Weird War Tales: Stare Not Into the Abyss #1

France 1942
Professor Destrey Sommers admired the small rough cut gemstone amulet in its new place of honor among his collection. The ebony stone enticingly reflected the feeble light from the single bulb in his study. His eyes glittered in anticipation of unwrapping its mystery. As objet d’art, it wasn’t anything remarkable, quite plain actually, and the simple hammered gold chain and setting paled in comparison to the other gaudy treasures that attracted the museum gawkers.

His once aristocratic features were crumpling with age as the years of squinting at small, indecipherable text in bad lighting caught up with him, his back beginning to develop the stoop so common to the elderly. His hair had already paid the price after years under murderous sunlight in ungodly places and the only thing still young about him was the fresh tobacco stains on his teeth from a unsightly habit he picked up from long-dead colleagues in the Great War.

The mind, however. The mind was still as sharp as his tongue with lazy students.

It intrigued him why such a bauble was amongst the treasure trove. It was a small matter to never have it inventoried and even easier to smuggle it out of Africa. Perhaps it had been the property of some child princess or part of a small dowry. The reality of history usually was far less glamorous but the fantasy still remained strong before the light of fact took over. It should have bothered him for one of his academic stature to be pilfering like a common thief but it didn’t. Years of low pay and inane university politics and backbiting had seen to the merciful death of that moral. He had his own comfort and interests to look out for.

The faint strands of Parademarsch der Kraftfahr-Kampftruppe wafted in through the drawn curtains. He’d be damned if he’d let something as small as occupation by the Germans distract him from his studies. Sommers lived in the past and had little use for the present. It was some small courtesy then that he never saw the gun that sullied his cranium against the wall.





The raven haired woman sat in the darkness, faint cracks of sunlight filtering in through the rough planks covering her windows, the only other illumination from a sputtering candle that reflected dully from the gunmetal of the Luger in front of her. Given her training, she expected patience would have become second nature by now but it hadn’t. Communications had become erratic if you wanted to be generous with the word since Hitler invaded Poland. Most of her acquaintances had fled Europe for the Americas rather than fall under the thrall of the Spear.

It was with no small measure of irony that she stayed. There was no danger of corruption for someone who had all taints of any power ripped away centuries ago. She had played the great game twice. One win. One loss. So why did it feel like she got the worst of the deal?

Instead, she helped where she could. There were other groups that benefited from her expertise. Mystics, academics and antiquarians all noticed the interest paid by the Nazis on objects both sacred and profane. Some, like her, understood the true threat and acted to secret to spirit away items that would allow the madman to tighten his hold on Europe.

She had come to ground here in this small occupied French town months ago to blend in and to await word on any other items that may have surfaced during the German pillaging of the occult history of the continent. Now there was word that the Americans were near and anything that put the soldiers on pins and needles was a good enough reason to stay hidden.

A tapping sound came from one of the windows and she cautiously swung aside one of the planks to let the waiting pigeon bobble in, reading the small note from the bird’s leg with both excitement and apprehension.

“The Eye of Calitant. Damn you, Merlin.”







Major Hans Kluge held the amulet up, admiring the waning sunlight’s glare off of it as Professor Sommers body cooled on the floor.

“That wasn’t so hard was it?” A feminine voice purred from the rapidly condensing shadows.

“I’ve killed for less,” the Army officer admitted with a shrug, “It’s a pretty but plain thing. You had better not be wasting my time, woman”

“Now why would I do that?” the voluptuous woman stepped forward, her long flowing violet robes accentuating her curves. “I expect great things from you, love. Touch the stone and see how much of a waste of time it has been.”

The Major’s dubious eyes widened as he grasped the stone, images rushing unbidden through his mind, the expanse of time opening like a exploding artillery shell, an involuntary gasp escaping his lips at the deluge. The carnal pleasures of the previous nights with this woman washed out of his mind as his senses reeled in the overwhelming knowledge of not only the now but also of things to come.

“Yes, my dearest, you will know everything your enemies are going to do. You will know their movements, their plans…,” she cooed as she pressed herself sensuously against him, “… their desires. Conquest will be easy.” Her fingernails playfully ran down his cheek.

He released his grip on the stone and tried not to pant for breath as he gripped the edge of a desk for support. He wasn’t some raw cadet but his knees nearly buckled under him. Years of the political game within the ranks had honed him like a knife. Nothing came for free or without some hidden cost.

“And what do you get out of this?” he croaked, suspicions rising.

“Chaos, my dear boy. Pure chaos,” she smiled wickedly.





Somewhere Over the Atlantic:
The F5F Skyrockets leveled out at a hazy fifteen thousand feet as its black-clad pilot quickly took check of the rest of his flight. Andre was at his four o’clock, Olaf on his six and Chuck off his nine. Hans and Stan were stuck back on the island with mechanical problems but four should be enough for what they were doing. The hum of 2,400 horses helped soothe the morbid duty they were now engaged in.

It was queer calling it “search and rescue” when you were the Joe who riddled the other guy’s plane with bullets and watched the flaming wreck plummet into the sea. Scratch that. Hypocritical even. No parachute but, then again, no body either. Blackhawk mulled to himself that, as many times as they thought they had killed the elusive General Haifisch, he kept on coming back from certain death. Of all the Nazis that they had faced, the pirate who called himself Killer Shark was the most cunning and frustrating.

A distant rumble of thunder rattled the canopies of the sleek black twin-engined planes as the intensity of the wave tops beneath them began to froth and the already gray horizon took on a darker tinge. There was a squall brewing and none of them relished the idea of spending any longer out here than they had to. Wind gusts were already starting to make level flight something that required constant attention.

“Qui sème le vent récolte la tempête,” Andre’s voice came over the radio.

“English, Frenchie,” Chuck’s immediate rejoinder came back

“I’ll make it simple for you, cowboy. If you play with fire, you get burned.” Blackhawk broke in. “Less flappin’ your lips everyone and more looking. There has to be some oil slick or debris down there somewhere.”

“Who put a burr under your saddle today?” Chuck Wilson muttered to himself and grinned sardonically before radioing back. “Yessir. Needle in a haystack it is, sir”

The majority of the flight’s halfhearted search of the choppy Atlantic was interrupted.

“Plane. Ten o’clock,” Olaf’s voice crackled in their ears.

Their diamond formation immediately broke in two as leaders and wingmen formed up on each other and banked towards the approaching black speck against the darkening sky. Andre and Chuck raced ahead as the others went into a wide turn to come up on the opposite side.

At over two hundred and fifty miles per hour, they streaked past the slow moving twin-winged plane, it’s frame rocking against the draft of the speedier Skyrockets.

“It’s a biplane. Green. No pontoons. Looks old” Chuck paused with a snort of disbelief as he peered against the encroaching gloom, “Is that guy wearin’ a hood?”

Andre gasped as he hit his flaps to slow during his second slower fly-by.

“Mon Dieu! Le Bourreau!”





Berlin:
Few men ventured this far below headquarters. Many of those with the proper clearance and papers dreaded the fact that they had them. This was the lair of Branch Eight of the SS. Gone was the orderly efficiency that Germany was known for and instead vile madness reigned from the blackest of the dark arts to the grand guignols of science gone awry. Nothing was discouraged or off-limits to the various mystics, scientists and lunatics that ran the asylum.

The man sat in his office, glancing in irritation at the occasional muffled scream that penetrated his steel-barred door as he shuffled through a stack of reports on his desk.

Merson’s project was coming along after his earlier prototype was found to be defectively non-insulated against electric shock. Their agent in the American Project M was beginning to gather information. Degaton’s Infinitor project was moving along even if the man at the desk saw little point in it and then there was this information about something called the Eye of Calitant and its current location.

The occult was not something he had dealings with. Facts and measurable results for the Reich would win the war not hocus-pocus. Still, the Fuhrer wanted these superstitious bygones and it was up to Branch Eight to get them.

He sighed and took off his spectacles. Another valuable agent of theirs that could be better used for the war effort sent off on another pointless errand. He consulted the report again and a map of France on the wall before picking up the telephone.

“Hanne?” He frowned and paused as his receptionist spoke, “Yes I am aware of the smell coming from thirty-three. No there isn’t anything I can do about it. Just take a letter for Captain Krestler.”





Back in France:
“Like angry wasps with hammers.” The thought flashed through his mind as the pounding noises that you never got used to erupted again. Jeb Stuart wasn’t worried about the occasional burst of machine gun bullets that raked his steel hide. The armor, thin as it was, could stop that - it was the inevitable close assault and the possibility of looking up to see a hot potato coming at your ugly mug through your own hatch that was every commander’s worry. He reassured himself that his Colt was still at his hip and lurched to steady his footing as Bill gave it the gas again. The M3 Stuart leapt ahead like a startled cat under his boots after making sure the latest pile of rubble wouldn’t foul up their treads or hid a mine. This had been the order of the day: move and stop, move and stop… and sweat Jeb reminded himself. Getting some air was a good way to earn a sniper an early Christmas bonus, so they all suffered as the engine, sun and their own fire turned their sanctuary into a hotbox.

He couldn’t even remember this little town’s name. It was a number on a map. They all tended to blur together at some point anyhow. Only the amount of destruction differed. The quaint rustic look now marred by dirty, stained pocked walls that you convinced yourself wasn’t bloodstained and the chunks of homes that had seen the likes of Napoleon strewn in the streets like the discarded playthings of TNT kids. At least they only hoped to deal with infantry. The heavies were all up in the countryside giving the Panzers a what-for and the heavy laden clouds above kept the buzzards in their nests. Theirs was a scouting mission in the hopes that the main advance could be spared this town and require only a smaller force to clean it up. So far that seemed to be the way of things, but Jeb also knew that it would only take a few Tigers, eluding their hunters and coming into town under the cover of night or in a rainstorm, to be a meat grinder for any grunts sent in. Their orders were to scout and, if possible, secure. His crew had faith in their “lucky” tank but Jeb knew that their kind of fortune came from beyond the grave.

Gus heaved a heavy shell into the breach and looked at him expectantly. They had gotten used to his lapses into absentness. A shrill metallic yammering of lead came from a nearby second story followed by the loud pop of one of their headlights becoming a casualty.

It wasn’t even worth yelling about. Rick had been their gunner for years and gave the command to fire.

“Let ‘em have it.”

A cordite fog enveloped the turret with a roar even as the vents began to work to clear the choking mist away. Jeb just tried to stay out of their way. There was little for him to do while buttoned up other than to try to keep an eye out for any ambush through the tiny view ports he had.

The 37mm haymaker was a bit off but it was still enough to cave in the already-damaged façade of the old hotel in a cascading pile of dust and debris. If there were any heinies left alive up there, the smart ones wouldn’t be itching for another shot headed their way. Jeb caught sight of familiar gray helmets ducking behind a crumbling wall as Bill kept them honest with the chattering thirty-cal up front.

“I think they’re trying to flank us, Jeb,” Rick chipped in. It wouldn’t take much Jeb thought - someone in a window with a rifle grenade could get in a lucky shot and they’d be on fire with no choice but to bail out into a withering hail of Kraut bullets eager to avenge their friends or roast. Things were becoming too dangerous and their snail’s pace of moving through the littered streets was just inviting trouble.

A grenade exploded off to their side prophetically a few moments later and the scattered pings of shrapnel rattled Jeb’s already fraying nerves. “To the left, Bill! Forget the street! Double time it!” Jeb barked as his driver savagely twisted gears. The battered Stuart smartly turned to the left and plowed into the front of a dressmaker’s shop, long since looted for anything of value. The stucco and wood facing gave way under fourteen tons of barreling steel in a shower of plaster, splinters and pursuing small arms fire.

However, just as soon as they entered, Bill used a word that Jeb was certain his mother would've broke out the soap for and the big M3 came to a skidding swerving halt, uprooting planks and tossing everyone about inside as the nose of the Stuart crashed into the newly created hole. The floor had given way under their weight. Fortunately, the sturdy beams that supported the cellar had held or they would have taken a tumble and been easy pickings.

Worse, their big exposed backside was still hanging out into the street, up in the air, just taunting the enemy to put a rocket into his belly. Jeb lurched to the forward port and saw what had caused the stop - a family of townsfolk huddled in fear against the wall. Another four feet and they would have crushed them. There was a single older lady and two young girls and younger son. Their wide eyes stared at the hulking tank in front of them, both seeing and, yet, not as they cowered against the far wall.

Bill screamed out the front window and frantically gestured off to a side, "Run! ... Course! ... Durchlauf!" Each attempt was a complete failure. Either they didn't understand or their terror was so overwhelming that they were frozen in place. Jeb cursed under his breath. No civilians in sight all day and the moment they needed a detour…

Bill ground the gears into reverse but only a splintering and shifting of the debris now under their treads answered his entreaty. The old floor might have not been able to stand the weight but it was doing a damned fine job of not letting them leave.

"Traverse turret!" Jeb yelled, the panic beginning to edge into his voice. Things couldn't possibly get any worse he grumbled. Then the rotating gun collided with a stone support column and stopped. "General, you having a laugh at my expense?" he thought bitterly, ‘Cause our goose is gonna get cooked here."





France, 15,000 feet:
The wind nearly ripped the handle from his grasp as Lt. Matthew Shrieve opened the side door of the gooney bird to the elements and began yelling over the drone of the engines and the roar of the night wind. The biting cold flooded the cramped and poorly lit compartment. Even Private Griffith, huddled down in a thick wool uniform, looked miserable.

Here we go again, he thought. Need to know crap that has me up here freezing my balls off and ready to jump out of a plane into who knows what for who knows what reason. It’s a good thing that I do this for kicks because it sure ain’t about the money.

“Alright you freaks! Stand in the door! You jump when I say or you get a size eleven to help you along!” Shrieve the jerk barked.

“Or the company.” Warren muttered under his breath as everyone stood up, muttering and checking their weapons, straps and packs.

The pale soldier wearing sergeant’s stripes shot Shrieve a baleful glare before diving out into the darkness as the burly man with the Browning behind him grabbed the door from Shrieve and held it open against the gale as a turbaned woman moved to the door, holding the wrap firmly against her head. The rifleman tried to say something to her as she was swept out of the plane but words, like everything else, had been ripped away from him.

“She bites, Ugly, and, dear God, think of the kids,” Shrieve ignored the pained cadaverous face and pushed him out the door. “And that ass is NAFF while on my team you understand me?” he yelled out after the plummeting figure.

“You’re a real sweetheart, lieutenant,” Warren Griffith snarled as the stepped up to take his turn to jump, “And you can shove the tough guy act. I’ve seen it done by better.”





Terra Firma:
Sergeant Frank Rock shoved the butt of his tommy gun into the kraut’s mouth with a sickening crack. Someone was going to be getting their rations though a straw. It was his, or at least Easy’s, luck to blunder right into a ambush and for his gun to jam at the worst possible time. He spared a quick look around.

Any ninety-day wonder would have had everyone suckin’ dirt the moment the drop went down on them. Their now-late lieutenant was, like so many before him, the painful victim of being predictable.

Easy charged.

The damn shock to the Jerries was about the only thing that kept ‘em from being chewed up and spit out right then and there. Hell, nobody should have known that Easy was even there. Something stunk worse than Bulldozer’s socks.

Now, it was just hairy. The occasional shot still rang out but it was all down to knives, rifle butts and bare hands. In these situations smart folks ran, Easy was just too damn stupid to know any better. Rock saw Wildman club a man with his broken gun out of the corner of his eye. Little Sure Shot was wrestling for a knife with another man on the ground. It was only a matter of time there. Everyone ‘cept the Germans knew that you didn’t fight a injun… never over a bottle of firewater and sure as hell not over a knife.

Rock lunged at another soldier who snapped off a quick hip shot that flew impossibly wide. The master sergeant socked him upside the head with a ham-fisted right cross and the German went down with a groan. Frank was on top of him in an instant, beating the man until he didn’t move.

Four Eyes and Ice Cream Soldier ran past him. Somewhere in the fight, Ice Cream had managed to fix his bayonet.

A machine gun opened fire before Bulldozer shut it up with a grenade. Rock inwardly cringed. Some of Easy wasn’t going to walk away from this fight. One of these days, it’d be his turn. Nobody was going to get out of this alive.





Limbo:
The gray mists swirled around the flickering braziers while the man in the chiton frowned as he leaned over the map spread out upon the gilded marble table. His regal features that had inspired men to glory and enemies to curses looked none the worse for his over two thousand year absence from the Earth.

Alexander, formerly of Macedon, was worried.

Boudica and John Paul Jones gazed at the map of Europe. The warrior queen absently toyed with a bronze dagger but both of them tried not the meet the eyes of their general as he brooded. While war was their purpose from here in limbo, the recent outside interference in the conflict of man had been obvious to all of them even if it hadn’t been for the golden helmed figure that strode towards them from the murk.

“Nabu or “Doctor Fate” as I believe you are calling yourself these days,” Alexander said, his frown deepening, “Things must be dire indeed if you make your presence known here beyond the pale… or do you seek a boon of the dead?”

“Things have gone out of balance,” Fate agreed grudgingly. “An ancient artifact of great power has fallen into the hands of those who have no idea of its danger.”

“And what does this have to do with us?” Boudica interrupted.

“You who side with conflict surely can see the imbalance that is asserting itself. Uncanny premonition by Germany is no great feat of generalship or mere accident. No, the Eye has fallen into their hands and they are using it for such a short-sighted goal as victory.” Fate’s eyes flashed.

Jones bristled at the idea of conquest being insignificant. “No bauble can stand in the place of courage and valor.”

“It can and it will,” Fate said sternly. “In their misguided zeal for the occult, they are unaware of the peril of using the Eye.”

“And, once again, how does this concern us?” Jones continued. “Fate, we are only concerned with our glory. It is only through the memories of our past deeds that we survive. What are the lives of men to us, we who have led them to die and seen our share of death? This is not the first war and it will not be the last. Surely this is something that your… Society can deal with?”

“They cannot as long as Hitler possesses the Spear of Destiny,” he said as his voice took on a hard edge. “And your own legends will be blotted from history or corrupted to an Aryan ideal should Hitler win this war. Think on this long before you deny me again.”

An uncomfortable silence fell as each of the shades contemplated such a fate.

Alexander raised his hand and spoke up, “Namu, the nature of the occult is beyond our ken. We, regardless of what we are now, are men. War is and always will be decided by men through sacrifice and blood. If something is creating an imbalance… and we have felt it… it must be dealt with even if we do so selfishly. What do you suggest?”

Fate composed himself before replying, “You are forbidden from interfering but you have always had your champions. Appoint one of your most reliable to assist one of my colleagues.”

“My daughters are willing to serve as was their ancestors, Lady Saint-Marie and Countess de Mortain,” Boudica chimed in, her chin raised proudly.

“No,” Alexander said after contemplating her words, “I think we need someone less… zealous. However, wait for my word, lady, we may have need of one of them yet.”

“I have nothing but the highest regards for Captain Foghorn and the Albatross.” Jones added in quickly, “He is as able-bodied as any man jack can be and she is a fine ship.”

“I’m afraid, Captain Jones, that our concerns lie on the land rather than the seas and both the man and the ship are showing their years,” Alexander the Great said.

Namu stood back and let the three debate choices. He had won his argument and it was best to let them reach their own decision without any more interference.

“We must send for General Stuart,” Alexander finally said with determination. “His services are once again called for.”





France:
Nimue Inwudu slowly picked her way through the rubble and blasted out buildings. The Germans were everywhere. Gunfire sporadically echoed faintly in the distance. The rumors of Americans nearby had proven correct. She had seen their tanks moving in the distance through her windows. Now outside, at least her dirty workman’s clothing and pinned hair under a cap didn’t attract attention like her bright-colored gypsy dresses and long hair would. She crouched behind what had once been a fountain as the sound of running footsteps grew closer and drew the Luger from beneath her coveralls.

She cursed the carelessness of Destrey Sommer. The bumbling fool never should have even had the Eye of Calitant to begin with. Now he was most likely dead and, unless she was quick about it, the Eye would be discovered and sent back to Berlin. Countless artifacts and objects of power had already come into the possession of Hitler and his mad occultists, putting more peril on the free world than any army ever could.

Three men rounded the corner lugging a heavy machine gun, one of them an officer who, in true military fashion, seemed to be doing more ordering than helping. Nimue visibly relaxed. They weren’t looking for her. From their excited conversation she did learn that there was an American vehicle in the town and it was causing trouble. They would be a good diversion while she searched for a way out of town and to Sommer’s villa where he might have hidden the Eye.

Professor Destrey Sommer, like most academics, knew he had something unique when he discovered the Eye but he failed to realize its true potential. Where he saw a mystery based in wheres and whens, he overlooked the whys. The Eye had been forsaken centuries ago by anyone skilled in the Arts and hidden away but obviously not well enough. The Eye granted prophetic vision but at a terrible cost. Rome had burned for it and Merlin, damn his soul, had secreted it away to prevent any more catastrophe.

“Mlle Nimue…” the urgent whisper hissed from nearby as she started and looked up to see Antoinette, one of the older ladies of the village, frantically motioning to her from a nearby second story window that only had the shutters open enough for her to motion and utter through.

Herself being a gypsy was almost as much a death warrant as Antoinette being a Jew, but she had kept her secret and Nimue had kept hers. It was an unlikely friendship but war made for strange circumstances. She had read the cards for the old lady many a time since Nimue had taken up living here. She was hardly inside the door before Antoinette had her arm in a trembling grip and could barely keep her voice below an excited whisper.

“J'ai vu un fantôme!” her eyes grew larger “Juste comme un de ces cowboys américains en film! Dans le marché!”

To anyone else, this would have been the ravings of someone crazy but Nimue knew that Antoinette was in full control of her senses and that, if she claims she saw a spectral American cowboy in the market, it must be so. Nimue had determined some time back that Antoinette was partially sensitive to the supernatural. It had been exciting to the old woman at first and a novelty but Nimue suspected that its charms now were few.

Artifacts in general were known to attract spirits, especially items such as the Eye with its connection to the past and the future. Many mystics and spiritualists were of the belief that the energies contained within could sunder the boundaries between this world and the afterlife. Even Felix Faust in his madness knew better than to try such folly.

Antoinette saw her musing. “Allez-vous à la malédiction gitane il?”

Nimue laughed in spite of herself. Antoinette still believed that she could “gypsy curse” someone despite how many times she told her otherwise and even more that she could do so to a phantom. Old superstitions still ran deep. However, where there was a spirit there might also be the Eye. After thanking her friend, Nimue took leave of the home out of the back way and began making her way to the market, the weight of the gun in her pocket only somewhat comforting.





“Other way!” Jeb yelled

Their barrel swung away from the stone column to face backwards as Rick desperately cranked their cannon down to accommodate for their awkward position. Gus, having already loaded, took a spell on the turret machine gun to keep the Krauts outside on their toes. The cannon blast shattered the stone wall that the Germans were using for cover. Jeb saw one guy made it to safety and kept running. The others were either dead or dying. Ominous groaning from the timbers underneath the tank after their shot made Jeb queasy. That their position was precarious would have been an understatement.

“Ever living. Never living, Jeb. So shall the twain meet and defeat will be snatched from the jaws of victory.”

“General!” Jeb said relieved and paid no attention to the looks his crew exchanged. He peered out the view port again to see the ghostly cavalryman’s mount brace its head against the front of the tank while it balanced on the cellar beams. Their tank shuddered but Jeb could feel them begin to slowly inch backwards. Jeb yelled for Bill to try again and with the help of the long deceased General J.E.B. Stuart, who acted as the guardian to his two namesakes, they quickly reversed out of the ruined shop and back onto the street which had become silent and still.

Despite the protests of his crew, Jeb opened his hatch and leaned out. The fresh air was worth a year’s pay. As usual, the ghostly prophecy had been delivered and their bacon had been pulled from the fire once again only to have their guardian disappear like the gray mists he came from. Soon other hatches were flung open after their commander didn’t get shot.

“Think that’s all of them?” Gus asked as he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Could be,” Rick mused after a long swig from his canteen, “Couldn’t been much more’n a busted up platoon here. Still nearly enough to punch our clock, though. I’m guessing most of ‘em are headed for the hills right about now.”

Jeb lowered the radio mic that he had been talking on while everyone else worked out the tension of the battle through talk and stretching their legs, “HQ says to sit tight, secure the town if we can and take care of any German resistance. They’re still out Tiger hunting.”

Bill was walking around their Stuart and suddenly drew his sidearm and pointed it at the edge of a building “Ich kann Sie sehen! Auslieferung!”

A woman in dirty men’s coveralls stepped from the dim corner, her hands raised.

Bill relaxed a bit but the gun didn’t waver as he switched to French, “Que voulez-vous?”

“I can speak English, thank you, and I’m looking for a ghost.”



To be continued!