived travellers excepting Kransky, whose unusual height had made it impossible to source any garments that came even close to fitting. After their experiences of the preceding few days, it was a decidedly minor inconvenience in the eyes of the tall American and he gave it no thought whatsoever, happy to have the opportunity to spend a few private hours in well-fed rest.

  As someone looked out over Main Street, Brendan stood at the small window by the door beneath the church tower at the far end of the building, staring down toward the Mourne Park beyond headstones that were little more than eerie silhouettes in the darkness outside. A drizzling rain had settled in just before nightfall and was now blanketing the entire area in a fine, misty precipitation that dramatically reduced what little visibility there already was.

  Kelly sat close to the Main Street entrance while Kransky and Lowenstein were positioned in consecutive pews near the middle of the church. Across from them on the other side of the central aisle, the two teens lay sleeping, wrapped in thick, woollen overcoats and huddled against each other for support as the dozed fitfully.

  “I can see the resemblance,” Kransky observed softly, staring at Levi’s sleeping face as Lowenstein glanced across at him with a momentary flash of fear in his eyes.

  “They’re not my kids, I told you,” he stammered quickly, the truth in that statement clearly hiding a greater ‘lie’.

  “Yeah, you told me all right,” the American grinned faintly, nodding slowly. “I know he’s not your kid…”

  There was a long pause as Lowenstein carefully glanced around, making sure no one else was in earshot, then released a sigh of resignation.

  “How long have you known?”

  “Only really worked it out yesterday… You three were all sittin’ together in the back of the truck and I couldn’t help noticing that you have some of the same mannerisms of both of em. You look more like him, of course, but there’s something of both of ‘em in there sure enough, if ya take the time to look hard enough.”

  “You’re worrying me now, Richard: if you can see it, how many others can?”

  “How many others really know where you come from?” Kransky shrugged. “Without that information, anyone would have to be nuts to even consider the possibility. Besides… that Limey accent of yours is probably enough to throw most people off anyway. I doubt anyone, Brit, German or Irish, would be likely to draw a link between some Jewish kid and a born-and-bred Londoner.”

  “Please…” Lowenstein’s eyes showed the desperation that he managed to hide from his voice in that moment. “…Please… you can’t tell anyone about this…”

  “Who’d believe me even if I tried?” Kransky grinned in return. “Don’t worry, buddy… I ain’t gonna snitch on ya…” He thought for a moment about the boy he’d saved outside that French farmhouse, so long ago now, and wondered what he would do to save his own family, were he in that position. “Can’t blame ya for tryin’ really…”

  “What else could I do?” Lowenstein growled darkly, thinking of less pleasant things. “He’s been on the run for two years now, barely more than one step ahead of the fucking SS most of the time. He and Evie grew up together, and he’s all she has now since the rest of her family were killed during the siege… I don’t think she’d know what to do if he wasn’t looking after her.” He took a deep breath, and the American could see that emotions had brought the man close to tears. “It was purely by chance I was placed in the same safehouse upon my arrival from France… what else could I do…?”

  “I reckon you did exactly what anyone else woulda done in the same circumstances,” Kransky answered after a moment’s thought, “unlikely as it is anyone else would be in this position.” He stopped for a moment as another, far wilder thought occurred to him. “Say, what exactly would happen to you if something happened to one of ‘em? Would you still even be here…?”

  “You know, I have absolutely no idea,” Lowenstein answered honestly, having given the question fair consideration. “Some might imagine I’d simply disappear altogether,” he added with a grin of his own, thoughts of Marty McFly in Back to the Future flashing into his mind, “but I doubt there’d be any fading images on an old photograph to chronicle my demise.” The smile turned a little sad in that moment as he continued. “It matters little all the same: I’ll gladly give my life to see both of ‘em safely into Ireland… what happens to me after that’s largely irrelevant.”

  “Well, I’m not usually one to toot my own horn,” Kransky ventured reassuringly, “but you’ll have me watchin’ over all of you. I’ll make sure they’re safe… and you too for that matter…” In the moment of silence that followed, Lowenstein’s simple nod of thanks said more than any words possibly could have.

  In the opposite aisle, Levi, who’d been watching the whole time and listening to the entire exchange with great interest, closed his eyes once more and pretended to sleep.

  They were distracted a moment later as the flash of headlights streamed across the Main Street windows, accompanied by the growing roar of large engines. Having ducked down out of sight at the first sign of the approaching vehicles, Seán McCaughey lifted his head carefully once more and peered out through the glass into the darkened street below. The rain and lack of street lighting made it seem almost completely black outside, however it wasn’t difficult to see the Wehrmacht patrol as it drove past, an armoured car and flatbed truck loaded with sodden soldiers both rumbling loudly past at good speed with headlights blazing.

  The Germans didn’t bother with subtlety – they had no need for it, after all – and anyone foolhardy enough to remain on the road in their path quite literally took their life in their own hands. Death or injury among the local populace was rare now for all that: most had learned the hard way over the last two years that it paid to get off the road quickly when you heard the roar of approaching engines.

  McCaughey was a man of average height and dark features who possessed a single consuming passion: that of a free and reunited Ireland. He’d been involved with the Irish Republican Army all of his adult life and currently held the post of OC (Officer Commanding) of the IRA’s Northern Command; the administrative backbone of all Republican units still operating in the six German-occupied counties of Northern Ireland.

  Prior to the 11th of September 1940, McCaughey and the units under his command – much like the rest of the Irish Republican Army – had operated with the single, combined objective of reuniting the ‘Six Counties’ with the rest of Ireland and ridding the country of British rule once and for all. All that had changed of course as the Wehrmacht had swept across the English beaches at the end of 1940, overwhelming British defences and changing the course of history forever.

  Yet the IRA now still found itself working to remove a force of occupation from Northern Ireland. Earl
y promised from Berlin of Irish reunification following the ‘pacification’ of the British Isles had proven to be as worthless as every other promise of peace ever issued from the lips of Adolf Hitler, and the Germans – particularly the SS – had proven over the last two years to have been far more brutal oppressors than the English had ever been. That the IRA, in clandestine agreement with the Irish Parliament, was now working against the Germans in a tense and uncomfortable alliance with the British government-in-exile was a bitter irony that most Volunteers, McCaughey included, chose to ignore whenever possible.

  “Trouble…?” Eoin Kelly asked with some tension in his voice from the seat nearby.

  “They ain’t stoppin’…” McCaughey growled softly, barely turning his head as he watched the receding glow of taillights reflecting against the damp walls of the houses further down the street. “Dunno what a bloody patrol’s doin out ‘n about is this bloody weather, but they’re gone now…”

  “Headin’ back to barracks and a nice, warm bloody shower if they’ve any sense,” Seán Michaels observed morosely from a seat near the pulpit, as unhappy as the rest of them about being cooped up inside.

  “My boys’ll be here shortly,” McCaughey muttered softly, making a great show of glancing at his watch. “Another few minutes and we’ll all be on our way…”

  “How far to the border…?” Kransky asked, his eyes occasionally flicking across to a nearby wall where his pack and rifle bag lay propped in shadow.

  “No more than twenty minutes on a good day…” McCaughey grimaced, almost managing a wry smile. “In this shite, probably closer to half an hour or more… and we’ll be driving nice and careful like so’s not to attract any undue attention.”

  “Isn’t any vehicle out after dark likely to attract attention?” The American ventured with a raised eyebrow.