The Brass Compass by Ellen Butler

Author:Ellen Butler [Butler, Ellen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Holocaust, Interrogation Spy, France French Resistance, historical wars, Literature, Historical Fiction, Women's Fiction Suspense, American Army Navy War, Spies Spying espionage, Nazis Hitler Concentration Camp, WWII World War Two, British Army, SOE OSS French Resistance, Germany war, strong female lead, Buchenwald, Female Progagonist, D-Day Normandy parachuting, Allied Occupation Paris France, SS Gestapo Nazi
ISBN: 9780998419312
Publisher: Power to the Pen
Published: 2017-05-22T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Secrets

Clusters of American soldiers milled around the village square as houses smoldered in the background. The distinct acrid tang of smoking wood, rifle munitions, building dust, and coppery blood hung heavily in the air. German soldiers had been assembled, weaponless—guarded by a dozen Americans—in the center of the plaza. They sat quietly on the cobblestones as others were herded, from side streets at gunpoint, hands in the air, toward the gathering. A collection of wounded soldiers congregated at tables of a partially bombed-out café and were being treated by a pair of medics.

Tank’s appearance, carrying me, stopped nearby conversations. Questions were tossed at him.

“Hey, Sarge, who you got there, another Kraut prisoner?”

“Tank? Who is that?”

“Tank, who’s the Jerry?”

Tank ignored the questions and carried me over to the impromptu first-aid post. An army jeep pulled up, and, stepping in front of other waiting soldiers, he slipped me into the front seat. Two able-bodied soldiers heaved a groaning man, with blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his thigh, onto the stretcher strapped to the hood of the vehicle.

“C’mon, Sarge. You’re sending a Kraut over me?” protested a private with a dressing wrapped around his forehead.

“Take her back to the aid station with you. She needs medical attention.” Tank spoke to the driver, then turned to the protesting soldier. “And she’s not a Kraut. You two take the back.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

One of the medics pushed through the crowd. “What’s the problem? Sergeant, these men have been triaged. I haven’t seen this man”—he did a double-take—“woman. Who is she? What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s one of ours and she’s been through hell at the hands of the Krauts, Doc.”

“It’s not a problem. If you point me in the direction of company HQ, I’ll walk.” I swung a leg out intending to alight. “I need to speak...” Whoa. The ground shimmied and shifted.

Tank shoved me back in place. “You can barely walk, much less see through that left eye. And when was the last time you ate?”

I pressed two fingers against my temple. “It’s been awhile.”

The medic began to fire questions at me, surrounding voices rose; it was too much. I couldn’t keep up with all the arguments and squeezed my eyes shut.

First Sergeant Glassman’s dulcet tone intervened, “What’s the problem, gentlemen?”

The voices turned off like a spigot.

“Doc, let her go ... please.”

“Whatever you say, First Sergeant.” The medic returned to his duties, and the two injured men piled in back without further discussion.

Glassman handed me the leather satchel but addressed his comments to the driver. “Get this bag to Captain Devlin. He’s going to want to see what’s inside.”

“Who is Captain Devlin?” I asked as the car jerked into gear and zipped off down the road so quickly I had to grab the handle attached to the dashboard to keep from falling out.

“Intelligence officer,” the driver replied.

“Do you know a Captain McNair?”

“You mean Major McNair? He’s at battalion HQ.”

I didn’t ask any more questions for the rest of the ride because

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