DEATH ON WINTER'S EVE Read online

  The Captain ordered the vehicle to a halt, assigned one of his men to stay with the lorry while he and the two remaining guardsmen clambered over a wooden picket fence bordering the field.

  Dashing across the frozen ground the three men halted breathlessly just beyond the range of heat and flames from the burning wreckage. Burning petrol cooked off munitions from the aircraft’s machine guns keeping Captain Whitehead’s men at bay.

  None of the aircraft’s crew could have survived such a conflagration. The intensity of the fire would consume anything of value to British intelligence; code books, bombsights, navigation equipment. Despite the futility of a search Captain Whitehead ordered his men to make a sweep of the area searching for anything of value that may have come from the downed aircraft.

  The three men spread out and began to search in an ever-widening pattern away from the crash site. Here and there the men stumbled on shards of the aircraft’s metal skin and unrecognizable lumps of metal components. The men searched the field where the plane was downed and the fields on either side but found nothing of value.

  Captain Whitehead was about to order his men back to the lorry when a shout went up from Corporal Jenkins who had been searching the area just east of the downed aircraft. The Captain approached the guardsman who stood motionless over a patch of dark earth that stood out against the thin white coat of snow an ice covering the ground.

  It wasn’t until he stood beside the guardsman that he identified the object as a body lying at their feet. Covered in mud and oil it was pure chance Corporal Jenkins noticed him at all.

  “Is he dead sir,” the corporal inquired of his Captain. Whitehead knelt down beside the motionless body placing the index and forefinger of his right hand against the dead man’s throat. At first he could detect no sign of life. Adjusting his fingers he continued to probe the man’s neck until surprisingly he felt a faint but distinct rhythmic throbbing.

  “Not quite yet Corporal,” he confirmed. “Get Privates Williams and Zimmerman to join us and we will see if we can’t get this German blighter back to hospital before he expires.”

  Not having a litter the four men struggled to carry the dying German airman fifty meters across the field to the lorry. Opening the double doors at the rear of the van the guardsmen lay their prisoner on his back on the vehicle’s floor, seemingly more dead than alive.

  In the moonlight Captain Whitehead noticed something peculiar about the German. Despite being covered in mud, grime and blood the man’s clothing was odd. He wore neither the uniform of a soldier nor the insulated flying suit of an airman. In fact the German wore only a thin suit jacket and pants that reeked of petrol and smoke. One foot was shoeless. A vertical gash about an inch long traversing his forehead near the hairline was bleeding profusely.

  Whitehead took the clean linen handkerchief from his pants pocket and pressed it over the wound. Momentarily the blood flow slowed and then stopped altogether.

  A long, blood soaked gash cut deep into German’s left knee seeped dark red blood in rhythm with the beating of his heart, a troubling sign. The knee was black and swollen, with a considerable amount of the German’s blood having soaked into his trousers. Captain Whitehead tore a long strip of material from one of the German’s trouser legs and tied it around the wound. It seemed to do the trick and the blood flow ebbed and then ceased.

  As all three guardsmen joined him in the lorry the Captain pounded his fist against the back of the drivers cabin,

  “All right then, let’s move out, but slowly,” he shouted to his driver. No sense in bumping and shaking the man to death before getting him medical attention.

  An hour later the lorry pulled into the emergency reception bay at Queen Anne’s, the designated hospital for this sector. Orderlies brought a gurney onto which the guardsmen loaded their captive who was immediately stripped of his tattered clothes. Two nurses dressed all in white brought porcelain pans filled with warm water and sponges and proceeded to clean his body of caked on oil, grease, blood and dirt.

  They cleaned the deep gashes in his forehead, shoulder and knee of caked blood and dirt but this only prompted the wounds to bleed more profusely. Whitehead noted the now naked German’s skin although lacerated and bruised was quite tanned, unusual not only for the time of year but also the climate of northern Europe, Ireland or Scotland.

  Whitehead also noted an unusually large number of scars of varying sizes and shapes suggesting the injuries they represented were the result of separate incidents.

  When the nursing staff had finished cleaning his body the nurses covered him with a fresh white sheet before wheeling him up to surgery.

  Captain Whitehead personally collected and bagged the prisoner’s tattered and soiled clothes as well as the shoe and assigned one of his men to accompany the prisoner and stand guard just outside surgery. An excessive precaution perhaps given the prisoner’s condition but he wasn’t going to risk loosing a third columnist because he failed to employ proper security measures.

  While he waited for the outcome of the surgery Whitehead inventoried what remained of the prisoner’s clothes. One leather lace up shoe, men’s sized nine with the label Nunn Bush; one men’s white shirt; seventeen inch neck, thirty-four inch sleeve; one red tie probably silk with the label from an Italian manufacturer, one torn men’s suit jacket size forty with an Italian label reading Canali; two black cotton socks; one white pair of boxer shorts size thirty-three with the label Calvin Klein.

  Searching the trouser pockets he found only a single, torn sheet of paper. Near the top he recognized the words Normandy and Southwick House written in blue ink. Holding the torn paper up to the light Whitehead saw the distinct outline of a watermark but without his glasses he could not make it out. Other than appearing expensive the clothes revealed nothing more.

  Searching the jacket and pants pockets he found no identification, no cash or other personal items by which to further identify the prisoner. That he found nothing seemed strange if not incriminating because everyone carried something in his pockets; change, a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, something.

  Chapter 3

  SURGERY

  Queen Anne’s Hospital London

  Doctor Theodore Sutherland, a veteran of the Great War as it was called before people had got around to numbering them labored over his patient in the operating theater in the basement of Queen Anne’s Hospital.

  Cleansed of dirt and caked on blood the body on his operating table was a mass of abrasions, contusions and lacerations no doubt incurred in the crash of his aircraft. Quickly he assessed the patient’s injuries.

  There was a deep wound in the patient’s forehead, a penetrating wound in the abdomen, and a long gash extending along the inside the patella which continuously oozed dark red blood indicating a severed vein.

  As he splashed the wound area with antiseptic iodine he studied the wound track noting its large diameter and seared flesh, approximating wounds produced by the large caliber rounds from the wing guns of a British fighter.

  “Give me a hand,” he signaled to one of the surgical nurses and together they rolled the German on his side to inspect the wound’s exit trail.

  “Good,” he murmured through his surgical mask noting the projectile had passed cleanly through the man’s abdominal cavity.

  Returning the body to its back he quickly incised the wound passing through the skin and trimming the damaged tissue as the nurse continuously irrigated the wound with a saline solution.

  Expertly he incised the deep fascia to relieve pressure within the wound. Blood immediately welled up in the wound cavity and was as quickly evacuated by an attending surgical nurse.

  Sutherland knew wounds from high-velocity military weapons imparted kinetic energy creating cavitations that crushed the surrounding tissue. Using the index fingers of both hands Sutherland explored the wound cavity searching for perforated organs and thermal damage but found none. The bowel appeared to be intact.

  Despite finding no pe
rforations the German’s blood volume was critically low and dark red blood still flowed steadily within the wound cavity indicating there was venous bleeding. Searching again he spotted a ruptured vein.

  Applying a hemostat Sutherland clamped off the bleed. Too large a tare to be cauterized Sutherland used silk thread to suture the tare and the bleeding stopped. Excising the damaged muscle he sutured the lower muscles, dressed it with fluffed-out gauze to allow drainage and closed the wound, suturing the upper layers of skin. Sutherland next turned his attention to the German’s injured knee.

  The tremendous energy imparted to tissue from high velocity fragments typically caused extensive disruptive and thermal tissue damage. Searching carefully beneath the tissue and muscle he was surprised to find the patella severely bruised but otherwise undamaged. Expertly he cleaned and disinfected the wound, identifying and tying all the bleeding vessels before suturing the wound, stemming the flow of blood.

  Drenched in sweat Sutherland leaned forward as a surgical nurse dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a sterilized towel. The patient’s left shoulder was badly bruised and appeared to be dislocated. Moving to the opposite side of the operating table Sutherland took the patient’s left wrist and slowly moved the arm upward to a ninety-degree angle.

  When the arm was level with the shoulder he rotated it behind the German’s head bringing it slowly toward the opposite shoulder. With a soft pop the bone slipped back into its socket.

  “Okay,” he sighed, exhausted but satisfied with his work. “Clean him up and take him to the recovery room.”

  Outside the operating theater Sutherland stripped off his surgical gloves and removed his sodden gown, cap and mask tossing them into a surgical waste container. It would be a painful recovery for his patient but a full one he thought confidently.

  Gazing upward at the clock on the wall opposite the wash stations he noted the surgery had lasted just under over hours. Placing his fists in the small of his back Sutherland leaned back attempting to ease the cramped muscles running along his spine.

  Chapter 4

  ACTING CAPTAIN WHITEHEAD

  Nearly five hours after his prisoner had been wheeled into surgery a nurse dressed in white surgical garb notified Captain Whitehead his prisoner was recovering in the post-operative room. Whitehead rubbed his bleary eyes and forced himself to stand. He had been at it now for twenty-two hours and he was exhausted, hungry and irritable.

  “Where would that be,” he inquired impatiently.

  “Second floor, down the hallway from the operating theater. Third room on the left,” the nurse directed him.

  “I’d like to speak to the surgeon,” Whitehead requested in a tone that left little doubt it was a request in word only.

  “Certainly,” the nurse replied. “Doctor Sutherland should be out shortly and you can speak with him then.”

  “I want the prisoner taken to a private room nurse,” Whitehead insisted.

  “There are no vacant rooms at the moment Captain,” she answered politely but firmly. It was common courtesy to address military medical staff by their rank and the Captain had just broken with propriety by referring to her medical status rather than her rank as a lieutenant.

  “Then I want him isolated,” Whitehead persisted. “He is a dangerous enemy agent and he must be kept away from others.”

  The Lieutenant nodded resignedly.

  “The duty officer can assist you. I will notify her,” she offered coolly.

  Whitehead nodded and the nurse retreated back toward the operating theater. Before she had disappeared down the hallway Whitehead was heading up the stairs to the second floor.

  To his relief Corporal Jenkins was standing watch at the doorway to the recovery room. The corporal saluted as Whitehead approached. Returning the salute Whitehead asked, “Did our prisoner have anything to say?”

  “I don’t believe he ever regained consciousness sir,” the corporal replied motioning with his chin toward the prisoner lying immobile in the room behind him.

  “I want the prisoner secured,” Whitehead ordered the corporal.

  “Sir?” Corporal Jenkins inquired, a look of surprise spreading across his face.

  “There are links of chain in the lorry and the tool box is secured with a padlock. Get the chains and the lock and bring them back here, Whitehead explained patiently.

  A few minutes later the corporal had returned with a two-foot length of chain and a rusty padlock.

  “Secure the prisoner’s ankle to his bed corporal,” Whitehead explained. “Wouldn’t want him wandering off now would we corporal?” he added with a note of levity.

  “No sir, I mean yes sir,” the corporal affirmed uncertainly. As Whitehead watched the corporal, with a surprising degree of care slipped one end of the steel restraints around the prisoner’s ankle locking the other end to the metal frame of the hospital bed. Once the shackles were firmly attached and locked Whitehead nodded his head in satisfaction.

  “I shouldn’t think that would be too uncomfortable,” Whitehead confirmed to no one in particular. “Thank you corporal.”

  “Yes sir,” the corporal replied dutifully.

  “You’re relieved Corporal. I’ll send someone back from HQ to stand guard in the morning. I don’t think the prisoner is going to escape this evening. You can return in the lorry with me.” Satisfied he had done everything by the book Whitehead turned to his final task before returning to the station.

  After trudging down several corridors he finally located the medical staff’s lounge where he found Doctor Sutherland preparing to get a few hours sleep before returning to his surgery.

  “You’re the surgeon attending to my prisoner, Captain Whitehead asked. Sutherland had stripped off his surgical gown and was sitting on the edge of one of the cots reserved for staff on rotation.

  “Yes,” Sutherland replied, exhausted from the stress of hours of intense concentration.

  “What is the prisoner’s prognosis?” Whitehead asked pointedly, wanting to understand how best to prepare for his prisoner’s safe incarceration.

  “He will have to be closely monitored for signs of infection but at present his condition is stable and his injuries not immediately life threatening. The patient’s trauma however is extensive. He’s not likely to regain consciousness for at least twenty-four hours I would guess,” Sutherland answered in response to what he assumed would be the Whitehead’s concern for securing his prisoner.

  “With regard to his injuries he sustained a high velocity penetrating wound to the upper lateral anterior abdomen through and through, a partially torn ligament in his left knee, a laceration in the upper lateral cranium, a dislocated left shoulder and multiple contusions and burns none of which are life threatening.”

  “What do you mean when you say high velocity penetrating wound?” Whitehead inquired though he suspected he knew the answer.

  “The wound tract and surrounding tissue damage supports an etiology of a large caliber military weapon.” Noting the look of incomplete satisfaction crossing the captain’s face he added, “A gunshot wound in layman’s terms. Your prisoner was shot in the abdomen and judging from the extent of the injury most likely from one of the wing guns of a Hawker Hurricane. They seem the approximate caliber to cause the damage I found in your prisoner.”

  Whitehead nodded his understanding.

  “Thank you doctor,” he said extending his hand toward the exhausted surgeon.

  Sutherland nodded, shaking the Captains outstretched hand before sinking back onto the cot where he might find a few hours of sleep.

  Whitehead returned to the hallway where he contemplated this evening’s events. There was something odd about this German that left him ill at ease. He sighed tiredly, arching his shoulders in an effort to ease the taunt muscles knotting at the base of his skull. Confident he had done all that was necessary Whitehead summoned his driver.

  Back at the local police station where the Home Guard made its headquarters Whitehead compl
eted his report, mentally reviewing the precautions he had taken to secure his prisoner. He was satisfied he had followed procedure but concerned about what course of action to follow next. There was something odd about the German that left him ill at ease. The thought played at the edges of his mind just outside his conscious thoughts.

  Before heading home to his wife of thirty-two years however, Whitehead assigned one of his men to return to the hospital the next morning to stand guard over the prisoner until the regular army’s intelligence and interrogation unit assumed responsibility.

  Along with his report Whitehead included a small parcel into which he packed the German’s soiled clothes and a mud-caked leather shoe. In a separate envelope he carefully placed the torn slip of paper he had found in the German’s pocket. Combining it all in one bundle he sent it off to the intelligence section of Army Command.

  Chapter 5

  LIEUTENANT MARY WELLINGTON

  Queen Anne’s Hospital

  Lieutenant Mary Wellington awoke suddenly from a fitful sleep. It was not the first night she had dreamed of the dark stranger whose appearance never seemed to vary. Unvaryingly he came toward her out of a thick, impenetrable mist. Dressed all in black his features were at first distorted by the mist that engulfed him.

  Frozen by both fear and irresistible fascination she held her ground as if in defiance of her dread at his approach. Her heart thundering so loudly now she felt it would burst from her chest at any moment she stood breathless, her skin tingling beneath the thin material of her nightgown. Slowly, inexorably his features grew distinct as if a lens was bringing them into focus.

  She could see now he was tall and muscular with light brown hair cut short, a youthful, handsome face of pleasing countenance. Nearly upon her now his clear, brown eyes seemed to penetrate unhindered to her very soul, drawing her inexorably toward him however fervently she attempted to resist. As he reached out for her she felt herself being drawn into his arms in a rush of warmth and exhilaration. And just then, as always she awoke suddenly with her heart palpitating, sweat glistening on her skin, breathless and exhilarated.