Vance leaned down to retrieve the cap from the floor and faltered; Jackson reached for it, but Vance grasped her arm. “I’d advise against touching that, my dear,” he said. He saw her eyes go wide in response to his menacing look. Jackson quickly regained her composure and stood up, stony faced. After taking a few deep breaths, Vance bent down to pick up the cap himself and casually tossed it onto the table near his seat. Jackson knew it was an act and pulled his chair out so he could sit down.
“Tell me, Lieutenant, what you discovered about our friends Kelly and Sewell and how they acquired this cap.” Vance’s lithe fingers crept along the table and began absently fingering the dusty fabric, hoping simple contact might endow him with some of the cap’s supernatural insights.
Lieutenant Jackson drew up a chair, crossed her legs, and flipped open her notebook. “I tracked down Sewell encamped near Southampton as you thought,” she began. “Sewell traded the hat to Kelly for an amazing amount of booze and cigarettes for his unit. It’s a long and twisted trail of trades, but I tracked the cap’s original owner to Rommel’s Afrika Korps at Gazala. During a counterattack, General Montgomery’s forces overran Rommel’s communications detachment, 3rd Company, 56th Signals Battalion, what the Germans call a Fernemeldeaufklärung Kompanie or Horchkompanie.”
“A long-range radio intercept unit,” Vance interjected. “Probably handled all of Rommel’s headquarters-level code and cipher work, with broadcasts heading into the field and back to Berlin. It probably also carried out interception work targeted against Montgomery ’s wireless traffic.”
“Exactly, sir. I pored over the operational reports, both for the army and intelligence, and determined this Horchkompanie helped Rommel stay one step ahead of Montgomery ’s forces… at least until Gazala, when things started falling apart.”
“Yes, because he was woefully disorganized at el Alamein and certainly while retreating afterwards.” Vance’s other hand began smoothing out his pencil-thin mustache as his brows furrowed in thought. “Lose your ability to intercept and decrypt enemy wireless messages and you lose your advantage.”
“Sewell’s buddies destroyed the unit and took souvenirs. He claimed the cap came from the Horchkompanie commander, Captain Alfred Seebohm. Apparently he was a genius regarding anything to do with codes, ciphers, and radio work.”
“That would explain this,” Vance said, patting the cap and withdrawing his hand. “Seebohm was undoubtedly wearing it when they killed him. The trauma of death might have imbued it with his expertise and, well, quite a bit more about the workings of the German cryptographic system. On par with Station X at Bletchley Park, only through a different medium.” Vance flashed a playful smile.
The two remained silent for a moment, respectfully contemplating the cap. “Where do we go from here?” Jackson asked.
Vance’s lips curled in a sinister smile. “We put Seebohm’s expertise to our own use. Sergeant!” he called. The fellow posted just outside peered around the door. “Would you kindly fetch me an operational map of northern France and a handful of pencils?”
“What should I tell Colonel Donovan?”
“Assure him that Operation Overlord can go ahead on whatever schedule Eisenhower chooses,” Vance stated confidently. “The impressions from this cap confirm that Hitler’s fully expecting an assault at Calais and give us a good view of those forces waiting for us in Normandy.”
The sergeant returned with a large, rolled-up map under his arm and a handful of pencils. “Thank you, Sergeant,” Vance said with a disarming smile. While the sergeant returned to his post outside the door, Vance unrolled the map and began marking German unit placements with a pencil.
“They won’t believe it,” Jackson said. “It’s absurd. A German wireless operator’s cap imbued with all his knowledge, all the workings of the codes and ciphers, even intercepting radio waves.”
“It’s as reliable as any intelligence Colonel Donovan is ever going to get out of our bureau,” Vance countered. “Ike may not believe it-heck, if Donovan’s his usual cagey self, he’ll obscure the source of this seemingly dubious intelligence-but the Colonel himself wouldn’t have authorized our bureau if he thought our investigations didn’t have merit.”
“Say what you want about the cap, there’s no way you can know all that,” Jackson said, pointing to the map on which Vance continued jotting notes.
“True,” Vance conceded. “Though operatives in France might confirm it, probably too late or after the fact. I doubt anyone would believe the veracity of the unit deployment I’ll sketch for reference. I guess in retrospect it will seem uncanny, if not downright suspicious.”
The cap sat next to Vance and the map, no longer an object of horror or curiosity, but another weapon to use in defeating Hitler’s Nazis.
“Trust me, Lieutenant, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of such strange occurrences during this war.”
CAKE AND CANDY by Kelly Swails
Ask most people what death smells like and they’ll say earth mixed with decaying leaves, or formaldehyde and old makeup, or maybe unwashed skin overlaid with disinfectant. For me, death will always smell like licorice and wedding cake.
I’m standing beside a casket in a funeral parlor, alone in a room full of people. Staring at the body, I wonder what it is like to be dead. He knows the answer to the question in the back of everyone’s mind. My existential angst and morbid curiosity mix to a form of jealousy, and I wonder what is wrong with me.
Almost everyone is dressed in black, their murmurs audible over the soothing music coming from the walls. One brave soul, a formidable-looking woman wearing a steel-gray dress, approaches the casket and slips a gift to the deceased. The ice broken, the other mourners form a line behind her.
I know what’s coming. I correct my posture and will myself not to cry.
“Gladys, I’m so sorry. Tad was too young.”
My mother-in-law accepts the woman’s embrace and says, “Thank you for coming, Judy.” Tad’s mother is the picture of refined sorrow. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, her eyes have the merest hint of red, and she dabs her nose with a pressed hankie. I hate her perfection as much as Tad does. Did.
“And who is this, Gladys?” Judy turns her gaze to me, and I shrink. She is wearing expensive cologne, probably something French, and for some odd reason I wonder if this is what hell smells like.
“Tad’s wife.”
I force a smile. I will be polite if it kills me. “Nice to meet you. I’m Anne.”
Judy does not blink, nor does she take her eyes from mine. “I didn’t know Tad was married.”
“About six months ago. Eloped.” Gladys says. My jaw clenches.
At that, Judy’s eyes slide to my stomach before moving over the rest of me. I can see her taking inventory and placing tick marks on a list in her mind. Flat tummy: check. Pantsuit: check. Blotchy face: check. I watch as she places me under the “Unacceptable” column.
“I see why you didn’t tell anyone, Gladys,” Judy says, her gaze returning to mine. Her gray eyes tell me it’s my fault that Tad is dead before she moves down the line to offer condolences to Tad’s brother.
I cannot hate her, because I agree.
I am curled up in bed. I have tacked blankets over the windows, unplugged the alarm clock, and turned off the phone. I do not know if the world exists outside, and I do not care.
A knock sounds on the door. “Anne, are you in there? Are you okay?”
I grimace. My grandmother. “Yes, I’m in here, and what do you think?” I call. Keys jangle in the lock and I groan. Tad never fixed the chain on the door, and so there is no way to keep her out. I curse him in my mind and instantly feel ashamed.