“Need you here to lead a unit to mount sabotage ops and intel gathering behind Jap lines in Burma. Get four or five guys you trust with your life and get here.” Signed, “Joseph Stilwell, Major General, Commander American Forces in China-Burma-India (CBI) Theatre.”

He picked up the phone and called Captain John Coughlin, his executive officer. “John, Carl here. Round up the other OSS guys, Sergeant Curl, Archie Ming and Bob Aitken and meet me in the company duty office in an hour.”

The duty office was a bare bones windowless room. A poster of Uncle Sam, a scowl on his face and pointing a finger at the observer ordering “I Want You!” hung on one wall. The other walls were bare. The floor was covered in dark linoleum that had seen better days. A small conference table with mismatched chairs commanded the center of the room. As the men filed into the empty room they saw Eifler standing at the end of the table with a sly smile on his face. Captain Archie Chun Ming, company medical officer, noticed the smile. “Our fearless leader is showing us his patented shit-eating grin. We’re probably in deep doo-doo.”

Coughlin laughed, “Christ, not again.”

Quiet, thoughtful Captain Robert Aiken, a member of the Army’s Hawaiian Intelligence Department silently took a seat, followed by Master Sergeant Vincent Curl. Eifler passed out copies of the telegram. Each of the men took a copy and gave it a quick scan. They looked at each other. Coughlin said, grinning, “When do we leave?”

Sergeant Curl said, “Fuckin’ Burma? It’s all jungle and swamps. They’ve got mosquitoes the size of dragonflies and spiders the size of dinner plates there. If the spiders bite you, your cock will fall off. It’s even more humid there than it is here, if that’s possible.”

Eifler said, “Well, I, for one, am bored shitless. Aren’t you guys getting tired of sitting around on your asses while there is a war on? Do you want to miss out on being a member of the soon-to-be famous “Co-coordinator of Information Service Unit Detachment 101.”

The room erupted in laughter. Even Aitken chuckled. “Heavens to Betsy, no!” Ming chortled, “But what happened to the other 100 Detachments?”

Curl said, “Shit, they’re probably chilled out on the beach at Waikiki, snortin’ down mai-tais and gettin’ laid every night.”

Eifler said, “O.K., get your gear together and meet me on the flight line at 07:00 tomorrow. “Dress is casual. Don’t bother with your long johns.”

From Chapter IV, World War II Black Ops, Vol. II

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“The defensive does not fit France. France is not a shield; she is a living sword, carried by its own momentum to the throat of the enemy.”

                                                                      Jules Michelet, French historian. 1798-1874

By the autumn of 1940, a number of small autonomous resistance groups began to form. They included members of both sexes and all political persuasions. No one group had a monopoly. Members of the Socialist Party, conservative Catholics (including priests), trade unions and others, with little or no money, almost no weapons and a chronic shortage of cigarettes, began to coalesce.

A nascent cancer was growing in the body of the Third Reich.

Prior to 1941, the French Communist Party, the largest in Europe, viewed Germany as an ally. Hadn’t Hitler and Stalin signed the German-Soviet Non-Aggression Treaty of 1939? The Communist Party line was that the war was simply Germany’s defense against British colonialism. The Party had, until that point, negligible resistance participation.

But when Hitler somersaulted and violated the treaty by invading the USSR in Operation Barbarossa, Soviet dictator Josef Stalin hit the ceiling. He called on all Communist Parties in Europe to attack Germans whenever and wherever they could be found. The Parti Communiste Francais (French Communist Party – PCF) jumped into the resistance with both feet. They formed a group called the Organisation Speciale (OS). They carried out attacks on German facilities; set fires to supplies bound for Germany and blocked roads. Assassination squads began to attack German officers everywhere at every opportunity.

The gloves came off.

From Chapter III, World War II Black Ops, Vol. II

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Hughes-Hallet stepped forward. “This is essentially a mission of demolitions. Code named Operation Chariot. The target is the largest dry dock facility in the world and services the capital ships of the Kreigsmarine. Destruction of the dock and surrounding facilities denies repair and refurbishing services to those ships. This keeps them bottled up in their home port in the Baltic Sea and out of the North Atlantic. The result will render them unable to wreck further destruction to merchant shipping in the Atlantic. As you know, keeping our supply lanes open is absolutely vital to our success in the war. This op has three primary objectives: the destruction of the dry dock, of the water pumping machinery and any U-boats in the area.

“The operation will be a land assault by the commando chaps, led by Lt. Colonel Charles Newman of No. 2 Commando. Commander Robert E. D. Ryder has consented to support them with a strong RN detachment. The RAF will carry out a number of diversionary air raids to keep Jerry’s head down.  And, to reiterate what the Admiral said, this is very top secret. Security must be maintained at the highest level.

“Specifics will be couriered to you in the next few days. They will be on a need-to-know and for-your-eyes-only basis. There will be no telephone communication regarding this op. This mission has the highest priority and supersedes anything you’re tasked with currently. Colonel Newman and Commander Ryder will organize you and your chaps into teams with various mission objectives. Thank you for your time.” With that, Hughes-Hallet left the room.

“Extraordinary,” remarked a captain.

“Sauciest since Drake?” skeptically queried a major.

“Sounds bloody exciting!” chirped a young lieutenant. The group broke into small clutches and began exchanging remarks. Col. Newman and Commander Ryder moved to the map and peered at various aspects of the port.

Newman, who had traveled extensively in France, smiled knowingly and murmured, “St. Nazaire, without a doubt.”

From Chapter II,  World War II Black Ops, Vol. II

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He swung around in his chair to face me. “Ever hear of a guy named Skorzeny?”

In the haze of the smoke, with my stomach doing back flips and a conga drummer in my head banging out a steady rhythm, I tried to focus. “Who?”

“Otto Skorzeny. He was one of Hitler’s right-hand men. Pulled off a lot of commando stuff for Der Fuehrer. Hitler thought he walked on water. When it became obvious the Third Reich’s party was over, he had the smarts to surrender to our side, no doubt preferring us to the gentle ministrations of the Red Army. If had they recognized him, they would’ve cut his balls off with a rusty tin can and take their time doing it. He’s been recently moved from the Wiesbaden prison. He’s right here in the Nuremberg lock-up. He’s gonna stand trial for a batch of war crimes allegedly taken place during the Battle of the Bulge. They’ve got him up on charges of ‘improper use of military insignia, theft of U.S. uniforms and theft of Red Cross parcels.’ All petty, chicken shit charges, but the International Military Tribunal is out for blood. They’re going after thousands of SS guys. The press, excluding us, is calling Skorzeny ‘the most dangerous man in Europe.’ They’ll probably throw his ass into prison for years. I want you to get his story before the locals wake up and beat us to it. I’ve arranged for a press pass. Get it and some background info on this guy from Doris on the way out.”

I rose to go. Sandy, glowering, pointed a finger at me. “Now, listen up. Stay the hell off the booze until I get a story on this guy and it better be good! Get cracking!”

“Right, Sandy.”

From Chapter 1, World War II Black Ops, Vol. II

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