The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden, Part 8 of 12

Lucky Ford has plunged headfirst into the Office’s strange war. Now he finds himself behind enemy lines. Does he have what it takes to face down the horrors of Department Three on their home turf?

The Dragon, the Wolf, and the Maiden is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, or as a DRM-free ePub!

This Part 8 of our epic adventure with Lucky and the Office. If you aren’t caught up yet, check out Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, and Part 7 before reading any further.

Content Warnings: Violence, Gun Violence, Death, Mild Swearing, Tobacco Use, Enslavement, Nazis

SATURDAY NIGHT, JULY 10, 1942
THE ROAD TO VESUVIUS
OUTSIDE THE CITY OF NAPLES, ITALY

Someone ripped the black hood away, its coarse fabric rasping against Lucky's face. Bright spotlights burned his eyes and he screwed them shut against the harsh glare. He knew it was still the middle of the night, but whatever the krauts were doing, they had lit up this area bright as high noon. The krauts did not care that there were Allied bombers just a few miles away.

Gerhardt grabbed Lucky's head with both and wrenched his face upward, forcing him to look up from the floor of the rumbling halftrack. He hissed into Lucky’s ear:

“I thought you might be interested to see what you thought you and your little friends came here to destroy tonight, Herr Ford.”

His breath was hot against Lucky's cheek. Lucky's vision came back slowly, red and squiggly on the edges while his eyes adjusted to the unnatural brilliance.

Gerhardt was squatting in front of him, digging his skeletal fingers into Lucky's cheekbones and throat to hold Lucky's face just inches from his own. He twisted Lucky's head around, making him look out past his bound and hooded comrades to the outside of the vehicle.

Beyond the gun slit Lucky could see the rising slope of Vesuvius. Even a mile out, the mountain deformed the land into a swollen mass that rose above the horizon into a towering gray peak. The gravel road the small convoy was rumbling down had recently been cut deep into the slope.

Even in the middle of the night, under the threat of aerial bombardment, work on the road continued. The thousands of shackled civilians were breaking and hauling volcanic rock, widening the roadway. Banks of searing arc lamps lit their work, and roving bands of armed, black-uniformed SS men paced among them, their chained attack dogs snapping and snarling at their charges. Not a single laborer dared to slow their work as the halftracks clanked past.

A rifle cracked up ahead, causing all of the workers to wince. None dared react more than that.

The convoy steadily rolled into view of a circle of guards. They spun to salute the halftracks, revealing the crumpled woman they were standing over. The workers nearby continued to smash rocks and shovel gravel, ignoring the murder even as tears mingled with sweat on their dust-coated faces.

One man stood out as Lucky rode past. He worked near the scene, close enough to notes the killers’ faces but far enough away to remain unnoticed. Unlike the majority of the ragged, bedraggled people, he was large, with hard-worked muscles bulging under his ragged shirt. Dark hair hung around his face, stringy with sweat, but his mustache was meticulously groomed. Most other prisoners were bearded with the ungroomed whiskers of those desperate to survive.

As the convoy rolled past he looked up for an instant, studying the vehicles like a predator. That half-second was all Lucky needed to see that this man wasn't afraid, he wasn’t crying. His eyes danced back and forth as he studied the vehicles. Lucky knew the look. The convoy was being cased. This guy would know the armaments, number of passengers, and ID numbers of each half-track. What he intended to do, Lucky had no idea.

Then, as quick as he had looked up, the man's posture became dull and broken again, and he continued to beat stone into road gravel.

“These people, you will soon find, are in a significantly more fortunate position than you and your comrades,” Gerhardt growled. He hadn't seen what Lucky'd seen. “If not for their work, Vesuvius would simply be a pile of rock. Work will earn them their reward.”

Lucky knew enough to know that Nazis didn’t make deals like that. Weren’t any reward coming for these folks. They’d be used up and thrown away.

Gerhardt chuckled, adding:

“Our agents say they call I'm told they call it 'le Facui del Drago.' They claim that Vesuvius is the manifestation of some mythological serpent, can you believe that? But, one cannot blame them for clinging to such superstitions. I must always remind myself that these are criminals, perverts, dissidents, and undesirables. To them, everything is a dragon.”

As they rumbled along, the road cut deeper and deeper into the rising slope as it battled to stay level. Every foot forward meant tons of stone had been dug out by hand, by forced labor. Every inch was paid for in blood.

The half-tacks ground to a halt. Gerhardt wrestled Lucky's head further around, forcing him to see what was up ahead. The carved-out road had become like an artificial grotto. Shear cliffs at the road's edge boxed them. It all terminated with a set of doors unlike any Lucky had ever seen.

The doors loomed over the convoy, fifty feet tall at least, taller than any building in Lucky's hometown. Each was carved from a single piece of volcanic stone, then reinforced with blacked steel bands. A huge seal twelve feet across held these doors shut. It was marked with an emblem Lucky almost recognized, like a swastika but with many more arms than it should have.

A small light flashed out of the rock wall beside the idling convoy. The strange crooked cross high above rotated within its seal, groaning as metal dragged against stone.

The doors began to grind against each other, sending an echo down the grotto. Tons of concrete scraped against hand-smoothed volcanic stone. The doors began to move, splitting apart and swinging outward to reveal hungry, magnetic blackness within.

The halftracks turned off their headlights and lurched forward into the maw. The blackness swallowed the convoy whole. The doors shuddered and wheezed again, shutting behind the convoy with inevitable finality.

Cavernous darkness enveloped them. The three halftracks slowed to a halt in the abyss, then turned off their engines. In the dark, the sound of the railroad-tie-sized bolts within the door dragging as they slammed closed reverberated through Lucky's marrow.

Gerhardt's malicious whisper was the only sound to pierce the thick darkness as the echoes of the slamming fortress doors bled off to silence:

“I'm glad I removed your hood, Herr Ford, this is my favorite part.”

His cold fingers dug even further into Lucky's neck, holding his head immobile next to the slit.

In the darkness, small red flashlights clicked on. Reverberating footsteps, heavier than any man's, bounced off distant stone walls. Lucky counted three lights on his side of the halftrack. The lights bobbed with each pounding step, bringing them warily closer like a circling predator. Lucky sat in silence, more curious than scared. The closest light had moved to within a few feet of the halftrack. He could smell gun-oil and cured leather and he could hear a soft, pneumatic hissing and the scrape of metal on metal.

Gerhardt's grip on his neck relaxed, and he called out into the darkness in German. It sounded almost friendly, like he was smiling as he spoke.

“Ja, Sturmbannführer,” an unseen kraut replied. Lights in the fortress entrance bloomed slowly, until the entire hall was illuminated. It was enormous, as tall and deep as a cathedral. The krauts could have dry-docked a ship in there and still had room for a zeppelin or two. The thudding footsteps brought Lucky's attention back down to the ground.

Seven heavily-armored men surrounded the halftracks, small red flashlights clipped to their shoulders. They looked like medieval warriors, complete with chestplates, greaves, gauntlets, and faceplates topped with Wehrmacht helmets. Their armor was flat black, dark as Pennsylvania coal. Each of the faceless soldiers held an MG 42 heavy machine gun leveled at the halftracks. The men had formed a crossfire around the convoy, and could have shredded all three in an instant if they so chose.

“You see, Herr Ford, one cannot be too careful with people like you and your friends running around. One of my colleagues, Herr Oberndorf, has generously lent me use of a panzerritter squad, and, as you can see, they are very dedicated to security,” Gerhardt said. The sinewy Nazi kicked open the tailgate and jumped onto the stone floor. “Come, I know the panzerritter are new to you.”

Lucky hesitated for a moment, still in awe of the arches and buttresses holding the huge room together. Gerhardt's face warped into a cruel scowl and he lunged into the back of the halftrack, grabbing Lucky by his collar. He hauled backward and threw him clear of the tailgate.

Lucky landed heavily, unable to catch himself with both hands bound behind his back. He felt his cheek drag across stone, stinging sharply. Spreading warmth told him he was bleeding.

Lucky groaned as Gerhardt rolled him onto his back with the toe of his gleaming jackboot. The Nazi crouched over him, examining the scrape on his face.

“You'll forgive me if I don't sympathize with your injury.” Gerhardt hissed as he ran his finger down the deep burn marring his own face. He stood and turned to the closest armored soldier, speaking pleasantly again in German.

The masked soldier's voice was metallic and raspy in his reply to Gerhardt. His faceplate was featureless flat metal slab, an inch thick at least, with a pair of thin slits to allow him to see. The armor groaned, clanked, and wheezed as he marched over. He stood over Lucky and stared down at him as if he were some wayward kitten. He was finally close enough for Lucky to get a good look.

The outer armor was thick, unyielding, and covered the man's whole body, but beneath its shell the suit was alive with constant motion. Dozens of hydraulic pistons made continuous adjustments to keep the man standing beneath the weight of his steel plating and weaponry. A compact air compressor rattled and coughed, powering those mechanical muscles from the small of the panzerritter's back. When a small gap opened at the man's armpit, Lucky could see those pistons scraping across reinforced chain mail, each ring small and strong enough to catch all but the most determined bullets and shrapnel.

The whole suit must have weighed near five hundred pounds, but with the hydraulic assistance the panzerritters were able to carry their heavy machine guns like they were kids playing war with sticks.

“These are not little guards or conscripts, you know,” Gerhardt explained. Lucky could tell.

Each armored Nazi had decorated his armor as if he were a medieval knight straight out of Camelot. One had a leering totenkopf skull painted on his faceplate while another's chest was adorned with an intricate coat-of-arms. The panzerritter standing over Lucky had tattooed every square inch of his armor with kill markers, everything from planes and tanks to hospitals and churches.

“Sturmmann Meyer,” Gerhardt said. The panzerritter’s gauntlet closed around Lucky’s bicep like a vice. He dragged him to his feet on command. Up close, Lucky could see pits and divots in Meyer’s helmet and breastplate. Bullets had hit this man dead on and he’d kept going.

Lucky watched as the rest of the hooded officials, nine remaining, were dragged from the halftracks and lined up behind Lucky. The panzerritters took up positions around them, MG 42's unwavering.

“Follow me, Herr Ford. If I have not yet convinced you that your mission was suicidal at its most realistic, perhaps the doktor can,” Gerhardt said.

Meyer prodded Lucky with the barrel of his machine gun, urging him forward. Gerhardt began walking toward an open hatch embedded in the wall. At the base of the monstrous cavern, it looked like a mouse hole. Lucky followed, still considering the dings in Meyer’s armor. It looked intimidating, and it had definitely stopped its share of bullets. Thing is, a lot of things could resist small arms fire, but a Garand's thirty-ought-six bullets might be a different story. Lucky hoped he'd get the chance to try.

Beyond the hatch was long tunnel, painted white with the kind of glossy hospital paint that one can wipe blood from with a wet towel. Gerhardt strolled ahead, past doors marked with military acronyms and project names Lucky couldn't hope to decipher. The tunnels within the mountain twisted and turned like it was a termite mound. The officials trailed behind them like blind, shackled ducklings. The panzerritters’ steps thundered up and down the long tunnel.

“I would like to be honest with you for a moment, Herr Ford,” Gerhardt started, not even bothering to look back as he spoke. “But I would request the same courtesy in return. I think we have grown very close in the past day or so. Would you be honest with me, my friend?”

“What do you want me to say?” Lucky managed to mutter. He was trying to memorize all of the things he was seeing around them, every turn they took. Each intersection and door looked exactly the same: a white hallway bisecting into two white hallways, each studded with heavy swinging hatches. Once Gerhart opened his mouth, whatever memorization system Lucky had attempted dissolved into the aether.

“You shouldn't be afraid to say exactly what you are thinking. Honesty in this place would be a refreshment,” Gerhardt said. He spun around to face Lucky, walking backwards so he could stare at him while he spoke. “I know you Amerikaners are famous for being blunt and hot-headed, so in the spirit of honesty, please do not hold back. So, to start off honestly: I am going to kill you today no matter what you say, so do not be afraid to speak from your heart.”

“In that case, I think you're a couple nuts short of a full sack,” Lucky snapped. A couple of the closest officials nearly stifled chuckles.

Lucky was surprised at himself. He thought he’d be scared, thought he’d be livid. No, he was annoyed. This blowhard cannibal monster was going to kill him, and all Lucky could think about was how this bastard was a speed bump between him and his mission: to find Grease.

“Finally, someone unafraid to think! Frankly, Herr Ford, it is good to be spoken in this manner. Everyone here is afraid to confront my reality, afraid I will have them killed for seeing me as anything but a hero of the Reich,” Gerhardt said.

“You aren't a hero, you're a rabid animal,” Lucky said. “You shredded my friends alive. You loved it.”

“And what would your friends be doing were you all still happy and together and alive, I wonder?” Lucky could hear Gerhardt smirk without looking up at him. “You would all be becoming heroes by killing my countrymen, would you not? Is it true that not a single Italian soldier survived your attack on that observation post? Those men were only there to record data for the Klagemaur Mädchen and you slaughtered them all. Scientists and radio men, not soldiers. More of you survived my Vargulf than those observers survived you.”

Lucky remembered the buck of the Garand in his hands as he shot Italian after Italian in that anti-aircraft battery.

“Those weren’t some paper-pushers, they were shooting men out of the air!” Lucky protested. He knew he wasn't like Gerhardt. Lucky fought for good reasons, for friends and country. He fought like a man, like men had always fought, not like this animal who perverted science and his own body for a desperate upper hand.

“I understand you also killed one of the Brüderlichkeit, the Brotherhood. It was he who called me, you know. It seems Bruder Sechs was more dedicated to protecting his information than his life. It is a shame he did not fry you like an onion when he had the chance.”

Gerhardt was talking about the bald SS officer, the pale Nazi who had shot Parker and killed Sergeant Burke with the I-A grenade, literally frying him where he stood in a burst of hot blue light. Gerhardt continued:

“The Brüderlichkeit are one of the Führer's personal projects. He would not be pleased that a simple enlisted Amerikaner killed one of his first generation.”

“Whatever that guy was, he deserved to die,” Lucky muttered.

“Ah, a true hero,” Gerhardt replied, smug. He spun back around and remained quiet for a little while after that, bootsteps echoing down the long hallway. Even this had been hand-carved by the legion of Italian slaves: Lucky could see inconsistencies in the chisel work. Massive cables had been bolted to the walls, and water, steam pipes, and ventilation ducts clung to the ceiling. The tunnel was gradually taking them into the lower depths of the volcano. The air was noticeably warmer, and a slight sulfur smell added a sting to every breath.

Gerhardt began to speak again:

“You see, Herr Ford, your nation has no business in this war. America entering the European theater is another example of the supreme hypocrisy exhibited by you as a nation. You have no right to judge our actions.”

“What are you talking about?” Lucky asked.

“Once, a nation, brought together after a time of conflict, began to expand across the continent it was rightly justified to govern under one flag. It knew it what was right for its land and its people and it let nothing slow its expansion to the western sea. Anyone who stood in the way was either wholly absorbed or wholly destroyed. The name given to this practice was 'manifest destiny.' Have you heard of it?”

“That isn't what that was,” Lucky said.

“The Third Reich and the United States are not so different, you see,” Gerhardt taunted.

“Shut your mouth, we don't round people up or kill entire towns!”

“Are you not forgetting your Indian reservations? Perhaps you have heard of the generously traded smallpox blankets? I have read that the making your country cost your Indians tens of millions of lives. How can you justify fighting us for pursuing our destiny, when, so few years ago, you were still slaughtering the natives of your own land?”

Lucky had no response.

“We have heard of your camps, as well,” Gerhardt sneered. “Amateur at best, but enough to hold Japanese civilians who had never intended to fight you.”

They walked in silence again.

Lucky was fuming. His country was not Gerhardt's country. They weren’t anything alike. He knew things weren’t great for everyone back home, but things could get better. He knew they could, if folks stood up to things that were wrong.

The Nazi came to a sudden halt and turned to face Lucky once more. The panzerritters on their flanks grabbed the blind officials and held them in place. Lucky stopped inches from Gerhardt's face, almost furious enough to try something.

“I'm not trying to turn you, Herr Ford, I have enough lackeys in my command,” Gerhardt whispered. “I know I am a monster. I have feared eternal damnation. I have killed children, I have consumed the flesh of men. I spit on what was meant to be. The old ways would say that I am abomination.”

“If you know this, why do you keep doing this?” Lucky asked.

“I have grown beyond the old ways, beyond the scrutiny of those that cling to them. I have learned that how God left this world and abandoned its stewardship long ago.”

A wistful tremor twisted the flesh around Gerhardt’s scar. He said:

“I became this for my people. Humanity has become weak. It needs men of vision to pull it out of its morass. It needs men with hearts of stone and reddened hands to sort the chaff from the grain. I can do the hard work to save this world, but the world that is regained will not be a home for monsters. If this work is done right, there will be no place in it for me other than in legend. I had to become the…. the man…”

Gerhardt hesitated, unsure that the word still applied to him. After a second's consideration, he was sure:

“I am the man I am because of you. You who resist progress. Those who die to save those who cannot save themselves: the weak, the malformed, the degenerates, and the unclean. Your resistance to the natural order has forced my hand, Herr Ford, you have made me do these things.”

As quickly as the brief trembling notes of emotion that betrayed Gerhardt surfaced, he pushed them back into the dark places they had hidden. He looked at Lucky, then sighed as if he had finally gotten that first sip of cold water after a long march. He smirked, the expression contorted by his scar, saying:

“It has been a long time since I have been able to speak like this, my friend. It is a shame that your life ends tonight.”

Gerhardt forced his smile away then did an abrupt left-face, spinning toward the unmarked steel hatch to Lucky's right. He reached out and wrapped his skeletal hand around the handwheel and cranked it counter-clockwise. The thick door creaked open and flooded the stone hallway in a sterile wash of white light.

Gerhardt stood to the side, holding the hatch wide for his guests. With his other hand, he motioned for Lucky to enter.

“Go in and take a seat, Herr Ford. The doktor will be with you shortly.”

SATURDAY NIGHT, JULY 10, 1942
SS DEPARTMENT THREE BASE: VESUVIUS
OUTSIDE THE CITY OF NAPLES, ITALY

The panzerritters herded Lucky and the officials into a galley-style room. It was long and narrow, devoid of any feature save for a dozen white chairs bolted along one long wall, a white curtain concealing the wall opposite them, and three bare bulbs in the ceiling.

Meyer grabbed Lucky by his elbows and shoved him down to the second chair from the end. His grip was unrelenting. He removed Lucky's handcuffs and shoved him down into the seat, then locked him in place with a set of cuffs built into the chair's arms.

Once Lucky was immobilized, Meyer moved on to the other officials.

To his right, the panzerritter with the painted skull on his faceplate threw another official into a chair, clamped his wrists and ankles into place, then ripped his hood off, letting a mane of red hair fell free. Loud MacLeod looked around, then grinned at his captor and Lucky.

“Well 'ey there Lucky. Told ye we'd make it to the mount'n, dinnae?” the Scotsman said. He flexed his fingers, trying to get the blood flowing in his hands. The cuffs were tight over his wrists. He took a deep breath and held it for a while. There were red beads blossoming between the black threads on his stitched up arm. MacLeod looked almost frail.

“What happens now?” Lucky whispered. “Wha’s the plan?”

“‘Old fast, lad, ‘old fast,” he said, attempting to grin. Maybe he thought it would inspire confidence. His sweat was turning his red mane into limp tendrils.

“Have we got anything to pick these cuffs?”

MacLeod’s false grin further faltered.

“Ah lost me 'ole squad the last ah saw these 'airy buggers. If this chair keeps ‘em off o’ me, ah pick the chair then, don’t ah?” he hissed. He collapsed back and stared at his bare knees.

Meyer threw the next official in his seat, right beside MacLeod. Bucket wheezed as soon as they pulled his hood off:

“Why'd these jokers even blindfold us? We knew where they were taking us, and that kraut didn't shut his damn trap the whole ride.”

“He wanted was to show me how little he thinks of us,” Lucky muttered.

“Oh wow, this must he a new model,” Bucket said, not hearing Lucky. He was leaning down to examine his cuffs and speaking to no one in particular. “See that hole under your wrist? Pneumatic injector. They can stick us any time they want. And probably… yup, there it is. If you try to force the cuffs, it’ll stick you automatically.”

“I trust we will all behave accordingly,” the Colonel said, He'd been locked into a chair and unhooded to Bucket's right. “And Lucky, I surmised the same from his monologue. I can only assume your excellent right cross had more of an affect on him than he'd like to admit.”

The old officer leaned forward to wink at Lucky down the row, saying:

“Pun intended, my boy. Right cross, indeed.”

Next to the Colonel, Miller's hood had been pulled off but the Nazis hadn't touched his gas mask. He remained calm and quiet as the panzerritters continued down the row, locking down the rest of the squad.

Lucky looked down to the end of the row. The last four officials had been unhooded: Cão, Ajax, Rossling, and Dutton. He hadn't had much of an opportunity to get to know these men, but they all had seemed as loyal, competent, and deadly as any other official he had met so far. Once the last of them was secured, Meyer made a quick trip down the whole row, taking the time to double-check that each official's arms were solidly clamped to his chair.

Satisfied that they were secure, Meyer threw his MG 42 over his shoulder, stared at his restrained prisoners for a second, then walked out of the white room, followed by the other panzerritters. The heavy steel hatch slammed shut, thick bolts locking it into the stone wall.

The Colonel looked up and down the row, taking account of his men.

“It appears as if Leftenant Neff avoided capture,” he said. Lucky knew he had seen Neff melt into the shadows right before the attack. He hoped Neff'd gotten away. They had all heard what Gerhardt had done to Lee, even if Lucky was the only one who'd been forced to watch it happen.

“Did you see where he went, Official Cão?” Miller asked. The scarred Portuguese sailor at the end of the row shook his head but stayed silent beyond an irritated grunt. He looked like a pirate out of an Errol Flynn flick, with scars cut deep as channels into his head and chest and the faded tattoo of a three-headed dog on his chest. The man had brought a holstered hatchet into Italy, along with his rifle and sidearm.

“No clues at all?” the Colonel pressed.

“He there, then he gone,” Cão muttered. It was the first time Lucky’d heard him speak.

“Indeed,” the Colonel said. “Neff always was a slippery one.”

“Doesn’t look like Gerhardt got his paws on him,” Bucket said.

“He would've showed him off to us,” Lucky said, “Like he did with Lee.”

“Indeed. Lance Corporal Lee was a decorated official who saved countless lives in the field and on the home front,” the Colonel said. “He will be missed, greatly.”

“Colonel Halistone, might I suggest more discretion? I'd hardly be surprised were the jerries listening to us on the other side of that very curtain,” Miller advised, nodding toward the white sheet that hid the opposite wall.

“Old friend, I'd be surprised if the jerries did not have a full dossier on each man here before The Express lifted off this evening. Those scoundrels obviously have someone or something monitoring us aboard the Saint George. They have been a step ahead of us for weeks,” the Colonel said. He sounded tired, as if even considering the idea that one of his own men would turn against him was draining his spirit.

“Even so, let us limit our topics of conversation to the events currently transpiring,” Miller suggested.

“Indeed,” the Colonel said. “'Loose lips' and all...”

“You're saying we got us a spy? Whiskey Dixon wasn't crazy then...” Bucket muttered, considering the implications. “But they knew we were coming here, and the only people on board who knew the exact plans are here or dead.”

Dutton, down near the far end of the row, began whispering to himself with his eyes closed. Lucky couldn’t tell if it was a prayer or what, or if it was Chinese or English. His inked calligraphy looked to cover most of his body. Lucky could see symbols starting at his wrists, continuing up his sleeves, then emerging from his collar to disappear into his hairline. Every little blue tattoo was glistening with sweat.

The Colonel continued, leaving Dutton to his recitations:

“Indeed, only the twelve men who landed in Italy tonight, Commodore Dixon and Lieutenant Benjamin, and Flight Lieutenant Seacombe knew exactly where our landing zone and rendezvous point were,” the Colonel almost whispered.

“Don't forget that goddamn Boots,” Bucket growled. “That was his factory that we got pinched in!”

“I do not think Agent Boots had anything to do with our capture, Sergeant Hall. From what Commodore Dixon has reported regarding his man, Boots hates the jerries as much as any sworn official. I find it highly unlikely he would defect now, when his homeland is on the verge of liberation,” Miller said. His voice stayed level.

“Ah'm gonna have tae agree with ye, blue-man,” MacLeod piped in. “The big buzzer 'imself was talkin' about bringin' in Boots lake 'e weren't with a dandy clue about where tae find 'im.”

“We took a calculated risk, dropping in while Agent Boots was unresponsive,” the Colonel conceded. “We relied on unfounded assumptions that his network would be omnipresent.”

“That would've just left us hanging out to dry, not under the bus,” Bucket pointed out. “Somebody flipped us to that ugly bastard.”

“It doesn't matter how, they have us,” Ajax snapped. Lucky's only impression of the Greek corporal had been him and his twin slipping a particularly robust whoopee cushion under Sergeant Rossling's can aboard the Saint George. The raucous laughter that had erupted from all three of them then was a stark contrast to his current state.

“We don't know what's going to happen, mate. Chin up,” Rossling advised, forcing a false smile.

“What’s going to happen is that they will kill us, and there won’t be anything left. Achilles won’t know what happened,” Ajax whimpered. A tear tumbled down his face. Ajax's twin had been clomping around the ship with a broken ankle and been forced to sit the Vesuvius drop out.

“He knows you love him, mate. He knows,” Rossling told him. Ajax broke down in tears at that, leaning his head against Rossling's shoulder as he sobbed uncontrollably. The Greek's breakdown pushed Bucket closer to hysteria.

“Who the hell hung us out like this?” Bucket snapped. He was getting desperate. His skinny wrists glistened with sweat, slipping around in his restraints as he began to shake. “Goddamn it! Who did this to me?”

Before him, the white curtain hissed as it began sliding open all on its own. Bucket froze in place, Ajax and Dutton went silent.

The curtain revealed a long window that opened up to an operating room. Stainless steel instruments and fixtures gleamed like they had just been shined. A sterile examination table dominated the center of the room, with cuffs and manacles built into it. The table stood on a hinged stand that would let it rotate upwards into a fully vertical position.

The curtain finally traversed the entire length of the long window, revealing a previously-hidden door. The handle turned and in walked a small, mousey codger in his mid-sixties wearing a tweed jacket and wrinkled slacks. His hair was thinning and wild all at once, rearing up from his spotted scalp in manic curly tufts. His squinty eyes were magnified by absurdly large glasses that ruled his entire face.

A rigid-looking young man in a black SS dress uniform with razor-sharp creases followed, hot on the old man's heels. The young officer went so far with his formal uniform as to even include his ceremonial saber. He carried a steel clipboard stacked tall with papers and an air of impatience with the small wizened man. He urgently talked to the little man's back in rushed German.

The little man heedlessly surged forward, dismissing his SS attendant with a wave of his hand, and stopped inches away from Cão, the last man on the row.

He slipped his thick glasses to the tip of his nose and examined the restrained official. He said something quick and offhand over his shoulder to his shadow. His orders were nothing more than a quick grunt which set off his assistant's pen in a frantic bout of note-taking.

Two seats to Lucky's right, the Colonel leaned over and whispered to Bucket, then back to his left to whisper to MacLeod. Bucket leaned to his right to repeat the message, and MacLeod to Lucky, on his left. The Scotsman just said one word, a haunting name Lucky had first heard during Miller's briefing:

“Metzger.”

Like what you read? Buy me a beer or @ me about it.

Copyright © 2022 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Dudu Torres.