Not A Blog™

[…continued from Monday]

Brick led Anson deeper into the bunker. The bombing had stopped—at least for the moment. It seemed to start without warning. As an officer overseeing an intelligence shop, this annoyed Brick. He thought they should have more advanced notice.

A string of lightbulbs enclosed by cages ran down the hall, leading to a heavy steel vault. Red letters had been stenciled onto the door which read, “authorized personnel only.” The paint was still wet.

The door was closed but not locked. Brick grabbed a handle and swung it open. A sentry inside moved to block their way, but hesitated when he saw the Colonel.

“He’s with me,” said Brick as he slipped through. The sentry eyed Anson with suspicion, but let him pass.

The room was not large, but the dim points of light and racks of electronic gear made it claustrophobic. A teletype machine chattered in one corner; radios whistled, sometimes snatching a few words from the ether.

Brick removed a sheet of paper from a filing cabinet which had a combination lock on the face of each drawer. He passed it to Anson and said, “sign this.”

“What is it?”

“The end of your life.”

The next few minutes spun the young man, as was whisked from person to person and made to perform a variety of tasks. He sat on a stool and a flashbulb went off, blinding him. He was fingerprinted three times on three different cards. He signed his name to a series of papers. The last one in the stack was an officer’s oath of allegiance.

When Anson put down the pen, Colonel Brick said, “You’re no longer Private Harold Anson. You’re Captain Morgan Hansfelter. You’re a recently promoted junior officer with the 151st infantry. Follow me.”

Brick took him to another room, populated with artifacts: worn photos of a girl he had never seen. Notes he hadn’t written. A package of cigarettes with three cigarettes missing, which he hadn’t smoked. A uniform lay across the table, adorned with the double silver bars of a captain. The uniform was heavily worn but neat.

“Put the uniform on,” commanded Brick. “Everything in this room is yours. Put it on your person.” He turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

Anson did as he was told. The uniform fit him well enough—as well as could be expected of anything government issue. The notes to or from officers he put in the uniform’s shirt pocket. The note to the girl—half finished, he noticed—along with the picture, he put in the leather wallet, which went into his back pants pocket, left side. He put the swiss watch around his right wrist. When he finished, he went back to the main room and presented himself to Colonel Brick.

The Colonel glanced him over and muttered, “fine, fine. That’ll do,” and turned back to a map on the desk. Anson brushed the front of his pants, smoothing out wrinkles which were not present. Brick looked back at him and squinted, then said, “Captain Hansfelter is right handed. Switch your watch.” With some difficulty, Anson managed to rethread the band with his weak hand.

For the next few minutes, Anson was in limbo. He stood off to one side, ignored by the enlisted and officers alike. The Colonel conferred in hushed tones with two others. All three looked up when one of the radios came alive. The voices coming over the airwaves were speaking German. Another man spoke up over the clatter. “Better move soon, Colonel. There’s a lot of back and forth going on. Sounds like they’re up to something.”

Brick called over his shoulder, “Captain, let’s go.” It took a second for Anson to realize he was talking to him.

They entered a third room, this one clinical. A stainless steel examination table stood in the center. Seeing nowhere else to sit, Anson hoisted himself onto it.

The Colonel couldn’t meet Anson’s eyes. He stared at a medical cabinet and said, “It’s time.”

[To be concluded on Friday…]

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