Deal with the Devil
Deal with the Devil
by
J. Gunnar Grey
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
Copyright © 2011 J. Gunnar Grey
ISBN 978-1-936852-26-0
Cover Art Designed by Elaina Lee
So many amazing people had a hand in the recreation of me as a writer — Patrick Picciarelli and Barbara Miller at Seton Hill University, the entire Writing Popular Fiction department and all the supportive alumni online, and four of the best critique partners imaginable, Melanie Card, Alexa Grave, Chris Stout, and Kay Springsteen. But this first one must be dedicated to my mother and sister, who always believed, and to my wonderful husband, John. Garfield and teddy bear rolled into one, you’ve always been my Campaspe.
Cupid and my Campaspe
Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses;
Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves and team of sparrows,
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how),
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas, become of me?
~John Lyly (c. 1553 or 1554 – November 1606)
The first edition of this book was split into two parts, from the belief that ebooks stretching beyond a certain length created difficulties for the reader. After several encouraging comments from reviewers, the publisher and author jointly agreed to combine the two into one looooong book. However, the story told differs in no way from the original edition.
Prologue
28 May 1940
seven kilometers east of the Aa Canal, France
Fear squeezed the prisoners in an iron and icy grip. Clarke could smell it, more pungent than stale uniforms and fresh sweat, taste it in the dust caking his face and lips. The other British officers sitting in a huddle around him stared at the dry turf between their knees or off into some unknowable vacuum. None would meet his gaze.
“How many of us are there?”
Beside him, Brownell shrugged and swiped at his brow with one sleeve. With his hands bound it looked as if he shielded his face from a blow. It grated on Clarke’s nerves, revved his rumbling temper.
“Does it matter?” Brownell asked.
“It does to me.”
Brownell shot him a look, not so much baffled as vexed. Good; a fight was better than collapse. They’d argued often in the last weeks, as their steady school-age friendship underwent some sort of relational twist while the British Expeditionary Force retreated across France. But Brownell held his peace. He half-rose, dark eyes scanning the small crowd and lips moving. Clarke’s temper twisted, bitterness rising at the sight. Brownell had a well-deserved Oxford first in mathematics, but he still counted like a five-year-old.
He didn’t deserve to be murdered.
Not far from Brownell, in the midst of a small emptiness left by the lower ranks, a light colonel with tired eyes slumped over his lap, epaulettes drooping to match his mustaches. He was the senior officer in the group. He should take command, organize a fight. All they had to do was get one man outside the guards’ field of fire, and they’d have a chance. A suicidal chance, but better than being murdered without a struggle.
But he just sat there, staring into space. Around him, none of the many second lieutenants lifted their chins. One young subaltern wept. All huddled together, as if needing warmth even in the direct sunlight.
Beyond their circle, two grey-clad soldiers lounged on ammunition crates behind a tripod-mounted machine gun. They weren’t typical German Army soldiers, although the uniforms and weapons were the same. These were something new the Germans had invented, something called the Waffen SS, whatever that meant.
Clarke lit his last cigarette, the binding cord cutting into his wrists. They weren’t soldiers. They were criminals — murderers dressed up and playing soldier, like a bunch of teenaged hoodlums wearing Dad’s collar and tie whilst robbing the corner sweet shop. It was ludicrous. Obscene.
“Do you want to use my fingers, too?”
Brownell’s cautious settling back ended with a thump and one savage word. “There’s twenty-two of us.”
Clarke’s swearing was whole-hearted and much lengthier. “Wonder who’s going to dig our graves. Think they’ll make us dig them ourselves?”
“Shut up, Clarke. We don’t know anything for certain.” Brownell crossed his legs again. His shoulders and bound hands drooped, as if the knowledge he denied was heavier than he could support.
“The blazes we don’t.” Clarke took a long drag, yanking the smoke into his lungs until he choked. “Wonder how our kids have grown.”
Brownell peered up at him without turning his head.
Clarke flicked ash. “The last photo Cezanne sent, Bobby looked as if he’s overflowing her lap. I tried to figure out how tall that would make him. But it wouldn’t matter if she’d taken his photograph against a yardstick. I have to measure my son against my leg or it means nothing.”
“You should have taken the leave.”
In February, with the invasion season in cold storage, the 48th (South Midland) Division had offered its staff and line officers a brief visit home. None of them had seen their families since the previous September. Brownell had gone and now his wife was expecting their second baby. Clarke had made a point of staying with the troops, who hadn’t been offered the option.
Now Cezanne would never have his second child, never have the daughter she wanted so terribly — unless she remarried. And that thought, more than his impending death, made Clarke squeeze his eyes shut and swallow the tightness in his throat.
“I know.” He glanced from his cigarette to the turf. Maybe starting a grass fire would help them escape. More likely the Germans would let them burn.
“Clarke, you’ve always been a blooming fool.”
“I know that, too.”
Angry voices rose, climbing over each other, not close but loud. Clarke stared past the machine-gun emplacement to the command tent, camouflaged beneath wispy trees. The Germans inside had to be shouting toe to toe.
“What do you think the row’s about?” Brownell asked.
“I hope it’s about us, and I hope the German Army chap wins.”
Brownell lifted his head. “You think so?”
Clarke shrugged. “Don’t recall much German from school, and I can’t make out their words even if I did. They could be arguing about us, their orders, or a skirt, for all I know.”
Brownell’s head sank again.
The voices fell silent. The tent flap whipped aside and two German officers emerged. The Army officer, a non-com’s side cap replacing the usual peaked cap, stalked toward the huddled prisoners, his riding boots raising puffs of dust. The Waffen SS officer, Greis, followed more slowly, a little smile curving the corners of his narrow lips.
Near the edge of their huddle, the Army officer stopped, legs spraddled, hands on hips, staring in a slow sweep as if he wanted to impress every man on his memory. His face was pale, with scorching blotches of color in his tanned cheeks. He breathed as if he’d been running.
“What do you think?” Clarke glanced at Brownell. He froze.
Brownell’s staring eyes were huge. His mouth hung open for a long moment. Then he snapped his jaw shut and wet his lips. “It’s — ”
But the Army officer was issuing orders, German words stuttering in a staccato rhythm like a machine gun, and Brownell swallowed the rest of his sentence. Automatically, Clarke turned to see what the fuss was about — and smashed into the German officer’s smoking glare, aimed right at him.
“You,” he said in English. “Come on. I don’t have all day.”
Two of the Waffen SS soldiers waded into the sitting Englishmen, grabbed Clarke by the arms, and heaved him to his feet. So this was it; he’d go first. His legs were asleep, but he’d die before he’d take any help from these murderers. He shook off their arms, dropped his cigarette butt, and forced his tingling legs to carry his weight as they escorted him, one on either side, to the German officer.
Halfway there, he glanced back at Brownell. His mouth was open again and he was half on his feet, legs beneath him as if for a sudden push. Clarke shook his head — Brownell needed to save his major effort for his own life, not waste it on a fool’s attempt at gallantry — and mouthed goodbye. Without waiting for a response, he turned away.
It was a ruddy awful way to part.
When Clarke turned, he was eye to eye with the German. Although they weren’t close and sunshine blazed between them, there seemed barely room between their bodies to breathe. The heat of the German’s anger smoldered still, like a flare not quite burned out. But his brown eyes were clear and even a trifle desperate as he gazed into Clarke’s, as if he awaited some response and they were all running out of time.
Clarke sniffed in his face.
The German turned away. Was it Clarke’s imagination, or was the tinge of color in those cheeks even darker? He could only hope.
“Right,” the German said over his shoulder, “come on.” He led the way to his open staff car, on the far side of the tent.
The SS guards crowded Clarke on either side, forcing him along. He passed close enough to Greis — the murderer — to punch him. It was tempting, but Clarke resisted. It would only get him killed sooner.
The guards put Clarke into the front passenger seat of the staff car. A layer of dust coated the faded interior. The officer slid behind the steering wheel. Greis sauntered to the driver’s side and leaned one gloved hand against the door panel as the officer started the engine.
“Are you certain you can handle the prisoner alone?” A mocking half-smile still adorned Greis’s lips, the smile of the winner. He adjusted his black leather gloves, never glancing at Clarke. Despite the smile, there was no humor in his narrow hatchet face, only contempt. “Perhaps I should have one of my soldiers accompany you.”
Clarke seethed. He should have chanced a punch.
The officer shifted gears. “Your soldier’s welcome to run along behind.”
The smile slipped by a hair, then resumed. Only now it seemed fixed.
The officer released the clutch and gunned the engine. A spurt of dust slewed over Greis’ polished boots and up to his squenched eyes.
Clarke stared back at Brownell’s strangely hopeful face until the encampment was cut off by rising ground. Then he swung about. The dusty road rolled toward the staff car then vanished beneath it. Strong sunlight baked the interior, and he smelled fresh sweat along with the mechanical blend of oil and petrol. The engine vibrated up his spine, tapped against his eardrums.
One man. One pistol. No rifle, no tommy gun. No guard.
After the wisecrack at Greis, he’d regret killing this man. But he’d do it. A single pistol wasn’t much firepower, but with it he could take this one, then return to the encampment for the prisoners. They didn’t have to die today.
The Wehrmacht officer took the road over the crest of a small ridge and down into a grove of trees. To their left, the land dipped into a shallow valley, matted with brush and low trees that swarmed up the slope to the road. To their right, the trees thickened into a forest toward the ridge’s crest.
Under the midday twilight of that canopy, the Wehrmacht officer steered the staff car onto the verge and killed the engine. In the silence, Clarke listened to his heart beating and knew with cold certainty he didn’t want to die for the hopeless defense of France. He twisted his wrists, trying to break the cords, but they only cut more sharply. The silence was so deep he thought he could hear the German’s heart, too; then Clarke wondered if the man even had one.
He faced the German as he, too, slewed in his seat. Again they stared at each other, and Clarke took stock of his new captor. This was the man he had to defeat, even kill, if he and the others were to live.
They seemed the same height, an inch or so beneath six feet. But while Clarke was solid, the German was more slender, shoulders tapering to hips, which needed suspenders. His face echoed that line in a wedge shape, broad at the forehead and narrowing through well-defined cheekbones to a pointed chin. His brown hair was dark, the color of cocoa, and combed back from his high forehead in the Continental fashion. A formidable reserve of energy fired his eyes from within; even sitting motionless behind the wheel of the car, he seemed to vibrate like a tuning fork, and Clarke wondered how he kept his hands still.
Like most modern German officers, he was clean-shaven, his uniform tailored although not of the highest quality. The Iron Cross ribbon, red and white and black, decorated his left breast pocket; the knotted silver cords on his shoulders were bare of insignia, in the manner of a major. His earlier anger had drained, leaving his brown eyes clear, and Clarke knew he wasn’t imagining the touch of derision now in their depths.
For one crazy moment, Clarke believed he had known this man at some point in their past and he had only to sweep away the agitation to remember a more innocent age. But of course it was impossible. His subconscious thoughts were returning — to Sandhurst, University College, Eton, or even his father’s estate, this German officer symbolizing someone haunting his memory. One thing for certain; this man didn’t have the polish of rank. There was an earthy edge beneath his combat-hardened sophistication.
Clarke pushed the thought aside and cleared his throat. “Is this it, then? Shot while attempting to escape?”
The German produced a pack of cigarettes and shook one halfway out. “Do you use these things?”
Clarke fought his pride — he didn’t want to accept anything from a German — but his sudden nicotine craving was stronger. He took the fag and the light that followed, and cradled it in his bound hands for a drag. “A last cigarette?”
“Every condemned man deserves one.” But the German’s tone was light.
“It’s not a joking matter.”
This time the German’s stare was considering. “You’re right,” he finally said. “It’s not.”
“I know what happened at Guise.”
“So do I.” The German seemed to reach a decision and opened his door. “Step out. I want to show you something.”
Clarke hesitated. The German shrugged, drew his pistol, snapped the magazine from its butt and pocketed it, and tossed the gun itself onto the dashboard. “We don’t have much time. Come on.” He closed the driver’s door softly and stepped to the opposite verge of the road.
For a moment Clarke stared, flabbergasted. But he wasn’t hallucinating. His only guard had unloaded his only weapon and turned his back. The shelter of the trees was on his side of the road and temptingly near. But his curiosity won the brief struggle. There had to be a reason for this otherwise senseless behavior, and Clarke wanted to know what it was. He followed the German to the opposite
side of the road and stood beside his enemy.
The German cupped his cigarette in his left hand, glowing edge toward his palm, and gestured to the shallow valley at their feet. Neither hand left the deepest shadows spread by the trees overhead.
“See them?”
It took a moment. Then a motion caught his eye. The valley was alive with camouflaged yet shifting forms. He peered closer and made out netting, a half-track, machine-gun nests, hammocks.
“On the left,” the German continued, “those are Greis’s Waffen SS troops, from the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler.” He paused for a drag. “Undoubtedly some of the best soldiers I’ve ever seen.”
“Murderers.”
“That, too.” He pointed with his chin. “On the right, those are elements of my own division, the First Panzer.” He peered sideways at Clarke through the gloom, smoke drifting from his mouth. “A Wehrmacht unit.”
Clarke peered back, his mind blank.
The German sighed. His gaze dropped openly to Clarke’s upper-sleeve regimental insignia for the Royal Warwickshires. He straightened and grunted. “Infantry. Oh, frag. I’ll try using small words.”
Heat climbed Clarke’s neck. “Is that an insult?”
He got another sideways stare. “If you’re in any doubt — ” The German took another drag, eyes slitted against the smoke. “We’re all tired, you know. The campaign hasn’t been long — ”
“Six ruddy weeks.”
“About right — but we haven’t stopped until today. Are you catching on?”
“No,” Clarke snapped. “I am not catching on. What are you getting at?”
The German closed his eyes. “The two units haven’t joined up well, have they? You could march a brass band through there at full volume and nobody would notice.” Again the sideways glance. “Especially if the brass band in question kept to the Wehrmacht side.”
Clarke got it. “Did you have any particular brass band in mind?”