The Uvalde Raider by Ben English (great books for teens TXT) 📕

"That could be construed as dangerous talk against a valued ally in our recent war, major." Hapshell stood and made his way to a nearby window, staring out for a few moments as he pondered Ezekiel’s words.

"Our world is currently in a giant mixmaster, Zeke, even as we try to figure out what to do next. Washington wants us to roll out the red carpet for the Communists and placate them in any way possible. Cripes, we both know what happened to Patton when he made the mistake of being honest about our Soviet ‘friends.’ That remark about kicking their butts back into Russia and making it look like they started it just about finished him."

The Colonel paused again and then remarked. "Maybe the wrong words and the wrong methods but right in regard to what the Communists have in mind, same as suspicioned by your German friend. Washington may not like it and the American people may not even know it yet, but the Soviet Union will be the next great threat that we’ll have to deal with. It’s already beginning and we’re going to need all the help we can get."

Hapshell turned and looked at Zeke, saying “I think I know where to place a bug in the right ear and I'm fairly certain they'll go for it. When I get the word, we’ll see if we can make your man a job offer."

Ultimately, the word did make its way back from higher authority and when asked Max Grephardt jumped at the opportunity. In short order he had gathered like-minded former German military officers around him, selected from the detainees at his camp as well as others. Each were meticulously investigated and vetted, not only for any past Nazi sympathies but also for anything the Communists might offer or could use against them.

Once chosen, this developing cadre was formed into operational units that were paid, equipped and led by Allied intelligence organizations. Ezekiel Templar, chafing at the bit to be a part of this, managed to have himself detached from air operations and into one of these teams. Coincidentally, or likely more on purpose, he ended up in the same highly successful group that Max was working in.

Furthermore, it became the opinion of all concerned that Ezekiel Templar was not only a first rate combat pilot, but also had a natural inclination for intelligence work. With additional training and experience, the former bomber commander became an exemplary asset to whatever mission he happened to be involved in.

In those years much good work was done and a great deal of trust was fostered, trust that would be proven time and again in the years and decades to come. Friendships, both institutionally as well individually, were forged and fortified that would last a lifetime.

A new chapter was written in European history and although there were setbacks, disappointments, and lives lost, the next war that Ezekiel Templar warned of never came. In preventing yet another great cataclysmic conflict far worse than the two prior, men like he and Max would have their names printed large in the pages of that particular ledger.

Yet some of those setbacks, disappointments and lives lost weighed very heavily in the personal memories of Max Grephardt. At times between their intelligence endeavors and for many years afterward, Max would sometimes drive from Frankfurt and get as close to the border as he dared. The Iron Curtain had fallen on Eastern Europe and Germany itself was divided into two different, opposing factions.

Across the heavily guarded line sat his old home now located in East Germany, a puppet government propped up and ruled by the Soviet Bear. He would sit there for hours and gaze toward the Werra, remembering better times before the entire world went stark, raving mad.

Each time he promised himself that someday he would return. Vadi, Mamma and the rest of his family were gone, but there was still a church that needed to be rebuilt and a generational past that needed reclaimed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ezekiel Templar lay in the shadows of the store room, unconscious and groaning occasionally in the way that only a suffering man could. He had lapsed into a deep sleep brought on by the pain medications, but then was partially roused from his slumber by a blossoming fever that kept his mind in a state of disjointed, fitful dreaming.

But they weren’t really dreams at all, they were nightmares. For in them he was back in the war, once more leading formations of Flying Fortresses against the enemy. However, this time the aerial armada he was part of had Nazi insignias and were being targeted against American cities.

Messerschmitt 109s and Focke Wulf 190s, painted with American emblems and unit designators, would rise in a forlorn attempt to stop the incoming hordes of heavy bombers arrayed in their combat boxes. But there were far too few defenders to stem the continuing aerial onslaughts. The bombers would drone on and deliver their payloads upon the helpless civilian populations below, over and over again.

Far worse was what the massed formations of bombers were dropping. It was no longer high explosives or incendiaries, but rather every sort of sinister chemical or biological weapon known to man. They would make their runs, return to base, and go out yet once more as if they were part of a huge conveyor belt carrying devastation beyond description. There were no military targets, no complexes of industrial importance nor areas of strategic value. Each mission was specifically targeted only against the civilian populations, who died in hideously indescribable ways by the hundreds of thousands.

In his fevered mind’s eye a man stood in the background above it all, waving his hands about and speaking to adulating crowds who cheered