“I am Jindra. We all use code names in case we’re caught by the Gestapo. In which case, one can’t betray anyone else in the group. Now, what is your mission here?”

Gabcik growled, “Wait a damn minute. We are taken to a strange apartment, surrounded by men armed to the teeth. You cross-examine us and satisfy yourself about our identity. You haven’t told us anything about you or your organization except it is a secret one, which is obvious. You can’t expect us to tell you everything!”

Jindra shifted his weight in his chair. Laser eyes looked straight at Gabcik. “Is it possible you are here to kill Heydrich?”

Stunned, Kubis exclaimed “Good God! How did you know?” Both men stared at Jindra, who actually smiled, displaying crooked, tobacco-stained teeth.

“We have contacts as well. They’re not very good, but they are contacts all the same. Is it true?”

Gabcik paused, thinking. He finally said, with iron in his voice, “Yes, and we’re going to get him.”

Jindra responded, “Then we’ll give you all the help we can. You should know that since Heydrich arrived, waves of arrests have crippled us. Intellectuals are especially persecuted and often executed. There is nothing in the law justifying such treatment, but it continues nevertheless.”

He stood, ending the meeting. “Henceforth, you will be dealing with Hajasky,” nodding to a slight, middle aged man with a beard standing quietly in the back of the room.

Hajasky’s specialty was finding safe houses and providing authentic-looking false identity cards and papers. He took one look at the documents the parachutists were carrying and laughed out loud. “This is what they gave you in London?This wouldn’t get you past even the stupidest German soldier or Czech policeman. Look at the spelling errors and the shitty ink on the stamps. Christ! Someone back there should have his ass kicked!”

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

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She was tall. Hell, she had to be 5’-11.” With cascading red hair, a body to die for and a ready, hearty laugh. A lot of freckles. He had never seen freckles before arriving in England. They had met at one of the many parties people threw during the Blitz, one of those living-for-the-moment-who-knows-what-tomorrow-will-bring shindigs. Lots of laughter, alcohol and bullshit. The most popular record played on the phonograph (after “There’ll Always Be an England”) was the old 20s flapper anthem, “I Don’t Care.”

She had been standing in a corner, with four RAF types slinging bullshit as hard as they could, hovering around her like dogs in heat. Her dress clung to her curves. She had a smile that could glow in the dark. He had never seen anything like it in the small Norwegian town he grew up in. “Shit, she’s out of my league. She’ll wave me away like a troublesome insect,” he thought. “Ah, to hell with it. I’m going to try, if no other reason than to stick it to those cocky RAF fucks.”

He sauntered over. When there was a slight break in the conversation, he made his play. “Hello.” Just “hello? Arne, you asshole, that was pathetic. You have to do better than that!” The RAF men turned and looked him over. Not recognizing a Norwegian uniform, they turned to look at each other and grinned. She didn’t. With a killer smile and an extended hand, she said “Hello, Norway, I’m Tilda Colquhoun.”

They were together almost constantly after that. Dinners, walks, long conversations over wine which was new to both of them, exquisite love-making and making of plans.

He was called to Scotland. It was the next morning, fuzzy with sleep, that she told him she was a Scot and wanted to know where in the country he was going. “I’m going up there for some training. They don’t tell us until we’re airborne, but I’ll write you every day.”

And he did. She was not able to respond since the location was secret. The training was rigorous and helped keep his mind off of her. Four weeks of parachute jumps, rappelling down cliff sides, weapons and explosives familiarization, hand-to-hand combat exercises and a “wee hike” three days a week of twenty-five miles.

Training completed, with a seventy-two hour pass in his pocket, he almost ran from the London train station to her flat. But there was no flat. There was no building. Just an enormous pile of concrete rubble with clouds of smoke and dust almost obliterating what was left. Adjoining buildings, with all their windows blown out, stared with hollow eyes. Their structures, ruined by the blast, leaned inward where the other building had been and looked down curiously at their obliterated neighbor. A small clutch of people stood around. A small, almost tiny old lady wept quietly. A burly policeman stood guard. A crew of rescue workers swarmed over the pile, looking for survivors and bodies.

He almost shrieked, “What happened?”

The policeman looked at him as if he were the village idiot. “V-2. Direct hit.” Then, softening, “You got some someone here?”

“Yeah, Tilda Colquhoun. Tall, redhead, late 20s.”

The policeman looked over to the elderly woman crying and said gently “Mrs. Christie, do you know anything about a redheaded lass named Tilda Colquhoun?”

The woman nodded her head slowly.

The air went out of him. He couldn’t breathe. He thought his head would explode. He covered his face with his hands and groaned, “Ahh Gud, ahh Gud.” He staggered, stumbling over some rubble and flopped down.

“I’ll kill them. I’ll kill every one of those goose stepping, square head bastards. I’ll kill every one!”

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

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The partisans began firing furiously at the passenger cars with every weapon they had. Chunks of wood and shards of glass flew in every direction like a covey of frightened birds as the fusillade chewed up the cars. Screams of agony emanated from inside. For ten minutes, the partisans sprayed bullets into everything that moved, turning the passenger cars into Swiss cheese. The open cars carrying the chrome ore had flipped over, dumping their contents along the side of the ruined rails. The attackers charged forward toward the wreckage, pouring on the fire. Overwhelmed, the German contingent began to surrender.

A German Major, an Oberleutnant, couple of burly sergeants and about fifty other enlisted men were among the survivors. They were all SS.

As the men began to scavenge among the shattered supplies, one of Kazanas’ men ran towards the group yelling, “Tanks!” Kazanas ordered a quick withdrawal. The men quickly pulled back leading their prisoners.

They rapidly marched back to their “base” in Stomio. The teenaged boy kept trying to tell Kazanas something, but the partisan leader told him, “not now.”

When they arrived, Kazanas put the prisoners in the hotel’s dining room and posted three guards. The Germans all flopped down in the available chairs, exhausted. “If they try to escape, shoot them.” He turned to the boy and said, “What was so dammed important that it couldn’t wait until we returned?”

The boy pointed at the Oberleutnant and said, “He shot my mother and father.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Kazanas confronted the Oberleutnant. The German looked like someone out of central casting for a Waffen SS officer. Tall, fit, blue-eyed, blond, a cocked eyebrow married to an arrogant face. He lounged lazily in the chair. “What about it, Boche, you shoot this boy’s parents?”

The officer looked at Kazanas condescendingly. “What if I did? They looked like Jews to me.”

Kazanas turned to the boy. He took out his captured Lugar, popped off the safety, cocked it, handed it to the boy and said, “Here, shoot him.” The boy pointed the pistol at the officer. The other prisoners watched, wide-eyed. Larson, Boyd and Williams watched intently. They knew better than to interfere. Hate swept over the boy’s face. His lips trembled. The pistol waved in his hand. He began to weep. “Why?”

The German looked at the boy with amusement and disgust. “As I said, Heeb, they looked like Jews.”

The booming sound of the pistol shot filled the room. The 9mm Parabellum round hit the officer just above the left eye at point blank range. With a look of complete surprise on his face, he flew backward in his chair. Blood, bone fragments, and brain matter sprayed the window behind where he was sitting. With his head above his eyebrows destroyed, he stared up wide eyed at the ceiling, his arms still on the chair’s armrests. Blood began to pool around his head and shoulders.

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

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Foreword

This is a collection of stories about the world’s second oldest profession. It is the world of clandestine, behind-the-lines guerrilla irregular warfare and spying. It includes assassinations, sabotage, espionage and other secret agent activities in Europe prior to, during and after D-Day. Four of the stories are historical fiction and one is non-fiction.

Forget Hollywood and Bond, James Bond. Forget tuxedos, vodka martinis shaken not stirred, five star hotels and tearing around in sports cars with beautiful women. Agents were French farmers, smugglers, tycoons, prostitutes, policemen, telephonists and peasants, to name a few. They all played a part as informers, saboteurs, agents and partisans. Their credentials were courage, fortitude, patience and a devotion to freedom.

Remaining anonymous was essential.  The last thing an agent or resistant wanted to do was to stand out in a crowd. Blending in, staying “below the radar” was crucial. Agents working in the field were constantly at risk of being captured by the Gestapo (German State Police) or the SD (Sicherheitsdienst, the intelligence agency of the SS and the Nazi Party). Survival meant constant alertness and attention to the smallest detail. Arrest meant a one-way trip to Gestapo or SD HQ, which meant interrogation followed by torture, imprisonment in a concentration camp and death. On average, an agent would be dead within three months of being “inserted” into German occupied territory.

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