A Short Story by Ernest N.WhitenackIntroduction and Chapter 1
Valuable and rare art were stolen and stashed at various locations. During the course of the war, using false dealers, many of these objects were sold to unscrupulous collectors and dealers the world over. These sales helped the Nazis fund the war and maintain research and development of Hitler’s “super weapons”. When it became clear to the top officers of the Nazi party that the war was all but lost, Martin Bormann put forth a secret Nazi industrial development plan for western countries. Vast amounts of money were allocated to the plan. Industrialists sympathetic to Nazism were recruited and German engineers primed to travel to specific industries.
Hitler’s hidden diamonds and gold were allocated to fund a secret organization. It was a terrorist group known as Werwolf (Werewolf) who would disrupt and confuse the Allied occupation, and planned to overthrow the Allies, and then carry the fight to the East and Soviet Russia.
This occurred as late as April 1945, very close to war’s end. 2,000 German soldiers, veterans of the Nazi Wehrmacht and the Waffen-SS, and sympathizer delegates from countries to the west led by high ranking SS officers conducted a conference near Munich to plan for the return of the Empire – later known as the “Fourth Reich”. 40,000 additional troops were to be recruited. Money, scientists and military personnel was already being smuggled out of Germany, particularly to Argentina, to set-up cells in western countries and act as bankers for the distribution of funds.
On the flip side, before the war ended, Communist spies and treasure hunters were slipping into allied occupied areas of Germany through East Berlin, Czechoslovakia and Hungry. The intent was to estimate troop strength and movement and, ferret out information and locations of Nazi hidden loot, as well as military information.
~ CHAPTER ONE ~
He arrived home unusually happy; happy with his life in the small New Hampshire college town. His political science classes had responded to his teaching technique with fervor; happy that it as a brilliant fall day; that he was looking forward to dinner and bridge with close friends.
He poured a good portion of Jameson’s from the bottle on the sideboard in the antique filled dining room, added two ice cubes as he read the note from Alma that was propped against the bottle. Knowing him as she did, he would be sure to find it there. She would be home from a shopping trip to Manchester soon. Clancy extracted the oilskin pouch from his hip pocket, and filled his pipe with Tinderbox’s Sherlock’s Choice and half reclined on the white wicker divan. This was his favorite spot on the screened porch. They had added the room to their one hundred fifty year old home for just such a day. It was warm for mid October. The huge old maple tree that grew fifteen feet from the porch held its leaves longer than usual this year. The late afternoon sun turned his world to gold as it filtered through the yellow leaves.
Relaxation washed his body as the glow of the day, and the whiskey, did its work. Closing his eyes he daydreamed again, of retiring and writing here for the rest of his days. He loved this place; the town, the college, his friends.
The phone and doorbell rang together. He chose the phone, shouted “hold on please,” and darted to the door. Relieving his wife of some packages, he pecked her on the cheek and made a gesture that told her the phone was waiting for him.
The voice on the phone became unintelligible as the anger grew and images involuntarily raced across his mind. He recalled other times he had heard that word; his intelligence work in France prior to D-day, with the resistance in Germany, again in Tokyo during that Korean thing. The last time was in the U.K. when the United States was contemplating involvement in the problems of Northern Ireland.
“Shit, not again”, he thought;” why me after so long.” Resentment seemed to swell his body while his mind told him,” not this time”. “Screw them, I've done my part.”
Clancy stood there for what seemed a long time with the dial tone in his ear. Alma removed the handset and cradled it.
He gulped the remaining whiskey, turned to her and whispered in a stunned voice.
Alma was the only one outside of the “Platoon” that knew of his activities as an agent. Clancy never told her specifics, just loose accounts. She knew enough, however, to understand the danger he had faced.
Copyright © Ernest N. Whitenack 2015
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