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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781490760643 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Trafford Publishing |
| Publication date: | 06/08/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 216 |
| File size: | 314 KB |
Read an Excerpt
World on Fire
By W. D. Laremore
Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2015 W. D. LaremoreAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4907-6062-9
CHAPTER 1
IT BEGAN WITH A TRYST
Nottingham, England
May 14, 1944
High Street in Nottingham's Market Square during blackout felt desolate in spite of all the buildings, lit only by the moon and the many stars above. Wiser men would know better than to wander through this part of town alone and by night, but even watered down whiskey makes people braver than they sometimes should be. Tonight, Johnny Dodge was that man wandering down High Street, stumbling and blind drunk, past the butcher shop with meat hooks hanging from the overhang of the second floor. He wore his Class A uniform, and his shiny shoes were scuffed from tripping over the cobblestones of the streets in the English city.
Johnny Dodge was one of three million servicemen from the United States armed forces being hosted by The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Like most other men his age and in his circumstances, he knew he should be back at camp resting for morning calisthenics or whatever training program they would be put through next, but the problem was that Johnny knew — as did the three million men like him — that any day now they would be shipped off to France where they would face certain danger and probably death. If how one dies is at least as important as how one lives, well then one might as well live a life just as meaningful as the cause they die for.
Johnny Dodge's Class A uniform was stained and ruffled from an accidental collision with a smelly tommy that spilled piss-warm bitter on him before they knocked each other down. The vague memory of a solid left hook filtered through Johnny's brain as his jaw ached and he recalled how the evening got out of hand before he stormed out of The Bell Inn. Boy, that tommy could hit alright!
Like all the towns and cities across Britain, Nottingham was pitch black except for the moonlight due to the blackout in effect from sundown to sun-up. Though the German air force, the Luftwaffe, had not bombed England in three or four years, the threat remained. Because of the blackout, the stark contrast of flashlights shining down on ladies' shoes was quite evident all around the market square as Johnny stumbled on a rough course for the front of the Council House. Across the market square, in the alcoves where shop doors were, flashlights flickered on in the shadows. Johnny grinned and meandered toward the closest woman.
"Tell me something," Johnny asked as he pointed into the darkness at the source of the light. "Why do you limeys call flashlights 'torches' when flashlights have light bulbs and no fire on the end?"
"Because," came a woman's sultry voice with a high class, almost sarcastic, accent from the darkness. "You're in England, and here, we speak English."
Johnny stood up straight and chuckled. "Well, I don't like your answer ... and I don't like you."
A hand sprung from the shadows where the voice had come from, grabbing Johnny by the collar, and he was dragged from the street into the waiting arms of a woman with soft hair who kissed him passionately. She reached down and felt him up.
"You may not like my answer, Yank, but I can tell that you do like me," she said with her smile apparent in her voice.
He shrugged and slurred his speech. "You're a smarter girl than I am."
The woman giggled again as she unzipped his pants. "You're not a girl, silly boy!"
"You know what I mean," he said as he dug into his pockets and pulled out two handfuls of British coins. "Here." As he handed the coins over to her, they spilled out of her hands and clinked to the ground. He heard some shuffling and more clinking, he leaned down closer to her, and then he felt her breath on his neck. Her perfume was familiar, but the way she touched him was new and exciting. She was short, probably younger than him, and although she took the lead, she fumbled as if she hadn't had much experience with what was about to happen. It reminded him of his first time, which in turn added to her allure and spurred on his own arousal.
The lady of negotiable virtue and the not-so-innocent soldier were unaware of the wrinkled hand that held open a blackout curtain in the darkened window overlooking the street from the flat above the butcher's shop. The wrinkled hand pulled the blackout curtain closed, stopping the moon from lighting up a sliver of the wood plank floor. A match was struck in the darkness, and moved to a candle. In the soft yellow glow of that single candle, an elderly woman sat at her desk and pulled an old quill pen from the inkpot and began writing.
Several moments passed by and the old woman could hear hollering out in the street again. She sighed in exasperation and turned her gaze to her porcelain teapot, still carrying the scent of Darjeeling. Hand painted on the side of the teapot was a portrait of Horatio Nelson, the hero of Trafalgar. On the other side was a hand painted depiction of the triple-masted warship, H.M.S. Victory, with all three decks of cannons firing. Beneath the curved spout was another hand painted scene depicting a well-dressed and properly groomed Englishman accepting a gift from a smiling tribal chief in the West Indies. The wrinkled hands carefully hefted and tilted the empty teapot in the candle light. The bottom was inscribed by the maker, "By Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen and Empress Victoria, Mammet and Beckwyth Manufacturers of Fine China, 1817" and with exception to the tiniest chip off the ornate handle, the heirloom was in perfect condition. The teapot, old and beautiful like England, was a symbol of a great nation brimming with rich history and shining majesty that in wartime faced the perils of moral decay.
The old woman set the teapot down on the desk and finished what she was writing. The old woman blew out the candle with a sudden huff. The old woman sidestepped once to the edge of her bed and let herself fall onto the mattress. Before long, the wooden candle holder beside her bed, being uneven at the base bottom, jarred with the vibration coursing through the flat. The soft moans wafted through the thin walls and lingered in the air even through the pillows she held to her ears. The moans occasionally morphed into high-pitched whimpers accompanied by a steady thumping. The old woman rolled her eyes and threw her pillows across the room in exasperation.
Beside her in bed, an old man sat bolt upright and hollered: "Good god, woman! What is all the fuss?"
The old man wasn't just any old man. This old man was Corporal Neville Percy Mountbatten Maltby III originally of Beeston, Nottinghamshire and he was partial to tea, horses, the Anglican Church, and cricket but not at all inviting toward fish, house cats, the Germans, or undue noise — when he heard it, that is. Highly decorated for his heroic action in the trenches of France in 1916, he was for a short time a national legend, and still very much a well regarded local hero. Had he not been caught in the stables with the General's daughter in 1924, Corporal Maltby might be at the front where he belonged: Leading his men. But, instead he secured the command of the Home Guard for the East and West Midlands of England back in 1939.
"It's the bloody Yanks again, Neville," the old woman said. "They're off havin' a jolly at my sleep's expense, aren't they ..."
"Honestly, Edith, you mustn't be so critical. Those Yanks will help us win the war once and for all against Jerry!" Neville said. "Let them play. Let them be jolly. It may be the last chance they get."
The old man flopped back down in the bed and the old woman settled in beside him.
"I want to go back to our cottage in the Cotswolds," she said. "It's quiet and clean there."
"We need to be here for the Home Guard my dearie," he replied sleepily. "There are matters of far greater importance at hand than whatever goes bump in the night."
She sighed and rolled over. The soft vibration and the muffled moaning from outside continued. In the distance she heard more shouting like coyotes in the desert night.
CHAPTER 2SOON
Albany, New York
September 29, 1974
The Albany, New York in 1974 that was known to Jameson Dodge was a center for Nazi control in the areas north of Westchester County. The streets were patrolled by local resident collaborators who were supervised by members of the 357th SS Panzer division. These collaborators drove around in captured American tanks and other assorted army vehicles tirelessly policing the local population, weeding out any opposition, and hunting down anyone that they deemed undesirable.
Jameson Dodge finished writing his Capitulation Day letter and looked down out the window of his apartment at the Nazi parade making its way along State Street. Row after row of helmeted men in brown uniforms with red arm bands displaying a black swastika inside a white circle marched down State Street past what was once the capitol building of New York State. The people of Albany, New York watched the parade with sullen faces. Children waved little flags with red, white, and blue stripes and a Nazi cross in the upper corner where the stars used to be on the American flag. On the lawn of the capitol building, now housing the offices of the puppet governor Rudolph Zuckermann, was Zuckermann himself, his wife Heidi known to all who hated her — because no one adored her — as simply the Baroness, seven decorated German veterans of the battle of Catskill, and the very elderly Vice Chancellor of the Third Reich, Erwin Rommel. As the parading men passed by, they held out their left arms saluting Rommel and those beside him.
Jameson turned away from the window after drawing the curtains and flipped the switch on a lamp. He glanced at a framed photo on the wall of his father, Johnny Dodge, and sighed as he looked at his best friend, Emmet J. Hammerton, who sat on the couch watching the television broadcast of the Capitulation Day parade in Manhattan.
"Emmet, I can't help but feel like this just isn't right," Jameson said. "Nazis in America, the war ... all of it. It isn't the world Auntie Katie told us about from when she was young."
"When aggression came to America at Pearl Harbor, war was most certainly necessary, but is war ever really right?" Emmet replied. "Auntie Katie grew up in another time, and the world you and I live in, well, it is what it is. The fascists are here now, and the Nazis have brought safety and security to us."
Jameson studied Emmet for a moment. "You don't sympathize with them, do you?"
"No," Emmet said quickly. "I'm just saying ... maybe this is how it is supposed to be. Who are you and I to say any different?"
"I refuse to accept that," Jameson sighed and sat beside his friend on the couch. "I need your help, old friend. I need your expertise as an historian."
Emmet sat up straight. "As ever, I am ready."
"Tell me about the war," Jameson said.
"The world has been at war since 1939, Jameson, there is much to tell," Emmet said almost sarcastically. "Can you be more specific?"
"What's the turning point?" Jameson said. "At what point was it obvious that the Nazis would prevail? If you could make it so that the war never happened, then at what point would you alter history?"
"Alter history!" Emmet laughed.
Jameson stared at Emmet with a straight face waiting for Emmet's chuckling to end abruptly.
Emmet cleared his throat and spoke slowly as if he were thinking aloud. "There are many points in time at which the slightest change in circumstances could have meant the difference between Allied and Axis success. But, if I were to play God and I could do something to stop the war from ever happening, then I'd go back to 1936 and kill Hitler and all his men before the Nazi party became too popular and powerful. If the Nazi movement had been stopped just before it started, the war wouldn't have broken out."
"You're sure?" Jameson asked.
Emmet scoffed. "I know my history ... kill Hitler and his men and let the Kaiser continue to fumble with domestic policy in Germany, and there'd be no war. The Great Depression might have been more protracted, rioting might have gotten out of hand, but wiping out the Nazis in the very beginning would be like cutting the head off of the snake. I'd bet my life on it."
"Would you bet more than your life?" Jameson said. "Would you bet all you have known and cared for?"
Emmet looked at Jameson with a raised eyebrow until realization washed over his face. "You did it, didn't you? You finally got it to work ..."
Jameson nodded as he let a boyish grin spread across his lips. "I finally got to see the roaring 20s, and it was everything I dreamed it would be ... I felt like a tourist in a bygone time."
"Can I see it?"
"You can do more than see it," Jameson said as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "You can come back with me."
Emmet stood up and Jameson led him into the anteroom where they looked at some sort of apparatus made of metal rods and flashing lights. There was a large circle about six feet in diameter on the floor at the base of the machine that glowed blue, and from that base around the back edge of the circle, metal rods extended up toward the ceiling with panels of buttons, flashing red and blue lights, and small black screens with readouts in green letters.
"The secret weapon that will win the war," Jameson announced.
Emmet stared for a moment in disbelief. "It sure has a lot of pretty lights."
Jameson beamed. "Anything organic, such as people or animals, standing on that blue circle can be sent to any date and time I program in here. Well, as long as it doesn't include the number seven. For some reason, the seven button sticks."
"Anything organic?" Emmet asked. "So if we go back in time, we'll arrive naked?"
"No," Jameson chuckled. "Clothing remains intact."
"Let me have a think on it," Emmet said. "I'll sleep, have some coffee, and let you know in the morning."
"I can't let you leave," Jameson said assertively.
Emmet paused with half of a smile to like Jameson in the eye. "What do you mean, Jameson? You think I'll tell someone about your time machine?"
"My couch is very comfortable," Jameson said. "If you need to sleep on it, that is."
"Jameson, you're like a brother to me," Emmet said as he walked toward the door. "You can trust me."
Jameson moved between Emmet and the door, and then aimed a pistol at Emmet's chest. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, old friend ... two people can't keep a secret."
Emmet looked down at the pistol and smiled. "You are no killer, Jameson."
Jameson raised the pistol higher and with his thumb, slowly pulled back the hammer until the cylinder turned with a click.
"So my choices are to go back in time with you or be shot and killed, is that it?" Emmet asked.
"No, you can stay until I leave, which is in a matter of hours. I just can't risk you telling anyone before I have a chance to go." Jameson replied. "There is too much at stake. Everything depends upon my success."
Emmet nodded. "When will you go?"
"Soon."
CHAPTER 3ENGLISH ROSES
Nottingham, England
July 4, 1944
The sun peeked through the lacey curtains of the kitchen window in the flat above the tobacconist's shop on High Street. Catherine Ardsley sat at a rickety wooden dining table reading yesterday's edition of The Nottingham Evening Post and sipping her steaming cup of Earl Grey tea. Catherine's soft cheeks flushed with a naturally modest blush, her flawless skin was smooth and pale like porcelain, her pretty brown eyes looked severe even as she was in a relaxed state, and her stiff upper lip signaled her constant resistance to nonsense. Her straight brown hair, with a healthy sheen, was put up in the Victory Roll hairstyle framing her lovely face featuring thin pouty lips accentuated by ruby red lipstick. Dressed in a smart looking dark green Auxiliary Transportation Service uniform, Catherine pressed her hands to her chest just as her cousin Emma walked into the room. Emma was a short, petite, and round-faced blonde who donned a pair of dirtied factory overalls.
"Should I let you alone, then?" Emma said with a smirk.
Catherine cocked her head. "I'm trying to flatten out the wrinkles, smarty pants."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from World on Fire by W. D. Laremore. Copyright © 2015 W. D. Laremore. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Introduction, ix,Prologue Capitulation Day, xi,
Chapter 1 It Began With A Tryst, 1,
Chapter 2 Soon, 6,
Chapter 3 English Roses, 10,
Chapter 4 Mission At Hand, 14,
Chapter 5 Him, 19,
Chapter 6 Betrayal, 24,
Chapter 7 Enter Wild Bill, 26,
Chapter 8 Change of Plans, 30,
Chapter 9 His Majesty's Pride, 33,
Chapter 10 The Secret Jew, 36,
Chapter 11 Night Of Promise, 39,
Chapter 12 Old Girlfriends, 42,
Chapter 13 Special Friends, 48,
Chapter 14 The Long Look Back, 53,
Chapter 15 To Look Inviting, 58,
Chapter 16 Past Tense, 61,
Chapter 17 The Palais de Danse, 65,
Chapter 18 Wrong Turn, 71,
Chapter 19 Holiday's End, 76,
Chapter 20 Patients, 81,
Chapter 21 German Rain, 87,
Chapter 22 In The Balance, 92,
Chapter 23 Those Who Stand, 94,
Chapter 24 On A Wing And A Prayer, 98,
Chapter 25 Britain is Lost, 101,
Chapter 26 Welcome to the Angloreich, 106,
Chapter 27 Digging In, 109,
Chapter 28 The Last Huzzah, 115,
Chapter 29 Point of Departure, 118,
Chapter 30 Heroes' Awakening, 123,
Chapter 31 A Time to Drink, 127,
Chapter 32 Plan B, 131,
Chapter 33 Forefathers, 139,
Chapter 34 Finding Auntie Katie, 142,
Chapter 35 Destinies Collide, 148,
Chapter 36 Heroes Assemble, 151,
Chapter 37 Temptress By Starlight, 158,
Chapter 38 Seed of Victory, 162,
Chapter 39 Her Smile, 169,
Chapter 40 Closing In, 172,
Chapter 41 Evil's Herald, 179,
Chapter 42 The Maquis, 184,
Chapter 43 Lost In Shadows, 188,
Chapter 44 Discovered, 192,