The Spear of Destiny

by M.E. Brines

Smashwords Edition
Copyright August 2011 by M.E. Brines
Cover art by Chris Truog

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Chapter 1
June 16, 1942 - 0900 hours

The shapely behind of the uniformed female I was following was much more attractive than the sickly green of the concrete walls or the gray linoleum floor of this corridor in the bowels of the Ministry of War, and I was sure if I got close enough that her scent would beat out that of the chlorinated disinfectant used on those dingy floors. 
She was wearing the uniform of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, FANY for short. And in her case the name certainly fit. I had seen the uniform before around our Baker Street headquarters. We got a lot of our drivers and secretaries from the organization. What she was doing here at the Ministry of War was a mystery. Maybe they used them for drivers, too. If that was the case, I wondered who was doing all the first aid and nursing?
It wasn’t long before we arrived at our destination: a secure conference room deep beneath the pile of concrete and steel that was the heart of the British Empire’s war machine. Somewhere nearby, down one of the innumerable hallways was Churchill’s own war room. He might even be there right now, bent over a situation map of Europe under the harsh fluorescent lights, puffing on a cigar and ordering some bit of devilry to harass the so far victorious forces of the enemy.
My guide turned the knob and led me on into the room. Inside was a large wooden table with the typically uncomfortable army-issue chairs, a map easel and a pair of British officers. As the FANY withdrew closing the door behind her, Major Somerville rose and greeted me with outstretched hand.
“Good to see you again, Stuart. How was Southampton?”
I looked uncertainly at the other officer as I lied. “Fine, sir. I’m very grateful for the transfer.” 
He glanced at the other officer as he replied. “It was deuced difficult to convince the powers that be to put someone of your experience to training new agents – but I told them you needed a rest.”
I nodded. I was sick of killing. I was really good at it, probably better than Bill had ever been. But I’d had my fill of revenge. The thought of ending the life of another poor unfortunate kid, French or German, unwilling draftee or ardent Nazi, made me sick. Was I God to choose who should live and who would die? The souls of the men I had already killed were heavy on my conscience. I didn’t want to weigh it down any further. It was already difficult enough to carry.
The major turned to his companion. “General Gubbins, this is Lieutenant Stuart Mackenzie. Stuart, General Gubbins is Director of Operations for the Special Operations Executive, the powers that be, so to speak.” 
As we shook hands the General seemed startled at the mention of my name.
“Stuart Mackenzie? It seems to me I have heard that name before.”
I nodded. Word had gotten around about my exploits and they seem to have grown in the telling. I figured he was going to ask for details about the Tour de France or perhaps the aerial piracy incident. But he surprised me. 
“Lieutenant, do you know a Noreen Johnson?”
“Yes, sir. Why do you ask?” My heart began beating like a kettledrum in a Wagerian opera. The last I heard of Noreen was as a radio operator in France somewhere. She was not expected to return until the end of the war or the Liberation of France, whichever came first. Could the Gestapo have captured her?
 The general nodded and smiled. “She must love you a great deal.”
“What do you mean?”
The general sat down and motioned for us to join him at the table. As we did he continued. 
“Radio operators in Occupied Europe each have their own distinct, recognizable styles. We encourage this. It makes it far more difficult for the Gestapo to fool us if an agent’s codes are captured. One of the ways radio operators individualize their transmissions is in the way they sign off. Most of them use their initials, generally their real initials, not their cover identities. Others have their own unique tag lines. Miss Johnson’s has been the most unique.”
He turned to the major. “Has no one told him of this?”
“I’m not sure even I understand what you’re getting at, sir,” the major replied.
The general turned back to me with a mischievous glint in his eye. “About the time of your last mission to France she took to signing off all transmissions with ‘I love Stuart Mackenzie.’” 
He paused for a moment to smile before continuing. “Now even in code, a line like that adds considerably to the length of a message. We finally had to specifically order her to stop doing it because of the increased danger of being located due to the length of her transmissions.”
I sagged into the empty chair, mouth gaping like a fish. The major burst out laughing.
“Your Noreen since has changed her signing off tag to L-O-V-E, still unique and undoubtedly still addressed to you. You two must have quite a relationship.”
My brain seemed to have seized up but I managed to mumble, “Yes, sir. You have no idea.” I no longer had to wonder if she had ever gotten my message. I guess there’d be no more looking at FANYs for me.
The two officers were having a good chuckle at my expense and it was embarrassing. So I tried to return the subject to military matters.
“If you don’t mind me asking sir, what exactly is the nature of this briefing? I was told to turn over my duties as an instructor to my assistant and report here on this day and time, but nothing else.”
The general was still smiling as he replied, “The Prime Minister has tasked me with a special mission, one he considers absolutely vital to the war effort.”
With brows furrowed I responded, “The Prime Minister?”
The general replied, “Yes, this mission comes straight from the top and we need our best agent to pull it off.”
Throwing my hands wide I protested. “But I don’t do that anymore. I’m just an instructor.”
Major Somerville interrupted, “Stuart, you’re the best we have. I let you instruct for a while hoping all you needed was a little rest. But we need you. There aren’t many men who have done what you’ve done and lived to tell about it.”
I think they misunderstood the source of my doubts. The general spoke for both of them, “Just listen to the briefing, son. Once you understand its importance, I think you’ll want to volunteer. We need you.”
Nodding without enthusiasm, I had a feeling that I’d volunteer in the end if for no other reason than to keep the blood of whoever would have to go in my place off of my hands. Besides, somehow I had managed to come back every time, usually as the sole survivor. Some people might have pointed to that as evidence of the mighty hand of God and had their faith confirmed. But it only made me realize that what faith I had ever had wasn’t sufficient to convert a handful of random coincidences into anything more than evidence that I had simply been more lucky than my unfortunate comrades.
My hand strayed to the well-worn rabbit’s foot in my pocket. My brother had given it to me the day he shipped out to volunteer for the Royal Air Force. He might have lived longer if he kept it. 
The general continued, “The briefing is going to be given by Doctor Walter Johannes Stein, the Prime Minister’s personal adviser. He’s a pretty odd chap with some very strange ideas.”
The major nodded his agreement as the general continued.
“Neither of us put much store in all his occult mumbo-jumbo about magical artifacts and secret weapons. But the important thing is that Hitler does. If you can succeed in the mission and return with the artifact, regardless of the absurd claims this fellow Stein makes, it will definitely have a significant effect on the course of the war.”
The major nodded and added, “If only on the morale of the enemy leadership.”
All this talk about occult mumbo-jumbo had me wondering. “So what are you sending me after? What artifact are you talking about? The Holy Grail?”
The two officers shared a glance that did nothing to dispel my feelings of concern. At that moment the door opened and an older gentleman with a leather satchel and an armload of loose sheets of paper walked in. He laid his burden on the opposite end of the table before looking over his audience. “Ah, General Gubbins, Major Somerville, so nice to see you again.” His gaze settled on me. “Is this the agent you have selected for the task?” He spoke English with a distinct Austrian accent.
The general stood. “Doctor Stein, allow me to introduce to you Lieutenant Stuart Mackenzie.”
The good doctor made no effort to move toward me to shake hands. He just inclined his head so I nodded back at him.
“Stuart Mackenzie? A Scot?” He asked.
“No, sir, I’m an American.” 
He looked startled but not too surprised. It had been six months since the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor brought my native land into a war they had so long tried to avoid. But Americans were still pretty thin on the ground here in England: especially Americans in Canadian uniform. 
But two years ago when the Nazis killed my brother there hadn’t been many options for a young man with thoughts of revenge. I got it and it tasted bitter, as revenge always does. But my brother was still just as dead.
After a moment’s thought he nodded his head as if he had come to some sort of conclusion. “Yes, it is especially appropriate for a representative of the coming dominant power to take possession. More appropriate than one of a weak empire, past its prime.”
I glanced at the general. He didn’t seem to understand the meaning of that cryptic remark any more than I had.
The doctor shuffled through his scattered papers and drew out a large black and white photograph that he handed to me, saying, “then I will direct my presentation to you, young man. It is primarily for your benefit as the other two gentlemen have already heard most of it.”
The photograph was of something that looked like an old Indian arrowhead, although this one was obviously made of metal, not chipped from stone. It appeared to be a spear point without the shaft and broken into two pieces. After a moment I looked up from the photo to see the doctor carefully watching my reaction. He must have been disappointed, for I would have more reaction to a brightly colored advertisement in a glossy magazine. “What is it?”
“It is the Spear of Destiny. The outcome of this world war will turn on who possesses it.” 
I glanced over at the other two officers. The major was looking at his watch, checking the time. The general’s posture appeared to indicate that he was paying attention but his wandering eyes betrayed the fact that his mind was elsewhere. This must be the beginning of the mumbo-jumbo portion of the briefing. 
I held up the photo towards Dr. Stein. “I’m guessing then that I’m supposed to steal it?”
He nodded with a big smile. “Very perceptive of you, young man. Very perceptive.”
I set the photo on the table. Being addressed as “young man” was really starting to annoy me. Besides, why they thought robbing some museum was going to require one of their top, most experienced agents was beyond me. If I were lucky the most security I’d face would be a single elderly guard dozing over a crossword puzzle. But that was fine. Maybe I could get through this without actually having to kill again.
“Okay, so do we know in which museum this thingy is kept?” I brushed the photo of the spear with the back of my hand. 
The doctor pulled out another photo and offered it to me. It was a picture of a castle on a hill. It had obviously been remodeled into a mansion after the coming of gunpowder cannon made castles obsolete as fortifications. The walls and towers were dotted with windows and the towers had ornate onion dome roofs like a Bavarian church.
“It is the Wewelburg in Westphalia, Heinrich Himmler’s Camelot. The Nazi elite use it as a research and training center for the study of the occult. Intelligence reports indicate that the spear is located in Himmler’s personal suite.”
I gave him a look like he had just told me my mission was to pick Hitler’s pocket. “What are you, nuts? How do you expect me to steal this thing from a castle in Germany chock full of Nazis? Out of Himmler’s bedroom, no less? The place will be crawling with elite SS troops and God only knows what else. I might as well just hand myself over to the Gestapo right now and save everybody the trouble. Why don’t you just parachute me straight into a concentration camp and be done with it?”
Somehow something I said indicated to the major that I was agitated. He tried to calm me with little success. “Now Stuart, it’s not as bad as it seems.”
“No, it’s probably worse.” I countered. “No, actually, I don’t think it’s really possible for it to be worse. Who came up with this insane, stupid idea anyway?”
The general jumped to his feet. 
“The Prime Minister. Lieutenant, I suggest that you kindly shut up and listen to the briefing. Keep in mind that you are the junior person in this room and conduct yourself accordingly.” Then he sat down, crossed his arms over his chest and glared at me.
I glared back. But I shut up. 
The doctor continued his briefing. “Let me begin with the history of the spear. Perhaps if you understand its significance you will realize the absolute necessity of getting it out of the hands of the Nazis. Its official name is the Spear of Longinus. He was the centurion commanding the execution detail that nailed Christ to the Cross.” He pointed at the photo. “If you look just here you can see a nail has been inserted into the blade and is held in place by gold, silver and copper threads. The nail is from the Cross of Christ. This is the very spear that pierced Christ’s side during the crucifixion.”
Brought up as a good Baptist, I put no faith whatsoever in the absurd claims of the Catholic Church regarding the authenticity of their saints and relics. There were enough pieces of the True Cross in museums and Cathedrals across Europe to build an ark out of. 
I think my doubts must have been obvious, for the good doctor replied, “Oh, this spear has a long history. You may be assured that it is quite authentic. Until the Anschluss, when Hitler took control of Austria, the spear lay on public display in the Imperial Treasure House in the Hofburg in Vienna. It had been considered part of the Imperial Regalia along with the Imperial crown, the scepter, sword, crosses and golden apple of the Holy Roman Empire. It has been a possession of the ruling Hapsburg Dynasty since before the time of Frederick the Second who had been renowned as a man of rare genius and occult powers. He made it the focal point of his whole life, calling on its powers throughout his running battles with the Papal and secular Italian authorities.”
I held up a hand to interrupt the avalanche of medieval trivia that threatened to engulf my entire morning. I was well aware of the kinds of legends attributed to various relics and artifacts. My favorite places in London were the various museums. But this was the twentieth century, not the thirteenth. 
“So Hitler takes over Austria and swipes this spear from the museum. How is my taking it from him going to change the course of the war?”
“He who controls the Spear of Destiny is undefeatable. When the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa carried the spear into battle he used its powers to conquer all of Italy before perishing when he lost control of the spear, dropping it when his horse stumbled while crossing a stream in Sicily, for that is the curse of the spear. Those who lose control of its occult power are destined to lose their lives as well. But as long as they retain control of it they cannot be defeated.”
I gave him the same look I gave the guy back in college who tried to sell me a powder that supposedly turned into gasoline when you mixed it with water. I wondered who had started the legend. “So how far back has the history of this spear been traced?”
“As far back as Roman times. Charlemagne founded his dynasty by using it to conquer most of Western Europe. He fought 47 campaigns and was victorious in every one. Only when he accidentally let it fall from his hands at the conclusion of his final campaign was his doom sealed. Before him, the spear was used in battle by Charles Martel when he defeated the Muslim invasion of Europe at the Battle of Tours. Theodoric used it to rally Gaul and turn back the hordes of Attila the Hun in 452 A.D. The emperor Constantine used it to lay out the foundations of the new Rome he named after himself.”
I picked up the photo and looked at it again. The spear wasn’t very impressive, especially in black and white, and somewhere along the way it had become broken. The bayonet I had carried on my Enfield rifle back when I was an infantryman would have made a more effective weapon. But the “powers” of the spear weren’t supposed to be physical. I set the photo down again. “So where does it get these fantastic powers?”
The doctor grinned as if one of his students had asked a question that would allow him to add another complicated essay onto the final exam. 
“Christ had been nailed to the cross between two thieves and was dying. But dusk was coming and with it the beginning of the Jewish Sabbath. It would be a violation of the Jewish ceremonial law for them to be executed on the Sabbath. Besides, Caiaphas the High Priest was intent on mutilating the body of Christ to prove to the people that Jesus was not the Messiah, but merely a rebel and a heretic. So he and the other Jewish leaders petitioned Pontius Pilate, the Roman Governor, for the authority to break the legs of the crucified men so that they would die before nightfall.”
I nodded. I’d heard that old story back in Sunday school when I was a kid but I couldn’t really see its relevance to winning a world war.
“A party from the Temple Guard was dispatched for that purpose. When they arrived at the scene of the crucifixion the Roman soldiers turned their backs on them in disgust. Only Longinus the centurion witnessed the servants of the High Priest clubbing and smashing the legs of the thieves Gestas and Dismas, and their agonizing deaths. The centurion was so repelled by the dreadful mutilation of the two thieves and so touched by Christ’s humble and fearless submission to the cruel nailing that he decided to protect the body of the Nazarene.”
His eyes stared out into the distance as if he could really see back through time to that fateful day.
“Charging his horse toward the high central cross, he thrust his spear into the right side of Jesus, piercing between the fourth and fifth ribs. Such a manner of piercing was the custom of Roman soldiers on the field of battle when they sought to prove that a wounded enemy was dead, for blood no longer flows from a lifeless body. And in the moment of his act forthwith there came out blood and water and the prophesy of Ezekiel was fulfilled: ‘They shall look upon Him whom they have pierced.’”
 “So the spear is said to have power because it was used to kill Christ, the very Son of God? My understanding of Scripture was that he was already dead when he was pierced.”
He gave me a look, as if questioning what an ignorant soldier like me could know of the scriptures, then continued, “Because the earthly wounds from the spear and the nailing appeared on the phantom body of the risen Christ, the first Christians believed that had his bones been shattered on the Cross, the Resurrection as we know it could never have been accomplished; for this was the meaning they attributed to the prophecy by the prophet Isaiah, ‘A bone of him shall not be broken.’ It is thought that for a moment in time Longinus held the destiny of the whole of mankind in his hands. And the legend grew that whoever possessed the spear and understood the powers it served would hold the destiny of the world in his hands, for good or for evil.”
I shook my head and interrupted him again. “Actually your quote’s not from Isaiah. The correct reference is Psalm 34:20, ‘He keepeth all his bones: not a one of them is broken.’” 
The doctor paused for a moment consulting his notes. Then he gave me a strange look. “I see that you are correct. The reference is from the Psalms and not Isaiah. You seem very familiar with the scriptures.”
“Before the war I was a theology student.” And a naïve young man who still had faith. Back then when the Good Book said, “the rain falls upon the just and the unjust,” that seemed to indicate an even-handed God who loved everyone equally, but now it just confirmed there was nobody up there calling the shots. If there were a God you would think he would do something to stop the Nazis.
One by one almost everyone I had ever known or worked with was gone, devoured by the insatiable war machine that was Nazi Germany and nothing we had done even slowed them down. Meanwhile, the hand of God was nowhere to be seen. Good or evil didn’t seem as relevant as how efficient your side was at killing, and I was sick of killing.
He smiled his strange little smile again. “Very curious. I see that Destiny has truly sent you here.”
“It wasn’t destiny, it was the Ministry of War.”
“Destiny sometimes works in very strange ways.” He turned to the general. “Did I ever tell you how I first met Adolf Hitler?”
The general straightened up in his chair with a look of interest as he shook his head. Apparently this hadn’t been included in the first briefing.
Seating himself, the doctor related that before the Great War he had been studying at the university in Vienna. He had purchased a volume on the Holy Grail from a used bookshop. The book turned out to have been pawned there by a certain penniless young painter. Young Adolf had tracked him down in a nearby café and tried to buy the book back. In time they had struck up a friendship over a mutual interest in the Grail and the occult. But later he was horrified at the way his old friend turned to the use of mind-altering drugs and the practice of black magic. After Hitler came to power the Nazis crushed not only the Communists but all other political parties and then began to persecute the Jews. This had brought home to him the evil they portended. After the Anschluss he had fled his native Austria one step ahead of the Gestapo. He knew too much about too many things Hitler had wanted to keep secret. 
“So you see, a chance meeting thirty years ago in Vienna between a university student and an unemployed painter of postcards resulted in knowledge of the spear reaching the highest levels of the British Empire in precisely their hour of need. And now you, a young man trained both in warfare and the Holy Scriptures have come to undertake the quest that I am too old for.”
I glanced over at the major and rolled my eyes. He quickly threw a hand up in front of his mouth and began coughing violently to stifle a laugh. This guy was too pompous to be believed. Next he’d start addressing me as Lieutenant Galahad or something.
I held up one hand like a traffic cop trying to halt the flow of mumbo-jumbo. “Okay, I accept that this artifact, this Spear of Destiny, is believed by Hitler to be the foundation of his military success and that you want me to swipe it because, according to the curse, if I am successful, Hitler will die and his armies will go down to ultimate defeat, right?” 
He nodded happily like a kindergarten teacher whose youngest student can finally recite his ABCs.
The major commented, “With your command of German and your experience masquerading as a German officer it should be easy for you to penetrate the castle. From there you need only obtain entry to Himmler’s suite, find the spear and spirit it out of the castle. Intelligence reports that Himmler does not visit the castle all that often and no one else is quartered in his rooms when he is not there.”
I asked, “Assuming I did manage to escape with the spear, this still leaves me deep inside Germany. How do I get back to England from there?”
“We can provide you with a foolproof cover identity that no one will dare challenge: that of a Gestapo agent. You simply travel by train to northern France to a preset rendezvous location. A small plane will meet you there and fly you back. It’ll be a milk run.” He smiled.
I smiled back, an artificial, thin-lipped sort of smile. I’d heard that phrase before on other missions. Nothing ever went as planned. 
“And if I succeed what would be the result?”
The doctor clasped his hands in front of himself and looked very serious as if I had inquired about the status of a very sick friend. “The war would end in a matter of weeks, perhaps days. The evil Nazi reign of terror would be over and all the killing and destruction would be at an end.”
I looked over to the military men for confirmation. The major shrugged. General Gubbins said, “The war might not end as quickly as all that. But it certainly would be shortened. Hitler and the Nazi leadership have quite a lot of faith in this artifact. Our possession of it would be a definite harsh blow to their confidence.”
“God knows we need some kind of success,” the major agreed. 
“God?” I shook my head. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”
On my last mission I’d murdered my best friend. I shot him right between the eyes and he thanked me, beforehand, of course, for sparing him from the Gestapo “questioning” that would surely follow our imminent capture. But after performing that humanitarian service, I’d managed to escape and without so much as a scratch on me, a miraculous escape that involved impersonating a German officer and hijacking an aircraft that flew me back to England. For some people that might have confirmed their faith in a benevolent God of miracles. Me, I saw a capricious deity of random chance. If God were all-powerful, you’d think he’d use some of that to do us some good down here where we need it.
I remembered back before the war when I was studying to be a minister, the Good Book said, “the rain falls upon the just and the unjust.” Back then that had seemed to indicate an even-handed God who loved everyone equally, but now it just seemed to confirm that there was either nobody up there calling the shots, or else he just didn’t care. 
At least that was what it seemed like to me. One by one almost everyone I had ever known or loved was gone, devoured by the insatiable war machine that was Nazi Germany and nothing we’d done had even slowed them down.
In Libya, Rommel’s Afrika Korps had defeated the British Eighth Army again driving them back across the Egyptian border. Last I had heard they were within 200 miles of Cairo. Beyond lay the Suez Canal, Britain’s lifeline to India. The oilfields of the Middle East that fuelled their armed forces were not much further. 
On the Eastern Front the Germans had halted a Soviet offensive near Kharkov and thrown it back. Russian forces were in full retreat. Their 6th and 57th armies had been encircled and completely destroyed. The port of Sevastopol was under bombardment by more than 1,300 German guns including two monstrous 600mm mortars and the even larger “Dora” of 800mm, firing shells that weighed as much as automobiles. It was only a matter of time before the city fell and Leningrad would probably follow shortly thereafter.
In the last month alone the RAF had lost more than 200 bombers over Germany while the Germans had sunk more than 800,000 tons of Allied merchant shipping, much of it within sight of the North American coast. 
In the Far East in the seven months the Japanese had been active in the war and allied to the Germans they had overrun Hong Kong, Malaya, the Philippines, Burma and the Dutch East Indies. A Japanese army was on the border of India and Australia was threatened with invasion. Our allies the Chinese had been badly defeated and driven back.
Only last month the Canadian government had finally announced full conscription of all able-bodied men. And the US, with the huge oil reserves of Texas to call upon, had been forced to resort to gasoline rationing. 
Meanwhile the Nazi armies still advanced in an almost supernatural string of victories. Even the tardy entrance of my own homeland, almost two years after I’d volunteered for the Canadian army, hadn’t seemed to make any difference. Hitler, a high school dropout with a comical moustache who couldn’t even get accepted into art school and never advanced above the rank of corporal in the Kaiser’s army, had surpassed both Alexander and Caesar. As a conqueror he’d beaten Napoleon’s record, achieving in 18 months more than what the magnificent Emperor of the French accomplished in almost as many years. 
For almost three years now the war news had been consistently about Allied defeats and retreats. France had been conquered and occupied. Britain had been driven from the continent. The Russians had lost millions of men and been driven back hundreds of miles in defeat after defeat. A middle-sized country in central Europe had the greatest nations of the world on the run. 
Maybe the spear did have power. 
I turned and looked into their expectant faces one by one. No one spoke until I broke the silence.
“I’m to go alone, then?”
“Unless you feel you need backup.”
I shook my head. No sense getting anyone else killed. Besides, I had my own magical talisman. My hand reached inside my pocket and squeezed the little rabbit’s foot.


Chapter 2
June 18, 1942 - 0330 hours

“I’m gonna need that,” I muttered absently to myself into the moist night air. I was crouched at the end of a farm field in northwestern Germany near where my equipment canister had come down. A gentle breeze brought to me the musty scent of a young cornfield dormant in the summer darkness. In the near distance I could hear frogs croaking in the direction of a nearby stream.
They had dropped me out the bomb bay of a bomber on its way to attack the railroad junction at Paderborn, just eight miles away. The importance the high command attached to my mission hadn’t quite sunk in until I realized the attack by a hundred heavy bombers was just a diversion laid on to cover my insertion by parachute. 
After landing it hadn’t taken me long to recover the canister and drag it into the underbrush at the edge of the field where I could sort the contents relatively undisturbed. It was three in the morning and I didn’t expect any company even though there was a paved two-lane rural highway only a short distance away on the other side of a low rock wall surrounding the field.  
I was dressed in the uniform of a Waffen SS infantry captain, with the rank tabs of a Hauptsturmfuhrer, and the appropriate medals and badges. The black uniform seemed especially useful right now when I really didn’t want to be seen. My initial cover story was that I was a military officer on medical leave after being wounded on the Russian front. Mostly recovered, I had taken to hiking to regain my strength. This explained why I wouldn’t have a vehicle when I arrived at the castle. I had been in the area and decided to pay a visit to see the fantastic place I had heard my brother SS officers talk about.
All my gear was laid out onto the ground by the canister where I had unpacked it. I started by stuffing several pounds of plastic explosive into the bottom of my backpack. If Himmler had the spear locked up in a safe I might have to blow it open. 
I followed that up with a metal cigar case containing an assortment of time pencils. The case was more to keep them from being crushed and prematurely activated than any attempt to disguise them. I had enough to set several diversionary charges if I needed to blow open a safe but I hoped the spear was just locked in a display case or something. My chances of getting out with it were going to be slim enough without setting off explosives all over the place.
Next I placed my grappling hook, a pair of grenades and several extra pistol magazines. I covered those with two coils of rope. This way anyone glancing in my pack in a cursory search wouldn’t come upon anything really incriminating without digging through to the bottom. As a sportsman and hiker I could explain having rope. The extra ammunition would be difficult to explain and the explosives impossible. 
We argued about the grenades. The major had initially issued me German stick grenades but I insisted they be replaced with British Mills bombs. 
“But if anybody sees you have British grenades it will blow your cover.”
“Sir, it doesn’t matter what sort of grenades I carry. No military officer is going to walk around on leave with a couple of hand grenades in his backpack. Mills bombs are easier to conceal and much handier than those long-handled potato masher things the Krauts use.” In the end I had my own way and the grenades were replaced.
The major had suggested that I bring a Sten gun but I’d turned him down. If I got myself into a situation where I needed that kind of firepower I was a dead man. And anyway, I already had a pistol and I was going to an enemy military installation. If I needed additional weapons or explosives they already had anything I might require. On my previous mission when I needed to hijack a plane all it had taken to get one was a pistol just like the one I was carrying. Its amazing how reasonable and cooperative people get when you threaten to kill them.
A change of clothing followed and I finished up with a shaving kit and a bedroll before securing the straps of the pack. Then I tightened my pistol belt and checked the load of the Walther P-38 they had issued me and set it on safe before holstering it. I had a Walther PPK in the weapons canister for my other identity. Unfortunately the ammunition of the two pistols was not interchangeable.
All that remained was a set of civilian clothes that belonged to my Gestapo agent persona. Rolling it up in the long black leather coat that would identify me better than any uniform as one of Himmler’s dreaded Sicherheitspolizei, I stuffed the roll of clothing and the appropriate identification documents back into the canister for later retrieval. After closing the canister I took my pack onto my shoulders and dragged the now lighter canister over the low stone wall and down an embankment towards the road and the croaking frogs. 
The stream was about a hundred yards away. Excuse me, a hundred meters. Had to remember I was in Germany, now. Think like a German. Talk like a German. Look like a Nazi. 
I concealed the canister under the low concrete bridge where the road crossed the stream, shoving it into the center of the culvert where it was least likely to be seen. In this low traffic, rural area with any luck no one would notice it for weeks or even months. Then I set out for the castle.
  It was pleasantly cool and the odor of the farm fields brought back happy memories of summers in Quebec. I even saw some fireflies. It would have been pleasurable except for the fact I was surrounded and alone deep in an enemy country. If I was caught dressed in an enemy uniform I’d be shot as a spy. Even the Geneva Convention allowed that. 
The SOE had issued me a cyanide capsule with my Waffen SS outfit but I left it behind in a wastebasket in my quarters. My brother Bill hadn’t carried one. I was going to face whatever came; however things turned out. 
At this point some might have affirmed their faith, declaring that the Lord would provide. But I thought about that French priest in the Résistance, the last person I’d heard say that. When he said that he’d had less than an hour to live. I never even learned his name. 
The road turned past a stand of trees and the castle came into view on a distant hill, a pair of lit windows glowing in the dark like eyes. Suddenly it didn’t feel much like a summer outing anymore.


Chapter 3
June 18, 1942 - 0700 hours
I’d paced myself to arrive at the castle in the early morning. On the road below the village a formation of troops approached. They were jogging in shorts and undershirts and led by a youth carrying a black banner emblazoned with a pair of runic lightning bolts. I moved aside to let them pass and smiled in feigned appreciation. 
Inside me two feelings fought for possession of my heart. I wished momentarily for a machinegun and the chance to use it on these murderers of my brother and friends. But a cold feeling of dread immediately followed that hot flush. They were just a bunch of kids. The guy in charge wasn’t any older than I was. And they hadn’t had anything more to do with the deaths I had wanted to hold them accountable for than the postmaster of Pocatello, Idaho. 
Shaking my head to clear it, I continued up the cobblestone street. The village looked as if it hadn’t changed in 400 years. But I wasn’t sure if it was original rustic or if much of the recent construction work had been done to achieve that effect. 
At the near end of the village there was an armed guard standing by a circular stone sentry box with the SS lightning bolt runes chiseled over the doorway. He was on display like one of those sentries outside of Buckingham Palace except without the tall bearskin cap. When I approached closely he snapped to attention. 
“Halt and state your business, sir.” 
“I am Hauptsturmfuhrer Stein. I was on leave and traveling in the area and thought I’d come by for a look at the castle, if that’s permitted.”
The sentry relaxed and replied, “If you’d like a tour, sir, just ask at the office.” Holding his rifle casually in his other hand he pointed across the road to a large building. 
I was not impressed. His spit and polish demeanor had evaporated like spilt beer. The guards at Buckingham Palace kept up appearances even when the King wasn’t home. Maybe whatever security there was here was only for show. If so they were going to regret it when I was through. I followed the sentry’s directions and it wasn’t long before I was standing in the office of the Castle Commander, Major General Taubert. 
“I would be most delighted to arrange for a tour for you, captain. We are most proud of our accomplishments here and love to show them off.” 
Gruppenfuhrer Siegfried Taubert was seated across from me at his enormous desk. He was the Burghauptmann or as we would have put it in America, the Big Cheese.
“How long are you planning to stay in the area, captain?” He asked.
“Just a couple of days, if it’s all right, sir.”
He nodded. “Certainly. I like to see our fighting men make use of the castle. You men are the point of the sword of Germany holding back the tides of Bolshevism. If not for your valiant efforts all the work we do here would come to nothing.”
I nodded and smiled at his accolades. Inside I secretly hoped all their work would come to nothing. I was certainly was going to do what I could to make that happen.
He scrawled something onto a piece of paper on his desk and then handed it to me. 
“This is a note instructing them to assign you temporary quarters in the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters next door. Take it there and make yourself at home. I will send somebody around to give you a guided tour of the place. I would invite you to dine with me but the Reichsfuhrer himself is going to arrive shortly so I need to make ready for his visit. You understand.” He got to his feet. My audience was over. “Heil Hitler!”
My arm shot out in response. “Heil Hitler!” I turned and walked out past his uniformed secretary and into the fresh air. The offer of the guided tour was more than I could have hoped for. However, just as I had expected, the plan had already started to fray around the edges. The Reichsfuhrer was going to arrive any minute. That was just what I needed, Himmler himself on one of his rare visits. How could I possibly get into his suite and steal the spear?


Chapter 4
June 18, 1942 - 0900 hours

“Excuse me sir, are you Hauptsturmfuhrer Stein?”
The man at the doorway to my quarters was at least ten years older than myself and garbed in the black uniform of an SS sergeant. He was wearing a wound ribbon similar to my own and I supposed that he was on light duty here at the castle until he recovered enough to return to the front.
“Yes, Scharfuhrer, I am he.”
“My name is Schmidt. If you accompany me I would be honored to give you a tour of the castle.”
Since I was an officer I rated my own room. This had an advantage as I closed the door behind us, leaving my pack filled with its incriminating equipment safely inside my wardrobe.
The two of us strolled up the hill past a little garden planted with a mixture of herbs and vegetables following the paved road right up to the castle. It circled around one side to a gate alongside the eastern tower. I saw no other sentries and there were no outer perimeter defenses, unless you counted the dry, landscaped moat that surrounded the castle. It had a stone bridge across it and was planted with grass and flowers. The only thing it might protect the place from was an assault by a bunch of cripples in wheel chairs and even they could reach the gate if they stayed on the bridge.
There was a set of stone stairs leading from one side of the bridge to the bottom of the moat. The moat ran gently downhill toward the cliff face the castle was built upon. If I didn’t mind some climbing I could probably approach the castle from that direction after dark without being noticed. Even better, there were numerous windows easily accessible to the moat. Many of the windows were close to the ground and probably opened onto the cellars. First floor windows higher up could probably be reached using the rope and grapple I had in my pack. If I could determine the location of Himmler’s room I might be able to reach it later from the outside.
The castle gates were propped open and were more like large doors than a portal into a medieval fortress. And there was no portcullis or drawbridge. The whole place was similar to the stately manors I had trained at in Britain, more of an elaborate mansion than a fortification. The cobblestone courtyard was plain and unadorned except for several long wooden benches. Doors ranging from as large as the gate, down to one the size of a large cupboard were scattered about the various walls and towers. On the far side of the courtyard a young boy in the uniform of a Hitler Youth was sweeping the cobblestones. When we came into view he paused for a moment for a good look at us before resuming his appointed task. I guess a mere SS captain wasn’t all that noteworthy on his scale of things.
“Any place you are especially interested in, sir?” My guide asked.
My hand slipped into my pocket and fingered the little rabbit’s foot. It hadn’t failed me yet. “I hear the Reichsfuhrer himself has a special suite of rooms here. Any chance we could sneak a peek?”
He fidgeted uncomfortably. “Uh, we keep those rooms locked and I don’t have a key.”
“I bet the cleaning staff has a key.” From the look he gave me, he knew it too, but was hoping I wouldn’t think of it.
He shook his head. “Sir, the Reichsfuhrer is expected sometime this morning. If we got caught roaming around in his personal suite I think we would both end up in a penal battalion on the Russian front before the end of the week. How about I just give you the standard tour?”
I nodded. I’d keep my eyes open and come back later by myself for a more thorough look.
“The castle takes the shape of a spearhead pointing almost due north. The large four-story tower over there,” he pointed to the end of the courtyard beyond the industrious little Hitler Youth, “is known as the North Tower. The foundations originally date back to the ninth century although the hill has been used as a stronghold back as far as the Roman invasion in 9 AD. As you can see, instead of plain curtain walls this unique three-sided castle has three stories of rooms connecting its three towers.”
I nodded. “That is a lot of space. But the fortress commander’s office is down in the village along with the barracks for the garrison. What do you use all these rooms for?”
He smiled. “Shall we have a look?” Turning, he led the way past the adolescent sweeper to the door into the largest tower. He stopped at the large wooden portal, gesturing at the ornate wrought iron handle. “After you, sir.” I stepped forward, pushed open the door and stepped through.
Beyond the door lay a large round room, the base of the largest tower, the North Tower. Above us large wrought iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The stone walls were bright with sunlight from six large multi-pane windows taller and wider than a man that were spaced evenly around the walls. Through the windows I had a magnificent view of the wooded hills of Westphalia in the distance. Between each window and holding up the vaulted ceiling were large marble pillars painted with cryptic runes. The floor was polished marble inlaid with a twelve-armed swastika. The whole place looked like the foyer of a great cathedral: a Nazi Cathedral. I was almost surprised not to see a baptismal font. 
There were two large doors on opposite sides leading out of the place. I pointed to one and asked, “Where does that door go?”
“That goes down to the cellars and the crypt.”
“There’s a crypt? Who’s buried here?”
“Actually nobody yet. It’s been prepared as the final resting place for the Reichsfuhrer and the twelve knights of the SS. Himmler fancies himself a modern Arthur and this castle is his Camelot.”
“So if nobody is buried here, what’s down there?”
He shook his head. “Nothing, just a big round empty chamber. They poured a cement floor over the original dirt but other than that it looks just like the dungeon it used to be. In the Middle Ages they kept condemned witches there until their execution.”
I nodded and thought about the windows that opened onto the moat. “Could we take a look?”
“Certainly.” He led the way through the door and down a flight of stone stairs. At the bottom were two oak doors reinforced with metal straps. They had large iron rings for handles. One had a sign that read “Keller.” By the other door stood a group of large wrought iron candleholders almost the height of a man. There seemed to be about a dozen of them and they bore the largest, fattest candles I had ever seen. They were about the same size and shape as a gallon can of paint, although slightly slimmer and taller. 
He ignored the huge candles and led the way through the other door into the crypt. Inside it was dim and cool. Far above, the summer sun shone down from a set of small windows, probably the same ones that I had seen in the moat. They were about twenty feet above the floor at the end of three or four-meter shafts through the thick walls of the base of the tower. A mountain goat couldn’t have escaped from this dungeon. But I could with a little help from my grapple and rope. I guess that didn’t say much for the condemned witches’ magical powers, then. Although maybe they took their brooms away so they couldn’t fly. Ha! Did Doctor Stein believe in witchcraft? After his impassioned speech about the mystic powers of this ridiculous spear I had no doubts that he did. And he probably believed in bogeymen, little green men from Mars and the Tooth Fairy, too.
The walls were medieval-looking, made of cut stone in random shapes and sizes. The ceiling was a vaulted arch with a large swastika set in the pinnacle. Maybe if I had majored in architecture instead of theology I could have told when it had been built. It all looked old to me, but parts of it, like the swastika, must have been added later.
The floor was modern cement. In the center of the room was a circular concrete depression about two feet deep that one could reach from a short pair of steps. It looked like a suitable place for building a bonfire for a barbecue although the floor was unmarked by soot or ash. Around the sides of the room were twelve flat-topped poured concrete footings that looked like the bases for pillars. I pointed to them. “What are those for?”
“They tell me that is where the urns containing the ashes of the Champions of Wewelsburg are to be kept after their deaths.”
I looked around the clean but quite empty crypt. “So what do they use this place for until them?”
Schmidt shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing that I know of. Had enough?”
I nodded and he led me back upstairs and through the foyer. At the other door he hesitated and then turned to me with a smile. "After you, sir." With that warning some of the effect of the room was lost, but it was impressive nonetheless. 
Inside was a huge room that obviously took up the entire width of the castle “wall.” There was a monumental fireplace big enough to roast a whole ox on a spit. In the center of the room was a magnificent rectangular oak table. It must have been twenty feet on a side. Around the perimeter of the table were thirteen leather-upholstered chairs whose backs were emblazoned with SS-runes. There were small candleholders spaced evenly around the table even though the room and the castle were wired for electricity. It was all very impressive, more so than anything I’d seen in England, although I’d never actually been inside Buckingham Palace.
Schmidt could tell from the look on my face that I was impressed. He smiled and threw his arms wide, taking in the whole room, the parquet wood floor, velvet drapes and the elaborate carvings on the wooden ceiling beams. “The Great Hall with the table for the twelve champions of Camelot.”
“Wasn’t that supposed to be a round table?”
He nodded. “Yes, that’s what I’ve heard, too.”
“Who are the twelve champions then?”
He gave me a conspiratorial nod. “The Reichsfuhrer likes his little fantasies. It’s just the heads of the various departments of the SS, you know, the Gestapo, the Orpo, the Race and Resettlement department, the Legal department, and all the rest. Whenever they have a big meeting here they use the Great Hall and pretend as if they are modern knights of Camelot. The guest quarters in the west tower are all decorated to match various famous knights or kings like Percival or Seigfried. You asked about Himmler’s personal suite. It’s decorated up in the style with period furnishings as if it belongs to King Henry the Fowler.” He leaned closer. “Rumor has it that the Reichsfuhrer fancies himself the reincarnation of old King Henry.”
“Really?”
He shrugged. “That’s what I hear. I don’t really know for sure.”
I glanced around the room again, taking in the fine wood paneling and the gorgeous tapestries. “So, is he planning any big meetings on this visit?”
“I don’t know. It was short notice so I don’t know what he intends. Maybe he just got a couple of days free and decided to drop by. He does that from time to time. Sometimes he brings Frau Himmler.”
“That must be very interesting.” I hadn’t even known that there was a Frau Himmler. I wondered what she was like. But somehow I doubted the head of the Gestapo was henpecked at home. 
He led me on through the castle, room by room although nothing was quite as impressive as the Great Hall had been. Eventually we ended up near the guest quarters with their medieval furnishings. Schmidt gave a running commentary.
“Are you familiar with the Spear of Longinus?” He asked.
My ears perked up. “Uh, no, what would that be?”
“An ancient relic said to be the very spear that pierced the side of Christ at the crucifixion. The whole castle is triangular in shape, suggestive of it. The spear has been used as the progressive theme of the interior decoration. Each of the guestrooms has been designed in every detail to personify the life-style, and achievements of one of the claimants of the spear from Charles the Great in the ninth century to the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire in 1806. There are rooms for Otto the Great, Henry the Lion, Fredrick Hohenstauffen, Phillip of Swabia, Conrad IV and all the rest. Each room contains genuine period pieces as well as personal items belonging to each of the heroes, such as weapons, armor, jewelry, and the like. A painting of each one hangs in the appropriate room.”
I nodded, looking suitably impressed. “Must have taken quite an effort to find all those artifacts.”
He nodded in agreement. “It was easier after the war began. Many of the artifacts were in museums in other countries that had been reluctant to part with them.”
“You mean most of the furnishings were stolen from foreign museums?”
He gave me a hard look. “The furnishings were not stolen. They have been regained by their rightful owner.”
I shrugged and he continued his spiel.
“When the leaders of the SS come they are put up in one of the guest rooms, a different room every time so that they can become familiar with all the claimants of the Spear. All but two of the rooms are used in rotation. Those two are reserved and kept locked.”
“One of those is Himmler’s? You said that it was decorated up as King Henry the Fowler, not so?” I asked. “So who is the other room reserved for?”
He laughed. “The Fuhrer, of course. It’s decorated up as if it belongs to the great conqueror, Emperor Fredrick Barbarossa. Thus far the Fuhrer has lived up to his reputation.”
At this point we passed the door to Himmler’s suite and Schmidt pointed it out as we went by.
“Sorry I can’t take you in.”
I nodded. The door was similar to the rest in the castle: long on period style and décor but lacking in security. The lock wasn’t modern. It was the kind that had the fat iron keys like you saw the sheriff in a Western movie carry around on a big iron ring. I could probably pick it with a table knife. If not, one swift kick would bust the doorjamb and I’d be in. I just had to find a time I wouldn’t be likely to be disturbed.
We continued on. The castle library was in the West Tower. I’d spent a lot of time in libraries and I was impressed. There were 30,000 volumes on racial and occult topics stored on modern steel shelves and all clearly labeled. And they had their own book binding shop to repair any ancient tomes that came their way. 
Then we toured the museum. They had displays of Ayran culture and German history. Glass cases held pottery shards, stone axe heads and other relics of the distant Germanic past. Many of the neatly labeled artifacts on display came from archeological digs in the neighborhood. 
 The final stop in the tour was the castle kitchens. I guess their passion for period décor stopped when it came to modern cooking appliances. They had been upgraded to standards equaling the restaurants in the finest German hotels, with a huge walk-in refrigerator and an enormous wine cellar. Rows of shiny copper bottom pots hung from the thick rafters above the modern electric cooking range. 
Afterwards we ate an informal lunch and Schmidt asked me about my recent service on the Eastern Front. I’d been prepared for this and had made up a story based on my recent missions to France. I just changed the location to Russia. Instead of trying to rescue a Resistance leader from the Gestapo I’d been trying to rescue a captured SS colonel from the Russian secret police. I had supposedly been wounded in our escape.
“So you aren’t really an infantry officer, then?” He asked.
“I was until they transferred me to a special duty group.”
“So you work for the Reich Central Security Department now?”
I nodded and took another bite of my sausage. There was sauerkraut, which I thought was ironic, and some kind of noodle dish with beef gravy. The food wasn’t bad. It was a nice change from British army rations, but I would have killed for a cheeseburger and a Coke.
Schmidt asked, “Did you ever get to meet Obergruppenfuhrer Heydrich?”
I shook my head and recited more of my cover story. “No, and since those damned Czech agents assassinated him a couple weeks ago I never will. Doktor Kaltenbrunner replaced him as chief of the security office although I’m pretty far down the chain of command. I probably won’t ever get to meet him either.”
The sergeant nodded and pushed a few noodles around his plate in agitated disappointment. He was even lower on the totem pole than I so that Obergruppenfuhrer Heydrich must have seemed like an untouchable hero to him. Then he looked up with sadness in his eyes. “The Reichsfuhrer is said to have considered him the Champion of Champions of this SS Camelot.”
“You mean like Lancelot?”
He nodded. Then his eyes blazed. “The Czechs got off way too easily, if you ask me. The destruction of Lidice was not enough to pay for their crimes. We should have done the same to the whole country, just kill them all and plough it under for resettlement. The only good Czech is a dead Czech.”
I pushed my plate away. I wasn’t feeling that hungry anymore. Maybe it was the company. 
At this moment one of the uniformed female maids that cleaned the guestrooms ran through the dining hall and headed for the kitchen calling out, “He’s here! He’s here! The Reichsfuhrer’s here!” 
Sergeant Schmidt stood up and began gathering his utensils onto his plate. “Well, sir, I hope you enjoyed the tour, but I have other duties to perform just now.” I nodded and stood up to gather my own place setting, remarking, “Thank you for your efforts on my behalf. But remember, even the Master Race needs servants, Sergeant. We can’t kill everybody, as much as we might like to.”
He threw me a smile as if he appreciated my little joke and led the way to the dishwashers. We deposited our soiled plates in front of a pair of eager Hitler Youth who were helping win the war by washing dirty dishes 1,200 miles behind the front. Schmidt went his way and I went mine.
My way led me back to my quarters. Along the way I tried to plan my next move.
There was no way I was going to be able to break into Himmler’s room right now. He was probably in there “freshening up” after his trip. There was no telling when he might leave or how long he’d be gone or when he might come back. And I couldn’t afford to wait around several days until his visit was over. Not only would that look somewhat suspicious for someone ‘just passing by,’ but I’d also miss my rendezvous with the plane. 
When I turned into the unmarried officer’s quarters I noticed that the guard had been doubled down the street in front of the headquarters. Perhaps they were taking security a little more seriously now that ‘King Henry’ was here. 
Inside my room my pack did not appear to have been disturbed. The hair I had left pasted with spit across the crack of the wardrobe door was still in place. I lay back on the bed and tried to think. Something Sergeant Schmidt had said was troubling me. 
During the tour he had said the crypt was going to be used to bury the knights of the SS after they died, but that it was currently empty. Later we had talked about the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, head of the Reich’s Security Service. It hadn’t occurred to me then but he had been one of the knights, probably the first among equals. And he was dead, replaced by Doctor Kaltenbrunner. But he wasn’t buried in the crypt. He’d been buried in Czechoslovakia near where he’d been killed. If they didn’t even bury their most famous knight in the crypt after his death, maybe it wasn’t really a crypt after all. Perhaps that was just a cover story for the real purpose. But what else could you use it for? Then again, maybe after all my training in subterfuge and espionage I was just being too paranoid…. 


Chapter 5
June 18, 1942 - 1820 hours

I awoke with a start. It had been a long night last night. When I had lain down to think of a plan I must have fallen asleep. The angle of sunlight from the window showed that sunset was near. I got up, combed my hair and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of my uniform. Then I wandered down to the officer’s mess.
I was lucky. Dinner was still being served although the place was deserted. I got a plate and headed over to a solitary lieutenant who looked a little bored and lonely.
“Mind if I join you?”
“No, sir. Go right ahead.” He glanced around the nearly empty room as if wondering why with so many empty tables I had chosen to sit with him.
After I settled in I cut off a piece of the inevitable sausage, taking care to keep the fork in my left hand while eating. That had been a difficult skill to master. My American eating habits were more likely to get me caught here than my non-native accent, since so many of the lower ranks of the SS were from countries other than Germany. My own cover story was that I was from Strasbourg, a portion of France since incorporated into the German Reich. That explained why I could speak French, although no real Frenchman would be fooled for a second by my accent.
I waved my fork around at the empty tables. “Where is everybody?”
“Everybody is mostly up at the castle. The Reichsfuhrer is holding a conclave of the Knights of the SS tonight. Most of the others are up there dining with them before the big meeting.”
“Why aren’t you?”
He looked glum. “Because I’ve got the duty. I’m Officer of the Guard. Just my luck, too. All the famous leaders of the SS are up there and I’m stuck posting guards all night.”
I waved another piece of sausage at him. “Don’t be sad. You’ve got a chance to excel and show the Reichsfuhrer himself how good you are at commanding the guard.”
He toyed with a chunk of potato. “But they’ll never even notice me unless there’s trouble. And what sort of trouble is there likely to be here? I would be better off at the front where the action is.”
I nodded as I chewed. He was going to get some action tonight, probably more than he wanted. With any luck he’d be disciplined for his failure to protect the spear. He’d probably find himself on the Russian Front soon enough, although probably as a private in a punishment battalion. 
“So, how late do these meetings usually go?”
“This is a big one, with the heads of all the departments, so something big is going to happen. The last one like that was just before the invasion of Russia. That one lasted almost until dawn. I know because I got stuck as Duty Officer that night too.”
He sopped up the remaining gravy with his last morsel of black bread before popping it into his mouth. After a moment he stood up saying, “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have to go inspect the guards before the posting.”
I nodded and pretended interest in my plate as he walked forlornly off, no doubt cursing his luck. I felt a momentary flash of compassion for him before remembering the words of the SS sergeant this afternoon. Both of them were junior leaders in an immense organization dedicated to the slaughter and enslavement of millions. Himmler fancied himself a modern King Arthur. But he and his twelve knights had more in common with a coven of wicked witches than a band of chivalrous heroes.
After depositing my plate with the dishwashers I returned to my room. Tonight was the night. I’d wait until late when most everybody else was asleep but the meeting was still going on in the Great Hall. Probably the best way to get unobserved into the castle would be through the windows from the moat into the disused crypt. I could let myself down with my rope, come up the back way through the cellars, break in Himmler’s suite while they were busy at the meeting, steal the spear, then go back out the way I came. I could be in Paderborn before sunup disguised as a Gestapo agent and on my way to France with the morning train. It’d be a cakewalk.


Chapter 6
Midnight, June 18, 1942

I was creeping up the moat from the downhill end, breathing heavily from the climb. Above me most of the lights of the castle were out. Pausing to catch my breath by the base of the North Tower, I examined one of the windows to the crypt. It looked a lot larger here than it had from the bottom of the dungeon. The scent of wet decay and the sound of frogs drifted up from the river at the base of the cliff. I wiped my muddy boots on a clump of grass in the bottom of the moat and then slid my pack from my shoulders.
I had repacked it in my room before setting out, taking only the climbing gear, weapons and explosives. I didn’t plan to return. It was going to be obvious in the morning when the spear and I were both gone that “Captain Stein” had done the dirty deed anyway. My plan was to get to my equipment canister and change into Agent Braun of the Gestapo before anybody noticed. 
In the waning moonlight I pulled out my grapple and rope and set them aside. The window was old and not made to open. Numerous panes of glass roughly the same size as sheets of paper were set in a wooden frame about a meter square. The whole thing was nailed into a matching square wooden frame. After close examination I was able to use my ceremonial SS dagger to pry the window away from the frame a couple of centimeters. Then I slid my hand in behind and tugged the whole thing out toward me. The nails squeaked in protest as I pulled the frame away, exposing the shaft leading to the crypt below.
I paused for a moment listening. Had anyone heard? 
The only response was the breeze sighing as it passed through the branches of the trees on the other side of the river.
The double guard was still posted down at the village and there were a pair of sentries guarding the closed castle gate. But they were around the corner of the tower I was crouched behind and a hundred feet away. 
I shouldered my pack again and then tied the end of the rope around my waist. After setting the hook solidly in a corner of the window opening, I backed into the shaft that fell steeply away into the darkness. Walking backwards down the shaft, paying out the rope in front of me, I inched my way down towards the crypt. The moon was dim and the sky had patches of clouds so that very little light reached me. Beneath me the darkness was stygian but at least when I reached the bottom all I had to do was grope around until I found the door. There wasn’t any furniture laying about to trip me up.
I’d gotten about halfway down the shaft when below me I heard a door opening and the sound of voices. I froze. 
“Set your candle holders the same places as last time. I shall place mine in the center,” said a voice.
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer,” a chorus of male voices replied.
I glanced over my shoulder down the shaft. Below me a dozen small flames flickered and bobbed through the darkness. Luckily for me the feeble light from the big candles did not illuminate the window shaft. I hung there sweating in the dank air praying no one looked up and saw me silhouetted against the moonlit windowsill. I had a couple of grenades but they were in my pack, inaccessible to me where I hung. And the pistol on my hip didn’t hold enough bullets to deal with Himmler and all twelve of his SS knights, even if they were unarmed. What in hell were they doing down there this time of night, anyway?
“The illumination is complete, Herr Reichsfuhrer,” said a deep voice.
“Thank you, Herr Doktor,” said the first voice that had spoken. I supposed it was Himmler’s. He continued speaking.
“I have called this meeting to address a serious problem. The Reich requires a new deity.”
A new voice interrupted. “What is wrong with the ones we have now? So far they have provided us victory after victory.” The voice sounded old and tired, like it belonged to an elderly man, well past his accustomed bedtime.
“Yes, we have won battles but the war continues. England still defies us. Our armies have been bogged down on the Russian front for a year and now Amerika has joined our enemies,” Himmler replied. “The Norse gods are too weak to deliver the victory we need to end this war and begin the worldwide rule of the Thousand Year Reich.”
“Perhaps all they require are additional sacrifices?” The tired voice insisted in a tone that suggested he would rather be tucked into a warm bed elsewhere than arguing theology in a dank dungeon at midnight.
The deep voice of the Doktor disputed him. “More? Last year alone Heydrich’s Einsatzgruppen provided more than two million blood sacrifices using Jews and Communists from the conquered portions of Russia and the Ukraine. Even so our armies still couldn’t reach Moscow or Leningrad. How many more sacrifices do they need? No, it’s not from a failure to keep our end of the bargain. The Norse gods are too weak. They have few worshipers. Before us their followers were limited to a tiny few scattered across rural Scandinavia. Even now most of the SS don’t even take them seriously. What we need is an existing deity, one with large numbers of active followers, one with power that we can amplify and harness to our goals.”
Himmler’s voice agreed, “Exactly so. The latest expedition to Tibet returned with ancient manuscripts that have allowed us to contact the Agarthi directly.”
“Who are the Agarthi?” Another voice asked.
“They are the Spirit-Beings that have guided the higher races since before the fall of Atlantis. If you spent more time in the library here you would know that.”
Hanging above them in the window shaft my arms had started to ache. I shifted position to try and take more of the weight off them onto my legs that were braced against the sides of the shaft. I hoped the meeting would either end soon or else dissolve into a violent argument about these mystical spirits. If they were noisy enough maybe I could make my escape without being heard.
“With the Agarthi we have formed a plan of action to obtain the favor of a new deity, one whose supernatural powers can bring this war to a successful conclusion.”
The tired one continued his opposition. “Yes, but the Norse gods have served us long and well. They were the ones who made it possible for the Party to consolidate its control over Germany against opposition from the Communists, the Socialists, the Monarchists and the other Nationalist parties. Without them we’d still be prostituting ourselves to the voters trying to win a majority in that useless Weimar Republic.”
“Yes,” Himmler replied. “I was there when we sacrificed Rohm and the leaders of the Brownshirts to them. In case you don’t remember, it was I who performed the rites, myself. We have served the Norse gods well, but like respected but elderly grandparents, it is time for them to move aside and make way for more virile offspring.”
“But if we break faith with them won’t they turn against us?”
Himmler laughed. “What? And who would they support if not us? The atheistic Soviets or the Christian West? The Reds can not believe in them. And the Christians are the very ones responsible for their decline. A thousand years ago before the coming of Christianity the Norse gods were honored and worshiped across northern Europe. Now they are virtually extinct. And they will become extinct if we are defeated. They have no choice but to support us, whether we sacrifice to them or not.”
The old voice continued its reluctant opposition, “I just wish the Old One was here. I’d like to have his opinion on this radical step you are about to undertake.”
The deep voice of the Doktor replied, “I’ve already spoken with him. He concurs with the decision. As you know the power of a god is represented by the formula, power equals F times S, where F is the number of devoted followers of the god and S represents the number of sacrifices made. Obviously if we begin with a deity with more followers and then increase S we maximize the power available. By switching to a deity with a greater F force we will increase the effect of the sacrifices we provide. In essence each one will be more effective.”
The tired voice continued its cranky opposition. “Yes, but we have already performed more than two million blood sacrifices….”
Himmler broke in. “Yes and that immense number was still insufficient to allow the Norse gods to completely overcome neither the Schamballah spirits who support the Communists nor even the pathetic Jehovah-god that supports the Judeo-Christian West. Thor’s blitzkrieg defeats them but cannot destroy them. We possess the very spear that killed the Son of Jehovah on the cross, yet his followers still defy us.”
Sounding resigned to the inevitable, the tired voice asked, “so what must we do then?”
The Doktor replied, “Preparations are already underway. However, the new goddess requires that none of the blood of her sacrifices be spilt. Her followers typically strangle their victims.”
“Well, is it not going to be rather difficult to strangle every Jew in Europe? There must be millions of them still. Shooting them all was taking too long as it was.”
The voice of the doctor continued, annoyed at the interruption. “Yes, and disposal of the bodies was another bottleneck. Fortunately one of my subordinates and a good personal friend of the Reichsfuhrer, Rudolf Hoess, has undertaken some experiments at the work camp he commands near Auschwitz. He has obtained amazing results by using an ordinary commercial fumigation product by the brand name, Cyclon B. It originally came to his attention by being used to exterminate vermin in the cellblocks, rats, mice, fleas, lice, and such. But it does a fantastic job on other sorts of vermin, too: Jews, Gypsies, Communists….”
There was a general outburst of laughter before the doctor continued.
“Disposal is through commercial-type cremation furnaces set up on an industrial scale. He even took the initiative to ensure that by careful design the furnaces use primarily the liquefied fats of the bodies as fuel, reducing the need for diversion of scarce resources, such as coal. Some of the potentised ashes can then be employed in a spell to enchant a permanent circle of protection from Jews around the borders of the Reich guaranteeing its security forever. The rest can be made into soap or sold as fertilizer for a tidy profit.”
A new voice broke in, “That man Hoess should be commended.” There was a chorus of voices raised in agreement. The doctor continued after it died down.
“The experiments have been ongoing since last September and we are now ready to take the next steps. Additional equipment has been ordered and is to be installed in the camp in order to take the production of burnt offerings to full-scale industrial levels. Hoess estimates he can process three or four thousand per day, every day, around the clock. All we need now is to contact the goddess and complete the bargain. The expanded crematoria can be consecrated to her within a few weeks. With the massive boost to her already great supernatural power our victory can be complete and the war will soon be over.”
There was an undercurrent of low voices as the knights discussed the implications among themselves. Meanwhile my leg muscles were beginning to ache from the exertion of holding myself in the shaft. The implications of their insane plan were staggering: millions of human sacrifices, on an industrial scale in an attempt to influence pagan gods to sway the destiny of the world. 
Below me the thirteen members of the Nazi coven settled the issue amongst themselves in their satanic temple. Himmler’s voice came to me in the silence. 
“Are we agreed?”
There was a chorus of voices in agreement.
“Then let us begin the ritual.” 
He began reading or reciting something that sounded as if it were Latin. Occasionally the other voices would chant some response in unison. The smell of incense drifted up to where I was hanging.
I knew my original plan was blown. No way was I sneaking through the middle of their Black Mass or whatever it was. I’d have been better off trying one of the windows to the Great Hall upstairs. It was probably empty. But to get there I’d have to pull myself back up the shaft without making any noise. And I was torn between trying to do that covered by the noise of the chanting from below or waiting a bit and trying to figure out what they were actually up to down there. It didn’t sound like anything I’d ever imagined the real King Arthur doing: some kind of weird ceremony by candlelight at midnight? Merlin or the Witch Queen Morgan Le Fey maybe, but not Arthur. Of course, maybe Himmler fancied himself more as Prince Mordred the Bastard, daring the things Arthur hadn’t the stomach for.
The muscle of my right leg decided for me by starting to cramp. I began climbing back up the shaft, putting most of my weight on the rope and trying to work the cramp out of my leg. I made it almost all the way back to the windowsill. 
Below me the chanting suddenly stopped. It was followed by a long silence. Hanging by one arm I reached out with my left hand. With fingers outstretched I could almost touch the wooden windowsill: so close.
From the crypt below there came a peal of thunder and a flash of lightning. The shaft around me lit up as from the noonday sun. Blinded from the flash, I clenched my eyelids closed. My hands lost their grip on the rope and I slid several feet before frantically regaining hold and halting my fall with a shoulder-wrenching jerk. Luckily the deafening noise covered the sound of the nails on the soles of my climbing boots scraping the stone walls of the shaft. Had there been a bombing attack on the castle by the RAF? My ears rang like the time I had forgotten to wear my earplugs on the machinegun firing range. 
Down below came the sound of a deep inhuman chorus, booming out of the darkness, speaking in unison in a language I could not understand. The sound of those voices was like nothing I’d ever heard before. Deep within me rose a nameless feeling of dread, a terror beyond any I had ever felt before, even in combat. It was a primal fear like what must have afflicted my ancient Scottish ancestors as they squatted naked around their feeble campfire clutching their chipped stone knives, listening to the roar of a cave bear or saber tooth tiger prowling somewhere out in the surrounding darkness and praying for the dawn. Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end. All I wanted to do was flee screaming into the night. 
My eyes popped open of their own accord and I began scrambling up the rope. Fear seemed to have given me a new vitality and energized my weary muscles. The voices below continued to speak, loudly yet slowly and sonorously like a minister reciting the benediction at the end of a church service. 
Or a witch pronouncing a curse on her enemies. 
As I scrambled over the windowsill I heard another voice from the pit. Compared to The Voices this other one sounded small, and thin and weak. But I recognized it as the voice of Himmler the Sorcerer commanding his summoned spirits.
“Speak only in German, else these others will not understand.”
I rolled to the bottom of the moat, stunned. Until now I hadn’t taken the mumbo-jumbo of the spear seriously. Stealing it was just another mission like sabotaging an enemy power station or airfield. Even their lunatic talk about slaughtering the Jews of Europe as human sacrifices had been just the evil ravings of unstable minds. It had never occurred to me that pagan gods and occult spirits might be real. 
It was like, well, like something out of the scriptures. I thought about how the Bible had spoken of Satan as if he were a real adversary working against God. And about the times the prophets and apostles had come up against evil spirits and sorcerers and engaged them in spiritual warfare. 
When Moses had come to Pharaoh and demanded he set the People of Israel free from bondage he had performed signs and wonders demonstrating the power of Jehovah. 
And the priests of Pharaoh had duplicated many of those same signs and wonders using the powers of the Egyptian gods. I realized I had read those stories and spiritualized the true implications away. I’d treated them as if they had been little more than fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm. Perhaps with better morals, but no more real than Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. 
Spirits and witches and dark pacts with strange gods were something from ghost stories or scary movies with Boris Karloff or Bela Lougosi. Yet here I was in the middle of one. 
The windows of the crypt glowed with a ghostly light the color of blue neon. It pulsed in time with the spoken words of The Voices. I could hear Them talking with the Nazis below but I couldn’t bear to listen to what they were saying. I clapped my hands over my ears and crawled away on my knees around the side of the tower toward the windows that led to the Great Hall.
In ancient times it was believed that the sacrifice of a single virgin youth would ensure a bountiful harvest and prosperity for the whole tribe. But what would the sacrifice of millions ensure?
If the spirits were real, if they did have power, if the formula the Nazi doctor seemed so sure of was accurate, with this new infernal pact there’d be no stopping them. The Nazi Armies of Darkness would march across the entire world, supported by a modern industrial altar of death that ancient pagan priests, who had to perform their ritual sacrifices one by one, would have been immensely envious of. 
My God, what was I to do? Was there nothing that could stop them?
Then I remembered the spear. If the power of the spirit world was real, then so was the spear. And Doctor Stein had said that whoever controlled the spear held the destiny of the world in his hands. 
I had to get my hands on that spear.
I rose unsteadily to my feet, like a punch-drunk prizefighter. The rope was still tied around my waist so I reeled it in. The grapple was still attached to the end. Carefully, quietly, I used it like a climbing axe to scale the rough wall of the castle. Reaching the windows to the Great Hall was not difficult. Standing on the broad window ledge I used the grapple to break a windowpane by the latch. In seconds I was inside closing the window behind me. 
Untying the rope and dropping it onto the floor, I stepped quietly to the door at the far end of the hall. I was going to walk openly through the hallways of the castle. At this time of night I was unlikely to meet anyone. If I did, with so many visitors here for the meeting I might be able to fool them into thinking that I was just returning to my quarters after a midnight stroll. 
And if not, I still had my ceremonial SS dagger.
But I was lucky and reached the door to Himmler’s suite without incident. And as I had expected, I was easily able to jimmy the door with my dagger.
Closing it behind me I turned to face the room. It was outfitted as a sitting room, with plush upholstered chairs and a silver tray with a tea set sitting on a low serving table. The china teacups were clean, unused and the teapot cold. A quick glance around told me that I would not find the spear here. 
I went through the suite. It consisted of three rooms, the sitting room, a bedroom and a study. I figured the most likely place to find the spear was the study so I started there.
In the study there was a large ornate fireplace along one wall, complete with inscribed scriptural motifs and a Latin inscription no doubt leftover from the original inhabitants. Above was a portrait of King Henry the Fowler. Nearby were a low leather upholstered bench and a bookshelf. A large bear rug covered the floor in front of the fireplace. Above me a wrought iron chandelier with electric bulbs illuminated the center of the room providing more than adequate light for the large desk along the wall by a window.
On the desk lay an ancient-looking worn leather case about the size of a large family Bible. In any other study that was what I would have expected it to be. But I knew that of all the things this place might possibly contain, a Bible was the most unlikely. So I turned my attention to the case. 
Inside on a faded red velvet cushion lay the spear in all its glory.
It wasn’t much to look at. An ancient weapon broken and then badly repaired with mismatching metal thread. I closed the case. Behind me in the outer sitting room I heard the door open.
It could only be Himmler or perhaps a serving maid. No one else was allowed in his suite. My hand went to my dagger. If I was quiet I could still pull this off.
Before I could draw it forth a deep voice, the voice of the Doktor from the pit boomed out, “You there! We know you are in there. Make it easy on everyone and come out with your hands up. Don’t make us wait for the guards.”
My hand switched to my holster, unbuttoning the flap. As I drew my automatic my other hand scooped up the case holding the spear. 
Now I had it. According to prophecy I was now invincible, Hitler would soon be dead and the war would be over. I took a deep breath and strode to the doorway to the sitting room. 
The door to the hallway was open. The hall was full of men in black robes. Some still had the hoods up over their heads. Several of them were armed, holding pistols of the same type as mine. I recognized Himmler from having seen him in newsreels. In his hand he had a policeman’s Walther PPK just like the one waiting for me in my equipment canister.
I ducked back around the corner into the study out of their line of fire. “Out of my way!” I demanded. “You can’t touch me. I have the spear.”
One of the hooded ones turned to a neighbor and remarked, “So that’s what he was after. The spirits were a little vague when they warned us that an intruder was here.”
Himmler gave a little chuckle. “You are well versed in the grail legend, whomever you are. Unfortunately, that is not the real spear. It is only a replica. Do you think I would leave the real one just lying about on the top of the desk?”
“No.” I said. “That’s a lie. You know I cannot be defeated and are trying to trick me into putting it down.”
“Suit yourself. The Führer has the real one locked up somewhere safe. You can’t make it out past us. If you don’t surrender we’ll just wait for the guards to arrive and toss in a couple grenades. But I’d just as soon have you surrender quietly rather than have my study blown up.”
I shut the door and bolted it from my side. My faith in the spear wasn’t strong enough to test. 
I knew the door wouldn’t keep out a determined man for very long. Dashing to the window I leaned out. It was a three-story drop to the cobblestones below. In the courtyard beneath me stood the young lieutenant I had dinner with, the one who craved action. He was issuing orders to a squad of soldiers in gray battledress when he caught sight of me in the window. In seconds well-aimed gunfire began to pelt the side of the tower near the window. I ducked away: so much for trying to descend the side of the tower.
I leaped to the fireplace. Alas, the flue was too narrow for me to escape that way. I reached inside my pocket and squeezed the little rabbit’s foot. I had resolved to trust to luck and the powers of the spear when the door burst open under the pressure of a booted foot. 
I spun and fired a shot in that direction.
The response was a pair of stick grenades, tumbling through the door from opposite sides. One bounced into the fireplace by my feet. The other rolled across the floor. A voice out in the hall shouted a warning. “Grenades! Keep back!”
If there had been just one I might have tired to snatch it up and throw it back out the door before it exploded. But I knew I could never do that twice. The second one would go off in my hand. So I turned, leaped across to the desk and pushed it over with a crash, then crouched down behind it. It was the best cover I could come up with. The heavy desktop would stop any fragments. Still clutching the leather case and my pistol, I awkwardly put my little fingers in my ears to muffle the concussion. Hopefully the blast wouldn’t be too bad. But I knew that as soon as the grenades exploded armed guards would storm the room to finish me off. I tensed for the explosions and prepared to pop up from behind the desk and shoot the first man through the doorway after the grenades went off. If the powers of the spear failed I would sell my life dearly.
But there was no blast. After a few more seconds I realized the explosions were long overdue. I looked up in confusion just in time to take the blow from the rifle butt of the guard sergeant right between the eyes. 
My head rocked back and bounced off the stone wall behind the desk. Stunned, the spear and my pistol both slipped from my fingers. More blows rained down upon me.
My last conscious thought before they beat me into submission was that they hadn’t activated the grenades before they threw them in the room. They had known that once I saw them I would either have to charge out where they could shoot me or else ride out the blast behind the heavy desk. That dammed tricky Himmler had taken me out without blowing up his precious study. 
By the time I came to they’d gone through my backpack and discovered enough evidence to know I was a British agent. Figuring rightly that I’d been sent to steal the spear they didn’t suspect I overheard their plotting in the crypt. 
For some reason they didn’t shoot me out of hand but sent me on to Auschwitz instead. Perhaps Himmler thought it a great joke that I should be the first of the sacrifices to the new goddess. 


Chapter 7
June 22, 1942

In the boxcar carrying me and countless others to our doom, I lay there in the filthy straw, rocking gently to the motion of the train and giggling to myself as I planned an escape from the very bowels of the Fascist Beast that had swallowed me alive. The others gave me room thinking I had lost my mind. But instead I had finally found it.
I knew now the evil spirits were real. I was about to find out if the same was true of the other side. I’d been in tight spots before, but Major Somerville hadn’t said I was his best agent for no reason. Maybe it was just luck. Or maybe there really was a God looking out for me. 
Turning out my pockets, I giggled some more at their emptiness and my doomed traveling companions pressed back away from me, eyes wide. My interrogators had taken the little rabbit’s foot – and everything else but the ragged remnants of my uniform. If it had been just luck, then my luck had run out.
But if there was somebody looking out for me, then one way or another I was going to wriggle out of the fate Himmler and his minions had planned. And someday I was going to get hold of that spear. And when I did it was going to be their doom. 
The train blew its whistle, its brakes squealing as it lurched into our final stop. Giggling uncontrollably, I wiped the spittle from the corner of my mouth with a ragged sleeve. I glanced around at the faces of those unfortunates surrounding me, but no one would meet my gaze. 
Staggering to my feet, the door rumbled open admitting the glaring light of the summer sun. A rough voice began shouting, “Raus! Raus! Everybody out!” The air was harsh with the scent of burnt flesh and I heard the sudden crack of a whip and the cry of a child. My traveling companions shuffled forward like men already dead, and I followed. 
Outside, my destiny waited….


# # # 

Continue Stuart’s adventures in

The Fist of God
And
The Unholy Grail

Investigate the occult truths behind the story in

Vril: A Force to Reckon With

Or learn the real meaning of Gothic Runes 

All by M.E. Brines

Follow M.E. Brines on Twitter.
Or visit www.MEBrines.com