Mary Dear - Redux

  CAFFEINE NIGHTS PUBLISHING

  The Mary Dear

  Alfredo de Gallegos

  Fiction aimed at the heart

  and the head…

  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2012

  Copyright © Alfredo de Gallegos 2012

  Alfredo de Gallegos has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work

  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing

  www.cnpublishing.co.uk

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-907565-32-8

  Cover design by

  Mark (Wills) Williams

  Everything else by

  Default, Luck and Accident

  To:

  Vicky, Viviana, Carlos and Lorenzo

  and in memory of my dear brother, Jorge

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Darren at Caffeine Nights and to

  Neil Fein for his help with editing this book and

  Mike Cappuccitti for all the technical help with aspects of flying a plane.

  The Mary Dear

  Prologue

  Guayaquil, Peru,

  22nd December 1951

  LANSA’s morning flight to Lima taxied to the end of the runway and turned into the wind, under low dark clouds that blocked out the early morning sun. From the left seat of the Douglas C-47, his right hand resting on the throttle, Captain Morales surveyed the airstrip ahead. It was raining hard and thick drops washed down the plane’s windscreen like a curtain of water making the wipers struggle to clear the view. The runway ahead glistened, reflecting the lights on either side. He was clear for take-off, and he turned to his co-pilot, indicating he was ready to go.

  Noise and vibration in the cockpit increased as he pushed on the throttles and revved the twin piston engines. He released the brakes, and as the airplane sped along the runway, Morales eased the stick forward to raise the tail wheel; outside, the runway shot past in a blur. Soon the aircraft reached flying speed, the tyres left the ground and the aircraft was climbing. Morales applied the brakes and raised the landing gear which finally settled in the wheel well with a clunk. The terminal building looked like a toy as the C-47 banked away, leaving Guayaquil behind.

  Twenty minutes into the flight, Captain Morales handed over command to his first officer, to begin his usual walkabout to the passenger cabin. His co-pilot barely nodded; he was used to his Captain’s habits and smoothly took control of the plane. Morales disappeared through the small door and came face to face with Luisa, the pretty twenty year old solitary cabin crew member, who greeted her Captain with coffee from the galley which he gratefully accepted, and the flirty smile she reserved for him. A brief glimpse at his passengers confirmed the information on his flight manifest—some local farmers, three missionary nurses from Ecuador on their way to Lima, and a foreigner, Edward Hannah, an Englishman sitting towards the front who had smiled at him when he’d entered the cabin. Captain Morales sipped the hot coffee and leaned across an empty seat to glance out of the window. The sky had turned dark. Now and then, distant lightning flashes made the black clouds glow an angry red for an instant. Heavy turbulence shook the aircraft and made him spill what was left of his coffee; they had hit a large air pocket and lost a lot of height. Passengers exchanged nervous glances; Morales told Luisa to make sure everyone was strapped-in and went back to the flight deck.

  That was the last time he saw her or his passengers. The plane crashed and was swallowed by the thick jungle canopy surrounding Chachapoyas, land of the Cloud People and an area dotted with villages and burial sites, bounded by rivers and tributaries that wound down steep mountain ranges on their way to feed the formidable Amazon River.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  The Gold Train

  On December 15th 1944, a few minutes after midnight, the Deutsche Reichsbahn locomotive pulled slowly out of Budapest’s main station, sending clouds of steam billowing high into the cold night air. The wheels slipped and spun on the frozen rails, and then soon the train began to speed up; the compartments rattled when they crossed the points.

  A few minutes earlier the dimly lit platform had been a hive of activity crowded with passengers jostling each other. Eager to board the train. The passengers’ final destination was the Berchtesgadener Hof Hotel where, in times past, Eva Braun, Erwin Rommel and even Neville Chamberlain, had been guests.

  On top of the train, one man to a carriage, the soldiers guarding it settled down for the long journey. Sitting cross-legged, a short plump soldier guarded the last carriage. He’d never wanted to be in the army. He was no hero and hated the war and his superiors in equal measure. He knew the Russian army was close on their heels, a hundred miles or so from the city, the sound of distant guns a constant reminder. He was the proverbial small cog in the much larger wheel, his fate sealed by the Führer himself whose order to Karl Adolf Eichmann had set Operation Margarethe, the codename for the invasion of Hungary, in motion. He cursed his luck, Hitler and all his fucking Generals. Freezing cold and scared to death he hoped he’d make it through to their destination in one piece.

  Budapest was a mess and he was not sorry to be leaving it behind. The Jews were up in arms; it was all the talk in the cafés and shops since the government had forced them to deposit their gold, gems, ornaments and any other valuables with the authorities. At first he’d not believed it, but soon it became clear as he saw the long queues of men women and children handing over their precious possessions at various collection points in the city: The very treasures he had helped to load onto some of the train carriages were now being taken away from Hungary along with the passengers fleeing the advancing Russian armies.

  It was a clear night, and a full moon cast its eerie white glow across the steel tracks snaking their way out of Budapest. The little man pulled the collar of his winter coat up as far up as it would go, and tried not to think.

  In the cold, crowded compartments, passengers huddled together to keep warm. Those sitting by a window would gaze at the city’s buildings as they receded and disappeared from view; the barely visible faint light from the odd window here and there was the only outward sign of life in a nation gripped by fear. They steamed on through the outlying areas of the city; its austere grey apartment blocks were lined by street lamps, their hazy yellow light catching the odd solitary pedestrian hurrying home. As Budapest slipped away it gave way to the smaller towns of the suburbs.

  At the Austrian frontier, the weather worsened, the wind audible inside the compartments, making the passengers feel even colder. Snow flurries caught in the light from the locomotive, made the driver strain to see the way ahead, forcing him to drive slowly for fear of missing a signal and colliding with another train. The Hungarian guards sat crouched forward on the roofs, shielding their faces from the wind and
snow, their German MG 34 machine guns cradled in their arms; despite their warm uniforms they were cold and demoralized.

  They had been travelling for ages, making slow progress, and the train had no scheduled stops until they reached their final destination. The guards had already fought off ten futile and badly planned attempts to rob the train, nine of them by breakaway members of the tired but still alert SS troops. .

  They were about two kilometres from Boeckstein with the snow still falling hard when the train engineer saw a large dark shape across the tracks in front of him and braked hard; the wheels slipped and squealed for what seemed an eternity before the train began to slow down and stop. The shape he’d seen was a German Army Panzerwerfer, its tracks straddling the railway lines, its rocket launcher pointing to the side, ominously straight at his locomotive.

  Inside the carriages the passengers, unaware of any impending danger and unprepared for the emergency stop, flew into each other. There were cries of pain from the women as they tumbled to the floor, accompanied by loud cursing and shouting from the men, mingled with the cries of children screaming for their mother. No sooner were they able to stand than some of the passengers pressed their faces to the windows, anxious to see through the snowstorm what could have brought the train screeching to a halt.

  The engineer stared at the empty troop carrier standing not ten feet from his locomotive’s arc lamps, the Eiserne Kreuz Black Cross on the side of the truck faintly visible to him. He wondered why the hell the German Army had stopped a train that had the highest level clearance. Despite this knowledge, the engineer felt decidedly nervous; could these be more rogue elements of the SS?

  Sitting on top of the carriages, the Hungarian guards had a good view of the troop carrier and of a staff car, with the distinctive Waffen-SS insignia on its door. Anticipating trouble, some of them started to stand ready to come down from the roof. The soldiers on the ground turned their machine guns towards them. With a wave of his hand, their Captain indicated to the guards on the roof to remain stationary. The soldiers accompanying the staff car were an elite unit of the Wehrmacht Heer, not like the ragged deserters they’d encountered previously; so the guards decided to do as they were told but remained ready for action. The silence was unsettling, broken only by the wind whistling through the branches of nearby trees. The troops on the ground had fanned out into a wide semi-circle while their commanding officer turned and spoke to the train driver. He was tall and stood casually, hands on hips, his goggles hanging loosely around his neck, oblivious to the furious snowstorm that showed no signs of abating. From the last carriage the soldier guarding it couldn’t hear what was being said but the sight of the soldiers and those uniforms sent shivers down his spine, he could feel his heart pumping faster and his finger edged towards the trigger of his machine gun.

  Inside the staff car and barely visible, a German officer in a white uniform sat back and waited.

  After twenty minutes or so, the Captain who’d been speaking to the engineer said he could leave, turned around and ordered his men back into their truck and joined the driver. They sped off, followed by the staff-car and its occupant. Though they had only been stopped for a few minutes, to the passengers it seemed an eternity. The train’s unscheduled stop was put down to one more spot-check and everyone was relieved when the train started to move again.

  ‘Hey Lieutenant! Over here!’ Kowalski’s shout made First Lieutenant Tony Santini turn around.

  ‘What’s up Kowalski?’

  The gangly Sergeant Kowalski, with the U.S. 3rd Infantry Division, was returning from reconnaisance, leading a Company Platoon; and he was smiling ear-to-ear.

  ‘Well, you gonna tell me or what?’ but before the Sergeant could answer the rest of his men came into view, their M1 carbines pointed at a line of soldiers who walked with their hands on their heads. Santini broke into a run in the direction of Kowalski.

  ‘Now what the hell have you brought me?’ A huge grin spread across his face.

  ‘Well Lieutenant, this is just for starters, you’ll not believe what we’ve got for you.’ He told Santini how they’d found a whole train hidden in the Tauern Tunnel just south of Werfen and, what was more, they’d taken it without firing a single shot.

  Santini stood there with a goofy grin on his face watching the line of prisoners being marched to a holding compound.

  ‘I left a squad guarding the rest of the train’s passengers but that ain’t all Lieutenant! Wait till you see what we found in the train’

  Santini listened to the Sergeant’s account shaking his head in amazement

  ‘Kowalski, you son of a gun, keep this up and you might just make Lieutenant someday’ he said grinning.

  Kowalski gave him an account of what had happened, and left saying he needed to talk to one of the prisoners..

  Santini was watching Kowalski talking to the prisoner— who ‘had some explaining to do’, according to the sergeant—when someone spoke to him from behind.

  ‘What’s going on here Lieutenant?’ The gruff voice belonged to Major Frank S. Bright who was standing behind him and looking at the men Sergeant Kowalski had just brought in.

  Santini saluted ‘Yes sir Major. Kowalski’s just got back from a recce with his platoon; seems he’s captured a whole train sir.’

  ‘Who’s that he’s talking to?’ He was pointing to the Sergeant who appeared to be interrogating a nervous looking soldier.

  ‘That little squirt was guarding the last carriage. There’s a bit of a discrepancy and Kowalski’s trying to get some answers.’

  ‘That right?’ he said, ‘I’m gonna go talk to him, mean time you’d better let the old man know,’ he said while walking away.

  ‘Yes sir, Major. He’s just gonna love this.’

  As Santini had predicted General Daniel Waynright, the commanding officer of the 42nd Infantry Division, the ‘Rainbow Division’, was mighty pleased. They were sure going to love this at HQ.

  Two days later Santini knocked on the General’s door with some more news.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty million, sir. Give or take a cent.’

  ‘Fifty million!’ He repeated ‘Well god-damn-it Santini, that’s a shit load of money!’ He was looking up at his Lieutenant, his face creased in a grin. He’d been sitting at his desk, a large cigar he’d yet to light stuck in his mouth, going through what he called ‘the usual load of Division crap’. The news had brightened up his day no end. When Santini left, the General was smiling and had lit his cigar.

  Two officers walked side by side, their steps echoing off the stone floor as they made their way along a narrow corridor deep in the bowels of Schloss Hohenwerfen. The fortress built in 1076 perched high on a rock 345 feet above the Salzach was an awesome structure that now housed the Headquarters of the American army holding the city of Werfen.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘We’re holding him in an interview room; it’s just around the next corner.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’ He spoke with a public school accent. ‘Nothing, except that he’ll only speak to a British officer, and by the way, this guy’s a German.’

  ‘Is that so? I thought you said the guards were all Hungarian.’

  ‘Well yes I did, I mean he’s wearing a Hungarian army uniform so naturally, when I went to interview him, I took an interpreter with me, but it turned out that he’s German.’

  ‘That’s very curious; I must say I can’t wait to meet him.’

  The young American lieutenant wished him more luck than he’d had and stopped outside an imposing door flanked by a large MP standing guard.

  ‘Well, if he wants a British Officer I guess I fit the bill.’

  The American smiled and saluted smartly. The British officer returned the salute.

  ‘Don’t worry Jim; I’ll keep you posted, whatever I find out.’

  Captain Joseph Keating VC gestured to the MP to open the door. The soldier knocked once and identified himself to his opposite number
on the inside who promptly obliged. The MP standing guard over the prisoner was larger, if anything, than the one outside. As soon as he entered the room, he closed the door and stood at ease guarding the exit.

  The first thing that struck Keating on entering was the smell, that and the cold. The smell was an unpleasant mixture of damp and male sweat. Keating took in the small, windowless, fifteen by twelve foot space; a single naked light bulb in the middle of a high-vaulted ceiling shone dimly, casting its faint light directly over a small table, empty but for a pitcher of water and a glass. Around the table were four straight-backed wooden chairs. A soldier in a Hungarian army uniform sat bolt upright in one of the chairs and glanced nervously towards the door when it opened to admit the new visitor. The next thing that struck Keating was that the prisoner was looking at the MP and not at him and from the look on the German’s face, Keating could see, that he was scared.

  ‘That will be all Sergeant.’ The MP looked startled.

  ‘Sorry Sir, but my orders are to guard the prisoner.’

  ‘And I’m giving you new orders; you can stand guard outside. Don’t worry Sergeant, I’ll call if I need you but I think I can handle the prisoner,’ he said with a smile.

  The MP was surprised but the British Captain outranked him, so he saluted and stepped out smartly shutting the door behind him and stationing himself next to his friend. The MP on the outside, surprised to be joined by his friend, looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face.