Terror in Berlin

By Ed Plaisted

TERROR IN BERLIN
By Ed Plaisted

In World War II London on December 24, 1943, a English socialite while parked in a lovers lane with an Army Air Corps captain is murdered and sodomized by an American GI in a military police uniform . When Metro police police capture him, they learn that he is Karl Krueger, and is suspected of many such crimes. Fleet Street tabloids call him the sex beast.
Prime Minister Winston Churchill reads about Krueger as German bombs continue to destroy his city. He wonders how interested members of the Nazi high-command would be in winning the war if their women and children were the sex beasts next victim.
A short time later, MI6 Captain Winston Smythe is relegated the duty of training six criminals for a secret mission. Largely made up of sex offenders, including Krueger, the men are to be dropped into Berlin to rape and murder wives, girl friends and children of the Nazi elite.
While four of the men begin to strike terror in Berlin, the other two, IRA man Colin MacAteer and Mafia hit man Anthony Costello, take different routes. MacAteer ingratiates himself with the Nazis while Costello returns to what he knows best the black market. Kruegers first victims are the wife and oldest daughter of Prussian general Siegfried Henrici. He is unaware that Henricis nine-year-old daughter, Margit, witnesses the entire crime from under her mothers bed. Margit tells her story to Berlin police inspector Helmut Hessler and goes to live with her aunt.
Soon the Red Army storms into Berlin, wreaking more havoc than the small squad of criminals, raping and murdering women at will. Margit and her aunt narrowly escape such a fate themselves when Smythe, working in Berlin on intelligence and smitten by the aunts beauty, offers her a job and a place to live. Their relationship lasts through the post-war years until Smythe returns to London.
Margit grows up and goes to England as well to earn a journalism degree from Cambridge. Smythe is able to locate her fathers millions tucked away in Swiss bank accounts, leaving her well provided for.
Thomas Kelly grows up in South Boston, far from the horrors of World War II. After football puts him through college in 1960, Tom is called to active duty from his ROTC status and assigned to serve as a military police officer in Berlin. Tom hopes to some day be a lawyer and judge.
As soon as Tom gets to Berlin, a rash of murder-rapes breaks out in the British and American sectors. He meets Helmut Hessler, who tells him about the murder-rapes that occurred during the war. While Tom tries to understand the connection between crimes that shared the same MO but could not have been perpetrated by the same people, CIA and MI6 agents move in to cover up an embarrassing WW II mess. They agree that each criminal must be terminated before speaking to the MPs about their 1944 mission.
Tom meets Margit when she comes to his office asking questions about the murders. Margit is now a reporter for the Berlin Morgenpost and a great beauty. Soon Tom and Margit are dating. Margit eventually tells Tom the horrible story about the deaths of her mother and sister and about her father, a Wehrmacht general. who is wasting away in an Soviet labor camp.
Tom and Margit soon become aware that there is more to these crimes than meets the eye.
When CIA and MI6 operatives realize that Tom and Margit are starting to piece together the story, they try to have them terminated.
The couple can trust only the old German captain and an African American MP sergeant. Meanwhile the East Germans decide to construct the Berlin Wall.
Can Tom and Margit prevail against all odds that include Washington, London and Moscow?
TERROR IN BERLIN is a realistic historic thriller of 97,000 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 23, 2004
• ISBN: 9781465329189

Ed Plaisted

A veteran newspaperman with stops in Boston, New York, Miami and Hollywood, Fla., Ed Plaisted is a sports columnist with the Daytona Beach (Fla.) News-Journal. He can trace his history in Berlin from 1957 when he was in the Seventh Army to today. He has been there before, during and after The Wall. His background included time as a Florida police media information officer. He received technical advice from retired Army Military Police Colonel Verner Pike of the 287th MP Co., Berlin Brigade. This is Plaisted’s second novel. DISASTER PLAN was published in 2002. His third novel, THE IMPOSTOR WORE NUMBER 13, is being edited.

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Copyright © 2004 by Edward W. Plaisted.

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Contents

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

PART II

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

PART III

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

To the women in my life that have encouraged and prodded me to be a novelist and are no longer alive to see the results. They include my late mother Grace Plaisted; my aunt Helen Plaisted Hedges, English teacher at Brdgeport, Connecticut Harding High School; eighth grade teacher Noreen Kennedy of Pequot School, Southport, Connecticut; my friend Marion Thomposon Plaisted. And among the living, my Army career wife Geraldine Murphy Plaisted. I owe a debt for the technical information of Army Colonel Verner Pike, a retired military police officer, who served with the 287th MP Co., Berlin Brigade, during early 1960s. And a special thanks to the editing skills of The Master, Bill Greenleaf.

PART I

CHAPTER 1

"Any man might do a girl in.

Any man has to, needs to, wants to

Once in a lifetime, do a girl in."

—T. S. Eliot

Sweeney Agonists

London, December 24, 1943

Christmas Eve fell on Friday, thus providing U.S. Army Air Corps Captain Lou Zeoli with a long holiday weekend respite from the horrors of World War II. London was cold and dark because of blackout regulations. Traffic was light because of gasoline rationing, as well as the holiday, and it seemed eerie to Zeoli to see vehicles with masked headlights, the light coming through the narrow horizontal slits.

Trying to forget the war, the B-17 pilot rode with Margaret Harrington, 22, in her father’s 1938 Jaguar to a lover’s lane at Alexandra Park. Her father, a noted orthopedic surgeon, served the Royal Navy as a medical captain.

At six feet and 180 pounds, Zeoli had a Clark Gable look with a mustache and slicked-back hair that was a bit longer than Army regulations. Margaret thought he looked dashing in his uniform.

Margaret oozed class, dressed in a size 8 designer outfit with well-coiffered, long, light-brown hair. The earthy Yank had made an early impression but, after three months, they still had not had intercourse.

I didn’t want you to use so many of your ration coupons on me, like tonight at the Dorchester Grill, he said. But it was grand. The lobster was excellent.

Zeoli was not quite comfortable with having his date pick up the check. Still, he realized that, at captain’s pay, he wouldn’t be a regular at the swank joints frequented by English society and the Royals.

Margaret was pleased the captain enjoyed the meal, but could not help but ask, Did you enjoy my company as much as the food and champagne?

Zeoli was startled and on the defensive. You are the most important thing in my life, Margaret . . .

Hush, she said, placing her left hand gently over his mouth. I believe you.

Although it was cold, Margaret turned off the engine to conserve fuel. She was bundled up in a full-length mink coat; he was dressed in an officer’s olive drab trench coat.

He wanted to concentrate on romance, but a constant fear of being hit by a falling German V-1 nagged in the back of his mind. The dreaded Doodlebug was a flying bomb that made a droning noise, and when the droning stopped, the bomb was falling. The V-1 had caused untold havoc in the city of London and in other counties.

Zeoli, making an effort to forget the war, turned his thoughts to the woman at his side and warmed his hands in hers.

Before the war and the blackout, Margaret said as Zeoli pulled her closer, you could see the lights of London from up here. The BBC main transmitting center is over there. Oh, Louie, behave yourself!

The couple exchanged soft kisses and Zeoli probed under the woman’s coat until his right hand found her breasts. She sighed and held his hand against her chest as she slid over from her position behind the wheel on the driver’s side.

Please, Louie, I like you, but . . .

But what, Margaret?

But, Louie, I want to save myself for my husband. Please understand that.

Oh, Margaret, I really like you, said Zeoli his voice betraying his passion. I’m sorry. You just get me so excited, and . . .

And, I know, she said softly as they exchanged a long and deep kiss. You have been a perfect officer and gentleman in the three months I’ve known you. So, let me help you, love.

Zeoli was pleased when Margaret slowly opened the bottom three buttons on the trench coat and slowly unzipped the fly of his trousers. She gently fondled his penis, which grew hard at her touch.

Oh, Margaret, your hands are cold, he moaned in excitement. Oh lover. Oh my . . . Oh, yes!

As their kisses became more passionate, she massaged his hard-on faster and faster until it exploded in her hands. During the excitement, Margaret’s right foot had hit and held the brake pedal. After a couple of minutes of quiet, Zeoli handed Margaret a handkerchief and kissed her gently on both eyes.

I think I love you, the captain said.

Don’t say that unless you mean it, Louie, she replied while wiping her hands.

I wouldn’t say it, Margaret, if I didn’t mean it.

The captain kissed the woman tenderly and held her tightly. The lights of a vehicle that pulled to a stop behind the Jaguar interrupted the lovers.

What the hell? uttered Zeoli. Keep calm, Margaret, I’ll handle this.

A U.S. Army Jeep parked behind the Jaguar. Light peered out of its masked headlights and a flashing blue light invaded the lovers’ vehicle. A short, thin-faced man, in a white service hat and an olive drab trench coat with an MP (Military Police) band on his left arm, approached. The man in the MP uniform blinded the couple with the ray of a flashlight as he motioned for the woman to roll down the driver’s side window.

Excuse me, Ma’am, the MP said politely, but I happened to notice your brake lights flashing on and off. Is there a problem?

I’m Captain Zeoli, he replied from the passenger seat as he leaned over to face the MP. Thanks for your concern, Sergeant, but there isn’t any problem.

The captain should have questioned what an American military police vehicle, without a British police connection, was doing on patrol in London. He was not thinking clearly at that moment because he wanted to return his attention to the exciting young woman.

I see, Captain, replied the MP as his voice changed to a shrill shout. You know you shouldn’t be fucking that limey whore. Just because you’re a fucking flyboy, doesn’t give you that right.

My God, what’s happening here? Zeoli shivered briefly with concern for Margaret’s safety.

Before the captain could reply, the MP had opened the right rear door and jumped in the back seat. He produced a .45 caliber Colt automatic.

Put that weapon down, soldier! demanded the captain. You have no jurisdiction here. What the hell do you want?

To fuck this whore, replied the MP.

Zeoli wanted to grab the MP and strangle him. He fought to control his anger, concerned about protecting his lover.

You’re sick, Margaret said in anger as she turned to face the MP. Do you know who my father is? He’s a captain in the Royal Navy. He’ll teach you to mind your manners.

Sergeant, you’re begging for a major court-martial, asserted the captain. If you want money, take my wallet, my watch.

Keep your possessions, sir, the MP said with a sinister sarcasm that truly frightened the captain.

Get out, you creep, asserted Margaret in as cool a manner as if she were addressing a panhandler. Or you’ll be very sorry.

Shut up, whore! I’m going to fuck you up your royal ass!

Zeoli wanted his lover to stop provoking the intruder while he frantically groped for a way to overcome the MP.

Margaret punched the sergeant hard across his face. An emerald ring with jagged edges—a family heirloom—cut deeply into the left cheek of the gunman. He screamed in pain. As Margaret pulled her arm back, the nasty wound erupted with blood.

The MP’s face contorted with pain and rage as he fired the .45 directly into the woman’s mouth. It was more of a pop than an explosion.

Stunned by the violence, time seemed to pass in slow motion as Zeoli watched the bullet continue through the back of her head and through the windshield. Her mouth erupted in a fountain of blood that splattered the gunman and the captain. Before Zeoli could catch his breath, the man turned the automatic toward him and pulled the trigger, but the weapon jammed.

You rotten son of a bitch! Zeoli screamed in anger. He knew there was nothing he could do but escape. Revenge would have to come later.

In desperation, Zeoli pushed open the passenger-side door with trembling hands and sprinted into the woods. He could hear his heart pounding. The fear pressed down on him, as if he were on a bomb run over Germany, during what proved to be a five-minute run, but seemed like an eternity.

The gunman, seated behind the driver, slowed as he fumbled with the back door latch. Zeoli did not know how far behind him the MP was and he hoped the darkness and the woods would be his allies.

A panting Zeoli spotted a slow-moving car on the other side of the woods. Although exhausted, he managed a burst of speed while yelling, Help! Help! Stop!

The Metropolitan police car came to a halt as Zeoli, in a blood-splattered uniform, explained excitedly, with tears rolling down his cheeks, what had happened. One of the two police officers radioed for backup while the other sought to calm the captain.

The constables and Zeoli returned quickly to the scene to find the intruder sodomizing the dead woman in the front seat of the car. The killer had his trousers down by his ankles as he kept pumping his penis into the limp body.

Stop! Police! yelled one of the constables.

Zeoli was outraged by the atrocity. You son of a bitch, I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.

Startled, the gunman turned on the three unarmed men with his .45 and almost succeeded in escaping until the captain remembered the gun was jammed. Before he could pull up his trousers, the Air Corps officer tackled the killer.

Zeoli started pounding the downed man with both fists. The policemen knocked the killer out cold with several vicious swings of their nightsticks. Then they had to restrain the captain from doing more damage to the prisoner as two backup police cars arrived at the scene with sirens screaming and blue emergency lights flashing.

The damn brake light, Zeoli kept repeating as he realized the light had become the beacon of doom. Oh, my beloved Margaret, why dear God, why?

#

Metropolitan Police identified the killer as Army Sergeant Karl Krueger of Beloit, Wisconsin. He was not an MP. He was a mechanic assigned to the motor pool who had misappropriated various military police vehicles assigned for service.

The tabloids along Fleet Street did not get the story for almost a week, but they more than made up for it. The headline screamed NAB GI SEX-BEAST.

#

On February 21, 1944, V-1 rockets from Peenemunde hit the House Guard Parade, damaged Lord Kitchener’s statue and shattered windows of 10 Downing Street. Sir Winston Churchill was angry. Damn Nazi bastards!

The 69-year-old prime minister was upset enough. Earlier in the week, the Allies had unsuccessfully attacked German forces at Monte Cassino and the following day the Germans counterattacked at Anzio. The war is now bogged down by Napoleon’s fifth element—mud, he told his wife. He knew that the hope of capturing Rome in January was now distant. In addition, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was busy strengthening the Atlantic wall for the expected Allied invasion of France.

On February 26, Churchill broadcast to the world with extensive references to the British government’s social services and postwar plans. The hour of our greatest effort and action is approaching, he asserted over the BBC. It will require our own people here, from Parliament, from the press, from all classes, to have the same cool, strong nerves, and the same toughness of fiber, which stood us in good stead in those days when we were all under the blitz. His message was not well received and he knew it.

That night at 10 Downing Street, he found himself nodding off to sleep. He kept yawning and he felt desperately tired. He looked at the in box on his desk that had accumulated a monstrous pile of urgent and unsettled matters. Churchill fought the fatigue and stress. His attention focused on Anzio. We hurled a wildcat at the shores of Anzio, and now all we have is a stranded whale. He studied the box for a moment and then glanced at the London newspapers on his desk. He selected the newspapers, but not before pouring himself a stiff snifter of vintage Hine brandy and lighting a Romeo y Juliet—a Havana cigar of eight inches with a 52 ring. He breathed in the aroma of the brandy while watching the blue smoke of his cigar swirl upwards.

He immediately became interested in reading about the trial of the American GI that Fleet Street was calling the sex-beast. That’s the kind of animal we need to terrorize the damn Nazis. Would Rommel be so interested in the war if his wife might be the next victim of the sex-beast?

The Prime Minister picked up the telephone receiver and dialed. It was 0212, but he could not wait to put his idea into motion.

The ringing of his bedside phone awakened Major General Sir Colin Gubbins from a deep sleep. So it was understandable for the director of Special Operations Executive (SOE) to snap, This had better be good before he recognized the voice on the line. Yes, Minister. No, Minister, it is never too late to talk to you, sir.

#

British Army Captain Winston Smythe reported to the director’s office in Whitehall where Major General Sir Stewart Menzies introduced the captain to Harold Kim Philby. You might as well know, Smythe, that Philby here is going to head our new SIS, Section IX, some time this autumn, the director said as a secretary served tea.

Congratulations Mr. Philby, said Smythe. I know you have put a jolly good show on in Special Section V, our counterespionage unit. I believe you have described your position as ‘the heart of the secret world.’

The director and Philby laughed warmly. It was obvious to Smythe that Menzies had taken a liking to Philby.

Smythe sat so rigidly, he appeared to be at attention in the formal atmosphere of Menzies’ office. He noted the dark woods and rich leathers of the office as testimony to the rank of the occupant. There were portraits of the King and PM on the wall along with a Union Jack. A photo of the king presenting Menzies with a medal for action in France during the Great War impressed the captain.

Smythe studied the director. He was tall and in good shape, fitting well into his army uniform. However, gray hair combined with the effects of heavy drinking made his face appear older.

Philby, at 32, dressed like a Cambridge graduate from a privileged family. Smythe was impressed since he was also a Cambridge grad. His father was a noted explorer and British official in India. He was trim and his three-piece gray pinstripe suit was Savile Row.

I don’t trust Philby—he’s a bit of a left-winger—but the director does, and it is obvious he is on his way up in the Firm (MI6).

The conversation turned serious.

Smythe, what do you know about SOE?

The captain pondered the director’s question.

Special Operations is a Johnny-come-lately operation, sir. SOE was formed in 1940 to undertake sabotage, subversion, and the formation of secret military forces in German-occupied countries on the Continent. It’s a de facto intelligence gathering agency in those occupied areas.

Right, Smythe, and SOE is strongly supported by the PM. He wants a special force to set Europe ablaze."

But, sir, isn’t that our job?

I should hope so. Nevertheless, the PM seems keen on these chaps as rather special. Let me assure you, Smythe, they have mucked up several operations that have resulted in the detriment of MI6 agents in the field. Now I’ve learned from a source at my club that the PM has SOE working on some hush-hush mission.

What can that be, sir?

Exactly what, I’d like to know. And that’s precisely what you are going to find out for me.

Sir?

Smythe, we have managed to cut you a transfer to SOE and . . .

#

Smythe could not believe how quickly and effortlessly he found himself working for SOE. Because of his combat experience in France in 1939 and 1940, Director Gubbins welcomed the captain. The MI6 director had created a personnel file that omitted Smythe’s prior service to MI6.

Gubbins took an immediate liking to Smythe and included him in the planning for the PM’s mission. Smythe could not believe his good luck, but it rather bothered him to be a mole in one of the Crown’s agencies.

We are awaiting David Bruce, our Yank opposite in what they call the Office of Secret Service, Gubbins told the captain. The Yanks are operating out of their embassy here.

Yes, OSS, Smythe said dryly. Doesn’t that stand for Oh, So Secret?

The two Englishmen’s laughter showed a lack of respect for the U.S. version of MI6.

Winston Smythe was a stereotype for a British Army officer. He was a fourth generation military officer, a Cambridge graduate and a talented soccer player whose horse skills produced a smashing game of polo. He had trained as a commando and distinguished himself in France before the 1940 rout by the Germans.

He was a solid 6-foot, 180-pounds with wavy blonde hair and a mustache. Speaking fluent German, he had proved to be an excellent interrogator of Wehrmacht prisoners and had attracted MI6 interest after the Dunkirk retreat. He limped slightly because a .50 caliber German slug had smashed his left leg while defending the beach at Dunkirk.

As a junior officer, Smythe was flattered but interested in why the director had summoned him to this meeting. It is obvious that Sir Colin trusts me. If he only knew my role.

The Yanks are key to this operation, so be nice to Mr. Bruce, Gubbins said after a long sip of tea. Remember lend lease and all that. I suspect we had better have some coffee served for our Yank visitor. Good relations, you know.

Gubbins told his subordinate that Bruce, who was director of the OSS European Operations, reported directly to U.S. Major General William Donovan.

I don’t know what this meeting is all about yet, General, but will the Yanks work with us on whatever project we have in mind? Smythe asked.

Smythe, let me assure you, the PM has already contacted President Roosevelt and given us the green light, replied the director. "Ah, here is our OSS American friend.

Send him in, the director said over the intercom. Oh, and Miss Blakely, he requested of his secretary, would you be so kind as to serve coffee? I think we have some little cakes, too. Sugar rationing and all, we have to show the Yanks we aren’t completely dependent upon their imported goods.

The American impressed Smythe. He appeared to be in his early forties, dressed in a three-button Brooks Brothers navy-blue suit with a red tie. His dark brown hair was almost a crew cut and his face was thin and tanned. He appears to be in good shape at six feet. I think he has seen some combat.

After small, polite talk, Gubbins got down to the point of the meeting.

Gentlemen, some time this spring, we will be launching our invasion of Fortress Europe, the director said. As you know, London is being terrorized by Jerry’s buzz bombs. The PM is very angry about these vengeance weapons.

Weapons, sir? asked Smythe.

Yes, weapons, Smythe. Jerry has developed a new version, called the V-2. So the PM wants us to unleash a counter-vengeance weapon.

Mr. Churchill wants the Eighth Air Force to increase its raids on German cities? asked Bruce.

No, replied Gubbins. The PM asks us to mount a terror attack on the womenfolk of high-ranking German officers in Berlin. We want a squad of ruthless and violent killers to rape and murder mothers, wives, daughters and lovers of the German brass. Creating such terror in Berlin would, the PM believes, create a morale problem—one, you know, that will have the general officers corps worried more about protecting their loved ones than defending the French coast.

The captain was shocked. He hoped that he had misunderstood the director.

Begging the Director’s pardon, as a commando officer myself, I can’t see our lads being up to such a task as killing innocent women and children, he said. Our lads aren’t capable of being that inhuman. They aren’t Waffen SS troops.

The director held up his hand. Quite right, Smythe. We will not give the British Armed Forces such shameful work. Rather, that is why Mr. Bruce is here.

Just a minute, sir, our GIs aren’t going to be ordered to kill innocent women and children either, said Bruce in an angry voice.

Not your good GIs, but five who are on death row for mass murder convictions, including that Krueger, Gubbins said without a trace of emotion. And, we will toss in a condemned IRA hit man to create a six-man unit.

Smythe could not remain silent. Career or no career, I can’t remain mute on such an evil plan.

Smythe glanced at the list of six men that the director handed out. Why these six, sir?

Not only are they condemned mass murders, but they speak good German, said the director. Otherwise, they wouldn’t last a day in Germany.

You don’t mean to free that bastard Krueger from the hangman? asked a shocked Smythe. The Yanks would never go along with that, not to mention our people.

Right, Captain Smythe, asserted Bruce. General Eisenhower would never go along with any of this, especially in freeing Krueger. That man is a total embarrassment to our country.

Wrong, Mr. Bruce, replied the director in a Firm but cordial tone. The PM has cleared this mission with President Roosevelt. Krueger, you know, is in our custody awaiting the hangman at Dorchester.

Not the Dorchester Hotel, Director? asked a surprised Bruce. That’s Ike’s headquarters.

Gubbins and Smythe laughed good-naturedly at the American’s misunderstanding. This lessened the tension in the meeting.

No, Mr. Bruce, it’s HM Prison Dorchester, replied the director.

Bruce joined in the laughter.

Sir, what kind of deal are we going to give these buggers? Smythe asked.

Why Captain, we will offer them a pardon if they survive the war, said the director, and medals, and money, and steak-and-kidney pie forever. Offer anything. Put it in writing if necessary. But I want those six ready to be parachuted into Germany within a month.

Director, said a shocked Smythe, we really aren’t going to free and reward this bunch of scum as if they were true heroes of the Crown?

Gubbins smiled. Of course not. He then opened a humidor of Havana cigars and passed it around. You have work to do. Get cracking.

#

Smythe reported the mission to Menzies at MI6’s Broadway Building.

The captain had quickly discovered that there was an intense and bitter rivalry between MI6 and the sabotage-and-resistance organization of SOE. Behind this rivalry lay the uneasy relationship between intelligence gathering, which was MI6’s primary task, and psychological warfare, which included SOE’s assassinations and paramilitary activities.

I believe Director Gubbins is more concerned with combating the Communists than the Nazis, Smythe said. He is hinting at setting up agent networks as if the USSR will be our next enemy.

Menzies smiled. Very good, Smythe. You are a good observer. I’ll share this bit with you. If Gubbins has his way, we could be in a Third World War in 1945 as allies with Germany.

Smythe’s mouth opened in disbelief. You say!

We are under orders from the PM to compile a report known as Operation UNTHINKABLE. We and the Yanks would join with German forces in launching an attack on the Soviets between Dresden and the Baltic.

A chill ran through the captain.

However, Smythe, SOE might be out of business after the war. So keep up the good show.

Thank you, sir.

Oh, Smythe, you know, after all this bloody work is done, I’d like to recommend you for membership in my London club. I think I have a bit of a stick with the board of governors.

Thank you, sir. Thank you.

#

Back at SOE, Smythe grinned at his organization’s cover of the Ministry of Economic Warfare. Then the captain took on the challenge of training six misfits for the coming mission.

The files of the six chosen men revealed:

No. 1—Sergeant Karl Kaiser Krueger, 20, Beloit, Wisconsin. Facing trial in the murder-rape of Margaret Harrington by a British court. Suspect in four other similar homicides. Motive: Sex pervert. MO: Victims shot to death after being raped. Disposition: Awaiting outcome of trial. With an eyewitness in Air Corps Captain Lou Zeoli, it appears an open-and-shut case. Krueger appears to be candidate.

No. 2—Sergeant Anthony Albert Costello, 21, Brooklyn, N. Y. Mafia hit man. Motive: Criminal Enterprise. Victims: Main suspect in at least six gang shootings in New York. Convicted by an army court-martial of shooting to death fellow GI for trying to cheat him in black marketing of cigarettes in London. Later terminated fellow GI prisoner on orders from New York Mafia Family. MO: Victims shot execution style. Disposition: Life in military prison for first GI murder. Pending court-martial for in-prison killing.

No. 3—Collin MacAteer, 24, Antrim, Northern Ireland. Motive: Political. Victims: 50 suspected. MO: Planted bombs, shot some victims execution style. Disposition: To be hanged by British at HM Dorchester Prison.

No. 4—Private H. Frank Schmidt, AKA Peeping Tom Ripper 19, Philadelphia, Penn. Motive: Sex and thrills. Victims: Mutilated and raped five American women assigned to the U.S. Embassy in London. MO: Army issue bayonet. Disposition: To be hanged at U.S. military prison.

No. 5—Private First Class Werner Reichenberg, 20, Chicago, Ill. Motive: Sex. Victims: Pedophile killer of girls aged two and seven in Plymouth, England. MO: Strangled victims after raping them. Disposition: To be hanged by British at HM Dorchester Prison.

No. 6—Private First Class Eric Müller, Vampire Rapist. 19, Dearborn, Mich. Motive: Sex. Victims: Five in London area. MO: Rape-murders of five WACs and Army nurses, including gnawing on their bodies and drinking their blood. To be hanged at U.S. military prison.

#

Winston Smythe wondered why he had been assigned to such an evil mission. Sure, he was a professional soldier and he never had second thoughts about killing in combat. Nevertheless, he was a Christian, and sending criminals to murder and rape innocent German women and children seemed to him to make SOE no better than the Nazi’s Schutzstaffel.

Yet as a captain with career aspirations, he knew he could not refuse the mission. Not one ordered by the PM. Maybe, just maybe, he hoped, this is not a real mission—only a test to see how I would perform. Yes, that has to be it. This is only a test. Churchill would never order such an evil plan. The war is nearing an end. He