HAWES ESCAPES

When Chet regained consciousness he had no idea of the time. They had taken his watch. They had taken everything, even the emergency fifty he kept beneath his insole. His mouth was swollen and it felt like they’d broken some ribs. He raised his head and looked around at the alley. A short cut had sounded like a good idea at the time, but he knew better now.

He realized with a shock that it had happened again, another seemingly random event in which he had been badly hurt. What was this now, three times? Four? In each case, it had been the same– he set out to some destination, but midway through he would be possessed with an idea so compelling he had to act on it immediately. Step in front of the bus, Chet. It will stop. Go ahead, jump. You’ll make it.  And this time. Think of all the time you’ll save by getting off the train here, Chet.

“I’d had every right to call the cops on that woman,” Chet grumbled. After all, she’d been begging in the doorway of his shop, talking to his customers. The cops had agreed, so he’d laughed while she’d cursed him and not even minded when her spit had landed on his shoes.

He had to find her immediately. He had to get her to lift the curse.

It was clear the fastest way would be to climb up that fire escape.

Sunday Photo Fiction

Horst checks everything for the third time in an hour. The machine gun is loaded and pointing down the valley.  Ammunition cases are stacked where the loader can get them, the satchel of grenades open at his feet with the handles facing upward, as specified in the regulations. He checks his belt to make sure his knife and pistol are in their proper places. He reties his boots.

The Obersoldat loafs against the sandbags, his face creased in amusement as he smokes. “You are too nervous, Horst. You must relax. Have a cigarette.” He proffers his pack.

Horst uneasily leans to take one. “I just wish to be ready,” he says, lighting it.  “I learned that in the Hitler Youth. Be Prepared was our motto.”

The Obersoldat gestures at the overcast sky. “Did you not hear the planes last night as they flew over? Even in best days of the Reich we never had so many. And those are just their paratroopers. I am certain that Rommel’s beaches are crawling with Americans and British by now. Hundreds of thousands of them, all armed to the teeth, all lusting to festoon their bayonets with good German intestines.”  He gives the young soldier a weary grin. “No amount of preparation will change the facts. I saw this enough times in Russia.”

“Still, Herr Ober, it is wise to have a plan. To be ready.”

“Certainly. Ready yourself all you like. Have at it. But I am going to sit and smoke and gaze on this lovely country as though this was my last day on earth, because chances are good that it will be.” He draws on his cigarette, blows out a volume of blue smoke. “Everybody has a plan until the shooting starts.”

Sunday Photo Fiction

This story is to honor June 6th, 1944. While we hear much about the Americans and British, very little is told from the German side. Field Marshal Rommel, who commanded the Normandy defense, had fallen out of favor with German high command. They were convinced the main Allied invasion would come far to the north, across the Pas de Calais; Rommel’s insistence in fortifying the Normandy coast was foolish and unnecessary. As a consequence, the bulk of his troops were either young soldiers with no experience or veterans wounded in other campaigns and called back to service. Obersoldat is a German rank that carries no authority other than  experience.

She stood as they always stand when I make my presentation, stiff and even haughty, as though an armour of professionalism will somehow shield them from what I am about to show, will somehow protect them from feeling anything.

Of course it does not, it cannot, but I play along. I get paid either way, so I always make my little speech.

“Mrs. Templeton, I know that you engaged my services because of suspicions you have about your husband. I assume you engaged me in particular because of my reputation for discretion, and for getting results. Is that so?”

“Quite correct,” she said, stiffly. She was staring at the large envelope in my hand.

“In my profession, I have seen many women like yourself come in to my office and stand where you are standing. I always tell this: as of now, at this moment, all you have is suspicion. As of now, you have the option of forgetting this whole thing, going back to your husband and finding another approach to your difficulty. You stand at a crossroads, and there is no going back. So I ask you frankly, are you certain you want to see these photographs?”

“Quite certain,” she said, her eyes gleaming.

They always say that, too.

Sunday Photo Fiction