Rat-Lines pt 16 "Paris Calling"
Category: Writing and Poetry

 Part two!

                              Twelve....

                        Fri   17^th may 1945....

The rain had been incessant for the last few days. It felt like a black cloud had gathered over London intent on spoiling the party atmosphere that had been in place the news of Germany's surrender. John Harper hated the rain it wasn't the damp or the noise that he objected to but the lack of light. It was the dull overcast days that got to him, the constant darkness. Even in his office the dreariness of the day seemed to creep in and alter his mood. He should have been overjoyed the war in Europe was over. Germany had surrendered ten days ago and the Allies had won, but He could not find the happiness his longed. The weather was one thing but mainly he felt a sense of shame. There he was in his office tea in hand and cigarette quietly smouldering away in the ashtray in front of him while the war had been fought and won by others, like his son away from all his surrounding comfort, and what had he achieved? Nothing, The work was so slow it was hard enough for him to keep his eyes open let alone focused on the little work there was. All he could think about was his son.....

A loud knock on the glass panel of John Harpers office door woke him from his unexpected slumber. His hands shot to his face as began to rub the remnants of sleep from his eyes in a futile attempt to hide the fact that fatigue had got the better of him.  ....

"Sleeping on the job again Harp?" Alan quipped as he bounded into the office without being invited.....

"Slow day. I haven't had a worthwhile case for several weeks. Bloody typical it took me over three hours to get in only to be greeted by the sight of an empty desk. I'm getting the feeling that our works being wound up." Harper responded through a subtle yawn.....

The whole week had been the same, long journeys with little to no work at the end of it. Harper had considered not coming in but he didn't like the idea of letting anyone down should any cases come though.....

"Well that's were you wrong my friend I believe what we are going through now is nothing more than the calm before the storm."....

"What do you mean?"....

"The U.S forces in France are now overloaded with P.O.W's and have transferred the entire lot to us."....

"All of them?"....

"Yes, all of them. Looks like they are gearing up for the Asia and need all the resources they can muster."....

"So where does that leave us?"....

"Real busy!"....

Harper let out a deep sigh and reached for the last cigarette in his pack.....

"So when does all the work start? I've had nothing for days."....

"Well John that's what I wanted to talk to you about." An all to rare serious expression lined Alan's face as he spoke. Harper studied his colleague in detail aware that something was coming, something he wasn't going to like. Alan always was easy to read and always used he first name when he was about to break bad news.....

 "Go on then, what's the problem?"....

"Well it's no so much a problem, more of a inconvenience."....

"Come on Alan, out with it."....

"Well the M.O.D have decided that to do our job more efficiently we need to relocate."....

"Relocate? Where to?"....

"France, well to be more precise Camp PR19 just northeast of Paris."....

"Why?"....

"The M.O.D want a legal team there to help advise them. The camps are near full to bursting. They want to start processing the prisoners quickly and from what I can gather De Gaulle wants the camps closed and closed quickly. So if we don't do something a whole lot of criminals are going to be released."....

"So when do we leave."....

"We? No John it's just you I'm afraid. The rest of the office are staying put, the work here still needs to be done."....

"So it's just me?"....

"Well so to speak, all the London firms are sending people one to ever camp. I would have gone myself but you know, the wife would never of allowed it."....

"So when do I go?" Harper asked whilst stubbing of out the cigarette. Trying to not show his anger and being volunteered for the mission with a chance to say no.....

"Tonight."....

"Tonight!" He repeated in a daze.....

"Afraid so old chap, that's not a problem I hope? You have a ticket booked on the 9:45 Euston to Dover where you'll be met. Anyway that's all for now good luck Harp and see you when you get back."....

Harper looked dazed and before he had a chance to respond Alan had made his exit leaving him alone sitting at his desk wondering what had just happened.....

07:28 - 3 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Rat-Lines 15 "Blood & Blackmail"
Category: Writing and Poetry

Hello there fellow bloggers, well heres the end of pt 1 one of the story and alas its going to be the last one for a quite a while as I prepare for my wedding! (and re-write the next 20,000 words) I hope you all stick around and I will still be here and readin your blogs. I hope your are enjoying the story! Have a great day and as this is the last post for a while go on a leave a comment!

Albert Kramer was an expert in patience, eighteen months in the stinking camps of Poland taught him that. All he had to do was wait for the right moment and Otto and his lapdog would regret the day the tried to blackmail him! Kramer had nothing left to give and if he had he'd rather suffer the consequences of Allied justice than face the shame of letting Otto get away with fooling him a second time

          Getting the knife had been easy, a shift at washing up duty in the mess tent saw to that, all he had to do now was wait for nightfall. He laid in relative comfort stretched out on his bunk eyes locked on the last rays of decending sun through the grubby window. It was almost gone now only a faint yellow glimmer was visible as it slowly dipped under the horizon plunging the camp into another moonless night. It was a beautiful view only spoilt by barbed wire and the occasional silhouette of the English in their watchtowers.

        All around lay the stinking bodies of sleeping German soldiers whose snoring and coughing shattered Kramer's temporary moment of peace. A voice from the bunk above tried to engage Kramer in conversation but he didn't reply. He shut his eyes and blocked out the monotonous, nasal whine coming from above. He had heard stories of how the British had employed German-speaking plants in the camps to glean as much information from prisoners as possible. He was not about to slip up now. He never was one for friends, only acquaintances. He last thing he needed now was to make the meet the wrong person especially as the camp authorities had started the long process of ranking the inmates in accordance to their loyalty to Nazism. Spy's were everywhere and the only person Kramer could trust was himself. He knew the camp was soon to close and had to play the fool or the Allies might discover his true identity.
          The camp guards had begun to sort through the inmates and a colour patch on their uniforms was used to grade them for future purposes. A white patch meant the prisoner in question had no particular loyalty and was indifferent to National Socialism. A grey patch showed that the prisoner, although not an ardent Nazi, still had a deep sense of loyalty towards Hitler. The real hard-core Nazis wore a black patch and this usually meant most Waffen SS members as well as Fallschirmjäger and U-boat crews, not because they were hardened Nazis, but simply because they were SS and the British believed that these were the men who deserved to be punished the most.

Those with grey and black badges would be sent to various rehabilitation camps dotting around both France and the U.K. As for the most fervent Nazis, they would most likely be sent to camps in the wilds of Scotland where they would be put to agricultural work on farms. Kramer had seen many prisoners sporting such patches and new the importance of a white patch, a patch of freedom. This last thing he needed was a man like Otto getting in his way.

The lights had been out in the camp for a few hours before Kramer made his move. His eyes were darting from bunk to bunk scanning the beds for signs of moment until he was sure that everyone was asleep. The last thing he needed now was another blackmail attempt. It was time to act so he slipped silently out of his bunk and made for the exit, knife secured firmly in the waistband of his uniform.

The camp was in total darkness the lights had been out for days as a rogue German bomb had cut off the power supply. Kramer swiftly moved toward his goal, assisted intermittently by minute shards of moonlight that sporadically penetrated the thick, black clouds overhead. This was his sole source of illumination as he made his way to Otto's barracks. The few British guards on duty were all huddled together in the northern watchtower, drinking black market brandy and playing poker, oblivious to Kramer as he expertly crept towards Otto's barracks.

The door to the hut opened with a gentle push and Kramer carefully slipped into the dark, sweaty barracks heading straight for Otto's bunk, knife gripped white knuckle tight in his right hand. He kept narrow blue eyes peeled for Posner knowing that there was every possibility that they were waiting for him. Sweat beads formed on Kramer's pale forehead as the bunk came into view. He ducked down low to the ground as eyes flicking back and forth in search of the big Bavarian, ever mindful for the need of stealth. He noticed the bunk above Otto's was empty. Kramer froze, he needed to locate the lumbering Posner before he dealt with Otto--he needed to know that there was not going to be any interruptions.

All the bunks came up blank the latrine was the only place left to check. So he slowly backed away Otto who was lost in sleep with a wry, childlike expression on his face and headed to the back of the barracks, where a basic latrine was housed for late night calls of nature.
          He pushed open the flimsy door and saw his target sitting on the toilet, trousers round his ankles, half dosing. Lightning fast Kramer pounced and stuck the knife hard into his firm belly, ripping it open. The large German stood up fear, shock and anger darted in succession across his face as he clumsily grabbed for Kramer and stumbled, toppling over his own legs, now hopelessly tangled in his trousers. Kramer adroitly slid past the larger man's reach and plunged the knife into his side again and again. Posner, pale and in shock from the tremendous loss of blood, lay helpless on the now crimson floor.

One down, Kramer thought as he stepped back from Fredrik's mutilated body. The blood gathered together on the uneven wooden floor to create a pool; a dark, widening, bloody mess.

The attack had left Kramer breathless, soaked in blood and with a taste for more. Adrenaline racing, he stripped down to his underwear and dropped his soiled clothes next to Fredrik's fat, lifeless corpse. He then backed calmly out of the latrine and headed back to Otto's bunk, half naked, still clutching the bloody knife.

"Wake up Otto." He whispered in the sleeping man's ear, whilst gently shaking him.

"Eh?"  Otto half yawned.

"I think…we need to talk." Kramer explained as he pulled out the knife and held it tightly to Otto's neck.

"What, what do you need?" Otto spluttered, sitting still, barely breathing.

"A name, a contact, like we agreed before you stole my money and sent me a fool."

"Don Pietro Pellegrini, he's your man, a sympathizer with good contacts, he's the man at the heart of ODESSA." Otto blathered, trying to nod his head for emphasis.

"Where?" Kramer said twisting the small blade just enough to draw blood.

"Basilica St Mary in Trastevere! I'm sorry Albert, you know I had no choice, that's the way it is now." Otto snivelled as spit ran down his rat like face.

"Thanks Otto, thanks for everything." Kramer whispered in his ear as he bent over and expertly sliced his throat open leaving him to silently drown in his own blood.

"Thanks…for everything." Kramer repeated as took a spare uniform that had been neatly left at the end of an empty bunk and quietly left the hut.

                                                 End of Part One

05:57 - 7 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

Rat-Lines 14 "Camped"
Category: Writing and Poetry

Sorry it took so long, anyway I hope you like it. Comment and Kudos welcome!!

The noise in the camp was unbearable for Albert Kramer as the other detainees refused to show dignity in defeat. It was the constant signing the riled him the most, it never seemed to end no matter what time of day songs of defiance were always audible.

          The tension in the camp was palpable and random acts of violence commonplace, at times it felt like a bad tempered football crowd. While the guards who watched over the camp let the inmates govern themselves, whatever the cost and only tended to enter through the reinforced wooden gates when the violence became too apparent. The reality was the camp belonged to the prisoners.

          Camp PR19 had been formed the previous summer originally to detain those Nazi's who had not made it out of Paris before its collapse. It's location on the outskirts of Paris made it convenient for the Allies to send all the unwanted there and as a result the makeshift camp was presently full to bursting with unprocessed men. It had taken a telephone call from De Gaulle himself to get the camp closed down after consistent protests by it's neighbors. The process of selection and classification had begun in earnest the previous month bringing more tension in an already hostile environment.

There were types kinds of prisoners inside camp PR19. The first were the ardent Nazis. The big heads, the loud mouths the kind of men  who had no fear of making themselves known to the rest of the inmates. These men clung together to form a vicious gangs that patrolled the enclosed camp looking for trouble. These were the type of people that Kramer avoided at all costs all brawn, no brain. The were deadly with the right leadership, but in the camp they acted like mindless hooligans.

The second type, were the real German soldiers, the men that actually did the fighting. It was these men Germany should have been thankful for, career soldiers--intelligent men, the true backbone of the German war machine. They were smart enough to realise that the war had been lost and acted accordingly. On the whole they kept to themselves and stayed out of trouble, they understood that it was pointless to make it harder for themselves.

The third were people like Kramer, men that had something to hide. These men just wanted to get lost in the crowd. Walking through the camp Kramer occasionally spotted the odd familiar face amongst the rabble. When this happened he was wise enough to keep his head down and keep walking. After all, there were eyes everywhere.

It was dusk on Kramer's fourth night and he was walking back for the mess tent when he spotted a familiar face as it marched passed. He strained his tired eyes and tried to focus on the face of the well-built man.

"Fredrick Posner!" Kramer whispered to the dusk.

The large man turned round as his name called out and paused before spotting Kramer.

 "Freddie, long time my friend, surprised to see you here. You here alone?" Kramer said softly as the big man approached him.

"Sir, this is a surprise. I thought you were dead" Posner replied with a face of mock surprise.

"No, not yet Fred, not yet." Kramer replied, a look of disdain clear in his bloodshot eyes.

Fredrik Posner was a hugely constructed man with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He had been a fine athlete before the war. His defining moment came in the 1936 Olympic games, when he got to carry the flaming torch on the last leg of its journey towards Berlin's famous stadium. He was chosen by the Nazi hierarchy to promote the myth of Aryan racial superiority and physical prowess to the other countries of Europe. He was considered to be the epitome of the German citizen with his well-developed muscle tone and heroic strength and accentuated Aryan facial features.

He relished the power his physical shape gave him and was a bully because of it. He was drawn to the Nazi party early on not for any political reasons but because he enjoyed their brutal campaigning methods. By 1938 he had met Otto Kirkwood a high-ranking Nazi official and became his personal bodyguard. The two men both shared the same narrow outlook on life an enjoyed the pleasures the Nazi regime had to offer. Kramer also knew that where one was the other was sure to be close.

"Been here long?" Kramer enquired.

"Two weeks," came Posner's monosyllabic reply.

"How's Otto these days?" Kramer asked inquisitively.

"Why don't you ask him yourself Kramer" Posner loudly replied.

"Keep it down you fool! Where is he?" Kramer shot back to the lumbering loud-mouthed Bavarian as he walked away.

"Eighteen." He called back.

Kramer had hit the jackpot Otto was here, Perfect.

It took only a matter of minutes before Kramer was walking into hut 18 looking for his old friend. The acrid smell of the barracks hit Kramer's nostrils and nearly caused him to gag. The hut was dark and like his own ram-packed with bunks to house the hundreds inmates. The smell of defeat hanging in the air could have been sliced with a knife. All around were demoralized men, some weeping, others praying, while many just stared into space in a state of prolonged catatonia.

Kramer patrolled the aisle in between the bunks methodically looking for his man. He had only violent thoughts for the pathetic sub-humans whose tiny minds were crushed by the defeat they did not deserve to call themselves Germans. They were the reason the war was lost, too busy sniveling when they should have been fighting.

 "Albert, nice to see you again." A rasping voice called out from the darkness of the hut.       

"Good evening Otto long time no see, it's a surprise to find you here. I thought that you would be on a beach somewhere."

"You and me both."

" I think me and you need a little talk. Fancy an evening stroll?"

"If we must..."

Otto Kirkwood was a small squat man with a mop of wild brown hair usually greased to his head. He always wore round thin-framed glasses and it was this disability that had got him out of regular army duties and into the office. He was a fiercely intelligent man, whose tactical skills were occasionally hampered by his uncontrollable temper. He was also a man that Kramer knew not to trust.

Kramer waited patiently while Otto slipped on his worn army boots before they made their way out of the stinking hut. The two men walked close together as they headed for the perimeter fence where there were fewer ears to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"So Kramer, how can I help? I thought our business was concluded." Otto enquired.

 "Your contact never showed." Kramer, replied

 "I was left high and dry. It was a lot of money Otto, and I got nothing for it!" Kramer hissed through gritted teeth.

"The man I sent was compromised by the bloody French, sounds like you had a lucky escape. Anyway looks like you landed on your feet being in here. It's just a matter of where they send you. So if I were you I'd keep you mouth shut and keep yourself out of trouble."

"Otto what about my money? You owe me. That fool you sent weren't worth a Franc." Kramer softly whispered.

"Don't worry Kramer, you give me another ten thousand I'll get you out of here, wherever you want to go."

"Another ten? Your out of your mind, where am I going to get that kind of money?"

"That's not my problem. Your only problem right now is to come up with the ten or run the risk of the British finding out your true identity!" Otto threatened.

Kramer was stung by Otto's betrayal. They had worked together and now when the war was all but over, it counted for nothing. Kramer was furious with himself, he should never have expected anything from Otto.

"You have till the morning my friend or the camp officer will know all about your past." Otto whispered before turning his back and walking away towards the hut.

Kramer turned round and spotted Fredrick who had been following the pair discreetly at a distance.

01:34 - 6 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

Sorry
Category: Writing and Poetry

Sorry no posts this week I've been a bit slack on the writing! wedding planning is very time consuming so instead I thought I would post the first few chapters of mmy book Bad Company!

http://www.amazon.com/Bad-Company-Luke-Foster/dp/1847995659/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1213032981&sr=8-1

Thanks for reading.

                                     Bad Company

                                           Chapter One

I've been staring out of the same window for the last seventy-two hours with nothing but rain, clouds and smoke for company. The target is still not home, so at least someone is busy. Me? I'm waiting and watching. The blood red buses that circle below help mark the hours as I focus my attention towards the empty apartment across the street. My eyes wander from window to window in the absence of the target I'm looking for something, anything that will keep me awake and ready for action. I've been watching these apartments for so long now that even the sight of a pretty girl inspecting her slender figure in a mirror can't raise my spirits.

The hours spread out before me like an unending hourglass. The loud ticking of my cheap airport watch is a constant reminder of the time I've spent laying on the hardwood floor in this empty apartment.

The sun bleeds into the horizon and the monolithic concrete tower block opposite basks in the oranges and purples of dusk and in that moment the monstrosity of lazy architecture becomes a beautiful beacon of colour.

The street below has started to fill with Friday night revellers ready for their usual alcoholic onslaught. The neon food joints are now all open for business, the smell of chicken and grease is thick in the air, but despite the stench I keep the window open. The civilians in the bars below get louder and more obnoxious as the drink flows, thoughts of leaving this assignment and joining their ranks briefly flash through my mind, but my focus remains. The music from the bars various jukebox's increases as each bar tries to outdo the other in an all out volume war. The lights in the flats opposite flash on and off unrepentantly like an 80's disco as people come and go, but the target's room is still dark, still empty.

There has been no communication with HQ for hours now and my patience is starting to wear thin. Do they know I'm still here? I'm tired, so damn tired, how long do they expect me to keep this up? I've been with the department over two years now and I'm still pulling these mindless gigs.

A fight breaks out below and the street becomes alive with violence and volume as kicks, punches, blood and bruises become the order of the day. It's only the distant sound of sirens that forces the mob to scatter. The unfortunate victim lays helpless by the kerb, blood from his shattered face flows into the street only to be washed away as the rain starts again. The mood again changes from violence to jubilation as drunken songs echo in the night as friendships are formed and relationships made.

The night's mayhem finally comes to end as the bars close in unison leaving the few remaining drunken stragglers to navigate their way home with their new found conquests. The streets can finally begin to sleep, but just as they start to doze they are roused again by the sound of the city's nocturnal cleaners removing the weekend's pavement filth. My eyelids feel heavy, my vision blurred, but there's nothing I can do. I check and recheck the equipment. The night wears on and the streets are now empty, bar one drunk sprawled over a park bench, piercing the night's glorious silence with occasional retching. I then get the call, "Price, target approaching." My pulse begins to race as I back away from the window and turn out the light. My work is about to begin.

I reach for the camera, adjust my position and wait. The target is still not in view. Waiting becomes an art: time passes; nothing changes. One eye closed, the other pressed firmly against the viewfinder as I scan the streets. The rain starts again, a light September shower helps wash away the remnants of last night's excesses. The drunk on the bench stirs, his hands rubbing his pounding head, attempting to piece together the night before. The obvious discomfort on his face shows that his surroundings are clearly a mystery to him. Not to me though, I know every inch of this place, seems like home now.            

The buses have again started their endless circuit round this city, stopping only to pick up the solitary suited weekend worker. His face is the reason I stopped the nine to five rat race. "Sucker" I whisper to myself to break silence, good to hear my voice again; the one in my head sounds different. After all who's the real sucker? I'm laying on a hardwood floor, cold, tired and hungry with only a camera and a photo for company. I'm starting to wonder who smells worse the drunk or me as I catch my own stench that carries on the breeze from the open window.

The news stand on the corner opens and one by one people from the surrounding buildings scuttle over, hungry for yesterday's news. The civilian routine is now in full swing, as more people fill the street, each minding the other's business. Nobody notices the slender female shuffling nervously along the pavement. Me? I notice everything.

The photo does her no justice. She's changed since it was taken. Gone is the long auburn hair to be replaced by a savage blonde crop. Her make up is harsh and heavy, but I remember the face. She wears a long black coat wrapped tightly around her body to keep out the early morning chill. The eyes, though, they are still the same.

My camera follows her slowly across the street towards her apartment block. She appears cautious, afraid even. Something's wrong. Does she know we're onto her? How can she? Nobody on this case would have slipped. Her body language is wrong, nervous even. I'm too tired for this.

The open window frosts my breath but that morning chill keeps me alert, it's just the cold and the cramp keeping me going now. The urge to sleep is growing, no chance now, though. I reach for my cigarettes, but then think better of it; don't want to give away my position with an early morning smoke trail. My focus is drawn back to the target as I watch her approach the apartment block. She opens the entrance to the lobby and with a nervous glance left and right she glides out of sight.

The six flights of stairs she has to climb gives me the chance to stretch my limbs, need to keep the blood flowing. Need to stay alert, ready to move. Lucky for me the elevator in her block is down.  I reposition and refocus on her apartment opposite. My view allows me to see two bedrooms, a small lounge and her front door.

The outside world is now blocked out and only the frame my camera gives me remains. Her door slowly opens and in she walks, softly shutting the door behind her like a teenager breaking curfew. I close in on her face, focus and start clicking.

The role of film is quick to end, never was one for digital. I reload and start snapping again, homing in on her cold loveless face. The lack of light in her flat makes me curse, wasting film with useless shots. Why keep the light off? What's she's hiding? This gloomy morning is no friend of mine.

I stare as she removes her coat and watch how it slides off her slender body onto the floor. She then kicks off her heels and heads for the sofa, collapsing onto it. Whatever she was up to last night has clearly taken its toll she's asleep within minutes.

I glance over to the kettle in the corner of this bare room, one of the only luxuries I allow myself. Experience has taught me to always be prepared; you never know how long these jobs will take. I look back at the target but she's fast asleep. So I down tools, back away from the window and flick on the kettle. Instant coffee's all I have but it will do. While the water's boiling I head to the small wash basin in the corner of this disused bed-sit and empty my bladder. Within minutes I'm back by the window hot coffee in one hand, camera in the other.

The street below is now in full swing. The shoppers scurry around darting from shop to shop in their useless futile quest for happiness. I hear the inane chatter of a hundred different conversations that are brought to my window by the strong breeze outside. The rain has subsided but the clouds outside still block the sun from making a welcome appearance. I finish the coffee, put down the cup and bring the camera back to my tired eyes. My eyes focus again on the girl asleep on the sofa.  It is only then I notice the static figure hiding in the shadows in the corner of her room.

What have I missed? Panic flashes through me, damn coffee!  I knew it was a bad idea. Adrenalin floods my system and sweat cascades my forehead making my eyes sting. I look again what's that flashing in their hand? A knife maybe?  Now I know I'm in trouble.

Without thinking, I grab the radio and call in " Price here, target in trouble! Do you hear me? Target in danger."  Nothing.  "I repeat target in danger!"  No response. What's going on? Where's the backup? My job is only to record, not to get involved.  I look again. The figure is still there unmoving. What are they waiting for? I look back to the target. She's fast asleep on the sofa oblivious to the danger she's in. The figure then steps out of the shadow towards the sofa, knife glistening in their left hand.     

The poor light in the apartment makes me squint. I can see the blade, but not the assailant's face. There's not enough light for a good shot, but it doesn't matter. A photo isn't going to help the girl. Time slows to a standstill while thoughts of my next move crackle through my tired mind like signals through faulty wiring. What to do? It's a stark choice between doing my job and heeding my conscience. Whatever I do is going to have repercussions. I look again and see in slow motion the figure getting nearer to the sofa showing no great urgency in their actions.

"Fuck this!" I curse loudly to myself breaking the claustrophobic silence that I have endured these past few days. I'm on my feet within seconds. There's a lot of ground to cover between us. It is twelve floors, six down and another six up. I drop the camera like a child's discarded toy and charge towards the door. I race down the stairs taking three at a time careful not to lose my footing. My mind is focused on speed; it's only my unwilling body that slows me down. I'm out of the building within minutes and onto the busy street.

The city fumes sear my lungs as I fight to draw breath. Too many years of bad living have caught up with me. My body is no longer willing; my burning limbs are a testament to my unwillingness to exercise.

 I look across the street and focus, time is running out. The countdown ticking in my mind spurs me on.

The Saturday morning traffic is hell as I duck and weave through the oncoming cars. A chorus of car horns blare in frustration as I slow down the driver's mundane journeys. At last, I make it across the street. I feel the whole world's gaze upon me as I leave the angry drivers loudly cursing my stupidity. I continue my sprint though the throngs of shoppers, bouncing off them like a crazed pinball to reach the target's building. I get to the entrance and push the door, locked. "Shit!" I shout, causing yet more heads to turn in my direction. Panic arrives as I push and pull the door to no avail. It's only then I notice the row of buttons to my left. I blindly press them all hoping for a response. I wait a lifetime it seems for something, anything to happen. All hope leaves me as I visualise a bloody massacre upstairs.

A buzzer sounds and I push the door and to my relief it swings violently open. It closes behind me with a loud thud as I race through the lobby towards the staircase past the broken elevator. I take the stairs in no time and within minutes I'm standing outside the target's apartment, fists clenched and gasping for air.

09:22 - 10 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

Rat-Lines 13 "I said strip!"
Category: Writing and Poetry

Two post in one day! As you can guess I spent the day writing, lucky for me the weather was bad otherwise my lady would have made me mow the lawn! Anyway I hope you enjoy and I would love it if you left a comment!

Thanks for reading.

It was only a short walk but it felt like a marathon as Kramer begrudgingly trudged through an open gate into to the British camp. He looked up towards a dubious looking wooden hut that sat apart from the rest of the building's and instinctive knew that it was his destination. He felt pensive at what was to come. He knew what to expect, what lied behind the single door of the building. It was with a sense of morbid irony that Kramer managed to smile. The last five years had been filled with interrogations, torture, camps, inmates, lists, routines, barracks, barbed wired and not once did Kramer ever envisage being on the inside looking out. He had participated in thousands of interrogations used every method available to get what he wanted. He knew what to expect, and the thought made him shiver.
        His escort wrapped his fist loudly on the door and took a quick step back as he waited.
       "Enter." A gruff voice called out from within.
        Kramer took one last deep breath and prepared himself. His only chance now was to play dumb, play stupid, play like an infantryman. all balls and no brains. The door opened in front of him and his escort stood aside.
        "After you." The softly spoken Private instructed.
        Kramer's eyes flitted skyward just for a second hoping beyond hope for some divine intervention.
        "Get a move on."
        Kramer stepped forward into the warm sweaty room and heard the door slam shut behind him.
        A short chubby balding man with a well-creased forehead and the face of a bulldog sat behind a desk at the far end of the room. To Kramer's left stood three burly guards with expressions that gave little away. A cloud of sweet cigar smoke hung in the air and created beautiful patterns and the suns rays danced through it.
        "Come here man." The desk bound bulldog instructed.
Kramer hesitated and stood motionless half through fear the other half bravado.
        "Do as he say's man. Make it easy on yourself." One of the guards suggested.
         Kramer walked forward across the room aware of how loud his shoes were on the wooded floorboards.
        "Strip, and put your clothes on the chair for me, there's a good chap." The bulldog instructed as he reached for the half smoked cigar that sat abandoned in a crystal ashtray
       Kramer stood there, eyes narrowing and focused of the man behind the desk. A sneer crept of his gaunt face, play stupid he repeated to himself.
        "I said strip."
        Kramer stood motionless. His piercing blue eyes kept their focus.
        "Guards, help this man undress." The bulldog responded whilst exhaling a think plume of smoke into the damp air.
        Kramer stood immobile as two heavy set brutes approached him, he stood firm whilst they hit him, he stood tall before a reign of blows became too much before he crumpled to his knees and only then did he start to pull off him now bloodied clothes.
        "Now raise your arms and spin round."
Kramer did as they said and slowly span round trying to ignore his bruised and battered guts.
       "That's perfect now put your bloody clothes back on, now that wasn't so hard now was it?" 
        He had played it to perfection he quickly put his clothes back on and used his stained grey jacket sleeve to wipe away the blood that was still running from his mashed up nose smiling to himself as they had not found what they were looking for.
        It had been his decision not to have his blood group tattooed on his chest or arms when he joined the SS in 1939. It was this decision that Kramer may have helped to clinch his freedom. He had managed to persuade the SS that the tattoo was unnecessary due to his expert medical knowledge he argued the point that any good surgeon could easily make a cross match of blood types without relying on a tattoo in the unlikely event that Kramer needed a transfusion. Although the real reason behind his decision was simply vanity, he believed it would have spoiled the smoothness of his skin.
        "Name?" The officer requested as he stared at Kramer's bruised and bloodied face.
         "Memling. Jorge Memling" Kramer replied, it was the name of a little known Bavarian artist.
         "Rank?" He shouted
         "Corporal" Kramer replied.
       "Well Corporal, for you the war is over, get yourself some food and a bunk. Dismissed" The officer instructed.
        "Thank you. Sir" Kramer replied as he was given his identification papers. He was now Jorge Memling. The name Albert Kramer would now be just a memory. He never thought it would be so easy.

13:27 - 6 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

Rat Lines 12 "British Hospitality"
Category: Writing and Poetry

The first rays of a harsh morning sun came flooding in like an unwelcome guest as the heavy canvass door of the army truck were violently pulled open. The dark silhouette of a guard then bounded on the back of the truck whistling an English Country Garden as he began to unshackle the prisoners.

        Kramer rubbed his eyes desperate for his vision to return after being momentarily blinded by the fierce yellow glow of an unexpected morning. He looked up to the craggy mustached face of the guard who began to untie him and then to armed solider who stood smirking by the door. He felt his restraints loosen and was thankful for the opportunity to get some blood back into his numb wrists. He clenched his fists and looked at his captor, but knew that now wasn't the time to make his move.

"Right you ugly fuck's get and out and make it quick." The stick thin guard with the machine gun instructed whilst shaking his weapon for extra dramatic effect. Kramer being the last in was the first out and ducked down as he jumped from the back of the truck landing with a soft thud into the thick mud underfoot.

            "Form a line!" The guard screamed as the prisoners emerged from the darkness to greet the day "Now!" His screamed out again desperate to be obeyed.

Kramer took a step back and stood to attention and watched as the others followed his lead.  A cold wind blew across the yard forcing the men to stand close together to shield themselves from the morning chill

  "Thanks better! When I tell you to do something you fucking do it! The wars over now boys, you belong to me." He called out again, clearly enjoying the attention he was receiving.

Kramer stood there his narrow blue eyes focused on the weasel of a man barking orders at him. If a stare could kill the jumped up English squawker would have been reduced to bones due to the intensity of Kramer's gaze.

"Welcome to your new home boys!" The guard announced casually as he pulled out a smoke from his fatigues and fired it up.

"Yeah boys, your lives are sure going to change. From now on you're going to do what we tell you when we tell you. You got that?"

Kramer had lost interest in the little mans preening voice. He had heard it all before the threats, the attitude. It was the weapon that made him brave, get him alone and away from the security of his fellow soldiers and Kramer would show him what it took to be a real man.

            His eyes wandered from the guard who continued to prattle on about rules and regulations and began to examine his surroundings. He stood inside a perfectly square camp no more than four hundred meters across. Five small wooded huts lined each of the four wire fences looking onto a small square in which they currently stood. The camp was guarded by watchtowers at each corner armed with mounted guns and heavy-duty spotlights all manned and ready for action.

            Kramer peered through the fence towards his captures camp, twice as large as this one but from the looks of it barely occupied. A fine example of British planning, Kramer mused as he begun to realise at the level of overcrowding in the camp. The sound of the truck had woken the camp and as Kramer and his fellow captors stood to attention. The doors to the surrounding huts all began to open and out stepped the camps inmates eager to get a look at the morning's new arrivals.

       "No trouble, no fights, no escape and you and me will get on fine."

       So this is what it had come to, all the travelling, all the money spent and here he was just another POW. He kept his narrow eyes firmly on the loud-mouthed guard who patrolled the small line of new POWs shouting insults and the men. Kramer barely listened, he knew the drill and what to expect, it was every man for himself, his only saving grace was that it was a British camp and not a Russian, here at least he stood a fighting chance. The guard then finally backed off and clambered into the back of the truck which then drove out of the waiting gates of the camp leaving the men standing in a line in a dumb silence.

        "Right men we need to get you admitted washed and clothed, you smell worse than the latrines." A rotund English officer called out as he parted the crowd on his way to inspect the new inmates.

       "I'm Lieutenant Carter listen to me and we'll have you settled in no time. I'll call for you one at a time so until then stay still, and we will be watching."

       Kramer sighed he just wanted this to be over. It was bad enough having to standing in the freezing cold, but having half the camp eyeballing him was making him nervous. The last thing he needed now was to be recognised.

        In felt like hours as Kramer stood in the mud with the rest of the new boys. A few exchanged a few words, some even joke but Kramer stayed silent apart from the occasional stamping of his feet in a futile attempt to fight the cold that had numbed his legs. His eyes scanned his bleak surroundings, there were very few prisoners in the yard now as most had soon got bored with the excitement and headed back into their huts to avoid the cold. The ones that he could see shuffled through the mud like clockwork toys in mundane march to nowhere.

       "Your turn" A youthful Private pointed at Kramer and motioned him to follow into one of the huts. All Kramer could think of was of being recognised, if they knew his name it would soon all be over. Forever.

03:02 - 4 Comments - 7 Kudos - Add Comment

Rat-Lines 11 "End of the line."
Category: Writing and Poetry

Hi there folks comments welcome.

           Eleven

Kramer stopped in his tracks and pretended to check the broken pocket watch that he quickly retrieved from his jacket pocket. He pulled out the timepiece pressed down hard on the release and watched it spring open to reveal a cracked ivory dial. One eye peered down at the unmoving hands while the other looked up and took stock of his current predicament. His sly gaze rested briefly on one of the four burly U.S marines who stood like fierce giants by the side of the glass fronted ticket booth. His gaze was then greeted with a fierce toothy grin as the solider smiled back at Kramer singling him out for the crowded concourse. The two men were locked in an uncomfortable stare before the marine broke contact and moved his attention back to the long queue that stretched out before him. Kramer panicked and span round desperate not to become the focus of any unwanted attention. He stood there awhile trying to catch his breath before noticing more U.S Marines. It was then that he realised the whole station was crawling with soldiers.

His skin ran damp with sweat as his eyes flicked from left to right trying to plot a way out. The ticket booth was a no-no, every would-be passenger had to show their ID papers to the soldiers before being granted travelling rights. Kramer had no ID and therefore no chance of obtaining a ticket. The platforms were no safer as three Marines stood firm on each platform manning makeshift inspection points checking all departures and arrivals. They were clearly looking for somebody, maybe him. Kramer's paranoia returned, along with the usual chest pains that had recently started to accompany the reoccurring bouts of panic. Kramer couldn't see a way out. The end of the line was going to be at a train station. How fitting.

"Last call for Marseille Platform five, Marseille platform five." A tinny voice announced over the crackly loudspeaker.

This was it, it was now or never, Kramer looked around again. It was time to make his move. He slowly bent down and scooped up one of the many discarded ticket stubs that littered the cold concrete floor and gripped it tightly in his sweaty palm. He looked up towards platform five and watched as three U.S soldier's guarding his platform to freedom that were sharing a cigarette.

"Last call for Marseille platform five. Express to Marseille platform five."

The train sounded its horn, which echoed loudly round the station. The chug-chug-chug of the steam engine then kicked into gear and the train readied itself for departure. Kramer started with a gentle jog at first that then turned into a run as he made for the platform.

"Ticket please!" One of the marines called out as Kramer ran passed flashing his used and dirty stub. He kept on running desperate to board the train, he was almost there so close he could almost touch the moving carriage.

"You there! Stop." A faint voice called out from behind, but Kramer ignored it and kept on running. Trying to block out the vision of the three soldiers hot on his tail.

"I said stop!"  A voice called out again.

Kramer was almost home free, his right hand reached out and grabbed the door handle and gave it a firm twist.

"Stop or I'll shoot!"

He flung open the door and was just about to make the final leap to safety when his ankle gave out and lost his footing and came tumbling to the hard wet floor in agony as the train disappeared out of view in a thick cloud of steam taking his freedom with it.

The thud of boots on concrete was the only sound he could hear as he hugged the concrete waiting for the inevitable to happen.

"Get up." A rasping American voice instructed while trying to catch his flabby breath.

Kramer laid there stunned before the right boot of the one of the soldiers quickly persuaded him the obeying there orders would be the least painful option.

"I said get to you feet!"

Kramer struggled at first but finally managed to haul himself off the floor. His limbs ached from the run and his ankle throbbed from the fall, but he wasn't about to let his injuries highlight his weakness as he stood tall in the presence of his captures.

"Papers!" one of the faceless soldiers requested.

"I have no papers!" He spat back whilst brushing the dirty from his now crumpled suit. He may have been caught be he still had his pride.

"No papers? You do know the rules against travelling without papers?"

"I couldn't care less about your rules." Kramer replied the venom in his voice was there for all to hear. He was tired of running, tired of being afraid. It was whilst he stood there that for the first time in a long time he began to feel like himself again. Like the man he once was.

"Well you will care about our rules!" He was told.

"I am a member of the Germany army and following the Geneva Convention I wish to surrender to you."  He smirked.

"I know the rules too." He muttered as they began to bind his hands.

The rigid leather hand restraints chaffed Kramer's wrist as he was pushed at gunpoint back along the stations long concourse. He held his head high and smiled to the crowd that had gathered to watch the proceedings as he walked. He was marched out the station through the service exit to a waiting army truck.

"Another one for you Tom, and this one's a real piece of work a right arrogant bastard."

"Thanks! Just shove him in the back with the rest of them!"  A spectacled Englishman replied with sucking on the end of a cigarette for all he was worth.

All eyes turned to face Kramer as he climbed aboard the back of the truck. There were five other faces eyeballing him as his hands bound were fastened to two metal bars that ran down each side of the truck. Kramer then sat down in the only available space and watched as one of the US guards locked him into position.

"Good evening gentleman" Kramer announced to the rest of his fellow prisoners.

05:52 - 5 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

A break from the story.
Category: Writing and Poetry

Hi folks, as you know every now and again I like to have a break from the story and have a general blog about life. So how are you all? Well I hope. Me? well lifes a little crazy right now! I got promoted two weeks ago so works becoming a bit more labour intensive, but I must not grumble I'm also preparing myself for my wedding day (10 weeks and counting) so nerves in my house are running high!

Lucky for me I have my writing its a great excuse to take some time out from the world go upstairs and hide away from all the wedding madness. Anyway I just thought that i would let you know that my first story Bad company is now available at Amazon.com. So if your stuck for something to read why not give it a go.

http://www.amazon.com/Bad-Company-Luke-Foster/dp/1847995659/ref=sr_1_1/104-1439996-8200754?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1211879910&sr=8-1

So I've now run out of things to write, so I'll go back to Rat-Lines see you all soon and thanks for all the support!

Cheers

02:11 - 13 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

Rat-Lines 10 "I gotta get out of here!"
Category: Writing and Poetry

So here we are, part 10 already! I hope your enjoying the story, and please keep the commets coming, let me know whose reading!

Thanks

                                                Ten

Albert Kramer began to shiver uncontrollably as his soaking suit clung uncomfortably to his clammy wet skin. The Parisian sun had finally been swallowed by the horizon causing the temperature to plummet. While the rain, although not as fierce as earlier in the day still continued with a light drizzle that was just enough to keep Kramer's mood suitable foul and his clothes wet.

            Paris had become his prison. He had come here with thoughts of escape, with hopes of getting out of Europe but had become trapped in the heart of the lion's den. A loud rumble shattered the silence as he walked aimlessly through the dark empty streets. At first he took it for thunder but then he looked up to be greeted but sight of a sky full of Lancaster Bombers heading east to drop their murderous payload on the remnants of Germany. It was all over.

            The streets of Paris were dangerous place for a former Nazi, the Provisional Government of the French Republic held no real power and the French Resistance ruled the streets. Paris was a place of summary justice, of wild purges. Those that had been seen as being Nazi collaborators were being punished, some by firing squad others by beatings. While the women who were deemed Nazi friendly had their hair shaved, to mark them out from the crowd. The longer he spent it the capital the higher the risk, enemies were all around and for the first time in a long time he felt frightened.

He had no means of escape. He couldn't go East the war was still raging and with enemies on both sides it was too much of a risk as if caught he would surly hang him for desertion. While if he stayed in Paris is would be just a matter of time before the Allies or resistance stumble upon him, and then who knows what would happen.

He paused for a moment to catch his breath, a lifetime of strong cigarettes had begun to make there mark. He leaned against a streetlight and to regain his composure as he fought off a sharp pain in his chest.  A bright set of yellow headlights cut through the rainy gloom and illuminated Kramer as he stood there in quiet desperation. A unexpected fit of panic overwhelmed him as thoughts of capture whirled through his exhausted mind. Had they tracked him down? Was this the end of him? For a moment he thought of running, but the pain in his chest had other ideas as he clung to the lamppost for dear life.

            The familiar sight of a Parisian Taxi de la Marne then came into view and Kramer exhaled in relief. His nerves had begun to get the better of him, a deep breath latter and the pain had began to subside.

 "Taxi!" Kramer called out as the blood red Renault drove slowly passed him.

 "Taxi!" He called again this time flailing his arms in desperation.

The amber brake lights began to glow and the Taxi slowed down and then reversed to meet Kramer who now stood by the kerb arms raised.

"Where to?" The ancient driver asked as he eyed Kramer suspiciously.

"Gare de Nord." Kramer whispered.

The driver looked him up and down, the frown on his well lined face did little to hide his worries. The days of picking up random fares had gone, too many time had the driver been robbed. Now his was very cautious about who he let in.

"You got money?" The driver asked.

"Of course." Kramer replied as he pulled out a small roll of notes to show the driver.

"Fine, get in, but money first!"

"Whatever you say." Kramer peeled off a couple of Francs and passed them through the open drivers window before opening the door and sliding himself into the passengers seat.

"Some day eh?" The driver whined as he pushed down on the accelerator.

"Talk about springtime in Paris! If the rain carries on like this…I'll. Oh I must moan. That's what the wife always tells me."

Kramer did his best to ignore the driver as he prattled on his mind was on his destination, where to next?

"Going anyway nice?" The wrinkled driver asked, unable to take Kramer's stony silence as a hint.

"Metz." he lied.

"It's good to take a break for the city. My family are from the coast, ahh the food, good fresh fish. Just makes my mouth water just thinking about it!"

"I'm going to a funeral."  Kramer lied hoping this would be enough to shut the driver up.

"Sorry to hear about that." The driver sympathised and left his gaunt moody passenger alone for the rest of the short journey.

"Two Francs sir." The driver announced when they finally pulled up beside the giant archway that led to the station entrance.

"Thanks." Kramer replied as he paid the main thankful to be back in the rain. Anything was better than spending another moment listening to the driver's inane nonsense.

 The entrance was littered with the homeless and the drunk as they lined the street taking shelter from the weather underneath the great archway that led into the station.

"Spare any change sir?"  One bearded wretch called out to Kramer only to be replied with a toothy sneer as he walked passed ignoring the pitiful human degradation that spoilt the stations famous architecture.

Kramer looked up to the stations exquisite Neoclassic design and smiled, a true feat of Aryan engineering. The main elevation was in a neo-Corinthian style and was decorated with nine statues personifying the most important cities of France and Europe towards which the railway leaving the platforms would lead, he was going to miss Europe.

He eyes led back from the ceiling and towards the heaving hall of people. He was quick to notice the heavy US army presence, there were men stationed at each end of all the platforms checking tickets and identify papers. The ticket hall was also full of them, some in the cafes that lined the platforms, others sitting on their green army issue rucksacks in the centre of the hall. This was going to be harder than he thought.

The station was in a state of perpetual pandemonium as passengers bumped, jostled and squeezed passed each other. It was busier than usual and the constant noise of the trains coming and going added to the chaos as Kramer made his way to the crowded ticket booth. It was then that he saw them.

07:54 - 3 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment