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James checked the street sign for the fourth time, "I need a guide, not a good for nothing map." "You looking for 'the Bunkhouse'?" His first instinct was to hide the map and walk away, but the other man looked about as out of place as he felt. "Who's askin'?" "Corporal Noah Dixon, His Majesty's Army." James grabbed the other man's hand in a brisk handshake, "James Butler, RAF." If Noah was waiting for more information he wasn't getting any. The cocky look on the Flyboy's face told him enough. "If you've got the same orders I do, you're heading in the wrong direction." "Well hell, no one asked me if I could read French," he balled up the paper and shoved it in the pocket of his bomber jacket. "I'll just walk along with you if that's alright." "Suit yourself." The two walked in companionable silence. Noah seemed to navigate his way through the streets with ease. "You been here before?" "No, but I know a little French. It may finally come in handy." "So, you know why we're here?" Noah shrugged his shoulders as they turned the corner, a cold blast of air assaulted them both, pushing them back half a step. "No, but we need to quit gabbin' and get to the Bunkhouse, it's nearly four." The two picked up their pace, slipping a little on the hard, slick cobbles of the street. The next corner opened up into a darkened little square. In the far corner they could make out the shapes of cafe tables even in the gloomy light of the approaching storm. "That it?" James questioned. A man emerged with a broom in hand and an apron tied around his waist. He stepped just beyond the awning and looked up at the sky before turning to clear away the leaves that lay under the table; the wind had been so strong lately, that the delicate spring leaves didn't stand a chance. They approached with caution in their steps. "Excuse me?" The man in the apron nearly jumped out of skin, "Oui messieurs?" James shook his head, this was going to get them nowhere. "IS - THIS - BUNKHOUSE?" Barely containing his laughter, Noah cuffed James on the shoulder. "He's French, he isn't dumb." "I knew that!" The man held up a finger and disappeared into the building, only to emerge a moment later with company. James let out a low appreciative whistle. "Now that's a woman." Noah chuckled out loud. "Watch yourself." "What's the warning for? I'm just looking." "Good," Noah answered back. "'Cause she looks like the type of woman who'd take exception with a comment like that." They took in the stubborn set of her arms, "and do something about it." "The Bunkhouse?" Her voice was warm and rich, helping to dispell the cold air. At their nod, the woman waved them in stepping out into the light as they approached, "You have orders?" Noah held his up in the air and she grinned, allowing him entrance. James fished through his pockets, turning them inside out while he looked for his orders. During his search a piece of crumpled paper dropped to the ground, landing near his leg. The woman bent over to pick it up and James couldn't help but notice the ample bossom that could be seen from the neckline of her blouse. She looked up in time to meet his eyes, and James winked as she straightened up. "Miss-?" " They are waiting inside." The dismissive tone wasn't lost on him, but he didn't let it bother him either. He followed Noah into the quiet interior of the building, passing through a hallway lined with sheet music instead of wallpaper. There was a bright glow at the end of the hallway, the main room was well lit and James could make out four figures at the bar. "Come on in, don't be shy!" The disembodied voice seemed distracted, and James could hear the ring as bottles connected with metal. "Pull up a stool, or stand if you like...doesn't make a single bit of difference to me." James took a moment to look around the room, this certainly wasn't like the briefings they had for the RAF. The tables that littered the room were covered with chairs, turned over and perched on the edges. Hurricane lanterns were set in the middle of each table, but anyone could tell the glass was dusty. He could feel the others measuring him up as he walked in, but it really made no difference to him. He would meet this challenge like everyother one in his life, head on and a glint in his eye. There were three others already standing at the bar, one had a surly expression on his face that warred with his youthful features and coppery hair. The other two were as different as night and day. One was obviously from America, his Indian features marked his heritage like a badge of honor. The other looked like any man on the street, pale skin and dark hair, no distinguishing features.... except for the broad smile on his face. Now, more than ever, James felt his curiosity flood through his veins like strafing fire. "They're all here, Teddy." The french woman used her stilted English, walking past all five boys, her eyes measuring each of them in turn. "Blast it woman!" A grizzled face popped up from behind the bar, a bottle of sherry clutched in his hand. He watched as she walked passed the boys and called out his displeasure, "I've already asked you NOT to call me that!" She ignored him and disappeared behind a thick wooden door at the back of the room. With one last disgruntled look the older gentleman turned back to the boys standing before him. "All right, you boys line up at the bar, take a glass and set it down before you. James stood between the Indian and his opposite and plopped a glass down right in front of him. The older man poured six sloppy servings of sherry and set the bottle on the counter with less than half a thought. He lifted his glass and nodded at the men, "Sherry boys... one little sip of this a day... you'll never see another doctor the rest of your life." He tossed back the liqueur and sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. "Doesn't get any better than that." Four of the young men downed the nutty tasting drink, one meerly sniffed at it and set it down on the counter top. With a single weathered glance, he caught their attention again. "My name is Theodore Hunter, retired Captain, United States Army. You boys can call me Teaspoon. This special unit is the first of it's kind. An American general, one 'Wild Bill' Donovan, has seen fit to bring you boys together. You're to be the most specialized messenger service any war has ever seen. You'll be outfitted with every kind of military uniform on both sides of this conflict, and you'll have motorcycles assigned to you; the best and the fastest money can buy. You'll ride right into enemy territory, riding for hours.. even days if we ask it of you." "No! We'd ride them into the ground." "You'll have a list of 'safe houses' in every city you ride through. You'll change uniforms and motorcycles every chance you get." Noah piped up, "How many of us are there?" With a sharp glance he answered, "You five are the only soldiers assigned to this detail. We're a test, if you boys can prove yourselves they'll bring in more. For now, I'd like you all to introduce yourselves." The first man at the bar stared back at the older man. His proud features framed by a pseudo military cut. He'd read and re-read the file on this young man. "Your name?" "Buck Cross." With a sage look, Teaspoon nodded, "You're the Code Talker." A single nod was the answer. Reaching behind him, the older man took a stack of papers in his hand. He looked through the pile quickly and slid one over the bar. Buck picked it up, quickly scanning the line of random characters. "Russian Code." Without reaction, another came sliding across the hard wood, "This one?" "German." There was a slight smile in his voice. Teaspoon resisted the urge to smile and threw a third paper on the wood. This one took a bit longer than the others, a second once over was needed, and now an even brighter smile pulled across his features. Buck passed the paper onto the next man in line and leaned forward, "That one... You made." The second soldier set the coded paper on the counter. Teaspoon came out from behind the bar, eyeing the young man. Tall and built, he had a devil-may-care smile on his face and a leather cap pulled low over his forehead. You could still see his eyes. They stared into Teaspoon's as he unbuttoned his leather jacket, and opened the left side. There, a shoulder holster hugged his body, and a Colt, unmistakeable in construction, hung there. A raised eyebrow was the only reaction. "Wearin' a Colt? Isn't that a might dangerous boy?" "It's a dangerous time." "You ready to use that thing?" "Yup." "You're a damn fool. What's your name?" "Jimmy." Teaspoon could feel his ire building, "Full name." "James.........James Butler. Pilot. R.A.F. My mates call me 'Hickok' for fun." "Well then, get this, 'Hickok'. I don't go for attitude around here, you check it at the door. You're here to ride, no hotdogging. If its fighting you want, you'll get a belly full. This is war, but now it's upclose and personal. Are you ready?" The boy looked him straight in the eye, his gaze unwavering like his smile. "Always." The next boy. "Name?" The boy looked him in the eye, there was no confrontation meant in his gaze, just a quiet observation. "Speak up." They all looked at the young man waiting for his answer. Slowly he formed the words, "Isaac Sergiusz. 'Ike.' " Uncomfortable by the close scrutiny, the young man looked down at his feet. "You're from Poland?" The boy nodded and stared him straight in the eye. "My father brought us to America four years ago." The older man nodded back. "You came back to fight? Well now, that takes a lot of courage in my book. I remember your file, mechanic?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Good to have you Ike." The boy brightened up, a look of utter relief on his face. Teaspoon moved on down the line, coming to the young soldier that entered with the pilot. "What's your name?" "Noah Dixon." He took in the young man's features. There weren't a lot of black people in France, but there were enough that Noah would be able to blend in, barely. "Ah... the explosives expert." Noah nodded. Teaspoon was about to continue down the line, when light glinted off the young man's hand. "You married?" Noah turned the ring on his finger and smiled down at the gold band, "Yes sir." "Good for you. Take it off." A look passed between the two. Sympathy from the older man and understanding from the younger one. Noah slipped off the gold band and set it into his hand. "I want it back when this is over." Teaspoon closed his fingers over the warm metal, "You'll have it back." The last boy was a puzzling sight. His youthful face warred with the sour expression he wore. "What's your story?" He shrugged. "I'm here." Another raised eyebrow. "You're not thrilled, I take it?" "I have my orders." Teaspoon nodded. The boy had resolve. "What do they call you?" "Kid." He heard snickers from the line, instinctively knowing who it was. "Corporal Wyatt to you 'Hickok'." "Supply Officer." It was a statement, not a question. He nodded, coppery curls shifting. "Yes sir, don't know WHY i'm here." "There's always a reason. They picked you cause you're damn good on a motorcycle." The boy made no reaction to the praise. "We need the best." He stepped away from the line, walking to the middle of the room. Setting his hands on his hips, he raised his eyes to meet their gazes. "One more thing. If you come up against a German patrol, I don't care HOW good you THINK you are, you turn around and burn rubber on the road. No waiting around," he turned to the pilot again, "no heroics... got it?" The boys shared uneasy looks, but all nodded. They knew this wasn't going to be easy. "But it'll be one hell of a story to tell the grandkids." Teaspoon watched as the boys broke rank and talked among themselves.
He huffed out a breath, mumbling to himself, "If y'all live that long."
Title Page The Storybook The Kidnation |