D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

don’t understand, but it seems that on certain normally short-range radio frequencies, the signal bounces off the Heavyside Layer, resulting in it being picked up thousands of miles away.

“Some radio ham in America tuned in by accident and heard German. He reported it, of course, thinking it could be a spy in his hometown. But the Americans found out it was Rommel’s Panzers. They, in turn, informed London, who also tuned in. Unfortunately, because of sunspots, or some such rot, it’s so bloody filled with static that they can’t make head or tail of it enough to have one of their translators make a go of it.” Renton leaned forward then, his dark eyes blazing. “We want you right on top of the bastard. We want you to listen in on exactly what they’re saying, then we’ll know for sure if Rommel is planning any nasty surprises come November.”

“When do I leave, Colonel?”

“Tomorrow morning. First light,” Lloyd Owen said.

“You and Lieutenant Brady will be riding to Siwa with supplies on one of several new Chevrolet 30-cwts. It’s a three-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey, and you should be there two days hence. You’ll report to Guy immediately.”

Thorley stood, sensing the meeting had come to an end. Renton offered one last piece of advice. “I envy you, Thorley,” he said with genuine emotion. “The Long Range Desert Group is the best of the best, and you’ll be in the thick of it. Stay on your toes.”

Thorley thanked them both and then returned to his barrack room. Brady was already packing, his characteristic grin plastered on his face. “Looks like we’ll be together through thick and thin, Mikey,” he said, stuffing a pair of socks into his duffel. “Like two peas in a pod. Must be fate, eh?”

Thorley dropped onto his bunk, feeling drained all of a sudden. “Yeah, fate.”

It was funny. A few moments ago, he was itching to go, and now that the opportunity presented itself, the doubts began to flood his mind. Could he do the job? Would he survive? What he’d heard from a couple of veterans was that the biggest danger to the patrols came from the air. Otherwise, the distances were so vast out there in the trackless desert that skirmishes between patrols and the enemy were rare. This time, however, he and his patrol would be going directly to the enemy and putting his ear to their keyhole. The prospect was daunting.

Brady seemed to sense his mood. “You all right?”

“I’m fine, just feeling a bit dicey.”

Brady continued to pack his footlocker. “I’ve got a feeling, Mikey. You and me are going to come out on top of this one. You’ll see.”

After a night of restless attempts at sleep, Thorley sat up in his bunk shortly before five, his mind racing. It was all clear to him now. The sudden switch to a field assignment and the mention of Sir Basil’s name at his impromptu briefing with Lloyd Owen and Renton had clinched it. Though the mission on which they were sending him was vital, they fully expected him to become a casualty of war, and he would no longer be a threat to their precious security.

His anger growing, he climbed out of his bunk, padded across the cold stone floor, and pulled the unfinished letter out of his footlocker. Unfolding it, he quickly scanned what he’d written, then tore it to shreds. What he’d written before was no longer adequate. He reached into the desk, pulled out a fresh sheet of foolscap and began again, the soft scratching of his pen the only sound within those dark stone walls.

He wrote quickly, the words flowing directly from his heart to the page. Half an hour later, as he was struggling with the best way to end the letter, he heard Brady stirring, a soft moan escaping from the Irishman’s lips. A quick glance at the window revealed the sky had turned from a deep blue-black to dark charcoal gray. Dawn was perhaps ten minutes away. That meant the patrol would be leaving shortly thereafter. No turning back now.

Thorley grabbed for an envelope, placed the folded letter inside and sealed it. He then wrote on the front: To my Unborn Child, and sat staring at it feeling uncharacteristically weepy. Brady moaned again.

“What time is it, Mikey?”

“Almost dawn,” he replied, hiding the note under some other papers.

“I’ll never get used to this shit.”

A few minutes later, Brady stumbled from his bunk and trudged out into the hall, headed for the bathroom. Thorley used the time to open his footlocker and place the note in the space he’d prepared earlier in the day. The backing paper had come loose inside the lid and Thorley had worked more of it loose, careful not to tear it. Now, he shoved the letter as far in as he could and then used some chewing gum to fasten the paper back in place. When he was finished, he examined his work carefully from several angles until he was satisfied that nothing showed. Except for a minor bulge, nothing did. He only hoped that his child, his son, God willing, would be able to find it. More doubts assailed him then, making him wonder if perhaps he’d hidden it too well. But he could already hear Brady returning to the room, whistling some bawdy drinking song. By the time Brady had reentered the room, the footlocker looked as if no one had disturbed it and Thorley was busily packing his last remaining articles.

They left the room for the last time at half past six and hurried to the quad, where six 30-cwt. Chevrolet trucks stood end-to-end, engines belching exhaust into the hot, dry air. The