Weird War Tales: Stare Not Into the Abyss #2

Captain Jonas Krestler cursed silently. It wasn’t so much the laggard men who struggled with the machine gun behind him as it was with the vague orders he was operating under. They were free to loot whatever valuables that survived in the town but to be on the lookout for an object simply called the Eye. He had no description other than it was a plain black stone on a gold chain. Easy enough, he thought bitterly, You’ve only described every piece of Parisian whore costume jewelry in the whole damn country.

So far they had only uncovered some hidden silverware and francs, barely worth the paper the money was printed on, but this thing must be either valuable or rare for his superiors to place him on this fool’s errand rather than commit him to defending the town from Allied attacks. There was even an American tank in their town now! Surely they didn’t expect his battered men here to fend off a tank? Krestler knew a suicide mission when he was looking at it and, as much as he was a loyal soldier, he wasn’t going to toss his life away. He hoped that one of Major Kluge’s panzers would be along shortly to put an end to the harassment. The man had set up a forward staging area nearby but Krestler had no idea how the man could be so preoccupied and oblivious to his plight here.

Krestler sighed in frustration. This was hopeless. This Eye could be anywhere by now. The looting by the town’s own citizens would have seen to that. It was probably in Paris at this moment or used to pay off some tramp freighter captain brave enough to make the crossing to England despite the wolfpacks that patrolled the channel. Yet they insisted that it was here and insinuated that he was not trying hard enough.

The Captain absently touched the small gemstone worn on a chain underneath his greatcoat. It was comforting and he could almost feel a sense of renewed confidence. His contact in the SS had said that it would bring good luck. Krestler didn’t believe in luck, but he was under orders from a superior officer to wear it, so wear it he would. It wouldn’t hurt to curry some favor with the old man. A few more promotions and he could get off the front lines and into a desk job in Berlin if he played his cards right. If it meant wearing some bauble around his neck… well, he could live with that.







Easy Company:
Sergeant Rock ran his hands through his dirty close-cropped hair, ignoring the grime on his hands and sighed. He glanced over at Short Round and Worry Wart who kept the surviving Krauts at gunpoint. They had won their way out of a deadly ambush but it would be cold comfort to the families and girls back home of Hilton, Douglas, Parker, and Turner whose dogtags in his jacket felt like lead weights. Nobody was supposed to know they were there! Top secret his ass!

Godammit he needed a smoke.

Bulldozer squatted down next to him as he fished the cigarettes and the fancy lighter out of his pocket but, instead of lighting up, Rock stared at the lighter, cigarette hanging from his lip, and idly turned the silver metal box in his fingers as his face softened.

“You still got that thing?” Bulldozer asked.

“Yeah.”

Frank let his mind wander back to the night in the loft with Marie. It had been urgent, passionate lovemaking. Two people who never knew if tomorrow would be their last, clinging onto whatever would remind them that they were, at least for the moment, alive; the thrill of the possibility of being caught muted by the chilling gunfire or explosion in the night interloping upon even the most intimate human need.

They talked about the war and each other. They talked about the mission. They talked about futures, one of them with a small farm in the French countryside and children. Both knew them to be comforting lies but something of each other that they could hold on to when everything else in the world was falling apart.

Bulldozer waited for him to say more but, after a few moments with nothing more coming, he moved to speak.

“Drop it, Corporal.” He was interrupted before he could begin.

Horace Canfield, known as Bulldozer to Easy, shifted uncomfortably. Rock had been like this ever since he had met that French chickadee with the resistance. Marie something other. She had given him that lighter and Bulldozer was wondering if the Rock was losing his nerve. Dames could make a man go soft but the burly corporal had also seen this same slip of a girl slit two men’s throats with a hunting knife.

“We got ratted out,” the sergeant said, his fist clenching around the lighter and his eyes squeezing shut. Keep it in, he mentally raged.

They talked about the mission.

“There was only one group who knew where we were going to be.”

They talked about the mission.

“That’s crazy talk!,” Bulldozer blurted, “Why would the frogs go loose lips on us?”

They talked about the mission.

“Dunno,” Rock desperately lied to himself as he stood up. “Let’s go talk to the prisoners.”




The Marketplace:
“Lady,” Gus chuckled behind Bill whose gun hand didn’t waiver, “We’d like to introduce you to our lieutenant, Jeb Stuart. He’s just as crazy as you are. He talks to ghosts all the time. I’m sure he could… scare one up for you.”

Rick and Bill sniggered but promptly found other things to do while Jeb gave them a withering glare before turning an appraising eye on her. She was a looker alright, even in the dingy clothing. Strands of raven hair poked out from underneath her dirty cap and her exotic eyes seemed to look right into you and not miss anything. She ran her hand slowly along the side of the tank’s battered armor plating and gave a slight smile before looking back his way.

Jeb awkwardly tried to speak for a moment before stammering, “I’m not…”

“Aliéné?” she rejoined, “No, lieutenant, you’re not insane. Your men just cannot see like you and I. I will confess to thinking this an odd occurrence, but now I understand that the spirit is tied to you and your machine.” She touched the tank again reverently as if to reassure herself.

“Miss, I don’t…” Jeb struggled to find words, “Who are you?”

“My name is Nimue, lieutenant… Jeb? Jeb. Yes,” her melodious voice seeping into his consciousness, “I’m looking for an object of power. Magic you would call it. Perhaps you could help me?”

She cut off his incredulous stare as she kept a sudden pang of frustration in check. “Surely one who talks with spirits could understand that there are things above and beyond what normal men know? Finding it is of utmost…”

“It’d be an honor, m’am” The spectral voice intoned behind them as the familiar gray mist surrounded them.

“General!” Jeb exclaimed as Nimue turned with a smile “We don’t even…”

“Jeb, my boy, I can forgive ya for bein’ a damned Yankee but one never turns away a lady in distress.” The old general doffed his hat and his mount took a bow before the woman.

Rick stared from where he was lounging with Gus and Bill at Jeb and the woman having an animated discussion with nothing at all, “Both of ‘em crazy as loons. Whadda you fellas think? War bride?” Bill just grinned around the chocolate bar he was eating and Gus laughed.

Jeb inwardly fumed. This was his tank! He had orders to stay here – not to run off on some wild goose chase! A ghost couldn’t be court-martialed!

Nimue curtsied. “A pleasure, General…?”

Jeb sighed in resignation. It wasn’t like he could refuse. The old specter had saved them more times than he could remember. He still didn’t have to like it though and the earlier cryptic message still rankled in his mind. What if this woman was involved somehow?

“Nimue, this is Major General James Ewell Brown Stuart, one of the finest cavalry officers our country had during our Civil War… even if he was on the losing side.” He couldn’t resist getting the jab in. He’d earned it dammit.

“Thank you. Thank you both,” she beamed and Jeb felt the annoyance melt away.

“Nice going there, Jeb” he chided himself “A pretty face is going to do you in one of these days.”




Berlin, Branch Eight:
Hanne carefully set the receiver back down before gritting her teeth in frustration. Couldn’t do anything about the smell! You let necromancers operate in your facility and you didn’t think to do anything about the odors? She gripped the armrests of her chair until the faint whiff of smoke and smoldering wood reached her nose. She flapped her hands watching the flames flickering between her fingers die out. Temper, Hanne. Temper she chided herself. You’re not doing your manicure any favors.

She noisily cleared her throat and pulled a sheet of paper off her desk, held it up to the light and concentrated on it, her brow furrowing as she conjured up a mental image of Operative Krestler and homed in on his gemstone. Attractive man she thought I wonder if he’ll live through all this. It’d be nice to have someone like him around here.

While her superior officer didn’t think much of the occult, being far more interested in the pretty shiny things that his beloved science wrought, it was around him far more and deeper reaching than he could possibly imagine.




Major Hans Kluge sat bloody, naked and spent on the edge of the bed, his stare vacant but calculating. His companion sprawled out contently across sodden sheets, a thin sheen of sweat and copious amounts of the late professor’s blood covering her body after their unholy communion. She smiled at his frenzy of military orders to subordinates before she could coax him into bed. The Eye was already working its way with him much in the same way she had, it took what it needed and spat out the rest.

He had already spent hours on the radio and sending out dispatches, arranging for various plans as well as moving his headquarters to Sommer’s home. The Allies would be completely stymied, their plans were laid bare to his mind. Some of the fruits of which should already be done with. Just as soon as he secured himself, he could make grander ambitions. She didn’t need Nazi Germany to win the war but it wouldn’t hurt anything either. Their victory would be pyrrhic at best.

She rolled closer to him, red hair spilling across her face, soft hands groping for what she sought and smiled. Soon he would be little more than a husk, albeit a useful one, as she felt him rise to her ministrations. That didn’t mean that she couldn’t enjoy herself in the meantime though.




Over the Atlantic Ocean:
“La who?” Chuck shot back over his radio.

Andre’s voice was shaken when the reply came, “Le Bourreau. The Hangman. He was famous during the Great War before he was shot down. One of von Hammer’s many kills.”

Olaf easily dropped onto the biplane’s six o’clock position and watched the old plane fill his aiming reticle. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Neither do I,” Blackhawk chipped in, “but I’m not going to shoot down a plane that hasn’t attacked us either. Throttle down and form up on his wing. Let’s see if he’ll follow us home where we can sort this mystery out where it’s dry.”

Andre and Chuck slowly moved to either side of the old craft, both of them seeing the purple hood and the bit of frayed rope around the pilot’s neck snapping in the wind. If it mattered, The Hangman seemed to be just as bewildered as they were. It was just damned unnerving, made even worse by the rising storm, Andre thought. The things old wives’ tales are made of.

Blackhawk slowly lowered his Skyrocket in front of the old SPAD and wagged his wings. The Hangman returned the gesture and the five planes slowly began to bank to the right.

Olaf had just breathed a sigh of relief and took his finger off the trigger for his guns when a searing pain went up his arm. He looked down to see blood staining his black uniform from a bullet wound that had just appeared there. He frantically looked around for a shattered pane of glass in his canopy. There wasn’t one.

“Scatter!” Blackhawk barked as he heard the big Swede’s yell of surprise in his ear.

Andre screamed as he threw his plane into a tighter bank and saw The Hangman’s crate headed right for him. That old thing couldn’t get out of the way fast enough! His pitch turned to one of terror as his plane flew through the biplane like it wasn’t there.

Chuck threw his plane into a rapid dive towards the ocean to gain speed. In the small rearview mirror in front of him he could see several other multicolored biplanes diving towards them from the heavy sodden clouds above. Their props flashed with light as they opened fire at a murderously short range.

Blackhawk snapped into a knife-edge turn as his engines howled their protest at the violent maneuver and the sound of strained metal and rivets shrieked through the entire airframe as the floor beneath his boots rattled in warning. He opened fire on a red biplane as it flashed across his sights. No chance of his wild shots hitting but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.




France:
Jonas Krestler frowned at Viktor, the pale young scout who sloppily saluted him as he made an awkward entry into the mostly intact café that served as his office. My God, he thought, they’re getting younger. This war will be the death of us all.

“Sir, Captain Krestler, sir” he continued as he shifted awkwardly on his feet, “The American tank is gone. They picked up a woman from the market and then left to the west.”

He frowned. This was certainly strange behavior even given the usual bluntness of the Americans. The likely prospect was that this woman was a spy but, then again, the whole damn country was full of spies. Every farm and second story window could hold someone with a radio. He wasn’t too terribly surprised that someone here was doing it although he wasn’t happy with the timing. His men were bloodied and tired. They needed time to regroup and resupply.

After the scout was dismissed Krestler relaxed. The tank was gone and the loss of men was few. They were still in control of the town despite the American’s odd behavior. This was good. He reached into the desk to pull out a congratulatory bottle of cognac. When he brought his attention back to the desk, there was a crisp letter there that he could have sworn was not there before.

The Americans are after the Eye. Stop them at all costs. It read and was signed by his contact within the SS.

He touched the letter and it satisfyingly creased under his finger as if to assert its physicality. “Hipper!” he yelled through the door to his guard.

“Ja Kapitän Krestler?” his sentry answered as he poked his head inside the office.

“Did you put…” the captain stopped, noticed that the letter had vanished and thought about how crazy rumors got started.

“Ready my car and four armed men.”




A Secret Landing Zone, France:
Lieutenant Matthew Shrieve and his squad came down softly in a field and regrouped after burying their parachutes.

“You mind telling us now what we’re going to put our necks on the line for this time?” the pale sergeant groused.

“Need to know, Velcro,” his commanding officer shot back, “but, since we’re on the ground, I can tell you.”

A derisive snort or grunt of acknowledgment came from Private Taylor. Shrieve couldn’t tell which. He’d bust the guy’s chops if the bastard wasn’t already living in a hell of his own making.

“Intelligence,” Shrieve’s voice took on an even more disdainful air as he spread out a map, “has determined that a high-ranking officer will be rendezvousing with a Major Kluge, who happens to be the commander of the armored divisions here, at his headquarters.” He stabbed the paper with his finger. “We are to intercept that officer and kill him.”

“Since when did we become torpedoes?” Sgt. Velcro asked, the earlier anger gone and his interest piqued now that he was faced with the prospect of killing.

“Since the brass saved your sorry neck from a noose.” Shrieve replied, unhappy at being questioned. “If I tell you to bump off your own mother, sergeant, you’ll do it and you’ll thank me for it.”

Vincent Velcro just shrugged. “Whatever you say, lieutenant.”

Shrieve looked over at Griffith, Taylor and Doctor Rhodes. None of them looked happy but he didn’t expect happiness. He expected obedience.

“Let’s move out. We’ve got a five mile march ahead of us, freaks.”

“And how are we going to recognize this officer?” Warren piped up.

“If it’s in a staff car, we shoot it. Clear enough for you, Private?” Shrieve shot back.

“Good plan, sir” he sighed and slung his pack up onto his back.




Easy Company:
Sergeant Rock had his doubts about learning anything from the prisoners, namely due to his own suspicions, that he really just hoped were wrong, and the lack of any real rank among the survivors.

He squatted down beside one man who was propped up against a log and had been bandaged by someone in Easy even though it was clear that his ticket had been punched, his dirty gray uniform stained with blood. A lit Camel hung limply in his lips.

<”What’s your name, son?”> Rock asked in German.

<”Un.. unteroffizier Rupert…G..Getman”>

<”How did you know we were going to be here?”> Rock pressed.

<”Orders from Ma… Major Kluge”>

Rock paused. The man’s voice was growing weaker. He had to make this count.

<”Do you know who told him?”>

<”No”>

Rock leaned in closer and lowered his voice.

<”Did you see a French woman with your commander in the last week?”>

The man tried to look at him oddly but just coughed, a small trickle of blood forming at the edge of his mouth but he shook his head in the negative.

<”Where is your headquarters?”> Rock asked.

Getman looked at him and closed his mouth.

<”Sorry, son, but I had to try.”>

The soldier’s face grew slack and he began to fumble with his jacket’s breast pocket, pulling out an envelope. He looked pleadingly at his interrogator.

Sergeant Rock took the now-bloodstained packet from the man reverently and glanced at the girl’s name on the front.

<”You can count on me, Sergeant Getman.”>

He gently put his hand on the dying man’s shoulder as the man’s eyes went unfocused and he breathed his last. The letter went into his jacket, yet another reminder of death that he carried with him.

“Dozer,” he said as determination crept into his voice, “We’re going to find this Major Kluge.”

He wanted answers.




Blackhawk shoved his stick forward and felt his Skyrocket claw for altitude. He saw Olaf spray a battered old red biplane to no effect as his tracers just flew right through the phantom. It certainly wasn’t fair when they could shoot at you but you couldn’t hit them.

The Hangman dropped across his windscreen, spraying fire at another antique and Bart Hawk watched in fascination as the struck craft’s pilot twitched as ethereal rounds riddled their body and the plane disintegrated into nothingness in front of his eyes. At least The Hangman turned out to be a friendly ghost.

“Try aiming for the pilots,” he radioed out to his men, a small few black leaves caught in a maelstrom of twisting and spiraling bygones of another war.

Chuck pulled out of a tight loop and watched in satisfaction as his target vanished after riddling it’s aviator with a short burst of gunfire. “Got one!” he whooped triumphantly. “Happy ‘haint huntin’!”

Andre steeled his nerves and dove back into the fight. “There is too many of them,” he shouted into his radio, “Lead them back towards the island.” His fire sent another enemy back into oblivion.

Blackhawk agreed, “Fighting retreat, men.” He switched his radio channel to the Blackhawk Island frequency and put out the call for reinforcements.

“Feet wet” came back the welcome and static-filled voice of the Dutchman, Hans. “We’ll be there in a few minutes!”

Olaf growled at the pain shooting up his wounded arm as well as the idea of running away from a fight. A yellow and black checkerboarded plane slipped to the side as his bullets sailed impotently past. He hoped they had a few minutes.

Chuck yelled as a spectral round tore through his leg but not the metal skin of his plane. His own burst went wide as his feet spasmed on the rudder.

Blackhawk barrel rolled, avoiding a zealous enemy gunner, and destroyed another specter with a stream of shots that shredded the flimsy cockpit of the old machine in front of him. The odds were getting better but things were still not in their favor. How long would it be before he lost someone or before help could get there?

The furball seemed to last an eternity. The Blackhawks were weary from the punishment their bodies were taking from severe maneuvers and wounds as well as the mental strain of staying alert but they fought on. As enemies evaporated under their guns, more always seemed to be there to take their place. Blackhawk knew that their numbers were lessening. It just didn’t seem that way.

“HAWKA-AAH!” blasted into his earphones as more ebon-painted warbirds plunged into their midst.

“Thank God” he breathed and opened fire at a green plane that swayed into his sights.

With the added reinforcements, they made quick work of the remaining ghost fighters or “haints” as Chuck had called them. The Hangman was still with them, Blackhawk having warned the new arrivals that he wasn’t an enemy. However, the mysterious hooded figure was slouched in his cockpit as Blackhawk Island loomed out of the mists. He, like they, carried their own painful souvenirs of the battle. Blackhawk’s Skyrockets landed first. They were nearly bingo on gas with Hangman’s crate following them down.

They were just helping Chuck hobble out of his plane as the old biplane touched down and promptly vaporized just as quickly and as silently as it had appeared, a chunk of stone clattering down the runway in its place.

Blackhawk hesitantly picked up the piece of granite, a lump of uneasiness gnawing at his gut, as everyone else slowly crowded around him to see what it was.

“Le seigneur nous protègent!”Andre said shakily, “I think that iz part of his gravestone.”




The woman known as Mademoiselle Marie kept to the shadows, her heart hammering in her ears as she kept the leather satchel clutched tightly against her body. She could hear the German sentries patrolling ahead, the occasional scrape of a boot, flare of an indrawn drag on a cigarette or inadvertent cough giving away their positions. The faint moonlight gleamed off the metallic skins of the tanks, halftracks and cars parked at the fuel dump despite the light fog. Somewhere also out there were Denis and Christophe waiting with rifles to cover her retreat should she need it.

Considering the amount of trouble they had caused the Germans in the last few months, getting past their outer line of sentries was disturbingly easy. Far more difficult was avoiding the searchlights that pierced the darkness, threatening to pluck away her shroud of darkness. She thought she heard the whine of a dog nearby and inwardly cringed. There would be no escape if they brought out dogs to hunt them down. If it got to that point though at least they would have accomplished their mission and they wouldn’t have died for nothing. There had been enough of that in the early days of the war. Her face set in determination.

Marie crept up to a troop carrier and dug down into the satchel, pulling out a rubber-coated packet. She gently slipped it into the truck’s gas tank, waited for the faint “plop” and moved to the next in line. While bombs might be quicker to take out vehicles in a fuel dump, it also alerted the enemy to your presence. These condoms filled with sugar slowly dissolved and struck when it was least expected. Gasoline wasn’t much good when nothing that used it worked.

“Sneaking about like a common thief is not the actions of a warrior.” A woman’s voice said disapprovingly and Marie started, almost crying out in alarm as her hand instinctively darted for the small pistol at her waist.

“They can’t hear me. Only you can.” The blonde woman with a golden torque around her neck sprawled indolently in a tunic and a cape of furs across the hood of a truck said. “Best not to speak but listen to me.”

Marie stared. She must be hallucinating. Maybe she got a lungful of gas fumes and it was making her see things. Crazy things.

“Many sisters have served me before you and you will carry on my legacy. Even far away from my lands, the enemy threatens my home and you of the oppressed will strike back and avenge my daughters and I. So swears Boudica.”




Two hundred and fifty horsepower churned their little tank along a little used road outside of town as the Stars and Bars flapped in the wind like Nimue’s ebon hair that had escaped the confines of her cap. Jeb had left her to her fun and the view. It was awfully distracting to be up there with her.

They were headed out into the country towards where this Professor Sommer had his home according to her. Jeb didn’t like this one little bit. Not just for disobeying orders but also that this was Tiger country. There was a very good reason why his little tank had been sent into town while the big boys were prowling out here. While everyone hated being left out of the big fight, there wasn’t much question to how well their little Stuart would stand up against the big guns.

Jeb fed the others a cock and bull story about how Nimue was an important member of the resistance and that she needed to get to this home, which was a safehouse, where she would meet up with a contact to get her out of the country. Bless ‘em they believed it though. Jeb wished he could believe it rather than the real story about going on a hunt for some hoodoo peeper with a dame that he wasn’t even sure he could trust.

Rick glanced at the legs protruding down into their turret and then over at Jeb, a glance that Jeb had noticed from all of the others but was trying to ignore. “Would you guys knock it off? It ain’t like that!” he finally snapped.

“Whatever you say, sir,” was the chorus of replies that was less than convincing and encouraged another round of knowing grins.

Nimue leaned back against the steel lip of the hatch enjoying the sensation of speed and power as they speed through the countryside. Even the sun had come out and was beginning to burn away the heavy clouds in the sky. This was so much better than chariots and carriages. Even if they thought she couldn’t hear them below her feet, she could and found it amusing. Jeb was a handsome enough man but nothing of the sort could ever be possible, and would just lead to heartache as he aged. It was, however, an appealing fantasy she mused as the voices below faded into a drone.

A drone that became a high throttled roar as the black fighter plane dropped out of the clouds like a bird of prey.

Gus screamed from his viewport a second later, “Buzzard!”

Jeb whirled and grabbed Nimue about the legs to pull her down as the terribly familiar rattle of machine guns filled the air and her body spasmed and went limp in his grasp.


To be continued!