Quondam

By Roger Kent

Bill Good's return to Earth was met by an explosion that knocks him out cold. In an army hospital in England, he discovers the year is actually 1941. Nurse Kaye Meadows falls for him and helps plan his escape. Bill already knows Earth's future, that's why the Nazi's are hunting him down before he impregnates the alien Anya and changes the history of the human race forever. Conclusion to Anya & Me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Kent
• Release date: Mar 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310531873

Roger Kent

Extensive travel was my real education and a real eye-opener that helped further my passion for languages and exotic cooking. I own an unhealthy pastime for classic sixties and seventies American convertible cars and also guilty of being an avid fan of same period for rock music. What that says about me and others that share the same passions sometimes makes me wonder. Writing brings such a lot of pleasure when the book is done but sometimes takes a lot of pain and frustration getting there. If you wish to leave a review on any of my books or suggestions for a theme you might like to read about, please let inspiration abound. If you wish, please do get in touch via twitter or Facebook.

Book preview

QUONDAM

By

Roger Kent

Copyright: Roger Kent 2015

Smashwords Edition

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This story is intended as a work of drama and all characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Also available by Roger Kent

Action/Adventure/War/Romance:

The Defiant Affair

Mytchett Place

The Paperclip Affair

The Amerika Bomber

The Dublin Connection

The Secret Jungle

Science Fiction/Adventure/Romance:

Anya and Me

Your fingers weave quick minarets

Speak in secret alphabets

I …light another cigarette

Learn to forget

Learn to forget

Learn to forget

Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen

Warm my mind by your gentle stove

Turn me out and I’ll wander lonely

Stumblin’ in the neon grove

Many thanks to JDM

Chapter One

‘Bloody Hell, Dunne! Go and get the M.O. sharpish. If this bloke’s dies we’re going to be in the shit and no mistake.

‘Right, Sarge, can I take the jeep?

‘No, why don’t you walk the five miles back to camp, after all, there’s no real hurry is there?’

The sergeant looked exasperated at Private Dunne as he couldn’t quite believe the stupidity of this soldier under his command.

‘Of course take the jeep you fuckin’ idiot! Don’t hang about ‘cos this bloke needs help fast.’

He was understandably nervous as this easily avoided mistake was entirely his fault.

‘OK. Shall I ask for Captain Newman? Dunne queried.

‘Get whatever doctor that’s on duty, you prune. Just make sure you bring an ambulance because I reckon he’ll need the hospital.’

Sergeant Boyle looked down at the prostrate body and then back up at Dunne. He grimaced because he knew this accident would bring the aforementioned pile of shit right to his doorstep as he was the commanding N.C.O. of the tank and therefore everything about it was his responsibility.

Dunne gave his sergeant a sickly smile of acknowledgement before turning to double away and drive the jeep back to base located nearby at Tidworth army camp.

The uneasy journey gave him the time to contemplate the bloody foolish thing he’d done by leaving a live round in the main gun. After all, they were out on a war exercise, training in the vain hope they could be ready for an attack by an enemy represented in the form of rusting and mangled hulks deposited on Salisbury Plain solely for gunnery practise.

This exercise would give such rookie tank gunners like Dunne the chance to adapt to firing live rounds on an improvised enemy invasion.

Tank Gunner, Michael Dunne knew if that wounded civilian back at the stone circles died, accident or not, he was likely for the ‘High Jump,’ which meant he could be court martialled and sent to the military prison at Colchester, colloquially well-known to all serving soldiers as: ‘The Glasshouse’.

Dunne had only just turned eighteen and was quite naïve compared to some of the more life-experienced city-boy recruits within his unit. He shuddered with fear because he knew the Military Police would make mincemeat of him because he’d heard of their extremely harsh punishment regimes that were meted out to such offenders. It actually made him tearful just to think of it. What would his Mum and Dad say when they found out their only son was in military prison for manslaughter?

Sergeant Boyle checked the unconscious man again and was relieved to find he was breathing steadily and showing no real signs of major injury except for a large bump on his head and a small trickle of blood emanating from both ears. That flow had now stopped and begun to coagulate into a darker brown colour, making Boyle suspect the blast had damaged the man’s ear drums and temporarily deafened him.

Two other soldiers from his tank crew had now arrived on the scene to see what was happening after watching Dunne leave in such a hurry behind the wheel of the escorting jeep.

‘What the bleedin’ hell’s goin’ on, Sarge? Is that bloke dead?’ Bergman asked in an almost cheerful way about the body laid at their feet, totally oblivious to the fact that he sounded quite a callous soul.

‘No, he’s spark out at the moment. I don’t think we should move him until the doc gets here.’

‘What the fuck was he doin’ out here at this time of the mornin’? He wasn’t walkin’ a bleedin’ dog or anyfin ‘cos there’s no sign of a bleedin’ Rover sniffin’ around.’

The chirpy cockney known as Bergman was stating the obvious but unlike his fellow tanker, called Green; he’d not spotted the very recent graze along the large standing stone immediately behind them.

‘Here, Sarge, I think this is what must have knocked him over!’ Green was pointing to the large scar across the stone where Dunne’s misfired projectile had traversed across its surface, en-route to god knows where.

The other two soldiers moved over to the stone to inspect Green’s findings.

‘I thought our shells would have caused more damage than that. I mean, it didn’t exactly blow it apart, did it?’ Green ran his fingers over the newly channelled surface to emphasise his point.

Boyle looked over at the large sarsen stone and dismissed Green’s comments because the round must have only glanced off the rock and not burst apart on impact as usual. He suspected that if it had, it would surely have killed this poor buggar at his feet and probably anyone else within ten feet of its blast.

‘Here, Sarge, the bloke’s comin’ round.’ Bergman informed his sergeant.

The body began to groan, obviously still groggy from his experience of the unexpected version of British military hospitality.

‘Shall I sit him up?’ Green asked.

‘Best leave him till the M.O. gets here.’

‘He feels a bit cold to me, Sarge. Shall I go and get a blanket or somethin’ to keep him warm. I expect I can get one from the pub?’

‘OK but be bloody quick about it because I don’t want any nosey parkers sticking their oar in, got it?’

Green nodded and quickly doubled away to the pub to wake up the owner to borrow a blanket. If he could work it just right, maybe he’d get a cup of tea out of the landlord as well.

Green rapped his fist against the door with increasing firmness.

‘We’re closed, come back at ten-thirty.’ A gruff voice barked out to the soldier banging on his door so early in the morning.

‘We’ve got an injured man out here, sir. Can you spare a blanket until the ambulance arrives?’

Green then explained he was from the army and there’d been an accident.

You could hear the voice from behind the door exhale in reluctance at the request but knew it was his duty to help the armed forces if they asked.

The rusting deadbolts now squealed as they were slipped back from their retainers and then the deadlock’s resistance at being rotated by an old key before the door hinges eerily groaned as they gradually swung their heavy load of an oaken door partially open.

A head cautiously appeared from behind the jamb to look over at the figure of a young soldier. This was done mainly to verify who it really was as the pub had been robbed on several occasions in the past couple of years, which had all turned out to be local soldiers, albeit ones that’d already had far too much to drink before their ham-fisted attempts at after-hours burglary.

The publican told the soldier to wait there and he would return with a blanket in a moment. He obviously didn’t trust the soldier because he locked the door again as a precaution.

‘Here you go, lad,’ he said, sullenly handing over the gray woollen blanket. ‘I’ll come out and get it when the ambulance arrives because I want it back.’ The publican announced in a surly and offhand manner.

The soldier said his thanks to the grudging publican before the door was firmly slammed in his face and relocked.

‘What a miserable old git!’ Green said to himself as he walked back to the field of impressive and ancient heavy standing stones that had been arranged in large circles, which made him briefly wonder why anyone would want to do such a thing.

When Green arrived back, woollen blanket in hand, he found the injured man conscious and sitting up with his back against the scarred stone. You could easily tell he was nursing a king-sized headache.

Green didn’t say anything to him, he just wrapped the blanket around the man’s shoulders and stepped back to speak with his sergeant.

‘Well done, Green. He seems to be all right but hasn’t said anything yet. It must be the shock I suppose.’ Boyle rightly assumed.

‘I think it’s bloody amazing he’s actually alive, Sarge.’

Bergman arrived back on the scene after going for a piss behind another stone.

‘He’s back amongst us then, Sarge?’ Bergman nodded down to the man sat against the rock with the blank expression and vacant unfocused eyes.

‘Who are yer, then, mate?’ Bergman asked candidly. ‘What the fuck are yer doin’ out ‘ere at this time of the fuckin mornin’ …picking bleedin’ daisies?

‘That’s enough, Bergman.’ Boyle snapped at the inquisitive cockney that thought he was being tremendously clever as usual.

Taking out his pack of cigarettes from his blouse pocket, Boyle opened the pack and offered one to the traumatised man.

‘Would you like a gasper?’

It took a moment before the man could register what Boyle was asking him.

The man then shook his head in a small gesture of refusal and tried to smile but Boyle could see it was difficult for him to really comprehend.

‘Don’t worry, pal, we’ve sent for a doctor and he’ll be here any minute. Just stay there and try not to get up until the M.O.’s had a chance to look you over, OK?’

Boyle was the only one in his new tank crew that had seen combat before. He was aware that some wounds gave the impression they may not be too bad, until that injured person was moved causing internal problems that led to a premature death. For now it was just a waiting game until the ambulance arrived.

Green went to offer the stunned man a drink from his canteen of water as he thought the poor guy looked parched. It was a nice gesture but could prove fatal in the case of some wounded and Boyle told Green not to do it.

‘Medics are ‘ere!’ Bergman piped up, causing Boyle and Green to turn around to watch two stretcher bearers and a doctor swiftly heading toward them.

‘What’s going on here, Sergeant?’ The medical officer enquired.

Boyle quickly came to attention and saluted.

‘We think it may have been a stray shell from one of the tanks from over on the plain, sir.’ Boyle indicated a finger to some arbitrary direction as if to confirm his explanation.

Private Dunne overheard this and was about to step forward to give the true account but Bergman pulled him back by his collar and told him not to interrupt the officers. In fact, between Boyle and himself, they were actually trying to save his ass; and by association, theirs too.

Captain Hawkins from the RAMC (medical corps) moved over to the sitting man to see what was going on.

‘Are you all right, old boy?’ he asked as he went down on one knee to check his new patient.

The man found it difficult to form words at the moment, so just nodded.

‘Do you live locally?’ the captain said in a louder voice because, like Boyle, he’d assumed the man’s hearing may be impaired due to the nature of the blast.

The man began to shake his head as if to say ‘No’ but closed his eyes and instantly fainted. He began to slump over sideways but was caught by a fast reacting Boyle. Indeed, he’d been proved right as this man’s condition was a lot more serious than first suspected.

‘Stretcher Bearers! The captain called out. ‘Get this fellow into the ambulance and we’ll take him to the hospital.’

Hawkins quickly checked the man’s respiration and was pleased to find it was almost close to normal. He’d also taken out his small flashlight to test his retinal responses; they were a little slower than normal but not really a cause for concern at the moment.

‘Which one, sir?’ the corporal ambulance driver asked the pre-occupied doctor.

‘What?’ Hawkins snapped at the unwelcome question and turned to face the corporal.

‘Which hospital, sir? He’s a civilian and I need to know if we should run him up to the general at Marlborough?’

‘Oh! Yes, you’re quite right.’ He paused a moment to consider his answer. ‘No, I think as this one was our mistake it’s probably best if we keep an eye on him up at our place.’

‘Very good, sir, we’ll be ready to leave in a couple of minutes.’

The corporal, with the help of his assistant, gently eased the semi-conscious body onto the stretcher and used the blanket supplied by Green to continue to keep him warm.

‘Go easy with him, corporal, and let me know the instant if his situation deteriorates. We can’t have civilians pegging out on us now, can we?’

‘No, sir, that’s very bad for business.’ the corporal smiled wryly.

‘Off you go. I’ll be right with you after I’ve spoken with the sergeant here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well then, Sergeant Boyle, would you care to tell me the real story behind all this?’

Hawkins looked at Boyle in the eyes, only to see the man look back in a very sheepish manner and slightly lost for words.

‘…Real story, sir?’ he mumbled.

Boyle was obviously scrambling to buy some thinking time for a plausible answer.

‘As I said, sir; a stray round hit that stone and the blast knocked the bloke flat.’

At this stage Boyle had to stick to his story as saying anything else now would only cause further trouble for everyone involved, especially him.

‘That stray shell wasn’t from your tank by any chance, Sergeant?’ Hawkins narrowed his eyes at Boyle, again, searching his face for some semblance of the truth.

‘No, sir, we’d had a little mechanical trouble and were just driving by to join the exercise on the plain when we heard the shell impact over there.’

‘Really?’ was the reply that was tinged with sarcasm.

‘Yes, sir,’ Boyle felt sure he had to stick by the story. ‘That’s right.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t tell that to the Military Police if I were you. They would spot that was bullshit right away because of the shell’s trajectory colliding with the stone. Like me, they would quickly figure out that shell could only have been fired from your tank.’ Hawkins concluded his observations but now accompanied by a sly grin. ‘Although, I’m surprised it didn’t damage the stone more than it has.’

‘Yes, sir, we thought that too.’ Boyle gulped in a more passive agreement.

‘Get your damn story straight with your men if you don’t want to end up on a serious charge. That’s my advice, Sergeant!’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

‘Fuck me!’ Bergman expounded his words of wisdom to everyone after the medical officer was out of hearing range. ‘He certainly tumbled you and no mistake. Are we goin’ to be in the shit over this, Sarge?’

All three: Bergman, Green, and especially Dunne, were all waiting on their sergeant’s considered reply.

‘As the captain just said; if we get our story straight, no-one has to do ‘Jankers’ over this. (Jankers is a British Army term for punishment whereby the defaulter is set to do a series of menial labour tasks whilst confined to barracks with it all overseen by the Military Police).

They all walked back to their tank that was now parked up by the pub, only to find the not so genial publican impatiently waiting for them.

‘So, where’s my bloody blanket then?’ he growled at them. It was obvious he was in a foul mood since