Too Many Shadows

By L. M. JEFFREY

Naval Medical Officer, Jack Cutter, who narrowly survives WW2, along with a few compatriats, is caught up in a conspiracy and chased by undercover Nazi agents. An ancient , religious relic and strange clues lead to a monumental post-war cover-up, and a devastating betrayal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468581768

Book preview

Chapter 1

In February 1943, a British convoy slipped out of Alexandria harbour bound for Tripoli, but it would fail to reach its destination intact. Just as the dying sun sank beyond the horizon, taking the sweltering heat with it, the warriors of the sea slowly steamed out under cover of impending darkness, but the clouds floated away revealing a treacherous moon, spying on each vessel as it cleaved its way through the Mediterranean. Every ship, once a dark shadow on the black inky sea, became an illuminated silhouette, leaving tell-tale trails. It was not a good night to be lit up like fire flies if enemy U-boats or aircraft were hunting for prey.

In amongst these great ships was a Flower Class Corvette, serving to protect and safeguard the flotilla, like a savage pit bull terrier. She was not very sleek or grand, but yapped and snarled with her guns at anything that came too close, an ideal attack dog for escorting convoys through enemy waters. With plenty of gun power to intimidate and bully, the Corvette was one of the few herding the leviathan pack carrying water, petrol, supplies and armaments for the final assault to drive Rommel’s Afrika Korps out of the desert for good. North Africa had to be reclaimed at all costs.

On board the Corvette, Surgeon Lieutenant Jack Cutter, expecting an uneventful trip, pulled his tall, lean body up the steep steps onto the rolling deck to escape the stifling, cramped conditions of the crew’s quarters below. Jack was lucky enough to hitch a ride to Tripoli, boarding the Corvette in Alexandria, along with seventy nine officers and crew, (a vessel originally designed for twenty eight); sailors full of hope at the prospect of winning the war, others full of fear at the possibility of not surviving to witness it. But he felt in a good mood for a change, secretly smiling to himself, which was rare considering ‘the bloody war’ in the Western Desert. But at last he was leaving all that behind, joining a hospital ship in Tripoli taking him to England. Despite leaving a few broken hearted nurses behind, he was going home, shore leave, glad to get away from sun-baked, sandy, mosquito infested North Africa to a winter in England, cold, cloudy and wet, but he didn’t care about the weather. He longed for something less exotic, something recognisable, something familiar, something he had known for all of his thirty two years, but this would be short-lived. His life would change at the drop of a bomb.

The fresh air topside was a most welcome break, dispelling the combined stench of greasy engine fumes and stale sweaty bodies. He thought the war seemed trivial compared to the wonderful cosmic dance above, as he listened to the low humming of the ship’s engine, the ship rhythmical rolling, pitch and fall, heave and yaw, soothing his unpretentious soul.

The wind scooped up the surf, bracing and cold, cooling his hot suntanned skin as he ran his fingers through his damp, sun bleached hair; sliding his hand over his sea-sprayed face; a face his patients felt at ease with; gentle, smiling blue eyes that the nurses found so attractive; a softly spoken voice that quenched enmity; an aura of self-inflicted modesty that his comrades and peers admired and respected.

Jack licked the sea salt off his lips. The taste was wretched, nauseating, so instinctively he bent over the rail and spat into the churning Mediterranean Sea. Regrettably, a head wind blew it back on board.

Oi, watch it mate. You nearly gobbed on me. Jack turned to the irate voice. Oh, sorry Doc… erm, I mean Sir, continued the sailor. Didn’t recognise you from the back.

The sailor’s bright ginger hair was dishevelled by the sea breeze. He had the palest skin Jack had ever seen. It was liberally splattered with shapeless, blotchy freckles over his broken nose, and his cauliflower ear completed the tell-tale signs of a fighter. Before the war he was a welter weight boxer and would have been a contender for the championship if the war had not intervened, an untimely event he deeply resented. Of course, he blamed Hitler. Everybody blamed Hitler for wrecking their lives. This young pugilist was renowned for having an extremely short temper. More than once he had to be separated from some poor unfortunate who had pushed their luck.

Neither of them saluted. The sailor knew the Doc was not one to stand on ceremony, especially topside of a heaving boat, and anyway he was a passenger, not part of the crew, just passing through

Johnson isn’t it? asked Jack in his usual, casual manner, a trifle embarrassed, trying nonchalantly to change the subject.

Yes Sir. replied Johnson, puffing out his already muscular chest, realising that the Doc remembered his name out of such a large ship’s company. If any one called him Ginger Johnson or Freckles, that person was as good as dead, or at the very least given a good seeing to.

There followed a momentary, uneasy silence. Johnson filled the gap.

Bet you’ll glad to get back to dear old Blighty, Sir. Haven’t seen my wife and kids for months. Can’t believe I miss her nagging and the brats kicking and screaming. It’s a doddle compared to this shit.

Jack suddenly realised he had no one to return to. His parents had died and he was an only child, although there were a few lady friends he had accumulated, but would they remember him after all this time? He dismissed these fleeting thoughts quickly and asked, When do you think we’ll arrive?

Should be at first light, Sir. At least it’s a lot hotter than dear old Blighty.

Careful you don’t burn, Johnson. replied Jack, thinking of Johnson’s pale complexion.

What me Sir? Oh, I can handle it, Sir. Skin like a rhino.

Jack smiled and shook his head. Good night Johnson.

Night Sir.

Jack shifted his weight from one leg to the other to compensate for the swaying of the ship, a slow, soothing, rocking movement, as he weighed up the pros and cons of war. He had decided long ago that there was no glory in war. It was an atrocious waste of life. His job was to save men’s lives, not kill them. His duty was to patch them up and send them back out into battle. That’s what he signed up for using his medical training to obtain the rating of Medical Officer, rising through the ranks. Anyway, he loved sailing, the sea, open spaces, and besides all the girls love a sailor, his charm and good looks reaping ample rewards.

Suddenly, a lookout shouted, Incoming! The rest of the crew poured out on deck, like ants streaming out of an ant hill, bodies scurrying into action, manning the guns, swivelling the turrets, aiming towards the enemy. Jack recognised the engines of a squadron of German Stuka dive-bombers on the starboard side, getting louder and louder, suddenly changing pitch into an unholy scream as they went into vertical dives above him.

Jack froze, fiercely gripping the rail with both hands. He saw the moonlit trails of two bombs gliding silently through the air. The first one fell straight in front of the bow, creating a massive tidal wave of cascading, sparkling spray. The second one hit mid-ship. Jack crouched down to avoid the blast. The ship lurched up out of the water in a death throw. He felt a searing pain in the back of his head as a hunk of metal struck him. The force of the explosion catapulted him over the rail. He was unconscious before he hit the water. His life preserver gently raised his limp body to the surface, where he lay bobbing on the undulating waves on his back.

When he came to, he heard the whining of the Stukas overhead, bombs hitting their targets, the returning salvos, guns pounding the skies, men shouting orders, men screaming in agony, the wailing of the ships’ sirens and claxons splitting the air like a knife. He strained his eyes, but he could not see the sea lit up with each massive fire-ball explosion. He could not see the thick, black smoke drift upwards and melt into the night sky. It was as if a black wall was between him and the carnage. He saw no moon, no stars, no horizon, no Corvette, no convoy, just pitch-blackness. At least he was alive, but for how long?

Chapter 2

The throbbing pain in the back of his head was relentless as he floated aimlessly in the turbulent, black water. He could smell hot metal, diesel fumes, burnt wood, seared flesh. All of a sudden he felt something hard slam into his back. In the darkness, he turned round, moving his hands tentatively over the cold, wet object, realising it was a sizeable piece of wooden wreckage, flotsam, large enough to haul his weak body onto. Safely on the raft, slowly searching with his hand around the edges, Jack found a rope tied to one of the planks, struggling to haul in a large, heavy tarpaulin out of the water. Wrapped in the folds was a large spent gun cartridge, probably from the Corvette, he thought. He wrapped the water-sodden sheet around his body, still clutching the cartridge for some sort of comfort and, drifting in and out of consciousness, collapsed onto the cold, wet, wooden raft.

The merciless, morning sun beat down, rousing Jack from his delirium. He reached to the back of his head where the blood had dried, matting his hair. He winced with pain. The blinding headache was agonising as he slowly and very painfully raised himself up onto his elbows. All he could hear was the water gently lapping against the wooden structure. He managed a brief smile as a sudden surge of elation pulsed through his mind and body, realising he had survived, and, just as suddenly, deteriorated into despair at the thought of dying as a castaway. He mentally listed the ways in which he would die; heat stroke, dehydration, starvation, drowning, madness. Which one would strike first? He held his hand out in front of his eyes and saw nothing. Panic struck as he realised he could not see. He was blind, alone in the middle of the bloody Mediterranean, with no food, no water, no hope of rescue. He remembered the Corvette, his prophetic comment to Johnson about not getting burnt. Had any of them survived?

After an interminable time, Jack’s mind started playing cruel tricks on him. He could not think straight. Weak, hungry and thirsty, he honestly believed there was no point in going on. Slowly, fumbling with the fasteners, he removed his life preserver and flung it into the sea, his intention to roll off the wreckage and end it all. So simple, he thought, but the saviour of unconsciousness overcame him as he blacked out.

When Jack regained consciousness, he was in too much pain to move, let alone think. He had experienced the bitter cold at night and sweltering heat of day, not knowing how long he had spent aimlessly drifting. His mouth was so dry. Quenching his thirst now became the ultimate challenge, the ultimate priority. He remembered the gun cartridge and, feeling his way around the raft, managed to wedge it upright between two broken planks, praying for rain. The pain made him vomit and he slumped down on the wooden raft again.

For what seemed an eternity, enduring heat and cold, there came lightning storms and high winds. The little raft was tossed about in walls of water, rising, falling, surging, diving. Jack clawed his fingers in between the planks, hanging on for dear life, dear sweet life. He heard the thunder, but the lightning flashes eluded him. As the worst of the storm subsided, he was able to collect pure water in the cartridge from the gentler showers that followed.

Fear of the unknown permeated his whole being as he clung to the little raft. He still had no idea how many days he had been marooned at sea, but he averaged a guess by the growth of his chin stubble. Totally exhausted, he thought he heard seagulls screeching above, dismissing them as hallucinations. He must be going mad. But there it was again. Land, could it be land, he thought hopefully? In the distance, he could hear voices, faint voices. He struggled to raise himself to his knees, body aching, head throbbing, shrugging off the tarpaulin, waving his arms frantically above his head despite the pain. As the tide took his raft closer and closer to the shoreline, he heard several voices and a few words, Italian words. He shrunk back onto his haunches, dejected, knowing his fate would be that of a prisoner of war or, heaven forbid, shot on sight. As he neared the beach, he heard several feet splashing into the surf. He was grabbed unceremoniously by the arms, dragged through the water and dropped onto the beach, sand sticking to his damp face. As he reached up to brush it off, a boot kicked him hard in the ribs. Gasping, he fell onto the sand again.

Suddenly, a loud, authoritative voice boomed out and every thing went quiet and still. Even the gulls stopped squawking. This voice was different, not Italian, but German. The German shouted another order and Jack was hauled, or rather man-handled, rapidly up the beach, his legs and feet dragging behind him.

The temperature cooled significantly. He was under some sort of cover. His captors slung him down on rough, course ground where his back hit something hard, cool rock. Every thing went quiet, except for the heavy breathing from the two who had conveyed him out of the water and up the beach. Jack faintly heard his captors’ laboured breaths echoing around him, heard whispers echoing in the distance, smelt their rancid body odour waft over him, and felt the hard, gritty floor under his wet, weary, aching body. Where the hell was he?

Chapter 3

When the dust had settled and the whispers softened even more. The German officer ordered one of the Italians, Baresi by name, who seemed more willing than the others in this shiftless, wretched pack, to secure Jack’s hands and feet. Jack put up no resistance. He looked haggard and drawn. The sun had burnt frown lines and wrinkles deep into his boyish face. He was in a bad state, dehydrated and incredibly weak from hunger. Patches of skin were peeling from his arms, legs and face, his lips were blistered, cracked and bleeding, his head pounded and his body ached, but there was nothing wrong with his hearing. He turned his head towards the sound of a switch being turned on, then a whirring noise from a radio cranking handle. He recognised the word ‘Englander’, realising that someone else now knew of his existence and capture. Unfortunately, it was obvious that the German did not get through. Jack heard him slam something down hard and mutter in English, Damn radio.

Jack blurted out, English? There was a pause.

Sorry. No. I am Kapitän Maximilian Koessler. At your service, spoken in surprisingly good English. Jack heard the click of jackboots, but did not see the polite bob of a formal bow. Jack was not to know yet that his destiny would intrinsically revolve around this soft spoken German officer, both now battling with the shallows and miseries of war. Koessler tried the radio once again, but it was completely dead. The prisoner, along with his wardens, was completely cut off from the outside world.

While Koessler was busy with his communication, or rather lack of communication, one of the Italians took a few rapid pot shots at Jack, narrowly missing his body, in an attempt to terrify rather than maim, like a cat playing with a mouse before the final kill. Jack drew his legs up, clutching them tightly to his chest, lowering his head to make himself small and less of a target. Sweat trickled down his face and body, his heart pounding. With each sound of the shot he turned his head swiftly away from the noise, not knowing if the next bullet would be the last sound he would ever hear. The shots echoed loudly around the cave. Koessler turned swiftly on his heels, marching over to the wretched Italian. Towering above him he bellowed out orders to the perpetrator D’Antoni, slapping him hard across the jaw with the back of his hand. With a soured expression, muttering Italian obscenities under his breath, D’Antoni slunk away to join his comrades, glancing back scowling, spitting forcefully to the ground.

Koessler ignored him and served a small amount of food on a tin plate and poured water into a large tin mug, offering it to his helpless prisoner. Jack sat motionless. Koessler put the plate and mug down, waved his hand across Jack’s eyes, realising his prisoner was blind. He took the mug and put it to Jack’s blistered mouth, whereupon Jack grabbed it with his bound hands and gulped it down.

Slowly. Slowly. Koessler warned. He placed the plate on Jack’s lap and guided his hands to the food, which he ate ravenously, licking his fingers with relish when he had finished. When the plate was clean and the mug empty, Koessler lit a cigarette and put it to Jack’s lips.

I assume you smoke? his jailer enquired. Jack drew on it heavily, holding his breath for a moment. As he slowly exhaled a long trail of smoke, Jack weakly smiled and quietly said, Thank you.

Koessler knelt down beside Jack and pulled him forward to look at the gash on the back of his head. He dowsed a cloth with cool water and started to clean the wound. As he gently softened the dried blood away to examine the open cut, Koessler said, in a loud, authoritative voice, What is your name Englander?

Jack stayed silent. Then Koessler bent closer, lowered his voice and repeated the question, this time smiling. Jack turned his head slightly towards the friendlier voice and said mockingly, Winston Churchill. Koessler grinned and replied sarcastically, Then I must be Herman Goering. You English! Such strange humour. He carefully applied a pad of gauze to the head injury and two cool, damp pads to his eyes, winding a bandage carefully around his head to cover both the wound and eyes.

Jack leant back saying derisively, Your English is very good… for a German.

Koessler whispered, I grew up in England before the war, but I told this lot I learnt to speak English to become a spy. They’ll believe anything. It keeps them happy and off my back.

Jack asked Koessler where he was.

You’re in a cave off the Gulf of Sidra, came the reply. Hell, he was a long way from where he should have been. Jack stubbed out the cigarette, feeling a little bit more human, if that were at all possible in such a bizarre situation. The Gulf of Sidra that Jack’s raft had drifted into indents the North African Libyan coastline. It extends eastward for 275 miles from Misratah to Benghazi. A dusty road, full of potholes and abandoned, burnt-out vehicles, remnants of the war, runs along the coast, linking scattered oases along its shore, which is predominantly desert. The cave was some where between the two, isolated from any human habitation, a good place to hide.

Are you feeling better, Mr. Churchill? enquired the German, using Jack’s stage name. Jack felt light headed and dazed, but allowed himself the pleasure of a quiet laugh.

Yes, thank you Herr Goering. Actually my name is Cutter, Jack Cutter, Surgeon Lieutenant in His Majesty’s British Navy, he answered proudly.

Ah. A medical man, responded Koessler, who seemed pleasantly surprised about the new arrival.

In the background, the Italians muttered disapprovingly at Koessler’s collaboration with the enemy, but he ignored them, preferring the company of the curious newcomer to the rebellious rabble. Koessler re-introduced himself properly this time, without all the formalities. And I am Max Koessler, tank commander in Rommel’s Afrika Korps. Call me Max. His voice faltered. Unfortunately, I am the only member of my crew to survive the shelling. He sat down with his back against the wall next to Jack. I tried to rejoin my regiment when, unfortunately, I came across these six useless Italian Infantrymen. Their vehicle had overheated and they got lost. We’ve been in this cave for months waiting for assistance.

Koessler explained he was lucky to survive, sustaining a leg injury that was taking a long time to heal. In fact, many of his comrades had been thoroughly thrashed in North Africa. What they did not know was that Montgomery’s 8th Army had broken through the German lines, Rommel was in full retreat westward across the desert, squeezing the Axis forces out of North Africa, inch by demoralising inch, with devastating losses.

Several weeks had gone by and Koessler said the retrieval was long overdue, and that things did not look good, as he feared they were now cut off from the rest of the German forces. Something must have gone wrong he said, because he could not raise them on the radio. He was getting resigned to the fact that they would spend the duration on the war in this God-forsaken hole. He toyed with the idea of venturing out of the cave, but his dilemma was whether to travel east or west. Who would he bump into first, the Axis or Allied forces? It was a risk he was not prepared to take and the lazy Italians were not too bothered about leaving anyway.

Koessler noticed that Jack’s eyes were starting to glaze over, his body slump, so he handed him a couple of blankets and said, Get some rest. We’ll talk more in the morning. Jack lay down, thinking Koessler was a bit too chatty, probably revealing a bit too much for an enemy, but exhaustion overtook him and he was out like a light. Sleep, safe comforting sleep.

The aroma of coffee stirred Jack from his long, deep slumber. He could hear some of the men whispering. He was also aware from the sound of footsteps that one of them was close, too close. From the laboured breathing, along with the over-powering smell of garlic and sweat, he knew some one was kneeling near by. Jack felt short draughts of air rushing past his face as D’Antoni waved a blade menacingly across Jack’s eyes. The Italian laughed.

Look, he shouted to the others, The English pig is blind. More garlic odours invaded Jack’s nostrils as his assailant laughed louder. Jack suddenly felt cold steel against his cheekbone. He held his breath, stiffened his body, raising his bound hands in defence, but they were knocked away. D’Antoni, drawing the blade slowly down Jack’s cheek slowly applied pressure, splitting his sun burnt skin. Jack moved his head quickly away, feeling the warm blood trickle down his cheek. Unable to see his attacker to fight back or at least defend himself, he felt helpless. D’Antoni let out another raucous laugh.

See how the pig bleeds, he smirked, standing up to admire his handy work.

Koessler suddenly appeared from nowhere. With a clenched fist this time, he punched D’Antoni straight into his stomach, sending him sprawling to the ground, hitting his back on hard rock. D’Antoni limped off like a whipped dog, clutching his belly, sulking in a corner of the cave.

Damn idiot! Koessler growled.

Koessler knew that Jack would not risk escaping in his condition, but he was worried for his safety so he cut the ropes binding his hands and feet. Despite the Italians giving him grief, Jack would not last five minutes out in the desert heat and the freezing temperature at night. As Koessler applied a cool, wet cloth to Jack’s cheek he mumbled, War brings out the worst in some people. Sadists, cretins, all of them.

Chapter 4

When things had died down, the Italians pursued their own forms of entertainment to alleviate the boredom, such as playing cards, sleeping, reading, smoking, carving their names on the cave wall, or target practise, throwing knives repeatedly at the supply boxes, thud, thud, thud.

Jack drew comfort from the sound and smell of the surf crashing on the beach outside and the shrill of the gulls. It reminded him of home in the West Country. Rich, verdant colours of the landscape, evocative sounds of the birds and animals, the sweet smell of cut grass and hedgerows filled his imagination as he visualised lazy summer days. Unfortunately, his senses were jolted back to the present because of the strong smell of rampant body odour wafting round the cave. If it was not for the occasional cool ocean breeze and the talks with Koessler, it would be oppressively unbearable.

Initially, Koessler’s and Jack’s conversations politely revolved around the weather. Because Jack could not see, Koessler would tell him about the changeable day to day winter coastal climate. Some days would be cool, cloudy, rainy, while other days it would be warm, settled and sunny, and he did not expect it to get unbearably hot until March, when hopefully they would be long gone.

How did you know about this cave? Have you been here before? Jack asked.

Yes, funny you should say that. I knew about it a while back now, before the war. I assisted an archaeologist on an expedition in Egypt. I was employed to photograph and catalogue his finds. There used to be a beautiful house on top of the cliff, but sadly it has since been bombed. An Italian family owned it and we were guests there occasionally.

Find anything valuable on those digs?

"There were some fascinating items. As to their value, I don’t know. When the war started my employer didn’t want