Avenging Steel 5: The Man From Camp X Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead or undead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016. Ian Hall. Phantom Gavel Publishing.

  Published by Ian Hall

  ISBN-9781370117857

  All rights reserved, and the author reserves the right to re-produce this book, or parts thereof, in any way whatsoever.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your eBook store and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Avenging Steel

  5: The Man from Camp X

  Ian Hall

  (From The Tree of Liberty)

  By her inspired the new born race

  Soon grew the Avenging Steel, man;

  The hirelings ran — her foes gied chase

  And banged the despot weel, man.

  Robert Burns (1759 – 1796)

  Cover Photo: Original photograph of ‘Silent Killing’ training in Camp X, Canada.

  Also by Ian Hall, related to Avenging Steel…

  Churchill’s Secret Armies

  War without Rules: Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare

  A short history of the secret departments and Special Forces put together by Winston Churchill in World War 2.

  WW2 Spy School:

  The Complete 1943 S. O. E. Counter Espionage Manual

  The complete SOE manual used in World War 2 to train Allied spies and counter-espionage agents.

  Over 400 pages of authentic WW2 documentation.

  The Ridiculously Comprehensive Dictionary of British Slang

  A huge dictionary of British slang, regional slang and Cockney Rhyming Slang. Thousands of definitions, hundreds of pages.

  With a slightly comic twist.

  Foreword

  An Introduction to the Characters…

  Chapter 1 A Day of Firsts

  Chapter 2 Canada; Land of the Free

  Chapter 3 Special Training Camp 103

  Chapter 4 Jumping Out of a Perfectly Good Plane

  Chapter 5 Pearl Harbor

  Chapter 6 The New York Passport Bureau

  Chapter 7 Operation Ascalon; Capturing a General

  Chapter 8 Getting In, Getting Out Alive

  Chapter 9 The Banks of the Nile

  Chapter 10 I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles

  Chapter 11 Bairds; Face to Face

  Chapter 12 On the Bus, Back Off Again

  Chapter 13 Does Anyone Actually Like Submarines?

  Chapter 14 Rabat

  Chapter 15 My Last Days in Africa

  On 10th May, 1940, Germany attacked British and French troops in France and Belgium.

  At that time, the British Army had more than half a million men in Continental Europe.

  By 4th June 1940, Britain had rescued 330,000 men (British and French) from the defensive bubble around Dunkirk.

  Between 15th and 25th June 1940, they rescued another 190,000 through Operation Ariel from French coasts and ports.

  In the short Battle of France, Britain had left behind 70,000 men, 450 tanks, 2500 artillery pieces, 85,000 vehicles, and 600,000 tons of ammunition, fuel and stores.

  The figures show Britain had 500,000 men for its defense… but with little arms, armor and ammunition to fight… Britain was ripe for invasion, and everyone knew it.

  Churchill spoke…

  … we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; We shall never surrender…

  On 16 July 1940 Hitler issued Führer Directive No. 16, setting in motion preparations for a landing in Britain. He prefaced the order by stating…

  "As England, in spite of her hopeless military situation, still shows no signs of willingness to come to terms, I have decided to prepare, and if necessary to carry out, a landing operation against her. The aim of this operation is to eliminate the English Motherland as a base from which the war against Germany can be continued, and, if necessary, to occupy the country completely."

  On the 16th August the first waves of German paratroopers descended on rural England. The next day, under the cover of the Luftwaffe, tanks and armored vehicles drove ashore in numerous locations.

  Within a month Germany had captured London, Birmingham and Manchester.

  Four weeks later, Churchill’s much vaunted Battle of Britain was over.

  Churchill spoke to the British people from a fleeting headquarters in Ireland…

  … let us not consider this a retreat, not a farewell to our homeland, but as a gathering for a new offensive. And let me make this promise to Herr Hitler; we will return…

  Thus begins a brand-new Alternative History series… Avenging Steel

  An Introduction to the Characters…

  James Baird…

  James is our main character, our story’s hero and the book’s narrator. He is a 20-year old philosophy student at Edinburgh University, and has been recruited by the S.O.E. as an agent. His code-name is Biggles, and is used by the S.O.E. as a liaison between cells in Edinburgh. He also works at The Scotsman newspaper as a writer and copy-editor. His father, in the Scots Greys Regiment, is stationed in Palestine.

  Alice Baird (Howes)…

  Alice is James’s partner in spy-crime, wife, and the head of the S.O.E. cell inside The Scotsman newspaper. She is from the border town of Selkirk, and speaks fluent German; her father having been a POW from the Great War who stayed in Scotland in 1918. She seems to take her orders from Lilith, but her actual bosses are unknown to James. Alice also works at The Scotsman newspaper as a copy-editor.

  Captain Möller…

  Gerhardt Möller is the German officer in charge of German bias/slanting for the Scotsman newspaper’s stories. James has to report their stories to Möller each day by one o’clock for his inspection. James suspects Möller has opened the hand of friendship to him, but cannot be certain. Lilith’s organization has compromising photos of him.

  Ivanhoe (Mr. Irvine)…

  Ivanhoe is James’ contact within the S.O.E. in Edinburgh, and the man who recruited him. James only glimpses the level at which Ivanhoe works, but does harbor the suspicion that Ivanhoe might be the top S.O.E. man in Scotland.

  Lilith…

  Named after the character by George MacDonald, Lilith is a beautiful enigmatic S.O.E. contact, possibly working in conjunction with Ivanhoe, but definitely also operating outside his purview. Lilith introduced Alice to James, and is Alice’s main contact. Although James seems to be in love with Alice, Lilith’s face comes to him at the oddest times.

  The Baird Family in Edinburgh…

  Veronica Baird is James’ mother. She lives for her family and rules with a slightly flexible iron rod. Frances is James’ fifteen-year-old younger sister. They live in a first floor apartment in Bruntsfield, on the edge of the Links and Meadows.

  A Day of Firsts

  On Monday morning, 15th September, 1941, I stood on Platform 2 of Waverley Station.

  Despite my protests, or maybe even because of them, both mum and Frances stood beside my wife. I hugged them all in turn, then hugged Alice again. “I’ll be back in eight weeks.” I said, tears not far from falling.

  “I know.” Alice buried her face in my neck, knowing that I was on a mission, but
no idea what or where. I’d struggled with our ‘no secrets’ agreement, and she’d poked me mercilessly over the last week, but I had to stay schtum on this one, and had told her so on many occasions. No word of my destination could leak out when I was gone, not even in jest.

  I climbed aboard, my heart thumping loudly in my chest; I’d never before done something as important as this, and the presence of mum and sister only added to my growing nervousness. I found a seat in a quiet compartment, and stuck my head out of the open window.

  The conductor whistled, and began to walk up the train towards me, closing the doors, the ‘bangs’ echoing under the high glass roof.

  Alice reached up and grabbed me tightly. “Don’t you dare bloody die on me, James Baird!”

  Oh, God; that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. My tears burst, and I held on to her for dear life. If there was a time I almost backed-out of the mission, that was it.

  We broke our embrace at the first jolt of the train’s motion, and I watched the shrinking, waving images of all three women in my life through my own tear-covered eyes.

  I sat back on the worn fabric of the compartment seat, almost in disbelief of the events that were going to occur.

  I was going to Canada.

  The train ambled awkwardly through the sidings of the station, jolting and tipping slightly, then rode out into daylight. We trundled over bridges I’d walked under just a week earlier; the bridge on Calton Hill, where I’d walked to try and rescue Balfour, the bridge at Restalrig, where I’d ran away from his shredded body. Past Easter Road, its stadium stands rising above the surrounding houses. I hardly believed my briefing; ‘the train will slow down to a snail’s pace at the Seafield railyards, you will get off, no luggage’.

  Seafield loomed, and I still doubted Ivanhoe’s words, then with a short jerk, the train slowed. I rose at my cue, exited the carriage, leaving my single suitcase behind me, and walked to the door. The window was already ajar, so I floored it, stuck my hand outside and turned the worn brass handle, opening the door wide. The train was still moving, but I was at least six feet off the ground. I could break a leg here, or even land awkwardly, and fall back under the moving train.

  “Go backwards, two steps down, sir.” I turned in surprise to see the conductor. He smiled warmly, as if it were an everyday occurrence to let a secret agent off a moving train. I grinned back weakly, found the handholds, stepped back into oblivion, then jumped.

  My feet crunched into pebbles, and I steadied myself easily. To my surprise, the conductor leaned out the doorway, saluted me, then pulled the door closed.

  I saluted back, perhaps the first I’d ever done with any feeling, as the train disappeared down the line.

  I heard footsteps close by.

  “Not a bad dismount for a novice.”

  “Aye, I’ve had a bit of practice lately,” I turned to Ivanhoe, walking along a row of stationary cattle cars. “I seem to recall jumping out the back of a butcher’s van.” Yet another reference to the botched attempt to rescue Balfour.

  Ivanhoe’s face fell. “I remember.”

  Yes, he would. But I would also remember his face as he lobbed the grenades into Balfour’s interrogation chamber; I’d never seen a man in as much mental anguish.

  “But let’s get you out of the country, shall we?” Ivanhoe recovered well, reminding me of my mission into the unknown.

  I looked back at the distant train. “Someone will get my suitcase, won’t they?”

  Ivanhoe nodded. “You’ll get it back, don’t worry.” I suppose when the larger task is getting an agent through German lines to Canada, the easy part was collecting one item of luggage.

  The first stage was simple; a walk across train lines, out onto the road, to the main tram line, and a tram back into town.

  The supposed job I was taking in the Times in London was now a distant memory, replaced by the wonders of exactly how the ‘organization’ were going to sneak me out of the country and away to Canada. To be honest, I’d spent so much time wondering of the details of my journey, I hadn’t even given much thought to what I would be doing there. I had some blurry vision of meetings, and maybe seeing Churchill, and perhaps being given a medal for thinking up the underground newspaper; The Tree of Liberty, copies of which were now circulating widely in Edinburgh.

  A medal from Churchill? Some chance.

  The tram took us to the top of London Road, and a second one took us along Princes Street, probably just a few yards from Mum and Frances if they were going straight back home; needless to say I was extremely nervous along that stretch. Once past Haymarket, I started to relax as far as meeting a family member was concerned.

  We got off at Edinburgh Zoo, where a car was waiting. Here Ivanhoe shook my hand, then held it out. “Wedding ring.”

  I frowned. “Why… ?”

  “Don’t ask. It’ll be better if I keep it for you.”

  As I dropped it into his hand, he wished me good luck for the journey, and walked across the road.

  It felt somehow strange to be headed for such a distant shore with no luggage, but orders were orders, and all I had were a few green pound notes and my German-issued ID.

  The driver introduced himself as Archie Hanlon, and I shook his hand on getting inside, giving him a false name almost as a matter of course.

  “Just in case we get stopped, you’re heading for Oban.” Archie said, “You’ve to stand on the far quay with a copy of the Glasgow Herald under your arm. Six o’clock.”

  “Okay,” I digested the simple facts, knowing he’d have been given the basics, and no more.

  He soon drove out of Edinburgh, past the village of Kirkliston, and headed for Falkirk and Stirling, we’d be spending a lot of time in the tourist parts of lower Scotland, the names passed me in a semi-daze; Callander, Balquidder, Tyndrum, Dalmally. Although Archie started the trip in full blether-mode, he soon slowed down the chat when he realized that my answers were single words. Loose talk, no matter on any level, sunk ships, and since I was headed for one, I didn’t give him any inkling to myself, my personality, or my purpose.

  I spent my time looking out the passenger window, watching the delights of rural Scotland pass me by.

  Five hours later, having just driven a hundred miles or so, we ran down the brae into Oban.

  The large bay was empty, just a few boats tied to the quay, and those mostly small fishing vessels. Colors hit me from all angles; the change of autumnal color in the leaves, the blue of the bay, the white painted railings of the quay, and the gaudy shop fronts. Just for a snap-shot, it seemed inconceivable that such a quaint town could be under foreign rule.

  But we soon saw the enemy’s presence; an armored car parked at the docks, a few German guards, rifles casually slung over shoulders, swastikas on government buildings.

  I thanked Archie for his transport, and walked onto the pavement that ran to the main quay. I looked at my watch, just after three in the afternoon; even the pubs would be closed.

  I spotted a newsagents and headed towards it. “Herald, please,” I passed sixpence to the lady behind the counter. “Is there anywhere in town I can while away an hour or two?”

  She pointed back away from the main harbor. “The Columba hotel might stay open, there’s a few fishermen gets locked in.”

  I gave thanks, and walked over to the hotel which dominated the small northern part of the bay, a large red-stone building with two circular observation towers on the seaward side.

  The girl on the desk was as quaint as could be, very country, very rural. “Yes sir, what can ah do for ye, sir?”

  “Is the bar open?”

  “No sir, it’s shut, it’ll no’ open until five.”

  I slipped my ID into my hand, held my thumb over the main stuff, but left the German stamp very visible. “So if I barge down that door…” I pointed to the closed door, marked ‘saloon bar’, “There’ll be no one inside?”

  Her shoulders slumped, and she walked away, rounding the
counter, and crossed to the door. Three sharp knocks, then two more. The door opened.

  “Gentleman wants a drink.”

  The man inside poked his head out. “An’ does he know he’ll be payin’?”

  I pushed past the girl. “I dinna mind payin’ extra,” I crossed into the Glasgow idiom easily.

  “Aye, come on in then.” he smiled.

  Considering it might be my last for a few days, I sat in the corner, reading my rival newspaper, and enjoying four pints of reasonable beer; Belhaven too, from my neck of the woods, well, Dunbar.

  At five thirty I walked south along the harbor wall, Glasgow herald tucked under my arm. At a line of low warehouses I was met by a burly man emerging from the first boat. “You’re bloody late!” he bellowed, advancing on me.

  I could hardly believe he could be so direct, with a German soldier paying particular attention just a few yards away.

  I looked at my watch. “It’s only twenty to six!” I protested.

  “Dinna gi’es yer pish!” he retorted, taking a swing at me. Instinctively ducking, he missed. “Get bloody well onboard.”

  I slunk past the smirking guard, the amused German holding a hand over his mouth.

  The sailor tried to kick me twice as I hastily ran aboard the nearest boat, The Flycatcher, Oban.

  “Get below ya wee rascal!”

  Finding only one door into the small superstructure, I slipped inside, the burly man following immediately afterwards. He shut the door behind him, and turned, smiling. “Sorry about that, mate. I’d primed Fritz out there with the story you were my friend’s son, and making us late. That way there’d be no papers checked.” We shook hands. “Scanlon, Henry Scanlon.”