Desert

There he is again, slithering directly behind me.

This soldier won’t leave me alone.

I scurry a little faster, hoping to lose him in the crowded street, but he keeps up, maintaining an uncomfortable distance.

I just want to get home.

His eyes, dark under the pulled down military cap, stare intently at me when I glance back to see if he’s still there.

Seek help from a stranger, that is the only answer.

Reaching out to the first man I see, I plead “Monsieur,can you please help, this soldier is following me.” 

Looking up, surprised from the distractions of his ground-focused attention learned through years of NAZI occupation, the gentleman is a bit startled.

The soldier comes closer.

He’s not keeping his distance any longer.

“What is the problem, madame?” the gentleman says, just as the soldier sidles up to tower over him.

“Move along buddy” the soldier says, “my girlfriend and I are having a lover’s chase, if you know what I mean.”

“This soldier is not my boyfriend” I exclaim with all authority.

The gentleman is dazed, confused, and clearly wants to get somewhere away from this soldier.

Shoving the gentleman on, the soldier turns to me, his back to the other man.

“Look here sweetheart, we’re going to resolve this.” He says as he grabs my hand.

“LET GO OF ME!” I scream.

The gentleman stands there, stunned.

“Come with me Lucille!” the soldier projects loud enough for all to hear.

A crowd begins to gather around. The gentleman is still standing there, not knowing what to do.

“My name is not Lucille. I will not go with you. I don’t know you. Let go of me!” I demand.

Yes, a lot of noise, a crowd, attention. The last things he wants!

The soldier lets go of my hand as he turns to the crowd. 

“Fine, have it your way honey. I’ll see you at home.” He says as a parting blow to my status among the strangers in the crowd.

It worked, I am free of this monster.

“I do not know him.” I plead as the crowd dissipates with knowing expressions.

How dare he besmirch me near my home, this Cretan!

Scurrying home,I turn on several wrong streets to make sure the soldier is not following me.

I can’t have him know where I live.

Finally turning onto my street, I see my building entrance in the distance.

Home, safety, freedom.

Making my way toward the entrance, I look around me.

The soldier is nowhere to be seen.

I walk through the outer gate, entering the front courtyard of the building.

As I approach the front door, I look around again.

I’m not opening this door until I know I’m safe.

No one is around. I am alone.

I reach into my purse, clasping the key to the door in my right hand.

Looking up at the lock, a shadow breaks over mine on the door.

NO!

Swiveling around, I am prepared. The key to the door is locked between my forefinger and my middle finger.

It’s not much, but it would hurt if jabbed in the eye in a quick thrust.

Thrusting my arm, I see whose shadow it is.

“Good evening Monsieur Horbac” I say in a startled voice as I let my hand fall to my waist.

Thank god!

“Allow me to get the door, Madame.” The kindly old gentleman says to me as he reaches up.

How did he surprise me?

We enter the building, Monsieur Horbac heading to the elevator, and me to the stairs.

“Good evening Monsieur Horbac” I offer as I start up the staircase and he enters the open elevator.

I’m almost home.

My right foot just touches the first stair as the door behind the entrance to the staircase closes with a loud slam, and I hear “Hello again Lucille.”

 

 

 


Following the liberation of Paris in August 1944, the fighting units of the Allied armies pushed on through Eastern France toward Germany. Some of the soldiers from these armies decided to make their way back to the City of Lights, rather than fight on the front. For most, this was a chance to get out of the fighting, keep a low profile, and simply sit out the remainder of the war. For others, this was a chance to take advantage of the military uniform to steal, assault, rape and murder without compunction. Paris and other liberated cities were hit by a wave of violence and crime not often discussed after the war. Up to 50,000 American and 100,000 British soldiers deserted their units during World War II. Between June 1944 and April 1945 the US Army investigated over 7,900 cases of criminal activity. Forty-four percent of these were violence, including rape, manslaughter and murder. Eventually, law and order were restored in the liberated cities of Europe, but it took to the end of the war, and the reintroduction of strong civilian police authorities, to make this happen. 

The Deserters: A Hidden History of World War II by Charles Glass was the source of information for this story.
 

Into The Belly Of The Beast

Squeezing into the Enola Gay’s dark bomb bay, I am reminded of my time inside that gun-turret on the USS Idaho; a dreary confining space packing immense destructive capacity.

How did becoming an ordinance expert get me into such light-lacking tight fits?

In this case, it’s the B-29’s themselves, which are to blame.

These beasts have a tendency to crash.

Four B-29’s crashed and burned on the runway last night. This makes eleven in the short week I’ve been on Tinian.

If one of those was carrying Little Boy[1] this whole island would go up worse than Port Chicago[2].

We’ll have a seven-and-a-half ton overload. We have to arm this bomb in flight, rather than on the ground to make sure we don’t blow this whole island off the face of the earth. Even as an ordnance guy I wouldn’t want to see that!

“You ever done this before, arming it in flight?” Farrell [3]asked back in the hut.

“No sir, I don’t,” I replied. “But, I’ve got all day to try it.”

“Groves doesn’t want any tinkering in flight, but I don’t see any other way.” Before he paused.

Then, Farrell resumed, “Don’t let me get in your way. Let’s have a TJC[4] meeting when you’re done.”

“Yes sir.” I replied.

I reach out to Jeppson, my 23 year-old 2nd Lieutenant assistant, to help him squeeze himself into the bomb bay next to me.

He smiles at me, then looks down at the unarmed bomb.

While Jeppson holds his flashlight to illuminate my work area, I reach out for the primer wires.

“We’re really doing this?” He asks, already knowing the answer.

“Yep, we are.” I reply, inserting the green plugs.

 “Insertion of green plugs,” I call out.

“Green plugs,” Jeppson confirms.

I slowly insert the firing trigger into the gun assembly.

“Insertion of firing trigger,” I say.

“Firing trigger.” Jeppson confirms.

We’re safe. The green plugs will prevent the closure of the arming circuit. Now the bomb cannot prematurely detonate.

Scrunching the length of my body so my arms are up near the rear of the mounted bomb, I look down at the rear plate.

“Opening rear plate.” I let out, as I unscrew it from its comfortable setting.

This takes me a few minutes, as each screw is over an inch long.

“Removing rear armor plate as well.”

Finally, this thing comes off!

The clang of thick metal echoes off of the bomb bay floor as I drop the plate.

Jeppson calls out, “Armor plate.”

I look up at him, smile, and then turn to look back at the bomb’s innards.

“Opening cannon breech. Unscrewing,” I call out as I unscrew the top of the cannon breech where I’ll insert the cordite charges.

 What a beautiful design, forcing the trigger mechanisms to require a firing primer, rather than infusing them into the trigger. Even in massive destructive power, we were able to integrate safety.

“Inserting cordite charges,” I say.

I slowly, and meticulously, insert the four cordite powder bags in line, so all of the red ends are facing the same direction.

Each of these little bags of cordite contain enough explosive to blow off my arm, and do plenty of damage to the rest of me.

“One. Two. Three. That’s four, Jeppson.”

“Cordite inserted,” Jeppson confirms.

“Reassembling.” I let out as I close the top of the cannon breech.

I insert the last plug in the breech, calling out, “Plugging breech.” 

Then, fumbling with my right hand on the floor of the bomb bay, I find the armor plate. I pick it up, bringing it back to its resting place atop the rear of the bomb.

“Replacing armor plating.” I say, in a relieved tone.

A few minutes pass during the slow reassembly. The bolts scrape as they close tight against the metal skin of the bomb.

“Little Boy is armed. I repeat, Little Boy is armed. Firing mechanism will be prepared after the insertion of the red plugs. We are current with green plugs. Green.”

We’re done. Now to do it again.

“Let’s do it again, so I can get it memorized.”

Jeppson responds, “Yes Sir, doing it again.”

Arming plugs for a Little Boy type atomic bomb on display at the National Air and Space Museum's Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center.

 

We practice arming and defusing the bomb seven times throughout the afternoon and into the night. Finally, we’re tired, hungry, and most importantly, can do it without any hesitation.

My hands simply check that green plugs are installed, remove the rear plate, insert breech wrench in breech plug, unscrew the breech plug, place it on the rubber pad, insert the four charges, lining them up so the red ends face the breech, insert the breech plug, tighten it home, connect the firing line, reattach the armor plate, reinstall the rear plate, and remove and secure the catwalk and tools.

Then, back the other way: Check that green plugs are installed, install catwalk, remove rear plate, remove armor plate, disconnect firing line, insert breech wrench, unscrew breech plug, (about 16 turns), remove, place on pad, remove charges (4 sections), place in powder can and secure, replace breech plug in breech.

I can do this in my sleep now, which is what I need to get.

“Alright, we’re done for the day,” I declare.

 

Jeppson’s tired eyes reveal he feels the same way.

 

“Let’s clean up and get some grub.” I offer.

 

Jeppson replies, “Yes, Sir.” In a tired, yet still enthusiastic voice.

 

Good kid!

 

If you like what you've read here, please consider buying Damocles by tapping here.

 

[1] The name given to the first functional Uranium atomic bomb. This name was based on its skinny short design as compared to the Plutonium bomb, which was large and round, called Fat Man. The original Uranium bomb was called Tin Man, as it had a similar design to Little Boy, but did not function properly for the mission assigned.

[2] Captain Parsons investigated the Port Chicago accident, determining it to be the equivalent of approximately 1500 tons of TNT.

[3] Brigadier General Thomas F. Farrell, General Lesley Groves' Deputy for Operations. Groves told Farrell “Don’t let Parsons get killed. We need him!”

[4] Tinian Joint Chiefs - an informal group made up of Captain Parsons,Rear Admiral Purnell, who represented the Military Liaison Committee, and Brigadier General Thomas F. Farrell, General Groves' Deputy for Operations. They had decision-making authority over the nuclear mission.

Dunkirk: Thank Grace, Chamberlain, and Hitler!

When the German tanks approached within a few miles of the almost empty and undefended port city of Dunkirk, they halted. General Rundstedt, in charge of the German forces in the area, ordered them to halt to resupply and rearm, and prepare for the next leap into France. Not satisfied with the pace at which he was advancing his army, German High Command ordered Rundstedt to attack. Hitler, asserting his authority over the General Staff, rescinded the attack order, demonstrating he, not the Generals, was in control of the German Army. Hitler’s need to demonstrate he was in charge was one factor in saving the British Expeditionary Force (BEF), as well as many of its allies, allowing them to escape through a soon to be defended and evacuated port of Dunkirk.

What Hitler and his underlings did not expect is the will of the one they thought to be a dupe because of his actions in Munich less than two years earlier. Neville Chamberlain, still the head of Government in the UK until May 10, played a key role in both choosing Winston Churchill as the next Prime Minister, and deciding to evacuate the BEF from the Continent.  When Chamberlain met with the King to provide his resignation, he advised the king to invite Churchill to become Prime Minister instead of Lord Halifax (the man already looking for a way to reach out to Italy for mediation with Germany). Then, in a momentous War Cabinet meeting on the night of May 28, Chamberlain sided with Churchill, against Halifax, as the key vote, to fight on, against the odds.

These two actions, by the man history has tarred with the moniker “Appeaser” allowed Churchill to lead The British Empire and its Dominions through the dark years before The United Nations banded together to tear down The Third Reich, Fascist Italy, and Imperial Japan.

Hitler did not believe the British could save their army. He was wrong.

Hitler thought the British would sue for peace. They almost did, and would have, had it not been for Neville Chamberlain’s key vote on the 28th.

Hitler failed in one key component of war: When you capture the enemy’s army, destroy it.

Thank grace Hitler made that fateful error. Thank Chamberlain for laying the groundwork for Churchill. Thank Churchill for leading the Allies to Victory! (Oh, and thank The Soviet Union for ripping the guts out of the Germans, as most of the losses were on that front, lest we forget.)

Early on the morning of June 5, 1940, two high-level officers from Germany’s Luftwaffe made their way along the broad, sandy beaches near the northern French port of Dunkirk. It was the morning after the last of an eclectic armada of naval and civilian vessels, large and small, from across England carried off the remnants of the British Expeditionary Force before the Germans captured Dunkirk.

The two officers were General Hoffmann von Waldau of the Luftwaffe General Staff and General Erhard Milch, the administrator of the German air forces and the Inspector-General of the Luftwaffe, as well as deputy to its chief, Field Marshal Hermann Goring. That morning they met with Goring, convincing him that England needed to be invaded at once to take advantage of the low British morale and vulnerability from having left all its military equipment in France. Goring was convinced, but he was not the man who made the ultimate decision. The halting of the tanks before the capture of Dunkirk had made that very clear.

 

What is below has been extracted from Threads Of The War, Volume III by Jeremy Strozer. This is the third book in the Threads of The War series. The first two books in this series are on sale for $0.99 right now.

 

 

Debris

I squint my eyes to protect against the snowstorm of torn paper shreds and airborne stitches of discarded soiled clothing blowing in every direction by the brisk dawn breeze. I scan across the flotsam and jetsam of the defeat-littered beach.

They are literally naked now.

Heavy guns, lines and lines of disabled trucks, hundreds of abandoned and broken bicycles, countless mounds of inoperable rifles just tossed onto piles, and thousands of discarded warn-out shoes are strewn across a beach touched at water’s edge by dozens of sunken ships and boats.

An army lost everything here.

Vast piles of both consumed and untouched canned goods intermingle with haphazardly deposited eating utensils, trash, and rotting food. We approach a huge pile of empty wine and whiskey bottles, most likely taken from an officer’s mess and downed by the men desperately and impatiently awaiting rescue from calamity.

“Here is the grave of British hopes in this war!” von Waldau declares as his polished boot, now covered in sand, kicks a bottle out of the pile.

Fanning his right arm in an arc across our sightline of the bottle pile, he pronounces, “And these are the gravestones!”

Shaking my head, I stare through the mist at wrecked British ships in the shallows and at evidence of the British Army’s disarray all around.

Is he mad? This is debris and discarded detritus of war, but there are few bodies here. They may be unarmed now, but that can change quickly.

“They are not buried yet,” I declare in a soft voice before pausing for a moment. In an even softer voice, almost imperceptible to myself, I let escape, “We have no time to waste.”

 

With the opening of Christopher Nolan’s movie Dunkirk this Friday, I’m pleased to share with you the news of the Dunkirk Week WWII Epic Book Sale. From 7/21-27, more than 50 authors of the FB Second World War Club have joined together to offer you their WWII novels, most at 99c.
 
Our novels range from military war tales, home front drama and sagas, harrowing accounts of the Holocaust, gripping spy thrillers, moving wartime romances, and much, much more. To see our great selection of WWII books, go to: http://www.alexakang.com/dunkirk-book-sale/
 
We’ve also got some great giveaway prizes, including the Grand Prize of a paperback copy of Joshua Levine's Dunkirk: The History Behind the Motion Picture. No purchases are necessary to enter the drawing. Come visit our book sale page to find out more details about our prizes and how to win.
 
We’re also bringing to you:
 
1. A two-part blog series about the Dunkirk. You can read the excellent blog posts to learn more about this historical event by two of our authors, Suzy Henderson (The Beauty Shop) and Jeremy Strozer (Threads of War), here: https://lowfellwritersplace.blogspot.co.uk/
 
2. Readings by The Book Speaks podcast of excerpts from All My Love, Detrick by Roberta Kagan plus another novel, both of which are part of the Dunkirk Week Book Sale: https://thebookspeakspodcast.wordpress.com/
 
3. Our authors’ pick of the Top 40 WWII Movies: http://alexakang.com/40-recommended-wwii-films-english/
 

The Second World War changed our world forever. In our stories, we strived to bring you a glimpse of what happened and how everything happened through the eyes of our characters and to let you share their feelings, emotions, fears, and hopes. We are thankful that director Christopher Nolan is bringing this important part of history to the attention of the wider public, and we will try to continue what he had done through the stories we tell. 


We hope you enjoy our books and this experience.