Memorabilia

By Kyle R. Fisher

Sean's firing from the Philadelphia Police Department for misconduct still troubled him but was ancient history now that he co-owned a pawn shop in Atlantic City. When Elyse, the beautiful memorabilia collector, walked through the door, she was searching for historic photographs of the D-Day landings. It was no coincidence that Sean’s grandfather was one of the few men on Omaha Beach that day shooting with a camera instead of a gun. Sean knew the urban legend of his missing photographs, but her story about them pointing to a cache of valuable Nazi jewels was new. Using subtle clues left by Sean's grandfather, they must stay two steps ahead of the Secret Service agents on Elyse's trail as they dig through his grandfather's past. But when a picture from 1944 shows up with Elyse standing next to General Dwight D. Eisenhower, she tells him a story he can't believe. Is it a lie to get what she wants? For Sean, it's not about the jewels anymore; it's about the connection to his grandfather and finding out the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kyle R. Fisher
• Release date: May 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463616697

Kyle R. Fisher

Kyle R. Fisher enjoys writing in multiple genres including science fiction, historical fiction, and thrillers. His work shifts from a trilogy about time travel to the true story of Judith of Flanders to a spy thriller about ancestors of German Nazis attempting to overthrow the US government. He populates his books with unusual but realistic characters, quirky humor, and unexpected twists. Kyle is an engineer and independent author living in Ohio. He is a project engineer for an injection molding company that makes large parts for many different industries. His wife works in a candy factory and he believes she is the sweetest thing in the building. His oldest daughter is an Ohio University graduate who works and raises three children. His younger daughter graduated from both the Ohio State University and the University of Northern Colorado, and works in the mental health care field. He couldn't be prouder of them. An avid reader his whole life, his first attempt at writing was on a red, toy typewriter at the age of nine or ten. It was a horror story about giant ants, which he never completed. As an adult, Kyle's interest in writing didn't ignite until after his second trip through college, where a tough composition professor gave him the encouragement he needed. In 2010, his first completed manuscript, Turbulent Reentry, won the San Diego Mensa 2010 Creative uRGe award for Best Unpublished Novel. He hasn't stopped writing since.

Book preview

MEMORABILIA

Book 1 of the Memorabilia Trilogy

by

Kyle R. Fisher

Memorabilia

Kyle R Fisher

Smashwords Edition

Revised 2022

Text copyright © 2018 Kyle R. Fisher

ISBN: 9780463616697

Cover artwork by Kyle R Fisher

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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 are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchase for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

My sincerest thanks to the people who helped make this novel a reality: Stephanie from Whales for her guidance on idioms from the UK, Kat for both the expert developmental editing and copy editing, and Grammar Girl for the many, many times I took her sound advice on punctuation.

As always, thanks to my wife for her support and understanding while I obsessively putter away at this hobby.

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Epilogue

ONE

June 6, 1944

English Channel

Lieutenant Chuck Perrucci hunched his body over a battered pack of Lucky Strikes in an ambitious effort to keep the cold English Channel spray from rendering his few remaining cigarettes useless. With his left arm against the wall of the pitching and rolling landing craft, he shook a bent cigarette partly out and held the pack toward Lieutenant Paul Barrick.

Paul shook his head. I quit smoking, he said, casting a longing eye at it. He had to yell over the crash of the waves against the small boat and the wind howling over the steel walls above their heads.

Instead of the cigarette, Paul retrieved a small, square package of Matlow Brothers wintergreen mints from his pocket and fumbled one into his mouth. Having no wall at his side for support, he relied on the tight proximity of the thirty-five other men in the landing craft to keep from tumbling into the six inches of vomit-tinged water swirling at his ankles. Bits of breakfast and shards of soaked paper floated and bobbed with abandon atop the foul-smelling soup in which the men of the 1st Infantry Division, 16th Regiment stood.

Chuck looked at Paul with a raised eyebrow as he leaned against the landing craft’s side. He held the crooked cigarette in his tightly drawn lips, replaced the pack in his pocket, and withdrew a lighter. In one practiced motion, he snapped the lid and spun a flame on his Zippo. It caught quickly, despite the windy, humid conditions, and he took a deep draw in full view of the words NO SMOKING stenciled on the wall of the craft near his shoulder.

How come? Chuck asked, stuffing his lighter in the pocket with the Lucky Strikes.

My girlfriend is allergic.

Never heard of that.

Monty is, too.

A sudden rise and fall of the landing craft displaced a cold spray of water from the Channel onto the side of Chuck’s face. The red-hot coals on the cigarette vanished with an unheard sizzle. Chuck rubbed a sleeve across his face and looked at the sodden stick of tobacco with disgust before pitching it into the water at his feet.

Field Marshal Montgomery? he asked, reaching again for the beat-up pack of Lucky Strikes. No kidding?

Yep. My girlfriend doesn’t think it’s healthy, either.

Chuck laughed, not a mild snicker, but a head-back, earsplitting cackle. Hell, the Germans are probably gonna kill us first.

Although Paul Barrick didn’t look the part, he was older than most of the surrounding soldiers. He joined the army in 1936, years before Hitler’s first steps into Poland. Most of the men on this landing craft weren’t long past high school. With their matching field uniforms and helmets, Paul’s average height, short brown hair, and athlete’s frame blended in without distinction. His face held a friendly smile most days, but now, thanks to serious threats from his stomach to dredge his own breakfast back up, he wore a look of concern.

He focused on Chuck as the man lit another cigarette. If he could watch an unmoving landmark, like the shore, he felt he could stave off most of the seasickness he was feeling. Unfortunately, relief would not come from watching the shore. The top of the landing craft was a foot over his head, blocking the sight of anything except a canvas of olive drab steel. Instead, he looked at Chuck, hoping for a similar effect to quell the complaints from his queasy stomach.

It was difficult to believe from Chuck’s placid features and baby face that he was a seasoned veteran of the African campaign. This man had killed Germans, he knew, if only because General Ames had assigned him to Paul as protection. Not that Paul asked for it or wanted it, but the general made his orders clear: follow Chuck Perrucci around or don’t go.

You’re looking a little green, Chuck said. Is it the boat ride or what we’re going to find when the boat ride stops?

He’d kept his cigarette burning, although the cherry was racing up one side faster than the other. No doubt some errant spray had moistened the slow side.

Seasick, Paul replied.

Chuck lifted his leg from the ankle-deep water and shook off a sodden scrap of paper sticking to his boot. First, they put us on a big ship for two days. Then they feed us a battle breakfast and put us on this half-swamped sardine can in rough water. What do they give us to throw up in? Paper bags. Only in the army. He chuckled grimly as another spray of water tried to put out his cigarette. Chuck was ready this time. Gripping the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, he used the rest of his hand as an effective shield and took a quick draw before it could happen again.

Chuck continued. I know I’m here to keep you from becoming a gold star in mom’s window, but I’d like to know how much you can take care of yourself out there. Have you always been a…?

Chuck struggled for the word, but Paul helped him out. A Gertrude?

Chuck shrugged apologetically and nodded.

Yeah, I’ve always sat behind a desk. I was the only guy in the platoon who knew how to type. Instead of becoming a dogface, like I originally planned, they made me a staff sergeant.

How’d you get assigned to the general?

Well, I’ve always taken pictures. Paul saw Chuck’s eyes flick to the messenger bag hanging from his neck containing two Contax II cameras wrapped in oilcloth. "A full bird colonel saw some photos I took of my unit that got in Stars and Stripes, and the next thing I know, I’m promoted to lieutenant and assigned as the general’s aide-de-camp."

A distant popping sound, like a dozen pans of popcorn, reached their ears over the wind and crash of the water. This was the unmistakable sound of large-caliber machine gun fire, punctuated by the occasional boom of artillery. Paul instinctively tried to look at the battle over the top of the landing craft but could only see smears of dark smoke drifting into the sky. The pull of fear and the unknown suddenly threatened to bring his breakfast up again.

So, you’ve never seen any combat, right? Chuck asked.

Paul shook his head and forced his thoughts from the near future, back to Chuck. No.

We were the last landing craft of the first wave, so it’s either going to be real good or real bad. Sounds like it's real bad. In Africa, I saw new guys get shell shocked right away. A few of them find a corner and cry like babies. Some of them talk crazy like the Virgin Mary or the Holy Ghost told them to stop killing Krauts. One private refused to fight because he saw Martians with ray guns on the German’s side. In a firefight, these guys are the first to die.

Is that supposed to make me feel better?

"Hell no. It’s supposed to make me feel better. I need to know that you’re not going to go off your nut. The general said to protect you, and you going section eight ain’t going to make it any easier."

Despite the cold, wet boat ride, the acrid, stinking vomit water soaking his feet, and the looming beach landing where Germans would be trying to kill him, Paul smiled at Chuck. Chuck smiled back. Veteran or shave tail, in the end these guys were still just worried about their own asses.

I think you’re going to be okay, Barrick. Do you have a weapon?

Paul nodded. Forty-five.

Any good with it?

I got an expert in pistol dismounted on my Marksman Qualification Badge, Paul said proudly.

It’s a little different when the target is shooting back at you. You can make sure your weapon is ready, but why don’t you leave the shooting to me?

Roger that. The only shooting I plan to do is with my cameras. Paul placed a protective hand on the bag hanging from his shoulder.

Obviously satisfied that Paul wasn’t going to get him killed, Chuck became silent. Paul looked around. Of the thirty-five other guys packed into the small landing craft, he could recognize four faces, and knew only one of them by name. Few talked and nobody smiled, in contrast to the last two days aboard the U.S.S. Charles Carroll, the attack transport that delivered them from Portland Harbour. Now most of the men stared ahead with a look of desperate resolve etched on their faces. Weighed down under hundreds of pounds of gear, they were an almost humorous sight as they gripped their carbines with condoms rolled over the business end to keep the water out.

As the sounds of a heated battle grew louder, the few conversations taking place on the small landing craft slowly faded out. To a man, they listened to the machine gun fire gradually overtake and drown out the thrumming of the engine, the wind, and the slap of the angry Channel. They stood somber for an unknown stretch of time making an equally unknown number of silent prayers and promises. Soon the stink of gunpowder and burning gasoline became strong enough to overpower the smell of the salty puke water below them. Paul knew they were close when, from his armored shelter behind them, the gunner began laying down a deafening blanket of suppression fire from the mounted .30 caliber machine gun.

They felt a sudden bump from the hull striking land. On cue, the wide, front ramp dropped into the water. Over the heads of his comrades, Paul could see a wide expanse of beach through a pall of smoke. The action of the gray, rolling water beat white foam into the sand’s edge. Raised half out of the water and scattered as far as he could see were a jumble of large, steel crosses, like an oversized set of jacks left on the beach by a careless toddler. Paul knew from the invasion briefings these were anti-tank obstacles called Czech hedgehogs.

Men from other landing crafts dotted the beach, using the hedgehogs for shelter. The ends of large logs poked from the water interspaced among the metal hedgehogs, some with explosive mines wired to the ends. Inanimate, man-shaped objects bobbed in the surf, collecting on the foamy shore like olive drab driftwood. A lot of driftwood.

Beyond the water was a 100-yard stretch of shingle beach littered with countless bodies and a dozen burning tanks on the pebbled sand. Thick, black smoke rolled off them, racing to join the hazy pallor of the sky. At the opposite end of the beach was a short, rocky ledge covered with belts of barbed wire. Beyond that was another 100-yard stretch leading to a raised, curving bluff.

Out of concrete pillboxes built high above the bluff, the Germans poured down machine gun fire in sheets from dozens of entrenched positions across the four-mile crescent. Flanking fire coursed in from either end of the crescent, cutting down men as they sprinted to the relative safety of the barbed wire ledge. Here men gathered before making the next 100-yard dash of death to the shelter under the bluff. This was Omaha Beach. The Germans were doing their best to keep the Allies from establishing a beachhead. So far, they’d been too successful.

As soon as the ramp hit ground, machine gun fire peppered the water around the landing craft and rang off the armored sides. Men began pouring out ahead of Paul and Chuck into the waist deep surf, some taking hits from the German barrage and dropping abruptly into the water from the weight of their gear. They didn’t come back up. Paul held the bag containing his cameras over his head and followed Chuck into the frigid water.

A mortar round exploded twenty feet from him in a spray of water and sound that left his ears ringing. Paul could see other craft dotting the water around them that weren’t so lucky. Some were smoking shells settling into the water, and others were still burning, blackened remnants of his compatriots visible amid the debris.

Chuck cut left, away from the rest of the group heading to the right and pushed hard toward a cluster of the partly submerged hedgehogs. As they slogged in slow motion through the waist-deep surf, stepping on the poor, unlucky souls mowed down at the front of the landing craft, tiny splashes of water erupted to their left. Chuck lurched in the opposite direction to avoid the machine gun fire and followed the remaining men to the right. The oncoming fire strafed across the departing landing craft behind them, ricocheting off the interior, and cutting into the water on the other side.

The strafing followed close behind as they slogged to the nearby shore. Three men in front of Chuck dropped soundlessly into the surf. Another exploded in a pink cloud that spattered the side of Paul’s face. The water at their knees, Paul dodged floating bodies, some still coloring the water red, and followed Chuck through the beach froth to break into a hard run. Slowed by soaked uniforms and heavy gear, they plodded over the sand in slow motion toward a burning amphibious duplex-drive tank that had managed to stay afloat during its trip ashore. Following them to safety was a sharp thwack thwack thwack sound of machine gun rounds burying themselves into the sand, getting closer all the time. As they reached the rear of the burning tank to join the half dozen men sheltered there, the thwacks became deafening explosions against the tank’s steel armor.

In unison, Chuck ripped the condom from the end of his M1 rifle as Paul reached into his bag to retrieve a camera. His hands shook from adrenaline and fear as he dug one of the Contax II cameras from its protective oilcloth. He hung it by the strap around his neck, flipped open the rear, and loaded a roll of 35mm film. Snapping the lid shut and advancing the film with a practiced hand, he tried to think like a photographer and forget he was part of the battle. Paul turned and began shooting toward England, capturing their landing craft motoring away to go get more soldiers. No other landing crafts were delivering men to the beach, but more would soon arrive.

Paul turned and began snapping pictures down the line of the beach. His camera captured the men sheltering behind whatever they could, waiting to find a small slice of time when the German rounds weren’t tearing the sand up in front of them. He continued shooting as he finished the roll on the men zigzagging toward the rocky ledge as best they could, equally burdened by wet uniforms and heavy gear. A few made it. Many weren’t so lucky.

Paul tore his gaze from the hellish scene, and quickly swapped film rolls. German bullets still pealed off the burning tank providing them shelter, but only sporadically as the gunners aimed at more worthwhile targets.

Your gun, Chuck said, pointing at Paul’s pistol.

Paul sighed and let the camera dangle from the strap. He removed his Colt and stripped the waterproof covering from it. With shaking hands, he ejected the full magazine, reinserted it, and pulled back the slide to load it. He secured it firmly back in the holster and lifted his camera.

That’s better. You ready, Barrick? Chuck asked, yelling above the overwhelming sound of machine gun fire.

Hell no, he wasn't. There were still a few good shots that he could take from this location. In fact, he could stay here all day taking good shots. Sensing his hesitation, Chuck pointed back toward the waterline, which had, in that short amount of time, moved closer to them. Paul realized at once what he meant. If they stayed here long, the approaching water would either drown them or decide when they moved. Better to make their own decision about when to run for the ledge.

Paul nodded, and raised his camera to take a few shots as they ran. Chuck hesitated only a moment before sprinting from the tank’s cover toward a group of the large, metal hedgehogs further up the beach. Paul stayed tightly behind him, like a cornerback following the offense’s wide receiver, with life or death on the line, not just a game-night win. Paul heard the boom of a mortar round exploding somewhere behind, pelting him with sand, but his momentum wouldn’t let him turn to look.

More of the thwacking sounds opened small craters in the sand around his rapidly moving feet. He shadowed Chuck to the hedgehogs and arrived as the bullets found purchase on the steel. Instead of the wide cover offered by the tank, the hedgehogs were barely large enough to silhouette a man. Paul decided he preferred the gentle thwacking sound of the sand over the earsplitting staccato ringing of the bullets blasting against the steel mere inches from his vital organs.

Paul glanced back at the burning tank to see a small, smoking crater in front of it, which wasn’t there during their sprint to the hedgehogs. The bloodied remains of several soldiers ringed its edges, red and olive drab-colored body parts and equipment scattered across the foreground. He raised the camera and began taking pictures as Chuck pointed his carbine and fired in the opposite direction, toward the German defenses. Paul squeezed off a couple shots of the smoking crater, then a few of Chuck as he emptied his magazine and engaged a fresh one. The machine gun fire abated. Paul wondered if Chuck’s shots had miraculously found the gunner who’d been targeting their position, but he didn’t get long to ponder it.

Chuck turned to Paul. Move! he yelled, and then ran in a low crouch toward the barbed wire ledge. Again, Paul blindly struck out behind him, hoping Chuck’s combat experience in Africa had given him some magical insight to where the enemy bullets would land. The spray of tiny sand explosions and thwacks chasing their footsteps confirmed otherwise. Through divine intervention or sheer luck, the German bullets landed around them and hissed overhead, but none found flesh.

Chuck leaped toward the ledge, and Paul followed, the sharp edges of the stones digging into his skin through his uniform. Paul held his camera up from the ground, guarding it against damage. Other soldiers sheltered along this ridge at random intervals down the beach as far as Paul could see. He rolled onto his back and began snapping pictures of the men moving up the beach toward them, finishing the roll. Before he could reload, Chuck was moving again.

With machine gun fire cutting through the air above him, Chuck began belly crawling along the line of barbed wire. Paul reluctantly stowed his camera back in his bag and followed. Soon he saw where Chuck was heading; a man-made gap in the barbed wire made by the combat engineers' explosives. Looking down the length of the ledge, he could see at least three other gaps opened to the landscape beyond. Every soldier lucky enough to make it this far was working his way toward these holes in the German defenses.

As they reached the breach, the nearby machine gun fire subsided. The rolling gullies and hills around them provided additional cover that blocked their position from the sight of the German guns. Without stopping, Chuck rose to a crouch and disappeared through the twisted shards of wire. Paul followed, the nagging thought that his camera needed film causing more distress than the German soldiers out there trying to kill him.

The high bluffs were a hundred yards away. With the American forces beyond the cover of the ledge, they were again targets in the German crosshairs. Bodies of fellow soldiers dotted the beach through the opening, but in nowhere near the numbers as at the water’s edge. Bullets tore up the sand at their feet as Chuck ran toward the bluffs, and Paul struggled to keep up with him. The sound of the guns was louder here, and Paul could clearly see the concrete bunkers with long, rectangular slots housing the deadly German firepower. He could feel the gaze of the German gunners staring down at them, laughing as they uttered the German equivalent of fish in a barrel.

However, at that instant, instead of deadly machine gun fire coming from the open slots on the bunker, orange plumes of flame squirted out in rectangular shapes followed by screams of inhuman suffering. The sound of small arms fire and grenade explosions erupted from that direction. The machine gun no longer chased them across the beach, and Paul felt like he needed to buy some unknown GIs as much warm beer as they could drink.

They reached the break in the bluffs to see that it led to a grassy ravine that split the bluffs ahead and turned into a path inland. Black smoke poured from two small machine gun pits on either side of the ravine, tinged with the stench of gunpowder and roasting meat. As Chuck and Paul passed them, Paul could see German soldiers lying dead inside, their unmoving bodies blackened and twisted into unnatural positions.

Beyond the ravine, the land transformed into grassy meadows and rolling hills sprinkled with quaint French cottages. Footpaths led through the tall grass with various leafy trees breaking up the landscape. It was an idyllic scene of beauty, if not for the persistent sound of machine gun fire and grenade explosions behind them and the smell of charred flesh still fresh in their nostrils.

They could see other American troops working their way through the grass, avoiding the paths altogether. Chuck struck out toward them. Through here, he said, the paths are mined.

As they worked their way carefully through the waist-high grass, Paul reloaded his camera and began snapping photos. Ahead of them was a heated battle, and clearly Chuck was determined to give him some prizewinning pictures because he was heading right for it. As the battle grew louder, Paul heard a single shot from behind them. In his peripheral vision, he saw Chuck drop to the ground. Paul immediately squatted down over him. He could see a blood-rimmed hole in Chuck’s uniform near the man’s lower rib cage. Pulling the uniform away, he could see a