If he also wanted to be brutally honest from a physical point of view, attractive as Eileen was, he’d also have preferred her to be carrying a bit more weight, particularly in the area of her chest and hips: the jeans and tight skivvy showed off a fine figure that was quite a bit slimmer than many men from his time preferred. Kransky knew that whole rationale was more than a little shallow, but he also knew that if he really ever had a chance with Eileen, her figure certainly wouldn’t stop him. As the opportunity was never likely to present itself however, he could afford to be particular.
Kransky knew that he was using rationalisation in many forms to convince himself he wasn’t falling for Commander Eileen Donelson, and the conscious self-delusion mostly worked. That was important, for the biggest deterrent to his considering himself a chance was ultimately the fact that the better he got to know Eileen, the more he realised her heart lay with someone else, whether she was overtly aware of that fact or not. He suspected she wasn’t conscious of it and had buried the feelings deep within her subconscious: he knew people well, and that woman in particular well enough already to know that once she had her heart set on someone, she’d be unlikely to play around with anyone else. If ‘playing around’ was all that might’ve been possible, then he wasn’t particularly interested either, much as it surprised him to realise.
The evidence found at the gun emplacement was inconclusive at best. Eileen had discovered that the power cables appeared to have been drawn tight against the ventilation stack to the point of separating internally, although the outer insulation appeared to remain intact. There was no specific proof that the line had been severed intentionally, and as such it was certainly possible the whole thing had indeed been a rather unfortunate and incredible coincidence. The SAS troop who’d originally set up the system couldn’t recall, so many weeks later, exactly how they’d gone about the installation — although they of course insisted the work had been done properly at the time.
Yet despite finding nothing conclusive, Donelson was doubtful that coincidence was all they were talking about, and Kransky felt the same way, truth be told. As she’d examined every part of the system and found nothing else out of place, Kransky had gone over the surrounding terrain with equal zeal, utilising all his field talents, and he’d also failed to find anything conclusive. Yet neither could dispel the nagging suspicion remained that human intent lay behind it all — particularly in the face of the circumstantial but overwhelming evidence of an enemy air attack that had been far too well-timed to be a true coincidence. And as Thorne had already stated, that left just two likely possibilities… that the enemy had either landed an agent during the night by U-boat or something similar… or the Germans had indeed an infiltrated an agent into their midst. Considering how well the waters and coastline were patrolled, the latter unfortunately seemed to be the more likely of the two.
As Kransky had suggested to Thorne earlier that morning, he’d have MI5 looking into the backgrounds of every member of 1940s personnel that’d been assigned since Hindsight’s arrival at the end of June. Kransky was obviously clear of any suspicion, and he knew that Thorne was no traitor. He also sincerely doubted any of the other Hindsight members from the future could possibly be an enemy agent, but that still left a great deal of men who’d been stationed there that it could be, and investigation of every individual would take more time and manpower than they actually had available. As Judy Garland had said in that Wizard of Oz film he’d seen while back in New York earlier in the year (and as Thorne himself was frequently fond of misquoting), he thought silently: “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore…”
SS Special Heavy Battery 672(E)
Near Sangatte, Pas-de-Calais
With most of the major construction work now completed, the POWs and forced labourers were now mostly concerned with cleaning up and general maintenance, something unlikely to warrant the presence of a large work group for much longer. Whittaker’s group of officers had noticed there’d already been an appreciable thinning of the workforce over the last week, and another very welcome change to the daily routine was an increase in rest breaks and periods spent sitting around — under guard, of course — awaiting new work orders.
Stahl, the SS officer they’d started work under, had transferred back to his infantry unit — something for which all of them were heartily glad. They’d lost four more of their number to his temper and sidearm on in two separate incidents — both trivial situations — and by overall comparison, the last couple of weeks without him had been almost comfortable. Their new commanding officer, a young and far more agreeable SS Untersturmführer (second-lieutenant), was a welcome change. Also recovering from injuries — in this case a left arm wrapped in a cast and suspended by a sling — the officer was from a rear echelon unit rather than frontline infantry, and was also possessed of a far more even and forgiving temperament. There’d been no deaths within the group since his arrival, and the change in mood and general feeling of relief and lack of tension as a result meant the prisoners were generally more predisposed to obey orders with alacrity.
Drills and alerts had commenced within thirty minutes of the brief appearance of the RAF recon aircraft the previous day, and had continued on throughout that day and into the next morning. There’d been no other obvious outward indications of anything difference among the SS artillery and flak units present, but there was nevertheless the feeling within the POW officer group that something was afoot… that there was a sense of tension about the base that hadn’t been there before.
Near the perimeter fence at the very northern end of the compound, sitting in the shade of a guard tower, a group of ten or so including Whittaker were experiencing another short period of inaction that afternoon. They stood about or sat upon a tight cluster of discarded crates, most smoking quietly as a single SS guard patrolled nearby in a rather desultory and uninterested manner, his assault rifle slung carelessly at one shoulder.
“Have you noticed how empty is the Channel, these two weeks last?” Major Alois Dupont, formerly of a French artillery unit, observed quietly beside Whittaker, sitting on the same long, wooden crate. His English was a little broken. but more than clear enough for the rest to understand.
“Hardly any activity at all, save for the occasional destroyer sweep or MTB patrol,” Whittaker agreed, nodding in reply, “yet the port at Boulogne-sur-Mer is always full of shipping each day as we go out and come back in.”
“Always the same ships,” a cigarette smoking RN sub-lieutenant standing on the opposite side of the group observed. “Same ships always there in the same place… have been the whole week.”
“This is not a good thing,” Dupont stated with feeling, voicing the unease all felt.
“Trains carrying tanks, half-tracks and artillery have been coming into the port all week as well,” Whittaker pointed out, voicing the unpleasant conclusion they’d all reached. “They’re preparing for invasion.”
“We need to get out of here!” Dupont snarled angrily. “Escape these filthy Bosche and head south!”
“And do what, Alois…?” Whittaker groaned, shaking his head. The argument was an old one that came up frequently. “Even if we could escape, there’s no safety to be had anywhere in France, and by the look of it there’s every chance getting back to England won’t do us much good either! Spain’s the only real alternative, and d’you really think we’d make it that far across Occupied France?”