The Indenture of Edward St Ives

By

Darrell H Egbert

Chapter 1 April, 1944

The limousine wound its way thru the dark streets of London, made even darker by a light fog, which had set in about three hours earlier. The driver no doubt would have had difficulty finding his way, if he had not been to this same address many times before. The two passengers in the back seat were thankful for that and for the fog, because the skeletons of the bombed-out buildings, silhouetted against a moonlit sky, would have been truly depressing.

The few buildings left standing on both sides of the street were sandbagged almost to the curb. Pedestrians using the sidewalks during the daylight hours had to walk single file or walk on the edge of the street. This made for hazardous driving conditions, particularly in this up-scale part of the city, where the streets were narrow and the traffic was at its heaviest.

The Blitz had come and gone but the rocket sites on the northern end of the continent had not yet been destroyed, so there was a continuing need for the population to pack inside the bomb-shelters every night. The city was far from normal. There was still a blackout. And the headlamps from the few automobiles on the streets were still painted over to let only a small sliver of light shine thru. It was just barely enough to be seen by another driver, while completely invisible from the air.

Petrol was heavily rationed, so there was little civilian traffic, except for the occasional taxi. The taverns were closed at this late hour and only a few night workers could be seen hurrying to their places of employment. Viewed altogether, the city exuded something of a sense of peace and tranquility. But this was superficial, because there were still the rockets that could be heard exploding with far more force than that experienced by aerial bombs. And the wail of the fire trucks racing thru the streets could be heard from dusk to dawn.

Deep down, the feelings of the citizens were running at fever pitch. The cause for this concern, beyond that of the falling rockets, was the long awaited Invasion, which at long last appeared to be imminent. Although they were unaware, it was this very subject that had brought the two-limo passengers out at this late hour. Actually, they did not know why they were out; save they had been summoned to the residence of the Prime Minister for lunch.

Most Britons might think of Winston Churchill as something of an eccentric; but few would ever say so. Great Britain was a Constitutional Monarchy. The seat of power lay with the Parliament and the recognized leader was the Prime Minister. Never more so than now and never more so than with this particular prime minister. So the term eccentric was never used in describing him, for perhaps Britain had never had a more respected leader in the long history of the Commonwealth than Churchill.

Still, lunch at midnight could hardly be viewed as a commonplace affair, even in war torn Britain. But the two government officials on their way to his residence hardly gave it a second thought, when the invitation was extended for this late hour.

The limo pulled over to the curb at number ten Downing Street and parked. The driver hurried around and opened the passenger door where he was joined by two Royal Marine sentries. They had emerged from covered guard posts secluded well inside sandbagged barricades. They were dressed in full battle gear and each of them was equipped with a shouldered Sten machine gun.

The first one stepped forward to take the identification cards of the two passengers, which had been handed to the chauffeur. He immediately retreated to the hidden light of the guard post where the cards could be scrutinized. They were then handed back and the two passengers emerged from the automobile. Both of the marines, who now recognized the occupants as army officers, saluted, even though the two of them were in civilian clothes. They walked toward the large oaken door that was the entrance to the residence. When the door was opened from the inside, their credentials were again verified, and then an Officer of the Royal Navy escorted them thru the hall leading off the foyer.

A stairway led down three flights of stairs. They chose to walk down rather than wait for the elevator, which would only accommodate two of them at a time. On the ground floor they emerged into a large reinforced bunker that contained some one hundred rooms. This was the command post and wartime residence of the Prime Minister. They were led thru his conference room into a private dining room, which contained a mahogany table and chairs to seat eight people, with an additional half-dozen more lining the walls. The escort then seated them at a table prepared for three people. A waiter entered the room immediately and announced that Sir Winston would be with them momentarily.

Precisely at midnight the PM entered with an aide who was carrying a brief case. The aide set it down and then pulled out the other chair and held it out for the Prime Minister. He then whispered something out of earshot of the others and retired.

The two officers were cousins. They were also distantly related to Churchill thru his dowager grandmother the Duchess of Marlborough. The three were old friends from Cadet days at Sandhurst. Indeed, they had all three served as sub-lieutenants in the same regiment in the Sudan, when Britain interfered in an effort to subdue the Mahdi uprisings.

They were both of royal lineage and were now formerly addressed by Sir Winston as Lord Edward Wycliffe and Brigadier Anthony Gale, Earl of Dunston. Thereafter, they referred to each other as Eddy, Tony and Winnie as they had when they were young men at school.

Churchill began the conversation by asking them if it was all right if he ordered for them. “Our chef prepares an excellent sole,” he said. “I’m sure you will be pleased.” The other two recognized the comment as being a polite way of saying that perhaps it was all that he had to offer. Certainly the Nations leader could have had anything he wanted to eat. But he wanted them to understand that he ate what the common man ate. And as his guests, they were expected to do the same.

Churchill often invited guests to his quarters at night. He disliked eating alone. And then too, it gave him a welcome respite from the heavy burden of government and the loneliness of his quarters. But he found it difficult to relax completely, because the war was usually not too far from his mind. Tonight was to be no exception. It was no coincidence that his two guests were from British Intelligence. Wycliffe was head of MI-5 and Dunston commanded the overseas division known as MI-6.

He apologized for the late hour and for the disruption of their routines. “I used to work during the day like normal people.” He said. “But then what is normal these days. I never evacuated to the Underground like everybody else when the war started. I tried it once but then I was just too tired the next day. After we built this place, I had my bed moved over here near the war room. Then I found that I couldn’t sleep because of the bombs. Now it’s the rockets. I became a night owl. Now I’m afraid I have a habit that won’t be easily broken.”

They chatted amiably for a few minutes, as old friends were wont to do. But the officers were reluctant to lead the conversation into any serious subject, because time would not permit. They both knew Churchill had something on his mind. And they both knew from years of experience in his company that he often arrived at what he wanted to say by a very circuitous route.

“Do you recall the first battle of the Somme,” he said, not expecting an answer. Both of them had served honorably in that terrible war and both of them had been in the meat grinder known as the Somme from early in July until November of 1916. It was not likely that anybody who was there would have forgotten one horrible moment spent in the trenches. Churchill knew this having served for a brief period on the Western Front. It was just his way of beginning the journey toward the point he intended to make. And they both knew he intended to take every minute of the time scheduled for lunch before he made it. And they were both equally sure when it was made that it would require some action on their part.

“Recall how Dougie made a perfect mess of things?” He had reference to another personal friend of theirs, Lieutenant General Sir Douglas Haig. And in particular, how much of the British Expeditionary Force under his command was squandered in the face of German machine guns.

Haig had engaged in maneuvers inland of the French coast for several weeks before he made up his mind where he wanted to commit the BEF against the entrenched Germans. When he did make up his mind, he believed an overwhelming artillery attack would render the German infantry helpless. His forces would then prevail along a seventy-mile front. But instead of a victory, which might have ended the war, it would come to be known as the worst defeat ever suffered by British arms.

The artillery did not have the expected effect on the morale of the German soldiers. They hunkered down inside well-fortified bunkers and rode out the barrage that lasted for days. Neither Haig nor his advisors believed any human could withstand such a shelling. But the Germans did. Then when the British advanced across “no mans land” under a “rolling barrage;” they were met by withering machine gun fire.

One of Haig’s problems was lack of communications. His shells had cut his own telephone lines. When this happened, his officers at the front of the advancing troops could not advise him of the situation. Wave after wave was cut-down, as those in the rear, unaware of what was happening, continued to advance. And the few who made it to the German trenches were impaled on the wire, which had remained intact.

Finally, after some seventy thousand men were lost, the majority in the first twenty minutes, the attack was halted. It was not stopped by Haig, who was at his Headquarters miles to the rear, but by junior officers. They risked being court-martialed for cowardice. But if they had not taken matters into their own hands and disobeyed orders, most of the British Army would have been lost. As it was, the lines on the Somme were stretched very thin. And had the Germans been fully cognizant of the lack of British reserves, the war might have been lost there and then.

Something drastic had to be done or all might still be lost. They expected that it would take the German Secret Service just a few weeks to discover the true nature of the situation.

“You know Eddie that organization of yours was in its infancy. But I truly believe that the scheme they came up with on the spur of the moment saved us all.” Churchill was talking, as he looked up at the waiter.

Just in case the details might have been eroded by time, he intended to spend the next few minutes rehashing the events. Not only did it appear that this almost forgotten part of military history played a major role in the affairs of the Nation at that time; but it may well be the basis for another plan that was churning around in the active mind of their friend and superior.

“I am a firm believer in military intelligence. I have seen many a battle, and so have the two of you, that hinged on a commander knowing what to expect from the enemy. But there is an equally important side of your work. It was paramount then and might well be so today as we approach the time for Invasion.”

So that was it then. They were both thinking the same thing as they glanced knowingly at each other. But why did he not come right out and tell them what was on his mind? Because they both knew it was not his way. And they both knew he did not intend to interfere with the details of their work by telling them exactly what he wanted.

“We were in a sorry state in those days.” He said. Churchill had taken several bites of the sole, which he found to his liking, and he was beginning to warm up to his subject. They both knew he liked nothing better than to talk. And they enjoyed listening to him. He did have a way with words, although he was not known to get to the point quickly. He was famous for this, much to the consternation of some ranking military officers. General Eisenhower would say of him, after their meeting with Stalin at Casablanca, that he thought he would drive them all to distraction with his convoluted approach to a problem. And he did have a penchant for monopolizing the conversation, which bored the American to distraction.

Churchill was a maverick who had a reputation for conducting warfare by what had been termed “strategy by impulse.” Indeed, his Chief of Staff would write, “he had ten ideas a day and only one of them was any good. But I was always at a loss to know which was which.”

The Prime Minister continued on with his story: “We had no idea what we were going to do. We expected the Germans to find out we had only a few reserves left. And when they did, they were going to take maximum advantage of the situation. That’s where your gang came in Eddie. Misdirection is the name of the game. You two lads know it well and are famous for it, I might say.

“We only had two divisions of infantry left here in London. What we did have, we decided to use in a little game of Three-Card Monte with the Germans. We knew they had spies all over the place and we intended to take full advantage of the fact, if we could.

“Remember when we loaded all the troops into covered lorries and transported them up north. And then we put them on trains and headed them back south again. We off-loaded them at Waterloo Station. And then we put them on lorries and sent them down to the debarkation points. We did this during the day so the Germans could watch us. We even went so far as to have the men march aboard the ships waiting to transport them to the front. After the bands stopped playing and the women stopped waving, and when we figured the Germans were in their schnapps, we quietly moved them off the ships again. Then in single file, we route-stepped them about two miles inland in the dark. Sometimes we hauled them back by lorry and sometimes by train. Anything we could think of to keep the Germans guessing, we did. After the troops had a short rest we had them do it all over again. I have no idea how many trips back and forth some of them made. But I remember hearing from relatives that some of the tuba players in the bands at Waterloo and on the quay got awfully tired.”

The three friends began laughing at the charade they remembered so long ago. And then Dunston grew more serious as he said, “You know Winnie, some of those boys did yeoman duty during those crucial months. They were far more valuable to us here than they would have ever been in France.”

Lord Wycliffe looked up from his plate and wiped his mouth with his napkin. And then he began to chuckle all over again.

“It worked.” Churchill said. “It fooled the Germans into believing we had virtually an army of reinforcements. And it gave us about a three-month respite that we would not have enjoyed otherwise.”

“Indeed it did,” replied Wycliffe, giving the appearance that the three of them were having a luncheon conversation and not listening to a military briefing, which they were. “It gave Kitchener the time he needed to conscript and train a whole new Army.” He volunteered.

“Yes, now the opportunity for another little Monte game might be in the offing.” Churchill said this with a twinkle in his eye as he stood up and motioned for the two of them to join him in the conference room. What he had to say to them next was of the highest security classification. And then it was only discussed in the presence of those who had a clear need to know.

When he had personally secured the sound proof door behind him, he said, “That scheme you worked out with the Americans, Eddie, is paying dividends, I’m talking about the one where you have that fake army poised to strike them across the straight at Pais de Calais.”

During one of the battles for the so-called “soft under-belly” of the continent, General George Patton’s forces underwent a severe shelling. Later, the General chose to make one of his frequent inspections to a field hospital. He was there, as much as for anything else, to show his support for the wounded and to award some medals for valor.

After he placed a medal on a wounded and unconscious soldier’s pillow, the General kneeled and whispered something into his ear. When he stood-up, he noticed what appeared to him to be a perfectly healthy soldier sitting on the edge of his bunk. He asked the man what was wrong with him. The soldier began crying and said he could not take it any more. When Patton asked him what it was he could not take, the soldier replied that he could not take the shelling any longer. Words were exchanged with the soldier and the medical staff accompanying him. Patton became enraged. And during a tirade about cowardice, and his disapproval of the soldier being quartered with those he referred to as “these brave men,” Patton slapped him.

The medical staff had just suffered a tongue lashing at the hands of the General. When he left, they were still smarting and were eager to report what had just happened. The story found it’s way to the Supreme Commander, General Dwight D. Eisenhower. And within hours, he had given orders to have Patton relieved of his command.

Patton was returned to England where Eisenhower believed he could more easily control his precocious field commander. There was no doubt about it, he was the best the American Army had to offer; but he was unpredictable. This fact did not go unnoticed by the German High Command.

Field Marshall Erwin Rommel immediately suspected some kind of trick. He could not believe Eisenhower would relieve his best combat commander over such a trivial matter. His suspicions, and those of Adolph Hitler, were confirmed when Patton was given command of the newly formed Second Army. But the Second Army was not an Army at all; it was a sham, dreamed up by Lord Wycliffe and his American associates.

Construction of a typical army installation had begun six months earlier. Steadily, it increased in size as the expected time of the Invasion drew near. It was complete with water tanks, barracks, streets and even a baseball diamond. It was calculated to make the Germans believe it was an American Army forming for a massive assault across the Channel.

Wycliffe had spared no expense or effort in making his creation look real. The best artists and special effects technicians that could be found in the American movie industry assisted him. There were columns of tanks massed on the outskirts of the camps. And fighter aircraft of all descriptions were deployed next to landing strips. They had constructed roads leading from the main arteries. And they had even built railroad spurs from the main lines to warehouses on the base. But it was one gigantic mock-up. Nothing was real. Everything was made of canvass and wood.

The problem was it looked too real. Although the Allies enjoyed air superiority, they were still bothered by the occasional fighter-bombers making strafing and bombing runs. They gauged the effectiveness of their work by the number of times it was struck and by how often they had to effect repairs. They repaired it often. So realistic was it that German photoreconnaissance interpreters believed it was the main invasion force.

Communications were set up between Eisenhower’s Headquarters and the new “Headquarters” of George Patton. But instead of an actual army discussing the routine problems of maintenance and supply, there were only a few communication technicians, who were acting out parts.

It was not only the British and the Americans that practiced this kind of subterfuge; the Germans had their successes as well but not on such a large scale. Churchill, who liked a funny story, stopped in mid-sentence to tell them just such a tale that was apropos to the subject:

“I heard this the other day at a staff meeting with the Americans. It seems the Germans had built a fake aerodrome, with accompanying fake airplanes, off the coast of France. It accomplished what they wanted it to do all too well. Our aircraft strafed and bombed to their hearts content and each day it was put back together again. And then we detected a mistake of some kind or other that gave the show away. Instead of laying on a high altitude raid by the American bombers that would have blown it to kingdom come, our lads were good sports. They made a final low-level bombing run. But this time it was with wooden bombs.”

The resulting laughter of the three of them served to break the tension that had been building since the subject of invasion had come up.

“Gentleman,” said Churchill, “Rommel and Von Runstedt actually believe the Invasion is coming from a point here on the Channel. They believe it, because this is where our previous ill-fated effort at Dunkirk was launched. And of course, this is where the French beaches are easily accessed. And it is the shortest distance between here and there. But, moreover, that is where Hitler believes it is coming.

“I need not go into the details of the two or three elaborate schemes the two of you have engineered to make him think so. Suffice it to say his astrologers and soothsayers of various stripes have also agreed with his military professionals in this respect. But my friends, that is not where it is coming. It is coming at Normandy. Just when, I am not at liberty to tell even you.

“But what we must do is to continue to reinforce this mind-set of theirs. We must make them so certain of what they now believe that several days after the actual landings at Normandy they will continue to tell each other the main thrust is still coming from Pais de Calais. They must believe that Normandy is only a large-scale raid designed to draw off their defensive units.

“We know from capturing the ”Enigma” code machine, that Von Runstedt, at Hitler’s insistence, has withdrawn Field Marshall Model’s Tenth Panzer Army from the Eastern Front and stationed them equal-distant between Pais de Calais and Normandy. This way he can strike in a timely manner, once the main attacking force has been determined. If they guess right, and the panzers are released before we breakout, our forces at Normandy will no doubt be driven back into the sea at a tremendous loss of life.” Churchill paused for a few seconds to pour his guests a glass of port. Dunston took this opportunity to seek permission to ask a question.

“Why if we know where the Panzer Army is, do we not destroy it now?” he asked Churchill.

“Because,” he answered, “we would lose one of our most important assets. I refer to the “Enigma“ machine I was just talking about. So the goal then is to keep the Germans from deploying those tanks until it is too late. And that is where you lads and the Americans come in. And the Resistance fighters and the Free French, as well, I suppose.

“If we could get them to keep their eyes on the face card, and since we know where it is at all times, we would have them where we want them,” he said.

“Sometime when we have time, I will tell you about the fair that my father took me too when I was a boy. He explained to me how the Monte dealer used the cards to shill the spectators. He didn’t rely as much on slight of hand as he did on misdirection. He used their knowledge of what they thought they had seen to make up their minds. And by looking clumsy, he made it look simple. They looked to the obvious. Everyone just knew where the face card was. And once their minds were made-up, they were seemingly unable to change them. That’s why they lost, consistently.

“And that is why you my friends, with your knowledge and understanding of the true facts and the vagrancies of human nature, are in a unique position to euchre them out of a victory once again.” With that last statement, Winston stood up. It was a signal that his time was up. He had pushed a buzzer underneath the table and a waiter opened the massive door and entered with their coats and hats.

Back in the limo, the two rode silently for some time. Each was engrossed in his thoughts. Then Dunston spoke, “Eddie, I have to confess to being naive, but I have never actually seen that game played have you?”

“No, but I assume it is akin to the pea in the shell game.” Wycliffe said. “The operator moves the shells around a few times so that the observers can keep their eyes on the shell containing the pea. He relies on them seeing it at the outset and then following it with their eyes. It looks so simple that they sometimes stand in line to place their bets. Once they make up their minds to what they see, they are reluctant to change. And that’s the point Winston was making. The Germans have concluded the Second Army is the invasion force and come hell or high water they are not going to change”

Dunston spoke again. “Our job then is to keep this idea reinforced in their minds. They must not be allowed to look away from the pea, or the face card in the Monte game, which is actually the Second Army.

“Let’s meet tomorrow for lunch,” Dunston said. “Get some sleep and then lets talk some more about how we can cause the Germans to lose their knickers. And we just might have their ‘guts for garters’ in the bargain.”

__________________________

Chapter 2

The American Air Base at Polebrook, just northeast of London, was the home of the 379th Bomb Group. They were the first of those deployed to the United Kingdom and had, perhaps, some of the most experienced aircrews in the Army Air Corps.

One of their aircraft commanders was lounging on his bunk reading a magazine. It was 1000 hours and the sky was overcast with a heavy rain and fog. It was one of those rare days they could not fly and they were taking a much-needed rest from combat.

The door opened to the Quonset hut, which housed a number of the Group’s officers. An orderly they recognized from the Commanding Officers office stepped inside and inquired of a Captain St Ives.

St Ives stood up and asked him what he wanted. “Sir,” he said, “the Colonel would like to see you.” St Ives put on his raincoat. As he moved towards the door, he received some gentle chiding from some of the others, who were inquiring about what kind of trouble he had gotten himself into.

He took a bicycle from the rack next to the metal building and pumped the half-block thru the mud and water to Headquarters. He hung up his coat and hat and combed his hair and then knocked on the Commanding Officers office door. A voice from inside told him to enter. He walked in and crossed the small office to a desk where the Commander was sitting. He was talking to another officer of the same rank, whom the Captain did not recognize.

St Ives saluted and was asked to take a seat. He was introduced to the visitor, who was a representative of the Division Commander at the next higher Headquarters known by the radio code name as “Pinetree.”

“Captain,” the visitor said, “I am in a hurry to get back before it starts raining so I’ll get straight to the point.” He said this with a smile on his face.

“I have been talking to Colonel Armstrong here and he informs me that you are one of his best officers. Your record indicates you are a graduate of the Military Academy and as such you are one of us. And always, as you know, we are expected to lead out. And by that I mean we are expected to show the way by accepting those assignments which might not be the most desirable. But I have been directed to tell you that the assignment you are going to be asked to take now is extremely hazardous. At the risk of seeming melodramatic, I want to tell you the results of the up-coming Invasion might well rest squarely upon your shoulders, if you elect to accept. You are, of course, under no obligation to do so. Nobody is going to say or think the less of you if you don’t. And whatever your decision, you are formally advised this conversation must not go any further than this room. In fact, it never happened.”

“Of course I’ll do it,” replied the Captain. What ever it was, he did not expect it would be much more dangerous than flying bombing missions into Germany. Short of a suicide mission, he did not see how it could be. And he knew Americans never required this of anybody. He had said he would take the assignment without thinking and now he could not easily change his mind.

“What is on anyway,” he asked?

“I am not at liberty to tell you, even if I knew, which I don’t. But suffice it to say it is most important and of the highest security classification. I want you to leave in the morning for London. That is with your Commanding Officer’s permission of course,” he said.

Armstrong looked at them both with an affirmative nod. It was a mere formality.

“You are to have dinner at the Savoy, where there will be a room reserved for you. Don’t worry about the expenses. Major General William Kepner’s Aide will pay for the dinner and the room. You will be the General’s dinner guest at seven. He will tell you what he wants you to know. If he wants you to stay in London for more than two days, you will advise your Commander. When you return, you will brief him on only that part of the mission necessary to get the job done. At all times it is on a need-to-know basis. Colonel Armstrong understands this. No other member of this organization will be told anything, other than that you have been given the customary few days off after a long stint of combat. It must look like a routine rest trip to London. Are we all clear on this?” He spoke with finality to his voice, requiring no answer from either of the other two officers.

St Ives arrived at King’s Cross station in the early afternoon and boarded the Underground. He then walked the few additional blocks to the Savoy Hotel. This was one of the finer hotels in London with a worldwide reputation. It was not available to the public, having been appropriated by the Government for the duration of the war.

The Captain checked at the desk and found his reservation was in order. The elevator had been purposely rendered inoperative, to prevent an accident in the event the building was damaged from a near miss. He carried his bag up the steps to the second floor suites. The rooms he was assigned were perhaps as nice as any he had ever seen, let alone any that he had ever occupied. As he set his overnight case on the floor and sat down on the velvet sofa across from the bed, he began to think. The thing that had been bothering him the most was how everything was working just as he had been briefed. That indicated to him the mission really was of some importance. And by the looks of his rooms now, he was surer than ever that it was. And then there was General Kepner, the officer he was to have dinner with that evening. Kepner was not just anybody. In fact, he asked himself as he sat there, why was he meeting with such a high-ranking officer at all? True, the Hotel was not that far from Eighth Air Force Headquarters at Bushy Park, so it was no big thing for Kepner to meet him there for dinner. But to meet with a Captain was not something Generals did without a very good reason and certainly not the deputy to the Eighth Air Force Commander. This is one of the things that bothered him. And why was he not instructed to meet him at his office? And what was all the secrecy about, anyway? And why was he singled out to do this job, whatever it was? And was he, perhaps, some kind of sacrificial lamb being shown a taste of the good life before being led to the slaughter? These thoughts were traveling around in his head, as he lay down on the bed. And then like a good soldier, he took a nap, believing that in wartime, you should eat and sleep whenever you had the chance.

That evening, he was seated at the General’s table in the main dining room. He had only been there a few minutes when a Group Captain entered and made his way to the table. St Ives stood up as the RAF officer introduced himself. He told him he was one of two aides to General Kepner. His chief duties, he said, as he sat down, was to function as a liaison between the American military and components of the British Government. He also informed him the General would not be dining with them; but rather he would see him at a meeting at the British Home Office in the morning at 0900 hours.

During the course of their dinner conversation, St Ives was told a staff car would pick him up in front of the Hotel at 0830 in the morning.

He had very little association with the British, although he had been in their country for sometime. And he had almost none at all with officers from the RAF. He admired them immensely, particularly those who flew the fighter planes in the “Battle of Britain.” But he still thought they were rather a stuffy lot. The Englishman, on the other hand, had long since changed his mind about the stereotypical Americans being rustic. This was due to his long association with men like General Kepner.

It took the two of them very little time to get acquainted. And when they did they were well on their way to becoming good friends. They spent the next two hours talking about things far from the war. After he learned that the Group Captain knew nothing about why St Ives was in London, they found other things to talk about.

They were both regular officers in their respective services. Both had graduated from military academies and they were both near the same age. They liked each others company and agreed to meet again the first chance they had.

The staff car was waiting at the curb precisely at 0830 the next morning. St Ives was hoping it would be late. He was still looking for an indicator that maybe this assignment did not have the priority he had been led to believe.

It took only a few minutes to reach the front entrance of the large building, which was the Home Office. This is where much of the important business of the British government was conducted. Just as he was wondering where he was to go and what he was to do, he saw his friend from the night before. They saluted and shook hands. And then St Ives was escorted past the security checkpoints to a set of offices on the third floor. He was instructed to enter and to tell the secretary inside the door who he was. His friend did not linger but appeared to be in a hurry to depart. As he did so, they reaffirmed their promise of the night before to meet again. They had exchanged phone numbers and St Ives promised to give him a call on his next trip to town.

But he still had a funny feeling in his stomach that all might not be well. Indeed, as he watched his new friend depart down the hall, he began to wonder if he was ever going to see London again.

The secretary was expecting him. He was given a temporary identification badge and after signing some papers, he was escorted thru some paneled halls and then into an impressive looking conference room. There were three people seated at a long oaken table. One of them was an American who was a Major General. St Ives assumed, of course, that he was General Kepner. But who the two civilians were, he had no idea. He guessed rightly that they were British. And now his curiosity was beginning to overcome the feelings of apprehension, which had been bothering him.

St Ives suspected he ought to salute the General but then he thought better of it as Kepner began speaking to him.

“Come on in Captain and have a seat right here.” He said. “My name is Kepner and these two gentlemen are Lord Wycliffe and Brigadier Gale, the Earl of Dunston. They represent the two branches of British Intelligence. My purpose here this morning is to greet you and to run interference for you, if need be. We must make sure you get everything you need to carry out your mission, which you will be told about straight away.”

The gnawing feeling in his stomach had returned and was getting worse. This operation did, after all, have the highest priority. And he knew this kind of activity spelled danger. What had he gotten himself into, he wondered? And why did he volunteer? But then he remembered, he had had very little to say in the matter.

He expected the two Englishmen would outline the program and then turn the details over to others to instruct him. Likewise, he expected Kepner to depart after making the introductions. But when two assistants entered the room with pots of coffee and tea, and another followed carrying a tray of cakes of some sort, he knew they were here to stay. And then it dawned on him why. It was security. That was it, the number of people who knew about this thing, whatever it was, was sitting right here in this room. And now he was really beginning to wish he had never gotten himself involved.

“Captain,” the Earl said, “this job we want you to take on is as important as any of the war, heretofore, and it is not without danger. Unfortunately, we can’t tell you what it’s all about and then give you a chance to volunteer. Once we have told you about it, I am afraid you’re stuck with it old boy.

“We are in a game here. That’s what we do, my friend Lord Wycliffe and I, we play a lot of games. True, the loser usually pays a high price for losing. And it is unfortunate but the price for losing is lives and not chips. That’s what makes it so different and so difficult,” he said, as he paused while looking directly into the eyes of St Ives. Then he began again. “Now we are in a game of trying to out guess our enemy. We want him to think the main effort for the Invasion is not at Pais de Calais. We will make several large-scale penetrations before we launch the main force. Hopefully, we can keep him confused about which is which until it is too late. By too late, I mean too late to deploy Model’s Panzer Army that is waiting to counter attack. If he can bring it to bear against our actual Invasion Army, I am afraid we might be looking at another Dunkirk or something even worse.”

He stopped for a minute to let his guests digest completely what he had just said. St Ives thought to himself, but only for a second, that Dunston was something of an actor, who might be playing a roll. But that was just what he was doing.

“You have flown over General Patton’s Second Army many times I am sure.” Dunston said. “And I am also sure you have observed each time you pass over, it has become more up to strength. Well, it is now about ready to go. What we do not want the Germans to know, and I must say that we do not want them to know at all costs, is that the Invasion is coming from this point. All activity before and after will be a ruse. A feint, as it were.”

While Dunston paused again to pour a cup of tea, Wycliffe began to talk. “Captain what we have in mind is a little plan that the two of us have put together. We want the Germans to stop believing that General Patton’s Army is the main Invasion force. And I might add, only the two of us have been involved in this little scheme. Even General Kepner is hearing about it for the first time.”

“That is correct Captain,” Dunston interjected. “It needs be this way to insure your safety. The last thing we want is for this little party to be compromised. We don’t want it to backfire. And we do want to bring you back safe and sound.”

That last statement did it. Now the cat was out of the bag. St Ives mind had shifted into overdrive. He had concluded they wanted him to cross over the channel and to do something. Something that is going to cause the Germans to believe the main thrust is some place else, while Patton drives right into their center with his Army. But why not a “ground-pounder,” he wondered? And then it dawned on him; they want him to fly an airplane over there and then somehow get it and himself on the ground. How he was going to do it was the thing which had him worried, as he listened to Dunston tell him more about what they had in mind.

“We want a bomber to crash land in France. We want you to fly that bomber and then we want you to contact the French Resistance and tell them the Invasion is actually coming on the Normandy coast. I know you are asking yourself, why a bomber? Why couldn’t we just drop one of our people with a parachute, or for that matter, why could we not just radio them? These are all good questions. But we must do something out of the ordinary to draw the Germans attention to you. Above all you must not tell them that the real Invasion force is Patton’s Second Army.”

“You see Captain,” Wycliffe added, “we suspect the Resistance has been penetrated by the Vichy. They will go straight to the Germans with your information. When they do, the Germans will shift their forces to repel an attack at Normandy. That should put the Tenth Panzers out of position for at least twenty-four hours. By the time they realize they have been fooled, General Patton’s Army will be off the beaches and deployed well inland.

“It won’t be difficult to convince the Germans you are legitimate, because they will see the aircraft and realize you survived and are in the hands of the Resistance.” Wycliffe was going slowly now watching for any signs that either of the two were becoming confused. “But why would you be expected to know anything about Invasion plans?” He asked rhetorically? “This is not something that an aircraft commander on a bombing mission is privy to. And why would the subject even come up for that matter? The answer has to be that we intentionally set up a scheme, whereby, you were there for no other reason than to brief the Resistance.”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult to stage a scene where the Germans capture you after they find out what you have told the French.” Dunston said. “The fact of the matter is it would be difficult to keep it from happening, given the political situation in the area where we want you to land.

“We want them to interrogate you, which of course they will. After you have given it your best effort to resist, you will tell them the Invasion is coming over on the coast of Normandy. And that you were not really on a bombing mission after all but fell out of formation purposely. Tell them your real mission is to brief the French so they can get prepared.”

Wycliffe grew even more serious as he said, “Captain, the key to this whole thing is to resist as long as you possibly can before you tell them anything. They are going to rough you up a bit. And we expect they will even threaten to shoot you if you do not tell them whether what you have told the French is true. You must hold out to the end. We do not believe they will shoot you, if you can act scared enough to convince them. But try to wait until they do threaten your life before you start acting like you’re very frightened.”

The General interrupted to ask a question. “What is going to stop them from declaring that he is a spy and shoot him anyway?”

“That is the chance we have to take. But I don’t think they will.” Dunston answered him. “We have taken it into consideration. But our escape plan to get him away from them and back here will make that point moot. He will be in uniform. They will check and find out, he is in fact a bomber pilot, and then think twice before they accuse him of being a spy. But they certainly will pay close attention to what he tells the Resistance, else why is he there in the first place?”

“You see,” said Lord Wycliffe, directing his remarks to Kepner, “while they are waiting for Berlin to digest the information he has given the Resistance, we will have the needed time to put the machine into gear to effect an escape. Trust us on this gentlemen, we are organized to do this. As a matter of fact, we have done it before and more than a few times.

“We want you to land right here with your wheels up and with two of your engines feathered.” Wycliffe continued talking, as he stood up and went to a sidewall and pulled down a map of France. “Please note this exact location. You will want to plan on landing right here.” He picked up a pointer and directed the Captain’s attention to a spot that had been marked. When he was certain that St Ives and Kepner had the place firmly in mind, he removed the marking pin.

“We will have British operatives waiting for you. They will take you to the Resistance just like they would if you had really lost two of your engines over England and had limped across the channel. You will have, of course, jettisoned your bombs.” Wycliffe told them.

“Now this brings up the problem of your crew,” said Dunston. “We want you to prepare just the way you do for any other mission. Your crew must not suspect what is going to happen. This is most important, because I can assure you the Germans will be watching. Anything out of the ordinary will alert them. When they recap your mission, after they take you into custody, they will be sure to pick-up on any deviation from the norm. They will be trying to convince themselves that you are a set-up. And if they do, they will not pay any attention to what you have to tell them.

“That is why everything must go just as it usually does, right up until the time you give your crew the order to bail out. Yes, we feel it’s the best way to go. You could land with them on board in France but then what would they do. Their lives would needlessly be put in jeopardy. And there is better than a good chance that some one of them might compromise the entire program.

“Where and how you do this is of course up to you,” the Earl continued. “We do suggest, however, that you run your engines up before regular start engine time. Tell your crew chief that you thought two of your engines were a little ragged on your last mission but that you forgot to enter that fact in your maintenance forms. Then tell your co-pilot you suspect something might be wrong. And that you have checked them out to make doubly sure they are all right. The point is you want to be on record as suspecting your engines. Rest assured this will be reported to the Germans during their investigation.”

“This is very true,” said Wycliffe, “we know, and so do you, that the Germans have spies everywhere. The daily news broadcasts from Berlin attest to that. We all know this ‘Lord Haw Haw’ fellow is getting his information from somewhere. We really don’t pay much attention to him. We have not made a concerted effort to close him down, because he isn’t privy to anything of real importance. But something like the status of your airplane is right up his alley, to use one of your expressions.”

Dunston went on to say, “we want them to believe we went to elaborate ends to get you into the hands of the Resistance, therefore, what you have to say to them is of the utmost importance. Do we all understand this?

“But I want to reiterate once more before we adjourn: under no circumstances, even at the peril of your life, Captain, must you tell them or even imply that the real thrust is coming from Patton’s Second Army. If you do, you will put the entire invasion force in jeopardy and perhaps allow the Russians to occupy all of Europe.

“Your job is to get the aircraft on the ground.” Dunston went on to tell him, occasionally shifting his glance toward Kepner. “Our job is to get you into the hands of the Resistance. And to get you back safely. After you tell them your story, things will move rapidly according to plan. We do not think for a moment that you are going to be in any extraordinary danger. If you have any questions later we will be in touch with you and maybe set-up another meeting in a few days.” With that said, the three of them stood up and shook his hand. And after he saluted the General, he turned and walked across the room and out the door while the others sat back down.

Kepner was the first to speak. “Gentleman, I have some questions that’s for sure. What are we doing here anyway?” He said this with an edge to his voice.

Dunston did not hesitate to answer him. “We thought you might,” he replied. “The three of us know that Patton’s so called Army is a ruse. But the Captain doesn’t know it. And we have it on good authority that the Germans don’t know it either. I know that some of the things we told him do not bear close scrutiny. And we did for sure pass quickly over that spy business. But let me tell you the real plan.”

“Please do.” Said Kepner, who was now acting like a General. In fact, Wycliffe and Dunston both felt for a minute as though they were going to get dressed down by one who had a reputation for being an expert in this area. Wycliffe, to ward off what they were both sure was coming, hastened to get to the point.

“General, we don’t expect the Germans to swallow any of the story he has been instructed to tell them.”

“Then what is the point of telling them...?”

“Please General let me explain,” said Wycliffe, interrupting him.

“Captain St Ives believes Patton’s army is the main strike force. The Germans are not interested in anything he has to say about anything else.”

“Yes but they will torture him and more than likely when he holds out to the bitter end they will shoot him.”

“Not really, General, because after they go through the motions of interrogating him they will give him an injection of Scopolamine.”

“What is that?” He wanted to know.

“It is something new the bounders have developed.” Dunston was quick to answer. “As best we can determine it is some kind of a truth serum. They will give it to him and he will tell them every bit of the truth. But it will be the truth, as he understands it. He will tell them exactly what they want to hear: the main strike force is not landing at Normandy but at Pais de Calais. But the three of us know that is not the truth.”

“Then that is why you were so sure they wouldn’t shoot him. There would be no need too.” Kepner said. “In fact they might even go out of their way to see that we get him back.” The two Englishmen looked at each other knowingly as Kepner said this. Dunston wanted to tell him he was quick to catch on. But he thought better of it and said nothing.

“Do they know you know they have this drug?” The General asked.

“No, and that’s what makes the plan so workable.” Dunston replied.

Three days after St Ives returned to his base, Col Armstrong called him into his office to tell him the next mission laid on by “Pinetree” was to be Bordeaux on the coast of France. That is all he said. The fact he had been told to alert St Ives personally was a signal to both of them. And Armstrong did not ask him what it meant. He knew he would not tell him, even if he were to ask.

An hour later, St Ives was in base operations looking at the maps kept there for the benefit of the Group’s navigators. He helped himself to one of them and then without looking at it, he departed. He climbed back on his bicycle and peddled out to the revetment where his ground crew was working on his airplane. He asked the crew chief if he could run up his number one and number three engines, after telling him he forgot to enter the fact there might be something wrong with them in the maintenance forms. He briefed the sergeant regarding his suspicions about his engines and then climbed into the airplane and sat down in the left-hand seat. With the crew chief listening to the engines, St Ives checked the magnetos. The two of them observed the drop in RPM. He gave them both a final run-up and then shut them down. Everything appeared normal to the crew chief, who signed the maintenance write-up as “ground checked ok.” St Ives did not depart the airplane immediately behind the crew chief but waited until he could see him from his side window. Then he went back to the navigator’s compartment and switched on the overhead light. He removed the map from his jacket and rolled it out on the table. He observed the location of the docks at Bordeaux and then drew a line from the target to the inland city of Château roux. He then drew another line from Polebrook to intersect the line he had just drawn. That would be the point where he left the formation, regardless of the direction the Group was headed.

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Chapter 3 California, 1970.

As St Ives turned the corner and headed down the street towards his house, he could not help but notice the leaves swirling in the street behind him. It was as in the Santa Claus poem, he thought...“dry leaves before the wild hurricanes fly, when they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky”...Odd he thought, thinking about something like that. But more and more, just just this sort of thing was distracting him; flashbacks mostly to the last combat mission he flew during the war. He wondered if that was what old age was all about? And would he eventually prefer the company of his own mind to that of people in the real world?

He was becoming concerned about this constant daydreaming. And he wondered if it had anything to do with the depression, which had been bothering him for several months.

It was almost like a fugue. Yes, fugue was the word he was looking for. The mind entered into a sort of hypnotic state called a fugue sometimes when under a great deal of pressure, or if afflicted with a mental illness. It was more absorbing and far more riveting though than a daydream. And it lasted longer, he thought.

Recollection of this strange word prompted his mind to race across time and distance to a court-martial, where he heard it for the first time.

The chief pharmacist at a base hospital some twenty years before claimed he could not remember how to fill prescriptions. The hospital commander did not believe him and had him up on charges for malingering. The defense maintained he had lapsed into a fugue, as a result of being under severe stress from problems at home. In the end, however, he was convicted and served time in the guardhouse.

Fascinating, how just now his mind was able to recall the incident with such clarity, and to make the word association with daydreaming, which he was almost sure were unrelated.

There was the usual number of parked cars in front of his house, friends of his kids no doubt. He could see them as he turned the corner. There was also his wife’s car and another belonging to somebody else, parked in his driveway blocking his garage.

He could see them also and he could feel the anger begin to build just as it always did. It never mattered how often he brought up the subject of the garage and the gang of kids who seemed to live at his place. No matter what he said or did, whether he coaxed, pleaded, or threatened, his kids still took no notice of him.

It was as though he did not exist. And when he raised his voice to press the issue and to instill some discipline into their lives, his wife would take their side against his. As often as not, she would verbally attack him in a way that was out of all proportion. And she was prepared to escalate the argument to the point of threatening him with bodily harm.

On those occasions when she started screaming, he would escape to his bedroom, where he would read or watch television until it was time for bed. Usually in the middle of the night, he would get up and fix a sandwich. The sight of the dirty kitchen, with the unwashed dishes and empty pizza boxes strewn about, would disgust him to the point where he would spend the next hour or so cleaning-up before going back to bed.

It had been long in coming, because he did not want to admit that they had failed as parents and as a family. But now, after twenty-five years of marriage, he was prepared to believe things were never going to change, unless he took some kind of direct action to change them.

Divorce was not an option, because of the unfavorable settlement laws that affected the military husband. Some kind of counseling was in order; but she would hear none of it. She liked things just the way they were.

She had her bridge activities and her club activities and something she called a tea once a week. From each of these time wasters, she came home with a look about her of one who had been too near the flowing bowl.

As long as there was sufficient money coming in, so she could indulge her every whim, and as long as he kept out of her way, and he made no demands on her whatsoever, she was happy.

He had long ago realized, and he had told himself over and over of late, she and the children were nothing more than leeches. And he believed they intended to continue on in this way for the rest of their lives. But what truly frightened him was, because he was in the Service, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, and they knew it.

They had him. And in a real sense he was indentured to them. He was their captive who was being held for ransom, a bond slave, so decreed by the courts.

But even this was not what bothered him the most, he told himself. What really deep down angered him, what grabbed at his gut and would not let go, was the fact they had no respect for him.

They were not remotely aware of the sacrifices he made during the war. He had tried to tell them many times but they never would listen, they just did not care. It was as though he never lived or accomplished anything. They held him and his life’s work in the utmost disdain. That is what hurt. And that is why he would never forgive them.

That is also why some direct action, something in keeping with his real and not perceived nature, would be forthcoming. And whatever the final plan would be, the operative word would be action; something that would be decisive and never to be forgotten by them. And make no mistake about it, he told himself; he had the resolve to carry it out. Anybody who thought otherwise had badly misjudged him. And it would be easy to do, because he had long ago ceased to care anything about any of them.

As these dark thoughts continued to occupy his mind, he began to think about his last combat mission and how he had never told his son about the role he played in successfully bringing about the greatest military invasion in history. His destination had been the shipyards at Bordeaux. When he saw the route from East Anglia to South Hampton and then to Cherbourg, Le Mans, Limoge, and then approaching Bordeaux from the North, he knew that his part of the plan was on. The route passed within a few miles of the Chateauroux area. All he would have to do was to report engine trouble and then make a long sweeping left turn to head home. But he had no intentions of going home.

A few minutes before his Group reached the Channel, he called to report the oil pressure on two of his four engines was fluctuating. He told the group leader his crew was bailing out. But by the time he had made up his mind to turn back, the engines were running smoothly and the oil pressure had returned to normal. He advised his group leader that it must be his instruments and not the engines and he radioed him he was continuing on behind the formation.

He had never told her much of the story either, about how he dropped his bombs over the Channel, and then reported engine failure on two of his engines just after they reached the coast of France. And she was only vaguely aware of his capture after he crash-landed near Chateauroux. He tried to tell her once about what had happened; how he was tortured, and finally forced to tell the Germans what he knew about the Invasion coming at Normandy, as he had been instructed to do. She gave him an excuse for not wanting to listen. She said the recounting of the event was too stressful. She told him that talking about such things was not good for his depression, which even then was beginning to bother him. And anyway the war was over, she said, and he should forget about the whole thing.

His memory of that mission had returned piecemeal over the years. Usually it was during one of his frequent flashbacks. He would recall years later how the Germans had given him a shot of something in a needle. They told him it was to prevent infection from the many cuts and scrapes he suffered during the landing.

For the longest time, he thought this mission was for naught. Because he knew he had told the Germans it was coming at Normandy, which it did. He always wondered why he was told to tell them that thus jeopardizing the element of surprise? Not until the world became aware of Scopolamine, did he realize he had not given away the true Invasion plans after all? But he had been drugged into telling the Germans only what British Intelligence wanted them to hear?

In a way he was a hero. He was directly responsible for causing the Fuehrer to hold the Tenth Panzer from attacking in support of the Seventy-Six Panzer Division outside of Caen. As a result the Seventy- Sixth was forced to break off the attack of the beachhead to keep from being encircled and annihilated. As a result, the attacking infantry divisions at Omaha finally made it ashore. And once inland, they were able to disburse before the Tenth Panzer was allowed to deploy. By the time they did, it was too late; and then American fighters and medium bombers quickly took the panzers in hand. They never played a significant role in the battles that followed.

Years later, he became aware of all of this. But he was neither at liberty to divulge the secret role he played, nor that of British Intelligence, to other people in the Service.

This situation weighed heavily on his mind. He thought he was being penalized, somehow, for not completing his combat tour. But he came slowly to realize as he was consistently being promoted ahead of his peers, that men like General Kepner and Col. Armstrong remembered his deeds and were looking out for him. He was most appreciative but it was not the same thing. What he wanted as much as promotion was recognition from his peers. And above all, he wanted some kind of recognition and appreciation from his family.

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Chapter 4

Edward St Ives, Colonel, USAF, son of a wealthy Idaho potato grower, left his office late, as he did almost every night. He did not stay because he was a workaholic like most of his colleagues but stayed because he had no place else he wanted to go to. Lately, he had formed the habit of dropping by the Stag Room of the Officers Club before going home.

This room was a new Club addition, a way of making off-duty time spent on base less formal. It was a kind of sop tossed to aviators to make the Service a little more attractive, in an effort to keep more of them out of the cockpits of the major airlines.

The Stag Room, so called, really had no formal name. The reason for this was to keep from offending some sensitive soul. But even more important, it was to keep the base commander from coming to the attention of some member of a congressional watchdog committee. So there were no regulations restricting anybody from attending. But custom here, as in so many other areas in the Service, dictated the rules.

Women were allowed. However, they were never in attendance. Bachelors, who lived on base, and who did not care to don coat and tie in the evening, were the most frequent visitors. Aircrews, who had just landed from a long flight and were still in flying clothes, were also welcomed. Then there was the occasional drop in by a senior officer, who was welcome; but by custom would not stay long, because of the informality of the place. His continuing presence might be seen as placing a damper on the conversations.

So, Col. St Ives would order a beer, intending only to stay for one. But truth be told, he would usually stay a little longer than was customary. He ran the risk of indulging in this rather boorish behavior for the simple reason he liked it there. Of all the places he could think of, this is where he preferred to be. These were his real sons, these young pilots. And he felt almost as close to some of them as any father would toward a natural son in a well-adjusted family.

Talk was usually about aviation in some form. But the only subjects forbidden, because of a time-honored tradition, were religion and politics. Rank was strictly observed in these informal settings. To have it otherwise would be to erode good order and discipline, so necessary for the effective functioning of the organization. Everybody knew this without being told or reminded. They were all professionals. They were in the Air Force by choice and not because they had to be.

So, St Ives would attend for just a little while, promising himself he would not over stay his welcome. But he hated to leave. Each time he left, he wondered why he came in the first place, knowing that just when he started to enjoy himself, he would have to go home.

He would go just about every evening for an hour or so, telling himself that he was not really so much interested in socializing with them, as much as he was there to get a feel for what they were thinking. But he knew they were never candid and that they spoke to him as they might to their own fathers.

As he drove towards home, he lapsed into one of his typical reveries. He wondered what it would be like to have one of these young officers for a son, instead of the one he had. They were the crème, no question about it, he thought.

All of them were over-achievers. As far as he knew, they were all university graduates. He did not know for sure but he thought it was a requirement for flight training these days.

They were all patriots, every one of them. They were drug free and goal oriented. Any father, he said to himself, would be proud to call anyone of them, son.

As he drove home, he began to think about the routine of a popular comic, “now you take my wife, please?”

“Yeah, and take my son too,” he whispered under his breath. “Yeah, you can have him. I don’t want him. He lacks ambition and he is little better than a bum.”

But as he ran on in his mind, sinking deeper and deeper into his thoughts, he realized this was old ground he had covered many times before. What he had not often thought about though, was why he had such a strong kinship with these young officers. After going over the many obvious reasons, his mind settled on one thought. He loved them for the very exact opposite reason he hated his son and the rest of his family too. These young men respected him. It was as simple as that, he told himself.

They saw in him, the man they wanted to become. Each one of the medals he wore on his tunic meant something to them. They imagined what it had been like, hour after grueling hour, in combat in the skies over Germany and France. They were aware of the tremendous number of casualties suffered in that air war. They also knew the Eighth Air Force suffered more casualties among their officers than the total number of all other branches of the Army fighting in the European Theatre.

In the beginning of the air war in Europe, it was mathematically impossible to survive. Twenty-five combat missions were designated as an arbitrary number for completion of a combat tour of duty. When he started flying bombing missions, the average number accomplished was nine, before being shot down.

Most of his close friends had been killed or crippled outright, while others crash-landed, or jumped in enemy territory, sometimes spending years in captivity, living on starvation rations.

And they knew this as well. And they afforded him the respect he was due. But to his son, it might as well have happened to a total stranger, who came from another world.

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Chapter 5

The clan Saint Ives had its historical beginnings during the dark days of the Middle Ages. They were Scotsmen who lived on the border of the area that was given over to the Viking hoards as a homeland. But the English kings did not turn over this land to the Scandinavians out of the goodness of their hearts, rather; they did it to stop them from raiding along the Scottish and the English coasts.

The Scots posed little threat to the Vikings. And in fact, they were quick to adopt some of their customs. One of the more important was their law.

The Viking law or Dane Law, as it would come to be known, was much preferred by them over the English common law as pertained to the passing of title to the land.

Dane Law held that the eldest son, under the rights of primogeniture, inherited the land from his father. Second and third sons remained at the suffrage of the eldest. But, since the farms were small, and the land poor, it could not usually support more than one family. The younger men, lacking other career opportunities, signed on-board the long boats bound for England and plunder.

The English practice of land management was similar but varied in one important aspect; the king owned the land. It was parceled out to noblemen and then to serfs who worked it and paid taxes to the Crown.

These fiefdoms were a form of slavery and did not sit well with the freedom loving and rebellious Scots. The English did not always give the Scots the same latitude they gave the Vikings and it became the cause for bitter struggles between the two, lasting for many generations.

Ongoing battles between the clans and the English kings resulted in hatred for the English, and in many cases, displacement of clan leaders. In many instances it was necessary for them to leave Scotland for the New World. And even when a Scot was not under warrant, he often chose to immigrate, if and when he got the chance.

Many emigrants, be they Scot or some other nationality, moved west in fulfillment of the Nations “Manifest Destiny.” Thus in due time, the great-grandfather of St Ives, a descendant of a displaced person, found himself on the Oregon Trail.

Like most pioneers, the elder St Ives was looking for land. Farm land in Idaho was there for the homesteading, to be shared with Mormon pioneers, who were moving up from Utah Territory, to settle and to form new branches of their Church.

Small homesteads were the rule at first, being only as large as one family could work with a team of horses. But there was nothing to prevent an enterprising farmer, with a growing family of sons, from purchasing adjacent land. And as farming became more mechanized, larger holdings began to appear. And the larger they grew, the more prosperous they became.

Certain areas of Idaho were best suited to the growing of potatoes. And as the big estates came into being, co-ops formed, and some of the larger companies incorporated and expanded.

Within just a few short years, technology changed the face of the potato industry. By the middle of the century, the backbreaking labor that was so necessary in St Ives youth, was pretty much a thing of the past.

By the 1960’s, large companies would contract for land, and using machinery exclusively, would plant, harvest, process and distribute potatoes to grocery stores. They were also able to ship frozen French fries to fast food chains without their product ever being touched by human hands

In the 1930‘s, however, during the height of the Depression, potato growers throughout Idaho and Utah were just getting by. Tractors and other machinery were available to speed up production, and to make the work somewhat easier, but the market was depressed and not many farmers were in a financial position to buy them.

But the big problem to major expansion was labor. At that time, no one had discovered a way of getting the potato from the plowed ground, sort it, grade it, sack it and then load it. At least not as cheaply as the farm laborer could do it.

At that time, potato farming was as backbreaking as any labor to be found anywhere. It was to be avoided if at all possible but for St Ives and his brothers, it was not possible.

Their working day, during the harvest, started at five in the morning. First there were the chores, and then after a quick breakfast, they were into the fields.

Their father would hitch-up the horses to the potato plow and then start out well ahead of the pickers.

St Ives and his brothers would each take a row. As the potatoes were plowed-up, they would bend over and fill a bucket. When the buckets were full, they would pour them into a “gunnysack.” Then they would bend over again and walking along stooped over, they would fill another bucket and another and still yet another.

Bucket after bucket and sack after sack they crouched along until they thought their backs would break. The hot sun beat down on them but there was no let-up until about an hour before dark and then the sacks would be hauled to the storage sheds. Evening chores would follow and then a late supper and then to bed. All they had to look forward to for weeks on end was another backbreaking day, followed by another, until the harvest was in.

The Colonel often reminisced about those hard years growing up and when he did, he thought about his son. And he would compare him to the other male members of his family. His son was always found wanting in the extreme.

Frankly, he told himself once, he could never remember having seen his son do anything involving real labor. Not for a day, even for an hour. He had never held anything remotely resembling a job and he was incapable of understanding what his father’s youth had been like. Neither did he want to know. Why should he, thought St Ives, it never involved him. And as long as his mother was there to fend for him, it never would.

Working hard was for suckers. In fact, work, period, was for suckers. He told his father this one day and it sent him into a silent rage that lasted for a week.

When the Colonel’s father was nearing retirement age, he visited a lawyer and had a family trust drawn-up. He was cognizant of the need to pass on his estate to his sons as equitably as possible. He was also aware of the many farms that had been sold-off because they had been devised to several heirs in equal shares.

Then too, there was a case he knew of where the eldest son, who had been doing most of the work for years, had been given the largest share of the property as a reward. But, unlike in Dane Law, his father had given minor interests to several of his siblings. The eldest son was then obligated to pay them their share.

It took him years of scrimping and saving to pay-off what was not his responsibility in the first place. And in all likelihood, he would never recover a cent, because he would never sell the property.

St Ives father knew these things. He knew that families had been torn apart because they had deviated from the old ways. Still in all, he wanted to do what was right by the younger boy.

When his father made up his mind what he was going to do, he called a family council. He explained to them that it was his desire that his estate be held in joint tenancy by the older brothers. The younger would be given the opportunity for a family financed college education. After the books were audited each year, he would also be given a small percentage of the profits.

This money was not to come to him directly but was to be invested in a mutual fund, so that by the time he was fifty years old, he would be quite well off.

It was suggested that he enters the University of Idaho for one year and then tries for an appointment to West Point.

His father was a contributor to one of the political parties in the State and he had business associates that had political connections. He believed an invitation to sit for a competitive examination for one of the senatorial appointments was a very definite possibility.

This was very much to the liking of the young man. At any rate, he figured it was the best he could hope for, and it would allow him to pursue a career away from the potatoes, with which he had a love hate relationship.

His father and his brothers were true to their agreement and to the arrangements made at that meeting. His estate grew as their holdings grew. And now as he was about to retire from the Service in just a few short weeks, he calculated in his mind that he might, indeed, be well situated financially.

As he reminisced and talked these things over with himself, he wished his own family were as thoughtful and loving as his extended family. But that was not to be and he realized he was powerless to make it happen.

As he dwelled on the differences between his family and his brothers, he swore an oath that their largess and hard work would never go to benefit any of the slackers who lived with him.

No, not one red cent of his potato money was ever going to find its way into their pockets. But he realized he was going to have to do some serious planning, if he was going to keep it out of their clutches and that of their lawyers.

He attended a genetics class while at the University. He had been around livestock all his life and heard terms he never understood. And he wondered if the old timers, who talked about such things, knew themselves what they were talking about.

While he was sitting at his desk one day, his mind wandered back to his freshman year and to the brief encounter he had with the subject. Terms like dominant and recessive characteristics came to mind, as well as zygotes, genotypes, phenotypes and first and second filial generations. And he wondered if they really could predict the color of a horse or a cow?

If certain genetic traits were inherited by plants and the lower animals, why not humans? And if these theories did pertain to humans, how come people were so different? Were his son and daughter really part of the hard working St Ives gene pool? If so, then how come these acorns fell so far from the tree? Was there really potential here for achievement and how far below the surface was it?

How much of the responsibility for their monumental failure then could be blamed on society, and how much was predestined, because of some genetic fowl-up? Was it because their pregnant mother refused to obey any of the doctor’s instructions? Could it be because she drank heavily and made no pretense of quitting smoking? Were their young fetal minds pickled before they had a real start in life? Perhaps genetic science would be interested in studying their heritage or maybe social science? But then he asked himself, who cared?

It was Christmas a few years back, he recalled. His son had received a present that needed assembling. The boy eagerly volunteered to help in order to expedite things. His father, in a magnanimous mood, accepted the offer. They agreed to team-up. The father would do the assembling while he assigned his son the job of reading the directions.

It was during this simple father and son activity that he discovered a horrible truth. The boy was functionally illiterate. He could not even read the simplest of sentences.

It was like a kick in the stomach to him. He had no idea. She had continually assured him the boy was above average and progressing nicely. “After all,” she asked rhetorically, “isn’t he getting promoted each year?”

He could not deny that he was, however, he berated himself for not taking more of a hand in things. But when he would ask how he was getting along, she and the teachers continually assured him that all was well.

Well, all was not well. And he had received a shock from which he never recovered.

It was at this point, he told himself, that he really began resenting the boy. He was resentful of his sloth, which had resulted in his failing in Reading, Mathematics and English as well.

Oh, he passed the courses well enough. And he was promoted on time. But for the first time, he became aware that he should have paid more attention to the conversations of his friends, when they discussed the school policy of never holding anyone back. “He can’t read or write, but you ought to see him finger paint.”

He over heard a friend say that once of his own son. But he thought he was joking.

But what was he to do? Could he really have made a difference? Should he have ordered him to study? And what good would that have done? She would have jumped in and taken the boy’s side against him and then it would have ended, as it always did, in a family squabble.

She loved confrontation on any subject. “Leave him alone,” she would say.

How much then was his fault and how much was hers? And how much of it was the boys? Is he a bad seed or is he just lazy? Did he lack for training or is he just human? And is it human to always want to take the easy way just because you can?

As he pondered these things, his mind wandered to a staff meeting once at Curtis Le May’s Headquarters. The General was commenting about the unsatisfactory performance of one of his wing commanders: “There is the unfortunate and then there is the incompetent. But I do not have the time or the desire to debate the difference, since the results are always the same.”

So, whatever his reasons are for failing, he is still a failure, he thought. And nothing can be done about that. But more to the point, he told himself, there is not enough time left in school to make much of a difference. Not even if a miracle occurred and the boy changed completely.

No, he will not be able to go on in school, which is all right. But he is not prepared to learn a trade, and he lacks the ambition to hold a job, if he had one. No, he told himself, the best he can hope for is to be a member of the low paying unskilled labor market.

I wonder how he intends to support himself? And then the answer came to him in a rush. He intends to rely on his mother and she intends to rely on me. And they both have their eyes on my potato money.

Yes, he said to himself, whatever he needs to get by, he intends to get from me. He smiled, as he thought about the plan forming in his mind that would lead to a rude awakening. And it was coming to them all, and soon.

___________________________________

Chapter 6

When it came, it came fast, and it left him devastated. He had been expecting it but he had postponed this day in his mind. By not thinking about it, he figured it would go away. But it was as inevitable as his demise and now it was here. It was actually going to happen this afternoon.

Just after lunch, his secretary, joined by one from another office, spread a tablecloth over one of the desks. He saw them do it and it struck a panic nerve deep in his stomach. He imagined this was how a condemned prisoner felt when he was served his last meal. But unlike the prisoner, he could not hope for a reprieve. This was to be final. This was to be his last day on active duty. He loved the Air Force and his heart was about to break.

The secretaries came in with a large cake and a bowl of punch. He had been to many of these “goodbyes” held for other people. He had eaten their cake and drunk their punch and all the while wondering where it came from. Where did they hide it from the condemned until the last minute?

He supposed it was hidden like dirt at a gravesite. They kept it covered with some kind of artificial grass so that it did not stand out as dirt. Just as a loved one is not really dead until that same dirt is replaced, so the secretaries keep the cake hidden like the dirt. Nothing is going to happen, says the subconscious, until they have brought out the cake.

When all is ready, the call goes out to the various offices that coordinate their activities with the office of the new retiree. And then in about an hour, everybody comes sauntering in one at a time, as though it was not all planned. It looks as though they just accidentally popped-in, and since they are there, they might as well have some cake.

The entire ritual is choreographed to effect an air of indifference as though it is no big deal, this retirement. You are in the Service one day and on the golf course the next, lucky you.

He smiled as all his friends came by and shook his hand. But deep down, he was fighting waves of panic. He could not bear the thought of tomorrow. It sent his mind racing away on some escape adventure to avoid yet another spasm of panic. The last thing he wanted to do was to breakdown. But he realized he was on the verge of doing just that.

The going out ceremony was short and simple. No one had the time anymore for full dress parades. Not like in the old days.

The retirees, he and two enlisted men, stood at attention. The base band played a stirring Souza march. One of the senior officers, who had been designated for the occasion, gave some military commands. There was some presenting of commendation medals, some more saluting, and some congratulations, which all took place in front of the Headquarters building. And then the formal part was over.

Some people came by and shook his hand. Some of the wives of his close friends kissed him on the cheek. And as at the graveside service, when the minister says Amen, they began drifting away, the better to separate themselves from him. It was as though he had some contagious disease they might catch if they stayed too long in his presence.

But they tried not to act as though it was a funeral. Rather, they appeared to be in a hurry and had to get back to their office to take care of some pressing business. Above all, they tried not to look at him too long, because they were afraid they might see him with a tear in his eye. </