Robert Conroy: North Reich

"Jesus, what happened to me?"

"My name is Crain, not Jesus, and you got mugged in the hallway of your apartment. You were found by one of your neighbors who called the police and, when they realized you were military, brought you here. They guy who attacked you apparently ran off."

"And where is here?"

"The base clinic at Fort Meade. There are a number of very good hospitals in the area, but it was decided to keep you here where you'd be out of sight and in the warm bosom of the army, at least until someone figures out what happened to you. Apparently a number of people don't think the attack was a simple attempted robbery. Your injuries are painful, but you're an army officer so you have an extremely thick noggin. X-rays did confirm that you don't have a fractured skull and the bruise on the side of your face will clear up in a matter of years."

"Doctor Crain, when was the last time you were told to go screw yourself?"

Crain smiled. "I believe it was my last patient. And a very nice little old nun she was. Now, I want you to eat something, take a few aspirins, and get some sleep. Somebody from General Marshall's staff will take charge of you in a while, but not until I release you."

Tom did as told and woke up a few hours later significantly refreshed. He got up, found his clothes, and a nurse brought him some toast and eggs which he devoured.

He was wiping the grease from his chin when a man wearing civilian clothes came in and identified himself as Captain Art Baldwin of the Fort Meade Provost Marshal's office.

"When you're up to it, major, we'll take you to your apartment so you can check it out, tell us what's missing, and pick up your stuff. General Truscott is now on Marshall's staff and wants you residing here at Meade until we can figure out what happened. And no, we don't think it was just a robbery gone bad."

"Doctor Crain said that already. By the way, I had no idea Truscott was anywhere around," Grant said. He was pleased. Truscott was one of his favorite senior officers.

Major General Lucian Truscott was about fifty years old, a career soldier, and was considered one of those in whom Chief of Staff George C. Marshall had great confidence. The gravelly voiced Texan was noted for training his men beyond hard. A lot of people hated that, but most admitted they'd rather go to war prepared and trained by someone like Truscott. Well trained troops had a much better chance of surviving than those who weren’t. That he was now on General Marshall's staff was intriguing.

An hour later, they were at Tom's apartment. As suspected, the door was broken and Tom's possessions, such as they were, had been strewn about the floor. Furniture had been smashed and even the mattress had been ripped open. Pictures on the wall had been ripped apart. Someone was clearly looking for something and robbery was not a factor.

Baldwin shook his head. "Apparently they thought you were rich and spent a lot of time looking for valuables. Whoever it was didn't know what the army pays."

Grant smiled and thanked the gods for his foresight in not bringing his notes back from Canada with him. Of course, how could he have since he'd swum across damn near naked?

He found a duffel bag and filled it with his clothing, both civilian and military, along with underwear and important things like that. He wasn't coming back. Being assaulted and robbed was a good reason for telling his grouchy landlord to shove it. Baldwin got some paper bags and the two men filled them with more personal possessions, which made Tom realize that he really didn't have much in the way of an existence. He was thirty-five and been married to the army since being admitted to West Point at the age of eighteen. To the surprise of almost everyone, he'd found that he could handle the academics, graduating in the middle of his class, and the physical part of the training had come easily.

After graduation, he'd bounced around a number of boring peace-time garrisons. He'd contemplated resigning, but there was a Great Depression devouring the country, and the army at least provided him with a job. “Three hots and a cot” was the phrase and that worked for officers as well as enlisted men without clear futures in the civilian world. That was followed by the nation's decision to re-institute the draft as war clouds loomed. He'd been promoted to major shortly after Pearl Harbor was attacked. Once, he'd thought it more likely that pigs would fly than that he would achieve field grade rank, but it had happened. Of course, the expansion meant tons more majors, colonels and generals than you could shake a stick at, so he wasn't unique and promotions weren't necessarily based on merit.

His orders were to report to Truscott, so he did as soon as he was able to change into a reasonably un-mussed uniform. As usual, Truscott was blunt.

"Grant, what flaming jackass sent you into Canada on such a fool's errand?"

"Sir, it was General Marshall."

Truscott blinked in momentary confusion. "And a wise choice it was," he finally said with a disarming grin. "But tell me, why you?"

Truscott gestured him to take a seat and Grant relaxed. "There were several reasons, sir. First, watching over Canada is my job here. I review newspapers, radio programs, look at papers sent by diplomats, and anything else that will help us find out what the Nazis are up to. Since we were and still are having trouble getting good info, I decided to nominate myself to take the trip. I do speak a passable version of German, and, second, I have relatives in the Toronto area. That and the fact that I was present when the decision was made kind of tipped things in my favor."

"How did you get around, major?"

"Easily, sir. I got some Canadian money, crossed into Canada at Sarnia, Ontario, bought a used car and just started driving. Getting gas wasn’t a problem. Like here, there are shortages and the prices are high, but there is no rationing. I even used my own name and driver's license. I went from Sarnia to Windsor and east through a number of Canadian cities until I finally got to Toronto, which I made my base. I made a bunch of short trips and looked for a major German presence, which I found, along with evidence of SS or Gestapo activity, which I also found. I also found a strange group called the Canadian Legion. They are a bunch of pro-Nazi thugs who wear black shirts and act like they run the place.

"I tried to stay out of sight, but obviously didn't do a good enough job, which is why I had to swim the river. Those goons would have killed me. I actually saw some of them beat up a guy in broad daylight because he laughed at them and nobody came to the poor guy's help, not even the cops. It's bad, sir, and it's going to get worse."

Truscott leaned back in his swivel chair. "So you spent two months or so traveling around Canada looking for evidence of German military buildup or odd behavior because we really don't know what's happening with our neighbor to the north. God, it’s hell being blind."

Truscott was referring to the fact that the British once had excellent intelligence facilities centered at a place in England called Bletchley Park. When the collapse became imminent, the British, with the help of the U.S., shut down whatever was going on at Bletchley. Equipment and personnel quickly disappeared and resurfaced in a newly constructed camp a few miles south of Washington.

"I think I found a lot of interesting stuff, sir, and I made copious notes."

"Which, I assume, are at the bottom of Lake Ontario. Either that or the Nazis have them."

Now it was Grant's turn to smile, "Hardly, sir. When I realized the goons from the Canadian Legion were on to me, I went to the American consulate in Toronto with a package and gave instructions that the package was to be sent to General Marshall via diplomatic pouch. I don't think even the Nazis are ready to violate something as sacred as mail between diplomats."