A Piece of My Work

Just felt like sharing a piece of a story (one of many yarns I've spun!). This one is called Finding Agent Kesler, about three men who are dropped into France the night of the D-Day invasion (as part of the secret Operation Jedburgh). It's starts off as the mission of Glen Everett, Jordon Kesler and Laurent Depardieu, then it splits into a kind of crazy search for the missing agent, Jordon Kesler.

Em wasn't too happy with the way I ended it. ;P

Enjoy, and please feel free to give your comments, critique, pointers, etc...

Operation Jedburgh

The lieutenant paused in the doorway of the sunny Victorian parlor, watching the young radio operator and his assistant work. For a moment he was unsure if he should interrupt the process or not, but the weight of higher authority won over.

He stepped into the airy space of the elegant parlor that had been transformed by Special Operations Executive (SOE) for the more mundane use of the radio operators and decipherers.

“Everett,” the lieutenant barked. “Kenilworth wants you.”

Pushing back his headset, the operator exchanged a puzzled glance with his assistant and hesitantly stood up.

“Right now, sir?”

“Right now.”

Everett reluctantly left his post to follow Lieutenant Shanks. His assistant called out after them, “Be sure to return my partner, Shanks! I kinda need him!”

Two pairs of dusty combat boots clicked on the polished floor of the corridor. The sound echoed off the wood-paneled walls of the dignified English Manor.

What a strange twist of fate that had landed an eager young college graduate from a little Virginian town in a British manor as an espionage agent for the Allies.

Everett glanced out one of the tall, gleaming windows on his way down the well-worn staircase. He knew the sight well enough. Milton Hall’s stately park, immaculately manicured and crossed with well-kept gravel paths, bordered by a grove of lordly oaks and birches, now green and budding in the cool of early June

Everett knew that several manors throughout England had been requisitioned for secret training bases. There was a running joke that SOE stood for “Stately ‘Omes of England”, and Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam had generously offered up Milton Hall for SOE. No nobles perused the grounds, no parties enlivened the ornate ballroom, no stylish guests occupied the guest rooms, and no more gala suppers were held in the grand dining room. Instead, SOE agents trained on obstacle courses, practiced weapons and self-defense on the lawn and simulated air-drops in the woods. The once elegant domiciles of British blue-noses were now the digs of a motley crew of former civilians, escaped French, Czech, Belgian and Dutch free-fighters, bilinguals, mathematical geniuses and military misfits.

And all of it was top secret.

That was what was particularly puzzling to young Everett. How SOE had found him was beyond him. Certainly, in his young life, he had never dreamed that he would be obliquely recruited as a paramilitary spy. But to a young guy, it was kind of cool. Everett surveyed the splendid works of high ceilings, grand staircases and the wide variety of art and antiques surrounding him.

Providence had a funny way of doing things sometimes.

Lieutenant Shanks halted abruptly in front of a pair of wood-grained double doors and rapped sharply. “Lieutenant Shanks, sir!”

“Come in!” replied a heavily accented British voice. Shanks pushed open the doors and fairly shoved Everett in.

Behind the big, mahogany desk, hunched over an overwhelming mass of papers, looking much like any proverbial ogre, sat Gage Kenilworth. Kenilworth certainly wasn’t the top dog around Milton, but he was in charge of organizing the three-man parties that were to be air-dropped into France.

Another officer sat at an end of the desk unabashedly drinking a cup of tea. Everett didn’t know who he was.

“Thank you, Shanks. You may go now,” Kenilworth said without even looking up.

Shanks left, and with aggravating coolness and deliberation did Kenilworth finish his writing, screw his fountain pen and slide the papers into a drawer. Finally, he sat up, linked his thick arms across his chest and sized Everett up, as if noticing him for the first time. Everett stood stiffly at attention, silent and expressionless as he inwardly fought back being chafed at Kenilworth’s ability (like so many other military officers) to instill a hopeless sense of insignificance in their inferiors. It was just their job, and it wasn’t Everett’s to be criticizing him.

“So,” he began, narrowing his sharp blue eyes critically. “Everett, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gale Everett, right?”

“Glen Everett, sir. Sergeant Glen Everett.”

“And how long have you been with us, Everett?”

“A little over two months, sir.”

“Uh huh,” Kenilworth rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. He turned to the other officer. “Helm, you know Everett, right?”

“We’ve met,” Helm nodded.

“Are you ready for your first assignment, Everett?” Kenilworth asked bluntly.

“Well, sir…”

“Yes or no?”

Everett swallowed a smart answer and said simply, “Yes, sir.”

Helm studied Everett for a moment. “Are you positive?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Glen replied.

“Don’t be smart, kid,” Kenilworth drawled. “A month of commando training ought to make you sure. SOE wants people who aren’t afraid of death, capture or torture. We want people who know how to use a weapon and aren’t shy about ‘em…In cold blood, too.”

Glen stood erect. “Well, sir, I was in the army for about seven months. I’ve used a gun, but I’ve never used a knife on anyone in my life. But if I needed to use one, I think I could.”

“Only one way to find out,” Helm muttered.

Kenilworth glared at Helm, picking up a piece of paper. “This is from your commando trainer. He says you excelled in self-defense, demolition and shooting.”

“I was a crack-shot in the States, sir.”

Kenilworth snorted and went on. “’Glen Everett is a capable young man, level-headed under stress and an effective leader. Approved by the commando school for Operation Jedburgh as an executive officer or a radio operator.’” He trailed off, exchanging an unidentifiable look with Helm.

“You’re a combat engineer, right?” Helm asked.

“In a sense, sir,” Everett grinned weakly, holding up his right hand to show the iron ring on his smallest finger.

“Oh?”

“I got my degree in college, but so far the only real combat engineering job I’ve done is marking landing areas on Italian beaches in the army. The rest of it was mostly reconnaissance work.”

Helm smiled wryly, “I see… How’s your French?”

“Good enough to get me into SOE.”

“A recruit?”

“I volunteered.”

“Saw an add in the paper that said we were hiring, did you?” Helm laughed.

Glen returned the wry smile at Helm’s ridiculous joke.

When Helm finally quieted down, there was an awkward silence for a moment, and then Kenilworth stood up. “Well, that will be all, Everett. But I’d like to see you back here the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright then. You may go now.”