Jack Sabre: the Crossing

By Gilbert Latreille

In the sequel to the first book, you will see how trouble finds our young hero, Jack Sabre, after leaving the Ottawa train station on his way to Manning Pool, Toronto and he shows us, once again, what he is made of when he decides to step into a situation to try to prevent innocent people from receiving serious harm.
As his journey unfolds, seemingly guided forward by an invisible hand, he realizes that he is getting a lot more than he expected. Be with Jack as death shadows him daily while he makes and loses new friends, tries to get his ex-girlfriend Nancy off his mind after a marriage proposal gone wrong.
Accompany Jack in the latest phase of his young life as he criss crosses North America, his heart set on achieving a serious objective, only to receive unsettling news at the end which will take Jack down a path filled with danger. Join him on a harrowing voyage across the treacherous North Atlantic as death stalks him on his journey toward harms way in Europe where unresolved matters of the heart gnaw at him and leadership decisions involving life and death are thrust upon him time and again and where quite unexpectedly, an explanation to a past mystery is revealed in dramatic fashion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450254373

Gilbert Latreille

Gilbert Latreille is an Ottawa lad, born and raised. He works as an HR manager in the Public Service of Canada. His curiosity about various matters was awakened at a very early age. So he began watching with interest what was going on around him. Along the way, he became a keen observer of human nature. Then, he developed an instinct for getting himself into situations. He says that at times, well, it was not of his own doing. This turned into a knack for storytelling. This is the sequel to his first book, Jack Sabre. We think you will like it. ---------- PSA : In a 08/02 conversation via phone, au indicated he wants to keep bio as is, but does not want it to appear on his actual book at all. Would just confirm with him that that is the case when contacted.

Book preview

Jack Sabre:

The Crossing

cross.jpg

Gilbert Latreille

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Jack Sabre: The Crossing

Copyright © 2010 Gilbert Latreille

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4502-5435-9 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-5436-6 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-5437-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 10/7/10

Dedication

To my daughter and son: Lil’ Mel and J-C. A lot of great things have happened to me. You two are fine examples. Stay positive. :-)

To the memory of Grand-Mère Gilberte Desrochers. Great caregiver. Excellent protective instincts. A lioness when roused! (Like her daughter, our Mom)

To all the staff at the Orleans Branch, Ottawa Public Library: you have been a great help C.jpg

Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Coach Number Seven

LAC Sabre

Contact

The Empress of Lake Ontario

Dead Men Tell No Tales

Hell Is on Its Way

L’Avocat Sans Cause

Foreword

You picked up The Crossing. Very cool. When I tested the market with the Jack Sabre manuscripts, the readers really got into this sequel. My wish is that you like it too. A lot. (I think you will)

Strap yourself in. Okay.

Gilbert

Coach Number Seven

THE TRAIN IN WHICH JACK travelled was an older, 1915 affair. It was no speedster. It lumbered out of Ottawa, able to reach speeds up to forty-five miles per hour on a good straightaway with no headwind.

It had left Ottawa at one o’clock in the afternoon and was scheduled to hit Toronto by seven fifteen that evening. Although some meal tickets were provided for dinner, compliments of the Royal Canadian Air Force, Jack was glad he had the fruited pound cake with him. It was a good opportunity to pass some of his mama’s down home cookin’ around amongst his new-found airmen buds, which he did. Jack found a seat, squeezed in, and sat down. Hi, I’m Jack. What’s your name?

The setup was four men per section. All of them were less than twenty years old, mostly boys, still acne-faced. They had signed up to fight and die, and some were still virginal. They had joined to fly, and it was going to be serious business with some of them growing up very fast. But that was to come later.

For now, they had half the coach to themselves, filling one row alongside the windows. They chatted about the usual stuff: What school are you from? Where do you live? What does your dad do? Jack had a little problem with that one, having never known his dad. He just pulled out the fruited pound cake and said, Here you go, guys. Have some of this. You gotta try it. Nobody refused.

Jack found that some of the boys knew him from his exploits as a wrestling champion and high school quarterback, that huge guy from Lowertown. And of course, they had heard about the whole Devil’s Hole episode. He liked that.

At some point, the train slowed down, and Jack decided to stretch his legs a bit. It was right after the pound cake had been polished off and Nancy had crept into his mind again. Jack had feigned not being hungry so more of the boys could have some of the cake. He had some pocket change and decided he would seek out a cafeteria or something, so he could buy himself some take away goodies to tide him over until dinnertime. He would also have a moment to be alone and feel sorry for himself. He walked up the aisle and crossed out into another coach when the train stopped in Kingston to pick up other passengers.

About three cars up from his coach, Jack found the wagon car housing the food preparation area. He charmed his way into three fresh roast beef sandwiches with a side of potato chips. The cook piled the beef high, so Jack was more than happy to generously tip the kitchen staff.

Sitting down on an employee’s single stool by the window with a small fold out tray, he ate his food in silence. He was in a funny state of mind. One moment he was up. The other moment he was down, sad and letting out long sighs. By the end of his third sandwich, Nancy was still on his mind, and he reran the events of that morning over and over again. She could have at least come to the train station to see me off. Was I too short with her when she refused my marriage offer and returned the ring? Was my reaction to being rejected too severe?

While Jack was rolling this all over, fourteen liquored-up and toughened-up army recruits had boarded the train during their brief stop in Kingston, fresh off a forty-eight hour leave pass and feeling mean as a result of a long weekend drunk and losing money gambling. They were heading to Toronto as well.

Since they were not travelling first class—the government did not pay any luxuries for travelling troops, of course—the rowdy toughs were directed to the same coach as the group of new recruits. They did not waste time stirring up trouble, either. The moment they entered the coach and saw who was sitting there, the bullying began.

Well, looky here, fellas, we either got ourselves some pansies riding with us or a bunch of mama’s boys! one of them mouthed off.

Before any of Jack’s group could answer, another jumped in.

Say, how come you guys aren’t in uniform?

Take it easy, guys. We’re all on the same side. We’re on our way to Manning Pool, Toronto, as airmen, a young AC2 named Sanderson replied.

Acey-deucies! one of the toughs exclaimed, and they all laughed.

You bunch of skinny runts are gonna be in the Air Force? Well, I’ll be goddamned. What’s this country comin’ to?

At that point, one of the air force recruits, named Chatillion, stood up to go to the men’s room.

Where you goin’, dickhead? one of the army toughs asked, blocking the path with the others behind him.

I’m not looking for any trouble, so why don’t you just let me through? Chatillion said.

I asked you a question, he replied, slapping Chatillion sharply on the side of the head.

The one hundred and thirty-five pound Chatillion reacted immediately, slamming both his open palms on the bully’s chest, sending him reeling backwards into his Army friends. Look, pal, I don’t know what your problem is, but I don’t appreciate getting slapped around. Keep this up, and I’ll report you to the MPs as soon as we get off the train.

The bully did not take kindly to that at all.

Why you liver-lilied, snot-nosed, rat bastard. I’ll teach you some rough and ready manners. After I’m done with you, you’ll think twice about going to the MPs.

He got up quickly with the help of his army buddies and rushed Chatillion, grabbing his collar with both hands then butting him hard with his forehead. Everyone heard the sickening thud.

Chatillion dropped like a sack of potatoes, holding his nose. Sanderson jumped in to help his fallen friend, whose nose was bleeding like a stuck pig. Sanderson was kneed and kicked repeatedly in the groin, arms, and chest as he lay hurt and moaning on the ground.

This is called getting the boots put to you, ass wipe! taunted one of the bullies.

The other boys in the group tried to intervene but were mercilessly beaten up by the experienced hand-to-hand combat soldiers.

The train was well on its way, and a porter happened to enter the coach when he saw the one-sided fight well in progress. He ran back through the coaches into the one where Jack was sitting. The porter had a very worried look on his face as he approached the staff. Jack noticed the commotion.

In halted breaths, he said, You know those green Air Force recruit boys back in coach number seven we picked up in Ottawa?

That got Jack’s attention. Still sitting, he asked, Yeah, what about them?

Are those your buddies, son? the porter asked.

You could say that. What’s going on?

Well, we gotta stop the train and get the cops or MPs in here. A bunch of tough Army guys that we picked up in Kingston are beating the living daylights out of them.

Hearing this, Jack sat up like a shot and began marching down back to coach seven.

The porter called out to him, but Jack was already out of earshot. Mister, you best wait for the police or reinforcements. They will be boarding the train soon. Our security man has been advised and is on his way there right now.

Wait for what, Jack asked, still looking ahead, walking. We’ll see who is going to need reinforcements. There was an edge in Jack’s tone.

Back in the coach, the inexperienced Air Force recruits were receiving a terrible beating. Sanderson was unconscious, and Chatillion had taken a severe hit to the head and was on the ground in an uncontrollable spasm. The one-sided fight was out of control and vicious and had taken a life of its own.

Jack entered the coach, saw the mayhem and the hurt recruits on the ground and was filled with rage. The Army toughs had not seen him yet because they had their backs to him. Jack took two long strides and grabbed the first man he could, taking him completely by surprise. He put his open right hand, palm up, between the man’s legs and flattened his nuts. With his left hand, he grabbed him by the back of his jacket. The guy stood about five foot six, to Jack’s six foot seven, and when he turned his head around and saw this mountain of a man-boy, his mouth dropped open.

You’re going for a ride buddy! Jack assured him. Jack flexed his arm up and raised the guy right off the ground, and holding him securely with his left hand, slammed his head into the coach’s ceiling. His arms were like pistons going up and down.

By now, the army men had seen what was happening and knew that this huge guy was not fooling around. Still holding on firmly, Jack let the man come down from the last thump, swinging him down backwards. He was vertical to the floor for a second, and as Jack felt the momentum of the man coming forward from the back swing, he charged ahead, holding the man parallel to the ground, using the poor bugger’s head as a battering ram, striking down at least six Army guys.

Jack yelled so all the AC2s would hear him, Try to get out of the way, guys! Pull Sanderson and Chatillion to the side or something!

He violently picked up one of the fallen Army guys and with both hands shot-putted him forward like a javelin into his buddies, injuring three of them at the same time. He grabbed another one who was still standing and drove his fist right into his nose. Jack felt the bridge of the nose crush, but pulled back his punch just enough so that the bone would not be pushed through the bully’s brain.

Within a space of seconds, the bullies were not so enthusiastic to fight anymore. Jack stood in a boxer’s stance, hands up in front of him.

"You boys have been looking for trouble, and now you’ve found it. You were real quick to pick on my friends, so now come and pick on me. I’m right here, at your service."

The ones still standing gathered their courage, warily. Let’s get him together, the one who had started it all said.

When Jack heard these words, he bent down and took hold of an empty wooden bench seat. He put his back into it and heaved up. Eyes widened at the sound of the bench seat ripping out of its secure moored flooring. Throughout the coach, the sound of screws and bolts popping out one by one could be heard as Jack grunted and heaved. The oak structure screeched and groaned, the solid oak being stressed and twisted. Jack shook it from side to side to tear it loose. When it came free, he raised it to the ceiling then smashed the bench seat and backrest—the whole shebang—on the floor. It broke into large pieces as the wood split and splintered, leaving a nice plank in his hands. He held the plank in hand, and, as the bullies watched with awe, he grabbed the end of the Naugahyde-covered sponge cushion on the plank and pulled back sharply. It tore off rather easily, as the two long rows of thumbtacks along both edges of the plank pinged out of the wood. Jack held the clean piece of wood. He stood it on its end and faced the Army guys.

So who started this? Jack asked while swinging the plank sideways like a baseball bat.

No one answered.

Sanderson spoke up. He’s there. Right behind the one on the left.

Show me, Jack said as he put the plank aside. Sanderson limped forward and pointed.

Jack walked forward and grabbed the guy’s hair with his left hand, and then yanked him out hard in front, clear from the others. Jack’s grip was good and firm, and the guy’s feet left the floor, and he followed. Ow! Ow! Ow! was all he kept saying.

Now it’s your turn to hurt, Jack told him. You’re gonna get a taste of your own medicine He pulled his right hand back for a windup and slapped with his open palm, letting the guy’s head go. A loud whack was heard throughout the coach as the guy spun around like a top. Jack then booted him in the ass like a football, and both the guy’s feet left the floor again. He slammed into the ceiling then fell back down crumpling on the floor.

You fucking bullies. All right, who’s next? Who wants to take his life in his own hands? Jack walked forward, as they cowered together.

How about you? … No? asked Jack, as one of them shook his head.

Well what about you over there?

Just then, a loud whistle blew behind Jack, and uniformed military police and civilian police filed into the coach.

You are all under arrest! yelled a sergeant as he surveyed the scene.

Sanderson started speaking.

Shut up! We will sort this out in Toronto. Armed guard here and there, he said, as he pointed out different spots. Air Force this end. Army over there. Keep your mouths shut, and don’t speak unless you are spoken to. I’m clear on that? he bellowed.

Yes, sir, came back from the Army. The AC2s were silent. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police accompanying the Military Police had pulled their side arms and were ready to use them if the MPs could not bring order about.

In Jack’s mind, it was over before they arrived on the scene. He felt confident of being cleared after being given an opportunity to give his side of the story, but at that moment, everybody seemed to be in hot water. Once the Mounties were satisfied that no civilian was involved, they let the military police handle their own affairs.

The MPs looked at Chatillion and Sanderson and felt they required medical care. As for the Army guys, six of them needed to be looked after. A large pack was opened, battle dresses were taken, and the injured were temporarily bandaged before they arrived in Toronto.

They were separated and sat, individually handcuffed, under armed guard. They needed three pairs of handcuffs linked to each other for Jack. The cold steel on Jack’s large wrist made him very uneasy. He felt he was not a criminal and did not deserve this treatment. Something else was gnawing at him. He viewed what had happened as a bad omen. Is this a harbinger of things to come? He had not left his mother’s side for more than three hours before he got in trouble. She had not liked the whole joining up idea at all and only accepted it grudgingly when it was clear that she had no other choice. She would be very upset if she found out about this latest bit, and he did not want to cause her any grief. Not too long afterwards, the train made an unscheduled stop.

The prisoners were told to stand in single file and march off the trains to two trucks, and a jeep sat idling, surrounded by armed military police. They were escorted to separate trucks and carted off, Army in one, Air Force in the other, on their way to Toronto. The back of the trucks were covered with green tarps to block the view of any nosey Joes.

Jack was not allowed to speak, and when he tried, an MP threatened to hit him with the butt of his rifle.

The trucks rolled to a sudden stop. The tarp covering the back flew open, and the tailgate slammed down, swinging back and forth below.

You sons of bitches get out of the truck! yelled the sergeant.

Jack had never been called that in his whole life. Nobody would have dared.

I have to piss, someone said from the group behind Jack.

Shut up, they’ll be no sons of bitches talking! screamed the sergeant.

Chatillion and Sanderson were taken away. Jack looked around and did not see the other truck or the Army guys who had started the fight.

They were standing on a hard surface of some kind, with low square buildings all around. He saw a sign: Canadian National Exhibition.

A voice bellowed from the front, This is Number One, RCAF Manning Pool, Toronto, where you civilians were supposed to begin your transformation, your metamorphosis, into RCAF uniformed material. However, you seemed to have blown it all by yourself without even beginning your course. You will be interrogated one by one, and gentlemen, we will find out who is guilty and who will face court-martialling. You belong to us now, and justice will be served. I will caution you right now not to lie. If you do, we will find out, your punishment will be much more severe, and you will wish you were never born. I am not your mother; I am not your father, but I can be your worst nightmare. Don’t mess with the bull, or you’re gonna get the horns. That is all.

He turned sharply to one of his men.

Corporal of the Guards.

Yes, sir.

Bring the sons of bitches over.

There he goes again, thought Jack.

They were marched together into the main arena and told to stand at attention. One by one, they were taken away, not to return.

In the end, Jack was the only one left standing, alone, handcuffs on. He had been standing about two hours when he was escorted through the arena, the sounds of his steps carrying into a small room. An armed MP stood behind a plain metal desk with another man close by. The cuffs were removed from Jack’s wrist.

Sit down, Sabre, he ordered Jack. My name is Lieutenant Danner, MP, and this is Flight Sergeant Fancy, RCAF. Why don’t you tell us what happened?

Well, sir …

He recounted the events as he knew them and finished off by saying, I had not meant to hurt anyone but to stop the Army gang from hurting further some of my guys. That was my main motivation. Danner and Fancy looked at themselves.

Danner and Fancy asked all kinds of questions focusing mainly on what transpired before Jack arrived on the fight scene. Jack could not answer any of them.

Very well. Sabre, you wait here, and do not do anything foolish. Am I clear on that? Danner asked.

Yes, sir, replied Jack. He wanted to take a leak badly but did not venture his request.

He did sense that the mood had shifted, though. He had told the truth and hoped that the truth would set him free.

Approximately twenty-five minutes elapsed