4:00 AM, Local Time
“UGhhhGGHA” The splattering noise of vomit was enough to tell the rest of the crew of the little submarine that Lodd had thrown up on the back of the soldier in front of him.
Everyone knew it was coming…Lodd’s glassy eyes, pale clammy face and groans of gastric upset all hailed the advent of claustrophobia induced sea-sickness. Unfortunately ‘mini’ was the most descriptive term of the small insertion submarine that was to land the team on to the shores of Kvalen Island. In the tight quarters, once a soldier sat down and strapped in movement was very restricted.
“YOU BASTARD!!!” Screamed Taffy from the front seat, as the Slav’s previous, half digested meal leaked under the Welshman’s thin tee-shirt back.
“I will bloody kill you!!” Sergeant Williams tried to turn around in his seat to deliver the hulking Lodd a death blow with his combat knife, but was unable to do so due to the cramped space.
He then unsuccessfully tried to avoid Lodd’s next load of wet guts.
“Don’t be so hard on him Taffy,” said Tanker First Class Mallory in his signature harsh Brooklyn accent “We was at the Captain’s Mess table on the Hermes last night clinkin’ glasses and suckin’ down the borsht for his masticating pleasure: he must ‘a got his self three sheets to an ill wind and the Barents Sea is now doin’ a tap dance on the big lugs gastronomy system.”
“M’ sorry, Taf—-UGhhhGGHA” says Lodd.
Neither Lodd nor Taffy felt any better about the situation even after the team swam the short distance to Kvalen Islands shore through the ice encrusted surf.
In the dim light of the moon the commandos stripped out of their swimming gear, dressed in Nazi uniforms, and equipped themselves with Wehrmacht weaponry.
Suddenly the hair on the back of Grumpy Bob’s neck rose and he had his rifle out and aimed at a spot in the darkness. He waited, the barrel of his Gewehr ’43 steady as a rock.
Eventually a German Kriegsmarine Officer stepped out from behind a tree, his hands in the air.
“I am Anders Trygstad, I am your contact here.” His English had a thick Norwegian accent.
Looking at Bob he said, “Don’t shoot.”
Pyotr said, " You are our O.S.S. Liaison?"
Trygstad replied in flawless German, “Yes. I look forward to working with your team. Your reputation precedes you. Tell me Herr Count, how was it to work with the ace fighter pilot Franco Bordoni-Bisleri?”
“Oh…well I heard you worked with one of my good acquaintances, Father Andrezej Cerny on the Karlstien Castle mission, how is he doing?”
“He’s dead, too”
“Dear me…should I even ask about a lady friend of mine, Lorelei Holdst…”
“Oh yeah…tall blonde girl. World class fencer before the war broke out. Yes I know her.”
“Good.” says Trygstad with a sigh “How is she doing?”
“She’s dead. Now lets get a move on.”
4:30 PM, Local Time
“Enemy patrols: eliminated.”
“Submarine Base: disabled.”
“S.S. Paranormal activities: investigated, and stopped.”
“Radar Station: destroyed.”
“Good work, chaps.” Said Taffy, as he finished checking off the mission goals with grease pencil on the plastic sheet he was using to take notes for the eventual debriefing at HQ when they returned to England.
Standing close to the shore, suited up once again in his swim gear, Terry quipped, “Now alls thats left is for us to convince Lodd to get back into the mini sub…”
Putting away the note sheet, Taffy smiled, “I don’t care if he gets on or stays here, but I call the back seat.”
“Sorry.” muttered Lodd, then he added, “Is too bad about Anders. He was good man.”
“He’s dead. Now let’s get a move on.” said Pyotr, as the small group began wading into the surf…