Ace Carroway and the Great War (The Adventures of Ace Carroway Book 1) Read online

  Joyce Harcourt massaged her temples and closed her eyes.

  She looked up. “On the bright side, she’ll make it out of this war alive.”

  But Ace did not return from Verviers.

  ♠♠♠

  Two battered men looked up as the cell door was unlocked and thrown open. A burly guard dumped a body inside.

  The captives leapt to their feet. The uniformed guard sneered at the two. “Filthy Yankee scum. You try tricks, we shoot you. Ha!” The guard slammed the door shut, then secured its heavy lock with an emphatic snick.

  As soon as the guard was gone, both men knelt by the inert body in a torn flight suit.

  The two men made an odd pair. One was abnormally tall, yet gangly and lean. He addressed the smaller one, who was round in face and body. “Sam? You wouldn’t happen t’ be a doctor, would you?”

  The short, umber-skinned man replied with impeccable diction, “No, sahib. I am a cryptologist, as I told you. That is why I am here in the torture pen and not out in the slave yard.”

  They lifted the woman to a cot. It was not easy. The woman was tall and heavy, despite a trim frame. That she had been beaten was obvious. Dried blood stained the golden skin below her nose and on her chin. Her military insignia had been ripped from her blood-flecked flight suit.

  Bruises purpled the men’s visible skin. They wore stained, rumpled trousers and undershirts.

  “Ah reckon she’s with th’ RAF,” drawled the lean, tall man in soft El Paso accents.

  Sam said, “Such a strong face. She might be Isis, come to earth. That is to say, under the bruises, of course. I hope she does not have broken bones along with the multiple contusions. Tombstone? I think she is coming to consciousness.”

  Eyes, also golden in color, focused on the men, flicking back and forth, gauging their expressions. Seeing only sympathy and concern, her rising body tension relaxed.

  “The interrogators. Their mothers would be very disappointed in them!” Ace mumbled through split, swollen lips, blood sticky on her tongue.

  “Please, do not do other than rest, milady,” said Sam.

  “B’cause there’s nowhere to go if you did git up, fer one. Ah’m Tombstone, ma’am. This is Sam.”

  “Sam. Tombstone. A pleasure. Call me Ace. Where am I? Looks like Ace is in a hole.” Ace levered herself up to scan the cell. Four cots barely fit in the spartan room. It was otherwise completely bare.

  “They call it Camp 68, milady,” said Sam.

  “Ah think we’re in Germany, but still west o’ th’ Rhine. That’s a guess. It ain’t like they’ve drawn us any pictures or nuthin’,” said Tombstone.

  “They questioned me,” Ace said euphemistically.

  Sam said, “Yes, Lady Ace. You appear to be a pilot. You would be interrogated, of course. I am so very, very sorry.”

  “Sam’s a cryptologist, Ace, ma’am, so they’re always trying to get him to crack codes. I know a thing or two ’bout electricity, but I think they’re realizin’ I ain’t got no secrets to tell ’em.”

  Distant, muted shouting of orders leaked through the solid walls of the cell. A rushed march of booted feet. Sounds of trucks cranking to life and roaring away.

  The lock of the cell door rattled. Ace struggled to her feet. Herds of horses galloped around the inside of her skull. Tombstone and Sam balled their fists up, but defiance was useless. Six guards with batons and shackles swarmed in. Chained in short order, the trio found themselves on a forced march.

  The guards spoke in German as they roughly yanked their prisoners outside into wan sunlight. The words “Darko Dor” were repeated a few times.

  The Ottomans stuffed Ace, Sam, and Tombstone into the back of a covered truck. Their shackles were fastened to U-bolts in the truck bed. They joined three other prisoners already chained in place.

  A very broad, pale-skinned man with red hair, a two-week beard, and bulging muscles looked at them with one eye. His other eye was blackened and swollen shut. He remarked in thick Cockney accents words not known by most London East-enders, “We’re perambulating into terra incognita!”

  Tombstone groaned. “Oh, who invited you, Gooper? Ding-nab it! Out o’ th’ fryin’ pan and into th’ fire! I ain’t sure I kin stand bein’ cooped up with this here blubbery Brit!”

  “Tombstone? Blimey! Eject the underweight debauchee!” retorted Gooper.

  Dark Sam was very short and round in shape. Leathery Tombstone was tall and lean as a rake. Pale Gooper was as broad as he was tall, with hulking shoulders and arms and no neck at all. The remaining two men were of average proportions, also battered and ragged. The dark-haired one pointed to the blond one accusingly. He spoke in a broad Boston accent. “Ditto for me! Of all the bum luck! I’m still stuck with you, Quack!”

  “Stuff it, Brat,” replied the blond man nicknamed Quack. His voice was melodious and deep.

  “Bert! It’s short for Hubert.”

  “Stuff it, Brat,” persisted Quack.

  Bert flushed around his bruises.

  Truck doors slammed. The engine turned over and rattled to life, and the truck lurched off.

  Ace was still. All five men were older than she. More experienced. Their banter spoke of fiery, unbroken spirits. Ace meditated on the value of five undaunted souls, chained in body. Vistas of possibility made her eyes sparkle with new light. Ace took a deep breath, painful due to bruised ribs. A memory surfaced.

  “Arabic!” commanded Fitzhugh Royston, Ph.D., GBE.

  “Tushariq alshams fi alsabah,” piped Cecilia Carroway, staring fixedly at her tutor’s waistcoat buttons, which were at eye level.

  “German!”

  “Die Sonne geht morgens auf.”

  “Swedish!”

  “Solen stiger på morgonen.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said the towering tutor.

  Little Cecilia hesitated. “I think I said it correctly, Sir Fitzhugh,.”

  “Even the most trivial of phrases, child, should be delivered with utmost conviction. Else, why say it?”

  Cecilia stayed quiet.

  The silence stretched.

  Sir Fitzhugh, spoke warmly. “Excellent. You learn. Now, in English, and like you mean it.”

  “The sun rises in the morning!”

  “Yes. Yes, it does. Quite so.”

  Ace spoke as if she meant it. “Introductions are in order. I’m Ace Carroway. That’s Sam and that’s Tombstone. I take it you three are Gooper, Quack, and Bert?”

  “Aye, Gooper. Oim a British Regular.”

  “Quack will do, ma’am. Field medic.”

  “I’m Bert, American Expeditionary.”

  The truck hit a pothole and gave a jarring bounce.

  “Ow! My bruises are getting bruised,” Quack said.

  Sam said, “Does anyone know where we are going?”

  Ace’s vistas of possibility sharpened. She sucked in another breath for courage, then made the leap of optimism. “We are going to an experimental airplane facility near St. Vith, Belgium, on the orders of Ottoman Minister for Technology Darko Dor. They pulled six prisoners they thought might be capable of skilled technical labor. We are to help them build airplanes.”

  Five pairs of round eyes (really four-and-a-half pairs, given Gooper’s black, swollen orb) goggled at the bloodied young woman. She sat outwardly composed, steady golden eyes meeting theirs.

  “How did you know all that, Lady Ace?” queried Sam.

  “I speak German. Our guards were talkative. As for Darko Dor, his name’s in the newspapers, though maybe not on the front page. He’s in charge of airplane factories, among other things.”

  “Ace. Is that more than just a nickname?” queried Bert.

  Tombstone answered, “She ain’t said, but I betcha she’s a bona fide flying ace.”

  “Just ‘Ace’ will do.” She grinned as far as her swollen lips would allow.

  Despite twinges from her ribs, she stuck out her hand. One by one, the men shook, solemn and firm. The handshakes felt r
ight.

  The truck stopped at a checkpoint. Three gun-toting guards joined them in the back, stopping further conversation.

  The truck rattled and bounced onward over war-torn roads, heading for St. Vith.

  Chapter 4

  The Flugzeugfabrik[4] at St. Vith had been a private airstrip for a crop duster before the Great War. After the Ottomans overwhelmed Belgium, Darko Dor issued orders for a new hangar, workroom, and barracks. The old barn and farmhouse remained. The airstrip was lengthened and hastily paved. The terrain consisted of cultivated valleys poking between forested mountain ridges. Forest enclosed the facility on three sides, beyond the chain-link fence.

  Three new guards accompanied the new prisoners. At first, the prisoners dug out a pit for a new latrine. Before day’s end, they built the latrine itself.

  The massive, red-haired Gooper smashed a nail with a hammer. The nail popped into place meekly. Gooper announced, “Oi! Done! That’s that. Fastidious as a royal nanny.”

  “Put down the hammer. Follow me!” the guard with the birthmark over his eye instructed in broken English. His rifle was always in his hands, as if it was permanently attached.

  For a brief moment, Gooper did not obey. He hefted the hammer in his right hand and sized up the guard, giving every impression that he liked the odds. The guard raised his rifle. Gooper tossed the hammer nonchalantly aside and lumbered after the guard. “Pardon, guv’nor! It’s yer accent. Blinkin’ ’ard ter understand yeh!”

  “Who’s hard to understand now?” teased Tombstone, who was oiling the latrine door hinges.

  “Silence! Follow me!” The surly guard gestured with the business end of his rifle.

  The guard herded the five men and Ace across the yard into the workroom. The workroom was a large shed full of saws, grinders, presses, forges, hand tools, and stacks of airplane parts. The air smelled of grease, flame, and ozone. “Get in a line! Inspection!”

  The six Allies made a line in leisurely fashion, pushing the edge of disobedience. They made an odd sight. Tall, gawky Tombstone, short, distinguished Sam, bulky Gooper, and average Bert and Quack, clustered around a quiet woman with alert eyes and regal posture. Twenty people in mechanic’s coveralls, mostly men, gathered opposite them.

  From an office in the corner four more men came. One wore a business suit, and two wore Ottoman military uniforms with officer bars. The fourth man’s uniform was a blank dark gray. Shiny new boots clicked when he walked. He had slicked-back black hair and a tiny, fashionable goatee. His lips curled in a permanent sneer that marred an otherwise pleasant face. He did all the talking.

  “Good day to you,” he addressed the crowd of mechanics in a Slavic accent, placing his hands behind his back. “I have good news. The Falke has been approved for mass production. We will continue to make them here. Furthermore, production will be duplicated in Antwerp. Congratulations.”

  Obediently, the mass of mechanics clapped their hands in applause. The row of Allies kept stoic.

  The man with the blank uniform continued, “Twelve of you are new to the Flugzeugfabrik. Congratulations on your promotion. I know you will serve the Emperor well.” He gestured to the row of prisoners. “To speed up production, these prisoners will assist. The claim is that they have some skill.” He sneered with distaste as he looked at the Allies. He glanced to the officer at his left. “Get them cleaned up! They look like rats! Put armbands on their coveralls to mark them as prisoners.”

  The officer clicked his heels. “Jawohl, Minister Dor!”

  Darko Dor told the flock of airplane-builders, “These prisoners will be watched. They will work hard. If they do not, report them, and it will be,” he glanced at the prisoners with a smirk, “taken care of.”

  He sauntered toward the prisoners, looking them up and down as if they were cattle at auction and he was considering placing a bid. None of the prisoners made any overt signs of rebellion, but none of them did any cringing, either. In silky tones Darko Dor lectured the Allies, “You will have no second chances. If you are unskilled, you go back to Camp 68. If you try anything, you will have no need to travel. Your dead body will be buried here.”

  He turned to the mechanics again. “They are yours to order about. We can get more prisoners if it helps with production. Your orders: increase production on the Falke! Ten planes per week!” The Minister of Technology sketched a minimal salute. “Dismissed!”

  Darko Dor’s eyes lingered on Ace before he snapped around and disappeared into the office, followed by an officer.

  The man in the suit paced and consulted a clipboard. He nibbled at the end of a pencil.

  The officer that was told to find work clothes for the prisoners looked at them blankly for a minute. Finally, he turned to a nearby worker starting to operate a drill press. “Get them clothes!” He pivoted to the guards. “Bring them back here when they are dressed!” He strutted out the main door, work done. He angled toward the farmhouse, now the officers’ quarters and kitchen.

  Chapter 5

  The guard with the birthmark over his eye herded the prisoners back to their makeshift prison in the barn. Their cell was not yet built. Instead, a large iron spike was driven into the ground. Six chains radiated from it, ending in ankle irons.

  The guard shackled Tombstone and Sam. Bert looked at the bare earth of the barn floor and quipped, “Do I detect mud on my divan? Inform the staff immediately.”

  The guard turned on Bert with teeth bared. “I speak English, you American pig! You are a prisoner! You have no rights!”

  Bert was sullen. “Says who?”

  “My name is Uwe. But you are to call me ‘sir’.” The guard named Uwe spat into Bert’s face. “Piggy scum!”

  Bert’s fists clenched. He threw a roundhouse right hook that clipped Uwe along the cheekbone.

  Ace’s eyes flew wide and she inhaled, a memory flooding into her mind.

  “We are in the market today to learn about surprise,” Master Jitsuko said, her voice peaceful as always. “It is getting hard to surprise you in the dojo.”

  The gawky Cecilia towered over the compact Wing Chun master as they threaded through market stalls. As they neared the Osaka waterfront, more and more stalls sold fish. Jitsuko’s warning on surprise was plenty to put Cecilia on edge. When she sensed a whir in the air, she was ready. She spun, jabbing fist properly tucked back, then slamming forward and up … right into a halibut. There was a wet splat and a petite spray of fish mucus.

  “Ew!” Cecilia blurted, shocked. She stared at the fishmonger who had tried to clobber her. He smiled, but raised the halibut to attempt to slap her again. Several other fishermen jumped in, attempting to beat the gangly girl to the ground.

  Cecilia did not emerge unslimed, but neither did she get smacked to the pavement. Later, Jitsuko gave what Cecilia interpreted as praise. “Next time, no hint for you!”

  Sam and Tombstone could do nothing but rattle their chains, but Gooper and Quack charged Uwe. Gooper got a hand on Uwe’s rifle and Quack dove for Uwe’s midsection.

  Ace moved with the swiftness of a striking cobra. Within the span of a heartbeat there were three meaty thwacks.

  Gooper grunted, “Mff!”

  Quack squawked, “Gah!”

  Bert outgassed, “Uff!”

  All three hit the dirt.

  Ace rose from her fighting crouch, calmly saying to Uwe, “Shackle us. We will not resist.” She looked pointedly at the five male prisoners.

  Uwe moved to obey Ace immediately. Under Ace’s formidable gaze, all remained silent and cooperative. Uwe clicked the shackles shut.

  Ace continued to Uwe, “Now go put some ice on that cheek. Go on.”

  Uwe made a motion as if saluting Ace, but he checked it. He turned in flustered silence and walked out of the barn, rubbing his cheek.

  Ace clasped her hands behind her back. When Uwe was out of sight, she said softly, “Sorry about that, Bert. Gooper. Quack.”

  Gooper was shaking his red-haired head back and forth, and
rubbing a bruised solar plexus. “Ace. Yer part ’uman, part Ovis canadensis.”

  Tombstone narrowed his eyes at Gooper. “Stop makin’ words up, ya throwback.”

  “He means bighorn sheep, Tombstone. The ones with big, curly horns that charge each other and collide at full tilt.” Ace smiled lopsidedly. “I’ll take it as a compliment. Also, I want to talk about delaying our escape.”

  “Eh? You’re not going to call me out on being a hothead?” Bert was contrite.

  “No, Bert. I wanted to punch him too. He’s a little weasel.” Ace’s voice dropped low and her eyes defocused. “But I think we should be strategic. We have bigger game than weasels to hunt. We can’t do that if we rebel too soon.”

  Sam asked, “What did you mean, just now, Lady Ace? Your words were ‘delaying escape.’”

  “I mean that I want to do some sabotage before escaping. Why escape with a whisper when you can escape with a bang?” Ace wore a wry smile.

  “Ohhhh!” Quack said.

  Ace held up a hand. “I want it unanimous. If anybody wants to make a run for the front lines immediately, then that’s the way it will be. We’ll escape at the earliest opportunity.”

  Gooper put his hands behind his neck as if lounging, bulging biceps in full display. “Conservatism? Bah! Can’t abide the stuff.”

  Tombstone drawled, “Ah ain’t in no hurry.”

  Quack chuckled. “How do you say saboteur in German?”

  Bert snorted. “You pronounce it ‘saboteur,’ you hack. But right now that word is music to my ears. Ten aircraft a week, that goatee’d Ottoman said. It’s food for thought.”

  Everyone looked at Sam. Sam was the smallest in stature. Judging by appearances, he far more resembled a mouse than a lion. But, smiling beatifically, teeth gleaming white in his sepia face, he said, “I vote sabotage.”

  Ace nodded solemnly, as if a pact had been sealed. “Thanks, fellas! So we’ll play it cool. We won’t make waves. They are serious about shooting prisoners. They probably want to shoot one of us, to instill terror in the rest of us. Let’s not give them a chance. Let’s look like good workers while we learn as much as we can. Then sabotage. Then escape. Agreed?”